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).

Still in PJs...

So this morning a little after 9 a.m., I'm doing dishes when the familiar squeel and rumble of the garbage truck seeps in through our archaic swamp cooler and our old-and-not-soundproof windows (so said the vinyl window salesguy), and Christine calls from the other room, "Do we have the garbage out yet?"

Oops.

I rush to the window to check the truck's direction. Whew. It's headed down the other side of the street, and I've got a few minutes yet.

Check the garbage under the sink. It's on the full side. Pull the bag out and head to the garage without getting a twist-tie. Push the garage-door-opener button. Throw the bag in the garbage can and begin wheeling it out to the street. Feel terribly exposed to be caught in the bright sunlight on my driveway . . . in pajamas.

People at the chapel across the street are preparing for a funeral. I see cars but no people. I look down the road and see blurry figures (I don't have my glasses on yet) walking toward me on the sidewalk a few houses away. I tell myself (but don't believe myself) that they likely can't tell from that distance that my clothes are not blue slacks and a short-sleeved dress shirt. The shuffle of my slippers must give it away. I hear a car start in the church parking lot and realize I must have been observed. This is the downside of living so close to the church.

All the while, inside my head, I'm defending my attire to all of the scoffing glances I am probably receiving: "I got up at 6 a.m., honest. I've changed a diaper, dressed a child, read scriptures, prayed, watered the garden (all two plants), inspected a couple of trees, waked another child, called work to tell them I won't be in until 1 p.m., set the table, eaten, fed Caroline, and washed a ton of dishes. I just haven't gotten around to the clothes part."

And I didn't get around to the clothes part until noon. This must be what my wife feels like every day—only I think she manages a shower earlier than noon somehow.

(Christine, by the way, was also busy this morning, making a cake for the funeral luncheon and getting Lizzy ready for the day [a long process] and getting herself ready to attend the funeral at 10.)

Hope

I just became aware of a foundational belief I have that I have never acknowledged consciously. Kind of a strange thing to suddenly confront something you have been assuming to be true without consciously choosing it.

My daughter Caroline (age 3) has severe cerebral palsy. Without going into a lot of detail, a sudden (and unexplained) loss of blood shortly before birth led to a lack of red blood cells to carry oxygen to her brain for an unknown period of time. The reduced oxygen caused severe brain injury, which resulted in her condition. [^^This picture is Lizzy with Caroline when she came home from the hospital after a couple of weeks in intensive care.] She is now at about a 3-month-old developmental stage, she is fed by a g-tube, and she has frequent seizures (multiple each day, although recent treatment has reduced that number... currently between 0 and 3 a day, a major improvement).

Today Christine took Caroline to her first day of preschool at the school for the blind (although her eyes function normally, it is unclear how well Caroline sees, or interprets what she sees; hence she qualifies for this school). Christine called me at work to say things went fairly well, although Caroline has been quite sad lately, and she was fussy through the preschool session. Christine liked the preschool teacher and aids, who didn't seem to mind the fussiness (which is good news since Caroline is often fussy).

The school nurse was there, instructing the teacher and aids how to use Diastat, an emergency treatment (a form of valium) for stopping long seizures. We have twice had to use Diastat, but each time the treatment still didn't stop the seizure and we had to take Caroline to the emergency room. I mentioned that to Christine on the phone, and she said one of the aids had seen it used effectively multiple times.

This revelation made me wonder (again) about Caroline's seizure activity. There are various things about her seizures (like the ineffectiveness of Diastat and their general persistence despite numerous treatment strategies) that have made me think her seizures aren't entirely normal. (Though what seizures are normal?) This thought then led to another thought, which relies upon my previously unacknowledged belief about things: Someday I'll understand exactly what is going on in Caroline's head and I'll know why diastat didn't work for her and what about her seizures is different than other people's seizures.

This belief in a future revelation of knowledge about Caroline's condition is not a hope for a medical cure or a faith in the abilities of doctors or scientists to understand the brain better in my lifetime or hers. Rather, it's a belief that after this life I will be able to converse with God and with a now-communicative Caroline about her experiences here. It's a faith that God will someday make it all known to me, and that someday—when my own capabilities for knowledge are vastly increased—I will understand the complexities of the human brain and I will comprehend in minute detail all of the things that are wrong with Caroline's brain and how each of those problems explain her various symptoms, from seizures to fussiness to inability to eat. It's an expectation that someday I'll understand what caused all of this.

Furthermore, it's a hope that one day I'll know exactly what she was thinking while all this was going on. That I'll know whether she understood what was happening around her and to her and whether her cognitive abilities increased during her life and whether she comprehended what we said to her and whether she was spiritually nurtured and whether she felt deep emotions and whether those emotions were generally positive and happy and whether she knew she was loved and prayed for and wept for and cherished ever so deeply.

And more than that, it's a belief that one day I'll hug her and she'll hug me back. That we'll talk and laugh and play together. That she will share her insights and humor with me and she'll listen to mine. That she and Lizzy will be best of friends, loving each other as sisters only can. That she will understand and show gratitude for all that Christine did for her—all the time spent holding and consoling and cleaning and feeding, all the stress and worry and love of a mother for a special child. That all of us will get to know the talents and personality and brilliance of this wonderful member of our family who is so closed to us now.

So much of Caroline is a mystery to us now. Doctors and therapists have been able to shed so little light on what is really going on inside. Her abilities to communicate are almost nonexistent. She smiles at times, and laughs. She startles and cries. We can get a sense of things she likes and dislikes, but we're not always sure.

I believe that there is ever so much more to this beautiful little girl than I can sense now. And this underlying—and previously unacknowledged—belief is that someday I will understand it all. The answers will come. It will make sense. And we will all find peace together.

Poetic Moments?

Does anyone else have poetic moments? I described in yesterday's post what was, for me, a "poetic moment." But I've thought since then that the idea of a poetic moment may not communicate to everyone.

For me, a poetic moment is a moment in which my observations take on a certain quality inherent in great poetry. It's an aesthetically beautiful and poignant moment which could be painted through well-honed verse or even portrayed on canvas. It's a slice of life, cut such a way as to make you think differently. To juxtapose dissimilar things, to bring a hitherto unnoticed fact into sharp relief in a way that causes reflection.

The beetle did that for me. Something about his steady track through the sand surrounded by the footprints of teenage boys, his quiet, slow progress amid the loud rushing of four-wheelers, his tiny legs pushing him upward on mountainous dunes, moved me to ponder and observe.

I was reminded last night of another poetic moment I had a few years ago. I was attending a conference in San Francisco, and before heading out for lunch, I had ascended to my room on an upper floor of a high-rise hotel. I took a moment to look out the window at the jumbled skyline of the city: towering buildings the proportions of matchsticks, surrounded by lower, but still tall, structures, outlined by black city streets filled with honking cars way below.

As I surveyed the muted gray-brown scene on the overcast day, my eye suddenly caught a speck of brilliant color. It was a kite, bright red and diamond shaped, flying above the mid-range towers but below the tallest ones. It seemed so out of place—peacefully propelled by God-sent wind in this rushing, hectic man-made urbanity, and I wondered at its origin. I watched it for a moment, and soon I was able to trace its string, curving down to the roof of a building where someone stood holding it.

I was struck by this scene, it's contrast in color and activity. The juxtapositions were poetic to me, and if I'd been given to write verse, I would have done so. But I was hungry, and I contended myself with a few minutes of observation before reluctantly turning away and heading for the lobby where I found two acquaintances and joined them for lunch.

Sometime during our meal, I commented that I'd just had a poetic moment. One of them queried whether I wrote poetry, and they both seemed puzzled by my explanation of the moment as being poetic in and of itself, without need for written verse. These were two seasoned magazine editors, older and more well-read than I. Both have an eye and ear for things aesthetic and both are much more talented writers than I. Yet they didn't seem to grasp my meaning, thus making me wonder at my use of the term.

And so I wonder again . . . does this idea of "poetic moments" exist outside my head? Is this a creation of my own imagination or do others have similar moments and understand my description?

The Poetry of the Beetle

Last weekend, we took the young men camping in the sand dunes. It was a perfect pair of days for the dunes. The temperatures were moderate, kept that way by a blanket of high clouds Saturday morning. The crowds were tolerable—plenty of ATVs, but not so many that you feared for your life. The wind was breezy at most. And at about 9 p.m. a large orange moon rose out of the juniper that decorated a low hill to the east.

The boys had a great time. We had about 20 or so 11-15 year olds there, with one 16-year-old thrown in. After the sun had set, by the light of the full moon we played capture the flag on an ocean of sand—red glow sticks marking the midline across wave and trough; silhouetted bodies standing, now lying flat on the sandy surface, now running, chasing up and down and up and down the swells.

In the morning, after a hurried eating of breakfast and taking down of camp, the horde moves back to the dunes. They create a slope and jump for their sand-skate (a cousin of the snowboard); they make trails and tunnels for golf balls to traverse; they dig holes in which to bury each other.

As I walk from the sand-skate run across the crest of a dune to the golf-ball course, I observe a curious track through the sand. Tiny footprints have created a half-inch wide trail that looks like a miniature version of the ATV tire tracks so prevalent here. At the end of the trail I see a black beetle. We've seen others like this; the boys call them stink bugs, and the previous night I observed a group of boys as they watched, provoked, feared, and then squashed one as they set up their tent.

This particular beetle is moving peacefully southward, and I let him go on his way as I join some of the young men in digging holes in the sand. I first watch them in their play, then I join in, attempting to dig a really big hole on my own. Sand flies as my hands fling it out of the way. Soon my hole is large enough to attract attention from a 12-year-old, who joins me. He fetches a shovel and the hole size increases rapidly. Others join the quest to make the hole deep enough that I can stand in it and just see out. We take turns digging, and soon I leave the hole in their hands altogether.

Some time later, I wander up the dune to find other boys, and I notice the beetle's track, heading southward down a long slope of dune. I follow it, slowly down the dune and into a small valley, then up another dune, across the crest, and back down to another valley. Halfway up the next dune, I find the beetle, laboring up with the same difficulty we humans face when climbing these sand hills—two steps up, one step sliding back. I take note of the beetle's legs, one of which is missing, and I wonder if the lost leg is due to one of our young men. The beetle's track, I now notice, is asymmetrical due to the missing leg.

I ponder the beetle and his surprising journey. Where is he going? Who knows, but he is going—remarkably straight, and steadily onward over hill and vale, despite the raucous teenage play around him. It's a different world down there where the beetle crawls. A different dimension.

For me it's a poetic moment. I find pleasure and poetry in this beetle's journey, and I want to share it with someone. But I look around at the sand-boarding, hole-digging, friend-burying young men, and I decide to keep it to myself. The poetry of the beetle might not appeal to all and might be destroyed by some. I retrace the beetle's steps and look back over my shoulder as he climbs his dune, his mountain, on his way somewhere. I wish him well.

Whence Cometh Wisdom?

This morning I ran across this verse and decided to memorize it. In Job 28, the book's namesake alludes to the precious metals to be found in the earth and declares that wisdom and understanding are treasures hidden from man and that man cannot buy them. "Whence then cometh wisdom?" he asks, "and where is the place of understanding?" (verse 20). God is the source of wisdom, says Job:

"Behold, the fear of the Lord, that is wisdom; and to depart from evil is understanding." [Job 28:28]

Good verse, I think. Reminds me of Alma's injunction to his son Helaman to "learn wisdom in thy youth; yea, learn in thy youth to keep the commandments of God" (Alma 37:35). Wisdom, then, is obedience and fear of the Lord.

The Giving Contest: Mother’s Day Edition

Saturday afternoon, still struggling to select the perfect Mother's Day gift, I gathered Lizzy and Caroline into the car and we headed off to the store. Seeking some input, I asked Lizzy what she thought we should get for Grandma McClellan—flowers, candy, a card?

All three, suggested the little one, always eager to spend my money. The candy, she insisted, would be a particularly good gift, because when Lizzy goes to visit, maybe Grandma would share some with her.

So it was that candy, flowers, and a card were added to the shopping list, and I despaired at my lack of originality. I consoled myself with a resolve to write a poem for the card.

Later that evening, my hands maneuvering scissors to clip flower stems and insert them in fresh water, I mentioned my flower-hunting efforts to Christine. Mama loves gerbera daisies, and I had set out with a hope of finding a few. The store to which I ventured at that late hour, however, had none. Knowing the sentiment is more important than the actual species of flower and also remembering that someone (likely my brother Matt) would have a nice spread of gerberas, I opted for variety: a pre-arranged generic-grocery-store bouquet of spring flowers.

Upon hearing my tale, Christine piped up from the kitchen table. "You know it won't compare to Matt's gift, anyway."

Sigh.

I don't know where Matt got this gift for gifts. I don't recall him expressing any particular originality in gift-giving when he was younger, but in recent years, his gifts outshine all others. He comes up with the most creative, interesting, enjoyable, and perfectly selected presents for my parents. It is always with a bit of foreboding that I attend a birthday or Christmas or parental-holiday event where gifts will be opened. My gift, about which my little brain has struggled for hours, always looks so shabby in comparison to what Matt unveils.

The problem is exacerbated by Matt's distance. For the last eight years or so he has lived at least two states away, and his gifts, therefore, have the air of divine bestowal. When we arrive at the house with our meager offering in tow, his gift is already there, usually gloriously displayed or gleefully in use . . . seemingly having appeared through supernatural means. Three days earlier. (Thus at least 24 hours before I had ventured into a store to make my purchase.)

By the time I had finished clipping flower stems Saturday night, my mind had run this course, and I was downright depressed about my gift . . . half tempted to give it to Lizzy and tell my mom that Matt's gift is certainly good enough to represent our collective love. Maybe I could even call Matt with a request to have my name added to the card. But of course, it was Saturday night. Matt would have sent his gift days ago.

Sunday afternoon, we arrived at Mama's house and shared our colorful—if wimpy—bunch of flowers. They were, of course, received graciously and warmly, as were the candies (Almond Roca, her favorite), which she promptly shared with us (Lizzy got two). As she opened the candy in the kitchen, I spied a delicate round vase filled with 14 gerbera daisies. I soon learned—not without a touch of envy—that they had been delivered Friday with a note from Matt disclosing the name they have chosen for their forthcoming child (Finley).

As sheepish as I felt about my gift, my mother betrayed no disappointment. She enjoyed the poem, which Lizzy helped write (note the first rhyme, in particular):

We love you Grandma,
You are so nice,
You always help us,
And you're bigger than mice.

You take care of Lizzy
and sweet Caroline.
You're more beautiful than roses
that grow on the vine.


Anyway . . . congratulations, Matt, on both the name, and the victory in the giving war. I give up. Maybe I'll send you a white flag with a gerbera daisy on it to make the surrender complete. :)

By the way, while at Mama's house, she showed us an electronic Mother's Day card showing two little characters who were saying thanks a million (times) to their mother. They had been monitoring the card on their computer for three hours and the characters had just gotten to 100,000. They were going to leave it going until they reached a million.

An e-mail note yesterday revealed that they got to 1 million in 24 hours . . . and they kept going. (To see the card, go to this site and click on "A Million Thanks for Mom.")

Someday I need to get high-speed Internet at home so I can do important things like that.

Look-alike Nominations

Peter just nominated this distinguished individual as a good one for my look-alike collection:




While we’re at it, here are a few others...







This last one—Elder Eyring—was nominated by my brother-in-law to be the president of the Bald Men with Glasses Club.

Chocolate and . . . Mustard?

As if aware of yesterday’s blog, Lizzy again tried her chocolate sales pitch last night at dinner. She mentioned that she likes everything that’s dry and crunchy (in reference to the bacon bits offered her) except for almonds.

Then ensued a discussion of what dry and crunchy things I liked. I mentioned that I don’t like plain M&M’s because they are too chocolatey. I shared with Christine that a few weeks ago someone put M&M’s in a bowl on the counter at work, and I had a couple because I was craving something crunchy. I hated them. But it’s so hard to walk by the receptionist’s counter and not reach your hand into the candy bowl. A few minutes later, I had some more. Yuck. Thereafter, I resisted.

Lizzy, hearing this tale, piped up with a suggestion. “Maybe next time you could eat them with mustard or peanut butter.”

Lizzy’s Chocolate Quest

Lizzy loves chocolate.

I do not.

Lizzy inherited her love of the bitter brown stuff from Christine, who has dealt remarkably well with the trial of having a chocolate-hating husband. She humors me by usually making and buying non-chocolate desserts, but occasionally she simply must have a pan of brownies. Then as the pan occupies the counter for several days, she bemoans the fact that no one (e.g., me) will help her and Lizzy eat it and it’s a lot of chocolate for two people (one of whom is limited in her sugar intake by parental decree).

I can’t explain my aversion to the world’s favorite treat. I just don’t like it. I can stand the nasty stuff if there are other strong flavors to counterbalance it. I even like it in the company of peanut butter, for instance. I love Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and Peanut M&M's and Almond Joy. White chocolate is pretty good, and some high-end chocolates are tolerable. But I can’t stand plain M&M's or brownies or Hershey’s Kisses. The pungent odors of a candy shop before Christmas or Valentine’s Day turn my stomach.

On a few occasions I’ve not had chocolate for a while, or I have had something chocolate that I haven’t minded, and I’ve begun to wonder if my distaste for chocolate is diminishing. Then I’ll bite into a chocolate-chip cookie, most of which varieties I find revolting, and I’ll quickly renew my determination to avoid the stuff.

Lizzy, however, is determined to get me to like chocolate. She frequently offers me chocolate treats and attempts—mimicking my efforts to get her to eat vegetables—to persuade me to just try it. “Maybe you’ll like it this time,” she urges. She questions the origins of my aversion and seems unable to comprehend my explanations. Very often she will propose compromises, as she did last night.

We were sitting at the dinner table and Christine mentioned the treat that awaited Lizzy if she finished her veggies: a chocolate-chip cookie that Daddy brought home from a work lunch because he didn’t want it. Lizzy brightened at the prospect and immediately began to try to find a way for me to enjoy the treat with her. Knowing of the circumstances in which I will eat chocolate, she suggested that we could embellish the cookie with a spread of peanut butter.

It’s rather endearing—this creative four-year-old missionary zeal for chocolate. I take it as a sign of her affection for me; she doesn’t want me to miss out on something she enjoys so much. But maybe she’s just thinking that she is, after all, smarter than me (see “Silly Dad” post), and that sooner or later I’ll see the light.

The Atkinville Expedition

Yesterday my father called from St. George, where he, my mother, and my younger sister are celebrating my sister’s college graduation and visiting the familial homeland (my great-great-great grandfather, Erastus Snow, helped settle Utah’s dixie). They had exhausted the cemetery’s offerings of family history and were interested in visiting Atkinville, an old settlement once populated by—of course—the Atkin clan, of which my great grandmother was a part. They called me because they wanted to know where Atkinville was.

I haven’t a clue.

I told my dad that, but he persisted, saying my mom remembered me telling her I had visited Atkinville, which no longer exists as a municipality and doesn’t show up on modern maps. I questioned her aging memory and joked with my dad that I could make up something to appease her. I could give him directions, and they could drive around for a while, eventually giving up and deciding Atkinville must no longer exist. We laughed and wondered together where this idea came from.

As we chuckled together about my mom’s powers of recollection, a glimmer of memory began to grow. Soon I had a rather fuzzy video track playing through my head of some past quest to find Atkinville. I seemed to recall an attempt I made years earlier, following some road-side sign, I think, that hinted at the town’s previous existence. As I told my father the faint memories that were beginning to nudge their way into my consciousness, I remembered more. It was a bit south of St. George on I-15. We took an exit—following that sign that had offered some hope—and looked around a bit. I don’t think we found anything that firmly declared we had arrived at Atkinville. Then I had a faint impression that the suggestion of Atkinville’s location was given me by my Las Vegas–dwelling cousin, whose son is named Atkin. I suggested her as a possible source of information.

Some time after the phone call ended, I asked my wife if she had any memory of the Atkinville expedition. She did. She told me more than I remembered, but her tale corroborated mine. There was a sign that led us off the freeway in search of the town. We found some new housing development in progress but nothing directly declaring Atkinville’s existence, and we were never sure we found it. (By the way, I just found this Web site, showing the location of Atkinville and giving its history. This was the area we searched on our quest.)

So anyway . . . who has the aging memory? Sorry, Mom. I shouldn’t have doubted you.

Which brings me to one of my motivations for this blog. My “reminder,” as Lizzy likes to call it, doesn’t always work too well. That’s why I set alarms on appointments in my PDA. Heck, that’s why I have a PDA at all. And as evidenced by the Forgotten Atkinville Expedition (which must have happened within the last seven years), my life is bound to slip into some lost and fuzzy film reel that doesn’t make any sense if I don’t make an attempt to reclaim it quickly after it happens.

I have at times been a good journal-writer, but not recently. It’s been years since I have written with any regularity. My hope is that this blog and its millions of readers, all eagerly awaiting the next installment, will give me some motivation to actually record my life. Think of it as something akin to The Truman Show, only in words instead of moving images. We’ll see if it works.

Silly Dad

Yesterday I took the day off to spend at home with my daughters (ages 3 and 4) while my wife attended Women’s Conference at BYU (and had a great time). Sometime in the morning, Lizzy (age 4) declared, “Daddy, you’re sillier than Mommy.” I smiled inwardly at the compliment—knowing that silly dads are usually considered great dads—but my revelry was cut short by her next statement: “But Mommy’s smarter than you.”

That’s not the first time Lizzy has declared my wife’s superior intelligence, but it is the first time she’s combined the two observations. In that context, I’m not sure how I feel about being the silly one. It’s fun to be silly. But is it fun to be silly and dumb? Hmmm . . .

A moment later, by the way, Lizzy declared that she is also smarter than me. And she’s probably right (brilliant little squirt).

Speaking of Lizzy, I’ve been pondering the potential lessons of the Forsythia Dragon. Do pruning guidelines apply to children as well as to shrubs? For instance . . .

1. Our forsythia became a dragon because of insufficient and inappropriate pruning. With insufficient and inappropriate discipline, will children also become dragons?

2. The inappropriate pruning of the forsythia amounted to pruning near the ends of the branches—like you would do when pruning a hedge. With a forsythia, at least, cutting a branch promotes new growth at the place of the cut. Our forsythia, then, had a lot of branches shooting off from limbs in the middle of the bush. This created (and still does create—the taming is not yet complete, you may recall) a terrible tangle of branches, with shoots going off in all directions and intertwining themselves with shoots from other similarly cut branches.

To prune a forsythia appropriately, you cut off a few of the older main branches near the ground, thus taking out a portion of the bush with one cut. New shoots then come up from the ground to replenish the bush.

With children, does something similar apply? Is it better to discipline with a few big rules, for instance, instead of a bunch of little ones? If you have 100 small rules, does that give children more opportunities to disobey and thus become wild? Are fewer more significant rules (that govern large swaths of behavior) more effective in long-term character development?

A hedge-pruning strategy conforms a bush to your whim and preconceived notions. But pruning it at the base allows the shrub to grow more naturally and develop its own beauty—within broad parameters.

This idea reminds me a little of the Law of Moses vs. the higher law introduced by the Savior. When I recently reread Deuteronomy, Leviticus, etc., I was amazed at the huge volume of law governing every behavior and giving the appropriate penance for each misdeed. Contrast that with the more simple, but farther reaching, laws given by Jesus Christ. Or you can compare and contrast the tax code and the law of tithing . . .

3. The time to prune a forsythia is in the spring, just after it has blossomed. Is there a comparison for children? Allow them to have successes before you correct them? Not sure that analogy works so well . . . but there is something to be said for enjoying children’s triumphs with them and praising them for their beautiful blossoms even while you prune them back.

Just a few random thoughts for a Friday morning. With my oldest child approaching age 5, I’m hardly the child-discipline expert. And I’m not sure I practice what I preach here very well. I worry sometimes that I have too many picky rules.

The Forsythia Dragon

As the cool of evening came on yesterday, the sun falling toward the western mountains, my father joined me for our much-awaited battle with the dragon.

Inappropriately disciplined in the past and largely unchecked for years, our Forsythia Dragon had become rather wild and had taken over much of the northern reaches of our land. Armed with half a dozen weapons, we ventured into its territory and began our attempt to tame it.

Just getting near enough to the beast to do anything was a challenge. Thousands of flaming yellow mouths stretched toward us from hundreds of green serpentine necks, whipping wildly at us as we made our approach and began to work. The dragon struggled to crush us with its massive body, but we fended it off bravely. We hacked and cut at the dragon, severing limbs and pulling them free from the tangled monster.

The battle raged until the sun had completed its descent and the blue light of night began to deepen. Gradually the dragon’s ferocity weakened, and by the end of the evening, we had at least partially subdued it. Rather than tame it completely and reduce its strength too much, we chose to leave it somewhat wild this year.

In coming months, I will again travel to the northern reaches and remind the Forsythia of my presence with a mild taming session. At the close of the next spring, we will again attack the dragon with our full force to bring it completely into submission.

(I’m afraid I got carried away in the metaphor. Translation: We pruned our hugely overgrown forsythia bush. If you also have a Forsythia Dragon, see this Deseret Morning News article for guidance on taming it.)

An Open Letter to G.W. Bush

Dear Mr. President:

Congratulations on your selection last week of Tony Snow as your new press secretary. Given that you have two and a half years left in your presidency, I thought you may wish to start creating a short list of replacements for Snow, should he not last to be your last press secretary. I respectfully submit my name for that list, and I here present evidence of my qualifications for the job.

1. I would be easy to remember. People who have more than a couple of children often struggle with name confusion. I'm sure the same is true for press secretaries, and once you're on number 4, there's no doubt you will stumble through a litany of former press secretary names before you get to the right one. If you get confused from time to time and accidentally call me Snow or McClellan or even Fleischer, I'm ok with that. Either Snow or McClellan suit me fine naturally, and I'd be happy to add Fleischer—either legally or as a nickname—so I'll have all my predecessors covered.

2. I have the benefit of an ageless hair style. Snow is graying, and although gray does look distinguished, it also looks old, thus alienating the younger voters. Both McClellan and Fleischer were in awkward stages of hair recession, which as all sorts of uncomfortable economic overtones. My hair is pretty much all gone—just a little fuzz on the sides, which I have been known to shave off completely. This completely or almost-completely bald look gives me an ageless appearance (ala Jean Luc Picard and Yul Brynner), so I can appeal to old and young voters alike.

3. I could help you achieve historical distinction. You are now on your third press secretary, just one short of the record held by Presidents Johnson and Clinton, who each had four. As a competitive individual, you can't let those two democrats beat you—especially Clinton. Snow, as you remarked yesterday, has been known to disagree with you publicly, and some of us aren't giving him a snowflake's chance in south Texas of a long tenure. I could replace Snow when he falls, making four press secretaries for you, and I won't likely last long because I have absolutely no relevant experience. Then you can jump ahead to number 5, becoming the number 1 president in all of history (in terms of press secretary count, anyway).

4. I'm likely to be at least as awkward in front of the cameras as you are, thus making you look better.

5. I've been told that I have a strong resemblance to James Carville (see evidence at left). My liberal visage will help you look more progressive and will help you gain popularity with the left. In addition, given your new desire to surround yourself with people who don't agree with you, I would be an excellent choice, because I look like someone who doesn't agree with you. Since politics are all about appearance, it doesn't really matter whether I agree with you or not. If it looks like I don't agree (because I look like one of your outspoken critics) then that's a good thing, no? And for a decent salary, good benefits, and the promise of book deals, speaking engagements, and CNN posts after I leave the White House, I'll gladly be your yes-man, while looking like your no-man.


Sincerely,

Jeffrey Snow McClellan
White House Press Secretary-Elect