Jim's Wanderings

Shameless Wallet Flipping

2011-11-03T21:11:00.005-06:00

In the years before computers, people kept their photos in large albums. If the photos were of the type to be shown off frequently, several of them were chosen to reside in the wallet. They might show off a big fish or a multi-pronged buck.

But when grandparenthood arrived, the wallet was adjusted to hold a much longer plastic piece with many more slots for holding pictures of grandchildren. It was always easy to spot two oldsters with strings of photos hanging almost to the floor, chatting away merrily without hearing much of what each other were saying.

These days, the blog, Facebook, and email have rendered such shameless bragging even easier. Allow me to demonstrate.

Molly

When I posted this picture I discovered that the computer put it above all the print and I had to roust out my poor, tired wife in order to garner enough expertise to drive the picture down to its present position. To spare her further interruption, I choose not to download (or is it upload?) any further pictures. Tonight. But a day will soon come when all the other moppets will be presented for your viewing pleasure. I have them from LA to Rexburg, even further if you count those into whom I've married. And they're all cute as buttons. I say so and we all know how humble I am.

Relative Prosperity

2011-09-15T23:46:00.004-06:00

We are poorer than we've been for a very long time. Yet we live in relative prosperity. When I consider the Untouchables of India, the common peasants of Mexico, and those who wander the garbage heaps of the Philippines in search of food, I know that I'm in pretty good shape. In good enough shape to get out of shape.

As a newlywed I experienced difficult times for several years. Indeed, the only period of real prosperity I've ever experienced was from 1992 to 2004. Those dozen years were the time when I lived in ease. I couldn't buy a NEW car, but I could afford to keep an old one running. If I wanted a new book, CD, rifle, or pound of powder, I didn't have to wait long. Often, I could buy these things with what I had on hand.

Since losing my profession, I have learned to live small again. But I know how much worse off we could be. My country could be living under the thumb of the cartels as do our neighbors to the south. My health could be a lot worse. Our inelegant home could be even smaller and a lot more shabby. We could be hungry but never are. As a briefly alive character from the movie Shenandoah said to a youngster, "You're walkin' in tall cotton, boy!" And I am.

My children and grandchildren are all alive and well. I have recently been blessed with two new granddaughters. While I have three sons and a grandson whom I hardly ever see, I am comforted to know that they are well. I do not say that all is well in Zion. But I do say that much is right with us. We are blessed.

My Favorite People to "Hang Out" With

2010-12-19T23:31:00.008-07:00

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

2010-11-12T02:46:00.003-07:00

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

2010-10-06T00:29:00.006-06:00

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

2010-08-29T23:37:00.019-06:00

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

2010-08-10T00:51:00.004-06:00

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

2010-08-04T17:39:00.007-06:00

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,

2010-07-05T21:24:00.003-06:00

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?

2010-06-25T00:37:00.006-06:00

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

2010-06-17T13:36:00.023-06:00

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

2010-05-16T15:16:00.009-06:00

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.

A Few Changes in Life

2010-04-28T01:16:00.004-06:00

Our stake was split on Sunday. This puts us in a different ward from most of our friends. Pretty sad. It may be that it'll make little difference in the long run. It seems that our house is about to be sold out from under us. We have no idea whether the VA, whom we've already called, will stake us to a home loan so we can keep this place which we've loved for three years. Another couple looked at it today and seemed to like it a lot. If we move, we have absolutley no idea of where we could go. Affordable places are not livable and vice versa. There are some neighborhoods in "old town Pocatello" which are no longer safe because of crime. Nice town houses abound, but that involves stairs which we just can't manage all the time. Money and employment continue to be our chief lack.

So I thought I'd put out some recent causes for smiling which we've enjoyed. Molly is easy to recognize. The blue-eyed boy is Connor William Rozar, Heather's son.

BILLBOARD SEEN ALONG I-15

2010-04-13T09:24:00.003-06:00

The US Surgeon General announced today that tests have shown conclusively that tobacco in any form, but especially smoked, has a highly deleterious effect on the health of rodents such as this rock chuck (Marmota marmota.) The body was found south of Inkom, not far from Interstate 15, by two residents of Fort Hall and one of Chubbuck last Friday as they patrolled the area in search of rodentia which might need assistance in ending the personal suffering which their exposure to nicotine had caused them.

Photos of Recent Events

2010-03-28T17:22:00.016-06:00

Cast of Characters:

Heather
Travis
Connor

Aric
Zannita
Akira

Zannita's dimples.

Heather & Connor

My Personal Thanks to the Welsh

2010-03-15T23:25:00.005-06:00

The Island that the Romans called Britannia has been invaded several times. The inhabitants became Romanized and spoke Latin for about 300 years. Then came the waves of Germanic conquerors. Jutes. Frisians. Saxons. And Angles. That last bunch is where we get the name for the place: Angle-land - England. They called the natives of the place they were invading "weelas" or something like that. It meant "strangers" in their Germanic languages. Funny how the home town team gets the name "strangers." Their home became known an Wales.

They retreated as far west as the island would allow them and tried for centuries to keep to themselves and preserve their language pristine and quite different from other Angle-ish (English) words and phrases. If you look at Welsh, it looks a lot like the made-up elf words and phrases in Tolkein and Paolini and other stuff like that. Their tiny towns have incredibly long names sometimes. "Puddleby on the Marsh." Stuff like that. And if you try to read the old Welsh language you'll probably just have to smile and shake your head. It's being taught in British universities today so that it doesn't become a dead language. But it practically is dead already.

But you'll see the Welsh everywhere, their particular talents and contributions making them standouts in the English-speaking world which they've so unwillingly joined. Their choirs, particularly male choruses, are world famous and have entertained the queen many times. There was an example of that, I think, in How Green Was My Valley. Their original melodies and old folk songs are capable of giving peace to the heart and relaxation to the neck. All Through the Night, is on a Tabernacle Choir album called Love is Spoken Here. I first heard it one Sunday night in about 1960 when an RM sat down at the piano in the Nashville Branch and played it. I did what I often did when wonderful music entered my vicinity. I just stood by him and listened. I thought it was the most wonderful thing I'd ever heard.

My wife-du-jour in the nineties exposed me to a number of movies I might otherwise have missed. In the case of some of them, it might have been just as well. But one night we watched a 1987 film called "Empire of the Sun," by Spielberg. Late thirties. A rich, spoiled English boy living in China with his government-employed parents, is taken in the Rolls to the Cathedral where, unwillingly, all the little boys line up and practice the Welsh lullaby Suo-Gan. Coming home, they see that the Japanese invasion has gotten to their city. The servants desert him, steel his home's possessions, and start running with everyone else. He tries to live on the street, but is not successful. An American crook (John Malkovich) takes him in and gives him sporadic care. They're all caught and live the rest of the war in a concentration camp where neglect, disease, and deliberate abuse gradually whittle their numbers away. By 1945, Japan knows it's losing and turns to teenage kids to fly bomb-laden planes with plenty of gas on board into American shipping, hoping to destroy enough American naval tonnage to prevent the invasion. Jim is in his early teens now, himself. He looks at kids a lot like himself as they go through the tea ceremony, climb into their planes, and fly away. As they are singing their departure song, he is moved by their impending sacrifice. He raises his right hand in a proper British salute (palm out) and mixes Suo-Gan with their tune. The Japanese commandant watches all the boys, including the English boy, with visible sadness. Again, as before, I'm taken unawares by beautiful Welsh music which will haunt me for the rest of my life. That piece is also on the Tabernacle Choir Album Love is Spoken Here.

Have you seen Zulu? I'm talking about the 1960 version about the January 1879 defense of Rorke's Drift in Africa. Before their last charge, thousands of Zulus begin singing a song of impending doom. It's primarily in the bass and baritone range. A British lieutenant named Chard approaches a soldier - A Welsh Soldier - and asks him his opinion of the choir which is about to descend on them and wipe them out. The young man answers, "Well, they've got some fine bass-baritones, mind, but they've got no top tenors, that's for sure." The officer asks him to start some singing to lift the spirits of the men who by now number less that 100 and are facing thousands. The Welshman closes his eyes, picks out a couple of notes around which to build the familiar tune, and begins singing a grand old Welsh piece: Men of Harlech. You can find it on a Charlotte Church disc. I've got it. It's thrilling. When the final rush of Zulus comes, the men patiently wait for their numbered commands like well-trained British soldiers. Michael Caine, who looks about 18 in this film, bellows "At one hundred yards (so they'll know how to set the rear sights on their Martini-Henry rifles) - First Rank - Fire!" As those boys go down on their knees to reload, he says, "Second Rank - Fire!" Then "Third rank - Fire!" By that time, the front rank has reloaded, so he goes through all the ranks again. And again and again.

I wonder how many other times I've been inspired by Welsh music.

And they can speak beautifully, too! Richard Burton, a welsh actor, reads all the names of the boys who were awarded the Victoria Cross for that action in the film Zulu. Everyone loved Richard Burton's voice. It was such an icon of sound that Bill Murray imitated it in his comedy Scrooged.

Though sometimes his political foe, no less a leader than Winston Churchill said of an early twentieth century Prime Minister, David Lloyd George, "David could talk the birds off the trees." See the spelling of that middle name, Lloyd? Yep. Very Welsh.

So they may have been called "the strangers" and been chased off their own land, but the Welsh have continued to inspire and excel for many centuries. Pretty wonderful folks.

Old Wrist Breaker

2010-03-11T23:18:00.007-07:00

According to something I picked up lately, the basic design of cavalry sabers (variously spelled sabre) has not changed significantly since the late 16th Century when a Prussian nobleman designed the basis for what was still being used well into the twentieth century. The blade is about 36" long, gracefully but lightly curved, and is quite slow to move and handle, especially one handed from the back of a horse. Cavalry (caballo, cavallo, cheval, etc.) means horse soldiers, so that's the kind of kid it was designed to serve. It is longer than a naval or pirate cutlass, long enough for a full body lunge, and heavy enough to make a well placed sweeping blow either severely disabling or deadly if it is not successfully parried. I seem to recall stories of fellows having to pause in order to unwedge (is there such a word, Jake?) the blade from another fellows head.

The one in these pictures was given to me by an old friend and student, Jed Lewis. Because it came from Jed, because I knew that it must have been a sacrifice for him to get it, and because it was such a faithful copy of the 1860 US Cavalry Sabre, I have cherished it for many years now. Last year I finally succeeded in getting a pretty decent cutting edge on it. The brass basket weave hand guard lends itself pretty well to being polished. The wire wrap is holding down a padding on the grip which is definitely NOT leather, but if it were, I would be unwilling to get it out and play or work with it.

Not only does my body not produce insulin, it also does not produce testosterone, adrenaline, and something else that won't come to mind right now. Probably it's the thing that let's you remember the last word. Anyway, my muscle tone is almost non-existent, even when I've done lots of yard work or cleaned up the church for hours. So I started working with the saber in the back yard lately. I think it's actually helping. I bought a special pair of soft leather gloves to go with it, because that wire wrap will remove layers of skin with surprising ease.

I do figure eights with it, whirls around my head, level slashes to right and left, and downward slashes, also to right and left. I do thrusts and full body lunges. They're harder to do than with the straight bladed foil from college days. I trade off hands regularly so that the left hand will not be weak and useless and so there will be more balance to my rickety old frame. Having taken some fencing as a Freshman in college (foil, not epee' or sabre) I will toss in some footwork with the blade work. As I describe this, I can tell that it's giving you the impression that it's about a 30 minute workout. Ha! If it were, I'd be a corpse with its arms lying separately by it on the ground. I can last about 5 to 8 minutes, every other day. And even that isn't exact. I just do it as well and as often as I can. But when I picked it up today, it felt lighter than it ever has. And believe me, this is not a light sword. Civil War troops didn't call it "Old Wrist Breaker" for nothing.

I am a greatly blessed defrocked History Teacher. I own a rifle chambered for a cartridge that was first produced in 1869, I have a 1918 Trench Knife replica from The Great War, I have two actual bayonets from WW I, I have a Confederate battle flag, a huge Soviet flag, and I have some knowledge of when, where, and how each of these artifacts have been used. That's hard to beat.

What I Recall About USAF Family Life

2010-03-03T01:29:00.012-07:00

Tonight's blog post by Heavenly Heidi really took me back. I was at George Air Force Base by Victorville, CA from 1974 to 1980. It was a loud place, because we had 110 F4 Phantoms and a couple dozen F105 Thunderchiefs ("Thuds".) But sometimes Shaynie and I would drive over to the end of the flight line with the kids whether they were asleep or not, and watch the F4s take off in tandem, using their ABs (afterburners) which produced a blue tail of flame of about 12 feet. I didn't get to work with the Aircraft. I just worked in the Procurement Division. But I never tired of watching them and listening to them.

The kids were very happy and very young back then. The two of us were also very happy and very young. That's what I hope for Kevin, Heidi and their incredibly cute kids.

Seeing Heidi's pictures of Kevin sleeping while his baby daughter tries to entertain him was very tender to me. Let me see what I have from the distant past to go along with that.

The Lord Arranges some Conveniences

2010-02-25T00:43:00.003-07:00

I've read that coincidence is god's way of remaining anonymous. I like it. I believe it. A vary strange thing happened yesterday morning. I woke up! Really! I had been generally asleep for weeks and weeks and couldn't stay awake for more than a few miutes at a time. But yesterday, I woke up. I got a later start on it today, but I eventually got outof bed and stayed awake all day. This could be a permanent reversal of symptoms which I've experienced for weeks. It might be the result of prayers offered by you good family and friends. But the timeingof this event has been perfect.

Sheryl's foot which has been hurting for for a long time, was finally looked ino by the PA in our ward. Her foot was deadened, 1/4 of the offendng toenail was removed. a spot full of pus was lanced which shot out with a remarkably flat trajectory and hit the arm of the nurse. Sheryl has been in a lot of pain today, has an elaborate bandage, and has to take lots of anti-biotics which caused her to vomit this ev

Aric was going to the gunsmith today and let me ride along. I took Sheryl's 22 LR O/U derringer, because the lower barrel sometimes won't fire. The Smith says it is simply a design flaw, the upper barrel receving the greatest pounding rom the hammer. Some of you may recall early photos of it from a couple of years ago.

Sis. Johnson gave us a f0od order today. The Armells brought us food and milk tonight. This is the Law of Tithing at work.

A Brief Reminder

2010-02-13T00:28:00.008-07:00

Many years ago, when my children were all still little, I was astonished to hear that Congress (in its infinite wisdom) had abolished Lincoln's Birthday (12 Feb) and Washington's (22 Feb) and combined them into one day called "President's Day." Even as this was being done, I was studying History at Ricks and then U of I in Moscow. I went back to Moscow for an extra year after four years of teaching.

An extra holiday was added in January, to commemorate Dr. King's birthday. I didn't mind that in the least. He was a magnificent public speaker, and that's about all the accomplishment a person needs to make to impress me.

I was bothered, though, by the government's public service announcements on both radio and TV which claimed that Congress had given us more holidays to spend with our families touring the nation and getting to know it and its history better.

Practically no one has done that, of course. Instead, the three day week-end has been invented. People don't think for a minute what the holiday is about. All they care is that it falls on a Monday and is comfortably contiguous with a weekend. Virtually no one who has graduated high school since the end of the eighties could tell you which great man was born on which day - including Dr. King.

Now, I started teaching in the mid eighties and it took them nearly 20 years of get rid of me. I might not have forced anybody to memorize the fact that Mr. Lincoln was ushered into this chilly world on 12 February 1809, but I didn't let anyone get out of my classroom alive without knowing the agony it was to BE Mr. Lincoln. I would read the bulk of Dr. King's "Dream" speech to my kids and demonstrate every gesture and vocal emphasis with which he gave it. After all, I'd SEEN it. I'd heard it when it was first spoken. I didn't know whether I liked him, but I did love the way he spoke.

I did the same thing with both the 1765 and the 1775 speeches by Patrick Henry. I quoted General Washington a lot and described in as much detail as I possibly could what he did for us, beginning as a British Colonial Major in the last of the four Colonial wars. I told them many stories about many great people, not so they'd do well on exams (that was just a pleasant side-effect) but because I wanted them all to love these people as I had come to do. I told them about Maj. Patrick Ferguson who was moved upon (I didn't SAY "by the Holy Ghost" but everyone knew what I meant) to lower the barrel of his famous breech-loading rifle when he had a perfect and easy shot at the tired General sitting his horse at the battle's edge.

This nation no longer remembers who did what, why they did it, or how their sacrifices and efforts blessed us. And most Americans simply don't care. I maintain that a nation which has stopped remembering its own History will soon cease to be unless saved by a Godly hand.

Here's My Understanding (of what I don't understand)

2010-02-03T20:23:00.008-07:00

OK, so here's the skinny on my health. I realize that this may be about as exciting as the most boring class you ever took, but be patient. I won't take long and there are pictures coming up.

The MRI I recently had tells us this: Both of my parietal lobes are shrunken and show lots of white dots which are scars from old strokes. Nobody is even pretending any more that my memory problems are not Alzheimer's. That's what it is and that's what they're calling it. Soon I'll be given an appointment to spend two or three days at a clinic in SLC which is run by a lady who does nothing but gerontology. How's that for a slap in the not quite 59 year old face?

My counsellor, who has militantly doubted this diagnosis, seems pretty sad and insists that I not "die before you die." After some discussion, I understood this request to be that I not give up. I said that perhaps I could rebuild pathways and storage shelves (so to speak) which have already been destroyed in my brain by frequent mental exercise. He seems OK with this. It's not as though that which is gone can be brought back. They can't do that yet. But I think I could form new memories by reading my journal and reading lots of history and maybe even reading my own lecture notes from back when I was paid for what I could remember.

OK. Enough of that cheerful stuff. Here are a few pictures I've taken since New Years. I think I took them all with my phone!

Strangers in the Night - Or the Day for That Matter

2010-01-30T23:10:00.006-07:00

The One

Frank "Ol' Blue Eyes" Sinatra recorded a song in the sixties called Strangers in the Night.

Musically, it was pretty appealing, although his chant of "Scooby, dooby, doo" at the end quickly became a joke to my own generation. I think it was the inspiration for Scooby Doo cartoons, although I'm not certain.

A little more that 40 years ago, and much to my surprise and delight, I discovered that there were a few members of the most adored race on earth, girls and women, who found me attractive. No one could have been more surprised by this turn of events than myself. I was in the daily habit of examining my practically 6 foot frame and heavy glasses in the mirror, sighing, and sallying forth to meet the ridicule of my peers. I'm a slow learner about some things. By the time I learned to have confidence in the kind remarks of a few girls, I was in college and was surrounded by luscious girls as far as the eye could see. At that time, what with missionaries out and lots of guys n Vietnam, we of the male persuasion found ourselves pleasantly surrounded by a 3 to 1 majority of female students. This made it particularly difficult to study. Indeed, it made it particularly difficult to care about anything. Everything in Rexburg was within walking distance, and sometimes I'd have my father's 1964 Buick Wildcat which ran like a scalded dog. Now, I was always sincere about my affections for all the girls I was seeing. I really adored some of them. But there were so many of them, that it sometimes took two or three hours to kiss them all goodnight.

I quickly lost count of the number of Ricks College "co-eds" who would lead me into the apartment's living room, plant me on the couch, be gone for a few moments (apparently to ensure no interruptions from other girls in the house) and the run into the room and into my arms. As men grow older, we sometimes forget how wonderful it is to be kissed hungrily by a lovely girl. It had to be the purest pleasure I'd ever had up to that time. But I had to be the one to put the brakes on sometimes, because not all young women feel like putting the brakes on. Besides, I still had a couple of houses to hit before I got home. It quickly became a drug to which I was addicted for life.

So I had to chuckle the other day when I got an email with a little joke in it. It claimed that science had discovered a food that reduces a woman's sex drive by up to 90%. This dangerous potion is called "Wedding Cake." Well, it would be useless to deny it.

I've always been faithful to my wives, at least in the literal sense. But there were times in my youth when I got a bit carried away. I've tried and tried over the decades to repent completely of these things. My sorrow is genuine until I start to remember the lithe, lovely creature in my arms, clinging to me as if her life depended on it, her hair and breath and face becoming a separate world in which I escaped all cares and experienced a kind of companionship which seemed as perfect as any worldly experience.

Marriage made it much easier to stop dreaming about girls by the dozen. I could be faithful to one, because I adored her to the exclusion of all others. But this didn't mean that I didn't get nostalgic sometimes for all the freedom and adventure I'd experienced at Madison High, at Ricks, and at Monterey before I found "the one." The Lord saved me any number of times from dangerous situations into which I had place myself right willingly. But I still need to repent of the nostalgia. At nearly 59 it is difficult to regret having once held a brunette in your arms months after your mission who hastened to mention statistics to you such as 38" x 23" x35", especially when a quick glance would tend to verify everything she'd said with such pride and confidence on her face.

The Blessing of Baby Christine (aka "the Beebe Baby)

2010-01-04T10:07:00.015-07:00

Christine Natalie Beebe, whose naming and blessing we witnessed today in the Alameda 5th Ward, is the daughter of Skyler Beebe and Natalie (Wilde) Beebe. Christine's older brother is named Adam. Natalie's parents are Darrell and Noreen Wilde. Darrell is about a year older than Sheryl, his sister. An hour or so after the blessing of the baby, we all gathered again, this time at the West Stake Center, for food, all of which turned out to be pretty darned scrumptious.

I took pictures of the guest of honor and a bunch of other cute kids. Some of the lovely mothers did not escape my notice, either.

Christine Natalie Beebe, 3 January 2010

Gary Barela with son Philip

Believing Billy Dixon

2009-12-29T20:52:00.014-07:00

Some years ago I read an article in a magazine which covered a topic I'd already been aware of and interested in for a long, long time. It was about the Battle of Adobe Walls, more properly called The Second Battle of Adobe Walls. It was called "I Believe You, Billy Dixon!"

The location was a couple of buildings, one of which had been a store, the other a bar. The style of their construction is evident in the name of the battle. Actually, the First Battle of Adobe Walls should be considered a bigger deal Historically, because more people participated on both the native and white sides. The famous Colonel Christopher "Kit" Carson was in command of about 500 men who were attacked by a much larger force than they had been led to believe they were about to face. One article on Google actually states that the U.S. Army was outnumbered 10-1 there for two days. The Army called it a victory for them, based on the large number of dead and wounded among the Cheyenne. But the Cheyenne can be expected to see things differently, and so do some modern Historians. The Army may have done most of the killing, but it was also the Army that was forced to retreat and leave the ground in possession of its enemies. Kit and his men were running out of loads.

This was 1864, with a lot of the Civil War left to be fought. The Union had assigned so many troops to fighting the Confederacy that some southwest tribes had begun to believe they could repossess the Texas/New Mexico area. There had been some isolated fights and some pretty one-sided killings. Thus, the army had to detail Kit Carson and his 500 to reassert the power and authority of the government in "Washington City" and to reassure white settlers that they had not been forgotten by a government strapped with the daunting task of defeating the likes of Robert E. Lee, Joseph E. Johnston, and James Longstreet, all of whom lived through the war.

Carson lost very few people in this battle. His men were wielding the same rifles as their comrades back east, but he had also brought two mountain howitzers with him. The colonel showed real mastery of the placement and use of these little cannon. But, as in the case of the Battle of Bunker's (or Breed's) Hill, they couldn't keep up their superior rate of killing when the ammunition began to run low. They tried to retreat. The Cheyenne cleverly tried to burn the grass to keep them pinned down between themselves and the river. Carson thought quickly, sent men to create backfires, and thus preserved a way of retreat.

Remember those numbers! 5,000 vs 500. Only ten years later, 28 people, one of them a woman, were attacked by the Cheyenne while they were encamped in the same place as Kit Carson's force had been. The Cheyenne were understandably upset with the federal government policy of hiring riflemen and skinners to kill off the great herds of buffalo on which the natives subsisted. And the 28 people scampering for the shelter of the walls were in just that business. The 28 were under attack by a much smaller force than that which attacked Carson. In the ten intervening years, many of the native warriors had died or been killed. Only 200-300 made the attack. OK, actually some authors say it was 500. The point here is that the 28 people behind the adobe walls won!

Some of them were using the military quick-reloading Springfield Trapdoor rifles. Those whose job was actually shooting the buffalo were an unfortunate group for the Cheyenne to have tangled with that day. They were armed with the long-range death machines of the day: the Sharps falling block rifle, the Remington rolling block rifle, etc.

The part that everybody remembers is the fact that one of the hunters, Billy Dixon, borrowed a .50 caliber Sharps from a friend and knocked a Cheyenne fellow from his horse from an amazing distance. During my life I've heard it quoted as "a little over a mile," "right at a mile," "not quite a mile," and "1,528 yards." I found one article which tried to poo-poo the whole thing by saying that the shot was "only" 1,028 yards. This same writer says that most of the fighting was up close and that the whites were employing the new cartridge revolvers which Colt and Smith & Wesson had only recently begun to market. This author bothered me a little. He sounded like he had an axe to grind. I wouldn't be a bit surprised to find him to be a far left wing, anti-hunting, self-loathing-because-of-his-ancestry revisionist Historian. He seemed to be saying all through the piece that everyone else who'd ever written about the Second Battle had gotten it all wrong and he alone could be counted upon for the true facts and figures. He showed no hesitancy or self-doubt. That always makes me suspicious of "authorities," except Church authorities who get their information from truly perfect sources.

The author of this scornfully doubting article further irritated me by questioning the possibility of anyone armed with a nineteenth century cartridge rifle loaded with a lead bullet and plain old black powder to make such a shot. But I have some experience with arms of that type. I have seen them do some pretty good shooting, although I don't hang around with the Earps and some other young, sharp-eyed guys who could sit in one spot ("a stand") and shoot 300 buffalo without moving. I haven't seen the best. But Billy Dixon and some of his companions were among the best the country had to offer back then.

This brings me to today's experience with friend and fellow shooting enthusiast, Aric Armell. He owns and uses a laser range finder. He had measured all this out before. We trudged up a hill among cedars, a place we've fired into many times before, and set up the gong. We've never measured it, but we both figure it to be about 14" wide and about 21" tall. It is steel swinging on an axis of steel. Aric's hand loads of today were loaded with .30 caliber bullets of 200 grains of weight. They are much sleeker and move much faster than anything available to Billy Dixon and company. But I saw it happen. I watched it through a spotting scope as I sat on a folding chair. The scope was solidly rested on my tripod which sat firmly with all three feet in the snow, 76 yards short of a mile. It was a truly amazing distance just in the thinking. But when I saw it my jaw dropped. I couldn't see our target at all and the hill on which it sat looked like it had to be on a different reservation in some other county!

He would fire a shot and, if I'd been able to see the impact, I'd tell him how far off it was. Something like "Two feet low, about four feet to the right." This went on for some time. It was colder than the proverbial witch's mammary gland out there, and the barrel kept heating up despite the temperature. We'd let it cool for maybe five minutes and go at it again. Finally I believed I'd heard the sound of a hit, although my gaze through the scope showed no marks on the face of the gong, and it wasn't swinging back and forth as usual when it's hit with a 200 grain bullet.

At long last, Aric nailed the lower left corner of it! We cheered. I stood up to get pictures of the shooter as he prepared to fire his last load. Now, I had seen the gong swing on the first sure hit. I sat back down to watch through the scope again. Again I saw the gong swing back and forth rather gently.

Now, when we'd arrived we saw maybe a thousand large white birds bedded down in an old spud field. They were a little over two hundred yards away, so I couldn't identify them. I guessed that they were probably snow geese. But just before Aric started shooting, I tilted the spotting scope forward and down a little. Swans! Hundreds and hundreds of swans. I knew what was about to happen. Sure enough, as Aric's first shot broke the sound barrier about 40 or 50 feet over their heads, the entire flock decided to get up and leave. I got a few shots of them and a couple of shots of mated pairs flying together in a direction of their own choosing. Even with the lowly 4 megapixels of our five year old camera, those two shots came out rather well, I thought. I hope you enjoy the pictures of the shooting and of the swans.

The Christmas Truce of 1914 - and Its Prologue

2009-12-27T15:45:00.007-07:00

One of the most famous contests of WW I was a Rugby match played by British and German boys who had, only hours previously, been shooting at each other with Short Magazine Lee-Enfield rifles and 1898 Mauser rifles. I have known of this event for years, but I've never found out what the score was by the end of the game. I don't think anybody cared.

The war had been going since 1 August and had already shown just how nasty it was going to turn out to be. Jeff Cooper, an Historian, a US Marine officer, and a teacher of gun fighting skills, once referred to World War One (1914-1918) as "a considerable bloodletting." Considerable, indeed. It made all previous wars (that Historians knew about) seem pretty puny by comparison. By the end of the four year period 9,000,000 men had been killed. "Only" 115,000 of these kids were Americans. I don't know whether those figures included the Americans who had joined the armies and air forces of France and Britain years before America officially got around to declaring war. The truly incredible losses at that time were suffered by the Russians, the Germans, the British, the Austrians and the French, with Belgians and Italians also tossing tens of thousands of their boys into the equation.

One French soldier said that he saw an unheard-of sight on the day of Christmas Eve. "A perfect Boche" (an insulting French word for the Germans with whom the French had crossed swords before) simply climbed out of his trench and stood there, a perfect target. Then a couple of French kids did the same thing. Then boys on both sides began jumping out of their trenches. On the allied side, most of those who took this risk were Brits. Officers and non-coms had no control over their enlisted men. Hundreds of them simply walked into each others' arms and began communicating the best they could. Language barriers don't seem to slow down people of good will, I've noticed. The kids on both sides began to offer cigarettes, candy, and strange little collectibles to each other.

Then came the Rugby game. As with most examples of this game, the gloves were off and no quarter was shown by either side. However, the good will continued into Christmas Day. Still, said a man named Bairnsfather who was wounded the next year and became a successful cartoonist with his "Old Bill" character for the rest of his life, no one on either side lost for even a moment his determination to keep fighting when the time came and see the thing through to a successful conclusion for his side.

Finally, with regret, both sides shook hands or even embraced each other. Everyone shambled back to his trench and took up the same position in the freezing mud which he'd been occupying for months. Shortly before the shooting started again, the German boys held up a big sign written in English. "Sorry, friends."

One might wonder where the kids (and I militantly keep calling them that, because so many of them weren't out of their teens yet) of both sides got the idea to pull off a wonderful, insane stunt like this. I suspect they'd been listening to their fathers and grandfathers talk about an event just like it which had occurred 43 years to the day earlier.

It was called The Franco-Prussian War and it took less than two full years for the Prussians (northeast industrialized Germans; Germany was a place on the map in 1870, but it was still several separate countries) to conquer and occupy much of France. This war could be called a dress rehearsal for World War One. Like General Grant's siege of Petersburg, VA (1864-1865), the Franco-Prussian War (1870-1871) was a long, miserable experience for two armies living in trenches and often up to their knees in mud around the clock. As with the American Civil War (1861-1865,) the Franco-Prussian shootout was in many ways a precursor of World War One.

In the five years between the American "unpleasantness" and that between French and German boys, much had changed in the way of personal weaponry. The Army of the Potomac and the Army of Northern Virginia were shooting at each other with muzzle-loading rifles. But by 1870, cartridge rifles were being used. They were still loading those cartridges with black powder, but the action which locked the cartridges in place was a turn-bolt, very similar to what most hunters use today. except that they had no magazine and thus were not repeaters like the much faster firearms of WW I. In this war, as in the Siege of Petersburg and as in WW I, each side would occasionally run across "no-man's land" in an effort to push the enemy back a trench or two. This was an absurdly dangerous thing to try in the two nineteenth century wars, but absolutely ridiculous by 1914. All the nations were playing with new toys by then called "machine guns." Put those together with repeating rifles of small caliber and much higher velocity due to the new "smokeless" or "white powder," and you have a recipe for a whole bunch of guys having a very bad day.

Well, in the midst of the Franco-Prussian thing, Christmas came along as it has been prone to do for a long time now. During a lull in the shooting on the 24th, the German boys were amazed to see a young French guy jump up out of his trench and start singing "Cantique de Noel" which we of the English-speaking persuasion call "O Holy Night." He had no sooner finished than an inspired German boy sprang up in full sight of the French Army and sang a German Christmas Carol called "Von Himmel Hoch." That would be translated "From Heaven on High" if my two years of high school German don't let me down.

Anyway, the enlisted men could not be persuaded to do each other any harm until the Holiday (holy day) had concluded.

Of course, when the Prussians had actually conquered and occupied a big chunk of France, there was not much good will left. I think I've mentioned before in this little column how many of Guy de Maupassant's short stories take place during or after that war. He ought to know what it was like. He fought in it.

Humblest Apologies to One and All

2009-12-21T00:06:00.020-07:00

Our camera has developed a problem in which the battery cannot be charged fully. Or maybe it's charged all the way but just hemorraging power all the time. At any rate, it only takes a few pictures before running out of steam.

I took my cell phone last night to Jenni's wedding, because it had done well on some outside shots in the past. Sadly, it can't handle the inside shots. I took nearly eighty photos and short films. I haven't watched the latter, but the still shots are nearly all blurred. Most of this was due to the shutter speed on the little camera which seems to be about a day and a half in a cell phone. A lot can happen in that amount of time. Lexi might decide to bend all the way down to inspect her cute little shoes. One of the Brown boys might feel a powerful urge to hold one leg out at an amusing angle.

Some of the babies cooperated and were recorded with relative clarity and with their cute faces intact. I'll try to include the good, the bad, and the ugly here. I won't make you look through 80 shots. Maybe I'll use 15 or 20 representative samples.

Do I Have Anything New to Show You?

2009-12-16T22:58:00.022-07:00

These are a few photos from the past 5 or 6 months which I haven't inflicted on you yet. Of course, most of these people are very easy on the eyes. For example...

Mellissa (sic) Bosen, our niece on Thanksgiving Day. She has at last decided to stop being a full-time heart breaker and settle down - with a younger man.

A sunset across the street from us.

Molly Susanne Haeberle.

Scintillating Sidnie, our niece.

Joseph & Mary's 2009 Christmas tree.

Penny takes advantage of the slow shutter speed of the phone/camera to do a little blurring.

Merry Matthew and Marvelous Mary

Antiquated Andrew (He's in kindergarten, you know.)

Dapper Dallin considers his next move in life.

Sheryl's brother, Larry Wilde. He's a long haul trucker and we only see him once a month, if that. When he got married to a woman many years ago who turned out to be quite shady, he was assisted in getting an almost immediate divorce by no less a personage than Gen'l. Colin Powell. Larry was doing something that the general needed to have done and trusted only Larry to do.

Mrs. Fast Horse, Zannita's mom. The whole clan is descended from Crazy Horse. Mrs. Fast Horse is a judge at Fort Hall.

Now these pictures above are some I took late in the summer. The faces are well known and well beloved in our group. I might be biased just a tad, but I think I see deep-seated goodness in all six pairs of eyes. Seven, actually. Mary's a good kid, too.

Signals Catalogue

2009-12-06T01:27:00.003-07:00

Have any of you ever gotten this one? It simply says "Signals" on the front cover. I first became aware of it during the Elena years. It's so full of clever, witty, brainy little gifts that it makes me really sad that I'm always broke these days. I thought of all of you as I read through this little booklet. The hat and matching mittens which bore the visages of owls naturally made me wish I could get them for Jocy. The sweatshirt which bore the legend "I am the grammarian about whom your mother warned you" kept me chuckling for hours. I long to give it to Mother.

There was a cutting board that I loved. I guess some call them "chopping boards." It showed a simple portrait of a young Pole in nineteenth century garb, his back turned to his piano, his chin in his hand, and his face the very image of what Sherlock Holmes called "the enui." Its title was "Chopin Bored."

Another shirt made me laugh explosively. It said, "Non sequiturs are like Bicycles: They don't bathe." Somehow I could just hear Jacob's characteristic Michael Landon laugh.

Another features a simple drawing of two mushrooms. The label beneath them says "Fun Guy."

There's a marble spoon rest in this catalogue. Down the left side it proclaims: "Many people have eaten my cooking and gone on to lead normal lives." But it doesn't describe just what a normal life is. Some objects make statements: "English Major: You do the math." Others ask pithy questions: "i before e except after c..............weird?" "At what age am I old enough to know better?"

The catalogue feature lots of Edward Gorey art and quotations for those who love PBS Mysteries. A clear and obvious threat is on one shirt: "Careful or you'll end up in my novel." And, just to show that teachers can be as silly as their students, a tan shirt urges us to believe that: "The dog ate my lesson plan." I have to smile at that one. A number of times in my curtailed career our principal would proclaim that all our lesson plans had to be written out so that he could look at them early in the morning if he so chose. These absurd requirements must have been New Years resolutions as they practically never checked them. I think I recall one time when the administrator came into the room and asked to see my "lesson plan." I simply opened the lecture notes I'd already been using for maybe a dozen years, pointed to the place I intended to start that day and the place I intended to reach by the end of each hour. I was never asked again.

Speaking of Jocy (weren't we just a little while ago?), page 47 features some great owls, so perfectly made that they make ME want to become a collector. The necklace on page 48 quotes the text of Philippians 4:13 but doesn't then say "for Pete's sake!" I guess the maker doesn't read the Father Tim novels.

Two whole pages feature items to encourage the fight against what I sometimes call "Shayne's Disease." A silhouette on a white shirt shows a man and woman sitting expectantly with wine glasses. It says, "Waiting for Bordeaux." I had to explain that to a couple of people, but it was worth it. A Wagnerian woman is drawn on a shirt with her arms open as if to give freer passage to her words: "Don't make me use my opera voice." All the California Haeberles, several of the Humphries, and at least three of my kids would smile to see one that says: "E=Fb, the musical theory of relativity." There's also a door mat which welcomes you to its exact longitude and latitude.

I identify wholely with the shirt which wails "I was promised there would be no math involved." The world stood in awe of Dr. Einstein, but most quotations from him seem pretty humble: "If we knew what we were doing, it wouldn't be called research."

All the Bill Mauldin cartoons which he drew while simultaneously fighting WW II and getting a Purple Heart are featured in a book named for his two characters, "Willie and Joe." Near that is a black sweatshirt which quips "A Pun at Maturity is Fully Groan." All of Bill Cosby's early comedy albums are featured here on CD! Various action figures from Monty Python and the Holy Grail can be purchased here. One is the Black Knight with detachable limbs. "Come back here; I'll bit your kneecaps off!" You can also get Monty's livestock-tossing catapult, complete with cows, geese, ducks, etc. You can buy two souvenirs of A Christmas Story. Ralphie's late forties house can be had in very fine detail. So can his father's "major award." The lamp can glow only under the shade, or the leg can get in on the act, too.

For those of us who are beginning to received jests at our expense regarding our age, some positively-thinking soul has created a shirt that says "Chronologically Gifted." I sort of like that. I've never been called "gifted" before, although I have a grandson in Rexburg and another in OKC who are called just that.

Need a little pick-me-up? You can buy a giant Serotonin molecule to hang on your wall!

Let me finish by quoting a shirt I wish I'd had many years ago, because I used to say something very like it: "If I'm talking, you should be taking notes."

The Signals catalogue can be had from 5581 Hudson Industrial Parkway, PO Box 2599, Hudson, OH, 44236-0099. Their phone number is 1-800-669-9696.

A Few Events of Late

2009-11-28T23:32:00.022-07:00

It seems of late that I've been exposed to one lovely and camera-worthy thing after another. Here are a few of them.

We loved lobbing .22 Mags and 7.62 Russians at faraway rocks here last summer.

More of this summer's canyon.

A lovely canyon where we did a little shooting last summer.

Aric and I visit today with a canyon we saw last summer.

I sent five like this to Doug Iverson and said "Who say's Chubbuck can't have a pretty sunset.?"

No one event has has consumed our time of late, but many little moments have been pleasant.

I stare in fascination at this one every time I see her. Her grandmother shines through her.

Miss Molly seated with Grandma Sheryl

Little Purple Penny with Marvelous Mary.

Holding the purple baby.

Mellissa signs the cards going to the family's missionaries.

Britney, spoiled but cute.

Gary Barela, a good farmer and fine raconteur.

Marvelous Mellissa, home from teaching third grade,

Miss Sadie in the finery of her new haircut.

Janae and Philip Barela.

The Armells Get All Dolled Up

2009-11-24T13:47:00.006-07:00

On Sunday last the Armell family had an appointment to get a family portrait made, so they got all their glad rags on and went to town. But somehow they missed their appointment, so they dropped by our place to see how the older half lives.

Everyone looked so elegant that I decided to take a few pictures myself. I'm sorry for the soft focus on the one shot.

Quoting Wiser Folks

2009-11-21T13:22:00.006-07:00

Joseph finding thoughts.

It occurs to me with increasing frequency that people are tired of hearing my thoughts. I can't really blame them. People who think something so firmly that they go to the trouble of writing it down and sending it out into the ether to be read by others are clearly too opinionated. But it's hard to get to my age without having a few firmly held opinions.

Perhaps it's my age that causes my thoughts to get on peoples' nerves sometimes. Maybe it's the fact that I'm a jailbird. Not really sure. Anyway, I thought I couldn't lose by quoting others. If people agree with even a few of the things I quote today, they'll say positive things. If they disagree, they're only indirectly disagreeing with me. I win either way. True, left-leaning people are automatically suspicious of anyone who quotes people like Eisenhower, Patton, or even Edward R. Murrow, but they can't actually blame me for the original thought. The most they could do would be to tell me that I don't quote enough Democrats and Socialists. Just to appease them, perhaps I'll throw in something from Chairman Mao's "Little Red Book." (Actually, its title was Quotations from Chairman Mao, but everybody used to call it "the Little Red Book.")

So, without further ado (and by way of saying adieu) I present here a few of my favorite sayings by some of my favorite (or least favorite) folks.

Power flows from the barrel of a gun.

- Chairman Mao Tse Tung
Dictator of Communist China

A nation of sheep will beget a government of wolves.

- reporter Edward R. Murrow

The strongest reason for people to retain the right to keep and bear arms is, as a last resort, to protect themselves against tyranny in government.

- Thomas Jefferson

Forgiveness is the fragrance the violet sheds on the boot that has crushed it.

- Mark Twain

We cannot but pity the boy who has never fired a gun; he is no more humane, while his education has been sadly neglected.

- Henry David Thoreau

Chapter 11, Higher Laws

The inherent vice of capitalism is the unequal sharing of the blessings. The inherent blessing of socialism is the equal sharing of misery.

- Churchill

The only difference between a tax man and a taxidermist is that the taxidermist leaves the skin.

- Mark Twain

There is no distinctly American criminal class......save Congress

- Mark Twain

A Dark Age, by the way, isn't when we have forgotten how to do something. It's when we have forgotten that we ever could do it.

- Jerry Pournelle, 1 January 2009.

Tolerance becomes a crime when applied to evil.

- Thomas Mann

A liberal is someone who feels a great debt to his fellow man, which debt he proposes to pay off with your money.

- G. Gordon Liddy

Well, that's enough for one blog. I have lots more which I'll share with you on a similar occasion when I feel like writing but have nothing original to say. Of all those I've quoted today, I think the statement by Thomas Mann is most urgently applicable to today's America.

555 - and it's all downhill from there.

2009-11-17T09:07:00.001-07:00

A well-intended piece of legislation or bureaucratic decision-making several years ago made it mandatory that any phone number quoted aloud in a movie or TV show would always have the prefix 555. This was to protect people from being harassed by folks they didn't know if their own phone number just happened to be the same as that of one quoted on the screen. So you know that any phone number you hear which starts with 555 is just a fake number created to fill in the conversation, usually on a crime-fighting drama. In other words, to hear a number which begins with 555 is to be reminded that what you are watching is merely a show and not to be taken very seriously.

I hate this.

When I was young and stupid (er) I decided to major in Drama or, as it was sometimes called, Theater Arts. Bro. Lynn Benson, who passed away just last year, didn't often have us do reading assignments from our acting class text book, but what we did read made a lot of sense. The text was called An Actor Prepares and was written by a fellow with the imposing name of Constantin Stanislavsky. The chief concept we were to take away from our readings in this book was that "the purpose of the theater is to give people a vicarious experience." In other words, the audience should gain some feeling for the experiences of others by the simple expediency of watching the play or film. To do this, we had to get the people to "suspend their disbelief" for a while. They had to believe it, even though they knew better.

We all can think of many examples of how this desirable goal has been reached to our own personal benefit. Let me cite only a few. You have your own and we may overlap in a few of these favorite scenes. But remember that they are among our favorites specifically because they helped us walk in someone else's shoes and feel what they felt. This has added richness and important thoughts to our lives.

Atticus Finch summarizes the truth which everyone knows but which very few of the white majority want to face at the end of Tom's trial in To Kill a Mockingbird. It is a beautiful speech with an unforgettable ending. He desperately tries to get some essentially good men to overcome the fear and prejudice with which they've been raised since the cradle. "Do your duty." He says it again and again. But they are not able to overcome their fear of each other and of the community. It is easier for them to lie to themselves and the world by returning a verdict of guilty for a man whom they know to be pure and innocent. The heartache we feel in that moment and again when Atticus must tell Tom's wife of his death are vicarious experiences. We haven't actually been there or experienced these things, but we have benefited as much from the vicarious experience as we would have if it were real.

In that same film, I'm always touched when Heck the sheriff, hands the Krag-Jorgensen army surplus rifle to Atticus for the killing of an unfortunate dog which has contracted rabies. Looking at the attorney's children, Heck says, "Didn't you know your daddy was the best shot in this county?" Atticus is annoyed and embarrassed, but his children gaze unblinkingly at him in wide-eyed adoration as he dispatches the poor animal.

Perhaps just one more example. (How to choose from so many?) Sometimes it helps to have experienced part of what the characters are experiencing. This gives us a starting point from which to reach more deeply into their thoughts and feelings. For our first or second anniversary, Dante's mother asked what I'd like as a present. I happened to be sitting up in bed at the time looking through a catalogue. Thinking that she would laugh at the notion of actually spending $399 plus shipping and handling on the Italian replica of the 1853 Enfield rifle-musket in .58 caliber, I pointed it out to her and said, "I'd dearly love to have one of those." I then went on to explain how the Confederate government had bought thousands of them from the Enfield arsenal in England. But she wasn't listening. She had grabbed the catalogue, rolled to the edge of the bed, and picked up the phone. In less than two minutes she had put the thing on her credit card. It arrived in about five days.

Thus, when the film Gettysburg came out, I was able to feel the weight and recoil of such a firearm, because I owned one and I had fired it. I was able to smell the rotten egg smell of burning black powder, because I'd burned it many times, not only in that firearm but in several others. I had seen its effect on milk jugs, lava rocks, wooden posts, and many other things. I had a clear idea of the energy - the killing energy - that it developed.

So, on the third day of the battle, Friday, 3 July 1863, when Richard Jordan's character BG Lewis "Lo" Armistead leads his brigade in "Pickett's Charge," I have an idea of what horrible things are happening to thousands of young men. The film adds to the intensity of my feelings and understanding. It portrays the thick smoke and dust of tens of thousands of men trying to kill each other, the crowded conditions, uncertain footing, and myriad ways of dying which are found in such a circumstance. The unbelievable horror of killing 40 men with a single shot from a smoothbore cannon which is loaded with "cannister shot," thus rendering it, in effect, a gigantic shotgun. The reverent devotion which men of that generation felt to their causes comes across beautifully. Half of them have been killed or wounded, but still some of them beg R.E. Lee to let them regroup "and hit them again. I know we can do it this time!"

Then I watch a good crime drama. Criminal Minds, NCIS, Numbers, The Mentalist, Castle, or any of the others which are so superior today to whatever was produced years ago. They are better, because the writing is better, the adherence to actual police procedures is closer, the special effects are truly special, and the acting is better than anything available on TV when I was a kid. But I lose the vicarious experience when they quote a phone number, because every one of them includes the prefix 555! It's like shouting in my ear, "No, no, Mr. Haeberle! You aren't really watching a brilliant FBI operation to rescue a kidnapped 12 year old girl. It's just a show. Don't take it seriously. Don't imagine yourself in the place of the victim or of the protagonists who must save her life. It isn't real, you now? You can tell that by the fact that the phone numbers all start with 555."

Yeah. Right. Thanks.

Facing the Embarrassment

2009-11-14T15:57:00.003-07:00

It has occurred to me that I really can't go forward with this blog or any other part of my life until I make a statement about last weekend's disastrous turn of events. Some of you - possibly all of you - might feel it hypocritical of me to avoid the topic and continue living and writing as though it had never happened.

From Friday afternoon until early Monday evening I was in jail. This cannot possibly shock you more than it did me. By this time, everybody is probably aware of the circumstances and behaviors which led to my arrest. I recalled at the moment of the arrest the words I'd read so many years ago by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn at the beginning of his famous book The Gulag Archipelago. He described how earth shattering and life-changing those simple words are: "You are under arrest."

For many years up to that point you have lived in freedom, because you have never done anything which could be used as an excuse by those in authority to interrupt or end your freedom. Then the words are spoken and your life seems to have ended. None of the things you could do before, none of the places you could go before, none of the things you could wear before, none of the things you could carry before, and few of the behaviors which might have been typical of you before are available to you any more. Literally everything you do, say, wear, and eat is controlled by others. Some of them are smug twenty-somethings who exult in their power to look down on you and control you and tell you where to stand and when to speak and where to go.

I was a jailer for 4 brief months back in 1980. I did not enjoy the work. I felt guilt all the time, even though I knew that many of my charges were absolutely guilty of the crimes with which they were charged. What I was doing to these people always seemed to me to be infinitely worse than what they had done. I simply couldn't justify it and was relieved to leave that job and start back to school under the old GI Bill.

In none of this language do I pretend that I have been treated unjustly. Neither do I pretend that I have been treated fairly. I simply express here the opinion that we as humans have a very warped and vastly imperfect notion of justice and no notion at all of mercy.

There were in the jail a number of men who clearly belonged there. They had no empathy for anyone. They could not look upon anyone's suffering and feel some of it themselves. I assume that they got where they are by a long, unbroken series of wrong choices, reaching back into their childhoods.

Others were clearly as mystified and bewildered as I was about the whole thing. Yes, we clearly understood the nature of the charges against us, but we had never believed that anyone would seek vengeance for days and days over a momentary failing, no matter how serious it was. And it was serious. One fellow there, named Mark, was from Arkansas. He was dangerously thin and said he couldn't put on weight no matter what he tried. I shared some of my food with him, but I'm sure he walked it all off, because he would walk laps around the common area after each meal. He asked at one point whether he could call me for a ride to Preston when he gets out in April. I quickly thought it through. If I didn't give him my last name or address and gave him only a cell phone number, I didn't see how he could use such information to my detriment. So I gave it to him.

On a later occasion, as I stood watching a boring football game which seemed to enthrall all the other inmates, he appeared quietly by my side. Then he said, "I can tell that you're a good man." He said it straight faced. I was both surprised and amused. "Mark," I replied chuckling, "I'm in jail! How good a man could I be?" But he wouldn't be argued out of his position. I sensed that, except for some weakness which he hasn't yet conquered, he was a good man, too. He knew the Nashville and Franklin areas and knew the temple there.

So I'm going to write to him and try to encourage him. I don't know just what to say. I'll have to depend heavily on the Spirit for that, I suppose.

At the arraignment I was told to get enrolled in the VA medical program and to take all meds faithfully which are prescribed to me. On the 19th, I'll go back to see the judge. He'll then decide whether to dismiss the thing or ask me to plead to something lesser. We've already since then been to the VA in SLC and I have an appointment with their pshrink for the 20th. The phrase at Lackland Air Force Base was "Cooperate and graduate." That is what I hope to do.

Our Hallowe'en Visit With Darth Vader and His Date

2009-11-01T22:23:00.012-07:00

About ten o'clock last night we were about to retire when another knock came at the door. This surprised us, because the Trick or Treaters had stopped coming about 90 minutes earlier. I jogged to the door, picked up our absurdly large bowl of what one kid had exultantly termed "GOOD candy!" and opened the door. The nemesis of the Republic stood before me, light saber in hand. Without hesitation, he pushed his way through the door. I placed my right foot on his midsection, hoping that my ample girth would suffice to keep me in place when I started pushing him back.

Then I saw HER. I was stunned. I turned from the door, dropping all pretense of repelling boarders. "Sheryl! You've got to come and see! She looks like Cleopatra!" Actually, Sheena and some kind of Aztec queen also sprang to mind. I quickly ran for the camera and began feverishly recording the moment before it could disapparate like a misbehaving Hogwarts student. Darth complained of the tremendous heat in his uniform, but I'll wager the heat when he lost his legs up to the knee had been a bit worse, eh?

We had only minutes. They were going out to a dance contest at the local gay bar. They prefer to go there for reasons which have not yet become clear to me. Of course, Cleopatra recently took first place there in another contest. Darth explained that he was hoping to equal her feat.

Beauty like hers doesn't just stroll through your door every evening at ten, you know. I did the best I could with the camera, but the drool kept smearing the lens. Finally, Sheryl took over and I ran for the 1860 saber which Jed Lewis had given me a long time ago and which I only succeeded in getting properly sharpened this past summer. Darth showed little concern for whatever talents I had picked up in that fencing class 40 years ago at Ricks. He seemed to know instinctively that he was in little real danger.

Or had some informer told him that all my training was with the French foil and that my wrist is barely adequate to pick up, let alone actually wield, a nineteenth century-style cavalry saber? I'm sure that the only thing which saved me was the hour. They must needs fly to the tavern while I locked the door securely in their wake. I would opine it a mere dream or phantasm, but whence these photos?

Darth Vader and his mysterious and queenly consort.

Darth tries to look menacing --- and succeeds marvelously.

The grimace of an exposed super-villain.

Darth begins to warm to our task of recording his visit.

Darth momentarily forgets which show he's on.

The goddess dons her black leather jacket in preparation for departure. Did you even know that goddesses wear black leather?

We are graced with a slight smile.

The buckets are for cleaning the aquarium, not for collecting blood.

Mortal combat in the living room of a humble Chubbuck home.

IT"S ALIVE!!! (and other cries of creative exultation)

2009-10-31T15:07:00.007-06:00

All Hallows' Even seemed a good day for such a title. And besides, it's true! My dream of owning a CD of a favorite childhood recording of delicious music has come true. It's alive!

When I first found out a couple of years ago that useful copies of this dear old record existed and were for sale, I immediately started wondering how I could get one and then have it dubbed onto a CD. It was at about that time that I found out that Rick, the delightful owner of Budget Tapes and Records in Pocatello, has a heavy, professional turntable and is willing (for a fee) to give the old record a thorough cleaning and then run the diamond needle over it, passing the sound in pure digitized form onto a compact disc. I had him do it to two other records first: Travelin' Light by Tim Weisberg and Stormy Weekend by the Mystic Moods Orchestra. I had owned a CD of the latter before, but, like so many things I've owned, it up and disappeared on me. I couldn't find another CD of it, so I had to get Rick to order in a new LP and then dub it for me to CD.

Both of these products were - and still are - wonderful. So I knew who I was going to when I finally decided to spring for the $18.50 + shipping and handling for Continental Merry-Go-Round. The record arrived very quickly. The employee at Budget Tapes and Records said it would be about a week, but Rick had the finished product for me in three days! I don't suppose the fact that I had called him a day or so after dropping off the LP and asked him to watch out for a little white bump I'd noticed on Side A, Track 6, casually mentioning how excellent his work had been in the past. You could actually hear him smiling over the phone! He said, "Thank you, thank you!" And the next day he called me with the job done and done well. We picked it up that same day, yesterday, a Friday. Only in a couple of spots were there scratches big enough to make an audible pop. I suspect that the record had been played once or twice by its original owner and then had lain fallow for half a century, during which time I passed from a young child to a man of "late middle age."

I know I said that I would put some of the music here for everyone to hear, but Sheryl says she doesn't think that can be done, at least not with the equipment we have. If one of you knows better, please contact me, because hearing these sweet old pieces has been a tonic to my sad heart and brittle brain, so I would naturally love to share them with family and friends. The arrangement and performances are even more inventive and precise than I had recalled. Of course, "the limitations of the source recording are" made very clear, too, by the digital transfer. Side A, Track 1, a vigorous piece called Aperitif (named after an alcoholic beverage supposed to sharpen the appetite just before a meal) has a sort of thick or muddy sound to it, at least for the first little while. But it was made 53 years ago, for crying out loud! What do we expect from such a technologically backward age?

I am in a particularly soft-hearted mood towards the past tonight. We finally got around to watching the Ken Burns documentary Horatio's Drive tonight. My "baby sisters," Jocelyn and Jane, loaned the DVD to us months ago. It was just as delightful as I had expected it to be. I recommend it to anyone who hasn't yet spent the 2 hours and 26 minutes required to watch it. It made me feel that I had been along with the first men (and a dog named Bud, purchased in Idaho) to drive across America in an automobile.

The long-awaited acquisitions.

Continental Merry-Go-Round

2009-10-28T01:16:00.004-06:00

In the Days Before Compact Discs

When I was five a man named Emile Del Tour picked up his baton and conducted an orchestra in the performance of about one dozen lush, happy pieces which were joyful to the heart and soothing to the mind.

It so happened that in that same year my parents briefly owned a business called John's Record Shop. Monsieur Del Tour's album, Continental Merry-Go-Round, was one of several which they brought home from the store. I was raised on this album and lots of other 33 1/3 rpm LP (long playing) albums. I played all the albums many, many times. But I think I played Continental Merry-Go-Round more often than any other, with the possible exception of Frederic Fennel conducting the Eastman Wind Ensemble in British Band Classics, most of them by either Gustav Holst or Ralph (say "rafe") Vaughan Williams.

I've been able to get the British band classics in a couple of different performances on CD, but the Emile Del Tour album eluded me. A couple of years ago I began to see it on Ebay,. but we were broke and, besides, I didn't know how to use Ebay. Then, about two weeks ago, I found it again. It claimed that the copy was in new condition. How can that be, thought I. I'm only five years older than the record and I'm far from being in new condition!

Hannah is living with us now. She's a modern young woman and she easily made the purchase for me over the ether in about two minutes. We reimbursed her. The vendor said that the record would arrive somewhere between 24 October and 16 November." I guess they don't like to get pinned down. Anyway, it arrived today! It did appear to be in remarkably good condition. It came with a paper envelope, the original cardboard "shuck," and a plastic envelope to put around that.

It had been in the house less than an hour when I set it gently on the passenger's seat of our little SUV and drove to Budget Tapes and Records. For $20, a lot of money but small compared to the decades I've spent missing that album, the owner of the store will put it on his big, heavy, professional turntable and dub it onto a CD. The album label and cover art will also be on it! He's done this for me twice before and we got wonderful results both times. I can play my favorite music as much as I want without wearing out the record with a diamond needle!

In about a week, when we get it back, I'll photograph it and write about it again. Maybe one of the women in this house will even teach me how to attach some of the music to my blog post!

Setting the Record (or the Video Tape) Straight

2009-10-22T23:41:00.007-06:00

The only picture I could find with a TV in it.

Dearest children, students, friends, relatives, and anyone else who tolerates this blog:

I am not anti-TV. If I were, I'd be the world's worst hypocrite. I feel that I've left some of you with the impression that I'm against practically all TV programming. Well, I am against a lot of it. Whole categories of television programming these days leave me sort of cold and utterly unimpressed.

But there are some pretty decent and well-written things on the tube these days, as well. It's not up to you to follow my TV schedule nor is it up to me to influence yours. But, the First Amendment still being in place (for the moment,) allow me to talk about what I like and don't like on the tube.

REALITY TV: So called. It began with sticking a bunch of people on an island and exposing them to various "hardships" and "dangers." If there were really any danger, they'd be catching a ride out of there with the directors and the camera crew. And where's the reality in a group of
"stranded" folks just happening to be between the ages of 20 and 34 and generally fairly attractive. Why aren't us normal looking folks even represented on these shows? A couple of years ago I walked into the room and some family members were watching a lot of professional models (some of them male!) who were all sharing the same apartment! Oh, sure! THAT's gonna happen. And they teased each other and cried and ganged up on each other and encouraged each other, and occasionally tossed someone out on the street just because the rest of them didn't like that person! What's REAL about that? If he or she has a lease and the landlord doesn't want him/her out, guess what? They're stayin'!

Sheryl has been a fan for a couple of years of Dancing With the Stars. She started out just trying to support Marie, then laid off a season, but Donnie's on this year, so our TV is tuned to it again. She votes twice, once with her phone, once with mine. OK, I guess there's some reality there. Ozzie Osbourne's little girl really seems to have to work hard to learn the dances and the former Speaker of the House broke his foot - really! But does this qualify as "reality." I mean, if they weren't contacted a year in advance and if their agents hadn't accepted the 7 figure contract for them, not one of these stars would show up to work their guts out under the tutelage of a professional dancer who thinks they're all idiots. I mean, how real is that?

One last jab at reality TV. PUT SOME CLOTHES ON! I have to leave the room whenever the family plebiscite chooses to watch something in which people are dancing or in which unbathed people are living on a beach. I mean, they remembered to bring all the sound equipment and the lights, but nobody thought they'd need some clothes? I'm 58, but I'm not dead! I openly gasped the other night when a woman did some kind of Argentine dance with her partner. My wife, being a woman and therefore quick to detract from all other women, said, "She's 48." That only made me gasp some more. She was so perfect from head to toe (all of which was clearly visible) that it sort of hurt to look at her. I mean, beauty like that never even finds its way into a museum. Time to leave the room.

COMEDY: There is not a single sit-com currently under production which doesn't embarrass me with its sheer stupidity. Nearly all gags these days are based on sex, be it of the hetero- variety or the homo- variety. They bore me. They embarrass me. I've sort of felt this way all my life. We watched the sit-coms when we were kids, because our parents watched them. But even then they embarrassed me quite a lot. Some were just trying too hard. Some were just absurd without achieving "comedy of the absurd." Lucy never appealed to me. At all.

Dick Van Dyke was a good show.

The Beverly Hillbillies was periodically good, but the best character, the bank president's secretary, wasn't on nearly often enough.

Since the Vietnam Era, I can think of only two comedy series which were truly superior: MASH and Barney Miller. MASH was really just an incredibly long protest against the Viet Nam war, set in Korea between 1950 and 1953. The writers gave the soldiers, officers, doctors, and nurses the same attitudes that Hollywood liberals had between about 1967 and 1975. They thought like them, talked like them, and even cut (or didn't cut) their hair like them. And yet I generally liked it. The writing was usually clever and the acting was always superior with one or two exceptions. Mike Farrell was great, usually, but he couldn't cry convincingly on cue. But neither could I, so I decided to cut him a little slack.

Barney Miller was my all-time favorite sit-com. Every character was underplayed to just the right degree. A few nights ago I saw the guy who played the goofy kid on the squad. He was in an episode of Criminal Minds, playing a bald, grey-bearded grandfather who learns, along with his wife, that their murdered daughter had a little boy and that they will get to raise him. The Japanese guy on Barney Miller was a comedic genius. Dead-pan is an expression that must have been invented just to describe him. I'll never forget a scene in which some dumb guy looks at his Asian features and begins to speak to him in loud, slow syllables of pidgin English. After the idiot walked out, the officer was standing there being stared at by all his colleagues. He opened his hands wide and said, "I'm from Omaha." That line had me on the floor.

Another line in a pretty good series that about killed me was when the owner of WKRP in Cincinnati throws a bunch of domestic turkeys to their doom from an airplane as a publicity stunt. "As God is my witness, I thought turkeys could fly!"

Stand-up comedy is practically dead. Jay Leno, David Letterman, and the Irish and Scottish guys are all reasonably good. But if you go to the dedicated "comedy" channel, all the stand-ups are foul-mouthed and mortifyingly unclever.

The Brits still do pretty good comedy shows, but you have to miss a lot of good American drama to see very much of that. Yes, we record a lot of stuff, but there simply isn't time in life to see everything. Which leads us to...

DRAMA: When I was a kid (also known as the Pleistocene Epoch) there were two types of drama on TV. Everything was either cops & robbers or a western. Variety shows once existed, but they've been gone so long that it would take another entire post just to explain what they were.) Peter Gunn was probably the first great TV detective show, although some others which had started on radio shifted with some success to the tube. Peter Gunn would always be my favorite, at least until Mannix, because Henry Mancini wrote the Gunn soundtrack and the theme, and no screen writer of music has ever bested him. It pleased me to read on the back of the Peter Gunn LP that a "new young piano player" named Johnny Williams was involved in the recording. I have suspicions but cannot prove that he's the much respected best screen music composer of today.

Mannix and Orwell and a few other police or lawyer or detective-type series through the sixties pleased me. But the sixties were dominated by MORE westerns and by SPY shows. My favorite was The Man From U.N.C.L.E. Robert Vaughan, who had just been shot to doll rags in The Magnificent Seven a year or so before, played Napoleon Solo, an agent who worked for the United Network Command for Law Enforcement. David McCallum, who today cuts up dead bodies while giving fascinating lectures on NCIS, played his very hip, totally cool partner, Ilya Kuryakin. Timing was everything here. To have a Russian be a major character on a US TV show was unheard of. But to have him be a GOOD guy was astounding! After all, the Cold War was very much under way and anything Russian had an aura of suspicion around it. I recall my father coming home from the radio station one afternoon, chuckling, and telling my mother, "Did you hear what Harry Truman said today? He said, 'You can't trust a Russian.' He didn't say 'a Communist.' He said 'a Russian!' My father was clearly delighted that "Give 'em Hell Harry" was still doing so.

McCallum's character surprised lots of adults in America. Robert Vaughan was clearly the more standard handsome guy on the show, but David McCallum seemed to rev up a lot of female teenage hormones and adults seemed both puzzled and worried about it. Several weeks ago I was watching an episode of NCIS. One of the young women in the show asked their older boss, LeRoy Jethro Gibbs, "What did Ducky (Dr. Mallard) look like when he was young?" Gibbs thought for a brief moment and smiled. "He looked like Ilya Kurakin." This, of course, meant nothing to the young woman, but it made me laugh out loud.

NCIS, CSI (all versions), Criminal Minds, Cold Case, and Without A Trace still interest me, but I usually have time to watch only a couple of them per week. Numbers is good, too, but I hate to give CBS credit for anything because of their long-standing war on the Second Amendment. Then again, they may have made Gunsmoke, a truly great western series. Rats!

Theme music for dramas is usually better than that for comedies, although not always. Gunsmoke, Wagon Train, Bonanza, The High Chapparal, The Virginian, and The Rifleman all had beautiful theme music. There was once such a thing as a half-hour drama. The Rebel and Have Gun, Will Travel were two examples of such, both of them westerns. And both had superior theme music.

There is more of what dramatists call "comic relief" in today's dramas. I saw some of that in the spy show days, especially in The Avengers, a British import which depended heavily on Patrick MacNee's acting ability and Diana Rigg's tawny shape and perfect English face. Being British, it was also clever. I own the 1967 season, but haven't seen the other seasons for sale. Some dramas, over the years, have become more comic relief than drama. This hasn't bothered me unless the comic relief was badly done or seemed out of place. One show that did it a lot and did it well was Magnum, PI. Thomas Sullivan Magnum was equal to everything as long as he had his 1911 pistol, Robin Masters' Ferrari, and his moustache. And to think that Selleck got his start playing a dead body! Maybe that was appropriate, though, since he sold cigarettes as the Marlboro Man for a while.

Perhaps my all-time favorite scene from the Magnum series was the one in which stuffy old Higgins had built a model of the Bridge over the River Kwai from toothpicks. He and Magnum had been torturing each other more than usual. Magnum rigged up some tiny explosives, just like in the movie, but it didn't really happen in history, and, using a tiny little plunger, befitting the size of its target, blew the toothpicks all around the room. I knew it was cruel, but I couldn't stop laughing.

Another show that was probably more comedy than drama was Simon & Simon. (Great guitar work in the theme!) Delta Burke's husband, Gerald McRainey (I think) played Rick, older brother to AJ. I recall an episode in which AJ was locked in a tiny sound-proof room and assaulted with incredibly loud sound which could have destroyed his hearing with very long exposure. He pulled out a Colt Python (stainless) and blew out the speakers. At least, that's the way I remember it.

Today, I watch a few shows on the History Channel, a series called Eureka on the Sci Fi channel, and things like NCIS, Criminal Minds, etc.

There is one other show which Sheryl and I love to watch together. This may amaze you (providing that you care.) We like Ugly Betty. I was not predisposed to like it the first time we turned it on, but it turned out to be just the sort of thing I'd thought for a long time that the doctor had ordered for network TV. It is about a family of honest, kind, thoughtful people and their interactions with all the self-serving, devious, cruel blackguards in the world of fashion. For the first time in forever, we have a heroine to whom we can legitimately point and say to our daughters (not to mention our sons) "There! See? She could have been cruel like the other people, but she blew them away with kindness and thoughtfulness, instead." Somehow she has gradually learned to stand up for herself, but she's never lost her essential decency.

Ugly Betty accomplishes something that I haven't seen done successfully since the eighties when Crime Story (set in the sixties) made you have feelings for ALL the characters, even the brutal mafiosi! The character played by Vanessa Williams in Ugly Betty is about as cold, calculating, and mean-spirited as any I've ever seen. Certainly she is the coldest female character I've ever seen outside a vampire movie. And yet, when her insane sister burns up her apartment or her daughter kills a guy in self-defense, you actually find yourself rooting for her. That's the mark of good writing, not to mention pretty fine acting.

So, no. I'm not a hater of TV. But I'm pretty darned critical of what's out there. We just don't need some of the trash that's being made. We absolutely do not need shows called Cougars or Desperate Housewives. They seem to be trying to raise adultery to an art form. No, I haven't watched them. Ever! The previews tell me everything I need to know in order to make an informed decision. Fortunately, my partner agrees with me about most such moral choices. And what we watch on the tube IS a moral choice.

Honoring a Man Who Deserves It

2009-10-20T22:46:00.017-06:00

Jocy, Mother, Papa at Miles Brown's baptism.

Last Sunday's lesson from the Joseph Smith manual was about how much he loved his own family and how we should learn from the example of Asael Smith's descendants to make our homes heavenly places. I told the brethren flat out that I'd always wanted to be more like my father. Some of them said they'd always wanted to be a little better than their fathers. I'm sorry that their experiences led them to that goal. All I know is that, for 58 years, my father has been my idea of what a man should be. I felt this way as a small child. I felt this way as I grew up. I have grown even stronger in this desire since I, myself became a father and grandfather.

Today's blog post by my daughter, Autumn Marie Mulverhill, really got to my heart. It featured photos of relatives old and new at beautiful places like upper and lower Mesa Falls. It featured photos of a son I haven't seen for years and of his wife and of their adorable baby boy. Above all, it showed my father giving his classic "treatment" to my grandson Clayton. This treatment involves enveloping a baby or small child in a big, beefy cloud of warmth and security, all the while beaming down on them a look of love and approval which I've never seen anyone beat. I've quoted Theodore Roosevelt (TR) in this blog as having said that his father was "the best man I ever knew.") I can and do unequivocally adopt that phrase as being representative of my feelings about my father.

His stories of his misadventures as a child and young man, his fights and difficulties in the navy, the amazing and sometimes likable people he has known in the navy and throughout his life, his accounts of German-speaking relatives and their hard-headed ways, and his teasing of my mother and others whom he loves with a perfect and eternal love are all elements of what makes him adorable to his family. Whether you call him "Sir," "Dad," "Daddy," "Papa," "Grand-dad," or "John," he is the most impressive person many have ever met. Years after his term as a bishop on the Ricks campus, he kept receiving calls and cards from couples and individuals who looked upon him as the angel of their youthful crossroads.

I grow frustrated sometimes with my inability to express to either of my parents my gratitude for the special things they have taught me which seem to have been left out of virtually everyone else's upbringing. Growing up in Papa's house, we heard phrases of Philipino language, and learned to scatter when he said "Ewass!" Being awakened in the morning by him was a sort of treat, because he would often imitate what the old chief had said each morning at the Great Lakes Naval Training Center: "Alright, you people! Reveille!") To grow up around him was to be constantly enthralled by the stories of memorable personalities he had known. The hugely fat fellow who, upon leaving ship, would go into the nearest tavern, set his stomach on the bar, and say "Fill 'er up!" The outrageous Vulyanov, the crude Russian with the impressive moustache, who almost got them all killed with his vile remark in Canada on the occasion of the death of George VI. Buster Madriaga, his little Mexican buddy, who unhesitatingly dropped his hat when the huge fellow from a carrier crew said, "I'll fight you at the drop of a hat." Papa's own accidental ventilation of the web of the hand of a fellow Shore Patrolman when the fellow tried to hail an ambulance with an upraised hand while my father signaled it with a shot in the air from his 1911 .45 Government Model pistol. "The old man really chewed us out for that one." No matter who the captain was, he was always "the old man."

From him I learned what a friendship based on the Spirit can be. He is grateful for the change the Gospel has brought into his life. Many times I've heard him say that he doesn't even want to think of what his life would have become without it.

I was riding with him once when we lived in Twin Falls. I think we were restocking vending machines, one of many jobs he took to make ends meet. The radio was on and tuned to KTFI, an NBC affiliate there in Twin. A story of the pope at that time (John XXIII) was on and he listened to it for a moment. Then he began to tap his finger with increasing impatience on the steering wheel. I knew that he was about to say something meaningful and important, something not to be forgotten. What he finally said as he pointed to the car's radio, was "I have more priesthood in my little finger than that guy has in his whole body!" Now, he wasn't bragging. Not a bit. He was testifying! He wanted me, the only kid in the car, to know what the Holy Ghost had testified to him. And I've never forgotten it. I know by the power of the same spirit Personage that his statement was true. I could want nothing more than to be as good a man as my father.

John Albert Haeberle, 2005

Babies are always comfortable with him.

Joseph with his grandparents just before his mission.

Canoeing with Papa.

Himself.

Granddaddy checks Eliza's fingers for the correct number.

Direct offspring (except John.)

Dallin's turn with Great Grand-daddy.

Reading the 80th birthday card from the gang.

A private moment after Jennifer presents the grandchildren's quilt to my father.

Andrew takes his turn at his Great-grandfather's 80th birthday observance.

Eliza poses with my father at his 80th birthday celebration.

Mathew gets squeezed properly at his Great-Grandfather's 80th birthday celebration.

This New Flu Has Well-Known Ancestors

2009-10-17T01:51:00.005-06:00

The Lord's Way

In a little over 4 years, from 1 August 1914 to 11 November 1918, 9 million people, most of them young men, died in the shoot-out known today as the First World War. Before the survivors could even get home, they and the rest of the world were falling victim to "The Spanish Lady," a virulent form of flu which killed twice as many people as the world war had just killed. I read a book about it one time. Eery stories about the disease survive to this day. A boy steps into the batter's box, apparently healthy, hits a single, and dies before he can reach first base. Whole families are wiped out. Whole communities, as with the Black Death of 1348, simply cease to be.

We hope and pray for better results this time. Medical science is much better today than it was 91 years ago. Vaccines are being prepared. But the networks said today that the virus grows slowly so that the quantity of vaccine that is needed is not ready yet.

I submit that we can only really depend on the Lord to get us through this trial. True, we should keep working and trying and learning from the experience, but our ultimate faith should be in the God who gave us life.

Repentance has never been a very popular option with nations who are in trouble. But I suspect no nation has ever been in more need of repentance that we are now. We are given a constitution by God through inspired men whom he raised up to that very purpose. But now it seems inconvenient to people who believe they are wiser than the framers of the constitution.

In my lifetime, we have gone from TV with no swearing at all to TV with practically uncensored language. Allusions to immoral behavior could be made in the sixties. Today it is portrayed in some detail. The sacred nature of the marriage contract was still recognized by most Americans when I was a child in the fifties. Today, a major character in a show who does not have a live-in significant other is considered strange.

Then Christmas was the center of dozens of specials and episodes and this was expected and considered to be right. Today, the Grinch is as close to a convert as anyone will see on a Christmas program. I'll be interested to see how the Jim Carrey version of Scrooge deals with the Son of God. He is mentioned many times in the novel. Tiny Tim says that he loved to go to Church, because he thought it might give people pleasure to see him on his crutch and remember who made blind men see and lame beggars walk. Do you suppose that part will make it in there this time?

Everyone used to be taught flag etiquette. Practically everyone knew what half-mast meant. They also knew tht the flag upside down was a cry for help. Those who flew the flag treated it with respect. It was not allowed to become soiled or torn. Today, I often see it displayed but in a damaged, dirty, way. Sometimes I've even seen it touch the ground, something that was unheard of in my youth.

Populations on THIS CONTINENT who have become worldly, casual about spiritual things, and even openly rebellious towards God and godly things, have been wiped out by wars (Jaredites and Nephites) or allowed to be scattered and disinherited (Lamanites.)

So, the disease has ancestors, but so do its victims. We've been promised plagues, calamities, wars, famines, droughts if we didn't turn back to the Lord and live his commandments. I, for one, think it's time we do precisely that. We need God. Everyone needs Him. Even if they don't know it yet.

How I Spent the Seventh of October

2009-10-13T20:16:00.006-06:00

I did NOT hit the gong at 525 yards with my H&R Buffalo Classic in .45-70. But it was a joy to try and I had a great time. I came within a foot of it a couple of times. Of course, since the sights only adjust up far enough for the 500 grain bullet to strike dead-on at about 150 yards, shooting at 500 was sort of a joke. I used the same juniper tree that we'd used before with our .22s, but they had scopes and I could usually tell almost exactly where I was holding. In this case, I'd try to SEE the gong through the peep sights, then TRY to lift the front sight in a straight line up to the top of the juniper behind the gong. Then, going by what Aric had said about the last shot, I'd make additional adjustments in both elevation and windage. Then, I'd squeeze off the shot, usually only looking at the corner of the juniper's topmost branches at the moment of discharge.

If that sounds ridiculous to you, you're right! As the day wore on, those 500 grain slugs began to wear me down with their "equal and opposite reaction." Because I held the rifle exactly the same way from shot to shot, my bruise was a fearsome one by the end of the day, and was riding on a tall bulge which had never been part of my anatomy before. But it had to be done. Accuracy is everything and consistency of behavior yields accuracy.

The same rifle had hit the same gong earlier in the afternoon a bunch of times, but that was only from 156 yards according to Aric's laser range finder. The gong produced very loud rings and got dented seriously by both the 500 grain flat points and the 305 grain round nosed flat points.

My shoulder is almost healed now. That's a good thing, because the rifle has been singing to me from the closet for days now.

Reaching out 525 yards with 500 grain flat point bullets.

Aric Armell scored several hits on the 525 yard gong with his Ruger Mini-14. The mil-dot scope may have helped a little. Still, hitting anything at 525 yards is an accomplishment.

Mild Consternation

2009-10-12T01:02:00.002-06:00

Did anyone besides Johanna manage to get through my last blog post? Perhaps it was just too serious. Or maybe it was just too darned verbose. Anyway, Johanna was the only one who responded to it which left me with the feeling that a limited number of things had occurred:

1) No one else could get to the end.
2) Others reached the end, disagreed with me, but were too polite to say so.
3) Many saw that it was a political subject and decided not to bother with it.
4) Many did read it and even felt some sympathy with my positions, but would rather not encourage the old guy by responding to his bleak view of the world.

I have waited a few extra days to give folks time to read it and respond to it, but nothing has been forthcoming. Let me simply say that I wrote that last post prayerfully and with very serious thought. I really was moved by the things which the people in John's email were saying in their London demonstration. I already know what John thinks. Johanna has responded. I think I'll give it a couple more days before I switch to another, more cheerful subject.

I Dare You to Have an Opinion!

2009-10-08T00:07:00.009-06:00

The Angel Moroni proclaims the restoration of revealed religion to the earth.

A common American practices his marksmanship.

I received an upsetting email today. Many of you may already have seen it. My brother John sent it out. It shows angry Moslems demonstrating in the streets of London, crying for the death of all their hosts in England and mainland Europe. In one photograph I even saw an English "Bobby" (named for Sir Robert Peale, the father of Britain's high standard of police work) standing near a demonstrator, protecting that person's freedom of expression. Other signs demanded the beheading of all who "insult" Islam. Still others threatened Europe with a 9/11 of its own.

I suppose the one that bothered me the most, because it's what I've been fearing the most, was a well-printed, professional-looking sign which stated simply that Islam will take over the world. It is not an Islamic take-over that I fear. I don't think they can do it. But I do fear that they'll try it and many people will die before freedom of expression and religion are re-established and reaffirmed in Europe and in our own land.

As I was saying to John today, I believe that a short-term solution will involve violence, possibly even on the part of regular citizens. It will be a fight for survival as a Christian culture which is exactly what the United States of America is and always has been. It was not established as a Jewish culture which tolerated Christianity. It was not established as a Sikh, Buddhist, Moslem, Hindu, Zoroastrian, or animist society which also tolerated Christianity.

It was established as a Christian nation which tolerates other religions. Those other religions had their rights enshrined in the First Amendment along with ours. The idea was that everyone would tolerate everyone else so long as no group used its freedoms to attack or thwart those of others.

We have not always maintained a perfect record in following this ideal, but we keep coming back to it after every foolish or cruel deviation from it. Jews, who had endured many centuries of mistreatment in Europe, did not immediately find things much better here. Groups such as the Ku Klux Klan hated them as much as they did the former slaves who now went by the title "freedmen." Poor Irish and Italian immigrants experienced persecution and hostility as they settled in the big cities and stayed in public view while practicing their Catholic beliefs. Wealthier Germans and Scandinavians who only passed through the cities and spent money on farm equipment en route to the plains states were treated as welcome guests. No one was offended by those who were Lutherans nor much by those Germans who were Catholics, because they were just passing through, they were spending money in our stores, and then they were going away! Far away! And when they got out west they established clean, thrifty, productive farms and communities which didn't bother anybody.

No, our record is not perfect. But it's about as good as you'll find anywhere in the world. Tolerance has certainly been practiced here as a typical American tradition. But in recent years the definition of tolerance seems to have undergone a marked change. People in increasing numbers have begun to believe that a truly tolerant person never finds fault with anything somebody believes or preaches. They seem afraid to argue or preach an opposing point of view. Those who do such arguing or preaching are labeled as intolerant, even when they haven't lifted a finger to remove from society those groups with which they find fault. In other words, for having an opinion and openly expressing it, they are called intolerant! For fear of being thus labeled, many have joined the band wagon which preaches that, above all else, we must avoid offending anyone by expressing an honest opinion.

This is both stupid and cowardly. It allows an extremist from any group to bully his way into rights which are not only equal but even superior. For centuries, political cartoonists could lampoon anybody they thought was being foolish, inconsistent, or just plain wrong-headed. But then, just a few years ago, some cartoons about the "prophet" Mohammed were published in a newspaper in Denmark. The Moslems, who had been slowly filling up the major cities of Europe for many years as immigrants seeking better work and housing, suddenly began calling for the death of the cartoonist and the outlawry of all such humorous commentary. Their numbers made their voice a very loud and somewhat frightening one. A few Europeans have essentially told the militant Moslems where to get off. But many editors and national legislators have chosen to give the intolerant minorities what they want - gag orders on certain topics. Freedom of speech and the press, along with free religious and political thought, have begun to disappear from that Europe which, in the middle ages, boldly carried the cross directly into the heart of Moslem lands.

Am I defending the Crusaders? Not particularly, although some of them showed genuine religious devotion and faith. But let's face it. Many of them only went along on the journey because we Europeans were a society with an economy based on the possession and control of land and all the good bits had been grabbed by 1095. Many poor guys were able to kill their way into possession of large parcels of land and build German-style or Italian-style or French-style or English-style castles on them, even though they looked a bit out of place surrounded by all that sand. In the First Crusade, which was attended by such noteworthy folks as Richard Lionheart of England and Louis IX (Saint Louis) of France, the city of Jerusalem was laid siege to, its wall breached, and its inhabitants nearly all exterminated. The blood was ankle deep on every floor of Herod's temple. That's about as intolerant as you can get.

Later Crusades were just as mad but less successful. Constantinople was sacked during one of them. It was a Christian capital, albeit Eastern Orthodox, so this seemed like breaking the rules to the Greek-speaking Eastern Roman Empire. Grudges have been held all these centuries.

The broadsword missionary approach had only limited success for the Christians, as the scimitar missionary approach had enjoyed for the Moslems beginning about the seventh century (600s.) Once the guys with the big knives get tired, gather up all their stolen gold, and go home, lots of folks spring right back to whatever they'd really believed before the shootout had started.

So today many Moslems want to get militant again. They want to spread their religion by the sword. Literally. Some people think we can smile and appease them as Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain tried to appease Hitler by giving away things he didn't own such as Czechoslovakia. But most people who've really thought it out know that, when you give a bully some of what he wants, he'll only push harder until he gets it all. So that's one major problem with our reaction to this threat. Too many of us are cowardly appeasers.

To me, though, the MAJOR PROBLEM with us (the predominantly Christian European and American nation-states) is that our religions don't matter to us any more. We stopped caring gradually, probably beginning with the free love and free thinking and non-thinking of the sixties. It is no longer fashionable to believe too strongly in God. Today it is common for people to declare themselves to be "not very religious." This means not religious at all. It means there are no religious principles or beliefs for which they would fight if those things were under an attack which literally threatened their continued existence. And the problem with that is that those who want to destroy our Christian religion really do believe in their own religion and really are willing to kill us in order to accomplish their goals.

I see two solutions for this. The short term solution is that we get humble, prayerful, and more united. We proclaim openly that we really do believe in God the Father and in his Son, Jesus Christ. We proclaim that we will stop, with armed force if necessary, any attempt to stamp us out as a religion or as a culture. Many have feared this before. A Japanese general once said that he would never invade the United States, because there would be a rifleman "behind every blade of grass." Well, maybe at his time. Today we might have enough riflemen to have one behind every other sage brush. But that would make a real difference to a group hoping to supplant us as the inhabitants of this land. Does our God condone this? Check out Alma Chapter 48 in the Book of Mormon and tell me what you think.

The ultimate or long-term solution, of course, is the preaching of the restored Gospel of Jesus Christ as it was revealed to the Prophet Joseph Smith. We have been told that it will visit every nation and clime. That must include the Moslems. Can they be converted? Why not? The Lamanites also had a centuries old tradition of hating the Christian Nephites, but they were nearly all converted in the first century AD.

Mr. Lincoln was chastised by a cabinet member for being too soft towards some of his political enemies. "You should destroy your enemies," he was told. His response was, "If I befriend an enemy, have I not destroyed him?"

In summary, then, I opine that Islam is a false religion, established by a false prophet. I believe that its adherents are, by and large, good people who have been misled. I also believe that, if and when they physically attack us, we should fight back vigorously to defend family and home. I believe that we all share in this responsibility. Ultimately, I hope that the growth of the Lord's restored Church will obviate any rift between us and other religionists. Surely in the Millennium this will become the case.

What is your opinion?

The Unillustrated Post

2009-10-04T18:38:00.003-06:00

Why are there no pictures in this post? After all, the old coot who writes it has always overwhelmed us with pictures before. What's wrong with this guy?

Ignorance.

That's it and there's no way to whitewash the fact.

According to the instructions which come with this blog stuff, you can take illustrations either from your own albums on the computer or from other sources on the net. Great. I tried that. I wanted to write the touching story of the friendship between Victor Hartmann and Modest Mussorgsky. I wanted to wring tears from all of you with the famous quotation from Mussorgsky when his friend died, thus inspiring the writing of one of his most famous compositions, Pictures at An Exhibition. I was going to talk about how the piece had originally been written for piano and later scored for orchestra by Maurice Ravel, he of Bolero fame.

Yes, this was going to be a real killer of a blog post. I was going to describe several of the parts in Pictures, especially the Promenade, Bydlo, The Hut on Fowl's Legs, and The Great Gate at Kiev. For that last, I was going to tell the story of how the city of Kiev (formerly the capital city of ancient Russia before it got into the habit of being invaded all the time) had invited artists and architects to submit drawings and designs for a proposed triumphal arch to be built in that city. It would have been something like the one Napoleon had built in Paris or the one which honored The Grand Army of the Republic in New York City after the "unpleasantness" from 1861-1865. In other words, it was to have been something like the triumphal arches the Romans used to build all the time to celebrate military success in far-away places like Egypt, Persia, Greece, Spain, and Gaul.

But, rather like the fellow in the Bible who was made fun of for beginning to build a tower and then running out of funds before it was finished, Kiev decided to abandon the project after all these guys had submitted drawings and plans. As Modest' Mussorgsky shuffled through his dead friend's paintings and sketches, he came across the drawing of the triumphal arch that never was. So he decided to build it himself. While repetitive, the piece is truly glorious and could send shivers down the spine of a brass monkey. That's the piece with which he ended Pictures.

I wanted to use three portraits of Modest' Petrovich Mussorgsky. They are right there in several places, complete with statements that they are now in the public domain, because the guy has been dead since before there was hair. I was going to use the one of him in a cadet uniform in his teens. Then I would have used one of the early middle age portraits, actual photographs, which show him in a suit with shoulder length hair well combed and a well-trimmed beard. Finally, to show how life and death had eroded him away from a brilliant composer to just another Russian drunk, I was going to use the painting which shows him all disheveled and with a bulbous nose the color of a turnip.

But no. I couldn't do any of that. Why? I didn't know how. I tried several approaches and couldn't get any of the pictures to move from where they were to my blog. If I'd been able to do it, I might have thrown in a portrait of the decedent, himself, Victor Hartmann. He must have been quite a guy. Mussorgsky's friendship for him caused him terrible grief when Hartmann died. What he said was, "Why does a dog, a cat, a rat live on, and creatures like Hartmann must die?"

Illustrations to Go With All the Big Talk

2009-09-29T15:14:00.011-06:00

Recently I shot off my mouth (and my keyboard and a couple of rifles) on this blog about the long distance shooting we'd been doing with .22 rifles, namely my Savage Mako and Aric's Model 925 Marlin in .22 WMR. Recently we took an afternoon and switched to centerfire rifles. Aric brought out his personalized Remington 710 in .300 Winchester Magnum. I just brought my old Swedish Mauser with the 29.1" barrel and the original tangent sights. Both of us scored hits on the gong which was set, according to Aric's laser range finder, 525 yards from our shooting position. We had a deeply satisfying time, getting a lot more hits than we had with rimfire loads and much louder "dings" with each hit.

The 109 year old Swede still knows how as Aric is about to demonstrate.

Here I've added a white spot to show approximately where we put the gong. The white spot is much larger than the gong.

Tolerating Change

2009-09-24T19:20:00.001-06:00

A number of times in my life I've had the experience of coming home and opening the front door only to have the horrible feeling that I'm breaking into someone else's place. The chairs aren't where they're supposed to be, the couch is facing the opposite direction from its position only 9 or 10 hours ago, the TV is momentarily lost altogether, and the lamps seem to be on all at once for no apparent reason. A lingering air of dust and sweat completes the strangeness of the new atmosphere. I stare in consternation until I am at last able to recognize a few familiar things which have always belonged in my world and are therefore sure signs that I have not entered the wrong house.

If the date is somewhere between 1957 and 1969, I'll hear my mother's voice asking me to put my books away and help her shove a couch or bookshelf a little further into its new place. If the day has fried my brain too much, I'll slip up and ask something dangerous like, Why did you do all this?" If I ask this between 1975 and 1992, the response will probably be " 'M'on, Mims! It's fun!" "What's fun?" "Change, Mims! Making things seem new!" "Oh. Uh, huh."

If I have stumbled into the scene between 1992 and 1999, the answer will be "Hi, Honey! Guess what Bruce Benson and I found under the carpet. Red oak!" That alone was sufficient to cancel all other plans until the last coat finished drying about a week later. True, the floor was gorgeous, but I was exhausted and the lady next door had become infected with the desire to do the same thing. This left me feeling oddly guilty for her husband, Red, who was a truly nice guy and deserved a little time to sit in front of the tube and watch sports.

These days, the change might be announced with the pitiful tones of "Help me!" coming from another room. These words are spoken by one who knows perfectly well that I'm writing something on the computer or loading cartridges in the garage or deeply involved in a program on the History or Sci Fi channel. But there is nothing sacrosanct about a man's hobbies. Men are just overgrown children, anyway, and they have to be taught constantly that what is important to them is, by definition, not really important.

I learned the other day that our car needs to be replaced. This came as a great shock to me. I still think of it as a relatively new car. It is paid for, since we got it by trading the first Dodge Magnum of all time straight across for the little Neon which Dodge said was painted "Orange Blast." It had seven miles on it, a standard transmission with five forward speeds, and better visibility than the Magnum for which I had written a check of total payment about 4 months before. The Neon got great mileage, the chief reason we had decided not to keep the Magnum. We were just finishing up our world record race through my one-lump retirement package, and, since the Neon was new, I thought I wouldn't have to even think about buying another car for about ten years. I smiled a lot.

Our tires are, admittedly, shot. Our brakes need work. The starter is making a funny little sound, although it still starts the car with absolute fidelity. On the basis of all this, I am told we need a new car. Personages of no less note than the bishop and the father-in-law have joined in the chorus. So I guess we'll be getting a new(ish) car.

We have been looking at the Subaru Outback and the Mercury Mariner and a few others of that general ilk. I have never tolerated change well. Changing girlfriends back in my single days was terribly traumatic to me. Changing wives is a torment which has been inflicted on me twice. I did not handle the process well either time. Indeed, the first time, I would much rather have been shot. The second time wasn't much better, because, in addition to losing a companion, I was losing the frequent companionship of a tiny and much-loved son. All these experiences have made me less, not more, a fan of change. The only time I don't mind change is when it means getting something new without losing something old or familiar.

For example, I have rifles in four calibers right now. I could be reasonably happy with these four for the rest of my life, but I could be deliriously happy if I were able to add just a few more. See? Not change. Just addition. That's the best way to go.

Empathizing With Michelangelo

2009-09-17T00:28:00.004-06:00

Many years ago a man wrote a novel about the relationship between Pope Julius IV and the artist, Michelangelo Buonarotti. It was called The Agony and the Ecstasy. Both men were trying to create something. One was trying to create a Catholic Empire that was too strong for the kings of Europe to assail. The other was trying to create a masterwork which he'd never wanted to do at all, but which, since he had to do it, he wanted to do in his own way. The alternating friendship and enmity between these two men made a fine story, although, I confess, I've only read AT the novel. But I've seen the film many times and even used to employ it in my Western Civilization classes at MHS.

As a teacher, I often lamented that I was answerable to anyone but God for what I did and how I did it in my classroom. I knew that my desire was to do a good job of teaching truly important things. The people who stood in judgment of me or in authority over me were an irritant to me unless they wised up and left me alone. For a long time they generally did leave me alone. At the end, of course, that ceased. But it was certainly an experience which gave me not just sympathy, I think, but real empathy with the great Florentine with the crooked nose. I loved to tell the stories of History, and teach them in my own way, a way which had proven to fascinate and educate young people. I even enjoyed telling the story of HOW Michelangelo's nose got so crooked.

Another thing that has given me empathy with Michelangelo in his creation of the Sistine Chapel ceiling is the religious training of Dante (my Dante, not the Florentine poet.) When I was finally talked into divorce by his mother, she stated several times that she would never stand in the way of his religious training. That was to be my sole bailiwick. To be fair, she has held up her end of that bargain fairly well. To my knowledge, she has abstained from virtually any such indoctrination of him, except for things like Christmas which is all to the good.

Sheryl and I used to take him to the Boise Temple when he was still little. We taught him songs from Primary and we taught him the proper form of prayer. When he came to our home, which happened more often when we lived in Boise, he got a pretty healthy dose of Church attendance, prayer, and doctrine.

But, since we've moved back to this side of the state to be close to our parents and other relatives, it has become mathematically impossible for us to travel back and forth to pick him up and return him. The price of gasoline, as everyone knows, had grown enormously, while our income has stagnated at a good deal less than I was making my last couple of years at Madison. For example, I had hoped to have Dante here for two stays this summer, but we were only able to afford the one in June.

It was during that June visit that he made a comment which hurt me a lot, although hurting anyone was the furthest thing from his bright little mind. He said, when I was talking about some Church-related topic, that "I'm not a very religious person." I don't believe that anyone had taught him to say that. I believe that he'd merely picked it up by observation as others represented their own position with such phrases. But hurt me it did. I knew it meant that I was failing and that I had virtually no chance to succeed in teaching him what the Doctrine & Covenants says it is our duty to teach our children.

A couple of years ago, as he approached his eighth birthday, I asked his mother whether we might not have the full-time missionaries come into their home and prepare him for baptism. I knew that I couldn't possibly get over there often enough, nor could I keep him here long enough to get him ready. She said that she was "not comfortable with that." So I watched his birthday come and go with a very heavy heart (to borrow a famous phrase from LBJ.)

Since then I've prayed many times about the situation. It is my duty to teach the little fellow the gospel, but I don't get the chance. Indeed, the opportunities to be with him and teach him seem to be coming less and less often. And I don't think that Michelangelo could have been more sick at heart if Julius really had taken the ceiling commission away from him (as he had threatened to do on a couple of occasions) than I have been about the divine project which I had so hoped to do and do well. My love for the little monster is so strong that hearing his voice on the phone, as I did this evening, is all it takes for me to start tearing up. I am not certain why I'm writing this particular post. There's nothing any of you can do about the situation. Except pray. Maybe that would be enough. If you would occasionally pray for me (or someone) to have the chance to teach the Restored Gospel, by the power of the Holy Ghost, to my little son Dante, then this situation could still be pulled out of the fire. Please give it some thought. And please pray for us in this regard. Thanks.

Speeches, Ridiculously Long Shots, and Children in Peril

2009-09-09T22:51:00.004-06:00

Josh

For many centuries, public speeches were looked forward to and enjoyed the way we look forward to the next Harry Potter film today. A speech could be as entertaining as a play and much more easy to come by. One of the things I enjoyed most about History as a child was the many quotations from great speeches which showed up in all those biogs I used to read. I think that I had a fair idea of what a really polished and capable speaker was before I ever took that eighth/ninth grade speech class in which I first met Terry A. Lindsay.

I have a bunch of books which contain nothing but speeches. I don't really see how a person could teach History without such things. I used to read the Patrick Henry speech to my kids, as well as Pericles' Funeral Oration (selections,) the Fourth of July Speech from 1856 by Frederick Douglass, selections from the Webster/Hayne debate and the Lincoln/Douglas debates, and lots of other plums of spoken language which moved people and accomplished things. I've always loved speeches.

I still do. That is the main reason why I sat through the President's speech tonight. I was impressed. Favorably. Darn it! I rather like the fellow. He is a polished speaker. He might be almost as good as the greats of American history. In the fullness of time, he might prove to be every bit as good as them. As a speaker, I mean. He handled a sincerely angry heckler tonight with dignity and seeming sincerity.

That's the thing that got to me most. He really seems to believe that he can pull all this stuff off. I don't believe he can, but I don't think I can doubt the sincerity of his belief that he can any more. He spoke tonight about things that I'd been wanting and even longing to hear from an American leader for many years. Although the subject was health care, he referred pointedly to "civility" in American politics, a thing which has been lacking for a long time and most especially during the last several Presidential elections. If you know my mother, and most of you do, you know that courtesy and civility were paramount in her home. If you know my father, you know that he is the soul of decency and respectful communication. Therefore, these things have come to matter a great deal to those of us who were raised under their roof(s.) (We moved around a lot.) And that's why it touched me so much to hear Mr. Obama speak of this subject so appealingly and even, I think, persuasively.

There were times tonight when I believe the President actually had the nation entranced. There was a kind of awe-stricken hush (after the heckler subsided) for a long period of the speech. He was talking about things he believed would make the nation better, and he got others to share his dream, if only for a few minutes. That is the power of public speech. And that is why this president chooses to deliver speeches a bit more often than some others of recent memory have done. He knows that it is his chief strength as a leader. He can inspire people to hope for things in which they don't even believe.

Don't take this to mean that I'm changing parties. Far from it. I don't think I even have a party right now. For a couple of decades I've believed the Democrats to be fundamentally wrong-headed and the Republicans to be fundamentally cowardly in not fighting them more effectively. But the man can speak. Yessiree! There have been speakers like that throughout human history. Some were very good, even godly in their mission and intent. Others were the foulest kind of self-effaced children of God. Being able to move a crowd is a great power. It's a thrill and is a bit addictive. For some people it seems to come almost too easily. Adolf Hitler moved hundreds of thousands to tears of joy when he described the glorious future he had planned for the Fatherland. Their poverty would end. Their national shame and humiliation after the Treaty of Versailles would be but an unpleasant memory. They would be great again. Yeah. Right.

I think that I like Mr. Obama a little more now. I can at least believe that he believes. I suppose he won me over that much. But it was just today that I received an email (not yet passed through Snopes) which says that we will have to list our firearms on our income tax returns. It sounds absurd, but then a lot of things these days sound absurd. Some of them are just that. Silly. False. Made up. But how can I not at least listen to such a warning when persons like Mr. Obama, Sen. Feinstein, and Sen. Schumer are in power? They have dedicated their lives to such dangerous stunts. They are simply not to be trusted, at least on the Second Amendment and other parts of the Bill of Rights which protect us from having too much government with too much power.

Enough of that. Aric Armell and I have been having lots of fun lately. We go out for 2-4 hours at a time and try to hit milk jugs and steel gongs at long range with .22s! A couple of weeks ago we found that we could make fairly consistent hits on targets at 200 yards. With .22s! So we tried it at 300. Yes, the rate of success fell off a bit, but we still got lots of hits, many more than we'd thought possible. The scopes wouldn't adjust high enough for 400 yard shooting, so we had to start verbally describing to each other just how much we were holding over the target. It would sound like this: "OK, on this shot I'm holding the lower duplex reticle's point at the top of the big juniper behind the target, maybe a few inches above it actually, and I'm holding the vertical crosshair about one gong width left of the gong, because of the wind." And despite all the preparations and considerations, the shot might land a gong width to the right and six feet short of it! But just trying it was tremendously fun.

Yesterday and today we were shooting at a steel gong and a 2 gallon water jug which were at a
"lazed" (measured with a laser range finder) 525 yards. I hit the gong ONCE today. It was a thrill. I could barely make out the little metallic clang which came back to me long after the sound of the shot had died away. And the bullet had lost so much energy by the time it reached the gong that it couldn't dent it at all. It just sort of flaked off some of the paint we'd put on today. With Aric's .22 Mag we hit the gong about 7 times.

Now for the third topic of this post. Josh. He turns 23 on the 12th, but he'll be driving back to New York by that time, so we celebrated his birthday tonight with pizza and pumpkin pie. Those were his choices. Soon he'll be deployed to Iraq along with the entire 10th Mountain Division from Fort Drum, NY.

We're trying not to worry too much. After all, he works in the motor pool. He should be safe. But his secondary job is "SAW gunner."

The "SAW" ("Squad Automatic Weapon") is a light machine gun which shoots the same round that the M-16 and M-4 typically use, 5.56mm NATO. Its civilian name is .223 Remington. Its cyclic rate (push the cartridge into the chamber, fire it, extract it, eject it, and replace it with another cartridge) is very fast. He loves it. But, despite my admiration for such technology, I find myself hoping that he'll be bored to tears in the motor pool for the whole year. That he won't see any "action" at all. That he'll come home the same cocky, annoying little braggart he's always been, with no extra apertures or orifices in his hairy little body. That's the essence of what we're praying for. Perhaps you could join us in that from time to time. We'd appreciate it.

A Non-Hobbyists's View of Cars

2009-08-31T00:31:00.021-06:00

Muzzle velocity, ballistic co-efficient, terminal velocity, interior ballistics, exterior ballistics, sectional density, magazine, chamber, bolt face, crane, forcing cone, rolling block, falling block, standing block, cast-off, lock, stock, barrel, boat-tail, meplat, hard cast, jacketed, FMJ, HP, FP, Ballistic Tip, Silver Tip, Model 70, Model 700, Model 77, Model 94, Model 95, Mauser, Mannlicher, Steyr, Czeska-Zbrojovka, Pietro Beretta, Eliphalet Remington, Oliver Winchester, Sam Colt, Savage 110, head space, John Moses Browning, Enfield, Springfield, .45-70 Government, .30'06, .270, 6.5 x 55, 7.62x54R, 7.65 x 53, 7 x 57, 8 x 57, belted magnum, .17 HMR, .22 LR, .22 WMR, shotshell, rimmed, rimless, rebated rim, and gas operated.

There! That ought to hold you. I know that you'll miss dreadfully all the usual firearms gibberish in this post, so I provided some for you right up front.

Since I know as little about cars as anyone, and since the First Amendment has not (yet) been repealed, I thought I would lay a little car talk on you. They really aren't that much different, you know, cars and guns. Both were major strides forward in world technology, both have been used to destroy countless human beings and animals, both have changed the face of warfare, and both are constantly indispensable in civilized society. Both lend an unmistakable air of freedom and independence to their owners. Both can be status symbols, depending on their age, their capabilities, the quality of their construction, or the name which is stamped on them.

My first car was a 1968 Volvo 1800S. I can't immediately locate a picture of it, but some of you recall it from when Jacob called it "the baby car." That was at about the time of Shayne's advent to the family. I bought it, because the Air Force Credit Union turned me down for a loan on a fully restored and gorgeous little Austin-Healy "Bug-eye" Sprite. It was too old, they said, having been made in England in 1960 (when I was nine.) The Volvo Sport Coupe, however, although it was in fairly good working condition, was only a 1968, so the AFCU decided they could take a chance on that one.

I spent lots of money repairing and maintaining it, not because it was a poorly made car, far from it, but because I was giving it a year's worth of use every couple of months. The fact that I had been transferred from the Presidio of Monterey (about 20 minutes from Shayne's house) to George Air Force Base (7 1/2 hours from Shayne's house) meant very little to me. She had to be visited at least every other weekend. I was certain of that. And so, the little Volvo had many, many miles put on it on freeways like I-5 and the 101. It also spent lots of time on two-lane highways like California 198 and Palmdale Road. When Shayne and I were in it, the Volvo logged lots of time in Monterey, Salinas, Castroville, and Moss Landing. It drove down Cannery Row innumerable times, and was parked as close as we could get it to the beach at Carmel-by-the-Sea. Naturally, we were more careful about that after Clint Eastwood became mayor there.

I once had a close friend who shared my love of various things such as firearms, airplanes, formula one racing cars, sports cars, history, and the LDS Church. His name was Rusty Black. Rusty was good to us in many ways, one of which truly touched our hearts. The second time we lived in Moscow, Joseph became briefly airborne while swinging with the Jimenez kids. The flight was OK, but the landing left much to be desired. During our boy's six weeks in traction, Rusty came up to the hospital many times with bags full of books to distract Joseph from the immobility which was driving him to distraction. I thought that Rusty knew more about cars than anyone I ever knew. And he did, at least until I met his little brother after Rusty's death from cancer. Kevin Black is a walking research engine (We used to say encyclopaedia there, but this seems more appropriate now, don't you think?) on the history, lore, and racing of cars. Oddly enough, he is now married to the same Sister Jimenez who so generously helped us with just about everything during both our tours in Moscow.

If I were anything like Kevin Black, I could tell you all the good and bad points about every car ever produced. As it is, I can only have a conversation with him if he patiently pulls me along, describing the history and technical philosophy of every car and car maker that has ever existed. When I offer a humble comment, after much thought and trepidation, he is always very kind in the way he corrects me, and he must almost always correct me on something. Only on guns can I keep up with him.

My ignorance of the subject notwithstanding, I still like cars and even love some of them. As the old expression goes, "I may not know art, but I know what I like." That's how I feel about cars. Here are a few I've photographed in the last couple of years.

I was particularly pleased with the results of this photograph since I'd taken it and several of these first ones with my phone.

Guess what name the Chrysler Corp. came up with for this color!

This poor little thing was the first car imported to America

by BMW after WW II.

Perhaps someone would be good enough to write in and tell me what the heck that thing is above the passenger side window.

The Chrysler Imperial had much in common with World War II Aircraft carriers.

You've probably noticed my weakness for cool "kit cars."

The DeSoto. Quite a story there, I understand.

In my teens, many cars were shaped generally like this. Today I find them terribly nostalgic.

Just plain cool. But not plain.

In my twenties, I knew a lot about cars like this.

I think this was the very first model of Corvette.

When I was in grade school, new cars looked generally like this.

That's all for now. I might find more pictures later.

Two Old Guys Roll Through the Hills at Breakneck Speed

2009-08-28T00:56:00.016-06:00

I had never ridden one of these little beasts before, but I'd often thought it would be fun. Actually, I did ride one on one occasion back in 1991. In October of that year I got a 6x6 bull elk. Several friends helped me dress him out, but they wanted to go back to hunting then, and it was close to a mile to our camp. A fellow on a four-wheeler came along. I hailed and halted him and offered him $20 to take me and the elk (all parts) back to camp. Best $20 I ever spent.

Yesterday's riding was done with Dave Wilkins' whom I may have mentioned before here. He was in combat almost constantly for 3 months of 1969 in the Ashau Valley of Vietnam. He was one of 13 guys who went over there together. Two came home. He can tell you stories, as they say. Their collective effect is to render you uncertain whether to cheer for all such young men or to cry for a long time.

Dave kept up a pretty good pace on his little red machine. I had no trouble keeping up on his dark green Yamaha. I hit one puddle at 35 mph and got liberally doused with muddy water, but it only made me laugh. It also made my face dirty which is visible in a couple of the photos.

Then we stopped to shoot. This was very pretty country above the tiny burg of Inkom. I'll throw in a few shots of the scenery. Dave had brought along his Rossi (Brazilian) stainless steel five-shot revolver in .44 Special. Last year I gave him a few boxes of loads. We used two of those. One box was a snake load I'd made about 22 years ago with #7 1/2 bird shot. The load that kicked a little was the 240 grain Lead semi-wadcutter bullet in front of 6.8 grains of AA#5. The little revolver with its 3 inch barrel would jump upward fairly well under the recoil of this load. One photo shows that. The little Brazilian handgun shows impressive accuracy for something with such a short sight radius and fixed sights.

Would I want to own one of these 4WD vehicles? Only if all my other desires of a worldly nature had already been met. But they sure are fun!

A Family Picnic at Alameda Park

2009-08-22T00:34:00.011-06:00

The food was about average, which means pretty darned good. There were some rarely seen members of the clan there, hovering uncomfortably around the edges, grubbily or less than morally dressed and smoking cigarettes, but still very pleasant when spoken to. There are lots of very good people in this clan into which I married seven years ago. This small reunion was held last Sunday.

We stopped at a car lot to look around as we drove home. Sales personnel don't hassle you on Sundays.

Sheryl's brother Dennis married into this beauty of a step-daughter, a Junior this year where her mom, Vickie, teaches at Highland High.

Noreen Wilde, wife of Darrell and grandmother to Philip.

Uncle "Babe's" lovely grandchild.

Mellissa Bosen, eldest of Teresa's children. She teaches grade school in Utah and may actually have broken more hearts than Autumn!

Sheryl's brother Darrell's first grandchild, Philip Barela.

Natalie Bybee, daughter of Sheryl's brother Darrell.

Sheryl's sister, Teresa, right, and cousin Donna, daughter of Uncle "Babe."

An extra large family member who brought some cousins along.

The 2009 Fort Hall Invitational Pow Wow

2009-08-09T02:25:00.029-06:00

They say that the invitational Pow Wow down in Albuquerque is about 4 times the size of this one. That's hard to believe. There were thousands here and only a few were curious whites. I saw enough Lamanites last night to give Gen'l. Custer permanent incontinence. And, to wax scriptural about them, remember the promises in the Book of Mormon about them becoming a "delightsome people?" What could be more delightsome than this young lady, a friend of Zannita Armell?

Zannita's gorgeous niece holds her baby brother.

I was given the honor of marching with these guys.

Personally, I'm glad we don't have to fight anybody who looks like this any more.

With all those stripes, I couldn't tell whether he was a retired Marine NCO or a zebra.

A lovely target of opportunity strolls through the grounds.

Zannita's cousin, Sammy, clowns around as the Crazy Horse Monument.

Akira on my lap, Arica with her arm around my shoulders, and their cousins.

Since it was an invitational Pow Wow, this family could be from anywhere in the US or Canada.

One dance competitor helps another prepare.

Zannita with baby Akira (who is 2 now!)

I took some of these pictures with the Armell's camera. This was one of many that I enjoyed editing.

This 74 year old veteran of two wars was a delightful companion.

Zannita's cousin, Sammy.

Another very pleasant aging veteran.

Fog

2009-08-06T00:27:00.009-06:00

Fog frozen to the trees across the street from us.

I love it! There is no natural phenomenon other than a womanly face which brings half so much pleasure to my heart as fog. As I grew up, I used to hear people complaining about rainy or cloudy days. I couldn't understand. On a cloudy day, the colors on the ground seem to stand out more and have a brightness of their own which they always lack on a bright, sunny day when practically everything seems yellow.

Directly across the street from our house is a small park. People walk their dogs and do their laps on the little paved track around it. Children play on its equipment. Chubbuck city employees mow it. And I pick up trash there. Well, I suppose someone else also picks up trash there, but I never see them. I have a cute little weapon for the purpose. I sawed off a shovel handle a couple of years ago, drove a big nail half-way into the end of it, and used my Dremel tool to file a point on it. It's great for picking up trash of most kinds, although I've never yet been into a bar to try it on some of the folks there.

It just so happens that I've been blessed to see lots of fog in my time. We get lots of it here in the Chubbuck and Pocatello area during the winter. In the seventies, which I spent half of in and around Victorville, CA, home of the armpit of the Tactical Air Command, George Air Force Base, we would often go "down the hill" to shop in San Bernardino. You could be cruising along I-15, minding your own business, trying to avoid all the people who were ignoring the signs that said, "Arrive alive. Drive 55," when all at once you would be obligated to come almost to a complete stop. You had driven into a bank of fog which didn't allow you to see past the front of your own car. This presents quite a quandary. Do you keep going at some kind of highway speed and risk running into someone ahead of you whom you stand no chance whatsoever of seeing before you hit them, or do you slow way down and stay there, barely creeping along to avoid a front-end crash, while exposing your rear bumper to all the tender mercies of a trucker who enters the fog bank several seconds behind you at 80 miles per hour?

There was one good thing going for us. We were driving Shayne's 1957 Chevrolet which was made completely of steel and which could absorb a lot of punishment before any visible damage would occur. But the fifty-sevens were built a long time before GM and their competitors started equipping their vehicles with seat belts. And even cars built back then had their limits. If you got rear-ended by a Peterbilt hauling several tons of lumber, it wouldn't matter if you were driving a Sherman tank! I suspect that even one of Stalin's T-34s or Hitler's King Tigers would get shoved around quite a little by a high velocity punch from such a truck, and the people in it might get some pretty serious whiplash if not broken necks.

The best fog I've ever seen (or the worst, depending on your point of view) was in Italy, way up north in the foothills of the Alps. In Verona, home of Shakespeare's Two Gentlemen and also of his "star-crossed lovers," we six missionaries were invited to attend a Christmas dinner at the home of an Air Force staff sergeant and his wife outside the city. The fog was light as we crossed the city on our ever-faithful bicycles, but, as we got out into the countryside, it thickened up so that, despite the daylight, all we could see was the white line on the side of the highway. We lined up on it and kept pedaling for several miles. One of the elders said he knew where we were supposed to turn, but I assumed that we'd coast right past our turn on our bikes without seeing any sign of it.

Oh, me of little faith! The DL or somebody figured out that we were about to arrive at our left turn. Remember that the left side of the road was completely invisible to us. We could only see about 4 feet in any direction. Elder Thacker, a particularly pleasant and quick-witted fellow, had already crashed his bike a few weeks before when the little suitcase which held our filmstrip projector got itself stuck in his front spokes and threw him off the bike. He had landed jaw-bone first on one of those typical granite curbstones they have over there. After all, people build their nations out of what they're made of. Russians built everything for centuries out of wood, because all they had was trees. Italians built everything out of either granite or marble, because most of the peninsula was made of or built above these things. Anyway, poor Elder Thacker had his jaw wired shut and was not likely to enjoy the Christmas dinner very much anyway.

We were so cared for by our Heavenly Father over there and saved so constantly from serious harm that it became a bit commonplace in our minds, I fear. Only now, after nearly 38 years, can I look back on events like our finding of the American USAF Staff Sergeant's house as what they were: miracles, pure and simple. I rarely even considered such things back then. I had spent my life in pursuit of drama and didn't recognize it when it really happened.

I do recall one thing about that fog. We brought a lot of it into the Sergeant's home with us. My suit, which had been built by a tailor in Brescia, was made of wool. Our passage through several miles of pea-soup fog had drenched the suit as though I'd been rained on the whole way. The crease in my trousers was but a memory. I gathered up sections of both the trousers and the jacket and wrung them out until they stopped pouring water on the back porch. Then I twisted them a little harder to get out as many drops as I could. That pale green wool suit was pretty smelly when it was wet, and it was never wetter than it was on that Christmas day in 1971.

The good sister of the home had a blender. She put some of everything into it, hit puree' or something like that, and poured it into a glass for Elder Thacker. He drank his Christmas dinner through his teeth and through the wires that were holding his jaw together. He actually seemed grateful. He didn't complain. And he could have complained, too! He could speak, after a fashion. But he didn't murmur about it at all.

I got to serve with him again the next year in the Monza district for a while. We attended some car races at the famous Monza track. When the little formula twos blurred by, making their distinctive high pitched buzzing scream, it was Elder Thacker who quipped, "'Dem's motatin'!"

It was also in Monza where I had my most eerie experience with fog. Any RM will tell you that you always feel weird and like things just aren't right if you get accidentally separated from your companion. Elder Jan Graham Bunker and I were riding our bikes home after teaching a lady on the far side of the city. We lived in a much older part of town, and had a long way to go. It was dark, and, as we proceeded, the fog kept getting thicker until all we could see was the front tire of our own bikes. We couldn't see each other at all. The street lamps above us made the front tires barely visible, but the poles that held those lamps aloft might as well not have been there. We never saw them.

Now, Elder Bunker and I were companions for 7 (seven) months! All of that was in Monza. I was there another three months after his departure. So you may safely assume that we got to know the streets of that city about as well as we knew those of our home towns. We had traveled that route after dark many times. Although we couldn't see any of the buildings or even the street itself, we instinctively knew how to follow the dim glare of the lights above us back to our apartment, miles from where we'd been teaching. We couldn't see each other, either, so we kept up a light chatter as we kept pedaling deeper into the old section of town.

I answered something Elder Bunker had said and made a lengthy comment of my own. I ended it with a question as to his opinion. I waited for him to respond. He didn't. "Elder?" I asked calmly. No response. The stages of mild worry and real nervousness were skipped over altogether. I was afraid. My companion was gone! I couldn't hear him or see him. I'd been out maybe 17 or 18 months and this had never happened before. I think I applied my hand brakes, listened carefully for a moment, and then shouted his name again. Nothing! Murmuring a prayer, I started on again, trusting in my notoriously non-existent sense of direction and my familiarity with the ancient city to get me home. Thoughts of winding up in some other city, exhausted and alone many hours hence, and having to ask the police to call the mission headquarters to get me back to my apartment in the morning passed irresistibly through my mind which was steeped in a couple of years of dramatic tradition in both high school and college.

But those thoughts didn't stop me from pedaling. I just kept riding along through the darkness and the fog. No one was out on the streets. I was alone for perhaps 15 or 20 minutes and never heard or saw the lights of another vehicle. Even the apartments above the stores were dark. The occasional street lamps seemed to be my only companions. But that wasn't true. I had another companion. I don't recall making any turns or choosing any new directions. I simply kept pedaling until I was aware of being on a very narrow street. A bit of light was coming from behind a high gate. I rode up to it and stopped. It was our gate. I opened it, I think with a key. I closed it behind me and parked my bike by the side of the little building which, along with an older Italian couple upstairs, we called home. I went into the apartment and turned on the lights. You had to rotate a dark brown key-like switch to turn on lights over there. I must have prayed some more. I really don't recall. Pretty soon Elder Bunker walked in, his eyes as wide as mine must have been. He asked where I had been. I wondered the same thing about him. We were pretty quiet as we prepared for bed that night.

Now, you could say that it was just dumb luck. You could say that it was instinct. You could say anything you wanted to say about this experience. But I had the experience. And I know what happened that night. The Holy Ghost guided us back to our home and put us back together just as surely as parental hands guide baby footsteps. Even as I've been writing this, I've felt to bow my head and offer another prayer of thanks for a miracle, and no minor one at that, which occurred in Monza in 1972.

Lord Baden-Powell, founder of the Boy Scouts, was first inspired to create that organization when he got lost at night in foggy London. A young fellow who lived in the neighborhood was able to tell him in detail just how to get to where he needed to be. Such young men, he thought, were in short supply and should be trained up in greater numbers by an organization created for just that purpose. It wasn't long before his idea spread across the Atlantic and was adopted by people like Ernest Thompson Seton, author of the first American Boy Scout handbook.

My feelings about fog are mixed and rich. It is exciting and full of adventure. It's also a little scary. I love it.

200 Rounds Downrange

2009-08-02T00:26:00.020-06:00

Aric and his little son AJ and I shot .22 rifles for about 4 hours today. We actually lost track of time. There was no boredom, no sense of having to be somewhere else doing something else. We simply immersed ourselves in the business of having fun and getting serious about it.

Some people shoot simply because it is a means to an end, such as hunters. They love to hunt, so they shoot. I, on the other hand, have loved shooting since my teens. Whether I hunt or not, I always love to shoot. I love the history of shooting and all the technical advancements that have been made down through the centuries since the Chinese hand cannon. The legend and lore of shooting are fascinating. The things people believed about firearms and about the ammunition they burned are at once charming and pitiful. In the late Middle Ages, as firearms were becoming more common among Europeans, the strong hold that the Holy Roman Catholic Apostolic Church had on the minds and thought processes of the people manifest itself frequently in their questions, fears, hopes, and beliefs about the new wonder weapons from the far east.

A ball or bullet's bounce can damage one side of it and cause it to tumble and spin violently through the air, resulting in a whistling or whining sound as the projectile suddenly changes course. We all know that sound as ricochet and we understand what causes it. But for some centuries, it was commonly believed that a demon rode each ball and that the scream of the demon was what people heard when a ricochet occured. Some other people believed that leading a moving target was unnecessary, because the bullet was going so fast that it arrived instantly with no lapse in time. They ought to see the new Model 777 canon which can fire four or five rounds in a row with near perfect accuracy at 20 miles and can fire them all at different muzzle velocities and different arcs (trajectories) so that they all arrive on the target simultaneously. Imagine a hostile tank taking not one but five direct hits all at once, because there was no first or second shot to warn the crew that they were under attack.

What we spent four hours doing today involves the same principles but in a much smaller way. Having a .22 rifle "zeroed" at 100 yards is a bit silly, really, because most of the game or non-game animals for which the cartridge was designed will be encountered at less-than-football-field ranges. And the .22 Long Rifle cartridge can leave the muzzle at anywhere from 900 to 1,650 feet per second, depending on the weight of the bullet and the powder charge. If, when zeroed at 100 yards, I shoot at a ground squirrel at 50 yards and don't hold the crosshairs down at his feet, he'll probably be missed altogether, the bullet passing harmlessly over his head as it gains enough altitude to be able to fall back down into the desired impact spot at 100 yards. And because each brand, bullet weight, and rifle combination has its own way of behaving together, one must be willing to put the time in at the range if he wants to hit things a football field away. The long flight time of a cartridge so slow allows a puff of breeze to deflect a bullet from its courses by inches at 100 yards.

The best I could get today was a group of about 1" (3 shots) at 100 yards. For a center-fire cartridge such as the .223 or the .30'06, that might be expected, but I was thrilled to do it with a .22 LR! The .22 is still the cheapest way to learn to shoot, although the fear which occasioned the inauguration of Mr. Obama has driven prices up dramatically. After both of us tried many times, Aric succeeded in hitting a tiny toy plastic soldier, also at 100 yards. Because of its price and lack of recoil, most parents choose the .22 cartridge as the first shooting tool to give their children.

Let me add some photos of some .22s I've owned and enjoyed over the years.

What Not To Say at a Motorcycle Rally

2009-07-26T23:21:00.018-06:00

Well, it looked like tortoise-shell to me!

Just as you don't question the legitimacy of the "gay" lifestyle in San Francisco, you don't call a motorcycle painted like the one above "tortoise-shell." At least not at a serious motorcycle rally. Its young owner looked at me as if I were three steps beneath dirt and said that the paint job was of flames. He clearly thought I should apologize or even leave the fairgrounds altogether. Just as clearly, I shrugged, said, "Oh, flames, OK," and then walked away without further comment.

You meet interesting people at a motorcycle rally, especially if it is dedicated to America's Prisoners of War and to those who went Missing in Action. POW/MIA rallies and motorcycles seem to go together these days. The men who attend them are now getting a bit long in the tooth, although a few of them are veterans of more recent shootouts than Vietnam. Some are survivors of the "first" Gulf War (under GHW Bush) or of the two unpleasantries still in progress today in Afghanistan and Iraq. The typical Vietnam veteran does not exist. They are in all walks of life and subscribe to all types of belief systems, be they political or religious.

But the typical BIKER Vietnam veteran wears Levi's, black boots, a black leather jacket with lots of slogans and clever phrases on it (some of them actually quotable in polite company,) and skin which has either been exposed to the sun almost constantly since birth, or possibly spent several months ON the sun. It's difficult to tell. With this leather background, tattoos are also in evidence, although many of them are oozing out in various directions and becoming unclear.

The wives (Let's be generous in our assumptions, shall we?) of these gentlemen either dress just like their men or do so only up to the waste. At that point all attempts to clothe themselves seem to stop, although t-shirts which are tight enough to perform the function of the non-existent brassiere are often seen. Also seen in this important tactical role are lots of leather halters, a title which is more fanciful than descriptive since they halt nothing and actually seem to encourage as much movement as possible. The children of bikers also like to imitate the attire of their parents. I saw a little doll of maybe 4 or 5 who was wearing a tiny black vest which proclaimed to all the world that she was "Daddy's little biker."

There are substrata in this society, as well. Some of them are obviously just regular folks who dress up for the part and go to the rallies, rather like a bank teller who tries never to miss a Mountain Man rendezvous and has won the tomahawk throwing contest three years running. Others --and these guys usually seem to be single -- are more tough-looking. They seem to be casting about for a possible insult to be avenged -- all the time. You get the impression that they LIVE on their bikes.

The one thing all of these folks seem to have in common is a profound and undeniable love of country. This made me feel quite comfortable among them, at least to the extent that an old History-teaching geek in a cotton shirt can feel comfortable among a couple of thousand former warriors clad in black leather. And, their doubtful position on being law-abiding citizens notwithstanding, most of them seem to be nice folks, quick to return a friendly greeting or to assist you in finding your way.

Another thing unites them. They hate (and I'm using that word advisedly and with ample consideration here) Peter Fonda's sister. Henry Fonda's daughter. Jane Fonda. "Hanoi Jane." A photograph which I took of the latrine will make this attitude abundantly clear. So would some of the jacket patches that were for sale at the rally, if only you could see them or if only I could quote them. But I try to keep this blog at about a PG or PG-13 level.

Many of the bikes have had attention, money, time, effort, and love lavished on them with marvelous results. Photos of examples are below. Let me explain one bike in particular. You will see here a photo of one Keith Grover, Captain, USA, Nat'l. Guard. His little son is asleep in his back-pack. He flies the Apache helicopter. His crew chief painted his bike. You'll see three photos of it just below Capt. Grover's picture. Keith is about the same age as my son, Joseph. They went through Air Force Junior ROTC (reserve officer training corps) together at Madison High in their senior year. Lots of good kids came out of that class and out of that program. My friends Fred Carcione (MSgt USAF, ret'd) and Rick Bensemon (Maj USAF, ret'd) were their instructors. You'll notice that Keith's footpegs are made of the 30mm rounds that he fires from his aircraft. You'll notice, too, that the flash suppressors from the same guns form his tail pipes.

Dave Wilkins, fellow High Priest and a veteran of some truly horrible days in Vietnam, paid $15 to get me into this event yesterday. Because of the spirituality which he has worked to build in his life, he says that he feels a little uncomfortable among the overtly and unrepentantly worldly folks that one meets at such a rally. But I'm glad I went. I came away refreshed in my belief in the old George Orwell quotation: "People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf."