Personal Crisis

I don't really, 401 K to the contrary, care much about the stock market. But like some people I know, I keep feeling drawn to check in on the financial debacle nervously, as if those shifting S & P numbers were tea leaves for my own future.

I'm a worrier, and I always have worried about the second great depression. I read every word of War and Peace when it was assigned, ditto for Crime and Punishment, but to me Tolstoy in a funk could never terrify like Steinbeck. I used Cliff Notes for The Grapes of Wrath because the scenes were more than I could bear.

I've always seen images of my greatest fears in the Great Depression, and I've always felt that someday I would have to live through it myself, in penance for every egg shell I carelessly tossed into the garbage unscraped and every Little Caesar's Hot & Ready I bought in a moment of overscheduled weakness. If waste not is want not, then surely someday all of us who have wasted will have to want.

So this has been a tense week for me. On Friday, I happened across an article on the internet that changed my perspective, though. It involves Plato, but stick with me here. It discusses Plato's distinction between faithful images that are true to the original, and "another, more insidious image that is intentionally distorted in a manner to make the reproduction itself appear real to those who see it." Plato refers to this type of image as simulacra.

This article goes on to discuss the concept of simulacra in the current economic crisis, and the idea that we are entering an era of devaluation that is also revaluation--we discover that what we hold has no real value, and we remember that out there somewhere are things which are both real and valuable.

I thought suddenly of a radio interview I heard a month or so ago where a professor of Islamic studies calmly asserted that no western person of intelligence seriously believes that God is actively involved in daily life. That comment jabbed me a little. I thought, "Maybe we really are ripe for destruction here."

Then on Friday after reading the simulacra article, I started to think about the prosperity cycle in the Book of Mormon. I had always assumed that the cycle of prosperity was a kind of graph that the Lord used to watch and see when society was ready for a little calamity.

But it occurred to me that usually these cycles, these choices and consequences, causes and effects, are simply the result of natural laws playing out. It suddenly seemed obvious to me that the cycle of prosperity is really twin, inversely related cycles of prosperity and faith, and that as prosperity increases, we create our simulacra. They, whether in the image of a golden calf or credit default swaps, are simply distorted images of faith, warped man-made security blankets to comfort us in our selfishness and greed and insulate us from the prodding of the spirit and the nagging of our own consciences.

And perhaps this is not the day of doom that I have so long feared, but really the day of reckoning I have prayed for, when we will all repent and revalue, and the world will become a temporally harder but spiritually easier place to live.

Or perhaps not--not for everyone. Last night we went to the Temple though, for the first time in a long time, and as we walked through the door and up the escalators, I felt peace and security wash down over me. It was an amazing feeling, and it reminded me of President Eyring's words, "The great test of life is to see whether we will hearken to and obey God's commands in the midst of the storms of life. It is not to endure storms, but to choose the right while they rage. And the tragedy of life is to fail in that test and so fail to qualify to return in glory to our heavenly home."

I guess instead of watching the S & P or checking my food storage, I had better look to my faith and remember that my great challenge is not to survive the second great depression, but to learn to trust in the arm of the Lord. I know, an exceptionally religious blog, but then I'm starting to think that maybe that kind is the only kind that really matters. And inspiring those thoughts in all of us may be the natural--and critical--consequence of the current crisis.

End of Summer

Poem by Tom

Summer is like that double thick chocolate malt you waited for.

The first few sips, when all the flavor hits your dry taste buds
and the sugar sends signals of pleasure coursing through your body
like the diluted drug it is,

are the first warm days of spring. You know what is coming and it is only getting better.

BY THE FOURTH OF JULY ALL THE WHIPPED CREAM IS GONE AND YOU FEEL SATISFIED.

As the hot August days drag on you wonder why you ordered a double.
You wonder if it would be better to stop now so you don’t get fat, or whether you should finish what you started
-- there are starving children in Africa -- and who knows when it might start raining.

You vow that next time you will order a small – without whipped cream.

And then in September, something strange happens. As you realize as you are down to the last syrupy dregs, the shake you were so tired of only weeks ago starts to taste … better.

And as the mornings start to feel crisp and you pick the last apples
and feel the heavy dew soak through your shoes,
you begin to savor each ray of sunshine
and hope to bask in just one more warm day at the beach
before summer is all slurped up.

One small step for Tim...

Conversation with Tim 9/7/08

Tim: Dad, when I'm just starting my career I'll need some money, so I think I'll go into advertising.

Dad: OK

Tim: Dad, What is the most endangered species?

Dad: The blue whale

Tim: If I could just get a small blood sample we could use cloning technology to prevent extinction

Dad: Are you switching to cloning? What about your other goals?

Tim: You mean the energy project? Well, cloning probably requires a lot of energy... hey I know! First I will solve the nuclear power problem and then I will be very famous and I can probably get a lot of sponsors for my cloning project.

Dad: What about after that? A lot of people think the ultimate project would be colonizing outer space, starting with the moon.

Tim: Yeah, I am going to need a lot of sponsors for a project of that size.

Dad: There is also great potential in geothermal power.

Tim: Yeah, and if you could figure out a way to get to the exact center of the earth, you would feel no gravity. I have aleady started working on a plan for that ... [pause] Dad, I have to go to the bathroom. But I WILL solve the world's power crisis. First I'll save humanity and then I'll save nature.

I've now heard of three incidents where marriages ended on vacations. I thought that was bizarre until we took this vacation. Now don't get me wrong—we've had a great vacation and I still love my spouse, but I can see how a long vacation to a novel place can strain a relationship.

A major problem, obviously, is the fact that two customarily autonomous adults are suddenly stuck in the same rental car going 70 down an unfamiliar freeway. Tom justifiably has so little faith in my sense of direction that he politely declines to allow me to either drive OR navigate, meaning that during portions of this vacation he was going 70 down an unfamiliar freeway while manipulating a map in one hand, google directions in the other, and talking on his cell speaker phone to someone trying to explain bits of the map.

I spent those moments sitting on my hands, biting my tongue, and trying to focus on right mindfulness, right thinking, and the seven fold path. When Zen failed, I shrieked out utterly incorrect advice in command form.

The invention of the GPS, by giving couples a scapegoat for bad navigational choices, has undoubtedly saved quite a few marriages. Too bad our rental car was not so equipped.

Actually, the first day of the rental car was MOSTLY fine. We went to Gettysburg, one of my favorite stops of the trip. Thanks to the Booths, we had a terrific Auto Tour which really brought the battle to life, but we ran out of time to tour the huge new museum and visitor's center. We had just 30 minutes there, and I ran from display to display as I realized that all my questions would be answered if I could just get to them all... Sigh.

I was moved by a display of letters and journal entries from former slaves who fled the south to fight for the Union. At Gettysburg the futility of the Civil War is on display. Monuments to fallen soldiers from each side stand together, and stories of comrades and friends who sorrowfully faced and killed each other there fill the display cases and tour narrative.

Of all the purported causes of the war, none seem to justify that kind of carnage between friends and brothers. Except slavery. We bought a book of speeches, so I'll let Lincoln argue the case for preserving the Union, but until he's convinced me, I'm hoping that in our hearts the real truth is that we fought to abolish slavery.

That night we stayed with Dan and Mandy, Melanie's friends in Hershey. As Tom said, of all the amazing things we saw on our vacation, Mandy was the most amazing. She had her father-in-law, Mel and kids, and all of us spending the night, and she just kept on throwing out fantastic food and wafting cheerful welcome around the house. I discovered that in addition to being the hostess with the mostest, she also has a Masters degree, is an opera singer and excellent pianist, can operate heavy machinery, won a Wii in a cooking contest, and put darling gift bags on each of our beds... Let's just say that Nigel informed me on Saturday morning that he'd decided to make Mandy his new Mom.

We went to Hersheypark Saturday—it was crowded but fun. The wildest ride, however, was driving into New York at 2:30 am. When we lived in Costa Rica, one of the things I loved was seeing the green freeway sign in San Jose that said, “Nicaragua” and pointed to the next exit. It was equally fun to see signs saying “Broadway,” “Manhattan,” “Bronx.” Tom followed Mel (amazing driver, perfect navigation, and all at 3:30 am by the time we got through the tunnel) right to their apartment on Long Island.

Today getting to church involved more tongue biting as we missed a turn, had to pick a freeway, and searched fruitlessly for a way to get back as each exit turned into an Escheresque new freeway entrance. Finally on the third or fourth of these, Tom pulled off a daring U-turn and unravelled the tangle, putting us right back where we started (in spite of three or four utterly misleading directions from me) and ultimately getting us to church half way through sacrament meeting.

It's great to be here with Dave and Mel, and we're looking forward to more NY adventures tomorrow, hopefully diminished somewhat by the fact that we're turning in the rental car in the morning.

Today was clean up day.

We went to the Phillips Collection this morning. Great art. I loved the El Greco. We all loved Renoir's Boating Party. Tim asked for a pencil and a mirror so he could do a self portrait.

We Metroed downtown for free choice afternoon, and the boys returned for the third and last time to the Museum of Natural History. Mom meantime hit the DAR (a little dry unless you have Bryan to curate you through all those nice American period antiques), the Renwick (yaay! Real crafts! But boo! Only four rooms! And Mom's bank account needed in the Museum Shop), and the Archives Shop (a little museum of education materials in its own right where I got rushed before).

We all met up at 4:40 for the "Monsters of the Deep" Imax, where Nigel said, "Dad, I need to move over by Tim because all the Monsters are coming straight at me!"

Last Metro ride home (sniff, sniff) and now it's time to clean up at the HOUSE! But fear not, Mom, the adventure isn't over. Gettysburg tomorrow, Hershey, PA on Sat, and then on to New York to stay with Dave and Mel. If I have internet access, I'll keep blogging. Thanks to all you comment makers! You inspire me to get this written down.

Several guides and experts had told us to skip the Washington Memorial, but our kids were absolutely determined to go up. We had tickets for 9:30 am yesterday, and we'd also planned to bike the monuments. We had three bikes here and were planning to rent three more downtown. Then logistics kicked in.

No bikes on the Metro until 10 am. The bike rental shop opens at 9 am. You have to pick up will call tickets at 9 am for a 9:30 ticket. Don't forget the Metro parking rules. We can split up, but at least one adult has to go with each group. Three people have to ride the bikes to the Metro and take them on. Neither adult cares whether or not they go to the top of the Monument, and Nigel can be coerced into almost anything, but the remaining three children are all passionate about this experience. Oh, and we have no bike locks, so the bikes can't be left unattended at any time.

We worked on that knot for quite some time, and our ultimate solution had every child in tears. Fortunately this vacation seems to be blessed, because although Alex, Nigel, and I arrived at the Washington monument at 9:30 with me desperate to use the bathroom, we still got our tickets and made our group. And just as we were sitting down in line, I heard the ranger telling a grandma and her two grandchildren that they needed to go over to the 10 am line. I ran up to her and asked her if she would trade her 10 am tickets for 9:30 tickets and she went along with it.

I did have to leave the tickets with a nice family at the end of the 10:00 line, but they successfully found Tom (he's about 6 feet tall with a goatee and a red Cougar hat...) and we made it back down seconds before they had to leave the bikes. All this for an attraction we thought would be dumb. Fortunately, it turned out to be beautiful, and the kids were excited to see their vacation laid out at their feet.

The Air and Space Museum (where we went after picking up bikes and extra locks, lest any of you remain distracted by our bike problems) was as advertised. We've gotten into the rhythm of turning the older two loose and splitting the younger two between us. Nigel has been Tom's leech (as you would be if you were normally stuck with Mom every day), so I got to trail Tim around as he discovered the Wright brothers, the Space Lab, Apollo 11, and the forces of flight. We were both amazed to discover all the Wright brothers' experiments. Their motto was PLAN TO FAIL! LEARN FROM IT! THEN SUCCEED! Tim wanted to sketch the flyer on the back of a Washington Monument brochure. I told him we could save time by buying a copy in the Museum Store. He replied, "But this is cheaper. And they might have left something out."

We decided to skip the Spy Museum in favor of more time at Air and Space, so we let the kids go on the flight simulators. Tim was floating afterward. "Sorry if I seem weird," he said. "I'm just a bit giddy from flying!"

Biking Washington was one of our very best decisions. Yesterday was cool with a fresh breeze, and it was heavenly to float around the tidal basin, to Jefferson, to FDR (kids named it best monument), to Arlington. It was like escaping a cloud of gnats, leaving the crowds behind. People clump up in these things, and I guess we tend to clump with them. If you can get into your own rhythm, the monuments can be quiet--almost deserted.

Well, except occasionally when we had to pass through the crowds of pedestrians. Then I was riding on Tim's back tire, spattering him with word globs, 90% of which I later discovered he never heard. "Tim, TIMTIMTIM!! Nononononononono!! Right! Keep right! Other right! Go over! Watch that man--TIMTIMTIMTIM!! Stop! Walk your bike for a sec! Okay, honey, we've got to keep a careful eye on the pedestrians." ("Aren't we pedestrians? We're pedaling!")

At one point, a brusque man yelled "On your left!" and sped past me. "Tim!" I yelled! Keep over!" He immediately started to drift left. "No! Tim! No!" I yelled. "Nononononono! Keep over! Tim! Turn!" He later said that "Turn!" was the only instruction he heard. Which was made obvious when he DID turn right into the guy's path. The guy yelled at him thoroughly, which he fortunately mostly disregarded, although I was tempted to yell at the guy, "Can you see he's a nine year old kid?!"

I will do a flash forward to 10 pm, us pedaling our weary bodies into the gravel drive at 8005, and just let you know that no sightseers, locals, or Metro riders were harmed in the making of this vacation. It was close at moments, though.

Arlington, 6:45. Last changing of the guard, 7:00 pm, and this place runs on military time. We threw our bikes in a pile, wrapped the krypton cable around them, and moved off crisply up the hill. I rode the tour bus last time I went to Arlington and I STILL remembered that it was a ways. We were moving fast, and in fact our sweaty, drooping bodies were in sight of the tomb when the clock bonged. I hope I didn't ruin anybody's experience with my last minute stage whispers--"Tim! (pant) Run! (pant pant) Runrunrunrun! (pant) C'mon Tim! You can do it!"

The changing of the guard is a precision operation, as most of you know but I had forgotten, so all that running at the end was extreme. We made it fine. And the kids definitely got a feeling of solemnity and reverence, as well as the sense of the human toll of war, from Arlington. Our exit was solemn, reverent, and much slower.

And, though we didn't get to dinner (our first dinner out, which I view as a digestive as well as financial blessing) until 8 pm, violating all rules of touring with five boys, somehow we got away with it, though there was nothing to take home in the doggy bags.

Our trip home with six bikes on the Metro was hair raising. We learned a lot. Pick the wide ticket lanes. Move to then end of the train. Dismantle trail-a-bikes before attempting the escalator. Hang on to all screws, nuts, and essential parts before re-assembling said trail-a-bike. Metro platforms are slick and you really don't want to go down onto the tracks looking for a nut. If you choose to box in a whole bunch of tired Metro passengers, make sure it's in DC, where the locals have an astonishing tolerance of tourists.

I also choose not to remember pedaling home in the pitch black, through a local park and past some slightly questionable local hang-outs. All's well that ends well, right? Last DC day today!

Sorry--I only have access to one song! Quick--send me a .wav file! Narrative follows.

Smug

Standing in the line to see the Declaration, Constitution, and Bill of Rights yesterday about 11:30 am, I noticed a family behind us doing the dash and check. They had out their map and the father said, "Okay, okay. Run up and take a look, and then we've got to get over to Lincoln."

Tim stood by my side holding a color copy of a military message sent by carrier pigeon in WWI. It said, "To C.O.306th Infantry From: 1st BN 308th Infantry WE ARE ALONG THE ROAD PARALELL 276.4. OUR AR ILLERY IS DROPPING A BARRAGE DIRECTLY ON US. FOR HEAVENS SAKE STOP IT. WHITTLESAY MAJ 308th."

We had spent the morning digging through the Hollinger boxes in the ReSource Room, exploring patents, photographs, and shreds of history, and finding such treasures as a letter from a 12 year old Fidel Castro to FDR (expressing his love of the USA and asking for a ten dollar bill), Lady Bird Johnson's typed diary entry of a certain day in Dallas (changes annotated in pencil in the new First Lady's own hand), and full sized copies of the charters of freedom (including the hand print on the Declaration). We'd paused at the Magna Carta to admire the king's seal.

After lunch, we were to spend another couple of hours in the Archive's public vaults, and then we were off to Lincoln's Cottage to spend a quiet afternoon in the shadow of the great man himself, not on the crowded steps of his memorial, but in the peaceful cottage he loved best, where he spent a quarter of his presidency! (Side note: I really do love this tour, and you should make time to come here if you find yourself in DC. Its restoration has just been completed, and the tour was wonderful--it brought Lincoln the man to life in all his brilliance, determination, humanity, humor, and pain.)

I was so pleased with myself as we left the visitor's center. How brilliant my strategy was, how masterful my planning! Unlike the other visitors to Washington DC with their long faced, moaning children, I had left the beaten path! My children were reveling in history! Inspired by fabulous art! Fired up by treasures of the past! Appetites whetted by exposure to source materials, they now hungered for the feast of information! This trip, perfectly designed and brilliantly executed, would fuel their future studies and open their tender minds!

Then Alex grabbed my hand and, turning his anguished face to mine, proclaimed that if I forced him to go to one more museum, he would stick his head under the wheel of the car.

Well, we can't all be museum lovers. Or smug mothers who plan the perfect vacation. I think we might go biking today.

Saturday was the National Gallery. More than one person told me they thought it was a terrible idea. Both our guidebooks listed it in the bottom 10 for kids. Even Mom (who dragged me through many an art gallery back in the day) suggested that I not get my hopes up. After the LOC, I despaired, but I felt that we at least needed to spend 45 minutes or so looking around so they boys would know what the National Gallery is.

Tom is a big art lover too, so he was quite supportive, and we got the boys audio tours. Turns out there's the Director's tour for adults and a kid's tour for Nigels.

They loved it. I went with Tim, who had to stop and look at every piece of classical sculpture (there is more of that than you might imagine). He identified subjects by their greek and roman names, commented on their personalities, examined little artifacts included in the sculptures and speculated on why they might have been included, and looked for veins and faults in the marble. His favorite things in the museum were the Leonardo (Mom, look at the amazing detail of the hair and trees) and Bellini (and Titian)'s Feast of the Gods. He also loved Titian's Diana, which he prefers to call Artemis, because he prefers the Greek to the Roman.

On the video you'll see him explaining Feast of the Gods at length (and yes, let me give you an ARTISTIC NUDITY PRESENT warning).

Nigel was all business about his tour. He found the paintings with the tour numbers, punched up the commentary, and enjoyed. Alex and Tom set out after lunch for the East Wing, where Alex loved the Alexander Calder mobile and someone else I forgot who works with organic materials. Zach saw the West Building through from beginning to end. Over dinner he had lots of observations about the course of art from the middle ages through impressionism. Zach, Tim and I would have liked to have made it over to the East Building, but unfortunately they kicked us out of the West Building at 5 pm with things yet to see.

Today Tim told me he plans to be an artist and at bedtime I found him practicing ways that he wanted to pose his models (thankfully he was fully clothed).

After closing the National Gallery, we met up with the Bowmans and crammed into a taxi (all 9 of us!) to visit the Lincoln Memorial as a conclusion to the day. I note that the kids are much more conversant with the history of Martin Luther King--and much more excited to see the "I have a dream" plaque--than they are with the history of Lincoln and the Civil War. A historical hole that I plan to fill starting tomorrow with our visit to the Lincoln cottage.

Today we had a quiet Sunday, visiting the Rockville ward and discovering Jeff and Marisol Franks behind us when a speaker shared a story about how they had come to her rescue when she was stranded after a car accident an hour outside DC. Melinda Baird is also brand new in the ward and played a musical number. Mormon world is a small one indeed.

Well, this wasn't fascinating, but I'm exhausted, so here's the video, and more tomorrow...

Friday, August 15th

Our last two mornings have started out bright and early at the "Kiss and Ride" lot at Takoma Metro station. "Kiss and Ride," and yes, I did have to research this, apparently refers to parents who park and walk their kids to the platform, give them a kiss, then come back to the car. We in the west call it short term parking. And we don't really get the concept, so Metro has gone to some lengths to explain it to us.


Looks pretty straightforward, right? So the first day we left the car at 8:30, returned at 3:30 and all was well. The second day, Gillian and Jonathan called our attention to the meters sitting in front of the parking spaces. Oh, those meters are artifacts of a previous metro parking system, we kindly told them. Not so, they maintained, pointing to the instructions actually written on the meter. We read those instructions. They seemed to involve a lot of quarters. More quarters than the average person could carry stuffed into an internal frame pack with waist belt and chest strap. More quarters, actually, than the average person should be allowed to own at one time unless they are a government certified quarter collector. More quarters, certainly, than any metro employee is willing to hand over in change. We pooled all our quarters, including the ones obtained from the change machine in the metro station, and fed them all into the meter for Gillian and Jonathan's car because a) Tom always likes his chances, and b) Julia looks on a ticket as the cost of being a tourist. After putting all but two of the quarters in, we discovered that the meter we were feeding with 90% certainty belonged to a car already parked on the opposite slant and not to Gillian and Jonathan's car.

I'd leave you in suspense as to whether or not we got a ticket from this maneuver, but then how can you relax and appreciate the Capitol, the White House, and the Library of Congress? Never mind that this would give you an authentic feeling for Gillian and Jonathan's day. I'll just skip all the touring and tell you that the white thing flapping on the windshield that nearly caused Jonathan heart failure was a brochure for the flea market. I think we were helped by a trash fire on the red line that prompted Metro (according to the Washington Post) to "put all its skilled workers out to pick up garbage." Phew.

Well, the Capitol Building, the White House, and the Library of Congress were as gorgeous and cool as I remembered, but these are not really "family attractions." As Tim said, "Mom, I think I'd better come back someday when I can appreciate all this." We caught up illegally with the tail end of an illegal White House tour--probably because they weren't supposed to be doing it, they couldn't kick us out. That was fascinating and gave our kids a great appreciation of just one thing: the presidential seal in the entrance hall.

The Capitol Building is just as you remembered it. The Library of Congress, on the other hand, has decided to go hip. A movie, made in conjunction with the History Channel, makes library research look positively dynamic. The kids were raring to go after viewing it. Our docent, unfortunately, was not as dynamic. In fact, he was soft spoken, pedantic, and without those stories that make kids sit up and pay attention. Only some of us survived the tour.


Some of the rest of us were reduced to photographing anything of interest.


By the time we were released from the tour and got to the good stuff (first draft of the Declaration of Independence!! Thomas Jefferson's source material for some of his best ideas in the Declaration! Drafts of the Constitution! Margin comments in his own hand! Thomas Jefferson's actual original library and the nucleus of the Library of Congress!), everyone was comatose and we finally had to utter our DC refrain ("Let's come back...") and return to save the cars.

I just read an article on the neurolearning blog I love that discusses how childrens declarative memory--memory for facts and events--is weak. It strengthens over time, but at the age of Nigel, Tim, and to some extent Alex, episodic and personal memory is much stronger. This seems to affect the way they like to discover and learn new material. I'm discovering that they want to approach and understand all the things that are here for them, but probably not through docent led tours. I find it fascinating to see how if we just leave them on their own to look and discover, they move through the boredom and after an hour or so, they start getting interested. That means a radical pace adjustment for Tom and me, though. It's like Christmas, I guess--we adults are always wanting to get moving when our children are finally starting to get interested.

Phew! Enough for today! But remind me on a slow day to tell you about the guard in the Peacock room.

No pictures from yesterday because it was our "big day"--Capitol Building, White House, Library of Congress. And possibly no pictures from TODAY either, because Mom made a mistake with the date! I read and reread that paper, enough times to have memorized our Congressman's office number, but still missed that it said "August 15th" at the top of the paper. *Sigh.* And thanks to a lovely man named Peter from Burlington, Washington who spent 30 minutes waiting outside Congressman Rick Larson's door with us--mildly cursing his aide and threatening to vote for his opponent of course--we had trekked a mile to the White House under some time pressure (well, we have forty five minutes! Let's get out and see the Mall!") and waited in line at the entrance gate before we realized my mistake.

Nigel melted about half way down the Mall and Zach and Alex were on the verge. Two pieces of white toast and water out of the water bottles (we were in a hurry!!) ran out about five seconds after we got the bad news. We had no food or drink, of course, because you can't take so much as a pen into the White House with you, let alone emergency rations, so we ambled down the hill, blew $10 on gatorade and pretzels, and wandered aimlessly onto a patch of shady grass to eat.

Let me pause here to say that there is a fate that has been lurking around the corners of my future most of my life. Could be genetic predisposition, or an unlooked-for inheritance from Grandpa. Usually feels like being mugged by the spirit of Scouting--in the form of four boys, Donna Hawks, my priesthood leaders. But in this case, it was benevolent. As we strolled across the grass, the back of a humble monument loomed ahead--two artistically wrapped but still mostly unclothed idealistic figures being lead by a small, determined looking boy in a scout uniform. It was the monument to the Boy Scouts, erected by Congress when they cared about the BSA, and clearly now neglected by them and 99% of all visitors to Washington DC. But (and I suppose this is the purpose of monuments) it still stands there in its shady grove waiting for people like us to trip on it.

And waiting in a tree just behind it, 15 feet up and dangling like fate on a branch, was a bright pink Aerobie. It cost about half our gatorade bottles (Mom: Could we please drink those before we throw them into the tree? Dad and boys: Nice idea, Mom, but we need the weight.) but of course we did eventually get it down, and it saved our day. After about 20 minutes of wild Aerobie playing, the entire family was restored to cheerfulness and we went off to gaze at Megaladon teeth and the Hope diamond at the Museum of Natural History (which was the closest).

Yes, we spent $50 on food at the Prehistoric Cafe, and several hours in the museum did reduce several of the kids to zombie state, but Tim made it all worth it.

Mom: What was your favorite thing about today, Tim.

Tim: (*sigh*, ecstatic gaze) Oh....everything. This was the best day of my life. I imagined what it would be like, but I never dreamed that it would be this great.

I will never forget the sight of him lying in the middle of Whistler's "Peacock Room," gazing at the ceiling and never wanting to leave.

So I've spent too long on this now, and that's going to make it another rush out the door! Fortunately I stocked up at Costco yesterday, and Jonathan and Gillian are here--we're planning to make them pay for it by carrying our lunch!--so if nothing else, we should be well fed today!

We're Off!

Following a cleaning frenzy, we collapsed into the car and drove to meet the Ruthers, our exchange family. Our kids have been wondering for weeks if they were going to "rob us blind," and if they are, it's a beautiful scam. They're very intelligent, gracious, fascinating people. When they told us on the phone that their wireless is unprotected, I realized that we're a pretty good match. Paul put it best when he said that trusting people works "about 98% of the time, and the other 2% won't break your spirit." That's how I like to live too. We're really lucky to have met them online and we're excited to be on our way in about half an hour!

Also, please note. Poor Cecily is everybody's travel agent. She claims that anyone can do it, but I can never do it like she can. This is our "cheap" airport motel. Let's just call it the "South Seas at SeaTac." The kids think this IS the vacation.

This is a test video. We're getting ready to leave Tues. for DC and I'm planning to keep a trip blog while we're there. In the meantime, Check out the boys talking about their latest gadget: Tiki Corn Skewers. Fortunately, Tom was able to purchase 48 for only $2. If you're sold, let me know so I can pass a few along.

Becoming Dr. Mumford III

Well, now that Nigel has (almost) finished med school, (Congratulations Nige!) it is good to know that his namesake will be following him down that long and arduous path. My prediction (and you can take this one to the bank) is that our son Nigel will become a doctor. How do I know this?

First, ever night his prayers go like this: “… and please bless the people with headaches, and backaches, and with infections, and with wounds and with cuts, and with scrapes…”

Second, his favorite bedtime story is our Readers Digest anatomy book (with color diagrams).

Third, we drove through the cemetery today on the way home from church to commemorate Memorial day. On the way home Nigel said, “Dad, I want to go back there some time when it is raining”.

Dad: Why is that?

Nigel: So we can see the bones.

Dad: What are you talking about?

Nigel: Zach told me that when it rained a lot at the seminary, all the dirt washed away and you could see all the bones.

Apparently Nigel had remembered Zach telling us about a cemetery where that really happened during hurricane Katrina. We told Nigel that that did not usually happen, but that we were going to Washington DC this summer and he can see bones at the museum. That has now become the main focus of the vacation for him: “I can’t wait to see those bones.”

A few weeks ago Julia’s friend was visiting and telling her about trouble she was having with her new baby’s diaper rash. Nigel came into the room and heard Julia suggest that it might be a yeast rash. He then offered, “Mom, there’s a new over the counter solution for yeast diaper rash.”

Last week Alex started complaining that he had asthma. Julia said, “No, Alex, it’s just seasonal allergies.” Nigel chimed in, “Hey Alex! Claritin clear!”

I must admit that these last two examples may be more of an indication that Nigel watches too much TV. Still, I think it is more than coincidence that it is the medical stuff that he remembers best.

Finally, a couple of weeks ago Julia looked out the window to see Nigel and his friend Katie, from next door, jumping around and having a great time on the trampoline … completely naked. Later, when we asked him why they did that, he got really defensive and said it was all Katie’s fault. Katie of course denied this and claimed that she was just following Nigel’s lead. And I’m sure that running around naked and blaming other people for one’s choices is somehow another indicator that this kid has an aptitude for the medical profession. We have always said that Nigel will be there to take care of us in our old age. Now we know how.

More Tim

If I had to characterize Tim's attitude to life lately, it's lay low and get by. Today I looked over to see him slumped in his chair, lips roughly on the level with his plate, gently easing the rice over the ridge of the plate and straight into his mouth.

"Tim!" I said. "Sit up and eat with manners."

Since I'd noticed him already, he decided to take the opportunity to ask for more chicken (as Tim lovers know, he's fully capable of eating a whole one by himself). I said, "If you can eat the rest of your rice with perfect manners, you can have another piece of chicken."

Man! The kid is capable! After taking a few elegant bites, he said, "Mom, this is a lot of work."

Apparently he's decided that about prayers, too, because in the last few weeks he's pared down his prayer to a skimpy three thoughts, not one of which uses more than four words to express. Then he repeats. One night before nighttime prayers, I said, "Tim, I'd like you to really think about who you're talking to."

"No, Mom," he immediately replied, "I don't want to. That would make me feel very tiny."

I found a great blog (thanks to some friends) about the fate of kids in the paranoid old US of A. It couldn't express my thoughts more perfectly if I'd done all the research and writing myself. So if you're bugged by the fate of the modern day child who exists almost totally in an adult-mediated world, if you've ever wondered why we think it's safe to give a kid who has never walked across town the keys to the car at age 16, if you've ever sat through a discussion of the dangers of child rapists and kidnappers and wondered to yourself, How common is this stuff? How scared do I REALLY have to be?, head on over to free range kids. Be sure to check out the links farther down on the RH side for some thoughtful statistics.

Had a glorious ski day--last of the season and we had to use our free passes, so we skipped the WASL--on Friday, and I made a GREAT discovery! You don't have to ski to enjoy the trip. I didn't want to ski because a) I had no free pass, b) I had no equipment, and c) I'm a pleasant, slightly deconditioned woman in my forties who can clearly picture starting a response to inevitable questions like this: "Well, it was the last day of the season, and I hadn't skied much..."

So I spent the day on the slopes in my running shoes. It was GREAT!! And news for all you skiers: it's not really two miles from the lodge to the car, the stairs are incredibly shallow, and the bathroom is actually quite conveniently located. I spent part of the morning working in the lodge with two other pleasant, slightly deconditioned women in their forties and part of the morning being driven crazy by a bored Nigel. Then I got smart and put him in ski lessons. Jarad the ski instructor (with a snowboard coat but he skis, Mom) is now Nigel's best friend and Nige loves the "hand lift," where we spent the rest of the day with me lounging in a plastic chair waving to him as he endlessly rode up, skied down, rode up, skied down. Perfect day.

Tim Thought

"Mom, we love each other, and that will never change, even when we [i.e., you right now] are mad. The love is bigger than the madness, it's just covered in it."

Get Reader

Today's post is just a little quickie for those of you who have yet to discover Google Reader. This is especially you, Nigel. If you will take ten to fifteen minutes right now and head over to Google Reader, you can sign up for a service that will save you quite a bit of blog checking time. If you already have a blogger or gmail account, you don't even have to set up a new profile. Just log into your gmail account, click on "Reader" in the top LH corner. No gmail? Just google "google reader" and you'll go straight to the start page. You may already have a google account even if you don't think you do--google owns blogger so your ID and password for blogger also work for google. Dispense with the "tour"--it's so simple you don't need a tour. Click on "get started adding subscriptions." My favorite way to add is to navigate to a blog just like usual and just click on the orange square at the RH end of the URL address window. That takes you to a little routine that will let you add that blog to google reader. It takes a minute to add all the blogs you regularly check, but once you have, you just get all new blog posts like email--title and a little synopsis. You can either read the text right there or navigate over to get the full experience including comments. I'm sure there are other (better!) ways to set this up, but this was my way and WHAT A DIFFERENCE IT MAKES!!! I caught Colin's stealth post the day it went up and was surprised by Tamsin's out of the blue post right immediately (instead of 7 months later...) If you're a blog fan like me, you should try it!

And by the way, if you're not yet getting emailed when people comment on your blog, log on to settings and set that up. These two changes have drastically reduced the time I spend checking blogs (mine and everyone else's).

The Chain

My friend Teri hosted Alison, me, and eleven hungry, dirty, exhausted, exhilarated kids at her beach cabin last week. Before you can drive back in to park, you have to unlock and lower a chain. Teri says you leave life there when you come in and pick it up on the way back out. Except that I'm having trouble getting it all packed back on. I can't remember how it fit before.

Tim said his top five of the cabin were: 1) The cousins (including Sophie), 2) reading, 3) the clams galore beach, 4) the food, and 5) the independence. I loved waking up every morning in that big communal room and hearing the relaxed breathing of so many people I love. I liked going down before everyone else was awake and stretching in the cool Northwest sunshine. I loved the beach walks, and watching kids playing for hours and hours in the driftwood and sand, and piles of rubber boots, and sitting on the Adirondack chairs on the last night watching reflections on the Sound and pretending it was summer in April.

The weather was glorious, glorious! As were the bald eagles, seals, Orcas, porpoises and even a grey whale. It was a beautiful week. Thank you Teri, Alison, and all you grimy kids.

We took the train from Everett to Seattle to get Alison and the kids to their plane. I loved it, as always. I'm a train person. I'm not sure ALISON loved it, but she was incredible. After she left with the kids for the airport (did you make it, Alison?), Tim and I did "Tim's Seattle"--we met Mr. Dewey live and in person on the spiral at the Rem Koolhaas library , ate fabulous delicacies at Belle Epicurean in the basement of the Fairmont Olympic (you eat there, dream about it for a year, eat there again...), and trekked down to Elliott Bay Books to buy something to read on the train home. It was the most gorgeous day of the year, absolutely heavenly. We saw Ranier and Baker and sunlight on the Sound. I could have upgraded to a sleeper and kept going to Chicago!

Well, now I've crossed the chain. I'm picking it all up and piling it back on again. But I find that although the week was full of kids to care for and food to cook, it was a vacation, a real one. I'm lucky on both sides of that chain. It's a nice life. I'll take it.

Shorts

At Alex's Sasquatch/Young Readers Book competition this week, the moderator read this competition rule: "I will read all questions twice. I will not repeat the question." Tim burst out laughing. It took me some time to understand what made him laugh. If there is some career involving immediate recognition of absurdities, he's going to make a lot of money.

Our Emmett Mumford Cousins (EMC) are here. This involves teasing and huge quantities of cheddar cheese, among other things. We had meatloaf sundaes for dinner, and for the first time someone--Harrison!--out-ate Tim.

Well, this isn't like the week when Nigel's bath water somehow drained directly into the downstairs toilet and huge bubbles bloomed up from the toilet seat. I have time to blog...and of course, no worthy material.

I'm thinking that I should tell you that my darling angel of a fourteen year old bomb maker got the most HIDEOUS progress report this week--a report so BAD that his teacher was REQUIRED to CALL ME ! We were both so embarrassed and surprised. We just traded awkward Zach compliments while struggling to find the words to discuss an F in Orchestra. This would be for a kid who practices every day AND comes to "Fiddle Club" at 7:30 am once a week. What are you going to say? He's the only Bass in Orchestra. Everybody KNOWS he's got the part down. And that earns an F? Yet I don't want to be the parent whining about the grade. Clearly this is Zach's problem. He has to turn in the practice sheets. He ACTUALLY PRACTICES!! And he doesn't turn in the sheets. But an F? Showing up every day with the part learned, attending all concerts dressed in a white shirt and tie, coming in an hour early once a week, being (as I discovered this week) the ONLY KID IN THE EIGHTH GRADE WHO STILL LIKES ORCHESTRA--this is FAILURE?!?!? COME ON!! Oops. Slipped over into the whiny Mom for a second.

That's all. Maybe something interesting will happen this week?

Frozen

Last time I was in trouble with the police, I nearly got arrested for playing sardines in Sloan Hall. That particular group of Young Adults was classic bad company--the group that also decided on a different Friday night to explore the steam tunnels under the campus police station.

Having raised a whole new pack of bad company, I found myself in trouble with the police again last Monday afternoon. Well, if your kids suggested popping old milk jugs and Seven-up bottles with dry ice and water, would you think that was a bad idea? I did have them all wear eye protection (snorkel masks, old sun glasses, hockey eye shields, swim goggles) and gloves, and I was more or less supervising the activity from the kitchen. True, I though it would sound like a pop gun, and the first blast sounded more like a land mine, but really! How many fun ideas are there left for your average over-supervised, wii-zombie type all American boy? We have no "system," and so we're constantly on the lookout for good clean fun. Like dry ice bombs.

Ben's mom arrived to pick him up and the two of us were chatting in the kitchen. She had just finished saying, "No, I'm glad you let them blow up the milk cartons. I'm delighted to think of him playing out in the yard instead of sitting in front of a screen," when the police officer rang the door bell.

Now, I do realize that I had failed in my due diligence, as later info from the web confirmed. For example, I did not realize that the 2 liter pop bottle they exploded went off with 200 psi of blast force. And I didn't realize that dry ice bombs are explicitly illegal in four states, and quasi illegal in 46 others. I felt that his point about incurring large legal fees while trying to spring my kids from jail or juvy was well made if inaccurate in our particular situation. BUT as far as the dry ice bombs blowing the kids' hands off...well, even after extensive research, I think that nice officer was just perpetuating an urban myth. In fact, I feel so strongly about this that I'm going to let all of YOU vote on it! That's right, my first ever poll!

Ben's mom was very nice about the visit from the law, although she looked just a little tense as she hustled him out the door. *Sigh.* You'd think just one of the members of the MTC would have some common sense. You'd think that would be me.

Other shorts:

Zach ref'ed two games in a roaring blizzard on Saturday morning, then took the bus to the corner of Northwest and Bakerview and slogged home through six inches of wet snow wearing...you got it! His ref shorts and his ref socks pulled as far up his thighs as they could go. Where was I? At Cub Scout Day Camp registration and Adjudications, frantically calling to try to get him a ride, but never able to connect with him even after I did. Tom was in balmy Nashville. We got a letter from the ref coordinator that might as well have been addressed to "Zach Mumford" and which explicitly outlined ALL the cold weather gear you can wear to a Youth League game under your uniform--including under armour, a black hat, black gloves, black track pants, and even a winter coat under your long sleeved ref shirt! Poor kid. He still seems to like the job.

Alex had a great adjudication! And pleaded with me to take him to play his soccer game in the snow. Too bad it got canceled.

Porter kept scratching open a sore on his nose so he had to wear a lampshade this week. It made him even more spastic than usual, and you could hear him, night and day, charging through the house sending chairs, toys, and small children flying as he whapped them full-on with the lamp shade. He was completely unembarrassed at having to wear the contraption and continued to charge through the door to welcome visitors, knocking them off their feet and imprinting a circle on their chests (with a tongue mark in the middle).

Spring Back

I feel spring. Not the way I used to feel it--coaxing sunshine, green shoots, soft air--but the way it feels with four active boys and two active church callings--jammed calendar, impossible schedules, exhausting, oppressive. I fear the end of affordable oil, but wouldn't life be easier if orchestra teachers COULDN'T plan back to back concerts across town from each other? If schools couldn't afford to bus your kid to the school 30 minutes away and had to let him bike to the one five minutes down the road? If we literally couldn't make it to the huge list of activities planned by church, school, lacrosse, soccer, piano, voice, cello? Yes, I chose some of this for myself and my kids, but still, I can't help but sometimes wish for a sort of transportation breakdown that leaves me stranded at home.

The Mumford boys got a shout out in Sacrament Meeting today from the Bishop. He was telling a classic story of what the Mumfords know as FTPA (failure to plan ahead, or ready fire aim syndrome), and he looked down at our bench and said, "I can just see the Mumford boys doing this." True, but slightly funny from a man whose own son broke his wrist longboarding, and (since he could still ride) broke his collar bone doing the same thing the very next week.

Zach ref'ed his first games Saturday. This required a ridiculous amount of behind the scenes work by me. But still it was mostly satisfying to watch him stride out onto the pitch in his ref uniform. It would have been TOTALLY satisfying, except that the uni featured shorts with a 2.5 inch inseam and a V necked, short sleeved shirt, and the outside temp was about 37 degrees F.

The website dictated that "Black long sleeved shirts under the official jersey are NOT acceptable." So I wouldn't let him wear his Under Armour. He was absolutely the ONLY ref there without it. Nobody on the sidelines seemed to notice him, which I found astonishing since he looked like a skinny vanilla popsicle. We stuck around for a few minutes to cheer him on in his first assignment, but after making him miss a couple of calls, we discovered that it wasn't so helpful to stand there yelling, "Blow your whistle louder!" and "Nice call, Ref!" and "Way to chase that play down!" So we took off.

Two and a half hours later, I went to pick him up. It would have been only two hours later, except that he was a bit confused about the length of the halves and gave his teams extra long games. I blew the equivalent of his first day's earnings on a hot chocolate (venti) and ran to the field for the last few minutes of the game. His nose was red and weeping slightly, and his body looked a little cramped. Luckily his second game was girls U9, which was less challenging ("Mom, I love ref'ing girls. Every time something comes up, they ALL LOOK AT ME to see what they're supposed to do!") After he blew the final whistle, I ran onto the field, hot chocolate extended. He wouldn't take it. After a few seconds of me trying to thrust it into his hand and him not taking it, he said, "Sorry Mom. I can't move my hand."

Still, I think he's going to enjoy it. And I think he's going to wear his Under Armour next week.

Mumford shorts (but not as short as the ref shorts :D):

Pulled from Tim's pocket just prior to leaving for sacrament meeting last week: a nose flute.

NCAA highlights: watching basketball with Zach. We're both pro-PAC-10. Tom thinks rooting for Stanford and UCLA is disloyal. Zach and I think it's fun. What's not to like about Kevin Love and the Lopez twins, as long as you're not trying to beat them?

NCAA lowlights: the commercials. I'm constantly craving pizza and I've realized that *I* am Sven.

Nigel walked up to me tonight and said, "Want to take the woman test? Hold out your arm." I obediently held out my arm. He hit it hard with a thin strip of cardboard. "Ow!" I yelled. He looked at me with satisfaction and pronounced conclusively, "Woman!"

And Other Misc.

I've been waiting for something to blog about. Nothing has come up. So, since everyone is posting videos of their darling kids, I thought I'd just post...essays... about my darling kids. These will not be in video form. We have no video camera. We bought one once but I got so scared that I'd bought the wrong thing and gotten a bad deal (which was probably true since I bought it, retail, at Circuit City at Christmas time) that I took it back.

Nigel's week goes like this: Monday, School Day, PAM DAY!!!!, School Day, Friday. He lives for the arrival of our housekeeper Pam. She brings him cheetos, gummy snacks, and real turkey eggs, lets him help scrub out the toilets and dust with the feather duster, and gives him a tin full of bath fizzies (which contain foam animal gel capsules) for Christmas. Did you follow that? Oh well. I also let him watch TV while Pam and I clean. It's his ONLY TV day. Pam Day is the best day of the week. He carefully monitors the days of the week so he knows how long left until the glorious day arrives. In fact, he carefully monitors and manages everything. He is the kind of kid who refuses to go to the potty until he has 1) informed me of the fact that he needs to go and received my acknowledgment. (This takes a little longer if he is going to take a little longer as I must faithfully promise to be on hand to wipe before he gets started.) 2) Has carefully turned on all the lights, 3) has checked that there is adequate soap on hand AND a towel within reach, and 4) has made sure that there is adequate toilet paper. He is also fascinated by anything having to do with anatomy--the NG issue on the circulatory system, the leap pad anatomy book, the book on diabetes at the doctor's office ("Mom, is this a pancreas?"). He still insists that he's going to be a fireman, but...OC Surgeon, anyone?

I asked Tim what he wanted to make for the annual Cub Scout Cake Decorating contest, and he immediately replied, "Watermelon Island." So we did. Yes, yes, I took a picture and I'll post it. I was telling the boys tonight that I needed their help so we could get ourselves off for Pullman on Weds and he reminded me, "I think you'd better not count on me. I'd love to help but my Tuesdays are just packed." Which is true. He goes from school straight to Kids on the Run (they "ran" 2.5 miles last week and I had to scrape Tim up off the floor to take him...) straight to Cello lessons, home for a quick dinner, and then to Cubs. That's EVERYTHING he does, and it's all on Tuesday. Go figure.

Alex is suffering from a testosterone surge. No, actually, Alex isn't suffering. We're ALL suffering from the testosterone surge. Alex and Zach look like Big Horn Sheep much of the time. ("Stop bugging me!" *thwack* "YOU stop!" *thwack*)

And yet, there's also a lovely side of Alex. I'd tell you all about it, except I think he'd *thwack* me afterward. Let's just say...you ought to hear him sing. Our stake sent a primary choir to Interfaith this year and Alex sang a gorgeous solo. And yes, I did discover that it's impossible to hear the flaws in your own child's performance. Alex also did a project (under duress) for music history day. I enclose a sample of his work.

Zach is fun. Well, they're all fun, but they're especially fun when they send you text messages that say "I love you," thank you for your help, do their online geometry without reminder day after day, babysit gratis at the drop of a hat, thoroughly clean the playroom when asked, and are the cutest teenage boy in the Ward, School, and possibly State. He's even started emptying the pockets of his jeans before putting them in the wash. Quick! Somebody pinch me! The only real argument I've heard from him lately would be a tiff with Dad over the exact basketball rankings. Is UCLA #2 or #3? Yes, we have the odd Bighorn moment (see above), but by and large... I'm not going to complete that sentence. Knock on the computer screen. In a few months you'll be leading me back to this post by the nose and insisting that all things pass. He's become quite the electric bassist and is loving playing the electric guitar. Members of an embryonic band have formed up in the basement for a jam session or two, but fortunately they have not yet managed to find a drummer.

Hey, Mom, glad you stuck with me this far! If something interesting comes along in my life (have not done any surgeries or stuck it to the man recently) I'll post again.

Getting to LaX

This last Saturday I attended what appeared to be the culminating event of CougNation Fantasy Camp. The Coug faithful, dressed in Western Viking Blue, donned pads and helmets and spent a couple of hours chasing men in purple Husky jerseys around a football field, beating them up with metal sticks.

There were refs on the field, but they were worse than any Pac 10 refs I've ever seen. Ignoramuses on the sidelines (self included) tried yelling out helpful observations, like, "Number Six just tripped a guy!" and "Over the back! Shooting two?" and "Sir! Assault with a deadly weapon on the twenty yard line!" and "Hey! That man just punched his opponent and left him for dead!" And about twenty minutes into the game, we discovered that they DID have yellow flags in their pockets. But despite all our hints, they did not USE the flags OR their whistles (if they had them) to stop the violence.

By this time, of course you have realized that I was attending neither a Husky Slam Fest nor a crime in progress, but a collegiate lacrosse game. And I was clearly an alien in a strange land. Nothing looked right. Lacrosse has always seemed like a finesse game to me--little ball, little nets, tossing and catching, keep away kind of thing. That whole finesse idea went right out the window during the first sixty seconds of the game. The ref dropped the ball on the ground and as soon as a player scooped it up, all other players began whacking him furiously about the legs and torso as if he had stolen the ball rather than merely acquiring possession.

Turns out the Iroquois were not kidding when they invented the game and called it "Little Brother of War." And the coaches are not kidding when they say that even seven year olds playing the game need more pads than a football player--arm pads! Wrist pads! Shoulder pads! Chest pads! Shoulder BLADE pads! Back pads! Finger pads! Plus a full face helmet, mouth guard, and chin guard. After all, in football you only get to use your bare hands. In lacrosse, they give you a stick. And to the amazement of the uneducated spectators at Saturday's match, they REALLY DO tell you to whack away!

Fortunately Alex's friend arrived about half time with his Dad in tow, and the Dad explained a few things to me. "What I love about this game," he said, "is that the coaches absolutely respect the origins of the game. This is our heritage, our oldest game, and disrespect is absolutely not tolerated, in any form. I really love that cheap hits are just not tolerated, just not allowed. If they refs see a cheap hit, that's an automatic penalty, and on the second one, you get tossed."

I deeply appreciated his sorting that out, although I was not then or ever able to distinguish a cheap hit from all the other hits (To the chest! To the legs! Up and over the shoulders! One earth shaking smash flattened the ball carrier and sent the ball out of bounds. The ball was then awarded to the aggressor and play continued.) One thing I did sort out: the object for spectators is to keep an eye on the ball, as the players are so busy whaling away at each other that the little thing often falls out of the "crosse" and gets "loste." At that moment, all in-the-know spectators cry out, as a man, "ball down!" and the players stop hitting each other long enough to find the ball, scoop it up, and carry on with the carnage.

Alex fell in love with this game at the age of six when he saw a pair of toy lacrosse sticks in JoAnn Fabric and Crafts (hmmm...another black eye for crafts). He saw those sticks and he just HAD to have them. He worked six weeks for them. He has been determined to play the game ever since. And he loves it. Well, what boy wouldn't? Here are your pads. Here's your helmet. Here's your stick. Now go to it, buddy!

But Saturday's bloodbath gave me pause. Out here on the West Coast, lacrosse is our own cherished blend of native origin and East Coast Prep, irresistibly snooty yet earthy, the ultimate Volvo mom club sport. That image lured me in. But it didn't convince me to stay.

I only came to peace with lacrosse by recalling a game I know much better. Sometime late Saturday night, I realized that the maiming of the ball carrier would seem perfectly legal in a game of American football. Beat him up? Try to strip the ball? Shove him down? Step on his face? Kick him out of bounds? All perfectly legal. This is just football without the psychotic football dads. Oh, and everybody has to run around a lot more. And did I mention that if you have to be on defense, they try to soften the blow by giving you a stick roughly the length of a transom pole? If play gets held up on the other end of the field, you can amuse yourself by fiddling around with the angle on the stadium lights (if so equipped).

All fine now. Play on. Except I may try to steer Timmy toward swimming...

SNOWBOARDING

I have skied most of my life. From the first time Bill Felsted took us to Brundage when I was 14, to skiing 5 different resorts on our honeymoon, to last Monday, I have many fond memories of the slopes, and I have skied at almost every resort from Bellingham to Salt Lake.

I have been pretty lucky about avoiding injuries, too. The only exception was one time when we drove up to Mount Spokane with our friends, Dave and Ken. I volunteered to take a big jump and landed in very sticky spring snow. When I woke up a few minutes later I noticed the snow covered with blood and Julia and two other people standing over me. As my eyes began to focus I exclaimed “Hey look, Julia! Dave and Ken are here too!” Ski patrol imprisoned me until noon for that comment.

My favorite place to ski is Alta – both because it has the most spectacular terrain and because it does not allow snowboarders. I have always considered them to be part of the coarser lot – just above dentists, telemarketers and real estate agents.

So it was with a conflicted sense of bemusement that I found myself snowboarding at Mount Baker last week. My logic was as follows: All kids want to snowboard these days. If I don’t learn how now before I get too old and brittle, I won’t be able to, like, get massive air with my shredder sons.

I completed my first run with no problems other than getting separated from Tim. After waiting at the bottom for a while I began to get worried and decided to head up and look for him. I came partly down the slope and was looking around and behind me when … WHAM!!

I hit a small piece of ice which caught my edge and slammed me to the ground where I landed with my full weight on my right shoulder. Thanks to my New Year’s resolution that I will not shave until I have turned my two liter bottle into a six pack (I have lost 7 pounds so far) you might think that my full weight could not do much damage. You would be wrong. I felt a hard crunch and two thoughts popped into my mind in the following order: (1) dang! A beautiful day of snowboarding wasted! and (2) I just broke my collar bone.

I sat there wondering whether I should get up and try to make it down to the lodge, but I realized that I was going into serious shock.

A skier who was also a nurse recognized that I was not well, and soon I was riding on a snowmobile down the mountain while struggling to maintain consciousness.

My main concern was this: It was a beautiful blue sky day and I had six kids with me. I had just shelled out over $120 for lift tickets and I did not want to ruin the day for them.

The doctor assured me that it would not matter whether I got an x-ray now or in a few hours, so I rested in the first aid shack, took some ibuprofen and relaxed until I was out of shock. I was joined by another snowboarder with a deep bruise to his gluteus maximus and another snowboarder with a head injury. No skiers reported to the first aid shack.

My only other concern was getting down the mountain at the end of the day. I was not sure I could handle the windy and snowy access road with only my left hand. I figured that if I walked around the lodge enough I might run into someone I knew. So wrapped in my new sling I wandered the lodge, getting many concerned looks (most from parents of snowboarders). I eventually did find someone I knew who had a friend who drove us home at the end of the day.

As we were driving home I overheard one of Alex’s friends call his mom on his cell phone:

“Oh, it was really fun! – except Brother Mumford broke his collar bone.” He was right. Except that technically I just have a separated AC joint. There is not much difference however, between the two injuries: both heal in about 3 weeks – which means I still might be able to get some more snowboarding in this season.

On second thought, maybe I’ll just ski.

A few Timisms:

While praying: “…and please bless my friends – and also all my foes…”

--------

Dad: “Tim, maybe you could invent a special pill that would take away the desire to do wrong. And it could be given to bad guys so that they would not commit crimes anymore?”

Tim: “Dad, I think that would be against Heavenly Father’s plan of free agency. So I’m not going to invent it.”

"Dad, I will come on the snowcave campout, but I'm just going to sleep in the car." insisted Zach.

"No, the whole purpose is to teach you survival skills and you are going to dig a snow cave and spend the night in it – and I don't want to argue about it anymore!" I said for the fourteenth time.

I had just finished reading an article about a team of Polish mountaineers who climbs Himalayan peaks in the WINTER just to prove that they are tougher than everyone else, and I was motivated to have my own encounter with extreme adventure by digging my first snow cave. I figured that if those Polish mountaineers can spend 2 days in a tent on top of an icy ledge in 40 degree below weather waiting for the storm to break, I can surely survive on night in a snow cave at Mt. Baker.

Making the cave was relatively easy – if you don't mind a little hard work and you are not claustrophobic. After a few hours I was soaked with sweat on the inside and damp on the outside from lying in the snow, but Alex and I had a comfortable cave – a tunnel that led to two sleeping chambers lined with a tarp.

We ate and went sledding and then bedded down in the cave while we were still warm from the exercise. Alex and I talked a bit and he was soon asleep in his warm mummy bag. Since we had several scouts who did not have sleeping bags I had loaned the other ones out, keeping just my regular cloth bag for myself – after all if those Polish mountaineers could survive 4 weeks in sub zero temperatures I was sure I cold make it through one night.

Well, at first I was quite comfortable in our snug snow cave. We were out of the wind and my body was warm. As I snuggled down deeper into my sleeping bag, it did occur to me that I probably should have changed into drier clothes. However, at that point I did not want to go back out into the cold and I did not want to wake Alex up. That is how I learned what it must feel like to be a fresh steak thrown into the freezer. At first, only my head and feet were cold. However, as the night wore on the sweat on the inside and the moisture on the outside began to slowly freeze and after a long time I began to feel a few involuntary shivers.

Still, I figured that at some point I would become tired enough not to feel the cold so I waited, shivering in my sleeping bag, and endured. After a few hours of this I was still not sleepy and was starting to realize that I was not going to feel comfortable unless I reached that point in hypothermia where you start to feel warm again – the part that comes shortly before death. Still, I figured that I could get through the night. After a long time I decided to just shine my flashlight and see how the cave was holding up. To my surprise, the ceiling, which had been about 18 inches above my face when the cave was dug, was now less than a foot away. I realized that our body heat was slowly causing the cave to melt and shrink, and I began to try to calculate whether the roof would stay high enough to last the night, and whether it would keep shrinking slowly or simply collapse suddenly. I discovered that thinking such thoughts took my mind off how cold I was feeling. I also discovered that if I could lie very still I could actually hear the cave slowly collapsing and that the effort required to do this also distracted me from the cold.

However, that sound was soon replaced by the sound of an animal rummaging through my backpack at the cave entrance. I figured it was not a bear or a cougar since either of those would have already eaten us. More likely it was a badger, raccoon or a squirrel. I also found that thinking about this took my mind off the cold. I didn't want to wake up Alex and go out in the wind, so I finally decided I could share whatever was in my pack with the critter which was so intently rummaging through it.

Unfortunately, after making the decision to abandon my pack to the creature, I found it more difficult to take my mind off the cold. I realized that as the cave continued to shrink, my body heat was slowly escaping me from all sides and I was becoming entombed in a tube of snow. Still, I figured that if those Polish mountaineers could endure temperatures in which any piece of exposed flesh would be instantly frostbitten, I could stick it out through the night. Besides, I was probably more than half way through already.

I had turned off my cell phone to save batteries, and I felt the urge to check the time. But I figured if I could hold out for another hour or two before looking at the time I would be close enough to morning that I would be able to hang on. So I waited, listening to the creature rummaging through my pack as the cave slowly collapsed and Alex snored.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity I worked my cell phone out of an inner pocket and turned on the power. It was eleven thirty.

I can not describe the sense of despair that I felt when I realized that I was going to have spend another two lifetimes even colder than the one I had just experienced before I would see the light of day. Would the cave hold up? Should we dig deeper? At this point, I was shivering and I could tell that it would not be long until my teeth would start to chatter.

After agonizing about what to do for another hour, the critter finally woke Alex up. We yelled at it and swatted at the pack, but it seemed to be tangled up in the plastic cover. Finally, realizing that we would have to leave the cave, I pulled my boots on and decided to try to scare the animal as I made my exit. As I scrambled out of the cave entrance, yelling, I pushed my pack hard, and it fell over – and out of the wind, where it at once became a peaceful inanimate object -- completely intact. But if you were there, the wind would have fooled you too.

We saw two other snow cavers huddled around the fire and joined them. However, we only had a few logs left and we found that while huddling near the fire was better than being in the cave, we were were still losing body heat. After burning our few remaining logs and drinking some hot chocolate, we scrambled up to the cars to get a little sleep. We found the suburban inhabited by two other scouts who had already homesteaded the best seats.

It felt so good to walk that we just kept going, walking up to the ski lodge and down to the security gate. Once the blood started to flow I realized that I was going to survive. As long as I kept walking I would make it through the night. A feeling of gratitude came over me as I felt the cold and fear melt away and I realized that even though I would be tired the next day I was going to be warm again.

Reflecting on this experience, I believe it is much like our testimonies of the gospel. When we are passive and isolated, worrying about ourselves in the dark, our inner fire begins to cool. Even basking in the testimony of others, like sitting by the fire, can make parts of us feel warm for a little while. But the only way to really feel the warmth of the spirit fill our lives is to be active in the gospel. Jesus spent his ministry among the people. And Christianity is much less of an abstract set of concepts that it is an active way of life. I have found that my faith is stronger when I am actively involved in teaching, serving and worshiping than when I a take a theoretical and abstract view of religion. As James said:

"Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, to visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world."

Epilogue

Eventually, all the scouts ended up sleeping the in cars. We ran the heater for a while and loaded up the gear around 5:30 am. I had not slept at all and I jokingly asked the boys if they wanted to stay and go sledding one more time before we left. The answer was a resounding YES! Sometimes in life your only choice is tired or cold. If you choose cold you eventually die, but if you choose tired you will always come through all right. I have to sign off now. I've got to catch up on my sleep.