Pastor Pete and the Cat by Jane Robertson

I highly recommend this book.

Purr strings.

That summarizes the central tension of this wonderful, funny, and entertaining work. That strain constitutes much of the novel's draw, although that's way too simplistic.

Robertson displays all of the characteristics of great artistry. Those include a mastery of language, of story-telling with central and peripheral tensions, of faultless settings, and of vibrant characters. In this novel, which is about an insecure but sincere and loving Pastor Pete, who hates approaching strangers, and a very confident and valuable calico cat, Raggy, several subplots add both mystery and texture. Several different and delightful characters, both parishioners and prospects of real flesh and blood, interact with their own unique quirks and dialects, singing their own unique songs.

To mention a few there's the Johnstons, thinking that they need marital counseling because of Mamma Ida Mae and the parish secretary, Midge, irritating as a bug on your skin but lovingly. There's Marietta, the Pastor's wife, with her soulful eyes, Mrs. Mayhew, who sits on the front row of the chapel, and Stella Hauger, the TV broadcaster. Plus there's my favorite grump, Gaston Eugene Gabbert. Here's a part of Pastor Pete and Gaston's first few minutes meeting each other:

" . . . We'd love to have you come check out our church."

"Don't see the need. I don't imagine churches have gotten any better over the years."

"Does that mean you used to go to church, sir?"

"Well, everybody's mama and papa makes them go to church, now don't they?"

"I wish, sir." Pete scrabbled some dead leaves from underneath a cluster of bushes while he thought. He could feel sweat oozing down the small of his back. "There are some really nice people at our church, sir. And after the service we always have a coffee hour with goodies."

"What do you mean by goodies?"

"Oh, muffins and doughnuts. Fruit trays. A lot of different things."

"Ever have prune cake?"

"I'm not sure, sir. I usually get to the table after everything's gone." Would a bribe be inappropriate? Could he afford to care? "But I'm sure if you want prune cake, we could find somebody to make you one."

You want to laugh and to feel refreshed and happy, yet realize that life is complicated? Read this novel. I recommend it with all my vigor.

Asia episodes

Yesterday Asia --- a.k.a. Moochie --- had another episode.

She had an episode several months ago wherein she seized, experiencing a number of grand mal seizures followed eventually by an intense sickness which lasted around twenty-four hours as far as getting up and doing anything went and slowed her down significantly for a few days. I thought she was going to die. I began using a straw to fill her mouth with water. It was awful. I was so sad and worried.

Yesterday's episode, however, seemed different than. We walked a couple of times, once not so far, the other time a normal one. After the second one, I started cleaning around the house, vacuuming and whatnot. Asia was out and about the house, scared as always by the vacuum, trying to escape its sound and my actions, moving here and there throughout the house to avoid the sound and action of the machine. Even after I was through though, she seemed fine; she was up and about. However, about 12:30 PM, I found her in the hallway, her head twisted in a distorted way, her body awkwardly laying there. I tried to get her to get up, calling her name, telling her to come and get a treat. She wouldn't. She couldn't. She was immobilized. I never saw her seize. It was as if she had had a stroke or something.

I left Asia there for an hour or more, checking on her all the time. She could see me. When I moved my hand by her eyes she blinked. She was breathing okay. She just seemed so awkward, uncomfortable. I tried to move her so her head didn't look so twisted, her body so it wasn't so contorted. It didn't work. Eventually, I picked her up, took her into the bedroom where her dog pillow is and put her on it, trying to make her as comfortable as I could. She was licking her lips, as if she were thirsty. She wasn't seizing. She could see me, look at me with confusion in her eyes, worried. She licked her lips, and I went and got some water to see if she wanted to drink. She wouldn't. She couldn't.

She laid there for hours, me checking on her every few minutes. Over time, I saw some improvements. She began to be able to move around a bit, to seek a more comfortable position on her pillow, slowly, eventually getting back to her typical maneuvers, tucking her head between her mat and another one next to it, eventually lifting her legs awkwardly and leaning them against the wall so she was on her back. Then finally she got up, moving slowly, and eventually recovered.

Before long, she was ready to go out for another walk.

Politics in Religious Instruction

High Priests Group Leader

High Priests Group

I feel it is necessary to make a case for my actions Sunday, September 14, 2014 in High Priests Group. I've been contemplating whether I need to apologize or not, and I'm not to that place yet. Maybe I never will be. But maybe I will. In any event, I want to make my position clear for doing what I did. I'd love to hear contrasting positions.

I only attend High Priests Group every other week since I have a primary calling that I do with my daughter. (Those poor kids have to suffer the likes of me. [Sarcasm]) Of course, opening exercises for priesthood is held in the gymnasium and includes opening announcements, an opening prayer, an opening song, announcements by kids serving in the Aaronic priesthood, announcements by adults, etc., etc. Then, eventually, we go to the High Council Room to meet, presumably for instruction. Then we have some more announcements and whatnot before things get started as to learning. This often leaves very little time for a lesson.

Scott Hennessey was the instructor. I have nothing personally against Scott. He is my brother in the gospel; I do and shall do my best to love him. He has always, as far as I'm aware, supported me and my family. I will never forget how, when my son, Mike, left for his mission, Scott came to the airport to see him off. Plus, he's given some great lessons.

Brother Hennessey began his instruction on September 14 by trying to play an audio clip from Paul Harvey. He said it was, I think, from around 1965. He had difficulty getting the audio to play on his device but after some fussing around with various speakers he got it to work. I was at the very back of the room and heard it with clarity. It was from a broadcast by Paul Harvey, a famous newspaper columnist and a radio personality, and it is known by the title, "If I Were the Devil." Scott eventually played the clip through to its end and we all listened. At least, I did. I estimate that it took approximately eight or nine minutes to do all of this, set it up and play it. It took about three and a half to four minutes to play the audio presentation by Paul Harvey, who is now deceased, was not a Mormon, but who was a very conservative, right-wing expositor of politics and of society.

I graduated from high school in 1966. I was acquainted from youth on with both the writings and broadcasts of Paul Harvey. I enjoyed him very much --- his perfect broadcaster's voice, his timing in his delivery, his subjects --- as did my wife. In earlier years, conditioned pretty much by having very little knowledge and the company that I kept while growing up, I agreed with much of what Harvey said in his presentations. Then, with more education and after delving more into the world and its nuances and reading accounts counterpoint to Harvey's, I began taking issue with many of his positions. But overall, I enjoyed Harvey very much --- he was quite entertaining, if nothing else --- and he was a very able and capable human being, one in many respects to be admired.

Anyone can find a clip of the audio or the video of "If I Were the Devil" on the Internet.

After Scott played the audio and made a comment or two, I raised my hand and when he called upon me I challenged him. I objected to his selection of "If I Were the Devil" for the beginning of the lesson. My comment more or less tried to convey that to begin the lesson with an ultraconservative's exposition wherein he imagined himself as the devil didn't seem balanced or fair. Actually, I was also concerned with the amount of time it took in the little time left for a lesson. Truthfully, I don't remember the particular words of the verbal interchanges between us. One had to do with his observations about not being able to build religious statues or perform religious rites and whatnot on government properties. One of Scott's observations was that someone had recently been arrested for saying, "Bless you!" to someone on a government property. I challenged Scott by saying that in Mormonism we revere the U.S. Constitution as inspired by God, so we shouldn't complain when that Constitution requires a separation of religion and state. Truthfully, like probably everybody else in the classroom, I thought an arrest for saying "Bless you!" was over the top. But, if it was, our laws and judicial system would provide relief for the person being charged and, hopefully, the enforcer would stand corrected and change their attitude. (See, there is some optimism in me.)

My impression is that when I had interrupted Scott, which I clearly had, he didn't like it. He made it sound, at least to me, as if I did it to him all the time, and he didn't want to be bothered with my concerns or my tangents, no matter what. It was very evident that a number of men in the room during our exchanges back and forth agreed with Scott's position, because something occurred which I have never experienced in all of my life in attending priesthood meetings. He took me to task, verbally, and, as a consequence, a number of the brothers in the classroom, mostly at the very back of the room, applauded what he had said, thereby also joining him in chiding me. Well, not, perhaps, chiding me for being me, but getting after what I had said, for interrupting Scott and perhaps speaking in a higher tone of disagreement. They applauded and continued until Layton Smith, the Group Leader, mildly scolded them for doing so, saying, "Brethren" with that certain tone.

Thereafter I sat silent. Not much time remained. Scott more or less kept to the lesson manual after that, but continued harkening back to the Harvey presentation, as if he were some authority.

In "If I Were the Devil," Harvey takes the role of the adversary. In my estimation, that's never a good place to be or a role to assume, but it certainly was an interesting twist. Harvey intimates therein that America --- the United States --- was once a great nation but it has declined and is on the road to ruin. His argument, which was basically adopted by Scott and many of the subsequent commenters, is built upon sand and should be washed away. "If I Were a Devil" is an exposition by one who possesses a racist and, to a lesser extent, sexist mentality. My dictionary defines racism as the belief that race accounts for differences in human character or ability and that a particular race is superior to others. It includes discrimination or prejudice based on race. It defines sexism as discrimination based on gender, especially discrimination against women. A second definition includes attitudes, conditions, or behaviors that promote stereotyping of social roles based on gender. It is more of the former --- racist --- than the latter ---sexist, but both were/are present and problematic for me.

Common overt manifestations of racism and sexism occur when those in power prevent social interaction between members of different races; when they utilize race or sex to determine who can or cannot buy, sell, or rent real estate; when people utilize various methodologies to discriminate in public schools or higher education; when they deny free access to private, public, and commercial facilities based upon race or sex; when they commit acts of violence motivated by race or sex; and when they use race or sex as a criterion for hiring. In "If I Were the Devil" overt manifestations of racism and sexism aren't necessarily manifest. It does, however, demonstrate a more harmful and passive type of racism and sexism, one more hidden and difficult to detect and challenge.

Consider this analogy and I'll explain its significance. When the lifetime supervisor of a slaughterhouse dies and is eulogized before being buried, no one eulogizing mentions the savage killings, the brutal murder of hundreds of thousands or millions of innocent animals that he has overseen. That is not part of his eulogy; it's not of import. Why? Because those eaten animals are not considered as important as the people who ate them; they were something lesser, inferior. The people who ate them considered themselves superior.

Paul Harvey in the audio clip is like a person eulogizing the slaughterhouse supervisor, however, but on a much different scale. America, or the United States, as it was in the distant past, Harvey asserts, was certainly much better than what it is today and what it will be tomorrow given the deplorable direction we're going because of the devil's machinations. America is in decline. However, in the case of the slaughterhouse supervisor, we are dealing with slaughtered animals. On the other hand, in the case of the American past, to which Paul Harvey alludes, we're not talking about slaughtering animals to eat, but we're talking about the slaughter and deprivation of human beings. Given the historical record, only a racist would glorify the American past, while complaining about its descent into hell in 1965 or now.

When Europeans invaded the North American continent they ended up killing over 100 million indigenous people, either with weaponry that was more advanced than the indigenous peoples' was, or with biological weapons, like smallpox. Upon realization that the indigenous people had no immunity to smallpox, the royal families of Europe along with the churches of Europe, primarily the Catholic Church, didn't stop there immigration, which essentially was killing the indigenous people. In fact, they distributed blankets infected with the virus among them.

Harvey, as the devil --- his take, not mine --- overlooks entirely the fact that Americans historically enslaved Africans along with many of the indigenous peoples. In those early days, and subsequently, atrocities compounded themselves for well over 500 years. Even after the Civil War evils continued. In 1965 there was still blatant segregation in the U.S. It is an ugly, morbid history over against what we have now. Furthermore, in those early days women had few if any rights. They were property, they didn't couldn't vote, they could be bought and sold. Compare that with today and you'll find that things have improved. They have improved considerably.

For Paul Harvey in "If I Were a Devil" the indigenous and African Americans were of no consequence. Neither were the women and girls of American society, who through the years made many, many advances, which continue to the present time. In Harvey's mind and in the subject essay, they were like the animals in the slaughterhouse which were murdered, sliced up, and distributed to be consumed. Lesser than. Not important. Inferior. What's clear, however, is what's important to Paul Harvey, after a careful reading of his essay: materialism. He likes the advance of materialism.

Do we have problems here in the U.S.? Are some aspects of our lives as citizens of this country on the whole declining? Perhaps so. I didn't see any statistics given in the lesson. Do I think that's the case intuitively? Sometimes. However, I've learned that my intuitions often fail me.

Overall, my actions in this case stemmed from my frustrations with the notion that so much of the little time left to teach was turned over to an ultra-conservative, non-Mormon, journalist, who was, in my opinion, a racist and a sexist in the audio clip that Scott played to begin with, a contrasting point of view to the one I was trying to present. I received, however, that you-are-not-as-important as me (us) message.

I grew up a redheaded boy with freckles, the son of a non-member father and a jack Mormon mother. I tasted thereby from society the mildest form of discrimination, nothing comparable to what others have suffered. During most of my adult life, as a member of the church, my leanings have been to liberality rather than conservative. Again, in attending church services, including in High Priests Group and whatever else, I have experienced and do experience discrimination because of it. The primary teachings which guide my life, however feebly, are love of God with my whole heart, mind, and strength and loving my neighbors as myself.

Judge for yourself whether this makes my case. Please don't hesitate to let me know what you think. It won't be the first or last time I hear a contrary view. I like to hear from all sides of questions (although I don't put myself in the role of the devil). Wasn't it the Lord who said to ask, seek, and knock? Not for naught.

Faith versus obedience

I don't honor any god who just orders a father to kill an innocent child without giving a comprehensible rationale for its value that can be confirmed by conscience before expecting the act. A god who expects such blind obedience is a devil. And isn't a father who unquestioningly follows also on the dark side?

I Think I'm Infected but Not in a Good Way

BLACKOUT by Robison Wells reminds me of this old joke.

There are two dyslexics working in a kitchen. One says, "Can you smell gas?" And the other says, "I can't even smell my own name." (Remember, it's just a witticism, a spoonerism, if you will. Not necessarily derogatory.)

BLACKOUT was an entertaining read, fast-paced, intriguing. I guess you could say engaging. I was engaged, then… Well, I think you'll like those characteristics. I haven't read its predecessor if there is one. But after reading it, I feel like one of those kitchen workers. Nonetheless, I don't have dyslexia. There just wasn't enough narrative explanation for my tastes. Maybe if there are successor volumes, I could be more satisfied. But that's speculative.

Perhaps I have the worldwide virus that's a premise to what happens in the novel. I finished the whole book, but I didn't learn sufficient information about that virus. Or about the motivation of both the mentioned and unmentioned antagonists in this work. There was not nearly enough knowledge and development for my tastes, other than the virus is totally weird, inexplicably so, and creative. One thing I did learn about the virus was the fact that it only infected youth --- teenagers --- and it made them super- or sub-human. Superpowers.

(So, because I'm old, I don't have "that" virus. Whew! Something's infected me, though. I hope it can be treated.)

In BLACKOUT the primary players on the dark side, who, of course, are all infected, include Alec, Laura, and Dan. And on the side of light --- after all, they're probably Saints, since they're from central Utah --- are Aubrey and Jack. Or, perhaps, that should be "on the light side" --- ha ha. At least, I think that's right, but recall that I might be infected (although not with "the" virus). The former trio serve as terrorists, utilizing their viral superpowers to wreak havoc. The nation's military ends up exploiting the later two heroes' superpowers to thwart the villains. These characters are all viewpoint characters, and they're not the only ones, as I recall. Character development suffered.

You see, this virus shows itself in varying ways, but never with the same symptoms in any two different individuals. It's unlike any other disease or virus known to mankind, at least in my experience. Or in my imagination. And its symptomatic manifestations are all over the place as far as superpowers or darkpowers for these teens go. The antagonists wreak havoc across the United States --- for what purpose is unclear --- and the protagonists are simply manipulated by their government without a satisfactory justification for my tastes in doing so.

Hence, as in all fantasy and/or pseudoscience fiction, such powers can be and are manipulated in a deus ex machina way. It's very, very convenient.

That's how I spell it.

Old man review…

Old man review. Read at your own risk.

As you get older, the illusion is that time goes by faster. The theory, I think, is that the segment that is passing --- the hour, day, or week --- is a smaller and smaller fraction of the hours, days, etc. that you have lived. Your time is being used up and you only have a smaller fraction of what you had. At the ripe old age of sixty-five, this dynamic has certainly kicked in for me.

Time seems to be passing by way too fast; I have too little of it left to assimilate everything that I need to or want to. I am like a computer you buy, utilize, fill up, and that eventually begins to be too full, inadequate in capacity and speed, freezing up, and crashing. Furthermore, keeping up with the pace of technology seems to have a similar dynamic: I can't keep up and at times I don't want to even try keeping up. Therefore, going into reading this book, SMARTER THAN YOU THINK: HOW TECHNOLOGY IS CHANGING OUR MINDS FOR THE BETTER, I thought that technology wasn't necessarily changing my mind for the better. I didn't have adequate time and, perhaps, the ability for it to do so. For example, I haven't adopted to cell phones and such e-devices as readily or as rapidly as many of my friends, neighbors and relatives, often to my detriment, but more often to my delight and my contemporaries' chagrin.

But I think Clive Thompson makes some astute observations and plausible explanations for why he believes technology changes our minds for the better. I, of course, enjoyed reading the various histories in the evolution of innovation that he tells about and about humankind's continuing reluctances through the years and now to accept change. I also enjoyed reading about new innovations, innovators, and conceptions of human intelligence, etc. What a delight! How overwhelming! I did enjoy the read, and as I perused and contemplated what I had read I did realize that I do incorporate innovation, even in old age, into my life to make things easier. For example, I'm utilizing voice dictation software in order to write this because it has become more and more painful and irritating to type things out because of arthritis.

I am not, however, convinced that we retain our learning longer than we used to. However, learning is much more accessible in our era than ever before and that is the dynamic that has been changing and seems to be continuing to change. I like it that I can have access to information now that I could never have access to so readily in earlier periods of my lifetime.

Some change, however, is quite scary. I think of the contemporary crises involving data collection by the NSA, for example. Doesn't it have a tendency to put into jeopardy all notions of privacy that we might have? Furthermore, without a clean and clear commitment of mind to the whole enterprise of technology, it is all for naught. People become addicted to mindlessness: playing perhaps entertaining games and watching and being stimulated by videos and whatnot in an addictive manner that doesn't necessarily improve the mind or the quality of living but wastes it away. So, the caveat is always it only works to better your mind if you apply yourself in a responsible way.

Doubt

For me, truth is a matter of the imagination, as Ursula Le Guin said, or rather as she imagined Genly Ai telling her that. (See the ~ 1976 Introduction to the rerelease of the 1969 award winning science fiction novel, THE LEFT HAND OF DARKNESS.)

 
Truth is not the imagination, but the presence of truth always includes the imagination. In LDS scripture, we learn that truth is what happened, what's happening, what will happen. I know (or I imagine) that when I consider what happened, I use my imagination. I doubt that any person is and different than me in that regard. When I consider what will happen, I also use my imagination. I hesitate to think anyone else doesn't do that, too, although, perhaps, I could imagine it. When I consider what is happening, like me typing this out right now, trying to make sense, to select a rational order of words, etc., there is no doubt that I call on my imagination to deliver it contemporaneously.
 
"What if" is an element of the imagination; it is a feature of existence. It is not ever-present; it comes and goes. We don't like it continually present and work to eliminate it.
 
Fear is at the core of our being; essential to our very survival. It is also at the core of religion, of the LDS canon, and of other doctrines far and wide. It is a catalyst to action and to analysis and change. We use our imaginations to deal with fear.
 
Was that the sound of the cat knocking the toaster off the counter, a shutter bumping in the breeze, or a prowler? If the sound is fearful enough, we respond automatically --- fight or flight kicks in --- without analysis. Examination of what happened then comes later, and we use our imaginations to relive and evaluate the experience, to make changes, adaptations, etc. for good or for bad.
 
There is a time and a place to doubt just as there is a time to eat and sleep.

Talk

On the telephone, Brother Gearhart sounds to me like Jim Layton. And that's who I thought was calling on Pioneer Day. Jim Layton. Midday phone calls to your home number usually involve some kind of marketing effort, so I usually don't focus on them very well. And I'm old, poor of hearing, etc. Anyway, Jim Layton, I thought, was calling, perhaps to ask if Kiele and I'd like some corn. It's been commonplace for a very generous farmer Jim to do that throughout all the years that we've lived here about this time of year. But no, it wasn't a kind-hearted Jim calling; it was Brother Gearhart, not asking if we'd like corn but asking if I'd . . . if I'd feed you corn.  

Or did he say, don't be corny?

He said that his arranged-for speaker had had a conflict, so he needed to ask if I'd be 1 able to speak. "Me?" I wanted to say, but I didn't. I thought it. I was surprised. Perhaps, more shocked. Once I recovered, I said, "In sacrament meeting?"

"Yes," he said. He admitted that it was short notice and proceeded to say that the topic assigned to the person who'd had a conflict was "Redemption" based upon the April Conference talk of Elder Christofferson of the Qof12.

Hurry, now, you device users; hustle, get that talk up. Read it instead of listening. After all, Christofferson's an apostle; I've just been an aspiring apostate these past few days thinking about giving this talk.

Brother Gearhart said, "Since it's short notice, it'd be okay if you just wanted to pick a topic from your past week's scripture studies."

My past week's scripture studies? Seriously? I've been reading Holy Misogyny. I wanted to ask if I could just read a chapter from one 2 of my self-published novels. But I didn't. They weren't sacrament meeting material or from last week's scripture studies.

"Okay," I said, still in shock, not thinking straight. A bumper sticker says, "I don't suffer from insanity --- I enjoy every minute of it." Didn't the Brother realize that I hadn't written my four pages that I write weekly to take to a critiquing group. How could I prepare a talk, too? One I had to come up here to deliver? Anyway, once Brother Gearhart had my commitment, he mentioned I'd probably speak last, with a youth speaker and another speaker before me. That gave me hope. [look at the clock] [That's turned out bad/well.]

Immediately before Brother Michael called, I'd been contemplating Ursula Le Guin's introduction in a 1976 rerelease of her 1969 novel, The Left Hand of Darkness. That introduction is a kind of essay, premised on her protagonist's having 3 told her that truth is matter of the imagination. Not truth is imagination, but is a matter of the imagination. My dear wife, Shelley, and I, after reading that, whenever people talked of the truth of this or that, we'd look at each other knowingly, thinking truth is a matter of the imagination.

I'd also been reading and thinking about former Area Authority Hans Mattsson, the Seventy who'd apparently had heart surgery in 2005 and been released. He had begun learning about puzzling and problematic episodes in Church history on the internet. The NY Times had published an article. Elder Mattsson, who had devoted his life to Church leadership and service, hadn't known about some tough Church histories and a few creases in particular doctrines and teachings. He felt let down when he'd learned them, leading to a "crisis of faith" despite his prior spiritual experiences in serving the Church. 4

So in that context, on Pioneer Day, I committed to speak. It'd been a long time since I last had. . but not long enough. Given my travails, I couldn't help but think of handcart pioneers.

I looked up the word "redemption". The dictionary said it was the act of redeeming. So I looked up "redeem". Redeem is to compensate for the faults or bad aspects of (something). It gave an example. "A disappointing debate was redeemed by an outstanding speech." I saw irony in that "speech" part. Over against the Elder Mattsson matter, an outstanding talk on redemption would be nice. Now, I thought, if I could just find somebody to write and deliver it.

When I grew up, they broadcast TV in black and white. Telephones were black too --- big, hulking, ugly devices, with wires, sometimes attached to a wall. No touch screens, no downloadable apps, no 5 texting. No internet. Operators helped make some connections. Back then, in ancient history, boys in our neighborhood gathered and redeemed used bottles, pop, beer, whatever. Glass bottles, not plastic or metal, as now. The amount you could redeem them for was a few pennies. Of course, then for two cents you could buy a small box of licorice Snaps and chew on them while old guys blathered in sacrament meeting. In gathering up bottles to redeem, the boys also saved the bottles from ending up broken and wasting away, cluttering the neighborhood or landfill. Those bottles could be washed reused, recycled.

Now a comedy . . . a fiction. Remember, it's an imaginary tale.

In fall at harvest time, a bishop visits a less active elder to invite him to sacrament meeting. The bishop finds Blaze at home busily bottling a new batch of fine peach brandy. They talk and visit and 6 even laugh together. Ultimately, Blaze says, "I'll come to block meetings, Bishop, if you'll taste some brandy and admit that you did so before the congregation in sacrament meeting." They converse more and the bishop finally agrees and sips the peach brandy.

In sacrament services the next Sunday, Blaze is, as promised, in attendance, sitting in the back, off to one side. Brother Blaze is awaiting the bishop's confession to the congregation of what the bishop had done. Once Blaze caught the bishop's eye at the podium, the bishop said, "I'm delighted that Brother Blaze is here with us this afternoon. I want to show my appreciation for him being here. I also want to say thanks to him for his warmth earlier this week, especially for the peaches he gave me and the spirit in which they were given.

Truth is a matter of the imagination.

OK. Redemption.

So, 7 Pioneer Day was Wednesday. I think of the heartbreaking ordeal of the Martin handcart company. It was devastating because it was human. The people were raring to go, so trusting that they put themselves into avoidable peril. They were real, struggling to cling to faith through doubts and hardships. There were heroes and scapegoats, good decisions and organization as well as poor planning and mistakes. From Crossing to Safety we read:

"There in a mass meeting they discussed the question raised by some of the more cautious elders: whether to push on through or go only so far as some good camping site along the Platte, perhaps Wood River just beyond Grand Island, and there hole up until spring. Taking part in the debate were several of the Iowa City agents, including W. H. Kimball and G. D. Grant, who had hurried on to the Missouri as soon as Iowa 8 City was cleaned out. Like many others present, they knew the trail and the uncertain fall weather of the mountains; like many others, they were intoxicated with zeal to prove the handcart plan sound…

"One voice, that of Levi Savage, was raised strongly on the other side. He said that such a mixed company would surely suffer greatly if it tried to cross the plains and mountains so late. With the best of luck it would be nearly the end of October before they could arrive, and the trailwise knew it could snow in the mountains a good two months before that. He would not risk it. But when they took a vote, he voted alone. The Lord, the others thought, would temper the wind to His lambs. Savage's response did him honor both as a Saint and as a man. He said, "Brethren and sisters, what I have said 9 I know to be true; but seeing you are to go forward, I will go with you, will help you all I can, will work with you, will rest with you, will suffer with you, and if necessary I will die with you." It would not prove necessary that Savage die with them, not quite. But some of them would owe him their lives before they reached the valley, for he was one of the hardy and experienced who kept them going" (239-240).

Laurel Thatcher Ulrich said, "A pioneer is not someone who makes her own soap. She is one who takes up her burdens and walks toward the future." My dear wife, Shelley, always said we needed to go around the bend to see what's up the trail.

The typical focus among us doesn't want opposition or criticism. It supports a conclusion that none who survived that handcart journey 10 left the church. It neglects the very real suffering of those optimistic saints and refuses us a chance to learn good sense from their unquestioning lack of vigilance. We also lose thereby the individual, superlative faith of Levi Savage. And most disconcerting, a blemish-free account puts those pioneers, uniformly, in a category of super-heroes, depicting them as assured, sacred saints whose level of faith is eternally out of ordinary reach.

We need pioneers in vibrant shades of color, not all bleached white. Some petty, critical, not faithful. Not ideal, but fallible. They sincerely believed they were following a prophet of God and struggling to fulfill his commandments. Because of their failings, they're heroic, and we can relate and aspire to imitate them.

Crossing to Safety reads, "At a meeting of 107 missionaries about to go abroad in August, 1852 [4 years before Willie & Martin handcarts], Brigham Young decided to 10 announce publicly the doctrine of spiritual wives, and the announcement, together with the doctrinal justifications by Orson Pratt, was published in the Deseret News. Not even after this would missionaries discuss polygamy freely; they were instructed to say as little about it as possible, and it is likely that many a convert arrived in Salt Lake City in the later 1850s still persuaded that it was an ugly rumor perpetuated by the enemies of the Church. Nevertheless the admission was public, and could be corroborated in the newspapers, and it must have had something to do with the decline in number of conversions and the large number of apostasies during the '50's. And yet not so many apostasies and not such a decline in conversions as one might have expected" [Close quote.] (211-212).

Humankind is a family. We often bring that down to just the Church or the ward, but 11 we don't get to choose who's in the family of Heavenly Mother and Father. We all are, black and white, tall and short, sour and sweet. We could jolly well get along without some who make us uncomfortable, whose views turn our stomach, whose actions make our eyes flame. Such doesn't alter a bedrock relationship that exists: we are brothers and sisters. Family. I like to play the role of a bleeding heart where's-my-Mother-in-Heaven liberal pacifist while you might have snuck into sacrament a-pistol-packing I'd-follow-Abraham-and-sacrifice-my-boy-too hawk. Nonetheless, we are family, brothers, sisters, children of our Heavenly Parents. You don't have to listen to me. But you don't get to kick me out of the family, no matter what I do. That's what the redemption of my big brother, our big brother, Jesus Christ, is all about. We're related. We all need to be ransomed, to be set free.

Brokenness 12 is a part of the system. " The scripture says, "Even so, when they begin to grow up, sin conceiveth in their hearts, and they taste the bitter, that they may know to prize the good." We're not whole; we need each other. Zion is an ideal community of one heart and one mind, with no poor. Zion is a matter of the imagination.

Myriad stories exist of forgiveness, of reconciliation, of repentance, of humility, and of redemption. A brother or a sister, a man or a woman whom we've pinned as a neighborhood tramp, a ward gossip, a patronizing bishop, a community muckety-muck, a shallow relief society president, or a disparaging brother sometimes reaches down to pick us up. They lift us up, old, empty, dirty glass bottles, which we resemble, to redeem us, to recognize our worth, to recycle us.

Does such come too infrequently? Almost certainly. We 13 often act and think cruelly, not kindly. But when redemption comes, it brings replenishing water to cleanse us inside and out so that we can be filled again. There's value in it, too, for the person who picks us up to recycle, just like those pennies to buy licorice Snaps. Such help sustains us for a while, but a degree of brokenness is a permanent feature of us and of our institutions, including the Church.

We are to redeem and to be redeemed. Both roles.

We are told that we can be cast down, thrown out, soiled and spoiled, and still get picked up and cleansed and filled.

We are also told to be picker-uppers, to reach down to brothers and sisters who've been figuratively emptied and cast away and to lift them up, to turn them in for recycling. It's hard work. If we do so, we then receive small 14 rewards.

[I think its the following part I had to leave out for time.] It's never enough, because it's the ongoing nature of mortality, immortality and eternal life. We know whose work and whose glory that is.

Every now and then, we all experience a grace visited upon us when we've been emptied out, someone reaching to us and helping us to go on a while longer.

Sometimes it's an act of God. I've heard others relate so. Tamara told how her father relied upon a garden to help feed his family. At the time of approaching storms, with hailstorms all around, her father gathered his family, including young Tamara, to bless the garden, which he did. Tamara said when the storm came, hail fell all around, everywhere but on their garden. Doug Cornaby said that he gave a blessing to a young boy and then heard, afterward, the boy tell his parent that the voice giving the blessing was not that of 15 Brother Cornaby.

More often, though, it's the astonishing love of others, acting often out of character, enlarging themselves in their weakness, inspired by something beyond yet within. That's when we see and experience the beauty and dignity of God.

Redemption and reconciliation are our responsibilities in the family of Heavenly Parents. As Elder Christofferson said, as Christ's disciples, we ought to do all we can to redeem others from suffering and burden, but our greatest service is to lead them to Christ.

Now, go home. Read Elder Christofferson's talk if you haven't done so while I've spoken. Go watch or read Les Misérables, especially up until Valjean completes his encounter with the Priest.
   
Have you seen the bumper sticker? Don't take my signals literally. Truth is a matter of the imagination. Imagine how wonderful it might be if we all helped with the work of redemption.

In Christ's name. Amen.

On spiritual experiences or on miracles

I attended Sunday school today. Doug Roberts taught.

Before I forget, I want to record a couple of situations related by members of the class relative to blessings of the priesthood.

First, Tamara related how as a child her father relied upon a garden to help feed his family. At the time of an approaching storm, apparently when hailstorms were all around or were anticipated, her father gathered his family, including Tamara, to bless their garden, which he did. Tamara then said when the storm came the hail fell all around, everywhere but on the garden spot.

Doug Cornaby, the stake patriarch, said he gave a blessing to a young boy and then heard the boy telling his parent afterward that the voice that gave the blessing was not that of Doug Cornaby.

Studio Saint-Ex a well-done drawing, nicely stitched, and a drunken broth

Deft and daft. This book explores both realms, vigorously. It's a well-done drawing, nicely stitched, and a drunken broth. If you'll read it with such an mind, I think you'll see what I mean and like it very much.

As artists, this book's writer, Ania Szado, its protagonist, Ms. LaChapelle, and its romantic interest, Antoine, all excel in several respects. They are quick-witted and skillful in their realms; there is no question about that. However, they are also mad. They are crazy about achieving recognition and becoming or remaining 'established' as artistes. In essence, the book is about the intersection of art --- the human effort to imitate and supplement, or to alter or counteract, the work of the natural --- and of commerce --- the buying and selling of goods, including, but not exclusively, of sexual intercourse.

Who would argue with the characterization of STUDIO SAINT-EX as a romance? Not me. After all, it's about the twenty-two-year-old aspiring fashion designer, totally fictional, Mignonne LaChapelle, who ends up 'romantically involved' with the 40+ year-old well-recognized author and wartime pilot, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, who, although also fictional in the story, has a root in reality. Antoine, of course, is already married. But he is also conveniently estranged from the other key figure here, Consuelo, a Salvadoran knockout, who needs him.

So we have our typical love triangle set mostly in New York during World War II. On the other hand, there are other love interests involved: fame, honor, wealth, and independence.

How did I come to read this novel? Well, for one thing, it was a Vine offering, so I got it for free to review. But, beyond that, I was interested because of Antoine's work, THE LITTLE PRINCE, which I had received as a gift as a young man and read and enjoyed. Many have read and enjoyed THE LITTLE PRINCE by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry --- Wikipedia lists it in its list of best-selling books as number three, having sold approximately a 140 million copies. This book, I predict, won't go anywhere near there. But it will tag along with high hopes, a commercial venture attached to some promise of artistry to come from Szado.

My Love Is Up, Out of Sight, Around the Corner

St. Patrick's day grew more important in 1951. A bright new shamrock, a four-leaf clover of human variety came to earth. Shelley Jean Parker. Tall and slender, with four unique compound leaves instead of the usual three. Intellect, compassion, faith, and patience. Green and vital. We know people cheered her arrival, especially her parents, Irene and Robert. They knew she was exceptional. On the other hand, we believe a pre-mortal group wept over her farewell from them. Among those were surely future siblings, Chris, Norman, and Joy. And children to be, Amy, Mike, Kiele, and Brent.

 

But Shelley, she always hoped and believed that going around another bend in a trail and forging ahead would be one more of many successful farewells in an eternal life. Progress means moving on down the trail. Or up it. Leaving some you love behind to go ahead. Even if it's steep.

 

Now today is another farewell. We lament Shelley's loss here, we mortals, but yonder, her entrance is surely being celebrated. We think her parents, grandparents, and legions of brothers and sisters of Heavenly Parents welcome her to  new terrain to forge her pathway.

 

In a sense, less is more. She's departed, but not gone. She's on her way to help fashion the way for us to follow.

 

Let us pause to consider Shelley's growth on the track she trod here.

 

Welcomed as a first child, she quickly became vibrant. Blessed, soon baptized, she loved to play and pretend in sagebrush hills across from home in Roy. Characteristic of her, in 1961, she received a certificate of 100 percent attendance in primary at Lake View Ward. In '63, she graduated from primary, and, in public school, moved from Lakeview Elementary to Roy Junior High. She won a Cappy Dick coloring contest, getting her photograph and an article about her in the Ogden Standard Examiner. She received a home library, including a 15-volume set of Childcraft and a 20-volume set of encyclopedias. She won them and used them.

 

That year her family moved from Roy to East Layton to a new home on a wooded acre of scrub oak at the base of Thurston Peak. A whole mountain range to explore. She climbed that range and many others, forging ahead. Even with rattle snakes and flies and squawking birds. There's a letter from Primary Children's Hospital way back then, thanking her for her gift of stuffed animals for ill children. "May you always have this spirit of love and giving in your heart," it says. She did.

 

In '66, she said farewell to Central Davis Junior High and became a Davis High Dart, where she consistently bulls-eyed the high honor roll and walked on.

 

Along the way, her family cared for foster children. She helped out. Eventually, she received new siblings: first Chris --- dear Chris, she would always say, although Chris flinched at it --- then Joy, and, finally, Norman. She loved them, helped care for them, lead them along.

 

Bees visit clover. So she celebrated the spirit of the hive, busy having faith, seeking knowledge, safeguarding health, honoring womanhood, understanding beauty, valuing work, loving truth, tasting sweetness in service, and feeling joy. The myriad individual awards she earned mark how well she seized each opportunity for progress as she hiked along. High school, seminary graduation, and on to college.

 

Her family traveled. In 1951, to Martinez, California to visit Uncle Dan and Aunt Jean and family. In '52, to Cardston to the temple and to Glacier National Park. In '53 to Colorado and Southern Utah. In '54 to Concord, California on Easter. In '55 to Montana, to Sun Valley, and McCall. In '56 to New York and the eastern states, then on to Detroit via train to get a new car. Well, you get the picture. And each year she went further along her trail, literally, figuratively, spiritually. She gained insights and understanding and compassion.

 

In '69, hiking along as a freshman in college Shelley met this tall, gangly redhead, a boy known then as Wally --- now Walt. They were walking the same route. In August, 1971 they married in Salt Lake in the Temple. Two years later, in January, '73, Amy was born. By then, Shelley and Wally, mostly working full-time, had also completed requirements for bachelors' degrees. Speaking of a rocky path, they both started work as civil servants for the dreaded IRS. They planned to instead trek a path to international business school, but with a tight budget after graduating, they interviewed for jobs on the different path. Brooklyn, Chicago, Miami, Cleveland. "We like you," their interviewers said, but don't know if Utahans would fit in. They trod off to Chicago for training, working in Rockford, Illinois, then Illinois's second largest city.

 

Two years in Rockford auditing taxpayers, serving the Church, raising Amy and trying to grow offshoots. No luck there. Off to California, same goals. Off to Twin Falls, Idaho, where Shelley changed jobs, teaching English part-time at the community college. Still focused on getting more kids, the trail grew steep with switchbacks and a blind canyon. Eventually, Shelley backtracked. If she and Walt couldn't have biological kids, they'd adopt. First Shelley quit work and Michael came along on Walt's 31st birthday. Nice timing, happiest birthday present ever. Then a move to Boise. In 1980, Kiele came from Korea. Shelley flew to Denver to get Kiele. They handed her the baby and told her to take her and change her clothes. Shelley sensed something wrong. A frightening overhang, a cliff of a thousand feet. For one thing, Kiele's head just lulled to one side. In tears, frightened, Shelley returned home with the baby, meeting Walt at the airport. Then Kiele smiled and laughed so endearingly, as she does, and they knew whatever was wrong could be overcome. Another face to clamber up and down. Back home, a doctor said Kiele had cerebral palsy. When a little older, Kiele slowly started to talk, to walk. The doctor prescribed a ct-scan, and Shelley took Kiele. While Kiele lay in an X-ray tunnel, Shelley waited, anxious. One technician said to the other, "Didn't I see her walk in with her mother?" The other nodded and said, "And she talks." The ct-scan showed between 1/3 and 1/2 of the space beneath Kiele's cranium filled with fluid instead of brain. Shelley had a tall peak, an Everest to climb.

 

In 1982, six-month-old Brent came from Korea on Christmas Eve to the Portland airport. Nicest gift Shelley said she ever got for Christmas. By '85, Shelley was back to work for the dreaded IRS. One morning getting ready, she said she had a sore neck and asked Walt to look at it. A lump. Subsequently, doctors diagnosed an advanced form of lymphoid cancer, Hodgkin's disease. Shelley faced a new path up a Himalayan mountain. Shelley started chemotherapy, and they arranged to move back to Utah, close to family. She underwent chemo on Fridays, throwing up all weekend and returning to work early the next week until she couldn't physically tolerate that any longer. Then radiation, usually, daily after work.  She climbed those mountains.

 

Shelley's own crop of little clover --- Amy, Mike, Kiele, and Brent --- all kept on growing and advancing down their own trodden tracks, as children do, sometimes making pathways bright, sometimes, dark and rocky. Shelley was always there for them. Now Amy and her husband, Steven, also have little ones, Hannah and Piper, and Shelley kept journals of their young lives to help them remember the years she was there. Well, Hannah and Piper are not so little any more. But all the time, Shelley kept walking out ahead, always leading the way with her four leaves of intellect, compassion, faith, and patience. Now she's around the bend, out of sight, but never out of our minds and hearts. We will follow her.

 

Shelley loved to read, to hike, to quilt. She loved to travel and to have a dog. Give her a trail and she was off, going on down it or up it. As long as it had a bend, she wanted to go around to see what lay ahead. She always tried to follow the Lord's way, to live by the golden rule. She loved and cared for her family and friends. She loved the Lord; said she'd follow Him in faith.

 

People say, "Rest in peace, dear one." While Shelley's blessed body, tired and worn out by trails and trials of life may rest later this day in a grave, you can trust that she's still on a path, up around a bend, out of sight. Maybe now walking with her dad and mother for a spell. Think of all the beautiful vistas she's seen! The sights of wonder, the sounds of majesty! The scrumptious food she's relished! She's smelling the sweet honeysuckle of love and sacrifice as she continues on! May we all remember her path and let it inspire us to follow with as much courage and strength as she had and has. For she follows the path of the Lord, in faith.

 

We love you dear, sweet, shamrock Shelley Jean Parker Eddy. You are a four-leaf clover.

Where is my Mother in Heaven?

I can see a boy or a girl growing up without a mother. I'm sure it happens all the time. I'm not sure how often it happens that there's no woman who could be considered a surrogate mother in a child's life, but I'm pretty sure it's happened before, many times. A father takes over and rears a child or children. Mother is out of the picture entirely. That happens. I'm sure of that. Eventually in such cases I would guess that the child, boy or girl, begins asking, because of the circumstances they see all around them with other children having mothers or substitute mothers like grandmothers or whatnot, what happened to their mother. Did she die? Was there a divorce? Did she leave them? What? Why isn't she around?

That brings me to the subject of religion, specifically the religion I adhere to: Mormonism, or more properly The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.

I have reached that point in my spiritual rearing that I want the answer to my question: where is my mother in heaven? I'm going to ask the question now and keep asking. There's no doubt in Mormon theology that there is a mother in heaven. This isn't about that question. That's been answered for Mormons. Whereas other religions may not believe that there is a mother in heaven or posit the possibility of there being a mother in heaven, there is no question in Mormonism that there is a mother in heaven who is married to a father in heaven. Plenty of other Mormon scholars and administrators, including Mormon prophets, seers and revelators, have made that clear.

Nobody in Mormonism seems to be asking that question. Why? Because it's probably taboo. Why? Just because. There really is no explanation as to why that is so. Just because. Just because does not cut it for me any longer. I'm going to ask. Do what is right, let the consequences follow.

On the internet site Mormon.org there is a faq that asks the question "Why don't women hold the priesthood in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints?" I believe a journalist in a national television telecast asked him that question. The Mormon intranet site has the additional question, "How do Mormon women lead in the Church?" It quotes then President of the church, Gordon B. Hinckley,

Women do not hold the priesthood because the Lord has put it that way. It is part of His program. Women have a very prominent place in this Church. They have their own organization. It was started in eighteen forty-two by the Prophet Joseph Smith, called the Relief Society, because it's initial purpose was to administer help to those in need. It has grown to be, I think, the largest women's organization in the world… They have their own offices, their own presidency, their own board. That reaches down to the smallest unit of the Church everywhere in the world…
The men hold the priesthood, yes. But my wife is my companion. In this Church the man neither walks ahead of his wife nor behind his wife but at her side. They are co-equals in this life in a great enterprise.

If God has a wife, which Mormonism teaches He does, isn't it logical to conclude, as Gordon B Hinckley said of his companion, his wife, that God does not walk ahead of His wife but at Her side, as co-equals? So in all of the religion where is She? That is my project.

Low-lying branches over the sidewalk

Haven't talked about Asia for a few days. The dog, not the continent.

Haven't talked about anything for a few days, Asia, the continent, dog, or otherwise.

Walking. That's what we do, Asia and I, and here I'm talking about the dog. She is rather insistent, quite a bitch --- that's what you call female dogs --- and it's probably a good thing, or I wouldn't get much exercise, not that the strolls I do with her around the neighborhood are likely that beneficial to my health. They seem to keep Asia's spirits up, however, and perhaps they aid in my attitude and demeanor somewhat. But measurements of what might or might not be helpful to me are subjective and relative. On the other hand, I think the statistics indicate that some walking, even if it's in the classification of lumbering, is better than none at all.

Anyway, we do walk, or lumber, and even some of it is uphill. And a lot of the time we stop while Asia sniffs, pees, poops, or eats grass. Oh, and the other day --- well, just yesterday, Wednesday --- she saw three does walking across the road right in front of us. One was pretty big and the other two were smaller, younger, I guess. I wouldn't have noticed them at all if she'd remained quiet because I had my Kindle with me and was reading the book for our reading group, but Asia barked, forcefully and succinctly, twice, and tugged vigorously on the harness so that I looked up.

It, the walking or lumbering, not the deer viewing, helps me slumber better, maybe. I think it does. Well, maybe seeing the deer helps some.

We had a big snowstorm the other day.

It left the tree branches laden with the heavy snow of the first storm of the season. Now I don't really care if the branches are laden with the heavy snow, other than the fact that it breaks a few of the neighborhood tree branches, and that creates some work for some of my neighbors and causes them consternation and work.

What does end up irking me are the branches that hang over the sidewalk so low you can't get under them. If you proceed and try to slink under them, you're liable to get dumped on by a big load of snow if you touch any of the branches whatsoever. It can be like an avalanche. Why can't people just cut off the tree branches at a reasonable height above the sidewalk so that we can walk easily down the way? Lumbering. With their dogs. Of course, there will always be those who don't get their sidewalks shoveled, too, but the low-lying branches above the sidewalks are very irksome.

There's a Test?

It's tempting to say I read THE PSYCHOPATH TEST: A JOURNEY THROUGH THE MADNESS INDUSTRY because it's the political season --- It's mid-October 2012 --- and the election is in a few weeks. There's Mitt Romney, Barack Obama, and whatnot. Or maybe because Halloween is just around the corner is the reason. Or because I've got somebody in my neighborhood in mind to evaluate. Or, actually, several.

None of that's true, however. I read this because the author, Jon Ronson, was on NPR --- Was it Diane Rehm or Radio West with Doug Fabrizio? I don't know. He was engaging. Is so engaging. So I bought my Kindle version of the book and read a lot of it while walking our greyhound around the neighborhood.

I know, I know, I risk others evaluating me as a psychopath in doing that, especially as I scoop up after the dog's leavings with plastic bags while I'm messing with my Kindle. And anyway the neighbors who see me don't have the checklist they need to evaluate me properly. So they probably do think I am a psychopath, but it's another disorder I have altogether. For they probably haven't read the book and don't have the knowledge that's in it. I now have and possess "the list" to administer the psychopath test. :-).

This book, however, makes it plain that "the list" is not all you need. In fact, it makes very clear how very addictive labeling people is. We do it, but we don't necessarily do it well. I recommend you read this book, especially if you're interested in the topic. As I mentioned before, the author is very engaging. You'll follow Mr. Ronson around continents ferreting out prospects to complete his research. Convicted murderers, psychiatrists, history buffs, etc. You won't be disappointed in the narrative. "'As a group they tend to be more charming than most people,'" says Martha Stout, from the Harvard Medical School.

Not that I should know.

In the Swirl

With the name Eddy, perhaps you can imagine why I got interested in being adrift. You know, swirling around, unanchored, etc.

Anyway, I read BOYS ADRIFT recently, after my brother-in-law finished it. He seemed to like it, thought it had direct application.

My boys are grown up and men now. That doesn't necessarily mean they're totally moored, but it does mean the responsibility, even any deleterious consequences to themselves and others therefrom if they're not, has more or less shifted entirely to them. Nonetheless, my interest in boys doing well hasn't completely waned. Furthermore, I'm not above fussing over what I might have done better myself, even though it's too late.

I come to reviewing Sax's book late in the game. There are numerous comprehensive and valuable reviews out there. I won't add anything by being effusive. I will say this. The dynamic, the environment, the context in which children are raised today is much different than it was when I raised our four children, three of which were adopted, two of which were boys. BOYS ADRIFT deals with this new environment that differs significantly from the era they grew up in. From what I can tell, the book does a fairly good job. I enjoyed reading it and contemplating its suggestions and assertions.

If I were to make a recommendation, I would suggest that anyone reading this book read one in counterpoint to this one. One thing that seemed to escape me in my reading was a recognition in its narration that all characteristics of humanity, including those of boys, exist on a continuum. The fixes articulated won't work for everyone.

Recycling Plastic Bags

I haven't written anything about Asia lately.

It's not like she's gone anywhere — the dog, that is, not the continent. Or that we haven't every day been taking walks as usual, mornings and afternoons. We have to go earlier in the afternoon now because the sun is going down shortly after we eat supper. Of course, it also gets light later and later, but we always left so late that hasn't become a problem.

We went out this morning, and I don't remember any of the particulars except that I was reading THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES because that's the book for book club this month.

I take my Kindle, attaching earphones to it, then listening to it read to me as we walk along. I have it read to me as fast as it can. I can get some serious reading done that I wouldn't otherwise get done doing so.

It can be logistically a little more difficult. If interruptions come up — Asia is engaged by another dog, a cat, a teasing magpie or I run into someone who wants to talk — I simply pause the Kindle from its recitation of the text. If Asia dumps a load I pause the Kindle, disconnect it from the earphones, which I leave in my ears, and set the Kindle on the ground. I reach in my pocket, take out a plastic bag and use it to pick up the dump, take out another plastic bag and put the first inside to make carrying the first plastic bag with the load more palatable. Note that I said more palatable, not palatable. I guess I shouldn't use palatable at all. Anyway.

This evening we went a little bit earlier because I had a later agenda: watch the vice presidential debate. We went left, not right, out of the house, down past the Shepards (I'm not sure if that's correct spelling), around the bend, down past Thurstons, right at the corner where the Nelsons live, and down the way until the first cul-de-sac. We usually pass right by the cul-de-sac, but today Asia was quite insistent we turn up and walk through it. I was passive, since I was engaged in events happening on the moor in my book. On the way out of the cul-de-sac, we had to stop and talk to the Willies (again, spelling?), Scott, in particular. He's adding a doorway and stairs down to his basement to accommodate an apartment down there, to supplement their income. Things have become tight for them, he says. He made a remark about my pension from the government.

Further along, we ran into one of our typical stops, especially in good weather: the Wilsons. Mike and Judith were sitting, as usual, in front of the garage, but tonight Clyde Robbins was sitting there with them. They told me they had all been enjoying the week in Southern Utah, at Lake Powell.


Judith asked if I was going to watch the debates. I asked her what debates, joking. I said I like to watch the debates, but I like to watch the commentaries on the debates better.


Asia got tired of the discussion and pulled me on.

Before we knew it we were back home. Asia hadn't made a dump, and I hadn't had to use any plastic bags.

I'm not sure what my mother would think about the sacrifices I make, or rather, what my mothers would think.

Charisma

So tonight we were almost home and this lady who jogs in the evening around the neighborhood with her husband riding bike by her side came right over to Asia to give the greyhound some attention and to get some.

That never happens to me. In my entire lifetime, I don't think it's ever happened.

It probably never happens to that guy on the bike either.

But it happens to Asia. Often. Not just with women, but with men, teenagers, children, and even toddlers. Even other dogs seem to like her. I've seen cats stop and stare, like they couldn't get their eyes full of her, mesmerized. The dog has that kind of charisma.

Is there any wonder why I am writing about her? I need to study her and glean from her some charm.

However, I'll never look as good, as lean, as sleek as she does. That isn't going to happen.

The feminine mystique. She has it.

I'm guessing my mother in heaven does too.

The Race When You're Older Changes

Asia was bred to race. She was bred in Colorado and raced at the track in Denver. After her handlers culled her from their racing inventory, she was rescued — culled inventory is killed — and eventually delivered to Utah. By that time, my wife had made application with a local facilitator to adopt a greyhound. The facilitator inspected our home and interviewed us to ascertain our worthiness. Apparently, we passed muster, and Asia — of course, that wasn't her name back then — was placed with us. My wife was immediately enamored and continues to be to this day. The others of us came along. Asia is now an important member of our household.

In her younger years, Asia had more energy than she does now. In the fenced yard out back of our house, she would race a particular track back and forth as fast as she could go. Scary fast. Sometimes I cringed watching her. At times I even worried that she would injure herself, but she didn't. She hasn't, not by doing that, at least.

That particular track of Asia's isn't as distinctive now as it once was. She doesn't use it as regularly or as rigorously now. I think she still does race around somewhat like that, but less crazily, with limited abandon compared with formally. Maybe she's just bounded as to what she can do now. Middle-age verging on old age or something like that. Maybe it hurts her to move now like it does me. Or possibly it's that I don't watch her as closely as I used to. Maybe she's still going breakneck and I'd be scared to death if I saw her.

A friend of mine told me he had had a greyhound as a youth. His greyhound also ran around with abandon and one day his dog reached its racing limit and then ran directly into a tree and killed itself, almost as if it had done it purposefully. I could tell it affected my friend, as course it would me if it happened to Asia.

Life moves on. Obligations one has in youth pass by the wayside as you grow older. Children grow up. Responsibility wanes. You receive pension. You have resources you didn't have earlier and the demands upon your time differ in your later years. Such dynamics give you the opportunity to contemplate what you never had time to consider with any particular mental effort before.

Where is my mother in heaven? Since I believe in a religious system that preaches that I have one — a mother in heaven — I must ask the question: Where is my mother in heaven?

On the Move Versus Stationary

Motion is an element of vision.

I'm sure that the experts in ophthalmology — Is that the field? Ophthalmology? — know all about it.

Maybe I should Wikipedia ophthalmology. Later. If I'm still interested.

Anyway, I noticed the motion-vision phenomena years ago, as a boy riding through Yellowstone with my parents, looking for black bears and grizzlies out the windows of the car. The bears were always easier to spot if they were on the move, lumbering through the woods, running full bore up the hill. I can't tell you how many bears I spotted from far off on that trip to Yellowstone only to realize they weren't bears at all, but rocks, logs, bushes or some combination of various natural flora or geography. Yet, if the bear that I thought I saw was on the move, I almost always got it right. No rocks, logs, bushes or combinations of things ended up on that list.

How does this come up? On the dog walk today, Asia saw something from afar. I did too. In fact, I think I saw it first, long before Asia did. She was dithering with the grass, sniffing or peeing or whatever.

I couldn't tell exactly what it was when I first saw it. It looked like a dog, a smaller one, a middle sized poodle or so, but I wasn't sure. It was oddly colored — pinkish, as I recall — for a dog. But, who knows these days? Crazy people die their dogs all different kinds of colors, I guess.

We walked on. The distant 'dog' or whatever it was didn't move. It stayed stationary, like it was glued to the ground. Within a few steps of my sighting of it, Asia caught sight of it. She didn't abandon her usual exploits, sniffing and dodging here and there, checking things out as she went, but she definitely kept whatever it was in mind while veering and pulling in that direction anytime she thought I might take her an opposite one.

The closer I got, the better I could see it. Pretty soon, I knew what it was. It was a child's toy on wheels that looked like a dog or some creature like a dog. As soon as I knew what it was I quit focusing on yet and began watching Asia closer.

The closer Asia got to the toy, the more wary of it she became. She didn't want to approach it too fast, I guess. She wasn't anxious to hurry up to it in case it was ready to slash into her eyes with its claws, lift its tail and spray, or something gruesome. To Asia, it was a living thing, frozen from motion, waiting to attack, or to flee, but to flee only if it was absolutely necessary. Asia veered away from it, but when she saw we were so close and it was not doing anything, not fleeing, not attacking, decided to walk over and sniff it, which she did.

And then she was off.

As a man, a straight man, what have I missed through the years relative to my privilege as a man over against what women have? In particular, within my culture and religion, how do those questions play out?

The responsibilities of doo doo

Speaking of walking Asia, how do you feel about walking around the neighborhood with a plastic bag full of dog doo doo? Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if you could just start out with the bag full, filled by somebody else and handed to you along with the leash and the dog. But seriously, what if you have to be the one gathering the droppings?

I don't imagine too many people would find it appealing or want to do it themselves.

In fact, now that I think of it, I think I'll have to start noticing better what the people out there walking their dogs are doing about that responsibility, whether they are picking up after their mutts or not. Obviously, the dogs aren't doing it. Well, the dogs are doing it, but they're not doing what we humans consider appropriate. It's not within their values.

I know some people who do pick up after their dogs. Chris and Tori always do so. But truthfully, I'm not sure what others do or don't do. I haven't watched closely enough to know. Should I? I'm pretty sure Robert doesn't; after all, he's got two medium-sized dogs he takes at once, often letting them go loose and then he gathers them in if he sees somebody coming who might distract his dogs. So logistically it probably would be very very difficult for him to do. Nonetheless, I still think he should.

I admit that bending over and using a plastic bag to gather the canine's deposit is quite disgusting but not beyond anyone's ability to do. Well, there are exceptions, I guess, people who are handicapped and can't bend over and pick it up. But, if my wife could do it, and did do it routinely when she walked Moochie a.k.a. Asia, there is no reason on earth why almost anyone else who can walk a dog couldn't do it. It's a matter of responsibility and sacrifice.

Enough of that.

Well, not quite. Stopping and gathering what is unseemly and distasteful must be some kind of a metaphor for what we have to do in life. Should there be a distinction made between individuals who take that degree of responsibility and those who do not? Should we individually ever make that kind of judgments about others? I definitely think we should judge ourselves in that regard and learn to do and commit to doing the responsible thing. As to judging others, I think, if it is in the collective interests of a community to do so, it would be appropriate to make an ordinance requiring the same. But long before we get to that point, people should take it upon themselves to do what is right. If enough people took it upon themselves to do what was right, ordinances and laws possibly would not be necessary.

But they don't. It is clearly the law to keep your dog controlled, in your yard fenced, or on a leash that provides adequate control. There are plenty of people around the neighborhood who don't.

How has this dynamic changed over time?

How does the dynamic of how women are treated in our society changed over time?