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.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
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.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Father's Day
By Ted Werth
It's hard being Dad. We are pulled in so many different directions. Many of us relate to the desire to provide for our family. There also is a natural inclination to give our kids all the things we wish we'd had. And since no parent is perfect we realize that we are not perfect either. And the effects of those imperfections on our children "scares us to death." Or at least it should.
I have some great memories of time spent with my children. Having them pile on me in the middle of the floor, Saturday breakfasts at McDonald's, trips to the park and bike rides with them perched behind me. I still laugh about the time my daughter peered down into the pile of garbage at the county dump. As I was throwing boxes of garbage from my truck into the pile below I had suggested that she not get to close. Having learned her lessons in kindergarten well she commented, "If I fell in Daddy, they would probably just recycle me huh?" Unfortunately for every positive memory it seems like there is a negative memory. The times I was too "busy" to tuck them in, leaving that to Mom. The times I became impatient because things were not done just right. The times I was too busy on the computer to take a trip to the park or watch a silly kids video on TV.
Since my Dad never really attended my school activities I decided that I would be at as many of my kids' activities as I could. And I was, suffering through many grade school Christmas programs. But there is no one perfect formula. My dad unfailingly took me fishing almost every Saturday during the summer and patiently rigged up my fishing pole until I was able to do it on my own. At the end of every trip we would stop at the store and get pop and snacks. This was often the highlight of the day for me. I didn't realize all that was being passed on to me at the time; all the little tricks my dad taught me about how to catch fish. I now go on a fall fishing trip to Lava Lake in central Oregon with friends every year. We sit in a boat, joke, visit and have a great time. And the fishing is normally really good too. A few years ago we were having no luck at all and after several hours my friend Gary piped up and said, "if Ted isn't catching fish, no one is catching fish." It surprised me, but it reminded me of all the times my dad had given me instruction on how to get your line down on the bottom to improve your chances of hooking fish. How to 'give the fish some slack' before setting the hook. And after hooking the fish, how to play the fish to minimize the chance of losing them.
It used to bother me that Dad never came to those awful Junior High band concerts. I guess I thought he just didn't have time for me that way. And as much as I liked the snacks at the end of fishing trips, I figured we really were just going because Dad liked to fish. Years later I realized that after us boys had grown up my dad never really went fishing on his own. The obvious conclusion is that he did it for me and my brothers. I have heard my dad talk about fishing as a kid in Kansas but never heard him talk about fishing with his dad. I suppose, like my determination to attend my kids programs, maybe he determined to take his kids fishing; the thing he never got to enjoy with his dad. The same was true for the multitude of minor league baseball games he took me to for so many summers.
Men are haunted by the the challenge of the father-son relationship. We want to do the best we can but are always wondering if we are doing enough. If you have experienced teenage children you might wonder if the effort even matters. But it does matter and as life goes on you begin to understand that.
Yes, I still have regrets but not so much as in the past. We live and learn as we age and it is never too late to change. And change does make a difference. I'm sure my kids would tell you I'm a better dad now then I was in the past, and kids are more forgiving of our shortcomings than we often realize.
I carried the song Cats in the Cradle on a cassette in my truck for years, and would take it out every so often to play while alone. The line that scared me the most was the one that says "He'd grown up just like me, my boy was just like me." My kids are grown now and that line doesn't scare me so much any more. What was once a fear is now a challenge. You see, I'm a lot like my dad and proud of it. Is it too much to believe that with faith we can grow in wisdom and character until the day we are able, as fathers, to say, "Yeah, my son IS just like me!" I would hope we strive for nothing less.
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