Photos of Recent Events

Cast of Characters:

Heather
Travis
Connor

Aric
Zannita
Akira

Zannita's dimples.

Heather & Connor

My Personal Thanks to the Welsh

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

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

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

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

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)

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

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)

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