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.