What I Did for Food

S&W Model 624, Stainless .44 Special

A couple of them are shown twice here. Many are not shown at all. I just felt like illustrating to anyone who might care why I felt so sorry for myself when I lost my job and we moved to Boise and I sold all my guns to help keep us in groceries.

I think there was an old song called What I did for Love. I suppose we could all write our own versions of that one. But what I did for food actually hurt me and made me proud at the same time. I've been acquainted with some men who would not have done this. But how could they not? Nothing beats our obligation to do what we can to take care of our families. I suspect there are some who think I'm failing in that obligation right now. Shrug. They might be right. But on one occasion in my life, when it mattered, I did the right thing. It had taken me about thirty years to collect them all and I had sacrificed other things sometimes to get them. But I sold them off in ones and twos until they were all gone.

No, it's not that big a sacrifice. I didn't have to give up my freedom or get shot at or brave a cholera infested slum to get the food for us. Sheryl was doing more than her share, too. But these photos represent just a few of the things that I lost when I lost my job. I also lost a lot of self-respect and confidence. But you can't show those things in photographs.

Just so he knows I haven't sold his stuff, there are one or two of Joseph's things in these old photographs. They didn't go out with the rest. And Grandpa Hartsell's old 16 gauge side-by-side was never abandoned. But these pictures probably represent about one third of what I lost. Some will sympathize with that. Thank you. Others will say, "Why does a person need all those nasty old guns anyway?" I doubt I'll ever be able to communicate a satisfactory answer to that most unsatisfactory question. If the beauty, the grandeur, and the History represented by such things doesn't jump right out at you, there's probably little I could say to engender that kind of aesthetic sense in your heart.

But I haven't given up hope. I'll probably never have as many, but I have four good ones now. And I have hope that the number will grow at least a little by the time I leave them to younger folks to enjoy.

Ruger Mark II, .22 target pistol, 10" bull barrel.

Interarms Mk X Mauser, .30-06. Marlin 60, .22 LR. Ruger 10-22 (Joseph's)



1895 Marlin in .45-70 Gov't. Ruger All Weather .22 Mag. Thompson/Center Contender Carbine in .223 Rem.



Cheap old 20 gauge that I refinished.
1896 Swedish Mauser, mfg. 1915.
Oberndorf Mauser .22 target rifle. (sniff)

Italian clone of Colt Single-Action Army, .44 Special.

Norinco (Chinese) clone of 1936 Olympics Walther .22 Pistol.

Ruger Mk II (again)

S&W 624 (again)

Glock 23 in .40 S&W

Italian clone for CVA of Colt 1862 Pocket Police which was issued to Union military police during the Civil War.

Italian clone of 1853 Enfield (British armory) .58 caliber rifle-musket.

Inaugural Report Card

Only a teacher of long standing (and lots of running around the classroom) would dare to issue a report card to a brand new president. This is really just a review of Mr. Obama's performance so far as a president-elect and of his performance and the performance of a few others on the day of his inauguration.



There's a great deal of positive comment to be made here. The man is an able public speaker, certainly the best since Mr. Reagan. The speech was well thought out, well-phrased, well-spoken, and came across as being completely sincere. Indeed, I begin this administration giving him the benefit of the doubt in that regard. I believe he's sincere in his beliefs and intentions, although I disagree with some of them. I shall grade him here on many things, some of which really don't matter in the historical sense, at least not yet. For example, his elder daughter is a true beauty and seems to be well behaved. But if, as puberty rears its lovely and dangerous head in her young life, she turns into another Alice Roosevelt Longworth, well...



Presidential children can be blessings or liabilities to their parents. Willy Lincoln used to lead his friends on martial raids of cabinet meetings. Perhaps he knew something his father didn't about how much southern sympathy lay in the hearts of some in Washington. But then there are those moments no one is able to forget such as the salute popped quickly by John-John Kennedy to his father's flag-draped coffin. Sasha Obama gave her dad a thumbs up after his address today. What a little munchkin!



Well, here's the report card. You may feel that I've made mistakes in my grades. That's fine. You may certainly write in to that effect. Don't hold your breath about getting grades changed, however. You may even feel that I've left out whole categories of accomplishment or of behavior. Please write in about those, too. They might be very good ideas.





On the ball in organizing new administration post election. A



Limiting use of the Spoils System. B



Maintaining very dapper appearance despite varying circumstances. A



Dignity when it is appropriate (such as at the inaugural ceremony.) A



Clarity in addressing the lengthy nature of the process before us. B+



Be brief. Be brilliant. Be gone. A



Chief Justice's demeanor (Bring a 3x5 card next time, Mr. Justice.) C-



Civilized transition of power. A+



Sen. Feinstein's demeanor and performance. A



Thoroughly Baptist nature of invocation. A



Thoroughly Black nature of benediction A



U.S. Navy Chorus A



Decision to dispense with the by-now traditional appearance of the MoTabs. B-



Marine One's transition to Executive One. A



Poetry A-



New POTUS' dignified reaction to collapse of Teddy Kennedy. A



Sen. Harry Reid leading toast at luncheon with water. A



Appearance and courtesy of outgoing First Lady. A



Appearance and courtesy of incoming First Lady. A



Freedom from technical glitches. A





Not bad for a first day, Mr. President. Leave the Chicago-style politics behind you, enforce and protect the Constitution, keep your hands off my guns (present and future) and you might have a pretty good administration.

If You're in This Family, You Know These Faces

Papa, aka Granddaddy, aka Sir. Jane, aka Auntie Wayne. Jocelyn, aka Jocy-pooh.

I've been scanning lots of old photos lately. I couldn't wait for some special occasion to offer this one on the blog. You know their names. You know their great faces. You see exactly what's going on without a word of explanation from me. I love it.

Specific Prayers Yield Specific Answers

Remember the wonderful Armell family? I wrote about them a few months back. We've become even more attached to them. They're a great family. We've prayed several times for ways to be opened by which we could introduce the Church to them. President Spencer W. Kimball always said that the people should pray specifically so they could be blessed specifically with what they most need and want. So that's what we did here.

About 3:30 today we remembered that the missionaries were coming to have supper with us at 5! We flew into action. (Well, actually, I strolled into a little action; Sheryl did most of the flying.) In the midst of these preparations I got a call from Aric Armell. Could he come over this evening to load a few rounds for his Model 710 Remington in .300 Winchester Magnum? Sure, I thought. Our dinner guests would probably be leaving by then. But as I was saying these things, Sheryl said, "Jimmy, just tell them to come and eat with us."

Ding! Finally the light went on in my head and all the bells sounded. Here was the chance! The missionaries would be here by pre-arrangement and the golden family was walking right into the situation. Our missionaries these days are a three-some: Elder Doan of Michigan, Elder Cameron, a delightful Aussie, and Elder Barrow, a pleasant, quiet fellow, for a Texan!

Now Elder Doan and Elder Cameron love to poke fun at each other's home areas. This was going full tilt when the Armells arrived. The Elders' appointment for the evening had fallen through, so they could and did stay late, partly because I told my wife loudly in their presence, "No, they don't have to go. Their appointment fell through!" Zannita is a very bright and well-educated young lady. Somehow, her scientific knowledge aided the rest of us in teasing the "Michigander," Elder Doan, who seemed to bring it on himself by going after the Australian boy so much. Aric's natural drollery added to the fun. For about an hour we all just cut up and laughed around our table.

Then Elder Cameron asked whether they might leave a spiritual thought with us. Of course!

He quoted a couple of verses from Helaman in which a great prophet is giving advice and loving counsel to his sons. Then Elder Cameron bore his own testimony of how he had been able to count on Christ to assist him when he'd first left home and gone to college. This led into my testimony, supported by my wife's nods of the head, of the help the Church had been to us in times of loss, Shayne and Celia being mentioned specifically. Later, as Aric finished his loads in the garage, I blundered into a discussion between Sheryl and Zannita which seemed to give me a couple of opportunities to get out the scriptures to read possible answers to questions that came up. And Aric came out in time to hear the second of these.

As if this weren't enough already, another thing had happened shortly after the Armells arrived that I've been saving for the end here. Unbeknownst (I just love that word and hardly ever get to say it, let alone type it!)to us, the Armells are a "common law" family. Aric announced that they were going to be married very soon. We all got pretty excited. I asked where this was taking place. They indicated that they didn't know yet. I said that I was pretty sure people could use rooms in our Church for free for such events. Elder Doan concurred vigorously.

With Sheryl's help, I called up the lady who schedules the use of our ward building and reserved the Relief Society Room for 7:30 pm on Saturday the 24th. They may not be members yet, but my beloved Lamanite family is getting married in a Mormon building! You can probably hear my satisfied sigh from wherever you are. Specific prayer - specific blessings! In multiples!

Now please, everyone, pray for them. They are expecting a little boy this spring, and there are lots of things Satan might do to discourage them from the marriage or from further investigation. But if you'll all pray for them by name (the accent is on the second syllable,) I think that even more and greater blessings can be anticipated for this sweet family.

The Other Side of the Story

Legend of These Three

Model of 1891 Argentine Mauser, 7.65x53mm



SMLE (Short Magazine Lee-Enfield, 7.62 NATO)



1917 Enfield (aka P14), .30'06.




I am told that my memory of the proposal was faulty. I am told that my brother did not volunteer to buy me the firearm of my choice if any anti-gun laws are passed during the Obama administration. He says that what he really said was that, if I am left destitute of firearms because of the incoming administration, he will buy me one from the black market.


That's not nearly as exciting, because I don't do black market sales or purchases.

Here are a few of my lovely blued-steel friends from years past. As Jed Lewis used to say so sarcastically, "It sort of brings a tear to the eye..."

This was my Italian-built replica of the British 1853 Enfield which was purchased by the CSA during our Civil War. It was a .58 caliber and fired a .565" hollow-based bullet (Minie'-ball) (which I moulded on my kitchen stove) from a 39" barrel at around 900 fps with a powder charge of about 65 grains of FFg black powder. It became groceries and a tank of gas in Boise.

Joining Dixie in Repetition

"She was both girl and woman."

Mark Twain describing his wife as a bride.

In today's post, Dixie refers to some repetition in the campaign pictures for Len's candidacy. I've always said (and really said it, too, not just quietly believed it) that repetition is a good teacher. A fellow playing an English professor in an old film called The Way We Were once said, "I think we learn best from that which is good." He then chose a short story written by an insensitive, beer swilling jock to read to the class. Others, like Katie, Barbara Streisand's character, were at first outraged that they had put their hearts and souls into writing their stories and here this guy who had lettered in every sport and attended only half the classes was being acknowledged as the best writer in an English composition class.

But then they listened to his story. By the end of it, Katie was ready to throw hers away and to fall completely in love with a young man she had considered beneath her until one hour before. She encouraged him, promoted his writing, recontacted him during the war, married him, had a child with him, and eventually lost him to a woman with a shockingly beautiful face and not much else going for her.

Sometimes we do that. We're going along, striving to do our best, when quite to our own surprise, we succeed! We've been trying so hard for so long that when success happens, we hardly recognize it. When Zach and Dixie (The One True Dix) got married last year I was taking pictures of everything that moved and many that didn't. Little girls gravitated to Dixie, probably because she was the closest and most recent example of what they wanted to be some day. They followed her around like puppies and she was as patient with them as you would expect a Humphries girl to be.

Lesser brides might have lost patience with them or tried to trick them into going away, but she bent down to talk with them, actually listened to what they said, and even gave one-on-one attention to them while she ate her lunch of pizza under the protective cover of a black garbage bag. She is "the One True Dix." All these little people will benefit from the time they spend with her and her good husband. I'll close with another few photos of that great day.

Dixie's New Challenge

Joseph flips Dixie.

Not yet one year married to the fine Zach, our dear, darling, and dynamic Dixie finds herself raising four of other peoples' children. She's actually doing a fine job of it, but the sporadic influence of the biological parents is having a disquieting effect on the children and the traditions and customs which seem to comfort them in the House of Hessing. This threatens to throw Dixie for a loop.

Let us all be prayerful for Dixie and Zach as they strive to do what's best for these four munchkins. I believe that they're the two who were placed into the position in which they could do the most good for these particular children at this particular time. Surely Dixie has enough headaches. Let's put our faith together to see if we can't get things to be a little better for them.

"The Best Man I Ever Knew"

The night before his eightieth birthday, Papa holds little Matthew Sterling Haeberle.

Theodore Roosevelt called his father "the best man I ever knew." That's a big statment coming from anyone. After all, we get to know a lot of people as our lives go by. And TR got to know more people than does the average person. He met thousands of ordinary Americans, for some of whom he seemed to feel great respect, such as cowboys and soldiers, football players and manual laborers. He knew literally all the great leaders of his time, not only in the USA but in Europe and much of Africa as well. He got the Nobel Prize for peace for brokering a cease-fire between the Tsar and the Emperor in the Russo-Japanese war of 1907. He got along well with some of them, but found most monarchs self-centered and out of touch with the realities of the world.

He actually said of Wilhelm II of Germany, "I found his point of view very sordid." That means low and dirty and even filthy. To say that about any emperor would take a lot of courage, but then TR was filled with that. To say it about Kaiser Bill was almost a prophecy of what would happen four years later when Worl War I would break out, an event for which many people felt Germany, and especially the Kaiser, should bear the brunt of the blame. Actually placing that blame on Germany in the 1919 Versailees Treaty and forcing her to pay restitution while struggling to rebuild after the war only further enraged the defeated German people, leaving them ripe to fall into the clutches of someone who said what they wanted to hear. And when he said it, they followed. But that's the story of World War Two.

My point here is that TR said the words in tonight's title about his father. He had known many people in academia, business, government, sports, entertainment, and in the hunting fields of at least two continents. He was friends with those he admired. He thought a great deal of Ernest Thompson Seton, the great artist,naturalist, and author, who helped found the Boy Scouts in this country. Muir, the savior of the woods, was a close friend of TR's. But it was his own father that he admired the most.

I bring this up so as to be taken seriously when I proclaim here for all the world to know that my father is the best man I've ever known. I've felt that way most of my life. His father died when my father was two. He admits to trying his beloved mother terribly at times, along with his brother, Herman, who was even wilder. Once, at age 12 or so, my father hopped a freight train and rode it to the state capital just to see what it was like. His frantic mother may never have fully recovered from that one. He has often expressed to me his regrets at the worries and trials his youth brought to his poor, widowed mother.

He served 8 years in our country's Navy. He loved being a salt water sailor and would have stayed in until retirement, but his in-laws talked him into getting out at the end of his second hitch. He tried broadcasting. His manager told him that if he couldn't lose the country boy accent he would never make it in the business. But he overcame that and went on to be the best-sounding announcer I've ever heard. I still judge announcers by him. He was a broadcaster for more than forty years.

He joined his good wife in accepting the restored Gospel of Jesus Christ. Together they've served faithfully in that Church since 1959. Impressive number, eh? They have raised their children to received testimonies of the truth of the Church. All their sons were missionaries. All their married children were sealed in the temple. He still loves to serve in the temple and in the genealogy library.

And now he's in the hospital with pneumonia. Nothing in this life scares me more that his mortality. I feel that, when he goes, I will break and be unable to function any more. But I kept on going after Shayne was taken, albeit in blind, painful, and confused ways. I suppose it'll be like that again. I hope it doesn't happen soon. There are still so many things to say to him, every one of which, in essence, means "I love you."

Here are some shots of the canoe trip we took together one day maybe 15 years ago or more. There are many experiences I have wanted to have with my parents. This was one we actually got done.

A CONFESSION FOLLOWED BY SMUGNESS

Perhaps I should begin this with a bit of confession. They say it's good for the soul, and my soul can use all the good it can get.

Sheryl does it all. There. I've said it. I don't know how to create the pretty backgrounds, set up the whole thing, arrange it on the page, etc. Only Sheryl knows those things. She even named this blog back in October or whenever it was that I started it. I enjoyed reading all of yours and she got the bright idea that maybe I should have a blog of my own. So she set it up, named it, and pointed out its existence to me. All I provide are the words. And a few photos. And some screwy ideas.

Before I start throwing old pictures at you (a privilege of age,) let me make one smug comment. Not wanting to start a whole big magilla with a very dear fellow who shall remain - er, uh, - my brother, I shall not refer to anyone by name here. I just want to establish what has happened and let you see how remarkably benign I've been about the whole thing, especially considering that it's ME, the most curmudgeonly of curmudgeons.

So, there was this very dear relative who told me during the recent election campaign that I could take seriously the pro-gun comments made by a certain young senator from Illinois. This dear relative even went so far as to say that, if that senator were to become the chief executive of the land and then make anti-gun moves, he, the dear relative, would personally buy for me the firearm of my choice. You cannot imagine how the greed lept in my chest! Mentally I leafed through all the catalogues I have ever looked through and started trying to narrow down the list of desirable firearms to just one. This was, after all, a rare opportunity for a guy who lives on a "fixed income," as the saying goes. I once owned nearly thirty firearms of varying types, calibers, purposes, finishes, and nationalities. But for a couple of years I've been stuck at four. Just four. Imagine the humility this has required of me! But now, there would be another piece of blued steel (or possibly stainless) in the Haeberle arsenal.

I knew it. I knew it as surely as I knew that I was fat, bald, and grey. And, because I knew the voting record of the young senator from Illinois, I knew that his new chair in the oval office would barely be warm before he started signing anti-gun bills. IF. IF they could get past Congress. Several times I actually giggled with greedy anticipation. But then my conscience got to me. Ever look closely at that word? If you take it apart, it means "with knowledge." And there I was, taking advantage of my dear relative with the perfect knowledge that he had overstated his case. I knew before the election ever happened that he would lose this sort-of-a-bet.

Besides, I really like this dear relative. He's a pleasant-spoken, quick-witted, fun sort of a guy to be around. So I sent him a private email and told him I'd let him off the hook. After all, he has a young family, and money is an increasingly scarce commodity these days.

Now my conscience feels better. But today I got a couple of emails from other sources which prove conclusively that the new majority party has lots of nasty things in store for America's gun owners. No outright confiscations. Yet. But long lists of legal firearms are on the chopping block even as we blog. Yep. You can buy them today, but in a month or two they could be illegal. Your personal goodness won't matter at all. Your good intentions will not even be consulted. Because some legislators whom you don't know think somebody might misuse them, dozens of firearms will become illegal. Millions of us will suddenly have our freedom curtailed just one more inch. But my decision has been made. I'll follow my conscience. This time.

Just in Case Anyone Noticed my Absence

Dante, age 2 1/2, pledges allegiance with a TV football game at the request of his Uncle Markus Green.

I've been scanning lots of old paper-printed photos of my children and my grandchildren lately. These will enable me to give my readers (assuming I ever have them) more illustrations and less hot air in future posts to this blog. Just as a "for instance," I'll attach one of the newly scanned photos here for your amazement and amusement. Give me a while and I'll be through with this scanning project. Then I'll be left without excuse and will have to start writing again. Ci vedremmo allora!

Random Remembrances for the New Year

I'm clicking into historical mode. Watch out. It could get a little dull here.

Let's see. A century ago we had just seen the last full year of the presidency of a great American: TR. He's another who was moulded by both suffering and success. When he was a young state assemblyman, his wife and mother both died within a few hours of each other. That was why he left for a year or two, went out west and worked as a cowboy on a ranch he owned but had never seen.

He spent 11 1/2 months after he left the White House hunting in Africa, bringing back "specimens" for the Smithsonian Institution. When he knocked down a rhino with his double-rifle, it "jumped up like a Polo pony" and he had to hit it again. He often read poetry in his tent at night.

The life expectancy back then was about half what it is today. Cars had been around for some years, but there were almost no paved roads. The Germans had been working for a long time already on developing submarines, but the British were behind, because Queen Victoria had said no gentleman would fight that way. So, in the first year of the war, 1914, the German "wolf packs" sank a lot of allied merchant ships, not to mention their victories over the navies of the day.

But it was awfully risky duty for the German boys. They called their subs "iron coffins," because the number of times they submerged and the number of times they surfaced didn't always come out even.

100 years ago tonight, my Swedish battle rifle (about which I wrote a couple of months ago) was only 8 years old. That old Duchess still shoots very well today.

In 1908 my father's birth was still 20 years in the future. My mother's, 25 years. My Granddaddy Templin was six years old, but his mother was already a young widow with two sons. I believe that my Grandmama's advent was still five years in the future. Nana (the original, not her very worthy successor, my sister Johanna) was still awaiting her earthly probation, I think. Her future husband must have been a child, for he served briefly in the U.S. Army during the Great War.

The newly elected president, William Howard Taft, appropriately called "Big Bill" at 337 lbs., was about to take the oath of office in March of 1909. Actually, 337 was a lifetime record. It had been as little as 270. When he left office in 1913, the comedian Will Rogers said, "We are parting with 335 pounds of pure Republican and love and affection for all his fellow men."

But TR had just been through a very strained period in his friendship with Taft, because Taft was so easy-going that he had allowed a number of the "trusts" (monopolies) to reform after TR had spent six years beating them down. About Taft's reluctance to fight his political foes lest he offend them, someone said, "If Taft were Pope, he'd want to appoint some Protestants to the College of Cardinals!"

TR was a "Progressive." When his fellow Republicans didn't nominate him in 1912, he formed a third party, nicknamed "The Bull Moose Party," and ran hard against both his old friend and former successor, Taft, and the Democratic nominee, history professor Woodrow Wilson. Splitting his party that way killed their chances for success, and Wilson was elected for the first of two terms. But in 1908, lots of Americans had never heard of him.

The famous German pistol, the Luger, was designated the P-08, because it was a pistol ("pistole") which came out in 1908. It might be the only famous thing Georg Luger ever did, but it was certainly enough to make his name immortal among aficionados of military history and firearms.

In 1908, the Springfield rifle had been our army issue rifle for five years (Model of 1903,) but the cartridge it was famous for introducing was not finalized in its design until 1906. It was a thirty caliber. Zero was often pronounced "ought" back then. (.30'06) And now you know the rest of that story.

In 1908 we were looking back only five years to the Wright Brothers' first heavier-than-air flight at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. But the first "dog fights" - aerial combat - were only six years in the future. Many veterans of the Civil War were still living, and even a few of the Mexican War (1846-48.) Many people then could still recall the use of flint ignition for firearms, but some of them lived long enough that they stood a good chance of being able to read in their newspapers about machine guns being mounted on airplanes by opposing "air forces," a whole new type of major service.

Today, most Americans can't tell you when TR lived. Or Woodrow Wilson. Or "Big Bill" Taft.

Our military aircraft can travel at twice the speed of sound (in some cases) and present no bigger picture on a radar screen than a sparrow. Rockets had been largely abandoned as too inaccurate for military service. Today, we depend on them to hit and utterly destroy targets on the far side of the globe. One of my former students is one of the USAF officers whose job it is to "turn the keys" to fire such weapons. Rocket propulsion carried humans to the moon and back several times over several years, beginning the year I was 18.

We have tens of thousands of miles of paved roads today. The very wealthy can buy automobiles which can approach or slightly exceed 200 mph.

As we entered 1909, no one would have questioned that this was a Christian nation which offered tolerance to other religions. Today, many would remove even the words "In God we trust" from our coins and they would chastise any child for proclaiming faith while in a public school. In 1909, the Titanic was still on the drawing boards. But most of us knew the song the band would play on her deck as she was sinking: "Nearer, My God, to Thee." I wonder whether half of today's Americans would even recognize the tune, let alone know some of the lyrics.

Twenty-nine minutes ago we began the year 2009. More changes are in store for us. But a few of the good old things still endure. Prayer is still an effective approach to problem solving. God still loves and cares for us. He still speaks to us by revelation through living prophets. And you can still buy rifles chambered for the "thirty ought six."

If Mary Can Try Harder, Maybe I Can, Too!

I was touched tonight to read Lynsey's post and then Mary's. They remind me of how really hard it is to be young parents. The tightening of the stomach whenever one of our children falls or gets sick is not really comparable to the worry we feel for ourselves. It's actually worse, isn't it?

I recall so well how hard it was for us to see Joseph (our Joseph, not Ben and Lynsey's poor little fellow) undergo an emergency appendectomy that took 4 hours and 15 minutes because of all the pus that had to be cleaned out of him after the appendix burst. We just sat there in that lobby in the old Madison Hospital holding hands, occasionally talking, sometimes praying, sometimes just thinking.

The next big deal (and it was a BIG deal) was the Strep infection he got in his throat. We dutifully administered the antibiotics until the problem appeared to clear up. We were wrong to stop then, though, as the same strain moved into his kidneys and shut them both down completely for 5 weeks! We learned the hard way that antibiotics are to be used up unless you're told otherwise. We took turns sitting with him at the University of Utah Hospital for 6 weeks. Shayne would stay in Rexburg with the squids while I stayed with Joseph. Then we'd switch off. There were lots of prayers and a few Priesthood blessings, but the sudden turn-around happened on the fast sunday when the Rexburg Third Ward dedicated its fast that day to Joseph's recovery.

I know that the Lord was involved in all of that.

Have you ever noticed the little patch of white hair on the side of Joseph's head? That developed during the fearful rigors of that period. It's always reminded me of what happened to Moses while he was receiving the law up on the mountain.

Then, of course, there came the broken femur during our second stay in Moscow. Shayne had just begun her latest round of chemotherapy and we had our precious friend Carolyn Jimenez (Carolyn Black today) watch the kids while we drove to Lewiston in search of a hairpiece that she could wear since scarves got tiresome. When we got back, Carolyn said that Joseph had jumped out of a swing (at considerable altitude, it seems) and had announced to his Jimenez playmate that he had a broken leg. Sure enough!

He was in traction for about six weeks, as I recall. Then came the fun times of his body cast. I actually look back fondly on the times I would pick him up by the back of his neck with one hand and by the sawed-off shovel handle between his knees with the other.

We could never figure out why his Heavenly Father tried and moulded Joseph so much. Our other children were equally beloved by us, but their trials seemed to be of different natures, usually. The big, physical, medical challenges were almost all reserved for Joseph.

Today, looking back on it all, I can see my boy growing with each of those trials. I can also see him receiving great blessings in the form of good friends, kind neighbors, fine teachers, and faithful Priesthood leaders. A man as fine as Joseph is not made only by his harsh experiences but also by the special blessings which only the greatest spirits can receive to the greatest advantage. His wonderful wife is another example of this. Mary isn't just a keeper; she's one in a million. I love her for who and what she is, and I love her for loving my boy.

Getting Smiled at Like This Helps a Lot

Joseph was born in '76, so this must have been taken sometime in the year that followed. Now what I'm asking you to take note of here is the absolute adoration in little Shaynie's face when she looks at this munchkin. All four of our babies got that look from her. I believe that when you grow up getting smiled at like this a lot it helps immeasurably in getting you to turn out a good person. All four of her babies grew up to be nice people. They all 4 have smiles that make your heart feel better. I rest my case.

Christmas - A Great Opportunity to be Humble

Typically, when voices or circumstances call upon us to be humble, we resist the idea. To be humble is to be put down and to be made little and insignificant in the eyes of others, right? I've felt that way much of my life. I'm not so sure any more.



Years ago I heard a man named Bruce McConkie say that "man cannot resurrect himself or assign himself to a degree of glory after this life." If that's not an exact quotation, it'll do till one comes along. That was certainly the gist of what he said.



His point, of course, was that we need God. We need His constant support, His guiding influence, and His ongoing protection. To believe anything else is to believe that we are self-sufficient and that what we become in this life is all we'll ever be. To believe that God does not exist or that we have no need of His aid is to believe that there is no purpose for our existence and no hope for a betterment of our condition in this life or in a later one.



Life leads us through experiences which, in turn, lead us through thought processes, which, in turn, lead us to conclusions about important questions. Surely, the most important of these questions is "How and Why Do We Exist?" Every religion and every philosophy of men seeks either to answer these questions or to obviate them away by making them appear unimportant. A visitor from some other realm (and that is surely what we all are) will naturally stop from time to time to ask him/herself "Where have I come from? Why do I exist? Is there a purpose to all the widely varied and sometimes horrible experience in this life?" And there is another question I believe we ask ourselves if we are people who have a natural and healthy sense of responsibility: "What is expected of me in this life?"



Have you ever stopped to ask yourself these questions? I think that virtually everyone has asked him or herself these questions at one time or another. Only the most self-centered, self-serving, blithely unaware of the needs of others could be people who do NOT ask themselves such questions. Often, in movies, TV shows, and novels, I'll see someone portrayed as such a person. Sometimes they're strong antagonists in the stories, but often they'll be unnamed characters with no character whatsoever. They are the kind of people who, when told to shoot a hostage in the head unless contacted by a given hour, will carry out such instructions with no more compunction than your or I would feel about killing germs in the sink. Such persons have either never asked themselves those important questions about life, or have long ago ceased to care about what the answers might be.



Great founders of religions, however, are sometimes those who have asked themselves these questions and have sought for the answers until they are satisfied that they have found them. Prince Siddhartha, known today as The Buddha, had led a sheltered life. But when he became aware of human suffering, the natural sense of responsibility which he had brought with him into this life would not let him rest until he believed he had found the answers.



Of course, some religious leaders merely use the natural desire to know the answers to life's important questions in order to lie, cheat, steal, and dominate. David Koresh and the "Reverend" Jim Jones are among such men. The priests of ancient Egyptian deities had to know in their hearts that they were serving false gods who had no power to save and no power to exalt people. They proved this when a new Pharaoh decreed that all other gods and goddesses were to be eradicated and only one god, Aton, the sun disk god, was to be worshipped. This instantly threw the members of the wealthy priest class who served in the temples of the newly "down-sized" gods into a serious tizzy. If no one worshiped the gods and goddesses whom they served, then there would be no donations, no income, no status, and no reason (or ability?) to go on living.



So, it must actually matter whether the answers we find to life's big questions are true or not. It must actually matter whether "our truth" is the THE truth. Too often in the past three decades or so I've heard or read the words of others who seek to avoid individual responsibility for their own arrival at real truth by using such phrases as "my truth tells me that..." or "Maybe in your truth..."



Bovine Excrement!



If we are so weak and so needy that we cannot resurrect ourselves, then we surely need a higher, loving power Who brought us into existence and has a purpose for that existence.



In the early nineteenth century, the east coast of the United States was overrun with preachers of various Christian denominations. They preached Christ, but often they were seen to be particularly unChristian in their attitudes towards one another. Enter Joseph Smith, the fourteen year old farm boy who made an avid search for truth and the answers to life's big questions among the many denominations which so vigorously competed with each other for membership along the east coast that it had come to be called "the Burned Over district." His desire for knowledge of THE truth was so powerful, that, even in the face of pressure from preachers, new converts, neighbors, friends, and family members, he could not bring his heart to align itself with any of these religions.



Even the Bible seemed to be of little help to him, for the various preachers taught conflicting doctrines about what the seemingly important passages of scripture meant.



That's when he read the Epistle of James, Chapter one, verse 5. You ought to read it, too. Find out what that farm boy did about what he read. Find out what the answers were to his fervent questions. But don't even look it up - - Don't even start to search - - Don't even begin to research this topic unless you really mean it! Because, if you find out that God actually revealed His mind and will to someone in these latter times, then you'll become responsible to live your life in accordance with those truths!



I found out. I know what the truth is. Now I'm responsible. I love knowing it. But I feel a great responsibility to tell everybody else about it and to live that truth as well as I can.

Janus's Looking Back Side

We get our word January from the Roman God Janus who had two faces (No jokes, please, ladies.) One looked backwards and the other forwards, just as we all do at this time of year. Already I saw a retrospective on NBC last night about all the great (or thought-to-be-great)personalities we've lost in the year 2008.

I'm looking back a little further tonight. I'm going through all the Christmas photos we've already scanned into the computer and sharing them with you as though you cared, because, as a guy gets older, he begins to think people care about things that matter to him. Strange effect, that, and one which I don't seem to have been able to prevent in the slightest.

I hope to scan all the pictures I've ever taken of my kids into the computer some day. That will be a project of many days and well worth every minute. For now, please let me share with you some of the pictures I DO have scanned into the computer, all of them having to do with Christmas, that most special day of the year, even when it occurs during difficult, sad times. These are my children. Most of you know them. My heart is centred on them and on those who came later.

A Walk on the Wilde Side at Christmastime

LeRoy Wilde

LeRoy Wilde was borne in 1929 and raised as the son of a rancher in the area of Picabo, Idaho. They had lots of cattle, lots of horses, lots and lots of land, and an amazing amount of work to do. He was raised, literally, as a working cowboy. Since then he has worked in road construction, nuclear energy site construction and management, home construction and repair, and the Union Pacific Railroad. This not an exhaustive list, just enough to let you know that he's a pretty special fellow.

When he was a young man he was in charge of a bunch of fellows who moved 300 pound blocks of ice to and fro for the railroad. In those days, he could spend his day, his whole day, grabbing one block with tongs in one hand, another block with tongs with the other hand, and then walking the 600 pounds of ice across the dock or RR car or whatever distance it needed to be moved. Now I have done a good share of work in my time. I've moved 500 pound dollies (hand trucks) of spuds across a warehouse and onto a train. I've bucked bails of hay a few times. I've moved lumber, pulled weeds with tap roots that spoke Chinese, and even done the hardest kind of work I've ever encountered - teaching History with a vigor that left the sweat dripping from my face - but I've never been able to do the things that LeRoy Wilde, my father-in-law can do and has done.

LeRoy has met with his share of life's bumps. The deaths of his parents and of old friends were no doubt very hard for him. But in 2000 he lost a son, Terry, who was only in his early forties. Then, in March of 2007, his eternal companion, Celia Thueson Wilde, died and life became a real burden for LeRoy. He has told certain of us in the family how many times we prayed for him on a particular night when he had planned (and hoped) to slip through the veil to be with Celia again. He doesn't seem to hold our prayers against us. He understands. But he's a very sad and lonely fellow, and I understand a lot of what he feels.

Like our Haeberle/Humphries/Fernandez/Potter bunch, the Wildes love to get together on Holidays or in honor of them when they can't all be there on the day itself. Like our extended family, there is much of laughing and story telling and even some singing and teasing. And, like our family, there are faces which get more than their fair share of camera time. Autumn, the Humphries girls, and the Gridley-Haeberle girls all had to take their turns as the "focus" of the efforts of the family's photographers for several years each. Indeed, none of the above-mentioned ladies has yet escaped that burden, even though they are raising another generation of special faces to be recorded for posterity.

It will probably come as no surprise to you that The Wilde clan has more than its share of such wonderful faces, too. Some of them were in attendance at tonight's Wilde Family Christmas bash at the home of Doug and Teresa Bosen in Pocatello. Those of you so unfortunate as to have found yourselves with nothing to do in the past and who, therefore, have been exposed to this blog before, will probably recognize some of these faces. I'll do my best to label them as to name and function.

Melissa Bosen, about 24 yoa, home for Christmas from her first year of teaching grade school in Utah. She is single, strong in the Church, and heart-stoppingly lovely.

Janae (Wilde) Barela with her son, Philip, already declared by my daughter Autumn to be "the cutest baby ever."

Kelly Wilde, daughter of Larry and Wanda, possessor of luscious hair and this Marine who came home ostensibly for Christmas leave with his family but who seems to have a relationship with Kelly similar to that of a worm with a hook.

Noreen (Reynolds) Wilde with Grandson Adam Beebe.

Sidnie Sanders, daughter of Vicki Wilde, world class beauty and sweeter than the law allows.

A Noble Sacrifice by a Nobody Nobleman

Grand Duke Henri of Luxembourg tried to use his veto against the majority of his tiny national assembly today to stop a lax euthenasia law from taking hold in his tiny country as it has already done so in Holland nearby. For his trouble, the Grand Duke will be made even more of a figure head, having removed even that tiny power of veto which was about his only claim to real power left since Luxembourg became that silliest of modern governmental creations, a constitutional monarchy.

Good old Henri, you see, has noticed that the very young, the very old, and some who simply could not speak for themselves had been euthenized in recent years by the Dutch system. Lest such terrors, so reminiscent of Nazi days, be re-imposed on his tiny duchy, the Grand Duke stood up for what he thought was right and was promptly slapped down. I like to think that, at His bar of Judgement, Christ will have something very kind to say to Henri. What he has to say to those who, for economic or administrative purposes shortened the lives of those who couldn't speak for themselves may be a bit more serious.

Haircut Day at the Pet Shop

A new lady has come to town and she's come to clip dog fur. She swings a pretty good clipper and hasn't left a nick on anybody yet that we know of. This is of some concern, because Mico's tender pink epidermis has often been offended by lesser groomers in the past.

Miss Sadie has a whole knew face. Her face had to be shorn short so that her food wouldn't stick in the fur and cause her to develop anti-social odors. It's a pretty short face, after all, and must needs be inserted pretty deeply into whatever she undertakes to intake. Herewith, a few photographic examples of their haircuts.

I'll also show you Sheryl's piece of 1891 Russian technology and my 1944, shorter version together.

Pssst! Mom likes me best!

Sadie, confident of her place in the little house she knows as "the world."

Miss Sadie auditions for the role of the new mascot on The Black Pearl.

Sheryl's 1891/30 Mosin-Nagant battle rifle with fixed bayonet.

Jim's M44 Mosin-Nagant carbine, folding bayonet fixed.

The Husband Who Cried Wifely Request

No, this is not Sheryl's. It's my own M44, much shorter, but the same basic thing. We don't have pictures of hers yet.

Sheryl turned IL today. That could also be written XXXXIX. She doesn't read Roman numerals, so I should be safe here. Anyway, it was her birthday. A few weeks ago she made it very plain that she wanted a firearm for either Christmas or her birthday. Yes, I know what you're thinking. We're far too broke to buy such extravagant toys. And normally you'd be right. But sometimes stores like Big 5 (spelled V Magnum in Latin, I believe) and CAL (generally not spelled at all in Latin) will have special deals, ridiculously special deals, on certain historic military firerams in order to get people into the store. And we are certainly people!

She was very specific as to which historic firearm she wanted. CAL was selling model 1891/30 Mosin-Nagant battle rifles for a wonderful price which made it almost affordable. I spent the last couple of weeks mentioning to her things like report and recoil. Still she insisted that this was what she wanted. She knows perfectly well that her husband is able to make "reduced loads" which will render both its bark and its bite much more tolerable.

Long story short, I bought it for her yesterday. "But," I hear you ask, "How did you do that when you're so broke all the time?" Well you see, there are these credit cards which come to our house a few times per month, offering us the opportunity to become indebted to people with whom we have not even been properly introduced. Our habitual behavor heretofore has been to tear or cut them up carefully and put them in the trash. But this time we said to ourselves, "Selves! You know we've been pretty good for a long time?" "Yes, we have," we were forced to agree. "And Christmas is coming soon, did you know that?" Again, the truth of this argument could not be denied. "Perhaps we could use this card to get a few things for Christmas." This idea siezed control of our erstwhile rational thought process, and soon we were buying groceries and Russian battle rifles with the darn thing as though we were real people; almost as if we had a right to some happiness. It's truly frightening how seductive a tiny piece of plastic can be.

And so, after a few more purchases, we'll be even further in debt than we already were and we'll be wondering how it happened. That's why I'm writing this record. I'll be able to look back and see precisely when and where we went so wrong when it felt so right.

Another thing to remember! Sheryl asked for this. I did not hint at it in the slightest degree. I know there are those of you out there who believe that the chances of a XXXXVIII year old wife actually expressing a desire to have something like this are somewhere between slim and none, and Slim just left town. But it's all true. Some day, at the bar of judgment, during the great video tape in the sky, when our unrepented sins are being shouted from the roof tops (I really dread that part.) you will see that I told this story exactly as it happened. Then you'll say, "Imagine! Jim got to buy a firearm for his eternal companion and didn't even have to persuade her to want it! If I hadn't seen it with my own glorified, perfected, resurrected eyes, I'd have never believed it." Then I'll smile rather smugly just before having the smile wiped from my face by a public recitation of all the terrible things I did in this life but forgot to repent of. And yes, I know I ended that last sentence with a preposition, but I'm just too tired to care.

The Lump is Benign; the Pain is Not.

Tyson LeRoy Lords demonstrates a tongue without warts or blemishes.

Doctor Holme, my oral surgeon, whom I described earlier as looking like a deacon, called me while we were walking through CostCo today. The lab says the thing he removed from my tongue was not malignant. This does not, however, make it fun to deal with a big hole in my tongue. the bruising left inside the tongue as well as the ragged edge of the removed part, make it almost impossible to talk normally or eat simple foods if they're solid. I look forward to my recovery which he says will take several days more. Sigh...

Of all the Sad Words of Tongue or Pen

John Greenleaf Whittier said it. With a name like that, the kid was pretty much obligated to grow up to be a poet. And these are the words for which he is best remembered, probably because they are both true and beautifully said.

Of all the sad words of tongue or pen,

The saddest are these: It might have been.

Like the sentence invented for the eastern monarch in the oft-quoted parable, the sentence that would be true whenever it was spoken and under any circumstances, the sentence that reads: "And this, too, shall pass away." Yes, it's like that, because it's a phrase that one might apply to anything which didn't work out the way we'd planned. Love affairs, friendships, jobs, careers, financial plans, political aspirations, artistic endeavors - all and any of it. It might have been. The words that often go with such an emotion are these: "If only..." If only I'd tried a little harder on that one occasion. If only I'd been a little more mature. If only I hadn't been so insistent. If only I'd been a little better prepared. If only I had seen things as clearly then as I do now.

Tonight I don't desire to talk about the many, many words of my pen. They have been numerous, possibly too numerous. My tongue, too, has been overworked in this life. Anyone will tell you so. It's time for it to have a rest. And like many a workaholic, my tongue had to be injured to get any time off.

I often bit the inside of my cheek or the inside of my lip or my tongue. This trauma, I have learned in recent months, can develop into big wart-like creatures. There was one on the tip of my tongue for about 7 months until three weeks ago. Then Dr. Hopkin took it off. Discomfort was minor, recovery was swift, and I thought it was a thing of the past. But soon it became clear that it wasn't just growing back together, it was staging a come-back, rather like in Requiem for a Heavyweight. Soon the object which had once been an annoyance the size of a small garden pea was the size of a cat's eye marble and still growing.

So yesterday, at about 9:30 am, my oral surgeon, a young fellow named Holme who has great knowledge and looks like a deacon, surgically removed it and much of the tissue surrounding it, anxious to send it to the lab to find out whether it was cancerous, benign, or just plain weird. But I have been in some considerable pain since this procedure. They assured me that the tongue would grow back. Apparenty it's the only member of the body that does that. I look forward to having all of my tongue again. I can't roll my Rs. All my hard consonants sound like they're being attempted by a foreigner who attends ESL classes while moving slowly and in a drunken stupor. Pride is a terrible thing. I have always taken a great deal of pride in my careful enunciation. Now I sound like Ozzie Osbourne in those commercials where he has to text message literally everything he says so that people will get a clue about what he's saying.

And eating! I long to bite into something hard and crunchy again. Custard, yogurt, and applesause have their charms, but even they cause me a little pain while satisfying very little of my hunger. So please pray for my tongue. We want it to make a come-back in record time. Many thanks to one and all.