I’ve written before about my father’s best friend when he was growing up.  They both lived in the little dusty west Texas town of Truscott, but since their school burned down, they were bused to the nearby town of Crowell.  It was there at the Crowell high school that my father met my mother.

     The options were limited in that small town if you wished to take your girl on a date. Fortunately,  C. J.’s  father had a car and let his son use it, and he would drive my father and mother all about.  I have seen photos of all of them on the bridge over the North Wichita River, laughing and having fun. My father with his football letter jacket and a white scarf about his neck, standing besides my smiling mother, my father and C.J. standing with their arms about each other’s shoulders. There also photos of my dad and C.J. in their football uniforms. Dad played quarterback his senior year and C.J. fulback.  My mother was a cheerleader.

      Both my father and C.J. graduated from High School on a Friday, and on Monday, both left for their military training, my father into the army and eventually the army/airforce, and C.J. into the marines. My father survived the war, whereas C.J. died a hero’s death on the black sands of Iwo Jima (Fifth Marine Division), winning the Navy Cross, and leaving a hole in both of my parent’s lives.  My father is 86 and has lived a long, loving life, whereas C.J. died  (KIA Kelton, C.J. Pfc 5th Tank 5th Feb 22, 1945, Iwo Jima) at the age of 20 and his bones have lain in those dark volcanic sands of Iwo Jima for 65 years.

     And why do I write about C.J. Kelton now?  It is Memorial Day, and when I thought of whom I should hold in my memory for this day, I thought of C.J.  Fortunately, I have had no recent member of my family who has died while serving their country.

      I remember hearing about C.J. when I was about four years old, about how my father’s best friend died in “the war.”  I never thought much about him again until a few years ago when putting together comments by my mother and father, I learned more about him and wanted to know more about this young man who was so well liked by both of my parents.  My mother always talked about how sweet and good he was.  Also I was struck by the contrast between him and my father.  Both were from similar backgrounds and had similar lives, but C.J.’s life and future were cut so cruelly short.  I often wondered what would have happened if he had lived and had come back from that cruel war and had a family.  I have wondered about his mother and father and siblings that he left behind.  What has become of them?  Perhaps I shall never know.  I have searched online for any mention of his death, and today I found this:

*KELTON, C.J.
Citation:
The President of the United States takes pride in presenting the Navy Cross (Posthumously) to C.J. Kelton (870869), Private First Class, U.S. Marine Corps (Reserve), for extraordinary heroism and devotion to duty while serving with the Fifth Tank Battalion, Division Service Troops, FIFTH Marine Division, in action against enemy Japanese forces at Iwo Jima, Volcano Islands, on 22 February 1945. With his platoon command tank struck and set afire by hostile shellfire during a perilous advance northward against a fanatic, determined enemy, Private First Class Kelton promptly dismounted from his own vehicle and braved the enemy’s shattering 47-mm. antitank, mortar and small-arms fire in a valiant attempt to rescue the entrapped crew. Boldly pressing forward under the withering barrage, he crossed the 25-yard open area and unhesitatingly entered the blazing tank and then, working tirelessly and with superb courage, personally extricated two of the three wounded men from the tank and carried them back to his own vehicle despite the incessant shellfire. By his daring initiative, outstanding fortitude and grave concern for the safety of others at great risk to his own life, Private First Class Kelton contributed to the saving of three fellow Marines who otherwise might have perished and his self-sacrificing efforts throughout upheld the highest traditions of the United States Naval Service.
Commander in Chief, Pacific Forces: Serial 32446 (July 12, 1945)
Born: at Kanima, Oklahoma
Home Town: Truscott, Texas http://www.homeofheroes.com/members/02_NX/citations/03_wwii-nc/nc_06wwii_usmcH.html

     Last Thursday (Jan 21)  my father had some chest pain after returning from the store.  It wouldn’t go away,  and soon my father realized that this wasn’t the normal discomfort that he sometimes felt from the acid reflux which he sometimes has.  Then he did something out of character–he asked his next door neighbor to call an ambulance.

    I understand how out of character this was for him, because I am just like my father in many ways.  We both would tend to ignore pain until it became overwhelming, and for him to ask for an ambulance shows that it was something out of the ordinary.   I am still surprised that he did this and didn’t try to drive to the emergency room by himself.  It just goes to show that he was experiencing something out of the ordinary and that he is much smarter than I am.

     The next morning he had an angiogram and instead of a stent which they thought he might need, they found he had two coronary arteries which showed some blockage.  He would need double bypass surgery.  The interesting thing is that they found that his EKG was normal.  A slight elevation of heart enzymes showed that he had a mild heart attack also.

    My father will be 86 in March and has always been extremely healthy.  The doctor, one of the best in the Dallas area, said that he doesn’t consider the patient’s age in considerating this procedure, but their health, and that my father was otherwise in excellent health.

     The operation will take place at 7:15 am CST tomorrow.  I’d appreciate any kind thoughts or prayers sent my father’s way.

     It has been a dry summer here in the Pacific Northwest.  On my walks the voice of the small brook has gradually gotten quieter and quieter as the summer progressed.  I love to listen to it as I have written before, but it has recently become a dim ghost of itself.  First it became a trickle, then a whisper, and then I had to strain to hear anything at all.  Finally there came the day when it was silent.  For the first time in my memory the little stream became mute.  I was surprised at how much I missed its cheerful voice which has always lifted my spirits on my walks.

        Today there came a long soaking rain.  I watched the rain come down as I drank hot black coffee at my favorite coffee shop.   At times the rain came down very hard and I even saw a flash of lightning which is always a cause for comment in this weird part of the world.  The drops of rain made little bubbles in the puddles that swirled, and I watched as the bubbles floated along the pavement and down the drain.

   I was immediately transported back to a time when I was about four years old.  We were living in this house at 501 N. 10th St. in Waco, Texas, and I was on the back steps watching a heavy rain as it ran off the roof.  As the runoff hit the ground it made  large puddles with bubbles foating about.  The bubbles moved about in a mad sort of swirl which fascinated me.

     My young mother came out and watched the bubbles with me. “Men and women dancing!” she laughed.  For some reason this memory has stayed with me almost buried, but resurrected today after so many years, as I watched the first heavy rain of the Autumn here in the Northwest.

     Unkind words once uttered can never be retrieved.  I’m sure that everybody has heard this before.  Everybody knows that words can leave lasting impressions.  I can remember unkind words stretching back to my childhood.  Likewise, I can remember words of kindness,  but it seems that harsh words somehow have more of an effect, although everybody has different sensitivities.

     Even when such harsh or kind words are forgotten, I believe that their effects can build up over the years, influencing the character of a person.  Imagine a young child given words of kindness and support, and then compare this child’s life to one who was exposed to harsh critical words.  Such words accumulate like the cement that binds one’s life together, permeating its essence and coloring the outlook and attitudes towards life.

     That’s one reason that I try so hard to not say hurtful words to other people.  Whenever I slip up and do this, as has just happened, such words come back at me with renewed force, and I always end up feeling perfectly awful about it.

I have just begun reading a book called The Last Theorem (2009) by Arthur C. Clark and Poul Anderson, the famous science fiction writers.  It begins in Sri Lanka, where Clarke spent so many years of his life, and spends some time talking about the tensions between the various ethnic groups.

It got me to thinking about the problems that so many countries have with their ethnic and religious groups.  Here in our country, we try to celebrate our diversity and claim that it makes us stronger, but in some countries the conflict between the many factions makes me wonder if such diversity can go just so far before being counterproductive.  Sri Lanka seems to be a good example of this type of this type of conflict.

There are many ethnic and religious groups in Sri Lanka.  Some of these groups have been living in this area for many years, and instead of being assimilated, they still retain their identity.

The Veddah’s are the descendants of some of the ancient inhabitants of Sri Lanka.  These indigeneous hunter-gather people were gradually supplanted by the immigration of the Sinhalese people.  Human remains 18,000 years old have been found in Sri Lanka that show genetic links with the present day Veddahs.  They have not preserved their own language which is related to Sinhalese, and are becoming less numerous as they become assimilated into the population.  Their religion is a mixture of animism and of Buddhism or of Hinduism depending upon the part of the country.

The Tamils are of two main groups, one group of Tamil speaking people has been in the area since ancient times (12.7% of the population), whereas other Tamils are of more recent immigration from India, coming as workers under the British Raj to work on plantations in the central highland area (5.5%).  They have never become assimilated and many are emigrating back to India.  Many of the Indian Tamils are of lower castes and looked down upon by some of the upper caste Sri Lankan Tamils.  Most of the Tamils are separated from the majority Sinhalese by their religion (Hinduism) and their language which is of Dravidian origin.

The Sinhalese are the largest ethnic group in Sri Lanka (about 74%) probably migrating from northern India about 500 BC.  Their language, Sinhala, is of the Indo-European group, and most of the Sinhalese are Buddhists.  There is a difference between the low country Sinhalese which have been influenced by 400 years of European influence and the high country Sinhalese which remained independent (Kingdom of Kandy) until the early 1800s.

The Muslims (about 7% of the population) are comprised of three primary groups of Islamists: the Sri Lankan Moors who are mostly descendants of Arab traders which came to India between the 8th and 15th century (now speaking a dialect of Tamil but originally speaking Arwi) ; the Indian Moors who came to Sri Lanka during the colonial period looking for opportunities consisting of: the Memon (from Pakistan), and the Bohra and the Kohja (mostly from northwestern India); the Malays of south east Asia, many whom came with the Dutch and English as soldiers or convicts.

The Burghers are primarily descended from the union of male European colonists who imigrated to Sri Lanka beginning back in the 16th centuries and local Sri Lankan women.  Many of the Burghers have immersed themselves into the European culture and are mostly Christian, tending to concentrate in urban areas.   Recently their numbers have begun to diminish primarily because of emigration.

And as if all this mixture of groups, languages, religions, ethnicity and cultures wasn’t enough, many of the groups have a caste system, often differing between the groups.  In India, another fantastically diverse country, such diversity has more room to spread out resulting in fewer groups attaining political power to the point where it can destablize the national government, whereas in the much smaller Sri Lanka such diverse groups have become entrenched and contribute to the destabilizing of the national government.  Most people are aware of the civil war between the Tamils and the national government that now seems to be drawing to a resolution.  See this site for a wonderful description of Sri Lanka, it’s government, history and culture.

So what’s my point?  It is just a concern that these conflicts between various ethnic, racial and religious groups that have been going on for centuries and even millenia, and which have caused untold conflict and suffering, could conceivably destabilize our own country.  Yes, such diversity enriches our lives, but…how does a political system act to incorporate such diversity and at the same time preserving social order?

How does America preserve our political system while accomodating the beliefs of such diverse groups?    The American founding fathers had a horror of involving themselves in the conflicts of the old world.   Unfortunately sometimes new imigrants bring all the old hates and conflicts to the new beginning that is America.  There seems to be a fine line between oppression and anarchy.  Thus far our country has managed to maintain this balancing act.  As new imigrants flood into the country, I fear this accomodation may be upset, resulting in increased turmoil.

We are living in a hurricane of change.  Old verities are being swept away as the change accelerates.  At such times I think that we must hold to certain unassailable beliefs in order to prevent being swept away in chaos, while at the same time maintaining a flexibility of mind and belief that allows us to adapt to this change–an absoluteness of principles combined with suppleness of mind.  Is this possible?

The first time that I remember listening to National Public Radio was in September, 1974 in Eugene, Oregon.  I was using my old 8 transistor FM radio that I had gotten for Christmas when I was in the eighth grade (I know, I didn’t think NPR was ever on AM, but it was!).  I remember being attracted to the station immediately.  I have never been a person who liked to listen to music that much on the radio, always preferring news and talk programs that explored the issues of the day, and I enjoyed this about NPR.

I continue to listen to NPR every day almost exclusively, and I really do enjoy the local programs dealing with local issues along with the in-depth reporting of the national and international news.  I have never considered myself to be a political sort of  person, rarely taking much interest in the squabbles and infighting that goes on between the political parties.   Likewise, I never thought of NPR in a political sort of way.  I just enjoyed it.  Part of the enjoyment involved the relative lack of commercials (although this has changed).

I remember talking to a friend about how much I enjoyed the programming on NPR and was surprised when he claimed that the programming was extremely slanted from a liberal point of view.  As I disagreed with him, claiming that the programming was unbiased as could be, there awoke a little niggling worm of doubt.  I began to re-examine my feelings about NPR, and I concluded that one of the reasons that I liked it so much was that it coincided with my own political viewpoint.

Thus after 35 years of listening to NPR, I have reluctantly come to the conclusion that National Public Radio presents an extremely biased point of view.  This obvious bias is especially evident in the local programming and also during political campaigns.  Now don’t get me wrong.  I agree with most of the bias presented by the network, but I really do not want to always be presented with news reportage that I agree with!  I want to be challenged by contrasting viewpoints, not always being fed a diet of liberal pablum.

This bias is not always that obvious.  Much of the bias is shown by selective reporting, only reporting events from a certain viewpoint.  For example always reporting the events in Israel from the Palistinian point of view, very rarely presenting the contrasting side.  Or always presenting the controversy on evolution from the pro side and presenting any anti-evolutionist viewpoints as being held by ignorant conservatives.  Now this last point has taken me a while to realize since I am obviously an evolutionist, and have always enjoyed NPR’s reporting on the subject–until I realized that, once again, I am being fed a one-sided reportage.

    I thought that this bias was especially evident in the recent national elections.  There were times that I just had to switch it off, it was so blatant.  KUOW in my area is the worst as far as bias goes with it’s local shows, whereas KPLU alternates its NPR programs with wonderful selections of jazz.

Here are a few sites and quotes:

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=4717847

http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_qa3827/is_200311/ai_n9317144   appears to be a conservative commentator.

http://www.rasmussenreports.com/public_content/politics/current_events/

general_current_events/media/americans_see_liberal_media_bias_on_tv_news  article on publics perception of bias in the media…statistics.

“The bias against conservatives and Republicans is the most visible, though not necessarily the most fervently held one (the pro-Palestinian bias comes to mind here). Democratic politicians and former members of the Carter and Clinton administrations are frequent guests on the shows. Conservatives on NPR are as rare as a snow flake in the midst of summer. Since the bias against Republicans is so ubiquitous, it can be easily shown:
The issues that keep Washington politicians and pundits occupied are often initiated by interest groups and so-called “think tanks.” It seems that for every liberal group there is a conservative counterpart. The most influential Democratic think tank is the Brookings Institution, while the premiere think tank on the Republican side is the Heritage Foundation. When you search Google News for the two names, you find an about equal number of citations for both, with a slight advantage for the Heritage Foundation (53%). Searching for the think tanks on NPR’s web site, the Heritage Foundations seems to be almost non-existent (19%). Obviously, the folks at NPR don’t like to talk to fellows with conservative ideas. http://www.nprsucks.com/opinion5.htm

http://www.discovery.org/a/2068  Says npr is proevolutionist  heh

http://www.slate.com/id/2090044/ Terry Shaviao’s coma…biased presentation by NPR

Spring is marching on here.  A couple of days ago my feet were slipping on the front steps, and for a brief flash I thought there was frost.  Further examination revealed that there was a thin, slippery layer of what appeared to be yellow flour.   As I walked to my car I could see a fine fall in the air of tiny particles in the slanting rays of the morning sun.  It was the pollen of the Douglas Fir tree , and it had coated my car with its profligate scattering of germ plasm.  It was deja vu all over again.  I had written almost the same exact words two years ago on this blog on April 7.  Check that post for a photo of the pollen on my car windshield.   These dates lend credence to my impression that this entire season is almost two weeks late because of the unusually cold winter that we have had.  It has not been really cold, just 6 or 7 degrees cooler than usual.  This apparently has delayed the flower blossoming, etc.

Douglas Fir pollen on my mailbox

I was thinking this two nights ago as I went out into the night and smelled the wonderful perfume of the budding cottonwoods.  When the trees begin to put forth their leaves, a delicious, sticky resin that coats the tender buds puts forth this incredible aroma.  This is the Balm of Gilead, believed to be that mentioned in Genesis that was gathered from the tree Commiphora gileadensis, native to southern Arabia.  I love to rub these buds between my fingers, smearing the sticky stubstance all over and then deeply inhaling the smell.  Normally I smell this perfume at the first of April, but it is just now coming forth almost three weeks late.

There is a balm in Gilead
To make the wounded whole;
There is a balm in Gilead
To heal the sin sick soul.

The horse tails are also putting forth.  Their hard bodies with silica on their cells used to be employed as scouring rushes.  They are putting forth their reproductive bodies now (strobilus, see photo) and also their vegetative structures which when fully formed, open up to provide a beautiful display of wispy plants which  has given rise to their name of horse tails.  The one photo shows the plant coming up through the hard asphalt pavement of the road.   These are all photos that I took this morning on my walk.

Equisetum strobili which produce the spores of Horsetails.

I just had to include another photo of a beautiful clump of Trillium that I found this morning and a shot of the early Azalea/Rhododendron(?) that is blooming in my back yard just now.

The Trilliums are at their height, and provide a visual delight on walks through the woods just now.

Trilliums are blooming all through the woods.

In some ways this has been a very frustrating day.  I had to hang around the house today waiting for the delivery of some kitchen appliances (stove, overhead microwave, dishwasher).  I had told the company, Home Depot, that they may have some problems negotiating the very steep, twisting driveway.  I was right, the truck had to park on the street below.  As I watched them open the back of the delivery truck, one fellow grabbed this huge box and began to gallop up the driveway to the house.  I stared in wonder, I can hardly gallop up the driveway with empty hands much less carrying this huge box containing a microwave.

This was just the beginning.  These guys acted as if they were running a race.  With incredible efficiency and speed, they set about the process of unpacking, installing and taking away the old appliances.  Here I have to interject something which may seem quite racist on my part, but I mean it in the best sort of way.  These two guys were Hispanic with thick accents.  I have to add their performance to a list that exists in my head from past observations of Hispanics with which I have observed and worked.  Practically without exception Hispanics have been absolutely the hardest working people that I have ever seen.  I mean these people work!

Stereotypic?  Yes.  Accurate?  I certainly believe so.  I had to caution them repeatedly to be careful of their backs as they whisked these heavy stoves and dishwashers about.  Because the driveway was not only steep and slick with rain, I volunteered my  mini-suv to haul up the stove from the street and the old stove back down to the truck, which I was more than happy to do.

There was only one fly in the  ointment…a great big ole horsefly too!  The dishwasher was too far from the sink and the source of hot water for them to install, so I had to do it myself.  “No big deal,” I thought after having the process explained to me by one of the delivery men.  I can save $99 and get a little experience.  Well, I don’t know what it is about easy jobs, but almost every time, there is a small, unforseen glitch that sabotages such projects–without exception.   I hooked up the electrical wiring…no problem.  I attached the drainage hose…easy.  I tried to attach the hot water inflow tubing…just a simple process of screwing it to the input on the dishwasher…no dice.   I spent over an hour wallowing about on my belly on the kitchen floor trying to screw this little attachment on the copper input tubing to the input with absolutely no success.  I couldn’t even get the  nut-like thingie to start turning on the threads.   This was such a simple thing…much more simple than the wiring (which was laughably easy).  Think of screwing a nut onto a bolt…easy right?  After an hour I had an incredible crick in my neck and a pounding headache.  I had to push the dishwasher into its cubbyhole since the copper tubing barely reached  and then try to attach this tube by reaching up under the bottom of the dishwasher into this very cramped spot.    Once I had to check to see what it was that was beneath me that was giving me so much pain, I found it was simply the lower edge of my rib cage where it attached to my sternum.  It was terribly sore after lying on it so long.

     I had to stop in defeat.   I thought of all sorts of solutions to my plight, but the worst scenario always involved me calling a plumbing company and asking them to screw this thing-a-majiggy on for me.  No…absolutely not, I could not humiliate myself in such a manner (not to mention the cost of a home visit)!  So, I set about cleaning up the kitchen.  Have you every wondered what the area behind a stove and dishwasher looks like after a couple of decades with no cleaning? 

    Yes, it’s true I have never unhooked my dishwasher or stove to pull them out in order to clean, so shoot me.  Such things are best left to the imagination, people.  After a couple hours of cleaning, vaccuming, etc.  I thought that I would just lie down on the floor, reach up under the dishwasher and attempt one more time to screw the thing on.

     It worked.  Not only did it work, but it went on as if there had been no problem in the first place.  I felt as if a cosmic joke had just been played on me.  Once I got the threads started, it was simply a matter of half an hours work using a wrench in the cramped quarters to tighten it…piece of cake compared to what went before.  I was barely able to stagger off for a nap, wondering why I was so tired.  Perhaps it was from watching the delivery men.

          I just saw a very instructive two hour program by NOVA.  It had to do with the recent events (2004) in a town in Dover, PA where a couple of individuals on the school board pushed through a requirement that Intelligent Design be taught in biology classrooms as a viable alternative to the modern theory of evolution.  They also required that a notice be read to the class which said that there was significant problems in the theory.  When the teachers refused to read the notice in the class room, the assistant principal walked into the classroom and read it himself.

     The program dealt with the subsequent trial that resulted when some parents and teachers brought suit against the school board.  They had a reinactment of parts of the testimony dealing with the evidence presented by each side.   Read the account of the event here.

I personally believe that this universe was created by God.  I base this belief upon the basic physical “laws” by which this universe operates and other more subjective beliefs.  I think that given these particular physical principles, it is inevitable that matter evolved from Hydrogen gas into intelligent, self-aware life forms.  I think that life, and intelligent life has evolved numerous times throughout this universe. I do not believe that further “meddling” in this evolution was necessary by such a Creator.

       I do believe though that this Creator is not just some distant creator, but is a personal God that can take an active part in our lives.  However, there is a difference between faith or personal beliefs and what should be viewed as scientific fact.

  Given these beliefs, do I think that “Intelligent Design” or the idea that an intelligent creator made and directed the development of the universe should be taught in science classes as some advocate?  Absolutely NOT!  I absolutely do NOT believe that these ideas should be taught in science classes along with other ideas.  Why?  Simply put  there is no conclusive scientific evidence for such beliefs.  Personally, I think that there is sufficient evidence (basic physical laws) to propose an hypothesis for such a creator, but to this date there is insufficient data to accept the hypothesis in a scientific manner.

    Science should remain as objective as possible without the introduction of beliefs that can’t be proven.  I think that if  Biology or other science teachers are required to teach the idea of Intelligent Design in classrooms, it would be a gross travesty. I would REFUSE to teach such an idea on the same level as other scientific laws.  The idea is simply not science and has no place in a science classroom except as a background discussion.   I see no problem in it being discussed in other classes such as Civics, Philosophy, or any other class dealing with ideas or current events, but not on the same level as the theory of evolution.

The infamous Kansas Board of Education also approved new science standards that allows the teaching of Intelligent Design in Biology classrooms (9Nov205). Among other things the Board:

1.  Rewrote the definition of science so that is no longer limited to the search of natural explanations of phenomena.

2.  They said that that the basic Darwinian theory that all life has a common origin and that natural processes created the building blocks of life has been challenged in recent years by fossil evidence.

3. As one supporter said: “It gets rid of a lot of dogma that’s being taught in the classroom today.”

Personally I would like to know the new fossil evidence that throws the theory into doubt.  I am gratified also that the board appears to be composed of competent paleontologists.  Fortunately this has been overturned recently.  See here for a discussion of the teaching of Creationism and Evolution in science classrooms.

I was watching two small children with their father at the coffee shop this morning.  The tiny little girl reminded me of my daughter when she was small.  When the father left he had the little girl on his arm and led the little boy by the hand.

I began remembering when my daughter was that small and how I carried her the same way for so long it seemed.  She eventually became too heavy and I led her by the hand everywhere we went.  Her little hand would always automatically steal into mine when we began to walk somewhere.

There eventually came a time when she stopped holding my hand.  I can’t tell you when that happened.   As with many things in  our lives, it happened very slowly with no discernable point where one could say that this ended and that began.  Just as with my habit of carrying her on my arm, I could not say when it was the last time I carried her.  I certainly did not know at the time that when I set her down, it would be for the last time. So it was with when she stopped holding my hand.  There just came a day when it no longer happened, and she henceforth walked by my side until even that ceased…and then I walked alone.

As I was saying, this all flashed through my mind when I saw the father with his two small children.  And then I began to muse about how all things are in flux; things and people come and go, often with no fanfare, no place where one can say, “This has ended,” or “This has begun.”  It is often just a sliding away, like a distant train as it fades into the distance, its sound becoming fainter and fainter until it is gone.

At times it is almost overwhelming watching my father hold my mother’s hand and tell her that he has loved her since she was fifteen years old. This December they will have been married sixty-six years. My father will be 84 and my mother 83. She still will kiss you when you bend over to kiss her, and when you say that you love her, she will answer with “I love you.” And at times that wonderful sweet smile of hers will break through the darkness that clouds her mind, and you know that somehow, somewhere there is an essence of her lingering on.
I tend to think of the human brain as being composed of trillions of little lighted rooms, one for each of the cells that it contains. In a well functioning brain, I imagine it filled with pulsing, racing light. My mother’s brain I think of as a flickering dimming system, the lights slowly going out as the ravages of Alzheimers turns off the lights one…by one.

If there was a beginning, then let it begin here. It was 1940 and it was between classes at Crowell High School. The handsome young man was going up the stairs to his class. He had recently transfered to this high school because his own school in the nearby small town of Truscott had closed, and all the students were being bused to Crowell. This was in West Texas near the point where the eastern edge of the panhandle meets the Red River–in that part of Texas where the soil is red and sandy and the imagination is inspired by the views which stretch out to forever.

As he climbed the stairs, he passed this beautiful girl whose dark hair fell down past her shoulders, and whose lovely face, slim figure and hazel eyes immediately attracted his attention. He walked a few more steps and then paused to look back at her. Much to his surprise, he saw that she had also paused and was looking back at him in admiration. This is the way that my father and mother met.

The options were limited in that small town if you wished to take your girl on a date. Fortunately, my father’s best friend, C. J. Kelton’s father had a car and let his son use it, and he would drive my father and mother all about. I have seen photos of all of them on the bridge over the North Wichita River, laughing and having fun. My father with his football letter jacket and a white scarf about his neck, standing besides my smiling mother, my father and C.J. standing with their arms about each other’s shoulders. There also photos of my dad and C.J. in their football uniforms. Dad played quarterback his senior year and C.J. fulback.  My mother was a cheerleader.

As their love grew and as all the young men were being drafted into the military to spend their lives in the war machine of World War II, they knew that they didn’t have much time until my father also would have to serve and would be swept up into the dark maelstrom of war. They decided to marry in their last year of high school in December, 1942. They spent their honeymoon in the hotel in the nearby “big” town of Vernon on the town square with the courthouse in the center. In later years they would both delightedly point out to me the upper story corner room where they stayed, as we passed by on visits to my grandparents.

Both my father and C.J. graduated from High School on a Friday, and on Monday, both left for their military training, my father into the army and eventually the army/airforce, and C.J. into the marines. My father survived the war, whereas C.J. died a hero’s death on the black sands of Iwo Jima (Fifth Marine Division), winning the Navy Cross, and leaving a hole in both of my parent’s lives. My father is 84 and has lived a long, loving life, whereas C.J. died  (KIA Kelton, C.J. Pfc 5th Tank 5th Feb 22, 1945, Iwo Jima) at the age of 19 and his bones have lain in those dark volcanic sands of Iwo Jima for 63 years.

My mother’s beauty was matched only by her personality.  I have known lots of people over the years, and I know that I am prejudiced, but she has the sweetest, most endearing personality of anybody that I ever have known unless it was her own mother, who if anything was even more sweeter.

And it is upon the love of my parents for each other and upon the love that they gave without reservation to me and my siblings which has been my steadfast rock throughout my life.  It has been upon this assurance that formed the foundation of my life and has allowed me to weather the sorrows that life can hand out.

The love and tenderness of my mother towards not only the people around her, but also toward all of God’s little animals filled me with a reverance and love for all living things.  Her appreciation of the beauty about her, and her communication of this to me has remained with me all my life, allowing me to live and appreciate the now of my existence.

My father’s quiet gentleness and strength, and tolerance and forebearance has also helped to form what I am.  Over the years my admiration for my father has grown greater and greater.  I have come to realize that I have unconsciously tried to imitate him throughout my life, trying to become the man that he is.  This is something that I have only recently come to realize.  I have also come to realize that this amazing man is not only my father but my very best friend whom I love with all my heart.

I received a call from my father this morning letting me know that my beloved mother has been admitted to the hospital.  The prognosis was not good according to the doctor.  My brother and sister and father were all there keeping vigil.  I called back a few hours ago and the situation had improved slightly.

All stories must end.  And this particular love story has entered its final chapter…in once sense, and in another sense,  the love generated by these remarkable people will go on and on…like ripples from a stone dropped into calm water, radiating outward and touching shores undreamed of.

 Blackberries

 We were just friends when

 you tripped on the blackberry vine.

 I got to my knees beside you and

Helped pick out the thorns,

Putting your fingers in my mouth to

Bite them out with my teeth.

Then to make you laugh I fed you

Sun-warmed blackberries

Lying there in the grass, and

Then I kissed you,tasting the

Blackberry juice on your

Lips and tongue.         

       I just recently got back from my annual trip to Texas to visit my folks.  My father got an apartment this past year so that he could be closer to my mother.  This way he could visit her daily and not have to make the long commute back and forth to his house.  I stayed with him at the apartment for a while, visiting my mother daily, before going with him on a road trip to the panhandle of Florida.  We did this last year and enjoyed the trip very much.  It was the same this year.  I think the best part was the driving together, seeing new things and just spending time together.  I can’t begin to express how satisfying this was to me.

               We came back to the lake houses and worked  hard for a week, mowing, cutting downed trees, clearing fallen branches, etc.  It was hot…107 one time with every day over 100.  I sweated…oh man, how I sweated.  I also got bites.  I’m not sure from what all.  I know there were ants and mosquitoes…but how to explain the rows of small bumps making elongated welts that have popped up in such unexpected places?  I thought I knew most of the biting critters…chiggers, ticks, spiders, etc.  But none of them produce the bumps that I got…and still have (scratching this inch long welt on my forefinger)!  This could be the result of handling poison ivy I suppose…but what about these (scratching furiously)?

I thought that I might put some of my poems in some of my posts.  This is one:

Reflection

When you ponder the

Calendar of your days,

Do you recall the times

Of strife, of betrayal,

Of heartbreak?

Or…do you recall the

Quiet calm times filled

With beauty and tranquility?

Basho (Matsuo Kinsaku–ca. 1644-1694) was one of the most influential of the Japanese poets, famous for his hakai and clear haiku poems.  I first encountered him while reading some of his accounts of his wanderings across Japan in which he combined his description of the journey with his poetry (The Narrow Road to the Deep North). Check the links for more on the life of this wonderful man.  I will be adding some of my favorites of his poems in the days to come…

This first fallen snow
is barely enough to bend
the jonquil leaves

Into the ancient pond
A frog jumps
Water’s sound!

(see here for 30 translations of this poem, probably the most famous in Japan)

Breaking the silence
Of an ancient pond,
A frog jumped into water —
A deep resonance.

On a withered branch
a crow is perched:
an autumn evening.

Wikipedia article

A very readable account of his life…part of this wonderful site

I heard a person arguing that the Europeans had taught the North American Native Americans this practice, and although I had heard both sides to the question, I thought that I would look the question up just to satisfy my own curiosity.     I’m sure you’ve heard it before: the North American indigenous people were taught this practice by the evil Europeans. The tendency to romanticize the “noble red skin” has led to claims that they certainly never practiced scalping before Columbus.  Well…this revisionist history isn’t quite accurate.  Archaeological evidence conclusively proves that the practice existed in all parts of North American before Columbus. However,  there is also little doubt that the early Europeans encouraged this behavior in both their own people and that of the native peoples, but it appears that the European settlers learned the practice from the indians even though scalping is not restricted to New World indigenes.   Below are some quotes from some of the references that I found on this subject.

One paper concerning this question is quoted below:

The anterior portion of a skull discovered at the Rygh Site (1600-1650 A.D.) by an amateur archaeologist, now a part of a private collection, is highlighted to show an area of disfigurement in the outer table of the frontal bone. The smooth, slightly raised, anterior and lateral margins of the defect present the appearance of reactive new bone formation at the periphery of an area of resorption of the outer table. All affected portions of the bone are smooth, indicating post-injury remodeling. The inner table of the frontal bone was not remarkable. Radiographs were not diagnostic and gave no clues to ex plain the cause of this abnormality. The oval shaped pattern of the defect suggests that the injury affected the pericranium and was limited by this membrane. A direct blow to the head with injury to the bone’s outer table and the pericranium, complicated by hematoma formation must be considered. However, the most likely possibility as cause for this injury to the bone several years prior to death of the individual, is that of non-lethal scalping.

The effect on a person subjected to non lethal scalping is influenced by a number of factors that include the physical condition of the individual, the quantity of blood lost, the consequences of accompanying trauma, and the plane of dissection through which the scalp is removed. If the scalp is avulsed in the plane between the pericranial soft tissues (galea aponeurotica and pericranium), healing is more rapid and infection is less likely, due to protection by the pericranium. If scalping includes the pericranium or if it is injured during the process, the bone’s surface is exposed, predisposing to infection. Osteomyelitis and meningitis are predictable complications.

Controversy exists today as to the antiquity of scalping in the Americas, and whether this practice antedated or was introduced by invaders from Europe. In two national publications within the past seven years, the origin of scalping in North America has been discussed, inconclusively. An article in a popular syndicated Sunday suppliment carried by many newspapers in the United States was entitled, “Don’t Blame the Indians for Scalping.” It was reported that, “Scalping began when the Dutch colonists offered cash for scalps of hostile tribesmen they wanted cleared out of the New York and New Jersey area.” It contended that scalping was brought here from Europe and had not been practiced prior to European invasion (95). In another publication a reader responded to an article relating to scalping at Wolstenholme Towne in 17th century colonial America (169), “I thought scholars were in agreement that scalping was a European practice, introduced to the Indians during the French and Indian War. Is there, in fact evidence to support Indian practice of scalping as early as 1622?” (155).

Conclusive evidence exists in human skeletons from the Upper Missouri Basin that scalping was prevalent in this region both before and after European intrusion. In addition, scalping was not limited to the dead corpse. In pre-1492 Crow Creek skeletons para-mortem scalping as part of the massacre was apparent in 271/315 (66%) identifiable frontal bones (Ch 1, Table 1.4). In addition, in this same skeletal cohort residua of scalping antedating death was in two skulls (360,361). In the Larson village (1785 A.D.) para-mortem scalping cut marks were on 17/71 (23.9%) of the massacre victims, and evidence of ante- mortem or paramortem scalping was on 5/621 (0.8%) of the cemetery skulls. Deitrick did not find evidence of scalping in skulls from the Mobridge (MO-1, MO-2) or the Leavenworth Sites (89).

Other historical and archaeological references corroborate the Upper Missouri River Basin findings that not only did scalping antedate European contact in the Americas but also the act was not limited to the dead body. Both in the North American aborigines and in European settlers, non-lethal scalping with long term survival has been reported (30,63,232). Bruesch (63) discussed non-lethal scalping in Tennessee during the 18th century:

“In March of the same year (1777) Frederick Cavlit was badly wounded and nearly the whole of his head was skinned. Doctor Vance was sent for and staid several days with him. The skull- bone was quite naked, and began to turn black in places, and, as Doctor Vance was about to leave, he directed me, as I was stationed in the same fort with him, to bore his skull as it got black, and he bored a few holes him- self, to show the manner of doing it. I have found that a flat pointed straight awl is the best instrument to bore with, as the skull is thick, and somewhat difficult to penetrate. and, The scalped head cures very slowly, and if this kind of flesh [proud flesh] rise in plac- es, higher than common, touch it with blue- stone water [copper sulphate], dress it once or twice a day, putting a coat of lint over it every time you dress it, with a narrow plaister of ointment. and, It skins remarkably slow, generally taking two years to cure up.”

More quotes:

Excerpt from article, “Origins of Scalping”:

Troy Case, a North American archaeologist who has written extensively about scalping, found the practice to have been quite common during prehistory. But, he notes, solid evidence for scalping did not emerge until the 1940s. And it was not until the past few decades, with the advent of more sophisticated dating techniques, that scalping was unequivocally demonstrated to have had a pre-Columbian origin.

Case’s conclusion is based on an exhaustive osteological study of nearly 1000 skulls from the American Southeast, Midwest, and Southwest. The largest sample came from Crow Creek Canyon, located on the northern Plains and dated to the mid-fourteenth century. The site contains evidence of a large-scale massacre involving a minimum of, incredibly, 486 individuals. The bones of men, women, and children were found strewn in an area roughly 7 meters square and 1 meter deep. Nearly every skull exhibited evidence of scalping, as well as other bodily mutilations. Characteristic lesions to the frontal and parietal parts of the cranium and distinct cut marks encircling the calvarium were clearly evident. Case surmises that “it is possible that this deposit was the work of people from the same village or tribe rather than that of the raiders, but a massacre of such size would probably leave few individuals to dispose of this large quantity of remains in such a manner. Therefore, the more likely explanation is that those responsible for these peoples’ deaths were also responsible for their internment.” 8

Similarly gruesome was the cache of four skulls uncovered at the Vosberg site in the central Arizona mountains, dated to circa AD 1050-1250. Here, as at Crow Creek Canyon, all skulls exhibited the characteristic circular lesions associated with a scalping event.9 At the Fay Tolton site in South Dakota, moreover, four individuals, including a young child, were found on the floor of an earth lodge. They had been scalped and apparently left as they had died, without receiving any kind of mortuary treatment.

Case’s sample also provides evidence that scalping was an equal opportunity offense. His study found that roughly 40% of the victims were female and 60% were male.10 In fact, the scalps of females were highly prized among some known ethnographic groups, and frequently considered an even greater sign of valor than the taking of a scalp on the battlefield. Among the Creek, for example, such grisly trophies indicated great courage and skill on the part of the scalp-taker because it meant he had to penetrate all the way into an enemy camp without being detected. Nor were infants spared, as the Fay Tolton site demonstrates. Case states, “Just as being a woman was no protection from scalping, being a child also appears not to have always been a deterrent to becoming a victim of this custom. The youngest prehistoric victim of scalping found in this study was a child between the ages of five and seven years, and another was a subadult between 13 and 15 years old.”11
His studies have been corroborated by several other archaeological investigations conducted by various scholars. In Burnett County, Wisconsin, a skull, which was carbon-14 dated to AD 490-580, was uncovered from the Spencer Lake Mound. It contained a series of shallow cut marks circumscribing the crown down through the periosteum (fibrous covering of the bone) in the hairline area. These wounds are consistent with wounds related to the removal of the skin (scalping). Like the skeletal material investigated by Case, this individual was killed and scalped hundreds of years before European contact. Likewise, evidence of scalping comes from the famous Moundville site in Alabama, an immense complex of huge earthen mounds that supported a society of several thousand people, as well as numerous Hopewellian burial mounds in Ohio. The Skulls unearthed from these sites show distinct and unambiguous marks made by the scalping knife.

Additional evidence for scalping comes from the written descriptions of the earliest European travelers–individual explorers who witnessed Native American cultures in something like a “pristine,” aboriginal condition. When the French explorer Jacques Cartier journeyed down the Mississippi River in 1535, he encountered several Indian groups that proudly displayed the scalps of defeated enemies.12 Perhaps even more telling was the account of French artist Jacques Le Moyne who, in 1564, traveled to Florida and spent some time among the Timucua Indians. In one of his famous paintings, Le Moyne depicts the torture, scalping, and killing of enemy warriors. “They hung the bones and the scalps at the end of their spears, carrying them home in triumph,” Le Moyne reported.13 The painting even shows Timucuan warriors drying the scalp of a defeated enemy over a fire. There are many more similar descriptions from other early European observers, easily verifiable and readily available to any researcher willing to delve into archival material.

In light of such evidence it is clear that, contrary to historical revisionists, Europeans did not teach scalping to the Native Americans; in fact, the opposite is true. Scalping was a practice that Europeans learned from the Native Americans. It was a practice, moreover, that Indians practiced long before whites arrived. Nor was it a practice that was limited to parts of eastern North America, as some scholars have suggested. Archaeological evidence clearly demonstrates that scalping was widespread throughout prehistoric North America, ranging from the eastern seaboard to the southwestern states.

Notes:
Fields, William. The Myth of Scalping, in Central States Archaeological Journal, July 1999, p. 153.
Ray, Randy and Mark Kearny. The Great Canadian Trivia Book (Toronto: Hounslow Press, 1996, p.207.
Farb, Peter. Man’s Rise to Civilization: The Cutlural Ascent of the Indians of North America (New York: E. P. Dutton, 1978, p. 115).
Hoxie, Frederick. Indians in North America (New York: Harlan Davison, 1988, p. 824).
Young, Henry J. “A Note on Scalp Bounties in Pennsylvania,” in Pennsylvania History, 24, 1957, p. 209.
J.C.B., Travels in New France, by J.C.B., Sylvester K. Stevens, et. al., eds. (Harrisburg: The Pennsylvania Historical Commission, 1941, p. 68.
Ibid, pp. 67-68.
Case, Troy. An Analysis of Scalping Cases and Treatment of the Victim’s Corpses in Prehistoric North America, in Journal of North American Archaeology, June 1998, p. 27.
Ibid, p. 32.
Ibid, p. 45.
Ibid, pp. 45-46.
Axtell, James. Who Invented Scalping, in American Heritage, April 1977, p. 97.
Ibid, p. 98.

More links on Scalping:

Scalping in ancient China

Wikipedia article

       There are few things that really matter in this life.  At the top of my list is family, and second are friends.  I am of the sort that makes very few friends.  I have seen many people that can make friends extremely easily.  I have never done this.

      I am more of a loner I guess, and most of the time I am perfectly content with my own company, going along, busy with various projects, perfectly content.  Or almost anyway.  It’s not that I don’t enjoy the company of friends, I do very much.  It is just that it is the nature of my life to walk alone most of the time.

      The few friends that I do make are cherished.   There is nothing that I would not do for a true friend.  There are friends and then there are people who can be more than the usual kind of friends.  People because of some unique aspect or some quality who can touch my heart and cause me to love them dearly.

    This is nothing thought out, nothing that I think about, trying to make my mind up, no weighing of the pros and cons of the person.  No, it is something that can creep insidiously into my heart, something that I really do not recognize at first, until one day I realize that this person, this individual will be a part of me forever…until the day that I die.

     This almost never happens.  When it does I feel as if I have been blessed.  It gives me strength to know that into my lonely life, there has been something introduced which can sustain me when I am sad…or blue…or discouraged.  It is something that is transcendent…something numinous, something which can make me more aware of my surroundings, more aware of the small things of life which reflect this transcendent quality.

      When such a friend is lost, it is more than wrenching.  It is more than sad or upsetting.  It involves a loss of self.   Part of myself begins to erode away.  I look down at my hands, my body and I see pieces of myself breaking off, turning into something like sand that trickles down.  I see parts of myself becoming transparent as this essence leaks away.  I feel a great weakness as this continues.  A great weariness grows until it becomes all consuming.  I feel that next my entire self will deliquesce and then…why then there will be nothing much left will there?

   What do I do when this happens?  Why…I take these great bricks and go to that place and then I begin to wall it up.  Slowly each day I take my trowel and some mortar and lay down another row of bricks.  On the other side of the growing wall, I can hear noises, shufflings, scratchings…and other noises.  But I ignore this and continue to wall this place up.  I keep doing this until…well, it is all walled away from me.   Then I put away my tools, dust my hands, and walk away. 

     Does this solve the feelings of loss and sorrow and…and the other horrific emotions?  No, it really does not.  However, it does allow me to continue with my life, to put one foot in front of the other, and I know there will come a day, perhaps far off, when I can smile again and begin to notice the small beautiful things of this existence.

     I just finished a biography of Einstein, Einstein, His Life and Universe by Walter Isaacson.  I really liked the book which showed aspects of his life of which I was unfamiliar.

    I was very impressed with Einstein’s child-like qualities, his idealism, his kindness and his wry, self-deprecating humor.  Of course I knew he was a genius, but the book rounded his life out, presenting it in context with his family, his early life, his marriages and his close interactions with colleagues.  He was intensely individualistic, and could not abide any restraints upon his personal freedom.  Later in his life he modified slightly his pacifist views (after Nazi Germany began its aggression)  and became involved in politics, advocating a world government and Socialism.  He was adamantly against all forms of totalitarianism that subjected the individual to the whims of the state.

    Sometimes I get the feeling that there are people in our society today that, like some totalitarian states, demand “correct action” from the citizens.  I try to tell myself that this need that people have for behavioral correctness is a good thing, that they are not so jaded and blase that they don’t believe that there are ethical ways of acting, and that there are standards of behavior that a person should follow.

    However, the problem that can arise from this mode of thinking is that people often proceed from the idea that certain standards of behavior should be followed, to the idea that other people must follow these standards of behavior that is so dear to their ideas of what is right.  And if such people are in positions of power then…why then,  it’s just another form of totalitarianism

    I arrived back in the “great Northwest” last Saturday (Mar 8), after having my original flight canceled on Friday due to a snow storm.  Yes, the Dallas-Fort Worth Airport had huge numbers of flights canceled because of a one inch snow fall…at least I think it was one inches.  The snow plows were out plowing off the snow which appeared deeper than one inch, but the tv news (which went into an incredible feeding frenzy over the weather) said it was one inch.

     When I was in Texas for the two weeks, the temperature ranged from 91 degrees (at my Father’s place–not official) to 28 (last Saturday, the day I flew home).  Sixty degree fluctuations are not at all uncommon there, and typically the temperature was in the 70′s for highs and 40′s for lows, although there were several frosts also.  The best thing about the weather though was the SUN!  People up here in WA are so bewildered when the sun comes out that children cry and hide their faces (you think I’m kidding??), and grown people grope blindly for their sun glasses, tears streaming from their squinting eyes (I have heard that more sun glasses are sold in this part of the country than anywhere else).

     My mother appears to be out of danger for the moment.  When I got to the hospital right after I arrived at DFW on Feb. 21, I found most of my family there.  Apparently the previous night when it was expected that my mother would pass on, all the family gatherered about, the children, grandchildren, great grandchildren…all watching and praying for my mother.  In the middle of the night my mother suddenly “woke” up and began her recovery from that point.   Some said it was the attention and prayers of all the family.  Either way, the doctor said that she had never seen anything like it.

      I stayed at my Dad’s new apartment, into which he moved last fall in order to be near my  mother.  He occasionally goes back to his lake house to check on things.    We stayed at the hospital each day and into the night when she was in the hospital, and visited her at least once a day once she got out.  My father visits her every day since he moved.  Before he got the apartment, he would have to drive the long distance from his house on Cedar Creek Lake, and then he would spend three or four nights at my sister’s house and visit my mother during those days.  Then he would drive back home for the remainder of the week, to attend church on Sunday, and keep up the place.

     We did go back to his lake house in order for him to vote last Tuesday in the Primaries.  This house once belonged to my mother’s parents.  I got to check on my house also which is next door to his.  Back in the seventies, my mother’s mother planted flowers all over the the yard about this house, and when I visit in the summer, I see the tall stands of Turks Cap which still grow in the shade of the oak trees about the house.  I haven’t been back  during this time of  year in many years, and I was so glad to see many Jonquils and Daffodils blooming along with blooming stands of Lily of the Valley.  The most amazing thing, however, was the Camellia bush underneath the kitchen window.  It was totally covered with crimson blossoms.  I had never seen it bloom and never knew it was there.  My grandmother absolutely loved flowers, and I know that she would have been overcome with delight to have seen this bush.   I have never even seen Camellia’s grow in this part of the country, but I guess it is cultivated in East Texas.   It’s amazing that over forty years later these plants are still flourishing with no care except for watering during the heat of the summer.

    As I was gazing out of my bedroom window the other mornng, I happened to notice that the buds on the lilac bush had begun to swell and turn green.  I realized that it was the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year, and that henceforth the days would progressively get longer.  I thought about seasons, and rhythms and the passage of time.

         I am reminded of that now as I sit here (working), twenty minutes into Christmas day.     Someone asked me what would I want to be doing on Christmas if I could have any wish in the world.   It didn’t take but a few seconds to know what I would do.

      I thought back on all the Christmas’ of the past and realized that it wasn’t the gifts that stood out, nor the glitter.   It was the warm memories of my extended family together in fellowship and love.  I think of the booming voice of my grandfather and the stories that he told; of my gentle grandmother and the incredible dishes that she made, of my mother, beautiful, loving and kind; of my father, quiet and strong, solid as a rock; of my brother and sister; my aunt and cousins, all together, all through the years, blending into a kind of warm golden glow.   If I had anything that I could have today on this Christmas, it would be to have all my family together again, eating and drinking, laughing and talking, reminiscing, and telling stories.

        It is cold and clear here at 12:45 am, and the moon is bright and luminous, just past the full, waning…waning like the calendar year.  But I remember the lilac buds and know that a new year has already begun, and that something more basic and fundamental is at work here than man’s division of time into arbitrary units.

My latest endeavor is to try and find a good pair of birding binoculars.  I’ve pretty much settled on Swarovski binoculars because of their high quality.  I can’t see spending money that would go for bills on such indulgences, but I can justify the expense by using Christmas and birthday money that I have thrown into a box over the past few years (I know!).

Anyway, I’ll be reporting back on whatever I decide upon.  My last pair of binoculars that I had for 25 years were stolen on a trip to Panama.  I made the mistake of having them in an outside pocket of my luggage which was stashed on top of the bus that I took.  They weren’t expensive binoculars (Bushnell) but they were old friends.  My previous binoculars were also stolen and I had them for about 17 years (my van was stolen at the same time).  These new ones that I buy will have to be guarded like the crown jewels since I will be spending a bit on them.

It’s funny how I become attached to inanimate objects.  They often become like old friends.   I remember an old metal stool that has been in my family since I was about three years old.  I remember when I was about four painting this stool with my mother.  We painted the seat red and the strong metal wire legs white.  I still use this stool and take joy in the memories that are evoked when I do.  Same with my first binoculars.  I bought them when I had no money really, and used them all through my undergraduate and graduate years.  I took them on many birding expeditions and they always worked just fine even though they were inexpensive.

After my mother’s father died at age 95, the only thing that I wanted of his was an old shovel that he had used for many years.  When I used to visit him and my grandmother, we would often walk about his property, and he would always carry that old shovel.  He would chop weeds with it, or dig holes, and he used it exclusively in his large garden.  The point of the shovel was worn away and sharp as a knife, and the handle was worn smooth and silky by his hands over the years.  Every time I touch the shovel, a cascade of memories come tumbling back…and I smile happily.

When my father’s mother died at age 93, all I wanted was an old cast iron skillet that she had used for many, many years.  I  used to see her cooking breakfast with it for me and my grandfather.  I have the skillet on my stove now and use it all the time. It works almost like one of those new fangled non-stick pans.  The surface has become permeated with oils and grease over the course of half a century and more to the extent that food won’t stick easily. The value of these simple objects lie not in their monetary value of course, but in the patina of use and age along with the memories that have soaked into their very essence. I am reminded of the Japanese concept of sabi when I think of their importance to me.

Every May when the large rhododendron by the driveway begins to bloom, eventually producing this incredibly lovely display of pink blossoms that cover the entire plant, I begin to feel this tension. As I drive out every morning I stop and roll down my car window and look at the exquisite details in the pink flowers–the stamens, the pistil, the small brown speckles in the throat of the flower. At night when I return they seem to glow in the darkness welcoming me home.

And yet at the very height of the blooming period, I begin to experience a curious feeling of delight and apprehension. When I first felt this tension upon viewing the flowers, I was confused as to its origin. Why should I experience this sensation? Then as the blooming period reached its zenith and the flowers begin to turn brown and fall about the base of the huge plant, I understood. As I gazed on the brown withered blossoms clinging to the plant and strewn about the ground, I knew that the sweet, exquisite loveliness of the blossoms was transient, fleeting, and that soon they would wither and die. The presence of such exuberant life in sharp juxtaposition with decay and death produced this tension in me–produced a mixture of sweet melancholy and joy at the same time.

Upon reflection I realize that I have often had this particular feeling throughout my life. I remember once looking at the hand of a girl that I was holding. Moonlight shown down on us, and as I looked at her hand in mine, I thought of the beauty of the smooth flesh and how soon it would in the not too distant future become wrinkled and old before it eventually turned to dust. I became filled with a sense of how transient life was and a sadness filled me. “Bones,” I muttered which caused her to jerk her hand back in surprise.

I felt the same emotion reading war time letters from my father to his family and looking at photographs of him and my mother during that turbulent time. I felt it especially strong looking at photographs of my father and his best friend. They had grown up together in a small Texas town, gone to the same schools, played football on the same team. This friend had a car and would carry my father and my mother about during their courtship. They both had graduated on a Friday and both went into the military service on Monday–my father into the Army-Airforce, and his best friend into the Marines. I used to look at their picture together standing in front of my father’s house with their arms on each other’s shoulders —two young men with all their lives ahead of them.  My father lived through the war and now has children, grandchildren and great grandchildren and is still alive and healthy today at age eighty-three. His friend? He died a hero’s death at Iwo Jima and was awarded the Navy Cross. He lies in the black sands of that bloody island far from the dusty west Texas town in which he grew up.  Youth, promise…transience…

There were many other times that I felt this melancholy, this sadness, and I was surprised to learn that the Japanese had already recognized this emotion centuries ago and had even applied a term to it: “mono no aware” (AH-wah-reh, three syllables, with the accent on the first). “The phrase is derived from the word aware, which in Heian Japan meant sensitivity or sadness, and the word mono, meaning things, and describes beauty as an awareness of the transience of all things, and a gentle sadness at their passing.” This sense of the precariousness of life and the certainty of its passing permeates Japanese art, poetry, music and religion.

4October2007, 9:37 pm