The Once-ler's Tale

            In a far away land, where Truffula Trees once grew in abundance, the Once-ler lives a hermit’s life.  For a small fee he will whisper his story into a curious ear.  He will tell about the once great Truffula forest.  He will describe the Lorax, who spoke for the trees.  He will confess his part in the destruction of the environment and explain why there are no Truffula Trees anymore.  Dr. Seuss’ classic poem The Lorax pleads for conservation and protection of natural resources, cleverly reaching out to children in verse and illustration, teaching by parable.

            The moon shines in the first illustrations showing a desolate, empty land where very little grows.  This is a land bereft of trees, water, and any living creatures.  Legend has it that long ago the Lorax stood here in defense of the environment for as long as possible.  The narrator introduces the Once-ler, who knows the legend and will share it.  The Once-ler never appears in the illustrations, giving him the mysterious quality of the monster under the bed or Santa Claus.

            The Once-ler first establishes his credibility.  He saw the destruction of the Truffula forest, and can give an eyewitness account of the true story.  He demands a small fee before he will tell his story—fifteen cents, a nail and the shell of a great-great-great-grandfather snail.  Charging for the tale ensures that only those ready to listen and inclined to believe will hear the tale.  The Once-ler calls by Whisper-ma-Phone, forcing the listener to pay close attention to hear the Once-ler’s voice.

            The Once-ler’s story is a first person account of the great Truffula Trees.  He describes a time when the pond was full and the clouds were clean, implying that neither of those things are true any longer.  The illustrations add to the descriptions of the forest, showing colorful trees and fantastical creatures in a landscape any child would want to visit.  Vaguely humanoid Barbaloots play under the trees, happy and carefree.  The story and illustrations appeal to a child’s natural desire for ready snacks, bright colors, and supervision-free play. 

            Thneeds require soft, fluffy material like the Truffula tufts, and the Once-ler calls in his family to open a Thneed factory.  After the first tree falls, the Lorax appears to speak for the trees.  The Lorax looks at the Thneed and declares no one will ever want to buy such a thing, but a customer quickly proves the Lorax wrong.  Sputtering with rage, the Lorax pleads with the Once-ler to spare the Truffula Trees.  As the forest falls to the Thneed factory the Lorax appears repeatedly, showing the Once-ler the habitat destruction and air and water pollution caused by his factory.  Pollution causes certain damage; the results are empirically obvious.  The illustrations also tug on the tender emotions of children, showing sad faces and slumped shoulders as Barbaloots, birds and fish leave the area in search of healthier environments.

            When the last Truffula Tree falls the Lorax departs, leaving one word on a stone, “UNLESS.”  The Once-ler finally understands what has been destroyed and sits in his home with boarded up windows, worrying about how to right his great wrong.  As he whispers his story the meaning of the word becomes clear. “UNLESS someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better.  It’s not.”  The Once-ler whispers to a little boy, the only human in the book and someone children can relate to.  The Once-ler passes the last Truffula Seed to the boy, asking him to plant and care for the seed.  The child has the task of replacing the Truffula forest one tree at a time.

            Dr. Seuss’ audience of children has the power to change the world.  They may inherit a world full of problems and ugliness.  The Lorax gives them hope and suggests one possible solution to the problem of deforestation and habitat destruction.  In logic and emotion a child can understand and in the authoritative voice of the Once-ler, Dr. Seuss stresses the importance of preserving the natural world and taking care of the resources we have, even if it means factories must cease production of Thneeds.

Unsung Heroes

            When Joseph learned Mary was pregnant before they were married, he could have publically humiliated her.  He could have called for her death.  He could have had her cast out, ostracized, sent away in disgrace.  His kind heart, however, didn’t even consider these options.  He decided instead to quietly send her home to her father, calling off the wedding without any accompanying cruelty.  Then an angel came and gave Joseph his daunting assignment.  Imagine being asked to raise the Son of God.  Joseph was charged with teaching and guiding the boy to become the man who would save the world.  Joseph worried about young Jesus when He was three days late coming home—He stayed to teach in the temple, but Joseph didn’t know that.  Joseph taught him a trade, taught him to work hard and follow the law, and Jesus did grow to accomplish all He was sent to do.  Joseph should be commended for his service in behalf of all mankind.

            Mary’s parents are never mentioned in the New Testament.  They raised a young girl ready and willing to understand the angel who came to assign her great task.  Mary listened carefully to what the angel told her, then declared herself willing to take on whatever God wanted her to do, “Behold the handmaid of the Lord.”  Mary’s parents had reason to be proud of their teenage daughter.

            The shepherds in the field were the first to hear of the birth of Jesus.  These men knew of the prophecies and understood the scriptures, and immediately understood the import of the announcement.  They left their flocks and went to worship the Savior.  The shepherds were willing to risk their sheep and their jobs for a more important thing.  Nothing is said about what happened while the sheep were unsupervised, but I hope God watched over them and kept them safe until the shepherds returned.

            I love Christmas.  I love the trimmings and trappings, the shopping and singing, the decorations and donations to the red buckets.  I love all the chaos, I love having a house full of family and wrapping paper.  Most especially, I love the Savior.  I am grateful for His life and example, His teaching, His atoning sacrifice, and His continued love and concern for me.  “Thanks be to God for his unspeakable gift.”

Learning Off the Syllabus

            I went back to school full time this fall.  I studied hard, joined study groups, did my homework, did extra reading, and basically was a model student.  I learned lots; I learned a LOT that was not on any syllabus.

            Take extreme measures never to take another 1000 level class.  Not that the classes aren’t good, but the teenagers drive me crazy.  “What if I can’t come for the final?”  I cannot believe I actually heard that question, asked seriously, of a professor.  Then she threw a fit when he told her she’d fail if she didn’t take the final.  “You didn’t tell me I had to do a works cited page.”  Oh, come one.  Everyone requires a works cited page, for everything you ever write.  Welcome to college, Kid.  “It’s my opinion.  I don’t need to do any research or cite any sources.”  It is an opinion paper, and you are welcome to any opinion you can support with properly documented sources.  Different kid, but again, welcome to college.  Note to self: schedule classes with classmates who have a semester or two under their belts, not with these idiots.

            If you hear sirens in the middle of class, it means, “Someone’s dying.”  Muttered by a professor in the middle of a mathematical proof, this is hilarious.  Other gems from Cesar: “This will help you the rest of your life—well, the rest of your life in math.”  “Choose numbers that make your life easier.”  (This has applications for everything else in life, too.  Choose things that make life easier.)  “I speak two languages, Portuguese and Spanish,” spoken in perfect, fluent English.  Apparently English doesn’t count.  By far, this was the most fun I’ve ever had in a math class.

            Do your works cited page as you do your research.  I repeat, DO YOUR WORKS CITED PAGE AS YOU DO YOUR RESEARCH.  A midnight internet search for the publisher of that obscure article and the author of that one book (you know, that one) is not a fun way to spend an evening.  Save yourself the trouble.  And while we’re on the subject of citing work, www.knightcite.com is a gift from the MLA gods to students and researchers everywhere.

            Even if it is help I am uniquely qualified to give, offering help to adults who don’t request help is offensive.

            Aging brains do not learn as quickly or as efficiently as young brains.  I study a lot harder than my classmates to learn the same material.

            I learned how to sign, “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that” with sarcasm dripping from every movement and oozing from every facial expression.  Thank you, Melissa.  I also learned to tell a joke in ASL, and the expression equivalent to “Oh, give it up already.”

            I need a new laptop.  I need a small, light laptop that doesn’t weigh more than two pounds.

            I learned to ride the bus without having to talk to anyone.  I learned where to find recent novels in the college library.  I learned where to buy a croissant, a bandaid, or a diet coke.  I learned to carry multiple extra pens, and that pens invariably run out of ink in math class.  I learned that from a professor’s perspective, doodling looks very much like note taking.

            Mostly, I learned that college is fun, in spite of the work, the idiots, and the heavy, heavy books.

Every Day, Every Day

            There are days I do not want to leave my house, other days I do not want to leave my bed.  I drag my heavy body into the shower, lean on the cold tile wall, wonder what could possibly go wrong if I simply went back to bed for a week.  Even little tasks require more energy than I have—brushing my teeth seems an insurmountable obstacle to leaving the house, which I do not want to do, anyway.

            In adolescence I started scratching the skin off my hands, feet, and face.  Lacerations sting, more painful than a clean cut.  I wanted to feel something, and pain was easy to feel, easy to identify.  I wondered what had happened to my heart; I used to feel so passionate about everything.  By high school I just could not make myself care.  Summers were easier, when the sun stayed bright for so long and I could spend long days at the window, soaking up the warmth and buried in a novel.  In a really good novel, the characters show enough emotion to let me feel it, too.  Scarlett O’Hara, Jo March, and Pip graciously shared their passion for life with my numb mind.

            My little children used to spend afternoons tucked around my feet, begging for one more book, one more chapter, one more story, anything to get a few more words from Mom before I drifted off again, sending them to play in their rooms so I could sit quietly, doing nothing.  My children were clean and fed, I taught them to read and helped with homework, we went to church and the park and visited family.  All of the doing, however, took so much energy I had no energy to play with or talk to them. 

            Driving home one day, I found myself hoping I would be in a car accident.  I could be in a coma, or dead, and not have to pretend to be alive anymore.  I could lie in state, people would come to see and declare how much like myself I look, and no one would expect me to do anything.  I started to plan for after, when I would not be alive, and that finally jolted me into feeling scared.  Who would see that my children visited my parents?  Who would know they preferred crunchy cereal and very little milk?  Who would remember to skip the scary parts of stories when the littlest one was listening?  I got home and called my doctor; something had to change.

            I said, “I don’t want to kill myself, I just want to be dead.”  Dr. Klepke wrote a prescription for a little white pill, to be taken every night at bedtime.  I swallowed it mechanically, not hoping for much, every night for a month.  I dragged through my days, taking care of all the necessary drudgery of life.  My children got fed and bathed and read to, I remembered to eat every couple of days, and life went on as it always had. 

            One morning my alarm went off at the usual time, and I jumped up to shower and dress before the children got up.  I washed my hair, brushed my teeth, found clean jeans to wear.  I felt hungry, I—hey! I actually felt hungry.  I cared whether my jeans were clean.  Gravity pulled on me no more forcefully than it pulled on everything else.  Maybe the little white pills were worth taking after all.  Maybe a new life would start today, and I would not have to scratch holes in my skin just to feel alive.

            Now some days I feel great.  I love my family; I chat with strangers in the grocery store and on the bus; I do everything normal people do without thinking about it.  Those days are the most frustrating.  I want to be a normal person; taking a pill every day is not normal.  Some days, I do not take my meds; maybe after all these years my brain does not need them anymore, maybe I am cured.  For a few days, no one notices.  Soon, though, everyone around me seems really stupid, the world seems designed to annoy me, and I lash out at the people closest to me.  A week later, my family is happy that I have retreated to my room, hiding from the world.

            I drag myself out of bed in the morning, leaning on furniture and walls, trying to summon the energy to leave the house and live my life.  I try to decide if I want my life, or if I can let it all go while I stay in bed for a week.  That is when I know my brain will never produce the normal complement of chemicals; the little white pills will always be part of my life.  I grab a glass and swallow another one with great gulps of water, wanting to rush it into my bloodstream and into my brain, wanting to feel alive and normal again.

Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

I have not been an angel this year, but I have not been a hellion, either.  I cleaned my house occasionally, I talked to my children lots, I usually did my homework, I went to school choir concerts and fast food restaurants and other things my kids were doing.  I also snapped at my long-suffering husband, fed my dogs fattening human treats, and skipped church once just because I was sleepy.

Still, I’ve seen the extravagant gifts other people sometimes get, and I don’t think I’m any better or worse than them.  So here’s my Christmas list for 2010:

·         A pair of really fabulous pumps designed and made by Christian Louboutin, and if you could make sure I’m buried with them, that’d be great.

·         A less divided political system.  I’d like to see politicians from all political parties willing to listen to and work with each other.  While more cooperation is on the table, perhaps you could make the general public more willing to listen to members of the other political party, and less willing to blast and deride other opinions and goals.

·         A more agile brain, if possible.  I work really hard in school, and I don’t learn as much or as fast as I should.  I promise to do my homework if you’ll bring me a way to remember what I study.

·         A Kindle to store all the books I want to own and read without having to increase the amount of stuff I have to dust.

·         A more charitable heart.  Or a more repentant heart.  Or both, if it’s not too much trouble.

·         A singing voice that won’t frighten the cat.

·         Opportunities to share my faith.  I trust in God, I believe in Christ, I rely on the Holy Ghost to see me through life, but I don’t share my source of comfort very often.  I don’t want to offend or startle my friends, so maybe if a couple of them would ask about my religion, I’d be happy to answer them.

·         Just one day when all of the bathrooms in my house are clean at the same time.

·         A new refrigerator.

·         Since I get a new birthstone ring for each grandchild, if you could arrange for a grandchild to be born in April (birthstone, diamond) I’d sure appreciate it.  And if the parents of the grandchild love and respect each other and the baby, so much the better.

·         I know I have a lot, but a couple more nativity sets from different parts of the world might be fun.

·         Healthy family, happy friends, helpful neighbors, harmonious governments.

·         Peace in the middle east, freedom in North Korea, safety in Africa, food in Haiti.

Love, Les

Gift Getting Guide for the Holidays

            When the shopping is done, the presents are wrapped, the cookies are baked, and Christmas is here, what happens when you open boxes and bags with presents in them?  Do you get exactly what you wanted every time?  Did your mother ever wrap up socks and underwear for Christmas, that you opened in front of your obnoxious brothers?  Have you ever gotten a sweater you love that just doesn’t fit?  So what do you do?  If you haven’t read the script, here it is, complete with stage directions and program notes, so you can take comfort in knowing you behaved perfectly even while you’re returning the sweater.

            It’s easy when the gift is exactly what you wanted.  Your significant other came through with the duchy and diamond tiara, for example.  Your eyes open wide, then crinkle at the corners.  Your mouth falls into a wide, delighted smile.  You shriek, gasp, or cry with delight (depending on your personality).  You hug the giver with heartfelt affection and gratitude.  Later, you use, display or wear it (or live in it if the duchy has a palace) and tell everyone who gave you such a fabulous gift.  Within a week, you send a note of thanks, restating all the delighted things you said when you opened the gift.  You don’t need a script for this one, it all happens without you thinking about it.

            But what if it’s not quite right?  For example, the jeans are the wrong size, the watch battery dies in a month, or the gift card isn’t as much as you had hoped?  Then what?  Well, you do exactly the same thing.  You convincingly smile with delight, thank profusely, offer affection, and send a thank you note within the week.  You may need to practice this in the mirror so you get it right. 

            The difference is in what you do the next day.  Under no circumstances do you let the giver know the gift missed the mark.  You go online to discover where to exchange the jeans, without letting on to the giver.  You take the watch to a repair shop and have them replace the battery.  You spend the gift card and think nice things about the giver, even if you can’t afford the great thing you really wanted or even if you have to spend some of your own paycheck.  You do not ask the giver to make the exchange, the repair, or give you more money.  Feel grateful for the affection that came with the gift if you can’t quite feel grateful for the gift.

            What about the truly hideous family heirloom from Great-Aunt Martha or the even more dreadful souvenir from Cousin Otto’s trip to Key West?  You can’t exchange them, and you can be sure Martha and Otto will look for the objet d’art whenever they visit you.  These sorts of gifts must be accepted with the same delight as the tiara, and they must be displayed in your home.  The guest bathroom, the laundry room shelf or the back bedroom closet will do, and you can pull them out to the piano when you are expecting a visit.

            Every once in a great while, someone will give a gift that is completely inappropriate (pajamas from a young man to a young girl he’s dating) or truly offensive (bottle of wine to a recovering alcoholic).  In either case, you may refuse the gift.  The merely inappropriate may be refused with “Oh, I wish I could, but I just cannot accept this.  How sweet of you, though.”  The offensive may be refused with anything from “I’m afraid I can’t accept this” to a stiff “How dare you?” depending on the degree of offensiveness.  Thank you notes are not required in these cases.

            Practice looking delighted and happy, buy paper to write thank you notes on, and have a happy holiday!

Gift Giving For Everyone on Your List

            Gift giving is hard.  It’s hard to guess what someone else might love.  It’s hard to find a gift that sends just the right message.  It’s hard to wonder if they really like it, or if they just say they do.  It’s even harder if they say outright they don’t like it.  No wonder we all get so stressed about shopping for the holidays.  If only Santa would whisper in our ears, it would be so much easier.  To ease the pain a little, here are some guidelines:

            Pay close attention to any texts or emails beginning with the words “For Christmas, I want . . .”  Ads torn from magazines and taped to the bathroom mirror or stuck to the fridge indicate something that might delight the receiver.  Obviously, a million dollars in a Swiss bank account is almost always appropriate.  But what if none of these are options?

            Adult men do not need stuffed animals; they don’t want them, either.  They do not now, nor will they ever need soap on a rope.  They usually need socks, but this is not a gift they will appreciate.  Men like gadgets, buttons and technology.  The problem is that men go out and buy for themselves whatever they want.  They must be forbidden to shop for themselves between Thanksgiving and Christmas so the rest of us have a fighting chance.  Otherwise, it’s just not sporting. 

            Wives and girlfriends should buy clothes and cologne for the men in their lives.  Give him a shirt or sweater you would like to see him wearing on New Year’s Eve, one that you want to cuddle up against.  Give him your favorite cologne, and tell him it’s your favorite.  If he surreptitiously borrows your skin care products, give him his own in a more masculine package.  Matching sweaters are rarely on his wish list—try to resist the temptation to look like teenagers at an amusement park.

            Little girls are easy.  Go to the toy store, buy anything and everything pink or purple, especially if it sparkles.  Even if she has one already, she wants the whole set, and a spare for her friends to use when they play dress-up. 

            You might as well buy educational toys for little boys.  Anything they pick up will become either a weapon or a hammer, and you’ll feel better about giving them something they could learn from if they would stop banging each other with it for five minutes.

            Teenagers want money, preferably cash, but gift cards will do in a pinch.  You know your teenager best; if there is a chance yours will spend the money on something you disapprove of, such as drugs or anything with the words “parental guidance suggested” on the cover, you will have to be a little more creative.  This is an excellent opportunity to give them something you want them to have—a new suit and tie, for example, or a dictionary.  Be cautious about giving luggage, as they will probably take that as tacit approval for a road trip with their friends.

            Women are surprisingly easy to shop for.  We are good at giving hints, both subtle and obvious.  If we don’t give hints, or you don’t catch them, simply follow my little brother’s formula: something soft, something sparkly, something stinky.  Something soft would be a sweater, cashmere gloves, a cuddly blanket, or a puppy if you promise to housetrain and walk it forever.  Something sparkly would be anything you buy in a jewelry store, and you truly cannot go wrong with diamonds.  Something stinky means perfume in our favorite scent, but do not buy this at a grocery or discount store unless she specifically and emphatically requests it.  Shop at the makeup counter in a department store—ask the salespeople for advice if you need it.

            Neighbors and office mates do not need or want any more clutter.  Consumables of almost any kind are the answer here: candles, lotion, treats, pens—you get the idea.  If you are the boss, your staff does not want an office party.  Your staff wants an afternoon off with pay.  You get the same productivity as you would at a party, and you save the expense of catering and decorating.  Teachers don’t actually love apples, but they adore students who turn in work on time, neatly done.  Old teachers love thank you notes telling how much you learned in his or her class. 

            See how easy that was?  You get extra points for wrapping it, and extra extra points for having it wrapped if you can’t wrap a pretty package.  Now that you’re done with your shopping, go give a few broad hints about what you want so you ease the stress on the people you love.

            Next time: how to graciously accept a gift even if you don’t love it.  This can and should be forwarded to whoever it is on your gift list that invariably hates whatever you give them.

Fashion 101 for Men

This class is designed to help the fashion challenged among the male gender.  Women, feel free to send this on to the men in your life who may need to hear this.

1.      White sneakers go with nothing but exercise wear.  Not jeans, not slacks, certainly not a suit.  If you are older than 10, buy some real shoes.  Even if your white sneakers are new enough to be white, they are almost never the right fashion choice.

2.      White athletic socks ONLY go with white sneakers, and thus, should almost never be worn.

3.      Black or brown leather sneakers, however, can be worn with jeans and casual pants if you want a casual look.  Black canvas sneakers are fine if you are still in high school.

4.      Gray and khaki do not go together.  Not now, not ever.  Stop that right now.

5.      Short sleeves have no business appearing in public with a tie.  Short sleeved shirts are not dress shirts.  White button up shirts with short sleeves should be burned immediately.

6.      Grown-ups (over 38 or so) should limit the graphic printed t-shirts in their closet to vintage concert tees from concerts they actually attended and “Worlds’ Greatest Grandpa” tees when hanging out with the grandkids.  Plain t-shirts may be worn if they are made of silk.  See Tommy Hilfiger for inspiration.

7.      Clothes should fit.  Shirt sleeves should be long enough to cover your wrist bone.  Slacks should have a slight bend in the front.  Your tailor is your friend. 

8.      Pull up your pants, buy a belt.  We have no interest in seeing your boxers or, worse yet, skin below your hips.

9.      It is simple to mix patterns.  If you wish to wear a patterned shirt with a patterned tie, simply call the most fashionable woman you know and/or her best gay friend and say, “I’d like to mix patterns,” and do whatever she or he tells you to do.

10.  Facial hair is tricky.  When in doubt, shave.  If you do have facial hair, keep it clean, brush it (yes, with a hair brush) to keep it soft and neat, trim it regularly, and have your barber do regular maintenance.

11.  While you’re at the barber anyway, ask about the hair on top of your head.  Styling products are not only for women. 

12.  Any or all of these rules can be suspended or ignored if your wife or girlfriend thinks breaking the rules is sexy.  You won’t make it into GQ, but as long as the woman in your life is attracted to you, who cares what the rest of the world thinks?

Crayons at Church

            From the back of the chapel I can see everyone—at least the backs of their heads.

            Middle-aged men sit with graying, nodding heads.  They are lulled by the sermon, warm in their suits and feeling strangled by their ties, half listening and half dozing.  Every once in a while one of them startles awake when a wife puts an elbow in his side.  Their wives sit very straight, looking intently at the speaker.  Their carefully coifed heads nod in agreement with the speaker, or shake in disbelief.  Some sit too still; they are planning Sunday dinner while they pretend to listen.

            A toddler leans backward over the pew, grinning and flirting with the old man behind him.  It’s not his grandpa, but any grandpa will do when you’re two and bored and tired of sitting still.  Little girls have curled hair tied back with bows bigger than their heads.  Their brothers wiggle and poke each other, teasing and playing until Mom glares at them, warning them with a look that they better stop it this instant.  New mothers stand in the back of the chapel, rocking fussy babies in the ancient mother-rhythm passed down through generations of mothers. 

            Old women sit along the edges of the chapel, frail hands folded and heads bowed in prayer.  They wear wrist gloves and veiled hats, as their own mothers taught them decades ago.  In the evening of their lives, they have learned what matters.  They find comfort and strength in faith and a relationship with God more than in the words of the sermon. 

            Young couples bend their heads together, whispering about the future, the sermon, and arguing about whose mother they’ll eat with this afternoon.  Negotiating a life together is a full time occupation for them.

            The pastor sits on the stand between his advisors, listening to the lay speaker with half-lidded eyes, sometimes taking notes, sometimes murmuring a word to an advisor.  His eyes travel over his congregation, noting who is here and who is absent, wondering who needs help to feed their families and who needs help to find God.

            I read the hymnal, only vaguely listening to the sermon.  I find comfort and strength in faith, but even I am easily distracted in a warm, crowded chapel.  Watching people keeps me awake.  Next week, I’ll bring a coloring book.  Maybe that’s why children never seem to doze in church.

Truth and Consequences

            One of my sons served in Iraq with the Army.  Another just joined the Army; he’ll leave for basic training in less than six weeks.  Sons are very protective of their mothers.  There is a lot my veteran did not tell me because he chose to let me stay a little sheltered in my safe American neighborhood.  I appreciate his consideration; I have heard some truths about war recently that I could have lived happily without.  In two of my classes, we have been discussing the consequences of war.  Specifically, we have been discussing the individual consequences to injured veterans. 

I heard one Iraqi veteran talk about the face of the war in Iraq.  What do you do when the enemy shooting at you is a child?  What decision do you make when a car is coming straight at the convoy with no signs of slowing?  What if the car carries a family with children in the back seat?  No wonder veterans come home with mental health disorders.  Not only does PTSD seem more real, it seems unlikely that any veteran would be untouched by the experience.  They all have a hard time readjusting to life out of a war zone.

Hyper-vigilance is a word I heard several times in these discussions.  It makes perfect sense to me.  After spending days looking for anything that might indicate an explosive device, trying to keep a team alive, it would be hard to adjust to seeing a kid pick up a bit of litter and throw it away without a second thought.  Knowing that cell phones can be used to trigger the next explosion that will injure one of the team, is must be distressing to come home and be surrounded by people texting their friends. 

Even a physical injury can lead to mental distress.  One vet told about staying in camp to heal from an injury.  While he was healing, his team was hit with an explosion that the less experienced bomb hunter did not catch.  Along with hurting physically, he felt guilty for being injured.  “If I had been tougher, I could have gone out and I would have caught that IED,” he said.  Being injured too badly to work did not release him from his own sense of duty and responsibility.

I watched a documentary about a veteran who was paralyzed by a bullet in Iraq.  He will spend the rest of his life paying the price of war.  Hundreds of other American soldiers paid the price of war with their lives, and more will be asked of our military.  Their families—their mothers and spouses and children—pay the price of war every holiday when they have the entire family gathered around the table except one, who is fighting on the other side of the world. 

We civilians do not understand what it means to be a soldier.  One soldier waited in line for hours to call his wife and be comforted after another difficult day.  She complained about the latest person to be kicked off of American Idol.  She, along with all of us, has a protected view of what matters, of what is worth being upset and angry about.  God willing, we will never know what it means to be at war.  

War is hell.  It is not pretty, never has been pretty, never will be pretty.  “Freedom is still expensive.  It still costs money.  It still costs blood.  It still calls for courage and endurance, not only in soldiers, but in every man and woman who is free and who is determined to remain free.” (Harry Truman)  Men and women in the military suffer consequences civilians may never dream of.

I should have been in class one more day to watch one more documentary about the consequences of war.  I did not go.  Instead, I talked to my son.  I am grateful he is home, he is safe, and he will be here for another holiday season.  Military moms are very, very proud of our sons.  We admire their honor and their bravery.  We are grateful for their selflessness.  I have talked with many veterans of many wars, and they all say some version of this: “Freedom is not only for Americans.  Iraqis, Afghani, Koreans, all people are entitled to freedom.  If we can bring that to them, we will gladly pay that price.”

It is up to the rest of us, who stay safely at home, to use our own freedom wisely.  It is up to us to vote, to send letters to congressmen, to work and fight for the causes we believe in every day.  What do you believe in strongly enough to risk the consequences?  What is wrong in the world that is worth the battle to make it right?  What do you go to war for?

Charming

            My youngest son is charming.  He has a unique power to attract a circle of admirers by the strength of his personality.  People are drawn to him like moths to a flame.  He was born with a talent for making friends among any group he is thrown into.

            Kev was born early enough to need some time in the intensive care unit before he came home.  He had no cartilage in his ears or lines in his palms.  He did not know how to suck and had to be fed with an IV in his head to keep his blood sugar up while he learned to eat.  His was an easy delivery for me, and I went home the day after he was born.  During those long days he stayed in the hospital, I drove back and forth between him and my children at home. 

            I walked into the ICU that first day and found his bed empty.  I went to the nurses’ desk and found him cuddling with a nurse on her lunch break, too charming to be left lying in his bassinette.  It seemed that I had to go find him every time I went to feed him.  He was in the nurses’ office causing a distraction while they tried to do paperwork.  He was in the parents’ room with a nurse who was taking a break to play with him.  Even the specialist pediatrician called him by his name while I was simply “Kev’s Mom.”  I should have known then how interesting life with Kev would be.

            Kev is the baby of the family, and he was spoiled and coddled a little too much.  I sent him to preschool when he was three so he could learn the whole earth does not belong to him.  Other children would disillusion him of that idea in a hurry.  He loved preschool; he loved his teacher, his classmates, the playground and everything.  When he had been there about a month, I arrived one afternoon and could not find him in his classroom.  His teacher told me he was in the director’s office.  I was puzzled; who sends a little kid to the principal?  I found him standing on the director’s desk, charming the office staff with a dance and song about a little blue man.  After that I was apt to find him anywhere: in the kitchen chatting up the lunch ladies; on the playground helping the toddlers put on a play; in the director’s office or the staff break room dispensing songs and stories to anyone with a spare moment. 

            Kev was nine when I married my husband and we moved into a new neighborhood.  Less than two weeks later, Kev had been invited to go to the drive-in with the family down the street—the family of four beautiful, blonde daughters all caught by his charm.  Today these same blonde girls and their family are among his closest friends—he has even charmed the family dog.

            Even very elderly women are not immune to his personality.  Kev met Sister Hood in the early stages of her Alzheimer’s decline.  She was immediately drawn to him, and he charmed her through a wedding reception, laughing and talking as if she were his own grandmother.  A year later, after she had forgotten his name, she saw him again and remembered his face, asking for a hug which he graciously gave.  He charmed Sister Bishop in the last year of her life, stopping to sit with her when she was too worn out to do anything else. 

            A friend called me recently to ask if I could help take care of her children one afternoon.  I was not available, but I had a suggestion.  “Call Kev.  He’s grounded from friends and might be glad to get out of the house for a couple hours.”  My friend was shocked. “Kev is grounded?  I didn’t know he ever got grounded!”  She, too, is caught in his charm. 

            Kev is in high school now.  He is taller, smarter, more well-read and well-rounded than he was before.  He will be leaving academia and joining adult society in a few years.  I am afraid there is no defense against his charm.  Good luck, world.

The Sneetches, by Dr. Seuss

             The Sneetches all live together on the beach, but they don’t all have the same social circles.  Some of the Sneetches have stars on their bellies, and all the Sneetches agree this makes them a higher class of Sneetch.  The starred Sneetches have private parties to which the other Sneetches are not invited. 

One day something changes; the Sneetches can pay to have stars added to or removed from their bellies.  Mr. McBean is here with his marvelous machines.  Those who used to have plain bellies now have stars, so the star-bellies have theirs removed.  And the new star-bellies have theirs removed.  And the new plain-bellies add them back.

            With the ability to choose belly adornment, the Sneetches rapidly devolve into conveyor belt lines.  Stars are removed and added and removed until no one has any idea who started out with belly décor.  It’s hard to know who to include and who to exclude without this clear distinction.   The Sneetches apparently didn’t know each others’ names or faces.  The only distinguishing feature was the star.  Admittedly, the Sneetches all look similar, but humans probably look similar to Sneetches, too.  Why did they never look past the stars and into faces and eyes?

            Mr. McBean is convinced that the Sneetches cannot learn another way of socializing.  He takes advantage of their gullibility, certain that the stereotype of unteachable Sneetches is true.  And it is true for a while.  Mr. McBean makes all the money there is on the Sneetch beach, and leaves with a chuckle, thinking the Sneetches will stay in their muddle.

            Luckily, the Sneetches rise above the stereotype and their own biases and exclusionary social system.  They learn that decorated bellies don’t really make a Sneetch cooler or smarter or better.  All the Sneetches are invited to beach parties, and games are open to all.  One hopes the Sneetches eventually learn to look into faces and eyes, to learn names and personalities, and see each other as individuals, regardless of stars.

First Blush

I met Kerry when I started working for a book store.  He is a teacher, and worked in retail for a little extra cash.  I am a retailer; I love it and I have a talent for it.  That first night on the job, I was singularly unimpressed with his work and decided he had the personality of a pair of socks.  Famous last words, I know.

One day I overheard two other supervisors talking about Kerry.  His wife had just moved out, and he was feeling stressed.  My interest was piqued.  I admit to blatant curiosity—I wanted to know whatever juicy details surrounded the end of a marriage.  I also felt compassion for someone I worked with going through a hard time; I was surprised to find that I wanted to help if I could.  Hubris has always been a personality flaw for me, and I was sure I could make it all better if only I knew what to fix.

Kerry understands comic books and superheroes, and appreciates the time and talent it takes to illustrate a comic book well.  I found we could talk about comic books, and my interest in his opinions began.  From comics it was a natural progression to books.  We both read science fiction and fantasy, and we share a love of children’s fantasy novels, particularly Harry Potter.  It  was fall of 2001, just before the first Harry Potter movie was released in theaters, and bookstores were filled with the novels and related merchandise. 

I discovered Kerry has a brain and knows how to wield it.  He can talk about literature with intelligence and passion.  I identify with Scout in that I have never thought about loving to read, it is just something I do, like breathing.  Kerry and I share an interest in great books and well-told stories.  Disagreeing about what was great and well-told added spice to the conversation.  I was happy to listen to his opinions even when he was plainly wrong, if only because he could support his opinions logically.

Two smart people can hardly talk about great literature without discussing the human condition.  Current events, politics and logical ideas quickly became part of the conversation.  We exchanged email addresses so we could talk after work, writing analytical essays and political commentary several times a week.  Online we were both willing to be more personal, too.  It is easier to be vulnerable without eye contact threatening embarrassment.  The human condition includes thoughts about love, family, and friends.  Our friendship grew closer and more intimate over the internet.

I remember the day I discovered Kerry is sexy as well as smart.  It was during a business rush, and lines were long.  I was standing next to him, working a cash register and making small talk with customers.  I noticed his cologne and turned to see who was wearing that scent.  He was wearing a green plaid flannel shirt with a Curious George tie.  He looked fashionable (not that he will ever admit that) and handsome while he smiled and chatted with people.  I was lost.  My heart beat faster, I could not draw a deep breath, my skin flushed and my body temperature rose about five degrees.  In my fascination with my friend who suddenly was this sexy man, I forgot to eat.  Somewhere in all the heat, I fainted (cliché, I know, but true).  Kerry caught me before I hit the floor, and I came to leaning against him.  I sat up, and kicked myself immediately.  I should have pretended to be out a little while longer and stayed cuddled in his arms.

That night I sent an email under an assumed identity: “Dear Kerry, You fascinate me.”  I was his boss, and clearly I could not openly profess attraction to a subordinate.  He had to make the first move.  I continued to send anonymous emails for two months, and he answered them all.  He also told me, as his friend, about his secret admirer.  I thought my head would explode waiting for him to figure out who this mystery woman was. 

After at least forever he finally caught on and admitted a mutual attraction.  Our long friendship and respect easily transitioned to passion, and the rest is history.  And that green plaid shirt?  I wear it to bed now.

Middle Child Syndrome, or How my Neglected Son is so Funny

Marcus is definitely a victim of middle child syndrome.  He is the most ignored and neglected of all my brood.  Last year I completely forgot his birthday, no presents, no cake, not even a birthday wish from his very own mother.  He’s remarkably independent for a teenager because he has to be.  As part of his defense against such neglect, he’s developed a wicked sense of humor.  Life with Marcus is never boring. 

            Remember the movie Chicago with Queen Latifa as Mama Morton?  Marcus, too young to like girls, saw Mama Morton in her gold lame dress and muttered under his breath, “Looks like Victoria will tell her secret.”  When he was very little he did something cool and I said, “Good job!  You win!” He responded, “Where’s my toaster oven?” In response to the house rule that kids under 17 don’t need cell phones, he designed a web page explaining exactly why he should be the exception to the rule, being so humorously persuasive that he got the cell phone at not quite 16.

            A couple years ago I was out of town and saw a Facebook post from Marcus—something about shaving a girl’s face with a box cutter.  I figured there was an explanation.  Here, in his own words and displaying his twisted humor and talent for storytelling, is the rest of the story.     

So here's the story as I like it to be told, both as an entertainer, and as the one trying to save my own patookus from whatever nonsense it is that you might be thinking I'm doing, slicing my friend's face off. It was a beautiful summer day, (only really it was raining the whole darnded day) and I was sitting at Westland Elementary School. I was sitting in the office with my good friends, Clint, Mathew, and Shanna. Now, Shanna and I, being the troublesome little hoodlums we are, were searching through Mike's desk, looking for candy, granola bars, fruit snacks, and other such things of interest. We came across a bottle of White Out brand error correcting liquid goop stuff. Curious was I, at this point, to learn how good of a nail polish this would act as. However, not wanting to paint my own nails, for I hope obvious reasons, I decided the best course of action would be to convince Shanna to become the consensual guinea pig. And, as persuasive as I am, she agreed. One nail. A thumb, on her right hand. But who's paying attention to detail, right? Well it probably would have looked better were I not so bad at painting nails, but somehow I think I can get over that. At this point, she decided it would be rather entertaining if I had a curly handlebar mustache. I agreed, and on it goes. I tried to get her to allow the same, but she declined, and instead I suggested a goatee. She accepted this idea, and on the goatee was painted. We took pictures, had a laugh, and it was time for removal of said goop stuff. I go to the sink, and scrub, to very little, if any, effect. Scrubbing a little harder, I realize it's going to take scratching, and a whole lot of it. Not wanting to do it all by hand, I went to the back room, opened a brand new, never before unsealed razor, which I removed from a box cutter, and returned to the mirror. Careful to not slice my face to pieces, I very masterfully maneuvered the razor in such a way that it was like shaving, only removing White Out instead of hair. As I finished, I looked back at Shanna, who was scratching her chin away, yielding very little results. So, being the gentleman you raised me as, I offered her the razor.
"I don't trust myself with razors" she tells me.
"Would you like some help? It's nothing more than a little razor burn, and so long as you hold still, I can do it without cutting you."
To this, she agrees, and I sit down beside her, and begin to scrape the White Out from her face as well. About three seconds in, she busts up laughing, and sits back in the chair. Which is when we told her that out of all of the times she could bust out laughing, and wiggling, it probably wasn't quite so wise to do so unexpectedly while someone was holding a very sharp razor to her face. To such comments, we all somewhat chuckle, she calms back down, and we finished removing the goop. No cuts, no incidents, just as I promised her.
Now you know the story.

Knowledge is Power, and Power is Everywhere

“And on the subject of burning books: I want to congratulate librarians, not famous for their physical strength or their powerful political connections or their great wealth, who, all over this country, have staunchly resisted anti-democratic bullies who have tried to remove certain books from their shelves, and have refused to reveal to thought police the names of persons who have checked out those titles.

So the America I loved still exists, if not in the White House or the Supreme Court or the Senate or the House of Representatives or the media. The America I love still exists at the front desks of our public libraries.”  Kurt Vonnegut

Freedom of speech, freedom of the press, and freedom of information belong on the same continuum.  If he can say what he wants, and she can write what she wants, then information should be readily available to everyone.  Books, encyclopedia, commentary and news are free for the asking at the local library.  The internet is a vast, complex resource for information of any sort, on any topic.  Cell phones give instant access to information from anywhere.

                Knowledge is power.  Arming oneself with information allays fears, bolsters opinions, changes erroneous thinking, and builds character.  When formal education is done, learning should continue throughout life.  Books contain all the knowledge in the world, neatly wrapped by subject between pretty covers.  Yes, a book can be judged by its cover; that’s what the flyleaf is for. 

                Since Gutenberg’s miraculous invention, books have been banned for all sorts of reasons.  Books have been banned for promoting witchcraft, encouraging promiscuity, promoting or decrying racism, and even just strong language.   If a government bans a book, it is an act of oppression.  Knowledge, thoughts, and beliefs are being silenced or forbidden, and that is wrong.  (This should not be confused with choosing what you will and won’t read.  That’s not being oppressive, that’s being selective.)

                Even novels carry knowledge and information.  Chaim Potok and Harry Kemmelman novels teach much about keeping a kosher home.  Biblical fiction fleshes out the Bible stories and gives cultural information and references not found in the Bible.  Even a serial romance novel can spark thoughts about what is desirable in a spouse and what is not acceptable.  Fantasy novels are ultimate allegories, with pure evil battling pure virtue, and that can be another essay in itself.

                Not everyone reads or likes the same genre.  Some people adore history, others only read it under extreme duress.  Some people read only romance novels, others shun any book with mushy parts.  Self help, medical reference, holy writing, political commentary, comic strips—there’s something out there for everyone.  Setting a dull book down is not a crime.  There are too many great books out there to waste time on the merely mediocre or the outright boring. 

                My book choices are pretty liberal, and I think all truth can be useful knowledge.  Praise goes to the librarians, who encourage learning and knowledge of all sorts.  Now go find something to read.

Virtue, Not Hate Crimes

            I don’t generally choose to announce my private faith in public forums.  It seems, however, that someone ought to stand in defense of faith, charity, and virtue.

            I am a devoted Christian.  I believe in a divine and eternal Father in Heaven who loves us as children and plans for us to become our best selves, just as mortal parents hope for their mortal children.  I believe in a savior, Jesus Christ, who lived to show us what to aspire to and died to atone for our imperfections and shortcomings, paving the way for us to return to our Heavenly Home if we choose to try to be like Him.  I believe in a Holy Ghost sent by our Father to provide comfort and guidance while we are blind to spiritual and divine truths in our mortal state, revealing the will of our Father through the guidance and direction of prophets and teachers authorized to show us the true path back Home.

            Matthew the New Testament writer, one of Christ’s apostles and personal friends, warned, “Judge not, that ye be not judged.”  Matthew receives lots of attention for this sentence.  People often use this sentence to protest other injunctions from prophets or scriptorians.  “How dare you judge what I’m doing?  Doesn’t your Bible tell you not to judge?”  Our Bible does indeed warn us to be cautious of judging fellow travelers in this mortal existence.  Matthew himself declared, “For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.”  The direction is clear, the consequences dire.  We will be judged the same way we judge our neighbors.  I prefer to appear after death at the judgment seat of a benevolent, loving God, willing to look at the intentions and desires of my heart as well as the sometimes horrible things I say and do.  Therefore, I am required to look at others with a compassionate heart, knowing that I can never truly know what’s in their hearts and minds, and cannot judge their true selves by only what few things I see.  Charity demands that I presume good intentions, and offer mercy in my words and compassion in my behavior.

            No biblical author ever suggested that I ignore directives from Heavenly Father.  Strict guidelines are laid out clearly in Christian scripture: don’t kill people; don’t take stuff that isn’t yours; don’t resent your neighbor if they have a nicer car than you; respect your parents and grandparents even when you’re a teenager and you know everything; don’t lie about people; and the list goes on.   Obviously I must make judgments about my own behavior all the time.  I choose what I say and do, and I will be held accountable for those choices.  A call to repentance from my ecclesiastical leaders is a judgment of my behavior and my choices.  I often need correcting and guidance, even discipline, just as a child needs from adoring parents.  These calls are not intended to be personal attacks, they simply point out the error in my decisions and a way to fix the problem.  A call to repentance is not a withdrawal of divine affection any more than grounding a preteen means his parents stopped loving him.

            In my home, I require a certain minimum standard of virtue in language and behavior.  I do not require perfection in people, but I do judge the entertainment and environment that comes into my home.  Even some minor vices in behavior are tolerated in my home in the interest of survival—Diet Coke is permitted, cocaine is not, for example.  Overall, Jesus’ example of treating people nicely is the standard here, but even Jesus did not ignore outrageous crimes—the irreverence and disrespect of moneychangers in the temple inspired righteous indignation even in Christ, the most charitable of all.  Similarly, outrageous crimes of disrespect and rudeness to me or my faith and standards, will not be tolerated in my home.

            In short, judging behavior is not the same as judging people.  A call to repentance by an ecclesiastical leader at a religious pulpit is not the same as random people hurling hateful invectives at passersby.  Faith, charity, and virtue are not the same as forced religion, meanness, and hate crimes.  Please be cautious not to mistake one of these for its opposite.