Over the years Christmas has been a very stable and predictable season for me. I can sum it up in one word; family. Christmas Eve has always meant the gathering of my family at my parents house, where I grew up, for an evening of food, presents and visiting late into the night. That started to change two years ago and 2009 marks the third Christmas that will be rather different then the first forty-seven.
Two years ago, the day after Thanksgiving, I had a freakish injury after slipping on ice. The result was 5 major breaks in my ankle and two surgeries to reconstruct it. Christmas Eve 2007 turned out to be my first attempt to leave my house. The 70 mile ride down to Springfield was painful but it was more than worth it to be with my family.
Last year our family decide to forgo Christmas Eve at my parents so that my siblings and I could spend that time with our own children and, in the case of my siblings, grandchildren. Instead we all got together at Mom and Dad's on Christmas Day to exchange presents and have dinner together. It was also the first year my own family was not together as my Marine daughter Lisa was stationed in North Carolina and unavailable to come home. Thankfully, Lisa and her brother Tim are both with us for Christmas 2009.
This year Cheryl and I decided to celebrate our 25th anniversary with a 7-day December cruise to various Caribbean islands. This has compressed the traditional time between Thanksgiving and Christmas. We only returned on Sunday the 20th. Going from 80 degrees and white sand beaches to Christmas in gray, cold and wet Oregon has required some quick decompression. But it won't matter. Once we are all together it will be another time of contentment and spending time with those that matter the most; family.
I've been thinking a lot about our cruise. In particular the opportunities I had to spend with the people I met. Each place we visited had a different culture. Strikingly different in some cases. One stop in particular intrigued me and as I think about Christmas, and more specifically family, it seems appropriate to share.
At the mid-point of our cruise we stopped at the island of Roatan. This is a small island of 30,000 people and a part of the central american country of Hondurans . This island itself is 3 miles wide and 30 miles long with only the western half occupied. As strange as it seems there are distinct differences in the four small towns that occupy the island. One side is rich, one is not. One community is mostly Spanish and another is Caracole. On one end of the island they play soccer and the other end, baseball.
As a result of some online research I had booked a private tour with a local company. Bodden Tours provides a local driver who stays with you throughout your day and will take you wherever you wish to go on the island. It is here that we did a zip line tour, visited a couple shopping opportunities and spent some time at the beach. This was all very enjoyable but my best memories come from the off and on discussions I had with our guide, a young man named Lany.
Although I never asked, I would guess that Lany is in his late 20's. He is Caracole, a decedent of former British slaves from the Cayman Islands who moved to the island after slavery was abolished by the British in the 1830's. The Caracole's are the traditional occupants of the island although, in recent years, the island has seen immigration of what Lany referred to as the Spanish; Mexican people who are Spanish speakers. While the official language of Roatan is Spanish, the Carocoles all speak English. Many of the Spanish people have minimal ties to the island having arrived to seek work as opposed to making a permanent home.
Traditionally the economy on Roatan was dependent on fishing and, to a lesser extent, agriculture. Seven years ago the first cruise ships showed up and now tourism is the leading industry.
Lany is a very proud husband and father of three children under the age of 10. His eyes sparkled as he told me about his favorite meal; iguana. "The hunters will charge you $10 for two." His eyes lit up once again and he laughed when I asked him what he liked to do in his spare time. "Soccer!"
As we drove around the island I asked about crime and drugs. A day earlier we had visited Belize and it was apparent that drugs and crime are a significant problem there. In addition there seems to be widespread poverty. In Roatan I didn't see any signs of crime or drugs. Lany said that, no, people there did not use drugs and crime was rare. He quickly corrected himself and said, "well, some of the rich people moving to the other side of the island use drugs." I later found out that you do not even need a prescription to buy medicines there. Medicines cost 10 cents but are available only about a third of the time. And yet there seems to be no abuse; this seemed rather counter intuitive to me.
Lany lost his father two years ago. He and his brothers now take care of their mom. Lany is thankful for his job. He said the owner is a good man who teaches them how to do their job and provides them with good working conditions. Lany is provided a nice Toyota van by the owner for the days he works. He gets to keep 20% of the fee. He is trying to save for his own vehicle though. His boss has told him to save and when he has his own car he will be allowed to keep up to 90% of the fee. It is something he looks forward to achieving.
Although he doesn't get to work every day Lany said he earns enough to provide for his family, and for that he is thankful. He shared how one day many cruise ships arrived and the owner approached him and asked if he could drive for that day only. Once again his eyes lit up as he told me, "at the end of the day the family went to the owner and said 'you need to hire this man, he is an excellent guide.' Victor Bodden hired me on the spot; that is God."
As we drove along the north side of the island Lany pointed out an orphanage. He told us of the person who built it and then said that it was mostly empty. "Only five kids are there." He shook his head and said, "Spanish who have left there kids behind."
Lany's children go to school and return home where their mother awaits them. Only young single women work on Roatan.
He told me of the direct flights to Miami and how he had been there twice. Now his Mom was going there with his Aunt for Christmas. She had tried for two years to get a visa and was recently successful. Lani said his Dad had always strongly discouraged his family from going to the U.S. I thought this must be associated with some form of anti-Americanism. I was wrong; Lany's father was afraid his family would be attracted to the American life and not return. He feared that his family would scatter. And at this point it all came together for me.
The Caracoles are not wealthy but they have a value system that was once prevalent in America. The work ethic, happiness, contentment, lack of crime, and lack of orphans, comes from their close family structure. They take care of, and responsibility for, their own.
You see, the Roatan government is far from perfect. You can either accept a traffic ticket or just pay the police officer $5 and it will go away. The mayor now owns the nicest mansion on the island although he was recently voted out for, as Lany said, "looking out for himself and not the people." They have free public health care but people go to the private hospital if at all possible because "there is often not a doctor available at the public hospital." Or because "the hospital is closed because of the latest employee strike."
As we wound down the road talking about these many things, Lany stopped in mid-sentence to honk his horn and wave at the taxi driver going the other way. With a big grin that was oozing with pride he said "That's my brother!" Then a laugh; "Lony!"
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Breath easy, the CO2 you exhale is harmless.
By Ted Werth
“One of the common failings among honorable people is a failure to appreciate how thoroughly dishonorable some other people can be, and how dangerous it is to trust them” ~ Thomas Sowell
Imagine for a moment that Carbon Dioxide (CO2) had zero impact on the environment. Would you approach life differently? Would you be more inclined to buy the vehicle you want, to turn up the gas heat as much as you want?
Would you consider buying expensive solar panels for your house if you knew they would never ever save you enough money to pay for themselves? Would you be inclined to reduce your food, clothing and housing spending so you could pay cap and trade taxes to government.
Probably not. Well here is the truth. The theory of man-made global warming is a fraud. Emails of the experts confirm that it is about politics. It is not based on real science, but on corrupted science that cherry picks its data, keeps that data from review and if necessary destroys the data. It is flat out fraud designed to play on your emotions and fears in order to control your personal freedom; to take your money and to transfer it to a handful of organizations, governments, companies and individuals.
Since no one would agree to this without a reason, science has been perverted to create a false need to 'save the earth.' Nonsense. We now have the final evidence needed to topple this house of cards. Additional evidence comes from the emails of so called scientists who have been treated by media and government as the leading experts. These emails and documents have been provided to the world by a whistle blower and have now been acknowledged as authentic.
Here is some of what we know so far:
“One of the common failings among honorable people is a failure to appreciate how thoroughly dishonorable some other people can be, and how dangerous it is to trust them” ~ Thomas Sowell
Imagine for a moment that Carbon Dioxide (CO2) had zero impact on the environment. Would you approach life differently? Would you be more inclined to buy the vehicle you want, to turn up the gas heat as much as you want?
Would you consider buying expensive solar panels for your house if you knew they would never ever save you enough money to pay for themselves? Would you be inclined to reduce your food, clothing and housing spending so you could pay cap and trade taxes to government.
Probably not. Well here is the truth. The theory of man-made global warming is a fraud. Emails of the experts confirm that it is about politics. It is not based on real science, but on corrupted science that cherry picks its data, keeps that data from review and if necessary destroys the data. It is flat out fraud designed to play on your emotions and fears in order to control your personal freedom; to take your money and to transfer it to a handful of organizations, governments, companies and individuals.
Since no one would agree to this without a reason, science has been perverted to create a false need to 'save the earth.' Nonsense. We now have the final evidence needed to topple this house of cards. Additional evidence comes from the emails of so called scientists who have been treated by media and government as the leading experts. These emails and documents have been provided to the world by a whistle blower and have now been acknowledged as authentic.
Here is some of what we know so far:
- In at least several cases these scientists destroyed the data that they used to created the "science" of global warming. These are the data sets that all climatologists accept as the basis of their work. Their emails urged each other to delete emails and data to protect it from freedom-of-information requests.
- The data that was used to create the data-sets that are used by all global warming scientists was destroyed years ago. So the only "data" available is that "created" by these few scientists. Using methods that they won't share and can't be verified by other scientists since, you guessed it, they are not sharing their methods.
- That much of the early history of earth temperatures was "determined" using tree ring data from 1,100 year old trees in Siberia. From hundreds of tree samples the researcher chose, first 12 trees, then 10 trees and by 1998 only only 5 trees. The growth rings from these five trees supposedly provided a perfect record of increasing temperatures. The theory is that the rings are further apart in warm years. However it is now known that these trees were seemingly selected to provide the pattern that would "prove" the theory of global warming. After several years, the data from dozens of other trees show a completely different record then the five used by climatologists. In other words they had a theory and searched for a few trees whose rings happened to look like what they wanted to prove. They tossed out the data from the other trees since they contradicted the results they wanted. Finally, these emails show that tree ring data for the last 20 years doesn't track with global warming predictions so they dropped tree ring data analysis for the last 20 years from their data sets.
- Since 1998 world-wide human produced CO2 has increased by 26%. Yet world temperatures have fallen. You might have noticed that this inconvenient truth has lead the global warming crowd to start using the term "climate change"
- That these handful of scientists plotted to exclude "doubters" from providing peer review of their studies. In other words, only those who were on the global warming band wagon were allowed to review, and verify, their work.
- That they threatened scientific publications that printed research by those who contradicted the idea that factors beyond the control of man determine the earths temperature.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Fishing Memories
By Ted Werth
Spring and summer meant Saturday fishing trips with my Dad. The early morning tap on my shoulder would signal the start of activities that included the dawn drive along the river followed by the chilly five-minute walk across a bridge, down a winding trail and across the rocks to our fishing spot on the McKenzie River.
Worms were always the bait of choice, matched with a heavy sinker to keep it in place on the snag prone river bottom.
I was only 6 years old when I started tagging along, my Dad took care of all the knot tying. My job was to put the worm on correctly so the soft end properly covered the hook.
I have fond memories of these trips. The early sunrise and the warmth that followed. The joy of catching the first fish of the morning. Like any kid, as the day wore on my interest would start to wane, replaced by anticipation of a stop at the store for snacks on the way home.
There was one thing I feared though. The thought of getting my line snagged on the bottom. My Dad always reminded me to lift the rod tip and reel quickly. This helped to avoid catching the rocky bottom. Nevertheless, I still managed to lose my line all too often. Dad would come over and tie on a new swivel, sinker and hook along with a friendly warning to lift and reel. Once was ok. Twice was, shall I say, highly discouraged.
So you can imagine how I felt one Saturday, when I went to retrieve my line and felt the steady resistance that told me I was hung up again; I had already used my free pass for the day. With a sinking feeling, I gave a steady tug and realized that my line moved a little; I was hooked on something that was moving. I quickly pronounced, with great relief, that I must have caught a large piece of wood. I continued to pull, reel and pull again.
Eventually the end of my line arrived and was surprised to pull out a large metal telephone. I’ve often wondered what the story was behind that phone. Someone had to carry it across the across the bridge, down the winding trail and across the rocks before throwing it in. Why? I guess I’ll never know.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Veterans Day
(Below is the full version of what I wanted to write about Veterans Day. I also wrote a short version that was published in the Statesman Journal that can be found here.)
By Ted Werth
As I approached my office on a sunny morning in September, I caught the movement of falling leaves. As I turned to look across the street I paused mid-step and felt sadness. The handful of small, bright yellow leaves floating through the air framed, all too perfectly, the statue of the kneeling soldier. Behind the soldier is a wall. A wall with the 113 names of those Oregon soldiers, Marines, airman and sailors who made the ultimate sacrifice for their county in Iraq and Afghanistan. It was as if each of the small, gently falling leaves represented a name on that wall. I was sad for the lost lives and the potential they represented; sad for the families who live with a personal loss the rest of us can never fully understand. Later, I felt sadness for the many that seem to forget all too soon the sacrifices made daily on behalf of this great country.
You see, it is easy to get motivated in the middle of a crisis like 9/11. But less so once things have calmed down and the threats seem to have gone away. For us, life goes on, but the threats never really go away. We are tempted to pretend they do. There are still those that would like nothing better than to harm us. Politicians debate the war and the appropriate war strategies. Those who volunteer live day to day. Not knowing when they will be called on to step into harms way. Not knowing when violence might strike. Veterans Day is a day to remember those who have, and are, protecting us.
I grew up in the Vietnam War era. Aside from my original 1964 GI Joe Action Figure, my first recollection of soldiers came from a letter I received from a soldier in Vietnam. Our 3rd grade class had written letters of encouragement to random names of those serving. I have no recollection of what I wrote, but for whatever reason, I was the only one to receive a letter. At that point the war, although I didn't really understand it, became personal.
It would soon become even more so as my older brother sailed up and down the rivers of Vietnam delivering Marines to the front lines.Radio was big back in the 1960's. We didn't have iPods, CD's or even cassettes. Record players were not so portable so we mostly listened to the radio. It was somewhere along here that I heard the song "Green Berets" by Barry Sadler. I was alone in the room I shared with my younger brother. It was a sunny day, probably a Saturday. Before this I had shared a room with my older brother who was now overseas. We used to listen to the radio as we relaxed in our beds before going to sleep. A few years later, I listened as the words came from that same radio:
"Back at home a young wife waits, her Green Beret has met his fate
He has died for those oppressed, leaving her this last request
Put silver wings on my son's chest, make him one of America's best
He'll be a man they'll test one day, have him win the Green Beret"
He has died for those oppressed, leaving her this last request
Put silver wings on my son's chest, make him one of America's best
He'll be a man they'll test one day, have him win the Green Beret"
It left me thinking about the soldier who wrote to me; how was he doing? I wondered about my brother. We waited patiently for his letters;. There were no cell phones or email back then. Near my home was a war memorial at a city park. It listed the names of local men and women serving in Vietnam. I knew right where my brother’s name was; I wondered about the others.
It wasn't long after this that Tim Ownbey, a friend of our family, gave the ultimate sacrifice. I vaguely remember the funeral. Mostly I remember the sadness and hurt that his Mom carried. His name too is on a wall. The wall in Washington DC.
In January 1991 my family watched, like millions across America, as explosions captured by night-vision cameras appeared on our TV screen. It was the start of the first war in Iraq. Most of America under age fifty had never seen a war like this. It turned out to be a short conflict that ended with the Iraqi Army hightailing it out of Kuwait. But beforehand there was a level of anxiety about how well we would do. There were many unknowns. As we continued to watch the TV that evening, my almost 4 year old
daughter asked me "why are we fighting?" Attempting to put war in context for a four year old requires a certain simplicity. I told her that there was a group of people who lived next door to Saddam Hussain's country and that one day Saddam decided he wanted what they had. So he sent his army in and took everything for himself. A slight scowl came across her face as she contemplated this. A few moments later she declared "Saddam is a bad man." I think it made it personal for my daughter that day. She now serves in the U.S. Marine Corps at Twentynine Palms, CA. As you can understand, Veterans Day is once again very personal for me.Recently I read about the death of another Oregon soldier. I found myself thinking of the wall across the street. Thinking that one day soon, workers will arrive to inscribe another name in the granite memorial. Several times a month I take a walk through the various memorials to wars current and past. I always pause at "the wall" and read several of the names; then I say a prayer for those families. I don't know their circumstances or history. I do know that their life is less complete, and that we owe them a debt of gratitude, along with the assurance that we will not forget.
It is fitting that we honor our Veterans at least once a year. It helps us to remember their personal sacrifice; it keeps things personal for us. On this day it is also appropriate for us to put aside our differences to say thanks to all that have served; each and every individual.
I went out during lunch that September day and picked up one of those leaves. I have it pinned to my wall. It helps to remind me to say a prayer, not only for my daughter, but also for all the other brave men and women that keep us safe.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
"Halloween" followup
The name of the Marine mentioned in my last post was released today. Marine Reserve Sgt. Cesar B. Ruiz of San Antonio, TX. He is survived by his wife and 14 month old son.
"Maria Ruiz was celebrating her birthday on Halloween when she learned her son had been killed that same day by a roadside bomb in Afghanistan.
"Maria Ruiz was celebrating her birthday on Halloween when she learned her son had been killed that same day by a roadside bomb in Afghanistan.
“‘It doesn’t matter which day they told you that your son died,’” Ruiz’s daughter, Maricela Chapa, remembered her mother saying. “‘It matters that your son died.’”
At dusk Tuesday, 20 or so family members remembered Marine Reserve Sgt. Cesar B. Ruiz, a 2000 Taft High School graduate who died Saturday in Helmand province, Afghanistan’s most violent area.
He was 26."
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Halloween
By Ted Werth
I had a great time October 31st. I spent the evening in Eugene watching the Oregon Ducks soundly defeat the USC Trojans. The defeat was of such a magnitude that you have to go back to 1946 to find a game where an opponent gained more yards against a USC team. For a Duck fan, it just doesn't get any better.
On Monday we received an email forwarded by a marine mother we know.
"Hey mom, just got on long enough to send you a quick message, and hopefully I'll be able to call you soon! We lost one of our own on Halloween. Sad story, don't want to talk about it.. good Marine."
I'm often struck by how easy it is to surround ourselves in our activities and comfort while our soldiers fight. Even as you read this, there is a battle going on somewhere.
A week from now Veterans Day will be upon us. But there is no need to wait until then to say a prayer for our troops. They need our support every day, as do their parents, spouses and children.
I had a great time October 31st. I spent the evening in Eugene watching the Oregon Ducks soundly defeat the USC Trojans. The defeat was of such a magnitude that you have to go back to 1946 to find a game where an opponent gained more yards against a USC team. For a Duck fan, it just doesn't get any better.
On Monday we received an email forwarded by a marine mother we know.
"Hey mom, just got on long enough to send you a quick message, and hopefully I'll be able to call you soon! We lost one of our own on Halloween. Sad story, don't want to talk about it.. good Marine."
I'm often struck by how easy it is to surround ourselves in our activities and comfort while our soldiers fight. Even as you read this, there is a battle going on somewhere.
A week from now Veterans Day will be upon us. But there is no need to wait until then to say a prayer for our troops. They need our support every day, as do their parents, spouses and children.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Who needs a second chance?
By Ted Werth
After what I thought was an unfair comparison made of the Oregon football player LaGarrette Blount, the Oregon player who punched another player, I wrote a short note to the columnist at the Statesman Journal and offered the thoughts that I posted on my blog earlier.
To make a long story short they used one of my comments in a larger list of reader comments in the paper this morning. I had half expected this after the columnist wrote me during the week to ask permission. I had speculated to myself what they might use. I was pretty sure they would use one of three thoughts and sure enough, they took what I had quickly jotted out in my email which was:
"I'm a Duck fan and like to win as much as the next guy but my motivation for giving Blount a chance to redeem himself has nothing to do with winning. I just believe, based on my own life experience, that it is the right thing to do."
I had been referring to the examples in my blog post regarding foster kids who often have repressed anger that comes out. So reading that last sentence in actual print, without that context, I did one of those internal gasps for just a second thinking, what will everyone think I did?
It is human nature to be concerned with the image we project to others. That is what drove my initial reaction. But it is also true that we are not really the image we project. I suspect your LaGarrette Blount moments, like mine, are just not as public. Maybe they are bigger, maybe smaller. It really doesn't matter. I told my wife about my initial reaction and we laughed for a moment. Then I said, you know the truth is we all need second chances. Cheryl replied, "yep, its called grace."
~ But Jesus bent down and started to write on the ground with his finger. When they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, "If any one of you is without sin, let him be the first to throw a stone at her."
John 8:6-8 (NIV)
After what I thought was an unfair comparison made of the Oregon football player LaGarrette Blount, the Oregon player who punched another player, I wrote a short note to the columnist at the Statesman Journal and offered the thoughts that I posted on my blog earlier.
To make a long story short they used one of my comments in a larger list of reader comments in the paper this morning. I had half expected this after the columnist wrote me during the week to ask permission. I had speculated to myself what they might use. I was pretty sure they would use one of three thoughts and sure enough, they took what I had quickly jotted out in my email which was:
"I'm a Duck fan and like to win as much as the next guy but my motivation for giving Blount a chance to redeem himself has nothing to do with winning. I just believe, based on my own life experience, that it is the right thing to do."
I had been referring to the examples in my blog post regarding foster kids who often have repressed anger that comes out. So reading that last sentence in actual print, without that context, I did one of those internal gasps for just a second thinking, what will everyone think I did?
It is human nature to be concerned with the image we project to others. That is what drove my initial reaction. But it is also true that we are not really the image we project. I suspect your LaGarrette Blount moments, like mine, are just not as public. Maybe they are bigger, maybe smaller. It really doesn't matter. I told my wife about my initial reaction and we laughed for a moment. Then I said, you know the truth is we all need second chances. Cheryl replied, "yep, its called grace."
~ But Jesus bent down and started to write on the ground with his finger. When they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, "If any one of you is without sin, let him be the first to throw a stone at her."
John 8:6-8 (NIV)
Friday, October 2, 2009
Restoration; Thoughts on LaGarrette Blount
By Ted Werth
I work with foster kids. This last summer while working at a teen camp I was helping some kids catch crayfish in the creek. Most of the other campers were hanging out a short way downstream in the swimming hole. Suddenly what had been a relaxing time of fun in the sun for everyone erupted into fit of anger with screaming and the foulest of foul language on the part of one of the more easy going campers. I've been to several of these camps and was a little shocked but not as badly as some other adults were.
It was simple enough, someone had sprayed the young man with water which he asked them not to do. He was sprayed again and tried to suppress the anger that was building. But then some of the others around him started laughing and ridiculing him about it. At that point he had what could be referred to as a LaGarrette Blount moment. Yeah, that guy, the Oregon football player, the one who was splashed all over the national news after punching out an opposing player who was taunting him after the game. The same player that tried to go after some fans who were calling him the N-Word and slapped him in the face as he was being taken out of the stadium.
It appears that LaGarrette Blount will be reinstated today and will return to play some more football after all. I'm sure that this will cause great controversy about him being let off the hook for such awful behavior. I'm actually glad this is going to happen and I'll tell you why. From the time I saw the full video of what happened I have thought back to that incident at camp last summer. And also a previous camp where another preteen boy lost control and punched a counselor in the groin. Yikes, you would think that would get you a ride home. But we kept both young men at camp and things turned out well. Despite all the pressure to toss LaGarrette Blount off the side of the ship and label him a permanent loser I've never felt that would be the right thing to do. I'm probably one of the few.
I used to see things really black and white. You know, you do the crime you pay the time; no excuses. But while I still believe in appropriate punishment I see life as a little more gray. I guess you could say my philosophy now is more along the lines as "what can be done to help restore this person?"
My wife and I volunteered for several years at the Hillcrest Correctional Facility here is Salem. It is prison for juveniles. Somewhere along the way I learned to read the dry-erase boards that listed each of the girls we worked with. There was a column that had one of two designations. It turns out that one designation indicates they are under the authority of the adult system. In other words they committed a Measure-11 crime. In Oregon the Measure-11 initiative passed by voters requires that certain crimes have a minimum sentence regardless of the circumstances. You could say that it was passed as a way to make people pay a minimum appropriate sentence. But I think that voters passed this more to protect society from lenient judges like the one I saw a story about this week that gave probation to a man who molested, on a regular basis, a girl from age 8 to 14. One girl I spent some time talking with is in prison for life. After they moved all the girls to Albany and we no longer were working with them I did a little research out of curiosity. She had seemed like a decent young lady despite her bleak future. That could not be said of many of the girls and prison, unfortunately, is probably the best place for them. What I found out from news accounts is that when she was fifteen she took a phone call from a friend during spring break. And then she took the invitation to hang out with her friend and a couple of older teen boys she didn't know. Within a day things went really bad and one of these guys killed the other boys mother for her car. Since she was there and fled with them this girl, who never had been in trouble before, received a mandatory life sentence and will have to move to adult prison in a couple of years. Effectively tossed away as a permanent loser. Something has never seemed right to me about that.
So back to camp last summer. At any other camp I suspect these two boys would have been sent home so that everyone could get back to having a good time. But we don't do that at these camps. Instead everyone went on about their afternoon while this young man explained what set him off. These kids grow up in some pretty awful situations; he didn't learn the awful language on his own after all. And he knew what he did was wrong. But for maybe the first time in his life, he was given a second chance. Instead of treating him like a loser we accepted him back into the camp and showed him the same love as before his incident. Soon he came out of his shell and had a tremendous camp. He learned there are other ways to deal with anger. And the message to him and the other campers was that we care about you and believe in you. I'm am still amazed at the difference this attitude brings to so many of these kids.
It looked so much like what I saw with LaGarrette Blount. He had his head down trying to suppress his frustration and leave the field when he was hit on the shoulder and mocked. And then he snapped. Many of the kids that come to the Oregon football program come from some of the same awful backgrounds as these kids I work with. Many are attracted to, and respond to, the family atmosphere that Oregon tries to instill in their football program. While many respond in a positive way some don't and when they don't respond to discipline they are often quietly let go.
LaGarrette Blount strikes me as a young man who deserves another chance. He has done everything the football program has asked of him including counseling and discussions with former NBA player Kermit Washington who went through a similar incident years ago; overcoming his bad episode to become a productive citizen. I don't know what LaGarrette Blount's future holds but I'm hopeful that one day he will look back at this as a positive turning point in his life.
I work with foster kids. This last summer while working at a teen camp I was helping some kids catch crayfish in the creek. Most of the other campers were hanging out a short way downstream in the swimming hole. Suddenly what had been a relaxing time of fun in the sun for everyone erupted into fit of anger with screaming and the foulest of foul language on the part of one of the more easy going campers. I've been to several of these camps and was a little shocked but not as badly as some other adults were.
It was simple enough, someone had sprayed the young man with water which he asked them not to do. He was sprayed again and tried to suppress the anger that was building. But then some of the others around him started laughing and ridiculing him about it. At that point he had what could be referred to as a LaGarrette Blount moment. Yeah, that guy, the Oregon football player, the one who was splashed all over the national news after punching out an opposing player who was taunting him after the game. The same player that tried to go after some fans who were calling him the N-Word and slapped him in the face as he was being taken out of the stadium.
It appears that LaGarrette Blount will be reinstated today and will return to play some more football after all. I'm sure that this will cause great controversy about him being let off the hook for such awful behavior. I'm actually glad this is going to happen and I'll tell you why. From the time I saw the full video of what happened I have thought back to that incident at camp last summer. And also a previous camp where another preteen boy lost control and punched a counselor in the groin. Yikes, you would think that would get you a ride home. But we kept both young men at camp and things turned out well. Despite all the pressure to toss LaGarrette Blount off the side of the ship and label him a permanent loser I've never felt that would be the right thing to do. I'm probably one of the few.
I used to see things really black and white. You know, you do the crime you pay the time; no excuses. But while I still believe in appropriate punishment I see life as a little more gray. I guess you could say my philosophy now is more along the lines as "what can be done to help restore this person?"
My wife and I volunteered for several years at the Hillcrest Correctional Facility here is Salem. It is prison for juveniles. Somewhere along the way I learned to read the dry-erase boards that listed each of the girls we worked with. There was a column that had one of two designations. It turns out that one designation indicates they are under the authority of the adult system. In other words they committed a Measure-11 crime. In Oregon the Measure-11 initiative passed by voters requires that certain crimes have a minimum sentence regardless of the circumstances. You could say that it was passed as a way to make people pay a minimum appropriate sentence. But I think that voters passed this more to protect society from lenient judges like the one I saw a story about this week that gave probation to a man who molested, on a regular basis, a girl from age 8 to 14. One girl I spent some time talking with is in prison for life. After they moved all the girls to Albany and we no longer were working with them I did a little research out of curiosity. She had seemed like a decent young lady despite her bleak future. That could not be said of many of the girls and prison, unfortunately, is probably the best place for them. What I found out from news accounts is that when she was fifteen she took a phone call from a friend during spring break. And then she took the invitation to hang out with her friend and a couple of older teen boys she didn't know. Within a day things went really bad and one of these guys killed the other boys mother for her car. Since she was there and fled with them this girl, who never had been in trouble before, received a mandatory life sentence and will have to move to adult prison in a couple of years. Effectively tossed away as a permanent loser. Something has never seemed right to me about that.
So back to camp last summer. At any other camp I suspect these two boys would have been sent home so that everyone could get back to having a good time. But we don't do that at these camps. Instead everyone went on about their afternoon while this young man explained what set him off. These kids grow up in some pretty awful situations; he didn't learn the awful language on his own after all. And he knew what he did was wrong. But for maybe the first time in his life, he was given a second chance. Instead of treating him like a loser we accepted him back into the camp and showed him the same love as before his incident. Soon he came out of his shell and had a tremendous camp. He learned there are other ways to deal with anger. And the message to him and the other campers was that we care about you and believe in you. I'm am still amazed at the difference this attitude brings to so many of these kids.
It looked so much like what I saw with LaGarrette Blount. He had his head down trying to suppress his frustration and leave the field when he was hit on the shoulder and mocked. And then he snapped. Many of the kids that come to the Oregon football program come from some of the same awful backgrounds as these kids I work with. Many are attracted to, and respond to, the family atmosphere that Oregon tries to instill in their football program. While many respond in a positive way some don't and when they don't respond to discipline they are often quietly let go.
LaGarrette Blount strikes me as a young man who deserves another chance. He has done everything the football program has asked of him including counseling and discussions with former NBA player Kermit Washington who went through a similar incident years ago; overcoming his bad episode to become a productive citizen. I don't know what LaGarrette Blount's future holds but I'm hopeful that one day he will look back at this as a positive turning point in his life.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Vapors of a Life Well Lived - Part II
By Ted Werth
“Pam passed earlier today.” That was the simple message from my wife. It was something I knew was inevitable from our short discussions about her friend and co-worker Pam. You see Pam was diagnosed with cancer several months ago. Before this morning I didn’t expect to return to the subject of life and death for a long time. While waiting to board my plane at the airport I read a couple of Facebook posts from my wife and her co-worker. The pain of their loss came through and my mind returned once again to my earlier writings.
I wrote a story called Vapors of a Life Well Lived earlier this year on the anniversary of the sudden and tragic passing of a friend several years ago. The point of the story being that although we all pass on we leave behind a legacy and memory for those we knew. That certainly was the case with Pam. Although I had met her on several occasions I can’t say I knew her. However, over the last several months, I was struck by the closeness of the office my wife works in. It is a small office of people who have generally worked together for many years. Over ten years in the case of my wife.
It is so much different than the story of my friend Tim who passed away suddenly in an ocean accident. Pam’s situation was the extreme opposite. An initial case of not feeling well, eventually leading to a diagnosis of cancer. Then came the operations and chemo, the ups and downs, the hopes and fears that eventually gave way to resignation, and a slow and painful goodbye. I don’t know which is worse; in truth, they are both hard and seemingly unfair. In one sense it is like taking off a large band-aid. Do you pull it off fast or slow and steady? Both methods leave you hurting. And while the band aid only hurts for a short time, the loss of a friend and loved one never really ends.
Pam worked in the office for 25 years and was, in a sense, the steady force; the person who could keep things in perspective and lift up others when the sailing was rough. The person you knew you could count on to be a positive influence. So when she shared her initial diagnosis there was a certain disbelief; the inevitable question, “why?” Questions to which we never really find an adequate answer.
From what I could tell Pam was upbeat, a fighter who was worried more about those around her then herself. Eventually accepting that the battle was lost, she kept her head up. When she could no longer physically lift her head or communicate verbally, my wife said Pam looked her in the eye and they understood. Like my friend Tim, Pam was able to leave behind a legacy and example for her daughter; how to stand tall when life seems unfair. And make no mistake, life is not always fair.
I’m convinced some things will never really make sense to us. And yet as it is for Tim, we can rest assured that Pam is in a better place. No more pain and suffering; for her, the start of a "forever" that we can’t start to comprehend. The apostle Paul wrote that to “to live is Christ, but to die is gain.” I love life and wouldn’t change mine for anything; How is it then that death is gain? If that is true then what is the point of life? I think it has to do with our life being that vapor; in the sense that our legacy and influence stay behind to encourage those we knew. Encouragement and example that, of necessity, must be passed from one generation to the next.
To those we share life with, we never really leave. We can know that for Pam, the pain and suffering is over; that she can now enjoy experiences that we cannot even imagine. And most importantly, for family and friends, there is the opportunity to one day be reunited. Until then, we live with the memories of a life well lived.
“Pam passed earlier today.” That was the simple message from my wife. It was something I knew was inevitable from our short discussions about her friend and co-worker Pam. You see Pam was diagnosed with cancer several months ago. Before this morning I didn’t expect to return to the subject of life and death for a long time. While waiting to board my plane at the airport I read a couple of Facebook posts from my wife and her co-worker. The pain of their loss came through and my mind returned once again to my earlier writings.
I wrote a story called Vapors of a Life Well Lived earlier this year on the anniversary of the sudden and tragic passing of a friend several years ago. The point of the story being that although we all pass on we leave behind a legacy and memory for those we knew. That certainly was the case with Pam. Although I had met her on several occasions I can’t say I knew her. However, over the last several months, I was struck by the closeness of the office my wife works in. It is a small office of people who have generally worked together for many years. Over ten years in the case of my wife.
It is so much different than the story of my friend Tim who passed away suddenly in an ocean accident. Pam’s situation was the extreme opposite. An initial case of not feeling well, eventually leading to a diagnosis of cancer. Then came the operations and chemo, the ups and downs, the hopes and fears that eventually gave way to resignation, and a slow and painful goodbye. I don’t know which is worse; in truth, they are both hard and seemingly unfair. In one sense it is like taking off a large band-aid. Do you pull it off fast or slow and steady? Both methods leave you hurting. And while the band aid only hurts for a short time, the loss of a friend and loved one never really ends.
Pam worked in the office for 25 years and was, in a sense, the steady force; the person who could keep things in perspective and lift up others when the sailing was rough. The person you knew you could count on to be a positive influence. So when she shared her initial diagnosis there was a certain disbelief; the inevitable question, “why?” Questions to which we never really find an adequate answer.
From what I could tell Pam was upbeat, a fighter who was worried more about those around her then herself. Eventually accepting that the battle was lost, she kept her head up. When she could no longer physically lift her head or communicate verbally, my wife said Pam looked her in the eye and they understood. Like my friend Tim, Pam was able to leave behind a legacy and example for her daughter; how to stand tall when life seems unfair. And make no mistake, life is not always fair.
I’m convinced some things will never really make sense to us. And yet as it is for Tim, we can rest assured that Pam is in a better place. No more pain and suffering; for her, the start of a "forever" that we can’t start to comprehend. The apostle Paul wrote that to “to live is Christ, but to die is gain.” I love life and wouldn’t change mine for anything; How is it then that death is gain? If that is true then what is the point of life? I think it has to do with our life being that vapor; in the sense that our legacy and influence stay behind to encourage those we knew. Encouragement and example that, of necessity, must be passed from one generation to the next.
To those we share life with, we never really leave. We can know that for Pam, the pain and suffering is over; that she can now enjoy experiences that we cannot even imagine. And most importantly, for family and friends, there is the opportunity to one day be reunited. Until then, we live with the memories of a life well lived.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Those pesky weeds
By Ted Werth
When I was growing up we had what was probably the worst lawn in the neighborhood. It wasn't that the competition was stiff. It had more to do with the fact that we lived on the corner and our yard made for the perfect whiffle ball field. We would play so much baseball that there were basepaths worn into the yard. We even had a pitching mound, although it was not elevated. Even the toughest weed grasses couldn't survive the constant pounding of our Chuck Taylor sneakers. As it turns out this was all a bonus because we also loved to fish. Almost every Friday we would water the lawn in the early evening and after dark some combination of my dad, brother and I would go pick up night crawlers for our Saturday fishing trip. The bare dirt pitching mound was prime night crawler ground since they would just lay there in plain sight on the bare dirt all but offering to volunteer for duty. My mom never seemed to complain, even though her roses would take a beating from all of our foul balls. And the truth is that on occasion, I would mosey over to one of the flower beds and use the flower heads on her peony plant that had yet to bloom as a focus for my on-deck practice swing. Not when any adults were around mind you.
Later on I took up golf during my high school years and I came to admire the grass found on the courses. I had the opportunity to play on many of the finest courses in Oregon and I used to marvel that the best ones had no weeds and were so green and uniform. There is just something about a nice carpet of grass that is relaxing and calming. Imagine yourself walking across a rich thick green lawn in the summer sun and you can't help but have a good feeling.
In 1990 we moved to Roseburg with our two small children. We bought a house that was not landscaped. I decided it would be a great opportunity to try for one of those perfect lawns. I rented a trench digger, installed automatic sprinklers, brought in eight dump truck loads of prime river loam and then bought the best roll out lawn turf available in the area. Erecting a fence and assembling a new swing set for the kids, I now had a perfect lawn. Well, near-perfect. The perfect lawn is a utopian fantasy.
You see, "near-perfect" is never good enough once you start down the path to a nice lawn. Friends and family would compliment my lawn but what I saw was a couple blades of poa annua that didn't belong. Or a spot that was darker because it got a bit more fertilizer. It was kind of like looking in a mirror as a teenager. It is impossible to see past the flaws. So I studied my Better Homes & Garden lawn book until the binder started coming apart looking for new tips; even reading between the lines and creating my own experiments. Then one morning I heard a guy named Jerry Baker on the radio. He had crazy ideas for making a near-perfect lawn perfect. I shared this with my friend Gary who was also on this crazy search for perfection. We went all out in adopting the Jerry Baker methods. I was mixing combinations of ammonia, dish soap, beer and other minor elements, and spraying it everywhere with a hose-end sprayer. In addition to the jumbo bottle of ammonia, I opted for the cheapest six-pack I could find. Gary opted for the large beer bottles like you might see laying around a run down city park. Afterward we would compare notes and discuss new strategies. We even managed to work chewing tobacco into our concoctions; bugs hate it you know. Come spring and fall we would go in together to rent a commercial thatcher and aerator. At one point we even contemplated wearing golf shoes with the old-style metal spikes. Jerry said it would help us aerate the lawn year round.
Eventually we moved to Salem and the cheap entertainment our wives enjoyed through this whole process came to an end. We bought a new house six months after moving; it was a great deal and there was no additional work to be done. The deck was installed, underground sprinklers were in place and it had been maintained by paid landscapers. I mostly just fertilized and enjoyed it all for the first several years. But then something started to happen. Two nasty forms of weed grasses took root and despite my best efforts they started to win. I killed them with Roundup one year prompting a neighbor to ask why half my lawn died so suddenly. I told him I sprayed it and he gave me a funny look. Three years ago I finally gave up. The weed grasses had won.
I decided it was time for a new strategy; lawn restoration. I read more books and searched the internet reviewing the local Extension Service articles on how to properly restore a lawn. I was ready to go. I sprayed the whole lawn with Roundup and waited, watered, and then sprayed some more. Six weeks later I just knew every nasty grass blade and seed had been put out of its lousy misery. Then, just to be sure, my son and I placed several inches of prime river loam on top of the old soil. Soon enough the new grass started to grow and by the following spring, with some minor weeding and a little fertilizer, I once again was within a whisker of having the perfect lawn.
My near perfect lawn was short lived. A mere eighteen months after replanting I noticed a few blades of grass that were growing way to fast. Ah hah! The weedy grass thought it would pull a fast one when I wasn't looking. I carefully grabbed these few dozen grass plants by their collective roots, extracted them and figured that was that. Next year they were back, but there were more. There were too many to ever pull them all so I tried a new strategy offered up by a friend. I put on latex gloves and slipped cotton gloves on over those. Dipping my protected fingers in a solution of Roundup I crawled around the front lawn brushing these fast growing grass stems growing above the rest of the lawn. I felt confident that this new strategy would take out the enemy grass once and for all.
Wrong again. This spring I admitted total defeat. The ugly grass was everywhere. What was left of the nice Kentucky Bluegrass I had planted three years earlier was quickly being choked into submission. I had lost any motivation to try yet another lawn restoration. I figured that would only last another three years. So I reluctantly accepted defeat and figured it was time to just mow what was there and move on to other activities.
End of story? Not quite. While working around the garage several weeks later I spotted a specialized herbicide that I had added, but never used, to my arsenal of chemicals several years earlier. I peeled off the little book of fine print from the plastic bottle and after several minutes of consideration figured the worst that could happen would be my whole lawn would die. I wasn't sure that my problem was covered by this chemical but I was pretty desperate and figured there was not much to lose. I filled up my hose-end sprayer and sprayed the whole yard. Amazingly, two weeks later, I could see the nasty weed grass starting to weaken. Another dose and soon the problem was gone. Victory! I wanted to do a happy dance but was afraid the neighbors would see me. I waited until the garage door closed and I was safely out of view.
I've thought about this whole process; earlier this week I noticed a small number of grass blades that don't belong; they are growing too fast. I now have the answer. I'll soon be mixing up the perfect solution in a small spray bottle, relaxed in the knowledge that this solution will work.
I've reached a conclusion about all this. I've concluded that when it comes to lawns, there is a way that seems right to a man, but the end thereof are the way of weeds. If you are struggling with "weeds" in your life it may be that the answer is sitting on your shelf. It was for me. Just read and apply as directed.
When I was growing up we had what was probably the worst lawn in the neighborhood. It wasn't that the competition was stiff. It had more to do with the fact that we lived on the corner and our yard made for the perfect whiffle ball field. We would play so much baseball that there were basepaths worn into the yard. We even had a pitching mound, although it was not elevated. Even the toughest weed grasses couldn't survive the constant pounding of our Chuck Taylor sneakers. As it turns out this was all a bonus because we also loved to fish. Almost every Friday we would water the lawn in the early evening and after dark some combination of my dad, brother and I would go pick up night crawlers for our Saturday fishing trip. The bare dirt pitching mound was prime night crawler ground since they would just lay there in plain sight on the bare dirt all but offering to volunteer for duty. My mom never seemed to complain, even though her roses would take a beating from all of our foul balls. And the truth is that on occasion, I would mosey over to one of the flower beds and use the flower heads on her peony plant that had yet to bloom as a focus for my on-deck practice swing. Not when any adults were around mind you.
Later on I took up golf during my high school years and I came to admire the grass found on the courses. I had the opportunity to play on many of the finest courses in Oregon and I used to marvel that the best ones had no weeds and were so green and uniform. There is just something about a nice carpet of grass that is relaxing and calming. Imagine yourself walking across a rich thick green lawn in the summer sun and you can't help but have a good feeling.
In 1990 we moved to Roseburg with our two small children. We bought a house that was not landscaped. I decided it would be a great opportunity to try for one of those perfect lawns. I rented a trench digger, installed automatic sprinklers, brought in eight dump truck loads of prime river loam and then bought the best roll out lawn turf available in the area. Erecting a fence and assembling a new swing set for the kids, I now had a perfect lawn. Well, near-perfect. The perfect lawn is a utopian fantasy.
You see, "near-perfect" is never good enough once you start down the path to a nice lawn. Friends and family would compliment my lawn but what I saw was a couple blades of poa annua that didn't belong. Or a spot that was darker because it got a bit more fertilizer. It was kind of like looking in a mirror as a teenager. It is impossible to see past the flaws. So I studied my Better Homes & Garden lawn book until the binder started coming apart looking for new tips; even reading between the lines and creating my own experiments. Then one morning I heard a guy named Jerry Baker on the radio. He had crazy ideas for making a near-perfect lawn perfect. I shared this with my friend Gary who was also on this crazy search for perfection. We went all out in adopting the Jerry Baker methods. I was mixing combinations of ammonia, dish soap, beer and other minor elements, and spraying it everywhere with a hose-end sprayer. In addition to the jumbo bottle of ammonia, I opted for the cheapest six-pack I could find. Gary opted for the large beer bottles like you might see laying around a run down city park. Afterward we would compare notes and discuss new strategies. We even managed to work chewing tobacco into our concoctions; bugs hate it you know. Come spring and fall we would go in together to rent a commercial thatcher and aerator. At one point we even contemplated wearing golf shoes with the old-style metal spikes. Jerry said it would help us aerate the lawn year round.
Eventually we moved to Salem and the cheap entertainment our wives enjoyed through this whole process came to an end. We bought a new house six months after moving; it was a great deal and there was no additional work to be done. The deck was installed, underground sprinklers were in place and it had been maintained by paid landscapers. I mostly just fertilized and enjoyed it all for the first several years. But then something started to happen. Two nasty forms of weed grasses took root and despite my best efforts they started to win. I killed them with Roundup one year prompting a neighbor to ask why half my lawn died so suddenly. I told him I sprayed it and he gave me a funny look. Three years ago I finally gave up. The weed grasses had won.
I decided it was time for a new strategy; lawn restoration. I read more books and searched the internet reviewing the local Extension Service articles on how to properly restore a lawn. I was ready to go. I sprayed the whole lawn with Roundup and waited, watered, and then sprayed some more. Six weeks later I just knew every nasty grass blade and seed had been put out of its lousy misery. Then, just to be sure, my son and I placed several inches of prime river loam on top of the old soil. Soon enough the new grass started to grow and by the following spring, with some minor weeding and a little fertilizer, I once again was within a whisker of having the perfect lawn.
My near perfect lawn was short lived. A mere eighteen months after replanting I noticed a few blades of grass that were growing way to fast. Ah hah! The weedy grass thought it would pull a fast one when I wasn't looking. I carefully grabbed these few dozen grass plants by their collective roots, extracted them and figured that was that. Next year they were back, but there were more. There were too many to ever pull them all so I tried a new strategy offered up by a friend. I put on latex gloves and slipped cotton gloves on over those. Dipping my protected fingers in a solution of Roundup I crawled around the front lawn brushing these fast growing grass stems growing above the rest of the lawn. I felt confident that this new strategy would take out the enemy grass once and for all.
Wrong again. This spring I admitted total defeat. The ugly grass was everywhere. What was left of the nice Kentucky Bluegrass I had planted three years earlier was quickly being choked into submission. I had lost any motivation to try yet another lawn restoration. I figured that would only last another three years. So I reluctantly accepted defeat and figured it was time to just mow what was there and move on to other activities.
End of story? Not quite. While working around the garage several weeks later I spotted a specialized herbicide that I had added, but never used, to my arsenal of chemicals several years earlier. I peeled off the little book of fine print from the plastic bottle and after several minutes of consideration figured the worst that could happen would be my whole lawn would die. I wasn't sure that my problem was covered by this chemical but I was pretty desperate and figured there was not much to lose. I filled up my hose-end sprayer and sprayed the whole yard. Amazingly, two weeks later, I could see the nasty weed grass starting to weaken. Another dose and soon the problem was gone. Victory! I wanted to do a happy dance but was afraid the neighbors would see me. I waited until the garage door closed and I was safely out of view.
I've thought about this whole process; earlier this week I noticed a small number of grass blades that don't belong; they are growing too fast. I now have the answer. I'll soon be mixing up the perfect solution in a small spray bottle, relaxed in the knowledge that this solution will work.
I've reached a conclusion about all this. I've concluded that when it comes to lawns, there is a way that seems right to a man, but the end thereof are the way of weeds. If you are struggling with "weeds" in your life it may be that the answer is sitting on your shelf. It was for me. Just read and apply as directed.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Memories of Teen Reach Adventure Camp - Part 1
By Ted Werth
Our church puts on two camps for abused and neglected teen foster kids, one for girls and one for boys. Last year was our first year so everything was new. The girls held their camp the weekend before and now I was arriving on the following Thursday to help set up and get things ready for the twelve boys that would be arriving the next morning. There were six of us who were going to be serve as counselors. The weather was sweltering with daily temperatures over 100 degrees. Staff and counselors were excited, anxious and yet nervous; the girls had proven to be a much tougher group than anyone imagined and we weren't sure what to expect from the boys.
The camp site is a great place located out in the country. There are trees, open areas and a perfect swimming hole. After setup, decorations, meetings, prayer and encouragement we wandered off towards our cabins. No one had thought to bring a fan and the cabin was more useful as a sauna then a place to sleep.
I was anxious to work with our campers but I had a couple of other things on my mind as well. This was going to be the first real test of my reconstructed ankle and I knew a minor roll or twist was still enough to to cause major pain and swelling. I was trying to figure out how to temper that and still not drag down my campers during activities. Weighing even greater on my mind was my daughter who was coming to the end of her 12 weeks of boot camp, hopefully on her way to becoming a Marine. Lisa was thousands of mile away in South Carolina and the whole process was much more difficult then I had expected. As a father you want to do something but there is nothing to be done except to keep sending off letters of encouragement hoping they will help. The Marines only allow snail mail during bootcamp and we received letters from her a couple times a week; some good, some not so good. And after almost 10 weeks of this limited back and forth contact it was time for her defining test; the Marine Crucible. The Marine Crucible is a series of both phyisical and mental tests that that take place over 54 consecutive hours and includes 40 miles of hiking with a a full pack. All this takes place with a total of 4-6 hours of sleep and two and a half MRE meals; not everyone passes and hence not all receive the title of U.S. Marine. Lisa was, at that moment, 20 hours into her test and I couldn't help but wonder how she was doing.
Arriving at the cabin I calculated that my chances of sleeping in the sauna/cabin were minimal so I scooped up my sleeping bag and announced that I was going to sleep outside. No one responded so I continued on down to the creek by myself and found a level patch of grass. As I settled in I found myself enjoying the fresh air and the reflection of moonlight off the moving water below. I was totally enjoying my this last bit of solitude knowing that it was going to be extremely busy over the coming three days. Eventually I plugged in my earphones and positioned my pillow for an optimal view. As I watched the full moon and listened to my music I said a prayer for strength and safety for my daughter. And as I drifted off I found myself wondering, even hoping, if at that moment, by chance, we might both be looking up at the same moon.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Turning FIfty
By Ted Werth
Today is my 50th birthday and I find some things still confuse me. Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't trade my life for anyone's. I've been blessed with wonderful parents, incredible siblings and born into the greatest country the world has ever known. I've enjoyed the freedoms and opportunities that are only found in America. The opportunity to advance as far as your ambitions and efforts will take you. But I sometimes still find myself confused about things.
You see, my father grew up in a small Kansas town, the German son of great grandparents who, fleeing an oppressive Russia, immigrated to the United States. My parents weren't rich; in fact just the opposite. Born during the great depression and dust bowl years my dad has told me about how he, along with his brother and sister, would walk along the train tracks looking for coal that had been tossed off passing trains by sympathetic rail workers. Their ability to stay warm depended on them finding enough coal. The dust bowl years were so bad that there was a rope from the house to the pit toilet out back. Because the dust was so thick it was possible to get lost, disoriented and die alone. Assuming you made it back ok you still had to worry about dying from lung infection. Oh yeah, indoor plumbing? Only the richest had that luxury. At 16 my dad boarded a train for San Diego and soon found himself on a ship in the pacific shooting at Japanese war planes; better to get them before they get you. I had an uncle who lied to get into the Navy at age 14; this after riding the rails supporting himself since age 12; he left in part because he had younger siblings who needed what little food and shelter that his family could provide. They were both brave but not unique. It was a fight for the existence of the countries that believed in freedom against those that wanted to enslave the world. When someone tries to tell you that this economy is as bad as the great depression they should be laughed off the stage. Or better yet, slapped. Well not really, but I find such talk an insult to the hardships suffered by those that lived through real economic depression.
My mother grew up in on an Indian reservation. Native Americans weren't so free to come and go as they are now. Life was tough on the reservation too. To get to school they paddled across the river each day. Government health care was provided; it was far from the best option but the only one available. If kids got really sick they were sent to Salem and often never were seen again by their families. Of course we didn't have the medicines we have now.
After the war ended my parents met. When they decided to marry in 1947, like her sisters before her, my Mom went to Vancouver, Washington with my dad to get married. You see, until 1953 in Oregon "interracial marriage" was considered bad for society and not allowed.
Much has changed for the better in America over the years but I fear we are now on a path that will take away the great freedoms that have made this the best country in the world to be born into. And this is where my confusion lies.
Our country was born on great beliefs amid great contradictions. The founders considered that "all men are created equal," that we all have unalienable rights given by our creator and that we have the right to "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness." All this without government interference. Our Constitution, and the subsequent Bill of Rights, was designed to limit what government can do. And while we espoused those great ideals we allowed slavery, marched Indians to reservations so that new territory could be exploited. Before that we used missionaries to civilize and control Native Americans in ways that are deplorable but largely unknown to most. As late as World War II we put Japanese Americans, U.S. citizens, behind guarded fences, otherwise known as interment camps. I once had a chance to visit with two men who lived in one of those camps. They described to me how notices were posted in their neighborhood giving them a date to report to their internment camp. How they and their parents didn't understand how this could happen to them; they were citizens who loved their country as much as the next person. They left almost everything behind and when they finally were allowed to return, their homes and businesses were gone. In many ways it was like listening to the story of my ancestors forced march from the Rogue River to the reservation. We've come a long way.
Through ups and downs, America has improved and, more often then not, managed to eventually do the right thing. It is a part of the reason people the world over still try to get into this country. Why immigrants still cry when they swear an oath and accept their full citizenship.
Some years ago I was stung by a yellow jacket while driving home from work. The next day my hand swelled up and I went to the doctor. He said it was a staph infection from bacteria on the stinger. He then commented that a hundred years ago I would probably have died from it. Since it was the 1980's, and not the 1880's, I took a few pills and went on my way. The amazing medicines we have today were created, in large part, by American ingenuity and a free market system that encouraged people to invest in research in the hope they could discover a new medicine, one that would be so beneficial that they could earn enough to move on to the the next project. Today we vilify drug companies as evil while we enjoy the benefits of their investment. You don't see many wonder drugs coming from China, Russia or the middle east.
We are spoiled today. I grew up in a in a 900 square foot house with my four siblings. I didn't know that it was too small. I had friends at school in houses half that size. It was home and we were a family. I never once remember anyone complaining. In the 1960's we obtained a second car, or more accurately a 1953 Ford Pickup. A few years later we marveled at the new color TV in our living room. Life was good. Opportunity was everywhere; if you were willing to work for it.
During that same time the Civil Rights Act was passed and although racism still existed it was no longer endorsed by society with separate drinking fountains, motels, restrooms and bus seats. In the town I grew up in we were having too much fun to be sidetracked with racism. We also didn't worry about what our shoes said about us. Our choices were limited to Converse Chuck Taylor's or Keds; black or white, hightop or lowtop, the choice was yours. Out of 500 kids in my grade school about four of us were minorities. But I never even thought about that fact. Only once did I experience any kind of obvious racism and no one liked that girl anyway.
In the late 60's things began to change though. The space race showed America at it's best. That a free, democratic, capitalist society worked better then a communist, government controlled, centrally planned society. We flew to the moon using American ingenuity. We had to. The computer technology that got us there was less then what is in your current cell phone. Slide rules were used by the astronauts and their lives depended on it. But at the same time, and underlying this, was the Vietnam war, maybe the most divisive national undertaking aside from the civil war. The growth in this country of the radical socialist and Marxist movement fermented on college campuses and they exploited our war effort. Instead of coming together they sought to divided the country while they lived out the concept of "sex, drugs and rock & roll."
The war ended and most of America forgot about the radical hippies. This was a huge mistake. These radicals, spawned in America academia, cleaned up their appearance and moved into our government, public schools, and courts system. I had one as a student teacher in high school. A nice guy. I found out later he was one of the radical leaders at the University of Oregon years earlier. These people quietly began to teach our children, change our laws, and when they couldn't change our laws they just reinterpreted them to create the law they wanted. We woke up to this when they decided that the constitution included a right to abortion. Traditional America was appalled, but failed to move off of that subject and realize that additional laws were also being created out of thin air while we argued abortion. When I was a kid we had a tactic we called high-low that we used to great effect for snowball and rotten apple fights. One of us would whisper High! The others would whisper Low. We would pause long enough for the air to clear and the first person would lob a snowball towards the enemy. While they watched the high lob come their way the rest of us would plaster them with fastballs that they never saw coming until it was too late. While we were focused on the high lob of abortion and prayer in schools we were clobbered with fastballs as they set up shop in our schools, courts and governments.
While still a small minority, never more than 20% of the adult population, these radicals of the 1960's have now managed to obtain a working majority in many parts of society. Our schools that once produced the best and most innovative minds in the world are infested with this politically correct philosophy, no longer teaching our kids how to think for themselves but rather to act based on emotions. Many are now convinced that we need to turn over our freedoms in an effort to save the world from global warming. This based, really, on pure emotion. The idea that man can control the earths temperature is laughable to those that analyze the facts. It also strikes me as arrogant; a Tower of Babel mentality. Scientists that support this effort inevitably have a financial interest in convincing the rest of us. Al Gore, who left the White House with less then $1 million, is now worth over $100 million. The mansion he lives in uses enough electricity to power 20 of the houses you and I live in. He offsets this exorbitant use by buying "carbon offsets" from a company he is invested in.
The majority of skilled professionals in medicine, science and industry now come from places like India, Japan and Korea. In the 1960's, aside from Russia, no other country on earth could even contemplate the idea of exploring space. And try as hard as they did Russia failed miserably. Killing unknown numbers of astronauts on a moon rocket that never proved feasible. By the late 1960's they gave up. Our only competition was the self imposed deadline, set by President Kennedy, of success by the end of the decade. We succeeded. Where I work, among many other things, we look to help our existing Oregon companies find employees that can run computer controlled machines. To do this we set up college based programs to teach workers the basic math skills that I had learned by 10th grade.
We find our country hopelessly in debt; we depend on the Chinese and Middle East to finance our extravagant government spending. Society's morals are so backward it seems like right is wrong and wrong is right. Much of our country recently spent a week obsessed with the life of a entertainer with massive flaws while ignoring the deaths of several soldiers who still believe that our freedom and way of life is worth giving their life for. As I write this our government is preparing to foist on us a health care system that will bring visits from government officials to the homes of expecting moms, mandatory visits to our parents and grand parents on their "end of life options." Cradle-to-Grave control seems to be the goal of those in power.
So where does that leave us? Again I'm confused. I do know none of us in my generation are exempt at some level for not doing more. But maybe good can come from it. Just a couple of years ago American's saved less then 1% of their disposable income. Now that rate is over 6%. Government tells us that this new level of saving is a problem for the economy. I suppose that you and I saving for a rainy day makes us less willing to look to them for our provision. This is the way America used to be. We were responsible for our own lives. And when times were bad and we had legitimate needs we turned to family, not government programs. And if your needs were born of laziness or on-going poor choices you were on your own. That was tough love. It was also incentive to grow up and act like an adult. Now we buy needles for addicts and hand out condoms in school.
In my confusion I wonder, where do we go from here? Should I even care? I know I'll do fine, one way or another. I am confident that my kids will do well regardless of what the future brings. But it seems a little selfish to stop there.
There is one school of thought that says that God is in control. That we should pray. Pray for our country, leaders and society in general. I don't disagree with that. But does our responsibility end there?
Along this same school of thought it is said that since God is in control we shouldn't get too worked up and just go with the program. After all Jesus said to pay unto Caesar (i.e. government) what belongs to Caesar. Jesus didn't argue about how much should belong to Caesar; in fact the whole subject seemed like a distraction to him. Jesus focused on souls and we should do the same. I don't disagree with that either. But on the other hand America came to be because some people got fed up with religious and financial oppression. And how many lives have been positively affected by the churches born out of America. Should those people have just stayed home in England and not tried to make a better country?
And what of our churches? When I look at the big picture I wonder, have we bought into the popular culture? Our christian colleges are more focused on liberal arts then on training pastors and missionaries. Where will the pastors of the future come from? Like machine operators we are woefully short.
I find more of the traditional concepts of placing family before friends, respect for elder wisdom and the valuing of good character over material wealth in current Native American culture then in current American culture. But that too is being eroded by government. Ever expanding programs that push the concept that everyone is entitled to programs to take care of our every need. It is all so confusing.
I know that eventually life on earth, as we know it, will end, and prophecy will be fulfilled. But I'm reminded of Abraham, a man willing to debate with God over the fate of the city of Sodom. A man willing to petition God to save a wicked city from destruction. Abraham believed that if there were even a handful of righteous men in Sodom that there was hope for that society and city to turn from evil. Why should Abraham have even cared? He had already received the promise that his offspring would become a great nation. Why risk the wrath of God for meddling where he didn't belong? And what about Nineveh? If all that was needed to avoid the destruction of Nineveh was prayer, why did God make such an effort to get Jonah there? Couldn't Jonah have just stayed home and prayed, avoiding the whole nasty whale episode? Is a government that still believes man has certain inalienable rights that are bestowed by our creator still worth fighting for? Should we just stay at home and pray or is there more that we should do? This is the source of my confusion. As of now, I'm inclined to take action. Yes, I go online and write to my congressmen. I've read in the past they they consider every contact to represent several dozen of other constituents that feel the same way. Even though my future eternity is assured I still want my kids and future grandkids to know the freedoms and opportunities I grew up with. I'm not inclined to stand by while freedom slips away.
-----------------------
Note: I would appreciate your comments on this. Both pro and con. Some have suggested that I have a followup with thoughts on what an individual can do, where to learn about the real news, etc. I'm open to all thoughts and if you are reading this you obviously made it to the end, so thanks for reading. ~ Ted
Today is my 50th birthday and I find some things still confuse me. Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't trade my life for anyone's. I've been blessed with wonderful parents, incredible siblings and born into the greatest country the world has ever known. I've enjoyed the freedoms and opportunities that are only found in America. The opportunity to advance as far as your ambitions and efforts will take you. But I sometimes still find myself confused about things.
You see, my father grew up in a small Kansas town, the German son of great grandparents who, fleeing an oppressive Russia, immigrated to the United States. My parents weren't rich; in fact just the opposite. Born during the great depression and dust bowl years my dad has told me about how he, along with his brother and sister, would walk along the train tracks looking for coal that had been tossed off passing trains by sympathetic rail workers. Their ability to stay warm depended on them finding enough coal. The dust bowl years were so bad that there was a rope from the house to the pit toilet out back. Because the dust was so thick it was possible to get lost, disoriented and die alone. Assuming you made it back ok you still had to worry about dying from lung infection. Oh yeah, indoor plumbing? Only the richest had that luxury. At 16 my dad boarded a train for San Diego and soon found himself on a ship in the pacific shooting at Japanese war planes; better to get them before they get you. I had an uncle who lied to get into the Navy at age 14; this after riding the rails supporting himself since age 12; he left in part because he had younger siblings who needed what little food and shelter that his family could provide. They were both brave but not unique. It was a fight for the existence of the countries that believed in freedom against those that wanted to enslave the world. When someone tries to tell you that this economy is as bad as the great depression they should be laughed off the stage. Or better yet, slapped. Well not really, but I find such talk an insult to the hardships suffered by those that lived through real economic depression.
My mother grew up in on an Indian reservation. Native Americans weren't so free to come and go as they are now. Life was tough on the reservation too. To get to school they paddled across the river each day. Government health care was provided; it was far from the best option but the only one available. If kids got really sick they were sent to Salem and often never were seen again by their families. Of course we didn't have the medicines we have now.
After the war ended my parents met. When they decided to marry in 1947, like her sisters before her, my Mom went to Vancouver, Washington with my dad to get married. You see, until 1953 in Oregon "interracial marriage" was considered bad for society and not allowed.
Much has changed for the better in America over the years but I fear we are now on a path that will take away the great freedoms that have made this the best country in the world to be born into. And this is where my confusion lies.
Our country was born on great beliefs amid great contradictions. The founders considered that "all men are created equal," that we all have unalienable rights given by our creator and that we have the right to "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness." All this without government interference. Our Constitution, and the subsequent Bill of Rights, was designed to limit what government can do. And while we espoused those great ideals we allowed slavery, marched Indians to reservations so that new territory could be exploited. Before that we used missionaries to civilize and control Native Americans in ways that are deplorable but largely unknown to most. As late as World War II we put Japanese Americans, U.S. citizens, behind guarded fences, otherwise known as interment camps. I once had a chance to visit with two men who lived in one of those camps. They described to me how notices were posted in their neighborhood giving them a date to report to their internment camp. How they and their parents didn't understand how this could happen to them; they were citizens who loved their country as much as the next person. They left almost everything behind and when they finally were allowed to return, their homes and businesses were gone. In many ways it was like listening to the story of my ancestors forced march from the Rogue River to the reservation. We've come a long way.
Through ups and downs, America has improved and, more often then not, managed to eventually do the right thing. It is a part of the reason people the world over still try to get into this country. Why immigrants still cry when they swear an oath and accept their full citizenship.
Some years ago I was stung by a yellow jacket while driving home from work. The next day my hand swelled up and I went to the doctor. He said it was a staph infection from bacteria on the stinger. He then commented that a hundred years ago I would probably have died from it. Since it was the 1980's, and not the 1880's, I took a few pills and went on my way. The amazing medicines we have today were created, in large part, by American ingenuity and a free market system that encouraged people to invest in research in the hope they could discover a new medicine, one that would be so beneficial that they could earn enough to move on to the the next project. Today we vilify drug companies as evil while we enjoy the benefits of their investment. You don't see many wonder drugs coming from China, Russia or the middle east.
We are spoiled today. I grew up in a in a 900 square foot house with my four siblings. I didn't know that it was too small. I had friends at school in houses half that size. It was home and we were a family. I never once remember anyone complaining. In the 1960's we obtained a second car, or more accurately a 1953 Ford Pickup. A few years later we marveled at the new color TV in our living room. Life was good. Opportunity was everywhere; if you were willing to work for it.
During that same time the Civil Rights Act was passed and although racism still existed it was no longer endorsed by society with separate drinking fountains, motels, restrooms and bus seats. In the town I grew up in we were having too much fun to be sidetracked with racism. We also didn't worry about what our shoes said about us. Our choices were limited to Converse Chuck Taylor's or Keds; black or white, hightop or lowtop, the choice was yours. Out of 500 kids in my grade school about four of us were minorities. But I never even thought about that fact. Only once did I experience any kind of obvious racism and no one liked that girl anyway.
In the late 60's things began to change though. The space race showed America at it's best. That a free, democratic, capitalist society worked better then a communist, government controlled, centrally planned society. We flew to the moon using American ingenuity. We had to. The computer technology that got us there was less then what is in your current cell phone. Slide rules were used by the astronauts and their lives depended on it. But at the same time, and underlying this, was the Vietnam war, maybe the most divisive national undertaking aside from the civil war. The growth in this country of the radical socialist and Marxist movement fermented on college campuses and they exploited our war effort. Instead of coming together they sought to divided the country while they lived out the concept of "sex, drugs and rock & roll."
The war ended and most of America forgot about the radical hippies. This was a huge mistake. These radicals, spawned in America academia, cleaned up their appearance and moved into our government, public schools, and courts system. I had one as a student teacher in high school. A nice guy. I found out later he was one of the radical leaders at the University of Oregon years earlier. These people quietly began to teach our children, change our laws, and when they couldn't change our laws they just reinterpreted them to create the law they wanted. We woke up to this when they decided that the constitution included a right to abortion. Traditional America was appalled, but failed to move off of that subject and realize that additional laws were also being created out of thin air while we argued abortion. When I was a kid we had a tactic we called high-low that we used to great effect for snowball and rotten apple fights. One of us would whisper High! The others would whisper Low. We would pause long enough for the air to clear and the first person would lob a snowball towards the enemy. While they watched the high lob come their way the rest of us would plaster them with fastballs that they never saw coming until it was too late. While we were focused on the high lob of abortion and prayer in schools we were clobbered with fastballs as they set up shop in our schools, courts and governments.
While still a small minority, never more than 20% of the adult population, these radicals of the 1960's have now managed to obtain a working majority in many parts of society. Our schools that once produced the best and most innovative minds in the world are infested with this politically correct philosophy, no longer teaching our kids how to think for themselves but rather to act based on emotions. Many are now convinced that we need to turn over our freedoms in an effort to save the world from global warming. This based, really, on pure emotion. The idea that man can control the earths temperature is laughable to those that analyze the facts. It also strikes me as arrogant; a Tower of Babel mentality. Scientists that support this effort inevitably have a financial interest in convincing the rest of us. Al Gore, who left the White House with less then $1 million, is now worth over $100 million. The mansion he lives in uses enough electricity to power 20 of the houses you and I live in. He offsets this exorbitant use by buying "carbon offsets" from a company he is invested in.
The majority of skilled professionals in medicine, science and industry now come from places like India, Japan and Korea. In the 1960's, aside from Russia, no other country on earth could even contemplate the idea of exploring space. And try as hard as they did Russia failed miserably. Killing unknown numbers of astronauts on a moon rocket that never proved feasible. By the late 1960's they gave up. Our only competition was the self imposed deadline, set by President Kennedy, of success by the end of the decade. We succeeded. Where I work, among many other things, we look to help our existing Oregon companies find employees that can run computer controlled machines. To do this we set up college based programs to teach workers the basic math skills that I had learned by 10th grade.
We find our country hopelessly in debt; we depend on the Chinese and Middle East to finance our extravagant government spending. Society's morals are so backward it seems like right is wrong and wrong is right. Much of our country recently spent a week obsessed with the life of a entertainer with massive flaws while ignoring the deaths of several soldiers who still believe that our freedom and way of life is worth giving their life for. As I write this our government is preparing to foist on us a health care system that will bring visits from government officials to the homes of expecting moms, mandatory visits to our parents and grand parents on their "end of life options." Cradle-to-Grave control seems to be the goal of those in power.
So where does that leave us? Again I'm confused. I do know none of us in my generation are exempt at some level for not doing more. But maybe good can come from it. Just a couple of years ago American's saved less then 1% of their disposable income. Now that rate is over 6%. Government tells us that this new level of saving is a problem for the economy. I suppose that you and I saving for a rainy day makes us less willing to look to them for our provision. This is the way America used to be. We were responsible for our own lives. And when times were bad and we had legitimate needs we turned to family, not government programs. And if your needs were born of laziness or on-going poor choices you were on your own. That was tough love. It was also incentive to grow up and act like an adult. Now we buy needles for addicts and hand out condoms in school.
In my confusion I wonder, where do we go from here? Should I even care? I know I'll do fine, one way or another. I am confident that my kids will do well regardless of what the future brings. But it seems a little selfish to stop there.
There is one school of thought that says that God is in control. That we should pray. Pray for our country, leaders and society in general. I don't disagree with that. But does our responsibility end there?
Along this same school of thought it is said that since God is in control we shouldn't get too worked up and just go with the program. After all Jesus said to pay unto Caesar (i.e. government) what belongs to Caesar. Jesus didn't argue about how much should belong to Caesar; in fact the whole subject seemed like a distraction to him. Jesus focused on souls and we should do the same. I don't disagree with that either. But on the other hand America came to be because some people got fed up with religious and financial oppression. And how many lives have been positively affected by the churches born out of America. Should those people have just stayed home in England and not tried to make a better country?
And what of our churches? When I look at the big picture I wonder, have we bought into the popular culture? Our christian colleges are more focused on liberal arts then on training pastors and missionaries. Where will the pastors of the future come from? Like machine operators we are woefully short.
I find more of the traditional concepts of placing family before friends, respect for elder wisdom and the valuing of good character over material wealth in current Native American culture then in current American culture. But that too is being eroded by government. Ever expanding programs that push the concept that everyone is entitled to programs to take care of our every need. It is all so confusing.
I know that eventually life on earth, as we know it, will end, and prophecy will be fulfilled. But I'm reminded of Abraham, a man willing to debate with God over the fate of the city of Sodom. A man willing to petition God to save a wicked city from destruction. Abraham believed that if there were even a handful of righteous men in Sodom that there was hope for that society and city to turn from evil. Why should Abraham have even cared? He had already received the promise that his offspring would become a great nation. Why risk the wrath of God for meddling where he didn't belong? And what about Nineveh? If all that was needed to avoid the destruction of Nineveh was prayer, why did God make such an effort to get Jonah there? Couldn't Jonah have just stayed home and prayed, avoiding the whole nasty whale episode? Is a government that still believes man has certain inalienable rights that are bestowed by our creator still worth fighting for? Should we just stay at home and pray or is there more that we should do? This is the source of my confusion. As of now, I'm inclined to take action. Yes, I go online and write to my congressmen. I've read in the past they they consider every contact to represent several dozen of other constituents that feel the same way. Even though my future eternity is assured I still want my kids and future grandkids to know the freedoms and opportunities I grew up with. I'm not inclined to stand by while freedom slips away.
-----------------------
Note: I would appreciate your comments on this. Both pro and con. Some have suggested that I have a followup with thoughts on what an individual can do, where to learn about the real news, etc. I'm open to all thoughts and if you are reading this you obviously made it to the end, so thanks for reading. ~ Ted
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Kindness
6-29-09
By Ted Werth
The gentle hand reached forward to tap the old man on the shoulder. No immediate response was forthcoming so there was another tap. The gentleman turned back, a look of confusion first, then surprise. Finally his expression changed to a large smile, probably the first he had given in awhile. A nod of the head to the teenage girl, then the driver, and he was on his way. I never saw him again but I think about him from time to time.
I felt a combination of embarrassment and shame that day. You see I ride the city bus home from work several times a week. I've done this for several years now, in part to avoid the hassle and cost of parking downtown, but partly to keep myself from being completely insulated from that "other" world. You know, the one that rides the bus because they have no other options. There is an incredible mix of people on city buses. Most would not be there if they could avoid it. Some are truly hard on their luck, most are not. They are there by their own bad choices or, yes, even laziness. And the rest of us, all too often, stay away when we can.
I've met and talked to lots of different bus riders over the years. Most often other workers who like to complain about their work, pay, boss, co-workers and on and on. Rarely have I heard any of them offer thanks for the job they do have. People segregate themselves quite naturally on the bus. The high school drop outs, or those on their way to being so, quickly move to the back. The poorest, overweight and loneliest will inevitably claim the front seats by the door, often joined by the poor single moms with multiple children and a stroller in tow. The passengers who don't fit either mold tend to claim those seats in the middle. An odd mix of workers, national guardsmen, single moms returning to the workforce and those freshly arrived in town, in search of their next short term job.
I once had a teenage sister and brother sit a row behind me and across the aisle. Even though I was forward I could tell they were looking at me. I glanced back but didn't want to stare. I thought it was unusual they were sitting in the middle section. They were clean cut and listening to them talk I perceived they got along like few teenage brothers and sisters do. Finally I turned slightly back to acknowledge them; I could tell they were still looking at me and curiosity got the best of me. When I made eye contact, the young man gave me an inquisitive look and asked, "Are you a pastor?" I smiled and said no; and at that instant the three of us recognized each other. I spent a week with them two years earlier at a camp my church sponsors for abused and neglected foster kids. The kind of kids that to often grow up to sit on the back of the bus. They looked good as we reminisced about camp. They told me about all the positive things that had happened to them since I had last seen them. They were able to return to live with their parents in what was now a good home. They looked good and it was a nice feeling to think that I had a very small part in their life that summer as Coach Ted.
But while that short visit with the foster kids gives me a good feeling, I still experience a certain disappointment when I think about the old man. I had watched him move up the aisle in worn out clothes and old shoes. He seemed clean but scruffy at the same time; it was as though he did what he could, with what he had. As he reached the front he reached in his pocket to retrieve the money for his fare. He paused then reached around some more, quickly checking his shirt pocket and then the other pants pocket. About that time I was thinking, another deadbeat. I've seen this play out over and over. The rider typically acts surprised until finally the bus drivers shakes his head and then motions with impatience towards the door while the person expresses contrived gratitude. But this day was different, as the teenage girl handed him a dollar, his expression changed into an ear-to-ear grin I realized that he really had lost his fare. I don't know for sure how I knew, but maybe if you ride the bus for enough years you instinctively know these things. On that day, on bus #18 I realized the young woman saw something that none of the rest of us had. Not a deadbeat looking for someone else to pay their way but someone who needed a genuine act of kindness.
By Ted Werth
The gentle hand reached forward to tap the old man on the shoulder. No immediate response was forthcoming so there was another tap. The gentleman turned back, a look of confusion first, then surprise. Finally his expression changed to a large smile, probably the first he had given in awhile. A nod of the head to the teenage girl, then the driver, and he was on his way. I never saw him again but I think about him from time to time.
I felt a combination of embarrassment and shame that day. You see I ride the city bus home from work several times a week. I've done this for several years now, in part to avoid the hassle and cost of parking downtown, but partly to keep myself from being completely insulated from that "other" world. You know, the one that rides the bus because they have no other options. There is an incredible mix of people on city buses. Most would not be there if they could avoid it. Some are truly hard on their luck, most are not. They are there by their own bad choices or, yes, even laziness. And the rest of us, all too often, stay away when we can.
I've met and talked to lots of different bus riders over the years. Most often other workers who like to complain about their work, pay, boss, co-workers and on and on. Rarely have I heard any of them offer thanks for the job they do have. People segregate themselves quite naturally on the bus. The high school drop outs, or those on their way to being so, quickly move to the back. The poorest, overweight and loneliest will inevitably claim the front seats by the door, often joined by the poor single moms with multiple children and a stroller in tow. The passengers who don't fit either mold tend to claim those seats in the middle. An odd mix of workers, national guardsmen, single moms returning to the workforce and those freshly arrived in town, in search of their next short term job.
I once had a teenage sister and brother sit a row behind me and across the aisle. Even though I was forward I could tell they were looking at me. I glanced back but didn't want to stare. I thought it was unusual they were sitting in the middle section. They were clean cut and listening to them talk I perceived they got along like few teenage brothers and sisters do. Finally I turned slightly back to acknowledge them; I could tell they were still looking at me and curiosity got the best of me. When I made eye contact, the young man gave me an inquisitive look and asked, "Are you a pastor?" I smiled and said no; and at that instant the three of us recognized each other. I spent a week with them two years earlier at a camp my church sponsors for abused and neglected foster kids. The kind of kids that to often grow up to sit on the back of the bus. They looked good as we reminisced about camp. They told me about all the positive things that had happened to them since I had last seen them. They were able to return to live with their parents in what was now a good home. They looked good and it was a nice feeling to think that I had a very small part in their life that summer as Coach Ted.
But while that short visit with the foster kids gives me a good feeling, I still experience a certain disappointment when I think about the old man. I had watched him move up the aisle in worn out clothes and old shoes. He seemed clean but scruffy at the same time; it was as though he did what he could, with what he had. As he reached the front he reached in his pocket to retrieve the money for his fare. He paused then reached around some more, quickly checking his shirt pocket and then the other pants pocket. About that time I was thinking, another deadbeat. I've seen this play out over and over. The rider typically acts surprised until finally the bus drivers shakes his head and then motions with impatience towards the door while the person expresses contrived gratitude. But this day was different, as the teenage girl handed him a dollar, his expression changed into an ear-to-ear grin I realized that he really had lost his fare. I don't know for sure how I knew, but maybe if you ride the bus for enough years you instinctively know these things. On that day, on bus #18 I realized the young woman saw something that none of the rest of us had. Not a deadbeat looking for someone else to pay their way but someone who needed a genuine act of kindness.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Kodachrome and Sunny Days
"Kodachrome, they give us those nice bright colors. They give us the greens of summers, makes you think all the world's a sunny day." ~ Paul Simon
The first camera I remember as my own was a Kodak Instamatic 104. I was seven years old and my older sister helped me traverse the neighborhood recruiting kids for Vacation Bible School. After winning the bible school contest, and the camera that came with it, the real cost was purchasing the film and flashbulbs. Back then each flash bulb worked once. Yes once. Not so sustainable I suppose. The Instamatic 104 packed four of these bulbs into one "cube." This was considered a major technological breakthrough.
In 1977 as a high school senior I got my first REAL Camera. A Minolta SRT201 Single Lens Reflex with a 50mm f1.4 Rokkar-X lens. I took money from my savings account and bought a small flash that worked with three AA batteries. This reusable flash cost the equivalent of $140 in today's dollars. I don't remember my first picture with that camera but I do remember, in vivid detail, taking it on my senior year road trip and coming a whisker away from losing it on a roller coaster in California.
Things were expensive back then. And if it wasn't expensive it was slow. How many digital pictures would you be taking today if you were paying $1 each and having to wait a week to see the result? Life is kind of like that these days. If you can't provide it fast and cheap there is no market for it. The latest
I recently bought the the movie Sandlot. It reminds me of my childhood when my friends and I spent much of the summer wearing basepaths and a pitching mound into my parents front yard. If we weren't playing baseball we were riding our bikes to nowhere in particular and other then the times we mixed lawnmower gasoline with balsa wood airplanes and several thousand match heads with a copper tube, we managed to stay out of trouble.
Back to that Kodak camera. You really had to set up each photo carefully as you only had 12 or 20 photos per film roll. Part of the fun was getting together a week or two later to look at the finished prints. It was an investment in time and money. It's said that a person will not value what costs them nothing. Along those same lines I think that we also don't get the sense of accomplishment that comes with time and effort. Sometimes it seems like things are too easy.
I like to listen to the daily bible reading by Kirk Whalum. I also listen to audio books on my
I like riding my bicycle through the farms north of town. You relax and see so much more when you realize you can't go anywhere in a hurry. I've watched the blank slate of the farmer's fields transition from brown to green this spring. This fall the left over chaff will be tilled under and the cycle will start again. There is no hurrying the growing season.
Next week I'm going camping with my family. We don't plan a lot. Breakfast in the morning. A short nap, some reading. A hike to the beach or along the creek. Dinner at night and visiting into the evening around a campfire. I can feel the stress leaving already.
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