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

     I’ve never been on a tour before.  I’ve always looked down on them for some reason.  However,  I’ll be leaving tomorrow night to meet my father in Houston where we will fly down and tour Costa Rica.  Not like the Panama trip a few years ago when we made up our own itinerary and travel plans, but a conducted tour which provides all the meals, lodging and travel arrangments.  It looks like it will be lots of fun and I am looking forward to it.  I have always had a hankering to go to Costa Rica ever since I turned down a chance to spend a year in that country studying lizards–and getting paid doing it.

    I hope to be reporting on the trip, if not as I go, at least when I get back.

     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.

     Recently I was going through my chest-of-drawers in a long-delayed effort to clean them out.   As I sorted through some of the clothes I realized that my entire way of thinking about clothes has changed over the years.  I have always kept any clothes that I had until they literally fell apart or were outgrown.  After I reached adulthood, I would go for years without a size change, so I ended up with some very old clothes.

   I found to my chagrin and horror that there were clothes here that I acquired back in another era of my life.   Here was a t-shirt that I bought for a dollar in a street fair on Massachusetts street in Lawrence, Kansas back in 1972!  And here was a t-shirt that I had bought at about the same time that had the “ecology flag” emblazoned on the front.  I remember wearing that shirt on a Mammalogy field trip to Dodge City, Kansas in ’71.  In the back of the drawer I pulled out more relics of bygone times.

        One was a white undershirt with a picture of a duck riding a football and with the inscription “The Ducks Take to the Air” printed on it.  I remember somebody I knew who was leaving the University of Oregon in Eugene, Oregon in the summer of 1977 and was about to throw the shirt away and offered it to me.  I took it of course.   Here was a peculiar fuzzy sweater that I had received as a gift for Christmas in 1972.  And there in the back corner of the drawer was a t-shirt, stained with the smoke from an apartment fire that I had in ’81 which I remember buying in the summer of 1965!

    I gathered all these past mementos up preparatory to throwing them away or giving them to Good Will.  I put them into a gym bag which my grandparents had given me in 1962.  To this I added an old pillow which I had never liked which I had acquired for green stamps in the fall of 1967.  I sat there looking at the pitiful pile of stuff that I would never use again.  I busied myself with newer clothes that I never wore.  Afterwards I came back to the pile of old stuff.

    I put these all away again, telling myself that perhaps I would throw them out during the next cleaning.  For some reason the longer I possess something, the harder it is to get rid of it.  My New Years resolution is to get rid of new clothes— less than fifteen years old or so.

     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.

       I had an unusually uplifting experience yesterday–I was able to repair a defective coffee maker!   I purchased the Mr. Coffee back in June, and it has proved to be an excellent coffee brewer.  I have always had a favorable impression with this brand.  We have used it where I work for many years and have never had a single malfunction despite heavy use.  I also knew one person who always bought a Mr. Coffee brewer at Sears and who purchased the service contract at the same time.  He was a heavy coffee drinker and had the pot on just about every day all day.   With this heavy usage the heating element usually gave out after about a year or two, but he was always able to get a new coffee brewer from Sears for free because of the agreement.  He did this for many years.

     I just recently returned from my Texas hadj and tried brewing coffee last Friday for the first time.  I left the room and came back later to find that none of the coffee had gone into the pot!  Fortunately the coffee maker was in a wide tray and all the coffee had run out and collected in the tray.  Since I didn’t want to waste the coffee, and since I knew that I would spill the coffee if I attempted to lift the flexible plastic tray and pour it into the carafe, I got a straw and sucked the coffee up one straw full at a time and transferred it to the coffee pot until the level in the tray had gone down far enough so I could safely lift it without spilling it.

     Upon examination I found that there was a lever which was pushed back when the coffee pot was put onto the hot plate.  When pushed back, the lever pressed up against this valve which opened and allowed the coffee in the basket which contained the grounds to flow through.  The coffee flowed straight down which unfortunately caused it to flow down on the outside of the coffee pot instead of into it.

     After much experimentation I found that there was no way that the coffee could flow down into the pot.  It invariably flowed on the outside of the pot and then onto the countertop.    I found that coffee leaking out onto the counter top  seemed to be a common complaint with coffee brewers.  It was very frustrating since the coffee brewer had worked like a charm until it suddenly began to malfunction.

     Then I found this little plastic dohickey in the dish washer.  I couldn’t figure out where it had come from, until I finally figured out that it snapped up under the basket and the release valve.  It was a little plastic “chute” that directed the coffee into the center of the coffee pot as it was released from the basket holding the coffee grounds.  This was the reason that the coffee was running straight down along the side of the coffee pot; there was no chute that directed the coffee to the proper position!

     I snapped the chute into position and the Mr. Coffee brewer worked perfectly!  For some reason I felt unusually elated at this little triumph.  I had gone online the night before searching for a solution to no avail.  I had even dreamed about it, and almost dreaded getting up yesterday morning because I knew that I had to work on the danged thing and didn’t have a clue where to begin.

    I began to think of how small this little victory was compared to more significant achievements that might have been performed by my ancestors in the past:  “Hey look I made fire with a stick!”  “I scared the saber tooth away from the campfire last night!”  “I finished plowing the back forty with the old mule!”  “I skinned 14 buffalo yesterday!”   All this compared to: “I found the plastic dohickey that fixed the coffee maker!” 

    I don’t care…I still feel good about it!

P.S.  If you don’t understand what I said above perhaps this excerpt from Mr. Coffee, Inc. will clarify things: (http://www.patents.com/Mr-Coffee-Inc/Bedford-Heights/OH/1307733/company/).

I have a bad habit of buying books.  Really it is the only bad habit that of mine that I can think of –unless it is overweening modesty (cough).  The reason this is a problem is that I have no more room for books.  All my bookshelves are full, and I have boxes of books in the garage and under the bed.  My house in Texas has bookshelves full of books, rooms full of books.  Why have I kept them all these years?  I admit it…it is a vice.   I have never been able to rid myself of books…except once when I thought that I was going to move I gave away 19 boxes of books to Goodwill.  I have regretted this rash act ever since.

So I have tried to buy fewer books and check out more from the library.  This has worked somewhat.  Below is a list of books checked out from the library this year.  Looking at the list and how small it is reminds me that this is just a small number of the books that I am reading.  The rest I  have bought or reread from my personal library.  It is embarrassing to look at the list.  Obviously I am no highbrow.  I lean to science fiction and action books.  I have been reading more mysteries also.  The problem with the library is that sometimes I am forced to read a particular book.  They often don’t have the books that I am looking for, so out of a sense of desperation, I pick out something that normally I would never buy or read otherwise.  It’s hard, this habit of mine.  I know it is useless to complain though since I have always been this way, and I really don’t think that I can change.

      I just call it the City.  It is a place that I have dreamed about for many years.   Recently the dreams have increased in frequency.

     It is huge, and the central area is old and decaying with crumbling red brick buildings and dark alleys.  It is always night when I visit the decaying inner area, and the street lights, when present, are dim and yellow, except for some areas which have brilliant green halogen lamps.  I wander the dim streets and pass through the maze of hallways in the buildings, climbing down steep stairways with no rails, past stained walls dripping with moisture.  

    The people in the decaying area are furtive with shadowed faces.  They wander the passageways also on missions of their own.  They rarely speak.  Sometimes I pass dim rooms which are filled with their quiet presences.   I look in but can’t make out exactly what they are doing.  There is always a hint of forboding and danger mixed with a strange expectation.

   There are other more normal areas of the city.  The buildings are well kept and the people appear normal going about their business.  In my dreams I only visit these areas in the daytime.  Last night in my dream,  I was in an expensive looking area with upscale buildings and thick, milling crowds.  There was an amusement area and the crowds seemed in a light mood.  I heard two ladies talking, however, about something so bizarre that it changed the entire atmosphere in my dream…from light to very strange.

    Over the many years that I have been dreaming of this strange city, I have lived in several places, each in different neighborhoods.  I have also had several jobs, and I have attended different universities in the city. 

    I have only recently realized that all these dreams over the years have been about the same place…the same city.  I realized this as the frequency of these dreams increased.  That’s when I began just calling it the City.

We are sentient beings. As conscious entities we often look for meaning in what at first appears to be an uncaring universe.  This seems to be the way we are, constantly seeking for meaning that relates to our own lives.

Religion and philosophy are attempts to render meaning to our lives.  People of long ago, living in constant contact with the natural world, often looked to nature for meaning, searching for meaning in the behavior of animals, in the weather, and in other natural phenomena.

We have a rational, logical side to our nature, and we have the great body of information given to us by science, and by that great tool, the scientific method which can give us demonstrable truth, truth that can be demonstrated to others.

But our soul cries out for other truths, truths that are more subtle than that learned by the blunt tool of science, truths that do not lend themselves easily to demonstration.

There have been times of great emotional storms in my life in which I searched for meaning in the small things about me…times in which I tried to quell the storm within and tried to listen to that “still, small voice” that speaks to us all, but often goes unheard in the turmoil of modern society.

At such times I often go for walks and look for insight in the world about me.  And if I am able to still the waters within,  I often hear things.   This morning I heard the small brook speaking to me.  The rains had lessened recently, and the voice of the little stream had changed, become more melodious and fuller as its flow diminished.  It’s gurgle and burble sounded like an ancient voice that spoke a language that hovered on the edge of comprehensibility.

An eagle sounded as I ambled along, a sound that I have heard so often, that it threatens to become commonplace.  I stopped to listen and to appreciate more fully the wild character of the call.

Then I remembered that two nights ago when I stepped from my car about two hours after midnight, I paused for a second and looked up at a rare, clear, night sky at the Big Dipper.  I remembered how long ago my father pointed out to a small boy how the Big Dipper is always pointing to Polaris, the North Star, and showed me where it points.  I checked, and sure enough, it is still pointing to this guide star.

As I paused there in the darkness, I heard the oh-so-soft hooting of the Great Horned Owl.  It was immediately answered by another.  I had often wondered why I seldom heard owls even though my house is surrounded by forest.   The calls were so faint and soft that I know that I could have easily missed them as I rushed from the car into the house.

So I stood there longer in the darkness, wondering if further mysteries were to be hinted at.  Then far off over the Sound, I heard a growing sound that increased until it sounded like the yapping of hounds in the sky.  For a second I thought of the hunting dogs of Diana, or Artemis, coursing through the night sky in pursuit of some unknown prey.  I shook my head, but the sound remained the same.  I told myself that it was Canada Geese on their northern migration, but I have heard these geese many times, and this did not sound the same.  Whatever it was, it gradually faded, growing fainter until I was left standing in the dark listening to the soft hooting.

Perhaps I should pause more often and slow my pace and open my eyes…and ears…and mind.

I loved the way that this writer found meaning in the birds of a walk that he took.  In fact I admire his entire blog.

I admit it.  I’m musically illiterate (also I’m not a big he-man :cough:).  It is not that I do not like music, I do, it is just that I tend to be unconscious of it.  I almost never listen to music on the radio or disc players.  I have two really nice stereo systems and several smaller players.  I have a nice radio in my car with a dvd  player that holds 6 discs.  I have the means to listen to music, but I tend to be indifferent to it.  When I think of my preferences in music, I tend to like classical, jazz, new age, blue grass, folk music from all over the world, and what I call unusual music,  but as I said, I rarely am aware of it.

I currently am going through one of my spells of trying to listen to more music.  I bought a cheap mp3 player for example.  Right now I am listening to some mp3 files on my laptop (Miles Davis, Kind of Blue, 1959), so it’s not as if I am against music!  It’s just that I don’t think of it that much, and I rarely am affected emotionally by it–with two notable exceptions both by Beethoven.  I can’t really remember exactly when these amazing pieces of music came to my attention, but it had to be late in my life.  I can’t really explain my reactions to them.   Something about them reaches down into my soul and elicits tears, almost every time.  It’s plumb embarrassing, that’s what it is.

Moonlight Sonata is the first of the two,  notably the first movement (although the second and third are wonderful).   Beethoven composed this music in 1801, dedicating it to a pupil (Countess Giulietta Guiciardi).   Apparently he proposed to her right after dedicating the music to her.  Her parents, however, prevented the willing Countess from accepting.  The first movements starts  out in a low,  melancholy sort of lament that affects me deeply every time that  I listen closely to it.  Listen to the movements here on Wikipedia and read this: “The movement has made a powerful impression on many listeners; for instance, Berlioz wrote that it “is one of those poems that human language does not know how to qualify.” The work was very popular in Beethoven’s day, to the point of exasperating the composer, who remarked to Czerny, “Surely I’ve written better things.”

I tried to find out something about Fur Elise, and found that it affects many other people the same way!  There seems to be some commonality of spirit in people that reacts similarly to this music.  I also found that there is also some controversy over the name.

Fur Elise (For Elise) was written around 1810 when Beethoven was about 40 years old.  A researcher finding the manuscript claimed that the dedication read Fur Elise.  However, the dedication has been lost and most researchers believe that the researcher must have misread Beethoven’s atrocious hand writing, and that the inscription probably was dedicated to Therese, referring to Therese Malfatti who was studying under him at this time and was known to have turned down his marriage proposal.  Most reject this speculation however.

More speculation was fueled by the discovery of a letter after his death addressed to “My Immortal Beloved.”  No connection with an Elise or Therese was found however.  Another hypothesis says that Elise was a type of generic name for sweetheart at that time, and that the piece was written for all sweethearts.  This also is unknown.  This seems to me to totally specious.

Whoever it was dedicated to, it seems more likely to me to have been a woman that was loved by Beethoven.  Just listen to it.  How can it not be? (I hope to put in a small file of this music, but in the meantime you can listen and download  it here.)

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 have noticed for a long time that whenever I go to look up a meaning of a term or phrase,  I often do not understand the definition or explanation that is given.   Often the definition involves jargon or words with which I am unfamiliar.  Take the following examples.

I was looking up information on Word Press, a blogging program, and was reading the following introductory  sentence in Wikipedia:

“WordPress has a templating system, which includes widgets that can be rearranged without editing PHP or HTML code, as well as themes that can be installed and switched between.”  Already I am confused by the terms.  What is a templating system?  What is a widget?  I am fairly familiar with the terms PHP and HTML, but I could see how somebody who knew even less than I do might be confused by this sentence which was supposedly written to convey information to uninformed people. Now some of these terms are linked to other sites which can be followed to determine the meaning.  But then one can find oneself in an endless link quest.

Not knowing what a template processor was,  I looked that term up–also on Wikipedia, and found the following:  “A template processor (also known as a template engine or a template parser) is software or a software component that is designed to combine one or more templates with a data model to produce one or more result documents.”    Ok, the template processor is a program(?) designed to combine templates (now what is a template?) with a “data model” (?) to produce a “result document.”

I follow the link to template since I’m not what exactly the mean by the term and find the following: “

The term template, when used in the context of software engineering has various technical specifications, but is generally identified as any processing element that can be combined with a data model and processed by a template engine to produce a result document.  I got the feeling that I was going in circles and really not understanding much.  How did I get here?  Oh yes, I was looking up information on Word Press, trying to understand more about it.

Is it just me?  Am I stupid or what?  I find this problem almost every where that I look.  It seems, in my humble opinion, to be a real need for people, when writing to an ignorant audience, as opposed to one who is already knowledgeable about the subject, to write in clear concise terms.  One shouldn’t have to follow endless links to more obfuscatory articles which offer more links to unknown terms, etc.  Actually the more I think about it, the more I think that even IF the article is aimed at a jargon-savy audience, it should STILL be written in a clear, concise manner!

This is just one example.  I could list numerous such writings that I run across every day.  When I do run across a clear explanation of a subject in which I am interested, it is like a breath of fresh air.

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.

         For many years I have been interested in the history of my family.  The advent of computers has sped up this process and recently a new tool has been added to the process–DNA analysis.  

           Recently when I was in Texas, I noticed that the genealogy web site, Ancestry.com, had a half price sale on their DNA tests.  I had been wanting to perform these tests for a long while but was unwilling to shell out the big money to do it.   I broke down and ordered the tests–the Y chromosome and mitochondrial DNA test for me and the mitochondrial DNA test for my father.

          There are several other companies that offer the most common tests being done at this time–the Y chromosome test and the mitochondrial DNA test.  The Y chromosome is of course the chromosome that determines maleness.  Males have the X and Y sex chromosomes, whereas females have two X chromosomes (XX).    During the formation of the eggs and sperm (meiosis),  all the so called homologous chromosomes which contain the same basic type of DNA, pair up and often exchange segments of their DNA (crossing over).  This results in the changing of the base sequence which is the genetic code. 

          The Y chromosome is a small chromosome and crossing over with the X chromosome normally doesn’t occur as often as it does with the other pairs of chromosomes (Check out my entry on June 21, 2007 for more information on the Y chromosome).  As a consequence the sequence of bases on its DNA doesn’t change around as much as other chromosomes.  Any changes in the base sequence usually comes about by mutations, or small changes in the base sequence.

          The rate of this mutational change can be estimated, and since the genetic code on the Y chromosome is not as subject to natural selection as is the code on the other chromosomes (autosomes), this mutation rate can be used to estimate how long ago a change occurred when comparing the Y chromosomes of two different men.  Also the Y chromosomes can be compared to see how closely related two men are.

          The mitochondrial DNA (mDNA) is a whole ‘nother creature.  Whereas the nuclear DNA is passed from one generation to the next via the eggs and sperm (gametes) and controls the various genetic traits through the synthesis of enzymes, the mitochondrial DNA is not found in the nuclear chromosomes but in the mitochondria which is a small structure (organelle) in the cell which is responsible for the aerobic reactions of cell respiration–combining food with oxygen to produce lots of energy.

          The mitochondria has a fascinating history, and is believed to be a once free living bacteria, partly based on it’s loop-shaped chromosomes, as opposed to the rod-shaped chromosomes found in us and other Eukaryotic creatues.  Check out the endosymbiotic theory when you have time.

         Once again, like the Y chromosome, the DNA in the mitochondria is not that subject to the influence of natural selection and it does not go through a shuffling process (independent assortment) or crossing over as the nuclear chromosomes do, thus it will not change unless a random mutation occurs.  Apparently the mutation rates in mDNA is higher than the nuclear DNA which makes it useful in comparing lineages.

       The Y chromosome is passed from father to son and can be used to determine information about a male’s paternal ancestry.  The mDNA is found only in the area outside of the nucleus, thus sperm can not pass on mitochondria from the father since only the head of the sperm (containing half the normal number of chromosomes) enters the egg at fertilization.

       The egg (oogonium), on the other hand being a large cell, contains mitochondria which are passed on to the cells of the resulting children after fertilization.  Thus the mDNA is only passed from mother to offspring of both sexes.  Therefore, the mDNA is useful for determining information on the maternal ancestry of a person.

          I am now receiving the information on these tests and will in the coming days talk about the results.

  I couldn’t resist including this model of DNA copied from Wikipedia

 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)?

     The idea of simplicity in our lives seems to be growing in our awareness.  We find that in an increasingly complex existence, simplification has an immense appeal.  We seem to have too many things, and our lives become filled with clutter, both physically and mentally.  Sometimes we yearn for simpler times when the world was easier to comprehend.  However, as I talked about in the Haiku section, simplicity can in itself be extremely complex, e.g.  fly fishing, ideograms, haiku.  Most activities, if enough skill is involved, can be reached through hard effort only, where the inherent complexity is reduced to apparent simplicity.  And beliefs…does one begin with elaborate formulations of thought only to simplify with study and time?  Do the gods and goddesses with their elaborate history become over time the one god and then a generalized “creator” that has no corporeality of any type?

     The movement toward simplicity seems to be spreading.  David Bruno has started what he calls the 100 Thing Challenge.  He is attempting to whittle his possessions down to just 100 items (See Time Magazine article June 5, 2008).  One thing this effort taught him was deciding what was really important in his life.

       I have only once experienced the exhilaration that comes from having almost nothing.  I was living in an apartment at the time and awoke about 3 am for some reason.  The door to my bedroom was half open and I could see a flickering orange light reflecting on it.  I rose and rushed into the living room to see that a fire had started in the corner of the apartment.  As I looked for something to put it out, the flames caught a large paper Japanese lantern that hung in the corner and with a loud whoosh and crackle the lantern, the curtains, the couch practically exploded in flames.  There I was, naked, the heat singing my face, my hair.  I could hear the window glass break and the distant shouts of somebody on the street.  Dense choking smoke filled the room.

     The smart thing to have done was to immediately leave the apartment…but I was unclothed, and loathe to run naked out on to the cold January streets.  So I ran back into the bedroom, pulled on a pair of blue jeans, ran back into blazing living room and tried to open the door which led into the hall way.  For some reason the door stuck, and at the first few tugs refused to open.  Since this had never happened before, I am not sure of the cause.  Perhaps the door expanded in the heat, or there was a pressure differential caused by  the superheated air.  I felt a moment that almost verged on panic, but then with a great tug I was able to open the door and go out into the pitch black hallway.   If I had been smart, I would have gotten to my hands and knees and crawled along that choking hall.  The next day I could see where its walls were darkend by the black smoke to within a foot of the floor.  Instead, choking on the smoke, I groped my way to the stairway door and made my way down to the first floor and then outside.

     Later, going to the hospital wearing nothing but my blue jeans, no shirt and no shoes (no service?), I felt a sense of release thinking about the loss of all my possessions (few though they were at the time!).  A new start!  A new beginning with nothing to tie or weigh me down.   I remember this sense of freedom and exhilaration today, when I ponder the immense burden of possessions that weighs my life down.  I think of the 100 Thing Challenge and wonder if it might be a worthwhile endeavor.  I would have to exclude my books from the calculation of course!

More infliction… 

Leave Taking 

 Shall I leave in the summer

 while cicadas shrill and

The nights are full of gardenia

and honeysuckle?

Or shall I leave in Autumn

with Crimson maples and

The harvest moon?

Perhaps in Winter with

the sting of sleet and

the rattle of bare branches

in a hopeless wind?

No! I want to go in

early Spring with

crocus and nodding daffodils

in a light mist with

rain dripping from the eaves…

“May I live simply, that others may simply live.” Mahatma Ghandhi 

       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.

     Well, I am still making plans for the Wedding in Hawaii!  So many loose ends to tie together.  For example I found that the short hop from Honolulu to Kona was on Aloha airlines which went out of business.  Expedia, with whom I made the resevations, basically said it was up to me to take care of the problem.  I called Northwest airlines with whom I have tickets for three out of the four hops, to see if they could resolve the problem.  I had to listen to this really snippy woman lecture me about how I was a customer of Expedia, and that Northwest airlines had nothing to do with it. 

     “Oh,” I said, “Northwest is receiving no money from the three tickets that I bought?”  She ignored this and continued to talk about how Expedia just wanted to make the sale and then wash their hands of the whole thing.  I couldn’t argue with this.  I was put on hold while she “consulted” with somebody…this went on for forty five minutes.  She would occasionally come back to tell me that they were still consulting, and that the “free period” had expired since Aloha airlines went bankrupt, and that they didn’t have to do anything for me.  Nevertheless, when it was all said and done, I was able to get the flight approved by Northwest Airlines.  Of course, I would have to leave Seattle at 3pm instead of 8 am, and that I would arrive in Maui instead of Oahu, and that I would arrive in Kona at 8:30 pm instead of 2:30 pm.  Oh, and they would have to charge me a “help” fee for all the consulting they had done.

    And then of course once the wedding is over, we need to decide what we will be doing each day.  If I have to make reservations for these activities then I would like to do it ahead of time and not wait until I get there. One thing that I really want to do is to go on one of the birding expeditions.  It’s too bad that I’m the only one that is interested in doing this.   So I’m in the midst of that…  I’m sure I’ll enjoy the whole thing once every thing is settled.

    Oh yes, I think that in the future I shall check online for the cheapest fares and then call the airlines directly to see if they can match the fare.

    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.