Cool Technology

I just got a new computer at work that has—among other things—some great new technology. This is really going to improve my effectiveness at work.

Jeff the Alien

Jeff the Superhero

Jeff's Twisted Mind

Blue vs. Red

This morning over breakfast, I mentioned to Lizzy that BYU was playing Utah in football this weekend. "We like both teams this week," she observed.

Gasp! I was stunned. How did my daughter turn five without knowing that we don't like Utah?

I've surely failed in my parental duties. There has to be a scriptural injunction somewhere that places upon the heads of fathers in Zion the responsibility to teach their children—by the time they are old enough to know colors and letters—that BYU and blue equal good and Utah and red are bad.

I set about immediately to rectify the void in my teaching: "Um, actually, we like BYU," I attempted, haltingly. When you're trying to instill in your child things like charity and patience and acceptance, how do you tell them that we hate the Utes? "BYU and Utah play each other a lot," I ventured, "and usually you like one or the other, not both."

Hmm... but we also play New Mexico and Air Force and Wyoming and Colorado State a lot. There's a difference in intensity that has no solid logical—or at least Christian—foundation. I turned to my wife: "This is a difficult concept to explain to a 5 year old."

"You work at BYU, but you live in Utah," Lizzy countered. "So you should like both."

Ah—there's something I can work with. Divorce Utah the state from Utah the school.

I did so, carefully discussing the two different schools and how they are athletic opponents and in our household, it's BYU all the way. You could see the little gears turning as she gradually grasped the concept. After a moment of pondering, she offered, "And you went to BYU, so you like BYU." The confusion vanished from her face and she went about merrily eating her cereal.

Whew. She got it. I have—albeit a bit late—begun to indoctrinate my child. She still doesn't have the appropriate disdain for all things red, but we'll work on that. It might be a bit of a tough job. She is rather clear about her three favorite colors being on the red side of the spectrum: purple, pink, and red. She reiterates that fact almost daily and takes delight in it.

She also, however, knows that Christine and I have each selected blue as our favorite color. Over time, we hope to be able to gradually strengthen the blue is good association. By the time she's in high school, I'm optimistic we'll have banished the red spectrum to its appropriate position of inferiority.

Boy, who knew that brainwashing was such a hard job?

The Virtue of Anonymity

Today I ran across this statement, from The Economist magazine, about why they do not list author bylines with their articles:

The main reason for anonymity, however, is a belief that what is written is more important than who writes it. As Geoffrey Crowther, editor from 1938 to 1956, put it, anonymity keeps the editor "not the master but the servant of something far greater than himself. You can call that ancestor-worship if you wish, but it gives to the paper an astonishing momentum of thought and principle." (About The Economist)

In a day when many magazines pay homage to writers with "contributor" pages (including long-paragraph bios and fancy photos), I find that to be a rather intriguing statement. The publication appears to be saying two things: first, content is king and who cares about your ego; and second, the publication has more weight than an individual author, and, dear writer, you'd better not forget that you exist to serve us, not the other way around.

To a degree, I agree with those sentiments.

When I edit an article, I attempt to respect an author's voice, but I'm sure writers who have worked with me groan in memory when I say that when it comes down to it, an article has to meet the magazine's standards (as interpreted by me, the editor) before it goes into print. I've had writers balk at editing, but as Crowther says, in the reader's mind my magazine's title means a lot more than your name.

For the other point, content is definitely king. When I pick up a magazine, I flip by the contributor's page with a groan and move on to the stuff. Who cares what Joe Author does in his spare time? I didn't get this magazine to read about someone who spends most of his time typing at a computer. That's what I do all day. I want to read about something else. I bought this magazine to get information or to be entertained. I want to learn about the world or explore an idea. I don't want to fawn over some freelance writer.

On the other hand, in today's quest for editorial integrity, author bios provide a look at the person who is spooning out this information. More and more, objectivity is openly regarded as an unattainable objective—every attempt to share information is filtered by some person with some set of ideals—and a bit about the writer can help one gain a glimpse into who is sifting the stuff you are reading and what biases may be influencing the sifting.

In addition, readers want to connect with people. The ambiguous "them" appeals little; a warm smile and a familiar face go a long way toward building relationships. Take Martha Stewart or Oprah, whose magazines—and empires—are built around a relationship with a person, nevermind that Martha and Oprah don't write every article in their magazines.

So, where do I fall with anonymity?

I guess the fact that I have a blog may give a clue. I'm afraid I'm not as ego-less as I would like to believe.

Construction Lingo

Today I called (repeatedly) a construction guy to get information about a building project. I was looking for interesting numbers, and I asked him more questions than I'm sure he wanted to answer. My last question—and his answer—gave new meaning to the term "jargon."

Me: "How tall is that big crane you're using?"

Him: "It's got a 200-foot stick on it."

Some stick.

Lizzy's Friend

At lunch at the magazine conference on Tuesday, Peter and I were sitting at a table enjoying our salads and talking to a woman who edits a Detroit business magazine owned by Crain Communications (publishers of Ad Age). In a pause in our conversation, Peter leaned over and whispered to me that people from the Church magazines had just joined our table. The serendipity of the meeting surprised both parties, and we soon delved into friendly chatter across the table about our respective magazines. After a few minutes I discovered that the quiet woman next to me also worked for the Church magazines; she is an editor for the Friend, the Church magazine targetted to children.

Lizzy absolutely loves the Friend, and I quickly told the woman of her publication's popularity around our home. When we stopped by a garage sale earlier this year, a cardboard box filled with Church magazines caught our eye, and Lizzy began gleefully pulling out old copies of the Friend that she had to have. We headed home that day with a dozen or so issues that predated our own subscription. Now those magazines sit in a pile by her bed, and she regularly reads and rereads them. When the new issue comes each month, she gets all excited about "her magazine" and can't wait to devour it. Bedtime stories frequently come from the Friend, and the magazine serves as a handy quiet book for Church meetings.

My new friend from the Friend was, of course, pleased to hear of her book's popularity, but she was not nearly so pleased about this chance meeting as someone else.

That evening I called home and talked to my family. When it was Lizzy's turn, I told her of my lunchtime meeting with an editor of the Friend. Without pause and with an extra burst of gusto, she exclaimed, "That's so cool!"

NYC Personality

No matter how many times I visit big cities, I still feel like a backwoods hillbilly gawking at civilization for the first time whenever I find myself surrounded by concrete canyons, honking traffic, and millions of people bustling along the sidewalks.

The awe started last night as our plane descended over New York City just after 3 a.m. (we were supposed to arrive at about 11 p.m., but mechanical delays kept us sitting in the SLC airport for a few hours). Peering out the window I studied patterns of orange and white lights and tried to piece together a map. As the East River bridges became unmistakable, I began to feel that excitement of arriving in a place where big things happen all the time. A Haitian taxi cab driver met us at baggage claim (we exchanged a few words in Creole, but his English was better than my Creole, so that exercise ended quickly) and drove like a crazy man through the west end of Long Island, across a very utilitarian Queensborough bridge (not nearly as cool as the lit up suspension lines of the Brooklyn Bridge), through a maze of narrow streets, past Central Park, and to our hotel.

Today (after we slept in) was filled with a magazine conference, and there was little time for the big city wonder—except for my hero worship as I heard three high-level folks at Time Inc. speak (the managing editor of Money, the editor of the new startup Cottage Living, and the research director for all of Time—they publish tons of major mags, from People to Sports Illustrated... and, of course, Time).

Then this evening, Peter (my coworker) and I headed downtown to meet his brother for dinner. The subway, actually, was the first thing that kindled my wide eyes and my tourist "hey, this is cool" smile. It's not like I've never ridden on a metropolitan transit train before. I lived in Chicago for nearly a year and the El took me everywhere. But the experience is just rare enough in my life now that when I do it there's that mixture of unfamiliarity and adventure that builds a certain giddiness. The whole complexity of the system is part of it—a network of lines tangled through the city map as if someone spilled a plate of multi-colored spaghetti and decided the mess would work for a transit system—and when you successfully navigate a noodle (or a couple of noodles) you emerge from the subterranean station with a bit of a confident swagger, feeling like an urban veteran not a just-off-the-plane hick.

But most of my childlike awe is derived from the parade of humanity displayed in a big city subway system. Colors, religions, cultures, occupations, ages, hair styles, clothing styles, body decoration, accents, vocabulary—you encounter so much of it in a brief 20 minute ride on a train. They come and they go and they squish in around you. They stand next to you and look at you across the train. They have loud conversations with friends on the train or on the phone. They read books or newspapers or stare out the window or close their eyes. And for a brief moment, we're all in it together. We're all in one train car, swaying to the same forces of shifting momentum, breathing the same air, steadying ourselves with the same bar, standing closer to each other than is acceptable for conversations with old friends when you meet by chance at the store. The colorful melding of diverse human beings is—to me—delightful, and I can't help but smile at the exhilaration of being joined in a casual, everyday communal practice with types of people I could go without seeing for months in my normal Utah existence.

When we ascended from the depths on the lower east side and met up with Ned, we embarked on what I now think must be a way of life for New Yorkers: We walked and walked and walked and walked—not unlike pioneer children—to find a restaurant. The walking wasn't a result of a scarcity of restaurants, but just a condition resulting from the distance to the desired restaurant from our point of embarkation. The same thing occurred on my first trip to New York when Christine's high school friend decided we should go to one of her favorite restaurants and we walked and walked and... you get the idea.

Walking and walking in New York is not necessarily bad. It's just not what we do in Utah County. In Utah County, we drive. But this is New York and when in New York, we do as New Yorkers. So we walked and walked and encountered some delightful aspects of life in the city that you would miss in the car.

For instance, as we walked down a fairly empty Orchard Street, engaged in pleasant conversation, we were taken aback by an old Jewish shopkeeper, standing in front of his store, who greeted us enthusiastically: "Three gentlemen all smiling. That's what I like to see." We paused for a moment to respond to his warm friendly smile, and he asked us where we were from. Though he is from New York, he said, his parents are from Europe—his mother from Romania, his father from England. He looked to be in his 50s or 60s, his hair and scraggly, sparse beard was mostly white blonde, with a bit of pale orange protruding from the back of his black yarmulke. Long curly sideburns hung down in front of his ears and had been tucked up behind his ears, so they made a loop around the bottom of the ears. He wore a white, slightly wrinkled dress shirt with no tie.

He and Ned spoke briefly of the neighborhood and soon the man—Sammy, as he told us later—was beckoning us inside where he wanted to show us something. It seemed he was making reference to their conversation about the neighborhood and I thought perhaps he was going to tell us about the building or show us something of historical significance.

As we entered the shop, he gestured in passing to an even older man, similar in dress and appearance, behind a counter and said, "This is my father." We all greeted the venerable old man as if we'd just been introduced to a good friend's grandfather and then followed Sammy who was moving further into the store. It was a men's clothing store and Sammy took us quickly to a rack of coats. I began to smile as I realized we had just been taken in—literally.

"Someday, this is you," he said to Ned as he held out a nice black zip-up coat that looked to be made of wool or fleece.

"I hope it's not me," Ned joked, but Sammy didn't get it, and Ned quickly recovered. "It would look great on me, but I hope I am not someday hanging on a rack to be sold."

Sammy either still didn't get it or he didn't want to bother with laughter. A skillful conversationalist, Ned turned the talk away from coats and Sammy humored him momentarily with friendly chat. Soon, however, he proved himself no less skillful as he employed a friendly nonsequiter that made us, again, believe at first he was going to show us something of personal or historical significance. "Speaking of that, I've got something to show you upstairs." Upstairs, however, were racks and racks of suits, one of which he quickly pulled out and again targetted at Ned.

Ned fended him off, and he turned on Peter, but we were able to successfully begin the transition out of the store. Before we left, though, he managed to get me to model a very nice black leather jacket. "Feel how soft that is," said Sammy.

"Wow, think of the hug you'll get when you get home to your wife," smiled Ned.

"Yeah," I returned, "until she sees the price tag." The price tag? $750.

By now we were moving steadily to the door, but not without various attempts to lure us back in. We left—each of us fingering one of Sammy's business cards—with Sammy's invitation to return and to send our friends . . . and with bigger smiles than those we had when we entered.

Well, Sammy was by far the most entertaining aspect of the evening. But we also traversed Chinatown, where the ethnicity of passersby suddenly changed and everything, from newspapers to official city signs, was in Chinese; we admired an old Jewish synagogue, in the middle of current Chinatown; we noted a large statue of Confucius; and we dined at Katz's Delicatessen, an establishment nearly 120 years old.

As Peter and I made our way back to the hotel later, Peter commented on the unplanned personality of the city. Someone didn't sit down and map out a great way to have a city filled with personality. The personality of New York City—the many personalities of New York City—grew naturally from the people who chose to inhabit it.

In the young cities of the west, it often seems that much of a municipality's personality is strategically selected and regulated, not to mention dominated by commercial chains like Wal-Mart and McDonalds. There often doesn't seem to be much room for the sort of organic natural growth that exists in a place like New York City. Of course, many western cities also lack the diversity to feed that natural growth, so we end up with fairly homogenous, commercialized, cookie cutter suburbia.

But then maybe, just maybe, my observations of the lack of vibrant personality in the Utah cities with which I am familiar is due less to the cities themselves and more to the fact that I never leave my car at home and walk to dinner.

What Every Member Needs

In preparing for home teaching the other day, I considered the October First Presidency message in the Ensign, which is directed at new members of the Church. In it, President Hinckley mentions again the three things that every new convert needs: a friend, a responsibility, and nourishment by the good word of God.

As I pondered this message in relation to the family I would be teaching, I thought at first that it wouldn't apply and I considered finding another message to share. We don't have new converts around us; how would this family apply this message? Then I thought, as I have before, that those three things are important for all Church members, but the family I would be teaching does not include people in ward leadership positions where they could implement those suggestions to help others.

Then I thought—this blog is not titled "Think On (and on and on and ...)" for nothing—"But who's responsible for our individual salvation, anyway? Am I not ultimately responsible for my eternal destiny?"

So I turned the lesson into a conversation about how each of us individually can endure to the end. We are all "new converts" in a sense, and when you look at 2 Ne. 31, it is clear that we all need to "press forward with a steadfastness in Christ." And so President Hinckley's trio of directives works for all of us.

Each of us needs a friend, someone to help us through hard times, to welcome us warmly to activities and help us feel comfortable at Church. And if we don't have friends at Church, we should expend the effort to make friends. I recall when I was in Chicago and I had a hard time making friends in the ward. I made efforts, but I just couldn't click with anyone. Then I received a stake calling and suddenly my circle broadened dramatically and I found myself associating with people in other wards. I found the young single adults of the Spanish ward to be very welcoming and warm and friendly, and I began to spend more time with them. My whole experience in Chicago turned around in a significant way once I had some friends. The Lord knew I needed friends, and he recognized my unsuccessful efforts so he opened a way for me to have the friends I so desperately needed.

Each of us needs a responsibility. This one, at first glance, may seem like something we can do nothing about. Assignments and callings come from the bishop, right? Well, all of us are (or should be) home or visiting teachers. There's a responsibility, and it's a responsibility most of us could magnify more than we currently do. And then there are opportunities galore for volunteer service. When I returned from my mission, I didn't receive a calling in my ward for a long time, despite my requests for one. That lack of responsibility was terribly frustrating for me. I went from busy Church service to a big void. Then one day at the temple I thought I should go see if they needed help in the baptistry. They did, and it turned out that they always needed help in the baptistry. Before I left that day I was signed up to be a weekly temple worker in the baptistry. I vividly recall leaving the temple that day, walking out into the bright blue of a Saturday morning and feeling an immense swelling of joy and gratitude for the opportunity to serve. And I loved that job. I worked in the baptistry for about a year, and it was a marvelous experience I will always treasure.

Finally, each of us needs nourishing by the word of God. In the context of President Hinckley's injunction, we often think of lessons and talks at Church and the responsibility of leaders and teachers to make sure those lessons and talks are well prepared and spiritually guided. But the scriptures make it clear that we have an obligation to come prepared to be nourished (see D&C 50:19–22). And of course our nourishment should not be limited to Church meetings. We should be nourishing ourselves daily through our gospel study with our families and on our own. Twice during this recent General Conference, I felt gently chastized and lovingly encouraged to nourish myself better through my scripture study. Two speakers mentioned the need to not just study scriptures but to apply them to our lives. My goal is to do that—mostly through writing about what I read, reflecting on my reading in a personal journal.

On Being an Ambassador

This afternoon I spent some time with the Indonesian ambassador to the United States. Not me alone—there were about nine people in the group—but a photographer and I were part of the entourage.

I was in the background, observing, most of the time, but I did have a few minutes to chat casually with the ambassador. I asked him about recovery efforts from the tsunami and he explained some of the challenges of managing the situation that have contributed to a slower-than expected process.

He was kind, bright, quick to smile, and very unassuming. He was attentive to and interested in me and what I had to say. It seems strange that after just a couple of hours in close proximity with someone, you can develop a personal connection, but I feel a certain kinship with him and his wife now. They were warm and gracious and personal.

While transcribing an interview today I came across a compelling quote from a professor. She was talking about the value of meeting individuals from other cultures; the more individuals one meets the better one understands a culture and realizes that the stereotypes don't apply universally to all members of that culture. "It’s so easy when we don’t know anyone [from a culture] to demonize [that culture]," she said. "And it’s so difficult when we do know someone to demonize them."

I have a very different view of Indonesia and Indonesians now than I did five hours ago. I have an appreciation, respect, and fondness for the country and its people born of a simple interaction with a kind man and his wife.

I guess that's the role of an ambassador. He served that role well today. I hope I reciprocated adequately.


Some fascinating facts about Indonesia that were new to me...

Population: more than 220 million (fourth largest country in the world, behind China, India, and the United States)

Geographic Size: about 3,200 miles from one end to the other, similar to the distance from Florida to Alaska

Geographic Composition: an archipelago of more than 17,000 islands (not all inhabited)

Languages: 731

Diversity: 500 different cultures

Wendy's Do-It-Yourself Salad (Tasty and Cheap)

I love Wendy's value menu. The options available for 99 cents have such a high value-to-cost ratio as to make everything else on the menu hardly worth a second glance. For a buck you can get a decent cheeseburger or even a bacon cheeseburger—complete with lettuce, tomato, onion, pickles, etc. You can also get fries, chicken nuggets, a good sized side salad, a baked potato, or a number of other entrees and sides.

For lunch today I had again my recent Wendy's favorite: a great do-it-yourself value-menu combo. It's a filling chicken salad that you can get for $2. Here's how:

1. Order the side salad for 99 cents. I've tried the Caesar side salad (also 99 cents), but I prefer the other because it has more stuff (tomato, cucumber, carrots). The side salad comes with a few dressing options, which they'll ask you about. I've tried it with the ranch, which was good, but I actually prefer a nontraditional dressing (see step 3). These days I tell the person taking my order that I don't want a dressing.

2. The side salad does not come with croutons; those go with the Caesar side salad. However, I've found they'll give you croutons free if you ask. I like croutons, so I always ask.

3. Order the 5-piece chicken nuggets, also for 99 cents. You have a number of sauce options. I love the honey mustard, which makes a tangy, sweet salad dressing. To get enough for the salad, though, you have to get two containers of the sauce, which they always provide for the asking.

4. The container the salad comes in isn't quite big enough to eat the salad in—without making a huge mess—so it helps to split it in half. The top of the container makes a nice second plate into which you can put half the salad.

5. To each half of the salad you can then add half of the chicken nuggets. The size of the nuggets exceeds polite single-bite morsels, so I like to break them into smaller pieces. This is easily done with your fingers, or there is a fork and a knife included with your salad—if you have scruples against finger food. (But if that's the case, why are you eating something from Wendy's 99-cent value menu?) I break each nugget into four to six smaller pieces.

6. If you opted for croutons, add half of the croutons to each half of the salad.

7. Add one container of honey mustard sauce/dressing to each half of the salad. The dressing is a bit on the thick side (remember, until a minute ago it was dipping sauce); the knife works well to extract it from the container and apply it to the salad.

8. Enjoy your tasty chicken salad and relish the fact that you only paid $2.22 (counting tax) while some other poor soul paid five bucks for a pre-made salad.

According to Wendy's Web site, this meal (not counting the croutons and one of the honey mustard dressing sides, because I don't know how to make their system calculate those extras) includes 370 calories, 24 grams of fat, 26 carbs, and 15 grams of protein. I'm afraid I don't pay enough attention to such things to know if that is good or not. But it's tasty. And cheap.

Lizzy-isms

A few Lizzy words and sayings worth sharing and recording before we forget them:


Words she has invented:

Trimenthesy: One-sixtieth of a second

Fewnormous: 100,000 times as big as our house


Fun pronunciations/variations of real words (some of which she is starting to lose as she reads more and realizes the order of letters in words):

planio (piano)
calipeter (catipillar)
sackerment (sacrament)
fravrite (favorite)
Cairline (Caroline)
oppositical (opposite)
hostipital (hospital)
permentheses (parentheses)


Observations:

"There's no such thing as magic, but there are magic words." (She got part of this from a Barney show about saying "please" and "thank you"; maybe the whole phrase.)

When I asked Lizzy to bless the food one morning, she consented but first corrected my language: "You mean 'say the prayer.' Heavenly Father's the one that blesses."

One day we were listening to one of my Lord of the Rings soundtracks in the car. She wanted to continue listening when we went inside, so I brought it in and put it in our three-CD stereo. When the soundtrack ended, the next CD, which happened to be a CD of Primary songs, automatically began to play. Shocked by the dramatic change in music (think Mordor juxtaposed against carefree children), Lizzy said: "This isn't Lord of the Rings. [pause] Is this a mix?"

Sometime early this summer, Christine or I commented that it had been a quiet month (can't remember now what that was in reference to; I believe it was some metaphorical sense, like a quiet news day or something like that). At the time, however, Caroline was in the middle of a long sad spell; she had been very sad all day every day. When Lizzy heard our comment about it being a quiet month, she responded matter of factly: "It's not a quiet month for us."

Several weeks ago a rather spectacular thunder storm rolled through one evening. Christine went into Lizzy's room to comfort the nervous and not sleeping child. After Christine assured Lizzy that she would be safe, Lizzy responded, "But in Reader's Digest it told about a house that got hit by lightning." (The curse of an early reader.)

And my "fravrite" observation: "Dad, you're ingenious!"

Cool Gospel Study Idea

Just stumbled across this Web page and I thought it was a great family gospel study idea—worth sharing:

http://www.truelightacademy.com/sacred_art_appreciation.html

You could do this with poetry or music, too. Study a bunch of sacred music by Bach or Handel or whoever else for several weeks. Reminds me of when I attended performances of Bach's B-Minor Mass and one of his passions (St. Matthew or St. John, can't remember which I heard). Stunning pieces of music, several hours long. Inspiring, uplifting, moving.

Here's an article we did about a BYU class that performed those long sacred works. They would spend months preparing for the performances and they would perform in sacred buildings: Salt Lake's Cathedral of the Madeleine, the Provo Tabernacle. I don't think the class exists anymore, which makes me sad. I loved those performances. When Christine and I were dating we went to a performance of the Messiah by this class at a Catholic church in Park City. Powerful.

Plutonic Relationships

I heard someone recently report that some astronomers and planetary scientists feel they were not adequately consulted when the decision was made to demote Pluto, and they are protesting the action. Apparently a only a small portion of the 9,000-member International Astronomical Union (IAU) made the decision, and those experts who were not there for the vote are, understandably, a bit miffed.

I have had a similar concern. This decision, to downgrade our solar system from an nine-planet system to an eight-planet assemblage, has far-reaching implications that were not adequately considered, and it affects a lot of people who were not invited to participate in the discussion. Only 424 people voted to change the definition of a planet. Even if all 9,000 astronomers voted, it seems like a paltry number when we have some 6.6 billion human inhabitants in the solar system.

My family, for instance, was not consulted. We are not astronomers or physicists. We don't even own a telescope, and none of us has ever seen Pluto. But the smallest planet in the solar system is, nonetheless, part of our lives. We live on one of the nine (or eight) planets in this solar system, and with so few planets, we feel somewhat attached to each of them. We are residents of this collection of objects swirling around the sun, and it seems we should be consulted in any significant change in the status of that collection. As should all the other residents. Shouldn't we have had an election or something? A public opinion poll, at the least? Shouldn't the people in charge of this decision stood up and asked all 6.6 billion of us on this planet whether we wanted our corner of the galaxy to change?

I, for one, was very happy with having nine planets. I like the number nine, and I was just getting used to the collection of planets that we had. On a recent trip across the wasteland of Nevada (which I, for one, would vote for getting rid of), our family listened repeatedly to a Nick Jr. CD that included a Blue's Clues song about the planets:

The Sun is a hot star,
And Mercury's hot too.
Venus is the brightest planet,
And Earth's home to me and you.

Mars is the red one,
Jupiter's most wide.
Saturn's got those icy rings,
And Uranus spins on its side.

Neptune's really windy,
And Pluto's really small.
We wanted to name the planets,
And now we've named them all.

It's a catchy tune. We all memorized it. For the first time in my life, I could name the planets in order from the Sun outward. I learned that Uranus spins on its side and that Neptune is windy. Who knew? I grew attached to that song and to the nine planets in it.

Then a week later, they got rid of Pluto.

Just like that, our song was obsolete and we had to help Lizzy unlearn the information about Pluto. No, it's not a planet after all. No, the solar system does not have nine planets; it has eight. No, Pluto is not gone. It's still there, but it's not a planet anymore.

Try to explain that to a five-year-old.

Our Blue's Clues song isn't the only thing that became obsolete on Aug. 24. Two dictionaries in our hosehold still define an outdated nine-planet solar system, and a nice educational placemat continues to claim Pluto, still proudly informing us that the smallest, farthest planet has a moon (actually three) when Venus has none. Our big Children's Space Atlas, which Lizzy enjoys studying, is also now full of misinformation about Pluto. I figure the 424 members of the IAU who made this decision owe our family at least $50 for replacement costs on various items that they just made outdated.

Didn't these people consult economists? How about schools? Libraries? Those nonprofit, budget-strapped institutions are going to have quite a time refreshing their collections. The IAU should have at least coordinated with Congress so the government could have passed a special budget appropriation to fund the updating of all the school libraries.

A couple of weeks ago, we checked out a charming little children's book—seemingly harmless from the cover—from our local library. It's a counting book about a kindergartener's first 100 days of school, reporting what the child learns or does with each number for each day. For bedtime recently, Lizzy asked me to read it to her; we read up to number 25. All was going well until we got to number nine, which reported that there are nine planets in the solar system.

Being the diligent father that I am, and not wanting my daughter to be misled by such passé notions of a larger solar system found in unenlightened books in a sub-par library, I quickly made reference to the fact that there are really only eight planets in the solar system—a fact that I thought Lizzy knew quite well. But she seemed puzzled, so I explained again that Pluto used to be a planet, but we've now decided it isn't *really* a planet, even though it's still there, and so we don't really have nine planets like the book says, just eight.

I finished my explanation, and Lizzy said, "That's silly."

Exactly.

Proverbs To Remember

Lately I've been reading the book of Proverbs, which, if I understand things right, is supposed to contain the wisdom of Solomon—or at least some of it. Not a bad recommendation for a book.

As you may be aware—or as you could guess without too much difficulty—the text of Proverbs is rather preoccupied with one thing: wisdom. It talks a lot about wisdom and understanding (often those two concepts paired, as they are in Job 28:28, which makes me wonder who paired them originally) and how good they are and how to get them and what things qualify one as a posessor of wisdom and how a posessor of wisdom behaves and so on. There are some wonderful proverbs in Proverbs: insightful observations and memorable admonitions aplenty.

The text, however, doesn't really flow. I should expect that, really. It is, after all, a collection of proverbs. Reading it should be like reading a quote book. But it's organized in chapters so somehow I expect chapters to have some logical organization and continuum. Perhaps it is there and I'm just not seeing it. But it appears to be a fairly random cobbling-together of Solomon's proverbs. Subjects are repeated in various chapters and verse often doesn't connect to verse.

Anyway, that's not a major problem, but it does make it not quite so engaging to read. You don't get a feeling of progression as you move through the book. It's just proverb after proverb after proverb, and some of the proverbs are beyond my comprehension and some of them are repetitious and the process can get a bit mind-numbing.

But there are some wonderful gems to be found. So this morning as I was going through chapter 17, I decided to start pulling out the gems. I've run across many proverbs in Proverbs that resonate with me, and I think extracting those proverbs from the text around them might be a good way for me to be more engaged in the reading of the book as well as a way to help me remember the highlights and benefit from them.

So, for what it's worth, here are my highlights from Proverbs, chapter 17. I worked backwards through chapter 14 today (pulling out my favorites), and maybe someday I'll post all of them here, but for now, here's one chapter's worth.

Chapter 17

10. a reproof entereth more into a wise man than an hundred stripes into a fool.

17. a friend loveth at all times, and a brother is born for adversity.

22. a merry heart doeth good like a medicine: but a broken spirit drieth the bones.

27. He that hath knowledge spareth his words: and a man of understanding is of an excellent spirit.
28. Even a fool, when he holdeth his peace, is counted wise: and he that shutteth his lips is esteemed a man of understanding.

Better Timp Photo

That last Timp photo just didn't cut it. Blogger was giving me problems loading the images, so I kept reducing the size until it worked, but then it lost the beauty of the image. Anyway, here's a cropped in shot of the mountain top; click on it to see it bigger.

Timp is such an amazing mountain. I sometimes bemoan the fact that our house doesn't offer a view down into or across the valley, but I love our view of Timp.

Return of the Snow

It wasn't very long ago that I was blogging about all the snow still clinging to the mountains around here. By my memory, the snow patches lingered until mid- to late July before melting off the fronts (west) of the mountains.

Well, here it is, barely two months later, and it's back. A big storm blew through over the weekend, covering the top half of Timp with a good dusting. The photo at right was taken from my house yesterday afternoon.

Esther

Eight years after Lehi left Jerusalem, the city was conquered by the Babylonians, and the Jews were taken captive. The Babylonian empire was huge and powerful, but within 50 years or so, an even greater empire swept in and absorbed Babylon. The Persian Empire stretched from Afghanistan to Lybia, including present-day Iraq, Iran, Syria, Israel, Turkey, and part of Egypt. The empire contained six of the seven wonders of the world and more than 125 provinces with a multitude of cultures, religions, and languages.

In the middle of all this lived a young Jewish woman named Hadassah. Like other Jews who were living in this kingdom, Hadassah’s name had been changed; her new name was Esther. Esther’s father and mother had died, and her cousin had raised Esther as his daughter.

When the Persian king became unhappy with his wife, he got rid of her and held auditions for a new queen. Esther, a virtuous, beautiful young woman, won the competition and became the new queen of this vast empire.

But even though she was queen, Esther still couldn’t do just anything she wanted. One of the things she especially couldn’t do was see the king, unless he called for her. If she approached the king without being invited, she would be killed—unless the king chose to spare her life. But one day Esther needed to see the king, and he hadn’t called for her in a month.

An evil man in the king’s court had tricked the king into declaring that on a certain day, all Jews in the kingdom would be killed. Such a decree was no small thing; the kingdom, remember, included all of the Middle East; hence it included all of the Jews. If carried out, this would have meant the end of the Bible—somewhere in the Old Testament.

Esther, of course, didn’t want this to happen. She wanted the Bible to go on being written (for several hundred pages more), and she wanted the Jews—including herself—to go on living. She was, understandably, a bit concerned about seeing the king, however. It hadn’t taken much for him to get rid of his last queen, and Esther was about to break one of the laws of the kingdom. Her cousin encouraged her, saying, “Who knoweth whether thou art come to the kingdom for such a time as this?” (Esther 4:14)

So Esther decided to go see the king—who didn’t know she was a Jew—and discuss this little problem with him. To get extra strength and help from God, she fasted, and she invited all Jews in the city to fast with her.

Esther was successful. The king saved her life and listened to her problem (it helped that she invited him to dinner to discuss it). When he understood the dastardly plan of the evil man, he reversed the decree, saved the Jews, destroyed the bad guy, and ensured that the Bible would go on being written.

Esther’s example is inspiring for many reasons. First, she showed great courage. Second, she exercised strong faith. And third, she recognized that she needed strength beyond her own—she recognized her weakness and pled for God’s help. As her cousin said, she was born to that time, to that challenge, to that purpose. Esther was placed on earth at that time to be virtuous enough, beautiful enough, courageous enough, faithful enough, humble enough, and a good enough cook to save the Jews from being destroyed. (OK, she probably had good cooks as servants, but at least she must have had good culinary taste and good judgment in kitchen help; she had the king over for dinner twice in this little incident.)

Think for a moment of the implications of her action. She not only saved herself and her cousin and the Jews of her city, but she saved all of the Jews and all of the Jews’ descendents. She saved Jews who would live hundreds of years later, Jews like Zacharias and Elizabeth and John the Baptist, Jews like Joseph and Mary and the child Jesus, the heir to King David’s throne.

Esther’s courage not only saved the Jews, it also saved the One who would save the entire human race.

Esther was born to her time, to her task, and she lived up to it. So have we been born to our time, and we have a work to do, a work that may save generations.

Fall is Falling

A week or so ago I noticed a tinge of color at the top of the mountain east of my office, but I refused to publicly acknowledge its existence. But now it's undeniable... and moving down the slope (see evidence at right). Even halfway down the mountain there is some good red. Crazy.

Fall always seems to come too early. I usually notice it the last week of August. I remember first being stunned by the early fall emergence when I was in marching band. Band camp was the last week of August, and we would spend almost all day every day marching around on the hot blacktop (we practiced in a big parking lot on campus), sweating profusely. Hats and sunscreen were a must, and water breaks (and fights) were frequent. We called it "Sweat Week." (They're out there today, by the way; I heard them rehearsing this morning.)

One sweaty afternoon, I think it was during a long, wearisome rehearsal, standing at attention with my shiny brass horn held vertical in front of my chest, I let my gaze wander past the drum major and director and on up the mountain. There at the top, a spot of cheery red looked back down at me, as if observing my suffering and enjoying all the more the cool temperatures at high elevation.

It seemed so incongruent to me. I was dying in the full force of summer heat, and trees way up there were telling me it was fall.

Since then I have enjoyed spotting the first rusty color at the top and then watching the color gradually descend the mountain until at last the valley itself bursts forth in yellows and oranges and reds. Then the next spring, I like to watch the reverse, as green returns to the valley and then climbs the mountain to the top, replacing the sad browns with the vibrance of life.

Speaking in Church

A year and a half ago, when my bishop invited me to speak in Church, he asked me to not write out my talk word for word. Rather, he wanted me to prepare carefully and thoroughly but to rely on inspiration to put together the actual words (and perhaps even organization) as I spoke.

I panicked.

I have long been a “write it out” sort of guy. I think better when I’m writing than when I’m talking. When writing, I have time to consider my word choice and organization and select the best presentation. I can revise and edit and revise again. In contrast, when I’m speaking extemporaneously—particularly in debates—I seldom express myself well; I can’t get my arguments together quickly or think of the right examples or put the words together well. I flail verbally and get frustrated.

As I considered my bishop’s counsel, I thought, “I can’t do that. I’ll fall apart. My words will be all jumbled and confused. I’ll say the wrong things. And besides, the Spirit can inspire me beforehand, can’t it?” But in the end, I decided to honor his request.

I have now (as of yesterday) had two opportunities to use this method in Church, and I’ve been pleasantly surprised. In both cases, I prepared abundantly, wrote some critical portions (partially just to get the words in my head), and had much of the talk in outline form. Parts of it were in a planned order, and others were just there to be used whenever and however I felt inspired to use them.

I’ve been pleased to find that I haven’t floundered as badly as I fear, and that the flow has been rather natural. Yesterday, I found myself only referring to my written notes (even the one story I had written out) a couple of times. The rest flowed freely from memory and inspiration. I skipped much of it, used some parts as planned, and used other parts a bit differently than planned.

Preparing and giving a talk this way causes me great anxiety; I would much rather write it all out and be certain of what I will say and when and how. But I have found much value in this way of speaking:

First, I feel like I am speaking more directly to the congregation. I’m not focused on the piece of paper in front of me; I’m not reading words and worried about losing my place. I’m communicating with people. I can look into their eyes and gauge their reaction and engage them in the discussion because my eyes aren’t otherwise occupied.

Second, I can fit the time allotment better. I’m not trying to get through my script and hoping it matches what time is left; I’m not bound to thinking about my topic in one specific presentation order. Rather, I have a bunch of material that I have prepared and studied well, and I can easily adjust my material to the time.

And third, I am more dependent on the Spirit to guide me. Because I don’t have everything planned exactly, I feel a bit more lost and uncertain. I’m more nervous and humble and more aware of my need to be inspired. Consequently, I think the Spirit is more present, and I am able to teach by the Spirit more—because I’m not teaching what I carefully planned but what I feel inspired to share.

There are, of course, drawbacks. Afterward, I stew over what I said and how I could have said it better. I feel bad about things left unsaid or things said the wrong way. And I’m sure the presentation isn’t as polished or smooth and the word choice isn’t as effective.

However, I think the Spirit is abundantly present, and I think that makes up for a lot of the weaknesses.

I have found myself thinking about a couple of scriptures as I have pondered this:

"Neither take ye thought beforehand what ye shall say; but treasure up in your minds continually the words of life, and it shall be given you in the very hour that portion that shall be meted unto every man" (D&C 84:85).

"But the Comforter, which is the Holy Ghost, whom the Father will send in my name, he shall teach you all things, and bring all things to your remembrance, whatsoever I have said unto you" (John 14:26).

I have to say I can better testify of the truth of the principles taught in those verses now than I could before. Ideas and thoughts have flowed freely and easily as I have spoken, and it has been a marvelous experience for me.

Anyway, that’s a lot of rambling. I’m just grateful for an inspired bishop who challenged me to do something I wasn’t comfortable doing.

Web Boggle Champs

While we were in California, Christine and I logged on and played Web boggle with Jen and Chad (Christine's twin and husband). We played as a team (Team Lizzy), with Christine and I on one laptop and Jen and Chad on another (all sitting on the couch together—gotta love wireless).

Anyway, we regularly scored near the top, but eventually we began to wear down and decided we'd only play one more game. On our last game, we hit number 1 (see right).

Granted, it was 11:30 on a Saturday night, but we still beat 54 competitors...

Maturity

At Church on Sunday one of the speakers mentioned that his father became more like a child as he got older and neared death. As I pondered that, I thought about my own efforts to become like a child, and I mused that we spend our childhood trying to become an adult and our adulthood trying to become a child. Or, put another way, immaturity is the process of becoming an adult; maturity is the process of becoming like a child.

Duck Poem

The wave poem reminded me of a poem Christine and I wrote a few years ago when we were rowing on a reservoir near her home in California (California inspires poetry in me, I guess).

Upon the waves the waterfowl rest.
From crest to crest they do their best
to stay afloat beside the boat
and chant the chants their grandfathers wrote:

"Quack-quack quack-quack,
quack-quack quack-quack."
Quack quack-quack,
quack-quack quack-quack."

"Give us some food," the little ducks say.
"Give us some bread that we may play
and while away the hours that pass
darting among the willowy grass."

Sandy Eggo?

As I washed the beach off Lizzy's feet today, I chanted "sandy, sandy, sandy, sandy, sandy." After I had done that for a bit, Lizzy piped up and said, "Like San Diego?"

Watching Waves at Santa Cruz

At the beach today, after running in the surf with Lizzy and Grace (her cousin), I sat on the beach and watched the water with Caroline and this little poem began to take shape.

Blue swells rising,
flashing in the sun,
crashing on the outer rocks,
send me on the run.
Crushing kelp and seaweed,
rushing to the beach,
thrashing on the sandy slope,
and splashing 'round my feet.

Emotional Eruptions

It's my fault. I realized this evening that there's no one to blame but me.

Lizzy regularly falls apart when she doesn't get her way. When friends have to go home, when a party ends early, when she doesn't get a book at bedtime (because she was disobedient), when its time to stop playing and eat dinner. She will wail and complain and cry and whine. Tears and pouting and declarations of unfairness. It can be exhausting to deal with those emotional eruptions, and it can be embarrassing when my family or friends become an audience to the display.

Tonight, after Lizzy had fallen apart twice—once when her abbreviated pre-birthday party with cousins came to an end and once when the "pajama party," designed to ease the end-of-party-sadness, didn't turn out like she hoped and also came to an end—I realized that it is all my fault. When I was younger, I was just like Lizzy.

I distinctly remember being five and having a friend come over one Sunday and protesting and whining because we couldn't play outside (a family Sunday rule). I pouted for a long time and ruined the visit. One of my defining characteristics as a child and teenager was my short temper. I remember often losing it and getting out-of-control angry, yelling, screaming, crying, pouting, stomping off in a huff, and sometimes throwing fists. I also remember acute embarrassment about my behavior—sometimes even in the midst of the outburst—and I remember regrets for opportunities lost.

So Lizzy's behavior is all my fault. She got it from me. And now it's payback time, Lizzy giving to me the embarrasment and frustration that I gave to my parents. I'll just have to figure out a way to help her through it.

You know, if Lizzy got this from me, could it be that I got this from one of my parents? I wonder if one of them behaved this way as a child. Maybe I'm not really to blame after all. It's probably their fault. Or their parents' fault. I'm sure somewhere back the line there's someone we can blame so the rest of us feel better about ourselves.

Bedtime Vocabulary

As I helped Lizzy get ready for bed one night recently, she began probing my vast vocabulary for a particular word.

“What do you say in the morning when you wake up?” she asked.

Not understanding, I asked what she meant. She obviously was having hard time defining the term herself. “After you sleep, when you’re not tired, what do you say?”

“Um, I guess you say, ‘I feel well rested,’” I said.

She wasn’t satisfied, and even after multiple attempts, my spontaneous vocabulary quiz ended with me failing and Lizzy being somewhat frustrated at my inability to provide the word she was after.

Several days later, I completed the bedtime routine and left Lizzy in her room to read with the light on. When I returned some time later and turned out the light, Lizzy protested that she was not ready for sleep. “But I’m not tired,” she said, then edited herself and declared, “I’m so untired . . . I’m so well rested.”

At last I understood the term she was seeking. I have yet to tell her that alert, wired, restless, or bright-eyed-and-busy-tailed might be suitable terms, and she continues to use “well rested” regularly. I probably should give her some alternatives, but it makes me smile whenever she seeks to avoid bedtime by saying, “But I’m so well-rested.”


Another fun example of her desire not to go to sleep at night: The other day I went in to turn out her light and she was asleep with the Friend magazine crumpled between her hands. I gently removed the magazine, trying not to wake her, and she stirred and protested weakly (without opening her eyes), “But I’m still not tired.” Then she promptly fell back asleep.

Freud and Dresses

A group chat this afternoon at work... one person announces she has to leave, so the rest of us start saying our farewells. Remaining participants are

Cute Baby (who used to be Calvin)


Abominable snowman


Fedora


Fedora: ciao

Snowman: cya

Baby: byu

Baby: bye

Baby: freudian slip

Snowman: did freud really wear a slip?

Snowman: 'cause then that would be something

Baby: yeah

Baby: he had issues with his mother

McConkie Insights

I often think I have to write a long, polished post, and that often prevents me from doing so... but here are a couple quick insights to share—neither long nor polished.

At work I'm proofreading some old speeches given by Elder Bruce R. McConkie, a former Apostle of the Church of Jesus Christ. It's been interesting to glean some perspective from such a gospel scholar. Two quick notes to share:

1. In the talk I'm now reading (or now avoiding reading by posting this blog), he's discussing the issue of salvation by grace vs. salvation by works. As I read his description of it, it struck me through some of his wording that a key problem in this debate is often our terminology. In reality, it's not a question of grace vs. works. Grace is involved in salvation in both camps. Without the grace of Jesus Christ, neither the workers nor the believers claim salvation. In both doctrines, grace is the core concept.

The question, really is one of faith vs. works—or more accurately, faith alone vs. faith and works. To me that's an important distinction. Those who frame the debate as between grace and works set up a false accusation that those who appeal to works are denying the grace of Christ. But those who argue for the importance of works still hold to grace. The real question in this debate is not whether we are saved by grace, the question is how do we access that grace—through faith and works together or through faith alone.

2. Another subject addressed in these talks has been evolution. I have begun to believe over recent years that evolution is likely the tool God used to create the earth. It makes sense in a lot of ways, and I've become quite comfortable with that idea, almost advocating it at times in my conversations with others. But Elder McConkie pointed out a conflict with that idea that I had once heard but about which I had forgotten in my growing acceptance of evolution.

This conflict is spelled out in 2 Nephi 2, specifically in verse 22. In this chapter, Lehi discusses Adam's fall and its consequences, stating in verse 22 that if Adam had not fallen "all things which were created must have remained in the same state in which they were after they were created; and they must have remained forever, and had no end." This, coupled with other scriptural statements, indicate that Adam's fall brought death—as well as birth—into the world.

An Edenic existence—a paradise wherein there was no birth, no sickness, and no death—causes trouble with my "evolution as God's creative tool" theory. How can life evolve if there is no birth or death? Evolution depends on birth and death over generations and eons. Without birth, death, and a lot of time, the idea of evolution crumbles to nothing.

So I'm back to the drawing board on my understanding of how God created the earth. I still have an open mind to evolution; the evidence in favor of evolution as a biologic principle is too overwhelming to dismiss entirely. But how evolution and divine creation and scriptural writings mesh is still a mystery to me. And I'm ok with that. There are a lot of things about this life that I've begun to realize I won't understand until the next life.


Speaking of evolution: Two other recent ideas that have caused me to ponder this:

1. I read last week a quote by George Gallup, the famous U.S. pollster, who said "I could prove God statistically. Take the human body alone—the chances that all the functions of an individual would just happen is a statistical monstrosity."

2. At a dinosaur museum last week I saw a presentation about the theory that a giant meteorite caused global destruction and precipitated death of all—or nearly all—life, wiping out the dinosaurs as well as much smaller living things. After that presentation, it struck me that if that is true and if evolution is a true idea, life on earth would have had to evolve from nothing—or almost nothing—into complex organisms twice in the earth's history.

These two ideas again persuade me to reject a godless evolution. I simply cannot believe that through happenstance something as complex as the human body could evolve—even once. And for complex life forms to evolve by chance twice on the same planet seems preposterous to me. What are the chances?

A God-driven evolution, however, seems very likely. If God directed evolution and used it as His tool, I can readily accept it... but first we have to resolve how that fits with the paradise of the Garden of Eden.

iChat Tangents

I work with some delightful and entertaining people, and although some of us can hear the clatter of each other's keyboards, we still use instant messaging (via Apple's iChat) to brainstorm, discuss issues, or simply distract each other from work.

Like our meetings, our productive iChat discussions are frequently interrupted by tangents—or, rather, our iChat tangents are occassionally interrupted by productive discussions. The other day we had a particularly entertaining chat, portions of which I will share here, edited only slightly.

The chat included four individuals, whose real names I will not share. I will, instead, identify each by his or her iChat icon, which appear by every comment an individual makes in a chat:

1. Abominable snowman (the abominable snowman, from that claymation Christmas movie of years gone by)

2. Rubin (actor Crispin Glover in Rubin and Ed)



4. Fedora (a cool brown hat that has likely appeared in many, many movies and on the heads of various famous people)

3. Calvin (of Calvin and Hobbes fame)


Background: The ostensible purpose of this chat was to brainstorm a title for a magazine article. Rubin, Calvin, and Fedora were each in their respective offices. After a bit of productive brainstorming by these three, Snowman joined the chat from a conference Snowman was attending in Seattle. As he/she chatted, Snowman was sitting in a session listening to a speaker, with other conference participants around him, presumably similarly attentive.

[Snowman joins the chat]

Fedora: wow, long distance chat now

Snowman: oh man they are talking about AJAX

Calvin: like the cleanser?

Snowman: like asynchronous Java and XML and microapplications

Fedora: ooh

Calvin: aah

Fedora: I'm so sad I'm not there

Snowman: there was a great one on blogging and commercial conversion

Snowman: but I digress

Calvin: "commercial conversion" is a nice title

Fedora: commercial conversion

Calvin: jinx

Fedora: baptizing a whole company?

Snowman: that's what I thought, but I was so wrong

Snowman: it's getting people to actually check out and buy the stuff in their inbox

. . .

Snowman: What is the most promising proposition [for a title] thus far?

Fedora: I liked the ones about gold and the ivory tower

Fedora: making gold in the ivory tower

Fedora: the ivory tower turns gold

Fedora: There's gold in that thar tower

Snowman: Spinning Theory into Gold

Fedora: spinning ivory into gold

Snowman: so I had 4 different kinds of chowder for lunch

Snowman: not sure how that is relevant

Calvin: wow, I bet you're full

Snowman: but smoked salmon chowder is surprisingly wonderful

Snowman: maybe it was because I burped

Snowman: (oops)

. . .

Fedora: did you see that NY Times article about the Napoleon Dynamite festival?

Snowman: i dated a girl from Preston

Snowman: I couldn't get the NYT to log me in so I missed it

Snowman: i was not converted

Rubin: do you think they felt insulted that none of the main actors came?

Rubin: by the way, i saw nacho libre—good

Rubin: in spite of my misgivings

Fedora: my favorite line from the NYT article:

Fedora: this napoleon impersonator is at a texas/oklahoma basketball game, performing

Fedora: attractive woman wearing a tiara asked for a signed photograph. "I thought, 'What kind of idiot wears a tiara to a basketball game?' " he recalled.

Snowman: oh gee they are actually showing code on the screen and talking about specific response tables

Snowman: glargh

Fedora: So, channeling Napoleon, Mr. Demke posed the question. "She laughed," he said, then introduced herself as Jennifer Berry, the new Miss America.

Fedora: "I felt so stupid. She thought I was playing in character. I was grateful she was a fan of the movie."

Snowman: that is funny

Fedora: you're not laughing in your conference are you?

Snowman: oh no I wouldn't dare

Fedora: hey, everyone, let's try to make [Snowman] laugh out loud

Calvin: he's making the sound glargh

Snowman: I might spew complimentary brownies


. . .


Calvin: [Attempting to redirect to productive conversation] Ideas for sale at BYU

Fedora: laboratory to real world

Calvin: goodies from the lab table

Rubin: entreprofessors

Fedora: shopping at the lab table

Snowman: From Blab to Lab to Fab

Calvin: lab table buffet

Calvin: entreprofessors is fun

Rubin: i'm liking [Snowman's}

Fedora: take a seat at the lab table and place your order

Calvin: I'd like two IsoTrusses, some sparkling yogurt, and an order of ceragenins

Rubin: also, one side of turkey

Calvin: hold the cholera, please

Fedora: I'm Professor Smith and I'll be your server. Our special of the day is Turkey Vaccine with a side of synthetic diamonds and water modeling to drink

Fedora: holy cow... I just realized my zipper was down...

Fedora: how long has that been?

Fedora: sheesh

Calvin: you didn't really have to tell us all that

Rubin: are you just trying to get [Snowman] to laugh?

Rubin: it worked on me

Calvin: or are you just trying to make [Snowman] laugh outloud

Fedora: hoping for a good guffaw

Rubin: and was that still part of professor smith's monologue

Fedora: no, that was me reclining while I type and suddenly looking down

Calvin: Serving up studies

Fedora: Peddling Ideas

Fedora: The Marketplace of Ideas

Fedora: The Idea Market

Snowman: Ohhh nooooo

Fedora: From the Lab Table to the Kitchen Table

Rubin: something to put stock in

Snowman: I've just been kicked out of the session

Fedora: :)

Snowman: like that guy with the cell phone on

Snowman: Don't Look Down... Never Look Down

. . .

Rubin: i interviewed someone named T today

Rubin: when I asked him "Are you T?" I couldn't help but chuckle softly

Calvin: did he have a goatee?

Calvin: lots of chains?

Calvin: mohawk

Calvin: did he call you sucka?

Rubin: no

Snowman: It's Time for T

Rubin: but i pitied the fool

Calvin: oh, must be another T

The Idea of Things

A co-worker asked the other day how I made my circle patio. As we chatted about it, I mentioned that we recently found a concrete bench at Wal-Mart, and as of Christine's birthday, the bench adorns our back circle patio.[^^]

"Not that I frequent the patio or regularly sit on the bench," I said, "but it sure looks nice. I like the idea of having circle patios in my yard."

I have found that I like a lot of things in idea form. Granted, the circle patios are definitely more than ideas at this point—rather concrete, actually. But my romantic notion of visiting the patios often to enjoy witty and erudite conversation with my wife (ala any Jane Austen novel/movie) or to take in the beauties of nature (or at least those found in my yard) or to ponder and write about the complexities of the universe (i.e., generate posts for my blog) is still just that, a notion.

(However, on Saturday I did take a brief break from mowing the lawn to sit with Lizzy on the patio bench and drink some water. And on Monday I looked out the kitchen window at the apricot tree, the patio, and the bench, all in a perfect line between me and the corner of the fence, and I found great satisfaction in the aesthetics of it all.)

Anyway, the idea is that I like the idea of things. Like circle patios. And sailing.

I once owned a sailboat. When other plans fell through one day in San Diego, a friend and I got a brief sailing lesson and wafted around Mission Bay for an afternoon. I found I loved being pushed gently and quietly across the water by the wind, just the flap of the sail and the slap of the waves against the prow, no roaring motors or rushing speed. So I bought a boat and sailed a few times.

But then one day a wild wind thrust the boat over, dumping my sister and me into the lake, and I was suddenly humbled by the power of the wind versus my tiny sailboat and my limited skill. I became a bit skittish, but I learned how to right a flipped boat and I kept sailing—though with a bit of trepidation. Then I became a Scoutmaster and got married and had kids and ran out of time to sail and realized I wouldn't trust my tippy boat with my children's lives. And a local sailing club borrowed my boat and used it more than I. And a vandal broke the mast. And I sold the boat to the club for a pittance—considered it a charitable donation. Then the other day I read a story of a family that lived my dream, sailing the world on a large sailboat, and struck a reef in the South Pacific in the middle of the night and almost died.

So I like the idea of sailing. Sailing itself I'm not so sure about these days. But I like to dream about sailing, and I like to read books and watch movies that involve vessels that run before the wind. And my head always turns to look at a sailboat in someone's yard, and I like to tell people that I once owned a sailboat, and I think someday I might want to have a very stable, small dinghy into which I can step a mast[<<] and do a little light sailing on a calm, small lake with my wife and my daughters and we could sing songs and tell jokes and have a picnic while the wind blows us merrily along.

You can see I have a lot of romantic notions in my head.

I also, by the way, like the idea of being a full-time independent writer, writing books and essays and articles about whatever I want and having people pay me lots of money simply to keep my brilliant writing going. And I like the idea of traveling the world. Or working at Sea World. Or owning a dog. Or having a swimming pool. Or moving to Scotland. Or living in an energy-efficient concrete home. One of the latest ideas I've begun to like is that of having a teardrop trailer to pull along behind my car—a cool, compact, comfortable way to camp.

But many of these things will likely remain ideas. And that's ok. I like to have something to dream about. I think it's good to have dreams, as unpractical as they may be.

Unauthorized Bedtime Wandering

For quite some time (months and months) after Lizzy moved from a crib to a bed, she still hadn't grasped the concept that she could get in and out of bed by herself. We would put her there and she would stay there until we got her out.

It also took her a long time to figure out that she could open the door to her room by herself. We heard friends tell tales of their toddlers climbing out of cribs and opening doors and wandering around outside while parents slept. We looked at our little bed-bound child and smiled with gratitude.

How I miss those days.

Since Lizzy awakened to her God-given bed- and room-escaping ability, she has become very hard to keep in bed, and it takes her forever to fall asleep. Each night she frequently gets out of bed and comes to ask us a question or tell us something or complain that she isn't ready for sleep.

Our recent attempt to curb this behavior has been to take away a toy each time she gets out of bed. This appears to work pretty well, although last night after I had firmly restated the law of toy-removal and left the room, she got out of bed and came out of her room to protest the hard-line stance we have taken with this decree. There should be more flexibility, she demanded (though in different words—something like, "I don't think that's a good idea"). The current wording of the regulation stipulates that to be legal, bed-time wandering must lead the wanderer directly to the bathroom to take care of business—and then directly back.

Lizzy proposed another authorized excursion last night: the reporting of nightmares. If she is scared, she said, she needs to be able to come tell us.

I agreed but insisted that nightmares don't come right after we put her to bed and she'd better get back there now.

For a while there, nightmares were the favored excuse for bed escapes. She would have several "nightmares" each evening and would get out of bed to come tell us about them—often within minutes of us leaving her in her room.

The best reason for getting out of bed, however, came when Lizzy got out of bed one night and, in response to my demand that she return, said, "But I have to tell you something."

"What is it?" I asked, trying to be patient.

"Um, um, um, um.... um, um, um," she said, her brain working hard to come up with something as we stood at the door to her room. "Um, um... I'm tired."

As I laughed and pointed out the irony of her statement, she realized her mistake, smiled, and headed back to bed.

By the way, last night when I removed a toy (Mr. Potato Head) in consequence of her unauthorized wandering, Lizzy said, "That's OK. You can take him." So much for consequences that hurt.

Fancy Drinks

I rush into the kitchen carrying my shoes and socks and join Christine, Caroline, and Lizzy at the table. Lizzy has not made much progress on her breakfast since I left 20 minutes earlier to take a shower. Christine is pouring Caroline's breakfast into her tube. "Let's have family devotional in here," I suggest, pulling on my socks. "I've got to leave. Lizzy will you choose a song?"

"Um, guys? Guys?" Lizzy says, "I've got to tell you something."

I take a breath and say, "OK, but it's got to be fast." I am not as patient as I should be with Lizzy's speed these days. Always something else to tell us or show us, always some reason she can't do this or that just yet.

Lizzy grabs the plastic Fazoli's cup (saved from a one-time kids meal) with the pink straw and moves it around her bowl so I can see inside. "This cup is for fancy drinks," she announces.

I peer down into the cup and see four or five Grape Nut Os floating in about an inch of milk. I smile and share my observation with Christine.

"I put some orange juice in it too," says Lizzy.

She may not be terribly quick, but she is creative.

We sing Lizzy's song of choice ("I Am like a Star") and Lizzy takes a sip of her fancy drink. "Ugh," she says with a grimace. Another sip. "Yuck." So much for fancy drinks.

But Lizzy is not deterred. After we read our three verses in the Book of Mormon, we make our way to the living room for prayer. On the way, she tries to convince Christine she should have some of Lizzy's fancy drink—with about the same zeal that she goes after my chocolate aversion. As we're kneeling down, Lizzy tries one more argument: "It's really yummy," she says, and Christine and I lose it, delaying the prayer with uncontrollable laughter.

Funny kid.

My Mountain Home

I love my commute. The 17-minute drive to work takes me first east, within a mile of the foothills of Timpanogos, the mountain itself walling off the sky to the north. Ahead Provo Canyon's V joins Timp and Cascade, a similarly massive mountain which marks the eastern border of our valley.

As the road begins to climb to the foothills, I turn south and descend again, looking across the valley to ward Mount Loafer and Mount Nebo in the distance. That short leg is followed by another eastern jaunt leading me to the mouth of Provo Canyon, with Cascade full in my view. Then I turn south and run along the base of Squaw Peak (Cascade's foothill) until I get to work.

All along the route, the views ahead and to my left draw my eyes upward and provide me no end of visual feasting. I am continually studying cliff faces, trees, mountain contours, and the interaction of cloud and mountain. Sometimes I suddenly recognize my distraction by the view and I get nervous about the last 10 minutes of driving, in which I wonder how much attention I paid to the road.

This morning I was particularly captivated by Cascade, as grey clouds stretched across its ridge, leaving remnants among the trees on the upper slopes like cotton batting pulled thin by gentle, steady hands. In the shade beneath the clouds, the mountain's brown cliffs and green slopes were punctuated by snowfields wedged into ravines down the mountain face. Some of them likely hundreds of feet long, the patches of snow caused me to check my mental calendar and glance at Timp for comparison. Here it is, mid-June, and the top third of both mountains are decorated with abundant stripes and splotches of snow.

I've been regularly monitoring Timp's snow (it dominates my drive home each day), but somehow I'd failed to register the scattered snow on Cascade until this morning.

A Desert Downpour

A week ago I was hiking through the rain in the canyon created by Calf Creek in southern Utah.

It was the first full day of a three-day camping trip with the young men in our Scout group. In the morning, the crowds at the Lower Calf Creek Falls trailhead had persuaded us to first explore Upper Calf Creek Falls, where we found ourselves alone at a lush desert grotto fed by a small creek that careened over a 90-foot drop into a deep, green pool. Warmed by the sun, many of us had entered the chilling waters for a brisk swim. Doing a leisurely backstroke across the pool, I had gazed up past cream-colored canyon walls to white clouds moving across a blue sky.

As we hiked up and out of the canyon, however, our trail over the slickrock became gradually darkened by a gathering storm. By the time we reached the top and began making our sandwiches, black, low clouds filled the sky, rain could be seen to the north, and occasional claps of thunder reached our ears.

Undeterred, we drove back down to the lower trailhead, hoping the crowds had dispersed. There was at least room in the parking lot this time, and as we commenced on the trail, with the dark clouds sprinkling upon us, streams of hikers flowed by on the outward leg of their hike. Before long, however, the sprinkle had increased to a steady rain, and within a mile, we were in the midst of a drenching downpour and spectacular lightning show.

By the halfway point of our hike (about a mile and a half), the group (10 boys, four adults) had become stretched out along the trail, and our radio crackled as the lead group called back for guidance. “Are we going to turn back?” a teenage voice queried hopefully.

The cold rain had soaked most clothes (especially those of young men who had neglected to bring the rain gear itemized on the packing list—“I didn’t even look at that list,” one boy remarked), and as they saw hiker after hiker heading for the parking lot, they longed to return to warm cars.

But we in the rear were having the time of our lives. Sure, it was wet, but how often do you witness a desert downpour? The lightning crackling above our heads, the thunder echoing off surrounding canyon walls, and the spontaneous waterfalls spewing forth from precipices above to hurtle hundreds of feet to the canyon floor kept our minds off the damp chill, and the promise of petroglyphs and Anasazi cliff dwellings kept us interested. [^^In the photo above you can see one of the spontaneous waterfalls as well as the petroglyphs (lower left corner).]

“Keep on keeping on” was the message sent back to the lead group (a message met with not a little complaining).

Gradually the rain lessened to a drizzle, but it didn’t stop completely. As we neared the end, we met the lead group going back on the run. They had seen the falls—if briefly—and had determined to get out of the cold as soon as they could.

Moving forward, we soon saw the 125-foot falls above the trees, and in a moment we were walking under the final grove at the edge of the sandy beach that surrounds the pool. Swollen by the rain, Lower Calf Creek Falls—normally a mild flow tumbling peacefully down a cliff—thundered over the canyon rim in a torrent that sent mist hurtling toward us, propelled by the wind that whipped down through the narrow passage. My glasses, hitherto protected from the rain by my wide-rimmed leather hat, were suddenly covered in drops from the spray. Directed by the boys who had reached the spot just before me, I moved to the side, out of the wind and spray, and I searched for a dry spot on my shirt with which I could wipe my glasses to more fully appreciate the scene. [vv The photos below illustrate the contrast between the normal falls (left) and what we encountered (right).]

For several minutes we admired the falls. We took pictures, we shared statements of incredulity, we stood again in the center of the canyon to test the strength of the wind and feel the force of the spray, awed at the power and majesty of God displayed through His creations.

As we left the falls and hiked out, the rain continued, but more lightly now. Birds began to sing, and the spontaneous waterfalls we had observed earlier had vanished. In their place were glistening ribbons of damp, darkened rock down the face of the cliffs, giving us direct evidence that water is the source of those black streaks on sandstone canyon walls.

When we reached the cars, I noted with some amazement the differing attitudes toward the experience. We had all taken the same hike in the same weather, but some of the young men complained that it ranked among the worst hikes they’d done, while others of us raved about it as one of the most incredible things we had witnessed.

Later I wondered if the difference in attitude lay in the focus. Many of those in the lead group were in the lead group because they wanted to go fast. Their purpose was to get to the end of the hike and see the falls. It was all about the destination for them. And although most of them acknowledged that the destination was truly magnificent, some of them insisted that it wasn’t worth the cold, wet hike.

Those of us in the rear group, however, were interested in the end goal, to be sure, but early on we began looking around and taking in the sights as we went. When we got to the end and saw the swollen falls, the sight was the perfect climax to a fantastic series of observations along the way. We had seen the desert in the middle of a massive thunderstorm—not a common occurrence. We had witnessed the forces of nature at work and had seen much more than the one waterfall we had anticipated at the beginning of the hike.

The message, for me, is to enjoy our journeys in life. We shouldn't be so focused on the end goal (be it an eternal objective or a long-term temporal one) that we can't find beauty and wonder along the way. When blinders focus our attention so narrowly on one point in the distance, we not only miss much, we also become more easily wearied by the trials of the trail and we question whether it is all worth the effort. But when we take time to appreciate the beauties around us, the challenges we face seem less burdensome, and the ultimate objective, when we achieve it, is enriched by the good we gathered along the way.

Uphold Marriage as a Sacred Union

Yesterday Senator Harry Reid indicated that he agreed that marriage should only be between a man and a woman, but he stated that he did not think such a restriction should receive the strength of a Constitutional amendment. I disagree.

As the fundamental unit of societal organization, the family merits all the protection we can offer it. If the family structure is weakened, society is weakened and the entire fabric of our nation is strained. We see such strains all around us resulting from divorce, neglected children, sexual promiscuity, and unwed parents. Increasingly our society is devaluing families, but it is doing so at its own peril.

Passing the marriage amendment will send a clear message that our nation values traditional families and sees them as essential to the formation of a strong community. It will not only prevent harmful contortions of familial definitions, but it will also make the institution of marriage more prominent and more sacred. It will help hold marriage up as an ideal to which we should all aspire, a prestigious union that is not subject to individual whim or cultural trends but that must be entered into in accordance with specific guidelines and with careful thought and consideration. This amendment will serve to shore up traditional marriage and family and place these units of society on the pillar they deserve—as a model for citizens of our nation to follow.

The Weekend’s Project

While Christine was away at a retreat for young mothers this weekend, a new circle patio grew in our yard. Last year a larger one appeared in our back yard, and this spring I realized that I had enough bricks left over to make a smaller sibling in the front/side yard. Now we need to find a couple of benches to put with the patios . . . where do you get inexpensive concrete benches?

And You Think I'm Wordy

Just reading this NYTimes article about the Army's report on the failure of the New Orleans levees during Katrina. The report is 6,113 pages . . .

I'm so glad I write for something simple like a magazine.

Manual Labor and a few Log Blogs

So I'm not so good with the blog thing from home. Sorry. Blame it on an inconvenient Internet connection, plenty of distractions, and an inclination for manual labor.

Sometimes I wonder if I chose the wrong career. Maybe I'd be more suited to construction or landscaping or plumbing. I enjoy my job—most days—but given the choice, I'd dig holes in my yard or paint a wall or organize the garage before I'd proofread or edit or write (which is partly why you get long gaps in my blog on the weekend).

There's something very satisfying about physically laboring to complete a project and seeing tangible evidence of your accomplishments at the end of the day. In my job at the end of the day, I can look in my e-mail box to see a number of messages sent, I can look in my file to see articles edited, I can look at my calendar to see meetings attended, and occasionally, I can look at a page of something I wrote (or rewrote). And every three months I can see an 8.5x11 magazine with four score pages or so. But when you're building or fixing or cleaning, at the end of each day you can see something sizeable and tangible that other people will use or admire. And when your wife or daughter asks you what you did today, you have something to show.

Yesterday (Memorial Day), one of the young men I work with in church was doing his Eagle Scout service project; we took a dozen or so boys to a nonprofit mountain resort and dug holes and poured concrete while installing a Frisbee golf course. As I drove down the canyon at the end of the project, I realized we'd been at it almost six hours . . . and I loved it. It was cool to create something that thousands of people will use. It was satisfying to dig into the soil and batter large rocks to get them out of the way. It was pleasant to look up from my labor and see pine-covered slopes, cascading waterfalls, towering mountains, and vast snow fields still decorating the surrounding peaks.

Granted, much of the satisfaction I gain from manual labor would likely disappear if I did it all day every day. But still, I think there's something to it. It's in my genes; my father and grandfather and great grandfather (and several generations before that when most people didn't have "careers" outside farming) spent their work lives fixing things and making things and doing things. I feel like most days I don't do things; I think about things. Thinking is good—don't get me wrong—and I enjoy the "life of the mind," but sometimes I wish I did stuff instead. I think that's especially an issue in journalism, where we spend a lot of time writing about people who are doing things, and at times we—or at least I—feel like we're spectators of life. (An interesting thought just occurred to me; maybe this has something to do with why we sometimes have problems with activism among journalists, a lack of commitment to objectivity. Maybe journalists get frustrated just talking about people doing things; they want to be making a difference as well . . . just an idea.)

Anyway, enough of those rambling thoughts. Obviously, I like to think, so a thinking job is probably good for me. But on occasion I look out my window and wonder if I could find fulfillment in a career that would take me outside to do stuff . . .


The Weekend's Log Blog:
[Good stuff that happened]

Friday: My younger brother became a dad at last (see photo).

Saturday: Lizzy, Caroline, and I had a "light party," which involved taking all of our toys with lights and music into a dark basement storage room and trying to keep them all going at the same time. It was a delightful half-hour of cacophony and flashing lights. Caroline even liked it (see other photo).

Sunday: We planned our young men campout to the Escalante area: I'm very excited. Slot canyons, water falls, mountain lakes, petrified forests . . . it will be awesome.

Monday: After years of looking (off and on) we bought a loveseat and finally moved our old couches to the basement where they belong.

The Log Blog

I've been listening lately to Desolation Island, one of the Master and Commander series (the two I've "read" so far have been great books—nice character development, good stories, engaging writing, great sense of ocean-going adventure). Near the end of the book there are a few quotes from the ship log, recording in brief form the latitude and longitude, weather, and crew's activity for the day. Thinking about the ship log has made me think about this little record of my own, which is, by definition, a log itself.

So far I haven't recorded much statistical information about my daily life in this log (other than yesterday's embarrassing revelation of my late shower), but I'm not sure such statistics would be terribly compelling to you, my millions of adoring fans. However, I did run across the other day a blog that has got me thinking about a daily log I could make that might hold some interest for you, if not just serving as a good exercise for me.

Dan Lawyer, who I don't know, is keeping a blog called 365 Days of Gratitude. In it, each day he writes about something he is grateful for. An intriguing idea. As I've thought about it, I remembered someone who told me that during her mission for the Church in Haiti (where I also served), she had a goal to have an adventure every day. It was her way of keeping her spirits up in a challenging situation. Also a cool idea.

So my thought is this: In the log part of my blog, I'm going to try (see how long it lasts) to highlight each day something that's cool. Not necessarily something that I'm grateful for (although that will likely also be true), but something that is "virtuous, lovely, or of good report, or praiseworthy" (Article of Faith 13).

It's that old "good news" thing . . . an attempt to mention something positive about each day. I'll also attempt to do so briefly, although as you have likely noticed, "brief" is not my greatest quality. And I may from time to time enhance my log blog with other stats/highlights of the day.

Anyhow, day one: The recently acquired glowworm toy that has a remarkable ability to make Caroline happy when she's sad (and which has, as a result, gone through many sets of batteries in its short life).