Raise Your Hand

Tim and Tom just got back from Mountain School. Had a great time. Thank goodness Tom went or we would never have known that....

One night the park ranger came and did a fireside program. She showed the skulls ("skull replicas" says Tim) of many intriguing animals, including bear, mountain goat, and cougar. After showing the skulls around, she asked what they all had in common. Tim's hand shot up.

"They're all charismatic megafauna," he said.

After several moments of stunned silence, she asked, "What does that mean?"

"Well," he responded, "they're large--mega--animals--fauna--in which people are unusually interested, so charismatic."

Tom told the story at the dinner table and Tim put in, "We saw some charismatic microflora too. Dad found yarrow root. It was so charismatic that everyone was distracted from the teacher while they chewed it up and discovered how it numbs the tongue."

Tom and Tim were naturally popular additions to Mountain School.

DisNitrous

Julia’s note: Tom arrived home a few minutes ago after a very difficult root canal. He was clutching a card on which was written: P=J*B, P*J*B= Love. He dictated the following bizarre stream-of-consciousness account of his morning, insisting that I type it verbatim and refusing to do anything else until I had done so. I’ve now put him to bed. The dental assistant said she had never seen anyone so affected by laughing gas.

Tom’s thoughts while coming out of a nitrous oxide induced state:

I could feel the gas penetrating my body from the outside in, just like you would freeze a fish. At first it was just the outside part that was just a little bit tingly, but deep inside I still had complete control, and I knew that anytime I wanted to, I could either tell them to stop the gas or rip the mask off myself. But because I trusted them, I decided to go deeper into the experience and see what would happen. I’ve felt that feeling before and so I had a vague recollelction, but the recollection went back so far and became so basic that I wondered if it was a recollection that I had from childhood or from a time when I got my wisdom teeth out at 18, or just the last time I had laughing gas. After a second it didn’t really seem to matter. I decided it was probably the last time I had laughing gas, but I couldn’t be sure if that was this time also, because time didn’t much matter at that point. The thought occurred to me that I probably was back in the dental chair in Bountiful Utah and that the whole idea of Zach and Alex and Tim and Nigel was probably just some dream I had about what the future might be like. And then the Beetles started playing “Yesterday” and I could hear Paul McCartney’s bass buzzing loudly and the problem when you’re in a state like that is that you can only think of one or two things at a time. Normally, there are thousands of things going on around us and we’ve trained ourselves to ignore them, but when you’re in an altered state, you have to consciously direct yourself to focus on something, and it can only be one or two things. So as I was listening to Paul McCartney’s bass buzzing, I noticed that the bass was getting louder, but it was the exact same tone and frequency as the dentist’s drill, and I thought that was really convenient, and I wondered how they worked that out, because later when he came back with Hey, Jude, the same thing happened again and I wondered if the dentist had re-tuned his drill. But then I realized that that hadn’t really happened at all because the music was only happening in my ears and the music was keeping me down. But there was a little tiny part deep inside myself that was still me, and I thought if only I could stop the music, I could hear what they were saying about me, because if I changed my focus, I could see them talking and laughing above me in the air as if I wasn’t even there, as if I were an object, a piece of meat, just another case. So I decided that even though they could take away my dignity, they couldn’t take away my ultimate power to choose and I decided to spy on them by reaching up with my hand, which took all my concentration, and unplugging my headphones. It was a mighty effort, but when I concentrated everything I could on that one motion, I was able to unplug the headphones and discover the great secrets that they were holding back from me as the world continued on without me. However, when their voices came back into focus after a brief rest, I was disappointed to hear that they were just talking about Von coaching his little girl’s soccer team. And after a little while of listening to the boring conversation, I mustered all my strength and plugged the Beatles back in, and that’s when I got to the end of Hey, Jude, the part that I normally hate, where the singer is screaming and the music is ugly. But this time I was glad that it was there because it showed me that someone was alive and I understood why murderers say that they have to commit a crime just so see that they’re alive because they’re so past feeling that the only way they can sense that they’re human is by taking another life because it gives them a temporary sense of being alive. And I comprehended in a moment this great secret: that in the end raw power is the law of the universe unless it’s mitigated by our higher sensibilities of beauty and truth and justice; that without those concepts, which we DO feel in the deepest parts of our being even when everything else is gone, the universe would just be raw power. But it’s not, because no matter what they take away, they can’t take away the yearning of the human soul for truth, justice, and beauty. And that’s how I came up with my formula: P = J x T (beauty and truth are the same thing, as we know from Yeats) and that the only way that we can have justice or beauty is when raw power allows itself to be tempered by the other countervailing force.

At one point, I remember the dental assistant coming in and talking to me, but I don’t remember much of what she said, except when she said my name I could focus for a minute. I remember at the beginning she asked if I wanted eye protection, and I said, “No, you can just leave my glasses on,” and she laughed because I didn’t have any glasses on. At one point she came in to do something and I was only vaguely aware of her presence and the only way I could communicate was to write with my finger, but I didn’t know her name, so I just wrote “What is your name?” with my finger. She ignored me, even though this was really important. Sometimes I think crazy people and Alzheimers patients are trying to tell us something with their spastic movements and crazy chanting. When she leaned over to take a picture of my mouth, I draped my arm around her waist just to be anchored to another human being. When I started waking up, I felt really bad and said, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” and she said something back to me, but I don’t remember what it was. I could have been asleep for two hours or two days, I don’t really know. If they had come to me and said, “Tom, we just need to reach in your pockets so we can get your credit cards so we can make some online purchases for ourselves,” I wouldn’t have said anything. If they had asked me to sign a contract selling my house for one dollar, I would happily have done so.

I also realized that music is very powerful. Because when you’re in an altered state, if you can only focus on one thing, if that thing is music, the music becomes the definition of your whole existence: you literally are music.

I’ve never been a drug user or been addicted to any chemical substances, but I can understand now some of what they must feel. Every few minutes, I would get the urge to rip off the gas and stand up, but it was so much more comfortable to just let the experience wash over me, and I realized that I was passing up decision points and that soon I would not have the ability of my own free will to make that decision anymore. When you strip everything else away to the essence of who you really are, you’re left with a few basic elements that are probably the building blocks of the soul. Those are: truth, beauty, love, and being connected with other people. When you have no power, nothing else matters.

The end.

Clamming

This experience happened several years ago, but I was reminded of it yesterday while camping with the scouts on Lopez Island, so I decided to write it down.

A couple of years ago we bought some crab pots. I have never been much of a fisherman because my brother, Brett, got all the fishing genes in the family. But crab pots are different than fishing. You just put some salmon, chicken or turkey in the pot and throw it over the pier. Pull it up every 30 minutes or so, and you will have crab in the pot. You do have to check to make sure they are at least 6.25” and male, but that is easy. And to cook crab you just boil them. It is so simple. No tying knots or flies, no tangled line, no fish hooks stuck in your shirt of fingers. And crab tastes better than trout. So a few years ago we took up crabbing.

One beautiful morning Alex and I got up early and headed up to the fishing pier in Blaine – right on the border. We had all our crab pots and it was the first day of the season. We figured that we would get there first and catch our limit of six crabs each. We were therefore sadly disappointed to discover that the pier was closed, and that there was still one week until opening day.

What to do? We had gotten up early and we were so excited to bring home some crab for the family that if we returned home with nothing we would never live down the disgrace and failure. I had heard that there was a beach where you could dig clams, so we stopped at a hardware store and bought a shovel, and drove to Birch Bay. Some parts of the beach had people on them but we found a place where we had the whole beach to ourselves, and we walked out and started digging. There were clams everywhere!

After gathering about 40 clams we walked back to the car, but as we did so we noticed a sign which read:

Warning: Biohazard – Beach Closed To Shellfish Harvesting

Once again were had been foiled. We could imagine the icy reception we would receive if we returned home with nothing, and Julia’s parting words: “Either return home with a bucket of Crab or don’t ever bother coming back.”

What now? We drove farther down the beach and we saw many people with buckets way out in a very low tide. Surely, this beach must be safe. We grabbed our shovel and bucket and headed for the water. I had heard that you could find a clam by stepping near a hole and looking for a squirt. Sure enough, we found some holes and some squirts, but every time we dug down over the hole the clam got away. We tried this several times with no success and I was beginning to think nasty things about Brett, who must have gotten all the clamming genes in the family too.

We were getting pretty tired and discouraged digging when we noticed an old lady with a baseball cap throwing large pieces of clam to the seagulls. She had a bucket and a shovel and seemed to know what she was doing, so we went over to watch and hopefully get some advice.

I explained that this was our first day digging clams, and asked for a few pointers. The lady was about 70 years old and had a big bucket full of clams and seemed to be enjoying herself out on the beach. She said she had already gotten her limit and would be happy to help us. She showed us a good clam hole and told us to start digging. We started digging right over the hole and lost the clam. “No”, she said, grabbing the shovel out of my hand. “This is how you go after your horse clams”. She then quickly removed several dump truck sized scoops of sand from around the clam hole, being careful not to disturb the hole itself. Then with a deft little jump and a twist of her shovel she threw a softball-sized horse clam up on the beach. Alex and I just stared at it dumbfounded. We had never seen a clam that big, and we had no idea what to do with it. Before we could speak, the old lady had picked it up and whipped out her knife. “Now, slide the blade in here and cut the muscle that holds the shell closed," she said as the shell popped open. “Be sure to cut out the scallop and cut this nice muscle off the back,” she said as she ripped the guts from the long neck and threw it over her shoulder to a waiting seagull. She then showed us how to slice the neck lengthwise and peel off the outer skin, leaving a large flat clam steak. “That’s the best part” she said. “I like to marinate mine and grill them, and sometimes I make clam strips.” She then explained how to make the breading and gave us several other recipes from memory. She talked about how she had been coming to this beach for many years and how she had a whole freezer full of clam steaks and chopped pieces for chowder.

Alex and I thanked her and with her new technique and several corrections we dug up our limit of horse clams. We also dug a few steamers and headed home triumphant. Alex and I sat out on the lawn and cleaned our clams and talked about what a great adventure we had. JB was not as impressed with our catch as if it had been crabs, but after she tasted the clam strips I made according to the old lady’s recipe she was converted. Later that night, after we had put the kids to bed I found Alex sneaking down stairs for a midnight snack. He had discovered that you could put a clam in the microwave and that after about 30 seconds it would pop open all ready to eat with a dash of salt and a little dab of butter. He had a clam in each hand and when I told him to go back to bed and looked at me with those sad puppy dog blue eyes and said, “Come on Dad, just one more. Please?”

The Muddy Muddy Middle

Triumph for Tim this morning in front of about 100 people at the talent show tryouts (American Idol at the Elementary School). He got up and set up his Cello, calmly cracking jokes with the judges like it was natural to interact with teachers while excruciatingly nervous and in front of a large group of peers. ("Yeah, there's a joke that says, 'A cello player came to practice, and by the time he set up, the practice was over.'")

Then, looking the judges in the eye, he said, "I'm going to play Rigadoon by Henry Purcell and my mom is going to accompany me." He proceeded to play the best performance of his life--sprightly tempo, no missed notes, great intonation. Normally a cello has a hard time competing with dancers, hula hoopers, magic acts, skateboarders, acrobats, etc., but Tim was hands down the most polished act of the morning. He rocked the tryouts.

Jump cut to Tim and me on a typical morning, afternoon, or weekend, in our usual exasperated fight over cello practice. He likes cello, he wants to practice, he's coming right away, just as soon as he finishes up the critical task of, oh, say, removing the lint from between his toes or lying on his bed contemplating what popcorn-type ceiling texture is made out of. Tired of having to physically drag him to practice sessions, I came within a hair of making him quit this fall. But he pleaded to continue, so the battle goes on.

And I call it a battle because it exhausts me, because I feel like I have fought when it is over, but with Tim there's no clear opposition. It's just endlessly pushing an inert object towards a distant goal. It's motherhood, I guess--the mind numbing repetition, the same tasks day after day, the monotony of getting up to do what I did yesterday and what I will do tomorrow, realizing that it is no easier to get him to practice today and it will be no easier tomorrow, realizing that we will work on little elements like his bow hold and his posture and see very little progress today, tomorrow, next week, or next year.

And then...today happens. And I watch that child, suddenly sparkling with confidence, with joy, with the knowledge that HE can really play, REALLY PLAY! That everyone knows it. A parent whispered as I left the gym, "He's got an incredible talent." I choked.

Yes, Tim won his Cello today, and I suspect the Cello won him, too, probably for life. And I won, in the way a mother always dreams of winning when she sets these little strategies in motion. But here's what motherhood is about--that the real triumph happened in the muddy middle, on that endless string of identical, impossible days when the original dream had faded to nothing and the exercise seemed pointless. The real triumph of motherhood lies, to paraphrase Jane Austen, in hanging on longest when all hope is gone.

Here's to happy endings, and long may we persevere in the muddy middle.

Dad's Last Class

Today was Dad’s last official class as a CES teacher. I know because I was there. Yesterday Brett and I were skiing when he mentioned that Dad would be teaching his last class. We both felt that we wanted to be there. Dad’s teaching of the gospel has shaped our family, and dad freely shares his experiences as a teacher. We have grown up with a great appreciation for the fact that Dad had lots of choices for his career and he chose to spend his life teaching the gospel to young people. I don’t think there is a more noble calling. So Brett and I called my legal assistant, Lindsay, and got a flight from Boise to Salt lake City the next morning. We drove to Emmett, caught 5 hours sleep and flew in to SLC where mom picked us up, unknown to Dad. We stopped for some bakery treats and then right before Dad’s class started we walked into the classroom.
At first dad looked concerned, and then confused. We cheerfully told him that we wanted to be there for his last class and he was very touched. The lesson was about the resurrection. The class started by singing “He Is Risen”, which I can never finish because I am always too overcome with the spirit of confirmation about the reality of the resurrection. Dad then showed some of his slides from Israel, and He described the pain of the crucifixion and asked the class to put themselves in the role of the early Christians, Mary, Mary Magdalene, Peter, John. He recounted the events between the crucifixion and the resurrection and as he did so everyone in the room was transported to the places of those miraculous days – the garden tomb, the road to Emmaus, the room with the apostles. Every student in the class was listening intently and the spirit of the lord opened our understanding of the scriptures and we felt joy and hope in the reality of the gospel of Jesus Christ. Dad finished by expressing his love for the class and bearing a sweet and sincere testimony of the Gospel and of the divinity of the Savior.
I was moved and uplifted, and wished I could have taken the whole course. After the closing prayer, Dad visited with his students, many of whom had not realized that they had become participants in the conclusion of a long and successful teaching career. I was impressed with how easily Dad was able to relate to and interact with his students, and with how much they respected him. I later reflected that it was a shame that more students would not be able to experience what I did that day – a brief yet beautiful glimpse into the eternal, and a confirmation from the Lord about the truth. Dad once taught me that it is not so much what the students learn in their heads that makes a difference, but how they feel in their hearts.
The good news is that even though Dad will no longer be teaching full time classes, he will continue with the legacy of doing good in the world as he begins a new stage of life. He will have the freedom to choose how to create the capstone to such a life well lived.
After class we took mom and dad to a seafood restaurant for lunch and Mom, Dad and Brett all had raw oysters on the half shell for the first time. They are kind of slimy and fishy and you put a little Tabasco and lemon juice on them and just slurp them down the hatch. Mom and Dad bravely met the challenge, and I think it was symbolic of going forward with new adventures and challenges as they begin a new stage of life. For those of you who have not yet tried raw oysters on the half shell, I urge you not to wait until retirement. If you come visit us I will take you to a place where we can shuck and eat them right on the beach. Congratulations Dad, on a great teaching career and on the new adventures to come!

Generating Electricity

I know, don't faint. I'm blogging. I had the most hilarious experience today. Daytime enrichment. We bought new wonder tablecloths just for this meeting, so I wouldn't constantly be ironing tablecloths (the bane of any enrichment counselor's life). These are just like Mom's gorgeous no-iron, hydrophobic water beading ones. I love 'em...but this is the first time I personally have used them.

Now let me set the background here by explaining that static cling is not an issue we have here in Bellingham. High humidity leads to limp clinglessness most of the time. I still have the dryer sheets mom bought me when we moved into this house. Over Christmas I washed and dried the new table cloths without taking any anti-static measures. Unfortunately, because they're packed up hot off the rollers, they have pressed-in creases that have to be removed before they're truly no-iron, and I hadn't gotten around to that. So this morning I ran down to iron them for the FIRST AND LAST time. I had left about 15 minutes for this job, but I only needed three tablecloths so I thought I was pretty safe for once.

It's a very cold and snowy day today, completely atypical for Bellingham. Static cling is in the air. And a little more than static cling, as I discovered when I picked up the first tablecloth. It literally leaped into my arms and wrapped itself around the polyester UnderArmour-like under layer I'm wearing today. I peeled it off and attempted to stick it to the ironing board instead, combing it off my arms with my fingers. It stuck to everything it touched like saran wrap, and when I tried to move it I was getting painful static shocks! As I pulled it along the ironing board, a piece of it trailed on the ground and by the time I got it up to iron it, stubborn dog hair that had escaped a thorough vacuuming earlier in the week was plastered to the edges. Before I was half done with a single table cloth, my 15 minutes were up and I had to run to the church to beat my sweet little old ladies. If I don't get there first to set up, THEY'LL do it and it's scarier than a day at the skate park. We've nearly put a couple of my determined, fragile, celestial 80 year old friends into the hospital setting up and breaking down those three tables and 21 chairs, and no, they DON'T think it's acceptable to watch me do it!

So I ran to the car, tablecloths stuck to all sides of me, carrying and frantically trying to fold my ironing board. I was at the car before I remembered that Nigel or Tim had tried to surf on it last year and I had saved it with wire ties. No more collapsing. Throwing open the doors and folding seats one handed while still battling the predatory tablecloths, I managed to cram it into the car and race to the church. With Alex's help (he had an ortho appointment, but this is the only time I'll mention it in order to simplify the story), I got the tables and chairs set up and two tablecloths ironed, but the process was so painful I was almost in tears. Every time I reached down to smooth out a fold, I got a sharp and painful shock. And you wouldn't believe how many people shed hair in the foyer! The tablecloths were collecting it from several feet away like a magnet collecting metal filings.

I rolled some of it off with gobs of ancient masking tape out of the closet. The tablecloths looked very nice stuck to the tables, but the static situation was getting intense. I got out the third cloth and started on it just as my dear ladies started to arrive. One of them looked at me strangely and suddenly I realized that my hair was no longer lying docilely on my shoulders. I was having my own unintentional Van de Graaff moment stuck to a tablecloth in the foyer of the church!

Life so often gives you the chance to make others laugh. On a sunny, static filled day like today, that's cause for celebration. And a blog!