tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79307918557670707492024-02-20T09:23:08.327-08:00Corners, a novelShelley Hobson never really intended to jump.
Nevertheless, there she found herself, plummeting backward down the rabbit hole, defying gravity - into the underground maze of narrowly tunneled switchbacks and false passageways that were the 1970’s counterculture. And even in the crystal clear blackness of night, nothing was as it seemed . . .
While the novel "Corners" features some real historic figures, it is historical fiction.Sylvia Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07072854262445202538noreply@blogger.comBlogger41125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7930791855767070749.post-34529893817698803232012-02-26T12:06:00.004-08:002012-02-26T22:19:03.864-08:00Starting to forget, remembering to remember<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">This story is such a vague memory I almost can't recall the details of hearing it.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuHFLNV4OFqwxHm3WPfztEAIXYhxY12w9Kd2KU3mdZhDBfMHSxQHl7Vwd8M77zmMLeny20r8vfmxQNTugKWMTs5ahy3ViBiQlAldegZ8An2WTKy5pV6k_ZmkMqsx5Ilq85WGGyoPr9svhx/s1600/rainy+window.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuHFLNV4OFqwxHm3WPfztEAIXYhxY12w9Kd2KU3mdZhDBfMHSxQHl7Vwd8M77zmMLeny20r8vfmxQNTugKWMTs5ahy3ViBiQlAldegZ8An2WTKy5pV6k_ZmkMqsx5Ilq85WGGyoPr9svhx/s1600/rainy+window.jpg" /></a><br />
But the story, I'll never forget. <br />
<br />
I do remember sitting in the living room when I first heard it, watching TV in the rented house I shared with my first husband, a drafty wooden one-story with a giant single-pane glass window that looked onto Delaware Drive in San Mateo. I know I was in that house because I remember the gold velveteen of the borrowed sofa underneath me. I kept petting the prickly nap of the cheap fabric as I prayed nervously, desperately, after hearing the story. Back in those days, I didn't pray much, but I did that night.<br />
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We still had the 19-inch vacuum tube TV; flat screens hadn't been invented yet. My new baby daughter was in bed, baby monitor on, my son not yet born or thought of. Not sure where my husband was - just that he wasn't there. The show, I don't remember. <br />
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I haven't seen or heard the story since, except when I have told it, and again today when I looked for it on the web. I found it in the sermon notes of a Mr. Tad Pound, who told it in an Epiphany series at San Gabriel the Archangel Episcopal Church in New Mexico not long ago. It's from <i>Chicken Soup for the Soul</i>, turns out, told by Dan Millman, about a little girl named Sachi.<br />
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I love the web. It's kind of a miracle. Connects all the threads of our lives that would otherwise be loose at the ends, and frayed. Now back to my story.<br />
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So here goes. On the TV show, a mother was telling it, as if it were her story. Maybe it was. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg93WMEIJSCo7hBbrKaaimvyVfVKuVibMMgeu7jI5gY4eGaQO65u9SctNULkNJx24t1Ph5af8PTNL5eW6HVaBrmFeYvt8mHZZuMYPe-NAyycth6H_BMY4MXFQdgNjFh8mHBLlk_69tB76iK/s1600/crib+baby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg93WMEIJSCo7hBbrKaaimvyVfVKuVibMMgeu7jI5gY4eGaQO65u9SctNULkNJx24t1Ph5af8PTNL5eW6HVaBrmFeYvt8mHZZuMYPe-NAyycth6H_BMY4MXFQdgNjFh8mHBLlk_69tB76iK/s1600/crib+baby.jpg" style="cursor: move;" /></a>Sachi's mother was about to have her second child. Every day the toddler would put her head against mom's tummy and ask to speak to the baby. Please, can't he come out and talk to me? Then he can go right back in. OK?<br />
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Not possible, baby. You'll see him soon.<br />
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After the baby was born, Sachi begged to be left alone with her new brother in the nursery, just for a few seconds. Her parents were hesitant, fearing she might poke or scratch the baby, or try to pick him up and drop him, even if she was well intended. Still, they had a baby monitor hooked up, so they decided to let her go in alone.<br />
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Once inside, it only took her a second or two to ask her question: Can you tell me about God? I'm starting to forget.<br />
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Now, you may have heard this before, and therefore discount it as a cute urban legend, or let it go by in the background like white noise. Like the starfish story. Heard that. Got the T-shirt.<br />
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Even Snopes, that venerable website that debunks legends, has written about Sachi. Snopes says that there are lots of tales of toddlers professing to have seen or smelled or been held by God, but that there is no proof that it <i>is</i> God whom they saw or smelled or touched.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3b-Y6TPYrnNwnKRLPFHHxucr0X5VxN6p2BHdtou4oZxvmDW1c7RvotBCUXujqtnUMadklocLYcP7Grs5PQhkd8KClB9Sk072RqLSX9jG90ekuigIDZmANhs0V06ZPmLgMO0QClpt8Hjp_/s1600/mustard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3b-Y6TPYrnNwnKRLPFHHxucr0X5VxN6p2BHdtou4oZxvmDW1c7RvotBCUXujqtnUMadklocLYcP7Grs5PQhkd8KClB9Sk072RqLSX9jG90ekuigIDZmANhs0V06ZPmLgMO0QClpt8Hjp_/s1600/mustard.jpg" /></a></div>Whatever. What this is, is a mustard seed. And frankly, I believe it all, Sachi, and the baby brother, and almost forgetting about the God she remembers, because she saw Him. <br />
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Why do I believe it? Because I have asked Him many times to show me, as He said I should do, and He has kept his promise to back up my mustard seed with a whole jar of mustard. Therefore I have tasted and seen the mustard again and again, and it is good.<br />
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Try it. Asking Him to show you, that is. I tried it the day I heard about Sachi, and it was good. It hasn't been good every day, but the goodness has rippled out in ever escalating levels of goodness, one layer at a time, as only the Master Conductor could orchestrate it. <br />
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In fact, He <i>never</i> fails to remind me He is God, if I remember to ask. Sometimes it's in little ways. Like today, when I was looking for the Sachi story. One of the places I found it was on an Angelfire site called Our Family Page, created by a family in Texas who has taken in several children. On Our Family Page, Sachi's page is decorated with Precious Moments pictures of a little warrior holding up a sword, his face adorned with a criss-cross bandage, covering his heart with a shield.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixKWYHRooWtzv1xdS6zGtova0vxFpV6uLRRlZrW-VPZqp5ieSXB3zRUyFyAmHzMC8pND6cNkYSP-pvVvHDeRXlrO-vwgDcp8zap6NFa8K8FDw0SjAgQhwjF3H9_n-_fdpC8PpkEVI2tfJp/s1600/christian+soldiers+figurine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixKWYHRooWtzv1xdS6zGtova0vxFpV6uLRRlZrW-VPZqp5ieSXB3zRUyFyAmHzMC8pND6cNkYSP-pvVvHDeRXlrO-vwgDcp8zap6NFa8K8FDw0SjAgQhwjF3H9_n-_fdpC8PpkEVI2tfJp/s1600/christian+soldiers+figurine.jpg" /></a>When my almost-soon-to-be-second husband was nearly killed in a bicycle accident about ten years ago - seven bones broken, one punctured lung - that very same Precious Moments warrior was painted on the wall in the room where he lay for ten days, oxygen tubes and morphine and all. It was in the old hospital on 13th Street in Merced, which has since been replaced by a sparkling new hospital on the north side of town. So the mural is probably gone, unless they one day rescue it from the wrecking ball when that time comes.<br />
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That mural was painted there by one of the surviving sisters of a horrible crime in the Weaver District of Merced County, created in homage to her 7-year-old brother John who had been murdered with a pitchfork while he slept. A naked crazed man had charged into their home while the oldest girl was babysitting the other three. He was attacking them one by one, goring whoever he could corner. <br />
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In the next cubicle was an homage to nine-year old Ashley, a praying angel, who had courageously thrown herself at the killer, screaming, "Get off my sister!" That's when he turned on her, running her through. Ashley perished in that cubicle. Only the two elder sisters made it; the oldest married last year. They're Gospel Defenders. They know the soul survives. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/BgWOcYpHm0o?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
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The presence of those babies was still tangible as my husband lay there; the gratitude for flames that had burned short but well, still tangible. God had come to cover them there in those cubicles, and it was clear while I sat vigil that He hadn't left. He was there to cover me, so much less deserving. So much less in need, yet so much less grateful, even as I was. Still, He covered me, as He covered my unconscious husband, for whom He had already sent a passing EMT, complete with ambulance, who happened to be crossing the remote country road at the exact moment when he went down, reviving him in time to live another day.<br />
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So bring Him your mustard seed. It doesn't take much. If you are starting to forget, then remember to remember, and just ASK. He'll show you, in a million ways large or small. He'll never fail, His word on that.</div>Sylvia Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07072854262445202538noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7930791855767070749.post-75067460170871060732012-02-19T16:35:00.000-08:002012-02-19T16:59:00.345-08:00Getting strait<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Something in my heart was made for luxury. Calgon, take me away.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-4lqFlVPUAflbC0ZSgF6QB9291JjwjgUtNwJ7KWJ2byGBWmKQvOudVJdaw36tPzOiyvU1gFudx7MzMj7ISE2Lu36czcGDM0HCkUxc0O2zZYBeXoVhyphenhyphen0vcuncTd6CwelfqObBzuftPsOjd/s1600/bubble+bath.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-4lqFlVPUAflbC0ZSgF6QB9291JjwjgUtNwJ7KWJ2byGBWmKQvOudVJdaw36tPzOiyvU1gFudx7MzMj7ISE2Lu36czcGDM0HCkUxc0O2zZYBeXoVhyphenhyphen0vcuncTd6CwelfqObBzuftPsOjd/s1600/bubble+bath.jpg" /></a></div>Somehow I think I'm not the only one. Much of advertising is devoted to spectating the good life, all those things we crave but don't have time for, or can't afford. There are entire television channels devoted to nothing but eating, or fashion, or travel, or the lush comfort of a beautiful home.<br />
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Sprinkled in between the costly and unreachable is the accessible and do-it-yourself-able, all possible through a few simple purchases. Just call this number, and for practically nothing you can buy it. Family around the table. The smell of home. Canned peace of mind. A quiet soul.<br />
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Truth be told, I am especially susceptible to promotions of guilty pleasure because I am an inveterate workaholic. My life is out of balance. Feast or famine, sweat or sleep. Little in between.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj9_ZGL-VtJQOFBgTwIk7c371TtSD4Iz1yef-cUxOjjNw4Ltou3fX2dlsBtunBaUAxN9GmYA7Sq9ZDgWnW3S13Ffy2o3gb7ThXCJjFmlPfnniEzr9jclFSgsbZyHQIHIbKlxVafmogX9zK/s1600/night+drive.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj9_ZGL-VtJQOFBgTwIk7c371TtSD4Iz1yef-cUxOjjNw4Ltou3fX2dlsBtunBaUAxN9GmYA7Sq9ZDgWnW3S13Ffy2o3gb7ThXCJjFmlPfnniEzr9jclFSgsbZyHQIHIbKlxVafmogX9zK/s1600/night+drive.jpg" /></a></div>For years my career as an executive ate my life. I commuted to a distant university and back, drove for hours in the dark of night as a young wife, to advance myself to higher degrees. I never took a vacation unless it was somehow tied to business travel, even through the years my children were growing. Dedication to purpose, to be sure, but also a squandering of blessing.<br />
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Even now, as a high school teacher, with the promise of summers off and days that end when the sun is still high, I am bent over my desk when all doors but mine are long since locked, still in the saddle through the dog days of July and August. Every precious minute I have to sell, I sell. Not sure why. Perhaps I'm an addict.<br />
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So to salve the world-weariness brought on by my addiction, I spectate, and I buy guilty pleasures. Like tins of refrigerator biscuits. Ironically, this is so I can save time on pursuits like making biscuits for my daughter, on one of the few mornings we have together. Most days, she is commuting two hours each way to her dream job in the Bay Area. Just like her mama. <br />
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What's wrong with this picture?<br />
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"Strait is the gate and narrow is the way which leads unto Heaven, and few there be that find it." - <i>Matthew 7:14</i><br />
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We'll think about that in a minute, but keep it behind your ear, and let it simmer.<br />
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We're believers, my two children and I. We all live here together. My daughter is a lot like me.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCnUTKfNtCn5YdvacCSXnQiX0iK7WQrt_RxgCRpKIn71ceAE88KJBEzCJaNbnklbl7AuZ2udXKV3pUFwpoMJsfAoP249fx_2cp8p6oNWdUvUSu1Ph3tGdMcEyaWtNkivnsuUY8fs2Vmb2I/s1600/man+in+woods.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCnUTKfNtCn5YdvacCSXnQiX0iK7WQrt_RxgCRpKIn71ceAE88KJBEzCJaNbnklbl7AuZ2udXKV3pUFwpoMJsfAoP249fx_2cp8p6oNWdUvUSu1Ph3tGdMcEyaWtNkivnsuUY8fs2Vmb2I/s1600/man+in+woods.jpg" /></a></div>My son is the black sheep, the prodigal, so we think. He's undone by the excesses and strictures that come with over-commitment to worldly purpose. He's angered - overly so - by the small nagging duties of square living and commerce. He's hard to live with because you can't get too driven around him or he unravels. He prefers to bask in the presence of his loved ones, to work with his hands just enough to earn food for his belly and clothes for his back (which he has few of). To laugh at jokes, to watch cartoons, to play with dogs. To mow the lawn without criticism for which way the mower may have turned when it laid out the rows.<br />
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He's always hated video games. He's always preferred living.<br />
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Darn him.<br />
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That makes it hard for my daughter and I to feed our addictions. Perfectionism, workaholism, nagging. Spectating. My son, her brother, gets upset. We must handle him with kid gloves, so we think.<br />
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In reality, I think she and I have bought into hard-work, perfectionist, works-based religion, to an extent. I think we both believe, perhaps because I have taught her, that the harder the labor the cleaner the soul; the "better" the behavior, the better your shot at Heaven. That somehow trying hard will get us to the Promised Land. <br />
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But look:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxW8aRTQzkNxMAurf9Mw3fYlS2herEUR_KVoUzCS5SZlkyNgqLKorOAEtQ2y5sLWKWrET33hVw3qTPClkofIad98lKsJv-HkdYk2n6ggabbKgiHy-OAfZcIPEePiA3vnMOWaFCDhlNHynJ/s1600/boat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxW8aRTQzkNxMAurf9Mw3fYlS2herEUR_KVoUzCS5SZlkyNgqLKorOAEtQ2y5sLWKWrET33hVw3qTPClkofIad98lKsJv-HkdYk2n6ggabbKgiHy-OAfZcIPEePiA3vnMOWaFCDhlNHynJ/s1600/boat.jpg" /></a></div>"(E)very man that striveth for the mastery is <i>temperate</i> in <i>all</i> things (my italics)." - <i>I Corinthians 9:25</i><br />
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"Cease striving and know that I am God."<i> - Psalms 46:10</i><br />
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"Stand still, and see the salvation of God."<i> - Exodus 14:13</i><br />
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Our lives are out of balance. Perhaps only a little - let's not beat ourselves up here. But out of balance nevertheless.<br />
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Somewhere between perfectionism and sloth is temperance. Somewhere between striving yourself to death and sleeping yourself to death is balance. Somewhere between self-righteousness and willful sin is forgiveness. Somewhere in the middle is a still, alert, and present soul, looking into the face of Jesus.<br />
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This middle place is strait, and narrow. Few be there that find it, prone to addictions and extremism as we are. Finding it requires a stillness and a patience, a humility, born of discipline. To find it, we must get strait. Look it up.<br />
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There is no more stringent discipline, in this culture born of striving, than to cultivate a watchful, humble mind, a mind that watches Jesus. Watches and waits, waits to find His balance.<br />
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I didn't have any tins of refrigerator biscuits today so I made my daughter homemade biscuits for breakfast. We had a slow and dreamy morning, between our bouts of laboring. Warm, crumbly, redolent with shortening, star-shaped things cut out with a really big Christmas cookie cutter because I don't have a biscuit cutter. Never took the trouble to buy one. Too busy working. My son does all the shopping because I'm too busy working.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/znVKZyozq1c?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
"Strait is the gate and narrow is the way which leads unto Heaven, and few there be that find it." - <i>Matthew 7:14</i> <br />
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Somewhere in between, in the narrow place, lies temperance, stillness. Somewhere in between we stop striving and start simply and humbly working, start loving, start watching for direction on where to draw the line. How much is too much. How much is just enough. <br />
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Somewhere in the middle, we wait. We stand still, and see our lives unfold before us. We see the salvation of God.</div>Sylvia Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07072854262445202538noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7930791855767070749.post-70048848314660168682012-02-05T12:57:00.000-08:002012-02-05T13:28:50.672-08:00The substance of things hoped for<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Sometimes I feel like I see the number 1 everywhere. Has that ever happened to you?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUhI12HLCF_w4zq9G4SO8bBecbCsiLAWSZN2mutjiHyl1xLgwXJi7eiIa20kj2p3gpP0vMlXm7Xm0MSPWrSvvONWLpwfZnu8tsMtdrjaoSJOG-kKBsysMuSWZ6TNRX9BjYWCSqPGSKHyeI/s1600/111+roadsign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUhI12HLCF_w4zq9G4SO8bBecbCsiLAWSZN2mutjiHyl1xLgwXJi7eiIa20kj2p3gpP0vMlXm7Xm0MSPWrSvvONWLpwfZnu8tsMtdrjaoSJOG-kKBsysMuSWZ6TNRX9BjYWCSqPGSKHyeI/s1600/111+roadsign.jpg" /></a></div>I have a special friend - a prayer warrior - who loves those number 1's like nobody's business. They are up all over his Facebook page. He posts shots of his i-Phone screen at 1:11 and 11:11. Some days he has a penchant for 3's, but most of the time, it's all about the 1.<br />
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Love him.<br />
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Here's an 11:1 for you: "Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." - <i>Hebrews 11:1.</i> <br />
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We look for God's fingerprints on things. We know He's there because we can feel Him, we can smell His fragrance. We can feel the fine touch of His hand brushing softly across the fuzz on our cheek just as we fall asleep. If I should die before I wake.<br />
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When my daughter moved away at 21, her first apartment was number 11 in building 1A. When she got an upgrade, it was to number 101 across the courtyard. My baby surrounded by 1's. As my friend would say, just sayin'.<br />
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Is it Him brushing against our cheek, or is it just us looking for Him, looking for faith? Maybe both. Only He knows.<br />
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Recently I wrote about a goose who snatched a toddler out of a drowning pool by his pants, only to expose himself to the zone code inspector and sacrifice his neck in the process. For the toddler, that goose was his number 1 that bright blue afternoon. The substance of things hoped for, a gift of life from the Great One. Fear not; I am here. Have faith. <br />
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Today I am going to tell you a similar story, one I referenced in my last column.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-RJLfYEMPcwf3jbEWJn8Vl4TPAUq1vAlczphzjPfJmlCb9SHOjmGbmHygrbCpRuHIiK4deQQJ_bKLWvWDGL5F-D92h355US-JNYCOX__-cH_r1O1V_Be6o-VKJtgHhlJte3K1-3iim8AD/s1600/grapevine+rain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-RJLfYEMPcwf3jbEWJn8Vl4TPAUq1vAlczphzjPfJmlCb9SHOjmGbmHygrbCpRuHIiK4deQQJ_bKLWvWDGL5F-D92h355US-JNYCOX__-cH_r1O1V_Be6o-VKJtgHhlJte3K1-3iim8AD/s1600/grapevine+rain.jpg" /></a></div>It had been a long day, and my husband back then was driving us back from San Diego. It was the day before New Year's Eve in '10, and our marriage was in the dying days. The trip was a mandatory one.<br />
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We had come up over the Grapevine, ink black sky to match the pavement, rain slanting sideways. A man pulled up beside us and waved at us, pointing. Turns out we had been driving without our headlights on. <br />
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My husband softened for a while after that. Just for a while.<br />
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We continued to amble over the rise, down into the flat, up the long stretch flanked by redwoods either side, center lane, idle chat, mostly silence.<br />
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As we came into the heart of the Valley, my husband's love of the back roads and the hinterlands got the better of him. Sharp hook off the 99 into the dark parts unknown, the places where I get lost. The rain had subsided some.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL-6KephaH9mBgh1_Rqu-JWyPXXu2DTGqMOXaYuVQ9GiswfNBOQztyFrFeKXrmqbU1vFtgjkvITn5ogqRpHIkLldEKUSasMpzf-TnCyJBrnamhyiDw5T02gz0P7OxDaW4R6cNgTIyWWJ-r/s1600/vineyard+night.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL-6KephaH9mBgh1_Rqu-JWyPXXu2DTGqMOXaYuVQ9GiswfNBOQztyFrFeKXrmqbU1vFtgjkvITn5ogqRpHIkLldEKUSasMpzf-TnCyJBrnamhyiDw5T02gz0P7OxDaW4R6cNgTIyWWJ-r/s1600/vineyard+night.jpg" /></a></div>But this time <i>he</i> got lost. Narrow potholed roads, tight with barbed wire dairy fences and abandoned clapboard storefronts. Vineyards. No lights, no curbs, no gutters. Plenty of mud to turn around in. Plenty of time to think.<br />
<br />
Once long ago when we were first dating, he had taken me to the Woolgrowers, a Basque mainstay on the west side of the county known for its Portagee diesel and lamb stew (I have lived in Merced County long enough that I get to say Portagee diesel, and people know not to take offense). <br />
<br />
On the way home from dinner, warm with diesel, again a rain-slanting-sideways night, we hit a tumbleweed the size of Texas, then bunny hopped through a puddle that nearly covered the hood of his truck. He chatted me through it, patting my hand like a grandma while he steered with the other. That's how we found that we had been born two days apart in the same year, and had gone to the very same Disneyland grad night in 1971, the night Smokey Robinson had played. That time, our hides dried out to drive another day. Prelude to a traffic accident. I teach this to my English students as foreshadowing, or in this case, flashback.<br />
<br />
<br />
But I digress, as I often do. Still, there's a theme here.<br />
<br />
Back to my story. On the drive back from San Diego, I finally lost count of how many times we had doubled back, the vineyards seemingly new ones, but then we would see a landmark and know we had only driven in a circle. Finally over the rise, we saw it: the freeway overpass in the distance, shimmering and fresh with rain, a shot at the 99, freedom, safety.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPcKXGIXbwI-Dv6WOYz-1zdH-aoB-svU5l0-KUyzIWXnx8kHnaY2tRM89Nry_sNZtP-JT-yibHkCXsAsNITvqHNFj0XDnRzaCAo26GjF_NPOAIPf7uhsJyiWOSDbKsedTsh8hSh3P2FC1y/s1600/dinuba+at+night.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPcKXGIXbwI-Dv6WOYz-1zdH-aoB-svU5l0-KUyzIWXnx8kHnaY2tRM89Nry_sNZtP-JT-yibHkCXsAsNITvqHNFj0XDnRzaCAo26GjF_NPOAIPf7uhsJyiWOSDbKsedTsh8hSh3P2FC1y/s1600/dinuba+at+night.jpg" /></a><br />
I know a road, he said.<br />
<br />
About an hour later, the warm glow of Dinuba showed on the horizon. Breathe. We were on the main street of town.<br />
<br />
Straight, I said. The freeway's ahead. Left, he said. It's quickest, and the freeway is right there.<br />
<br />
Inky road, two way, no traffic, black as hell. Clapboard cottages, blustering winds, ravines either side, black. Thickness of black.<br />
<br />
In the road, the headlights unveiled something, nothing. Half a second, and we were in it. The highest winds of the season had laid it down, a dry leafless silver branched eucalyptus, the dry color of cloud and winter sky, and we were through it.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKawadXasQF7a8wXzcKzdEwEM60cJA0YAXDL8ro2fJ3h9IGUjA1rrmoHiEJ1gXcDbF8eOfhsFdUStLIqYa7laxFoPHnj0ICFkZQONCfICBawtsXzJ0d4PCjxTsu3ud8BpI_sCINWsqpYgs/s1600/back+road.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKawadXasQF7a8wXzcKzdEwEM60cJA0YAXDL8ro2fJ3h9IGUjA1rrmoHiEJ1gXcDbF8eOfhsFdUStLIqYa7laxFoPHnj0ICFkZQONCfICBawtsXzJ0d4PCjxTsu3ud8BpI_sCINWsqpYgs/s1600/back+road.jpg" /></a>Brakes locked, whipping left, right, over, galloping down, snap behind me, branches grazing the back of my neck, shatter of glass, twist, and we were nose down, 180 degrees around, backward and teetering an inch from the ravine. Scratched against the dead black wet silence, cree-ee, cree-ee, we rocked. Elbows locked, hands still on the dashboard. It's ok. I haven't left you. Rocking. Smell of coffee all over the front of me.<br />
<br />
We popped the doors open and somehow were out, the car lurching and scraping as we climbed. The branch had shot through the right rear window and stabbed through, an inch behind my head. Up twenty, maybe thirty feet, was the road.<br />
<br />
And then the glare of headlights were in our eyes as we stood in our depths, and he was there, cut out in silhouette on the horizon of the ditch. His beret I noticed first, then the broadness of his shoulders, and his hand outstretched.<br />
<br />
"Are you ok ma'am, sir? Take my hand." One by one he hauled us up light as air from the ditch so deep we could not see the road. Could his arm really have been that long?<br />
<br />
I don't remember his face. I only remember wondering if I was really dead, and I was being invited into Heaven. I remember his silver grey camo fatigues, not a drop of mud, color of the tree we had just been birthed through. Us staring aimlessly, turning in circles, disoriented. Meanwhile, he laid out flares. "I hit it too," he said. "I was right behind you." I didn't notice his car, not at all, just light. And him. He waved traffic around the tree, waved it to safety.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKt0um5zpoIj40N1qoJtIHynaTzGD54I4W-e4U3bk4wcQnv9pDY2Z8lcdvMeca5heqf1_nwKGU-DuuvNVMhyphenhyphenQ4ot_yT-OkukN8hlAVnyULvT47duqRv-tcprjZHz1kaZT79wG8Q0LZTl6e/s1600/patrol+lights.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKt0um5zpoIj40N1qoJtIHynaTzGD54I4W-e4U3bk4wcQnv9pDY2Z8lcdvMeca5heqf1_nwKGU-DuuvNVMhyphenhyphenQ4ot_yT-OkukN8hlAVnyULvT47duqRv-tcprjZHz1kaZT79wG8Q0LZTl6e/s1600/patrol+lights.jpg" /></a></div>Cherry-on-top and blueberry lights spun in the distance. We turned to look, camo soldier still waving behind us. When we looked back, deep in our minutiae of statements, he was gone.<br />
<br />
"Did you see him?" we asked the officer. "The soldier. He hit it too, helped us out of the ditch."<br />
<br />
No, he hadn't seen a soldier. No car. No waving. No beret. Only the flares, and the cars filing neatly around the tree, safe.<br />
<br />
And all the way back home in the tow truck, I continued to wonder, am I dead? Is this Heaven? Or is it merely the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen?<br />
<br />
I don't know if our soldier was real or not. I don't know if he was an angel. I don't know if he was just on his way to the airport, back to duty, and didn't dare miss his flight. All I know is, his arm was long enough, longer than common sense would allow. And there was not a drop of mud on him. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/mMVvqI1-tM4?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
<br />
If we trust just one iota - one mustard seed - He shows us the evidence that there is something we cannot see, without fail. 1's. Geese. Silver camo soldiers. He brushes our cheek ever so softly with His hand just as we are falling asleep, and thereby feeds us substance. He feeds us faith.<br />
<br />
His arm is long enough, longer than common sense would allow, long as hope.</div>Sylvia Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07072854262445202538noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7930791855767070749.post-62879401262334583562012-01-29T14:18:00.000-08:002012-01-29T14:25:40.178-08:00This year's balance sheet: winning<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">"All things work together for good for those who love God, for those who are called according to His purpose." - <i>Romans 8:28</i><br />
<br />
Definition of <i>word up</i>: "I comprehend what you are saying and verify that what you are saying is true, my good brother." - <i>Urban Dictionary</i><br />
<br />
Romans 8:28. Word up, for my life. Thank God. Glory to God.<br />
<br />
I have recently been going over my lifetime balance sheet again and again, classifying major events as blessings or hardships. Somehow, after everything hits the list, no matter how many things I put on the hardship side, the blessing side keeps winning.<br />
<br />
Oddly, things I put on the hardship list keep popping over to the blessing side somehow. How can this be?<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9hlT7DrY0rF4REzeZnbgSY7cTLg2BMW5OxqGPBbPwvpjWkBi9U4e4gz954oH7jJPOJPGMcGPFKhJ5okjDML5kgvFs-NU84uybu7Pm59RDHpXqh7SyUjBlts6Q1zt6NHV8xmhjKrjumV83/s1600/bald+barbie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9hlT7DrY0rF4REzeZnbgSY7cTLg2BMW5OxqGPBbPwvpjWkBi9U4e4gz954oH7jJPOJPGMcGPFKhJ5okjDML5kgvFs-NU84uybu7Pm59RDHpXqh7SyUjBlts6Q1zt6NHV8xmhjKrjumV83/s1600/bald+barbie.jpg" /></a>Here. Look.<br />
<br />
I'll start with the hardships, just because.<br />
<br />
HARDSHIP LIST<br />
1. Get autoimmune disorder which causes complete hair loss. Hair still gone. (1996)<br />
2. Get new boss. (2008)<br />
3. Reassigned to lower position from dream job I've held for 25 years. (2008)<br />
4. Sent to teach at a school for the highest risk teens in the school district. (2009)<br />
5. One third cut in pay. (2009)<br />
6. Other driver nearly totals my car with me in it. (2010)<br />
7. Husband leaves me. (2011)<br />
8. Lose the home my children grew up in. (2012)<br />
<br />
Hmm. Bad scene.<br />
<br />
Now here come the blessings over the same time period.<br />
<br />
BLESSING LIST<br />
1. Both of my children become believing Christians. Still are. (1996)<br />
2. Profoundly discover my own inner beauty and the accepting love of my fellow humans. (1996)<br />
<br />
Wait a minute - that last one was because of the hair. So that makes the hair a blessing. Check off one hardship.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqmCnPwHrx9oPO4RmIfBhDPv1gOLFqp-cAAaFcdqsNefVlV8Ss9m7RoHjzG6KRRV__1NvV_NWwVZrYSZPhQCEbArgqhUBHVr8mCzrkSTkMwKU-iOZkRIItclqV7gyp88KFp0Hkbo1zkhlH/s1600/hand+of+god.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqmCnPwHrx9oPO4RmIfBhDPv1gOLFqp-cAAaFcdqsNefVlV8Ss9m7RoHjzG6KRRV__1NvV_NWwVZrYSZPhQCEbArgqhUBHVr8mCzrkSTkMwKU-iOZkRIItclqV7gyp88KFp0Hkbo1zkhlH/s1600/hand+of+god.jpg" /></a><br />
3. Get a whole year off with executive pay. (2008-09)<br />
4. Sit down and write a novel which considers how the arc of a life story is impacted by the love of God. (2008-09)<br />
5. Feel the tangible hand of God upon me through the writing process, which renews me from the inside out. (2009)<br />
<br />
Sheesh. Those three were a direct result of the "new boss" and "reassigned from my dream job" hardships. And of course those hardships directly caused the "cut in pay" hardship, but the blessings were worth every penny in lost pay. So check 'em off. All three, check - check - check.<br />
<br />
I think we're almost even. Next blessing:<br />
<br />
6. Sent to teach at a school for the highest risk teens in the school district. (2009)<br />
<br />
Wait a minute - that was on the hardship list! But the students - they're <i>so</i> smart and <i>so</i> passionate, and at the same time so neglected and so sad, that all one can possibly do in their presence is love them. And when you love them, the love they return to you is from a heart of gratitude, deep and rare.<br />
<br />
BIG time blessing. Check it off the hardship list.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjLFUqBhWU8wEZK_TjcBBqqmPRxi_0x1CiVxKONxEkiuzYec9bheFCoAx-mrm4jUPWISxpCfSaSVKKrhzSvOwCwfwUPL9GHzWHfXkV5PaNqtlWnpP17iwMtnaR3wY9sDVrjNpgJ35h4h-C/s1600/car+crash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjLFUqBhWU8wEZK_TjcBBqqmPRxi_0x1CiVxKONxEkiuzYec9bheFCoAx-mrm4jUPWISxpCfSaSVKKrhzSvOwCwfwUPL9GHzWHfXkV5PaNqtlWnpP17iwMtnaR3wY9sDVrjNpgJ35h4h-C/s1600/car+crash.jpg" /></a>7. Had car completely rebuilt and got a new paint job. Improved my relationship with insurance company and super nice people at the body shop. (2010)<br />
<br />
This one's obvious. Check off the car crash hardship. Besides, it's only a car, and we met an angel on the roadside when we should have been dead instead (but that's another column). <br />
<br />
8. Find complete peace alone in the presence of God while enjoying a nearly drama-free life. (2011)<br />
<br />
'Nuff said. You can guess which hardship gets checked off for that.<br />
<br />
9. Find viable opportunity to move out of a property which is financially breaking me, just two years in advance of my retirement. This leaves me free to move wherever I please as soon as I retire without the burden of selling. (2012)<br />
<br />
Besides, the house was only a shell. The love has always been separate from the bare walls, and our collected stuff which makes the house a home comes with us. That, and the love. Besides, the kids are in their twenties anyway. Check it off.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/QVPr1fI7acM?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
<br />
10. Add the blessing of deeply embracing the fact that love is more important than things, even though we have always known this. Now we know it better.<br />
<br />
Winning. <br />
<br />
Hardships, 8. Blessings, 10. And most, if not all, of the hardships were blessings in the first place anyway.<br />
<br />
Who but God can see what is for our good? His view is high and wide, while we lie on our bellies in this world, under His care. All we can know is one thing: He took on the ultimate hardship because He loves us passionately. He has promised to never leave us nor forsake us, and I believe Him when He says that He won't.<br />
<br />
And He has never proved me wrong in that regard.<br />
<br />
Word up, it has all worked together for my good. </div>Sylvia Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07072854262445202538noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7930791855767070749.post-42186114782470537832012-01-22T15:32:00.000-08:002012-01-22T15:39:36.157-08:00Love in the right places<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Sometimes, when we are at our weakest, what we value most is safe haven.<br />
<br />
But just as often, that which appears safe, isn't really all that safe anyway.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu5_sM7lBxhHaiLFBowndh7260za1ImUpQvqD5cmSInchgMsg9pTMG5vLPKzmK7c-Mee_cH3G7-VLeRMcKm7VX-nHqb6YOrCaUIAZ-xoHGaYtivq1r9gh035GjKRB0DtUfbwitySOYByuX/s1600/alley1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu5_sM7lBxhHaiLFBowndh7260za1ImUpQvqD5cmSInchgMsg9pTMG5vLPKzmK7c-Mee_cH3G7-VLeRMcKm7VX-nHqb6YOrCaUIAZ-xoHGaYtivq1r9gh035GjKRB0DtUfbwitySOYByuX/s1600/alley1.jpg" /></a></div>In real life, I'm a teacher to at-risk teens, and in truth I learn way more from them than they have ever learned from me. Many of them have never experienced genuine safety a single day of their lives, except perhaps at school. Yet they believe, because they are children, that those who are in charge of them are at least a little bit good, and that they are safe because of this.<br />
<br />
The world is in fact a very dangerous place, more so for some than for others. Because of this, discernment and a fervent commitment to purpose are key. The last thing we need is an overweening thirst for safety. <br />
<br />
Now, I am not talking about the safety that we seek from common sense, because we want to live to serve another day. I am talking about bad safety, the safety that puts you to sleep, that makes you lazy, the safety that makes you too comfy to see the wolf crouching behind the door. The safety you seek because you are afraid to live.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB1qBFD158FhapiFItCP8iqvSDsIR_TdOZE1gjNcqqNH6a2rfRqk_RdMNvq9uZN-lQQtZyAcW7p2hPAEn2-SOzKl9U3MwooVBuWf5Avd-jm1oBlaVgVTUlTJyIW8fUXoyUJYnbm4WKVyKY/s1600/at+risk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB1qBFD158FhapiFItCP8iqvSDsIR_TdOZE1gjNcqqNH6a2rfRqk_RdMNvq9uZN-lQQtZyAcW7p2hPAEn2-SOzKl9U3MwooVBuWf5Avd-jm1oBlaVgVTUlTJyIW8fUXoyUJYnbm4WKVyKY/s1600/at+risk.jpg" /></a>This is the kind of safety we are tempted to seek when our lives have been thrown into chaos, such as by cancer, or a shocking childhood, or an exceedingly bad marriage. <br />
<br />
If we're more fortunate, it's the safety we snuggle into when life is better than we have a right to expect, and we have become lazy out of habit. Shame on us for that.<br />
<br />
Now, for many of my students, danger unfolds right under their noses as a matter of course. I am talking about real danger, the kind that can cost you your life in the middle of the night when the rest of us are sleeping. And yet, wherever they see strength, my students, especially when that strength professes love, they seek shelter there with a childlike faith. Sometimes they can't tell the good safety from the bad any more; other times they simply have no choice but to sit in it, because they are children. And they get burned, and they never knew what hit them. They see the wound, and they don't know how they got it.<br />
<br />
What's our excuse?<br />
<br />
In my real life, it has become about praying for their souls and minds all the while I am high-school-English-teacher-ing the dickens out of them. This is partly because my judgment in my own life has not always been a whole lot better than theirs, and I know where things could head for them. <br />
<br />
Safe haven is not where it's at. It's about asking a few hard questions: What needs doing in this world? What needs building? What outrageous thing needs correcting? What are we driven to do about it?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIb4cFzgI2Sng0JEXQnjiN0F1AsfhpHH83a2K8a83jR8aNk4P1nsGvMntA0SYB_uPWgG7KNjvyT6HXBdyVsXgz_3EGcxlcIOyiLDQcYFgJigbeEfasSOoVLgWT1hy4d-QKkPAnp56u2uIZ/s1600/torch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIb4cFzgI2Sng0JEXQnjiN0F1AsfhpHH83a2K8a83jR8aNk4P1nsGvMntA0SYB_uPWgG7KNjvyT6HXBdyVsXgz_3EGcxlcIOyiLDQcYFgJigbeEfasSOoVLgWT1hy4d-QKkPAnp56u2uIZ/s1600/torch.jpg" /></a></div>It's about fearlessly grasping the ember God planted in your soul and fanning it till it catches fire. It's about machete-ing out the unseen trail in front of you and then walking it brazenly, torch held high.<br />
<br />
Not all of us, but some of us, look for love in all the wrong places, desperately seeking safety at any cost; or just as wasteful, we find a good safe thing and hitch our wagon to it, and park.<br />
<br />
That's not what we were made to do. We were made to burn. We were made to shine. We were made to be a conduit for the love of Someone bigger than ourselves, to leave the world better than we found it. We were not made to hide, not in an alley, not in a gang, not in a dysfunctional relationship, not in a drug. Not even, for the lucky ones, in the bosom of our safe little home, even if it really is pretty safe by comparison.<br />
<br />
If we were blessed to find human love in this world, we were meant to use it as fuel, not as a drug. We are the creation of Another, not our own, and it's time to start living that way. <br />
<br />
I feel like sharing a chapter from my novel <i>Corners </i>today, one in which the misbegotten Shelley is again looking for love in decidedly unsafe places, all because she is desperate to feel safe. In this chapter, you can see the stupid coming; you can see the wreck before it ever happens. These are the lessons we learn, when we choose to learn them the hard way. Such is life. Mistakes, we make. But then we get up, and we forgive, including ourselves, and do it for the right reasons the next time. <br />
<br />
Because at the end of the day, if we don't do the good work we were put here to do, all because we were busy groveling our way to safety, then we haven't done what we came to do. And that, good friend, would be a terrible waste.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">* * *</div><br />
The store was empty except for me and Bruno one December Saturday night, with lights already turned out everywhere but the kitchen, the loft, and the night lights in the front window. It was starting to get cold, and you could almost see your breath in front of your face even inside the store now that the heat was off for the day. I was hurrying to finish up for closing, lost in thought over my work, picking out recipes for the next day so I could grab the freshest ingredients early before the customers came in. Bruno and I had been bantering back and forth all day, him “meep meep” -ing around the deli like my shadow; and me noticing his antics more than he realized, tracking his every movement with my eyes, smiling my Mona Lisa smile whenever he noticed me noticing him.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Merry Christmas, Tranquilla,” he whispered, suddenly out of nowhere, his lips barely touching the back of my hair. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I gasped and wheeled around, the shock of his unexpected presence, the unfamiliar heat of his breath near my ear, and his granite body behind me causing the fine hairs on the side of my face to stand up.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He laughed as my chestnut mop whipped into his face, catching him in the mouth. I had been leaning over a little file box in front of the pass through, studying a recipe card, when he had sneaked up and abruptly planted his hands on the counter around me, sheltering me in the space he created. He let go of the counter as I turned, and backed up, grinning at me.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You smell nice, bella,” he said. “What is that?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Irish Spring and Tide,” I flirted. “If it smells like more than that, it must be my natural sweetness.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSC8-Fvg8lQmnN6A9Qf5VTexRAsKdQDWQy18fjI4gyB-udPTZfLhXfGXMIbK31lS5wtlhfwdQXMX-G047XWY6xt07hXwpqo0LhCOicic5DfffQ7XniR6CQNHb7ugPvqeSC6WKKmnBRR3gE/s1600/couple+silhouette.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSC8-Fvg8lQmnN6A9Qf5VTexRAsKdQDWQy18fjI4gyB-udPTZfLhXfGXMIbK31lS5wtlhfwdQXMX-G047XWY6xt07hXwpqo0LhCOicic5DfffQ7XniR6CQNHb7ugPvqeSC6WKKmnBRR3gE/s1600/couple+silhouette.jpg" /></a>“Awwh, you beat me to it,” he joked, pressing his clenched fist into his heart like I’d shot him there. “So tell me, Tranquilla, do you still have to stop and think about Graham whenever you see me?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>We stood there staring at each other for a moment, the air between us thick with surprise and the electricity of emerging connection. I looked him over thoroughly as he calmly observed me, waiting for me, while I took in his skin, the thick, loose black hair that he was constantly smoothing out of his eyes, those eyes, like ice but somehow warm, eyes that penetrated deep to the center of me and melted there, leaving something of his behind that didn’t go away. And the well muscled frame that I didn’t dare look at, not yet.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“No,” I said simply. “No, I don’t.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Well, good for me,” he said huskily, a slow smile still playing around his lips as he held my gaze. He cleared his throat. “So here I go. Can I take you out for a drink tonight, bella? You know I missed your birthday, and I have something to give you I’ve been keeping. I’ve been waiting, you know, until you didn’t, you know, have anything on your mind any more. You know what I mean.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/bmDakhg45rk?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
I knew exactly what he meant. My 21<sup>st</sup> birthday had been in October, and even though he and I never talked about Graham, he knew that my heart still ached from something back then, from whatever that thing was that had been hovering over me when he and I shared the bottle of Chianti months ago, the thing I couldn’t tell him about. And he had waited for my eyes to clear and my heart to lighten all this time. He had known just the right moment, to the day and hour, when it was time, not a moment too soon, or too late.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I took in a breath. “OK. Right now?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“No, next week. Yes, hippie girl, right now. Can I help you clean up?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“No, you goof, we’re already clean. I’ll think about recipes later. I want a Kahlua and cream. Two.” I fake-punched him in the jaw, and he craned over backwards like I’d really jabbed him.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oww, Tranquilla, you knock me out. You can have as many as you want. I got you.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">We walked the grocery aisles together, looking for items out of place or fallen; then he locked down all of the outside doors and turned out the lights in the kitchen and the loft. He came back out to grocery, where I was still waiting between the canned fruits and vegetables and the bread aisle, up by the cash register. He stopped about eight feet back and stood, hands in his pockets looking at me. His left eye twitched a little, and a smile broke across his face. He approached me slowly, reaching up and weaving his hand into my hair as soon as the length of his arm would allow. His fingers came gently around the back of my head, pulling me toward him, bringing my face to within inches of his, his eyes boring into mine.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I’ll arm the store and meet you at the truck,” he whispered.<br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMVuY8RaRju54nVv4NSPDYeafvAmi9vpBFpQCtxQRy0V7wWMIWvVe6DekEvTrZCK9n9ojo0SvE4oCXYc2Q-L3XTALUbhx-wj6lPIHEQXeuxRWoLAPitC7NHs63c-axfdcjbaoZQASnlHY0/s1600/cable+tracks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMVuY8RaRju54nVv4NSPDYeafvAmi9vpBFpQCtxQRy0V7wWMIWvVe6DekEvTrZCK9n9ojo0SvE4oCXYc2Q-L3XTALUbhx-wj6lPIHEQXeuxRWoLAPitC7NHs63c-axfdcjbaoZQASnlHY0/s1600/cable+tracks.jpg" /></a></div> Once we were bouncing along in the little red market pickup, the newness melted away again, giving us the respite of our old easy friendship and gossipy chatter to fall back on. The conversation came in a flood, almost like a reaction to the intense silences of moments ago: what were Ray and Nannette doing for Christmas; was he giving bonuses, or a party at his big house in San Bruno. We all loved parties at Ray’s house because he had a home version of Pong, a computer ping pong game that was built into a game table where the top should be. We would sit around that thing for hours until our brains shut down. He was going to add Pac Man to it for his two little ones for Christmas, and we were trying to talk him into putting one up in the loft. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As we got closer to the wharf and could see Alioto’s Restaurant in the distance, Bruno told me word was that two Italians were going to run for mayor, and we debated who our favorite of the two likely contenders would be, Moscone or Barbagelata. We were kind of leaning toward Moscone, a man of the people who didn’t hide out in his St. Francis Wood home, but spent time in the stores and cafes of the city’s neighborhoods, keeping tabs on people. Plus he had been majority leader of the State Senate, while Barbagelata had just been a Supervisor, and Willie Brown liked him. And I liked Willie. He used to give parties for us poster factory kids, since we worked for his friend Jeff, another man of the people.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Solidly back in our comfort zone together, we pulled into the narrow alley beside The Tide, a little bar right down on the wharf where it turned out Bruno was connected. That meant when he walked through the door, the owner came out and said, “Eeyyy, Bruno, goombah, come stai?” and patted Bruno on both shoulders with his hands. It also seemed to mean that Bruno could park wherever he wanted, avoiding the need to circle the block countless times to wait for a space to open on the street, or to pay the freight for a garage space and walk.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Eeyyy, Pietro, non c’è male,” he replied, gathering up the broad-chested barman in a bear hug and patting him on the back.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“So who’s da dish, my friend?” our host asked, wiping his hands on his apron as Dean Martin sang “C’e la luna, mezz’o mare” from the little nickel jukebox in the booth next to where we stood.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“This, my friend, is Tranquilla, of whom I have spoken many times. Or Shelley, to you. Shelley Hobson. Shelley, this is Pietro. You can call him Petey if you want, or whatever.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNkiXHFym1DHybhinkZTip9Nd4turKfjDKwVXpf6CmDRAL_My69v1Y8F5SNhhmBd0OY0_slYA6_sd5MgKRMORjY1QOeFzYkAgmP4pHSaOlGz22l4x9nNY9XPBox-cvRlNn1vyGAzxWCawe/s1600/North+Beach+iii.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNkiXHFym1DHybhinkZTip9Nd4turKfjDKwVXpf6CmDRAL_My69v1Y8F5SNhhmBd0OY0_slYA6_sd5MgKRMORjY1QOeFzYkAgmP4pHSaOlGz22l4x9nNY9XPBox-cvRlNn1vyGAzxWCawe/s1600/North+Beach+iii.jpg" /></a>I extended my hand to shake, and Pietro took it in his and turned it, backside up, raising it halfway to his lips and bending down as if to kiss it, but just bowing low over it instead.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“My honor, Miss Shelley.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You’re a gentleman, Pietro. So nice to meet you,” I said lowering my eyes shyly.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“It’s good you didn’t kiss, goombah, cause you should not be gettin’ spit on the lady,” Bruno cracked, and they both chattered off something in Italian, laughing and punching each other in the chest, faking heart attacks in turn.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“OK, Tranquilla, let’s sit. Petey, can we sit here?” Bruno asked, nodding his head to where Dean – no, Dino – was crooning.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Be my guest. My house is yours,” Pietro replied, sweeping his arm across the front of himself like a doorman.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You are too kind. No, exactly kind enough – meep meep!” said Bruno, taking my hand and ushering me into the booth. “One large White Russian for the lady, and a Michelob for me.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You 21, paisan? Just kidding,” joked Pietro, laughing in strange little barks.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Shaddup, stunad. Bring a frosted glass, OK?” Bruno smiled and shook his head. “We love each other like brothers,” he said to me as Pietro went for the drinks. “We went to high school together and he graduated a coupla years before me so he likes to bust my balls. Excuse me, give me a hard time. You look beautiful, by the way, deli girl. But that little aroma of mortadella behind your ear I like the best.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I wadded up a napkin and threw it at him, just as Pietro brought the drinks.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Kids, kids, let’s keep it quiet in the house now or I’ll have to call the authorities.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Funny guy. This is a funny guy,” remarked Bruno winking, cocking his thumb toward Pietro. “You make me laugh, Petey. Now make like a tree.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You are a tree,” said Pietro, snapping Bruno on the shoulder with a kitchen towel and scuttling back over behind the bar, with that same rolling shuffle Bruno meep-meeped around the market with.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You guys almost look like brothers,” I observed, looking around the place and taking in the waterfront paisano ambience. The tables were thick with lacquer over brightly colored Italian ads for Campari, Galliano, Coca-Cola, San Pellegrino, and Bolla Valpolicella and Soave. The entire back wall was tight with bottles stuffed into shelves, with liquers, syrups of every flavor and color, and sparkling waters packed in alongside the Johnny Walker Red and Black and the Wild Turkey. There were mirrors all the way around, making the tiny space look three times its size, and the booths along both walls were upholstered in alternating tufted stripes of shiny, thick red and green vinyl. The little juke boxes on each table top had a mix of current hits and Italian standards, including C’e la Luna, Volare, and Oh Marie, Bruno’s favorites. I knew this because he liked to sing little bits from them when he was meep-meeping around. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQOSGDtDgZvXipivnQJiPvOMFwEE51OkQJKu0xDhidh8jR5LYGEprJpIfEFVhfZ8m3VTYOqvlOLprGHzUW_2L3B7BvxhFyNZxl7gS0HjtbtNlIXrKqgCWb1SWxRow5cu0kzZipGFPwfZJv/s1600/dungeness.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQOSGDtDgZvXipivnQJiPvOMFwEE51OkQJKu0xDhidh8jR5LYGEprJpIfEFVhfZ8m3VTYOqvlOLprGHzUW_2L3B7BvxhFyNZxl7gS0HjtbtNlIXrKqgCWb1SWxRow5cu0kzZipGFPwfZJv/s1600/dungeness.jpg" /></a></div>But the best part was the sidewalk outside, now dark and covered over with canvas for the night, where the crab pots boiled during the day on either side of the glass cases, filled with whole cracked Dungeness, shrimp, calamari, oysters, clams, and whatever came back fresh from the traps and nets that morning. Wooden barrels full of French loaves, Colombo and Boudin and Francisco, stood out front, inviting you to grab something in white paper with a plastic cup of wine along with your loaf, and dine by the water. I had only ever walked this sidewalk as an outsider, but being here with Bruno made me feel like I had more cousins on a new side of town now, where I never had before.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Pietro walked up with a tray. “Here’s your drinks. Enjoy, brother. You call if you need me, Shelley, OK? Don’t you let this one give you a hard time.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I can take care of myself. Besides, he’s a good boy for me,” I replied.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“We’ll see,” said Pietro, winking and walking away, Bruno whacking him on the forearm as he turned.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“A character,” said Bruno. “Is that good, bella?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Wow! It’s strong. Is that what Kahlua and cream is, a White Russian?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Pretty much,” Bruno answered, taking a swig of his beer, eyeing me. “Do you like it?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“It gets better with every sip. Better order another one because this one’s going down.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You got it, Tranquilla,” and he raised his arm over his head without turning around. In seconds I had another one with a fresh tiny red straw and a little square napkin sitting in front of me. I almost didn’t notice Pietro come up.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“So, Tranquilla, I have a little belated birthday gift for you.” Bruno took a small square box out of his jacket pocket and slid it across the table. I felt a little intimidated at the sight of it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I opened gingerly, and inside tacked to a little loop was one half of a heart with a broken edge, very thin delicate gold, and engraved with what looked like Hebrew letters on the back.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“It’s a mizpah,” he said. “When I can’t be around to watch over you, you know I have the other half, and I’m thinking of you. You’ll know I’m always there, always your friend. See? I’ll keep the other half with me.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his wallet, opening up the picture section and showing me where the other half was inside one of the sleeves. “Now you have to give me a picture of you so I can put it in here with my heart. OK?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was touched, and uncomfortable, but not so much that I wanted to push it back across the table. “It’s beautiful, Bruno, thank you. I’m going to put it on my chain right now, next to Bob‘s locket. You know Bob . . .”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Sure, Tranquilla, I know all about Bob. Great guy. I would be proud to share a chain with Bob.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I took off my chain and added the mizpah, then put it back on and held it up to show Bruno. “I love it. It makes me feel very safe. Thank you.” I was about two-thirds of the way through my second drink by now.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You want one more of those, Tranquilla?” Bruno asked, holding up his hand. Like magic, another one in front of me. I definitely did not see it arrive this time, and before I knew it, I had finished it. Bruno, I thought, might still be nursing his first beer. Or it might be my imagination.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Another?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Hell, no. I think you’re growing another head. No, it’s a whole twin. I might be ready to go home,” I said, holding my hand up to my cheek, wondering why it felt clammy on the outside when it felt so hot on the inside.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You bet, Tranquilla. Here, let me help you to the truck,” and he came around beside me and lifted up on my elbow, starting to lead me outside.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Don’t you have to pay?” I asked wanly.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“No, bella, I have an agreement. You’re always welcome here now too, and come for lunch if you’re ever down here without me. Petey’s treat.” Bruno and Pietro nodded at each other, both of them looking very far away to me, and small.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was both impressed and impaired. I tripped a little going over the doorstep.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Bruno poured me into the truck and maneuvered it backward out of the alley, then through the narrow, criss-crossing streets around the wharf, and down Beach over to Hyde, making the long pull straight up the cable car tracks, manual transmission and all, without a single slip or grind, the muscles of his forearm rippling under his taut skin. It seemed like only a minute to me before he pulled into the alley beside Lighthouse and turned off the engine, probably because, admittedly, I was out of it. Suddenly it got very quiet in the cab of the pickup, and stuffy.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwhJCPrwmDR1keWvMFPKc_IQcuOA_SEG2YSxQaLz3flcBT3yzVx-5KUchLnpgv4amY4Ux2Lpqdh3Q6I139ANoI5Vb38gdk9LsYX-lk0z5SZKBZo3sNBdIavrwzCDQmA7k5tgzI58ReWlQA/s1600/alley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwhJCPrwmDR1keWvMFPKc_IQcuOA_SEG2YSxQaLz3flcBT3yzVx-5KUchLnpgv4amY4Ux2Lpqdh3Q6I139ANoI5Vb38gdk9LsYX-lk0z5SZKBZo3sNBdIavrwzCDQmA7k5tgzI58ReWlQA/s1600/alley.jpg" /></a>“Why don’t you come inside with me a while, bella,” he said soothingly. “We can sit in the loft and talk before you go home to Graham.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was thinking coffee actually sounded pretty good and had opened the door of the truck, stepping out into the alley ready to go inside for a hot cup. But as soon as my feet hit the pavement, I was hunched over, all my snacks from the dinner hour at the deli and the White Russians in a puddle between my feet.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Aayyy, madone!” Bruno cried out. “Poor Tranquila. What have I done to you?” He scrambled over the stick shift to the other side of the cab, reaching over to pet my hair. “And to me,” he said to himself more quietly. “It must have been the vodka.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Vodka?!!? What vodka? All I had was Kahlua and cream!” I moaned, retching up nothingness.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Well, really Tranquilla, you had a few White Russians. White Russians have just a drop of vodka in there. Just a drop.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“A drop of vodka?!!? I can’t drink vodka! Ever since I binged on screwdrivers in high school I can’t drink vodka. It makes me sick.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I know,” he mourned. “I’m sorry.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Well, me too. But next time don’t do me any favors with drinks, OK? I’d give you a kiss, but I just had vodka. Again.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Bruno moaned softly, tilting his head back. “Ay, bella. Can I walk you home?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What, no ride? Just kidding. Yes, you can. I would appreciate it. Oh, my head,” I groaned.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Wait, take these.” Bruno pulled out a bottle of Coke from behind the seat and a bottle opener, handed me three aspirin from a bottle in the glove box, and popped open the Coke.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You take these now, and you won’t feel a thing in the morning, I promise.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I obeyed, and walked around behind the truck, meeting him in the middle of the alley.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I had fun anyway,” I said. “And thanks for the drinks.” I poked him a good one in the chest with my free hand and took a swig of Coke with the other.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He took his jacket off and draped it around my shoulders, taking my hand in his and walking me silently all the way to my doorstep, waiting until the door closed behind me. And I only had to stop and bend over the gutter twice on the way there. </div></div>Sylvia Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07072854262445202538noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7930791855767070749.post-27226276564034515672012-01-15T14:32:00.000-08:002012-01-15T17:45:59.671-08:00Shed a little light, oh Lord<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjinXhcPaVuD8KVseijluTVmjk7ehp0iQ4Z2NPksPriTtNPVirYWkP2sGOOamIbj5cmwRvlxe0HIrgY1JlZHjNvLvRDwlL-sElPIORl975R6rRMPC2ODWUlyU0juW1TpdCN45Fdslk5c7D/s1600/MLK+speaking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjinXhcPaVuD8KVseijluTVmjk7ehp0iQ4Z2NPksPriTtNPVirYWkP2sGOOamIbj5cmwRvlxe0HIrgY1JlZHjNvLvRDwlL-sElPIORl975R6rRMPC2ODWUlyU0juW1TpdCN45Fdslk5c7D/s1600/MLK+speaking.jpg" /></a></div>They told him not to go.<br />
<br />
The police escort left him as he entered the black Indianapolis neighborhood where his next campaign stop was to be. April 4, 1968. Senator Kennedy knew that Martin Luther King, Jr., had just been felled by an assassin's bullet in Memphis. The crowd did not. Bobby would be the one to tell them.<br />
<br />
They were on their own, he and his staff. It fell to him to underscore in his own words what the fallen Reverend had said: darkness does not drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate does not drive out hate; only love can do that. That's what King had said. That's what he had lived. That's what they must now do, that and grieve, as Kennedy still did for the loss of his own brother: grieve, and wait for grace.<br />
<br />
"My favorite poem, my — my favorite poet was Aeschylus, and he once wrote:<br />
<div><br />
<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy2jpk73PlrdqcR-FIxVvnHYXpIA-MsKX7nDdfX09o4t2y99ZEm6EZwwvsss7Jh1ZSxfgjMvXaK_ETU_v4uesCqJsxEYkqFRzGSGPllpC1nQVlaQLCiQt6ZOCezCRgVju2mLUXZjA0p1IZ/s1600/RFK+Indiana+speech.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy2jpk73PlrdqcR-FIxVvnHYXpIA-MsKX7nDdfX09o4t2y99ZEm6EZwwvsss7Jh1ZSxfgjMvXaK_ETU_v4uesCqJsxEYkqFRzGSGPllpC1nQVlaQLCiQt6ZOCezCRgVju2mLUXZjA0p1IZ/s1600/RFK+Indiana+speech.jpg" /></a><br />
Even in our sleep, pain which cannot forget<br />
falls drop by drop upon the heart,<br />
until, in our own despair,<br />
against our will,<br />
comes wisdom<br />
through the awful grace of God.<br />
<br />
"What we need in the United States is not division; what we need in the United States is not hatred; what we need in the United States is not violence and lawlessness, but is love, and wisdom, and compassion toward one another, and a feeling of justice toward those who still suffer within our country, whether they be white or whether they be black." <i>- RFK</i></div><div><br />
</div><div>He gripped his speech in his hand, but he didn't look at it. He looked them straight in the eye.<br />
<div><br />
In the wake of Reverend King's assassination, many communities burned. But not the Indianapolis neighborhood where Kennedy had spoken, where he had watered the seeds of peace that King himself had sown over the months and years previous.<br />
<br />
King was not a perfect man, but he had lived a life soaked in light, bathing in it and shedding it. One day while in Atlanta, I walked the whole distance from Peachtree St., around the curve, under the freeway to Auburn Avenue NE, to where King had been born and lived. It was a hot day, a Sunday, and the further I walked, the deeper the legacy soaked into my bones.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO7CdpFQIvl5spUooXZ2px8FjEgI0Qdujryz5fXzFFwE-wDo2Dh9Qp7P2wTYzCN4hZM22ESuHQNWTkGd8Z7NOrLfIbuGdU_2lOq_h7ow72K1fwV8X565BDSvQ3DeOPdH5z5h62l44h0fhe/s1600/thelmas+rib+shack.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO7CdpFQIvl5spUooXZ2px8FjEgI0Qdujryz5fXzFFwE-wDo2Dh9Qp7P2wTYzCN4hZM22ESuHQNWTkGd8Z7NOrLfIbuGdU_2lOq_h7ow72K1fwV8X565BDSvQ3DeOPdH5z5h62l44h0fhe/s1600/thelmas+rib+shack.jpg" /></a></div>The sidewalk is old near the freeway, a channel down the middle where many feet have trod. The businesses appear untouched as you round the corner, restaurants with the menus still painted outside, shoe repair, handyman, tobacco, records and books, as I remember.<br />
<br />
The old Ebenezer Baptist Church, the one where King's father preached, is on the right as you come close to his birth home. That was my church that Sunday, the one I chose over the large modern Ebenezer across the street, where the great ladies in their glory, picture hats for crowns, worshipped. <br />
<br />
From a hard narrow wooden pew, one of three people, I counted pictures of long passed elders adorning the walls. Steep floor, Victorian carpet, velvet drapery, gilt altar. Smell of must. Taped voice of the young King. "I have a dream . . ." Shed a little light, oh Lord.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrCxwfu7NlUNJ2p5Mcvnnq0Emoa0Ly0I8lMw-9UC7F4POfFXoWPsCFbtMndr2VH2n_57u5HkcfNW-KZK8Cj7qBx0n9vSGWnVroZn1c1a1IWXZprvbc0phEanjP9v-Qu9zeyuD_IyX4WOUo/s1600/King_Last_Sermon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrCxwfu7NlUNJ2p5Mcvnnq0Emoa0Ly0I8lMw-9UC7F4POfFXoWPsCFbtMndr2VH2n_57u5HkcfNW-KZK8Cj7qBx0n9vSGWnVroZn1c1a1IWXZprvbc0phEanjP9v-Qu9zeyuD_IyX4WOUo/s320/King_Last_Sermon.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">King in Memphis, the day before his death</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Outside, next door, the eternal flame still burns today, a wreath adorns the monument, murals tell the story. A little further, in a wood frame row home, creaking steps, tiny patch of grass perhaps for a dog, clothesline still hanging, he was born. Born into light, born to shine unto death.<br />
He knew he would die for it, but he gave anyway.<br />
<br />
The day before he was killed, he preached in Memphis, before a packed congregation, and said:<br />
<br />
"Well, I don't know what will happen now. We've got some difficult days ahead. But it doesn't matter with me now. Because I’ve been to the mountaintop. And I don't mind. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. And He’s allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people will get to the promised land. And I'm happy, tonight. I'm not worried about a thing. I'm not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord." -<i> MLK, Jr.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/HTh8YYzlN5s?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
King's light glowed over that Indianapolis neighborhood on the day of his death, as if from a city on a hill, just as it had shone over Montgomery, and Greensboro, even as it shone in the darkness of Birmingham and in Mississippi. Just as it danced on the Reflecting Pool in the capitol city of this great nation.<br />
<br />
It falls to us now to tend the flame, to keep the bushel basket at bay. He dreamed, and he acted, even in the face of death. He knew what freedom looked like, and he lived it. Now we must live it, and remember those who trod there first. <br />
<br />
So onward, to the promised land, and take a moment to remember on this beautiful warm Sunday those who went before you.</div></div></div></div>Sylvia Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07072854262445202538noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7930791855767070749.post-89538942555418755902012-01-08T14:55:00.000-08:002012-01-08T14:55:42.694-08:00If you build it, they will come<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">This is the story of Leonard Knight.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDJ1tOdsMvmYJZYiwhyDiZMvf4T_hMRmZ7g5-XsxEJm22BVImBXGBPVNUsHRtFv0jDAj0DrgPD5zlnPjZZ7EpXuuAleU0IkUaq-7in5p8ltnpkZxmWDCBmBP2skk5nLEWdB1p1iuWo6i3a/s1600/leonard+knight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDJ1tOdsMvmYJZYiwhyDiZMvf4T_hMRmZ7g5-XsxEJm22BVImBXGBPVNUsHRtFv0jDAj0DrgPD5zlnPjZZ7EpXuuAleU0IkUaq-7in5p8ltnpkZxmWDCBmBP2skk5nLEWdB1p1iuWo6i3a/s1600/leonard+knight.jpg" /></a>Leonard Knight's life had taken many directions. As of 1966, at 34, he wasn't entirely sure exactly where he had arrived. <br />
<br />
Then one day, to get some space from his sister Irene's relentless prayer and talk of the Lord, he retreated to his car. In there, he found himself repeating The Sinner's Prayer, over and over and over. He was pulled into it inexorably, seemingly by a force outside himself. "Jesus, I'm a sinner. Please come onto my body and into my heart."<br />
<br />
And then it came: the revelation. Leonard Knight had been transformed by the renewing of his mind. He asked, and it was given unto him.<br />
<br />
After briefly seeking a place unsuccessfully inside the mainstream Christian community, Leonard retreated to the desert - for many more than forty days and forty nights. He tried to sew a hot air balloon stitched with The Sinner's Prayer, but it wouldn't fly. He tried to build a mountain, with his bare hands and found objects, proclaiming the love of God, but the County Board of Supervisors stopped the project. They said it violated the separation of church and state because it rested at the entrance of an abandoned military base which was now a public park. They went after it with claims that the soil was contaminated with toxic waste from years of government dumping. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6GbubGR3fO_KiI1eBaCZjGnDvzzxa_HkTQ_NBQSvaZ7vy72OPsxHRLr7Ch6GEm3PBTUtv5YU99XNnLpiiRG3f-CWDd1dPrHHpTh4Ivfubb_hxJjox7HMI4oD-T4KUQdP86zKiRKcnAfBe/s1600/salvation+mountain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6GbubGR3fO_KiI1eBaCZjGnDvzzxa_HkTQ_NBQSvaZ7vy72OPsxHRLr7Ch6GEm3PBTUtv5YU99XNnLpiiRG3f-CWDd1dPrHHpTh4Ivfubb_hxJjox7HMI4oD-T4KUQdP86zKiRKcnAfBe/s1600/salvation+mountain.jpg" /></a></div>But Leonard persisted. He had been transformed through the renewing of his mind. He saw nothing but the One Thing.<br />
<br />
Leonard's vision by now was visible to others. People came from all around to see Leonard's growing masterwork, a veritable mountain of salvation. Petitions were mounted. Increasingly important folk advocated on public television. And Leonard's vision bore fruit: he had gone into the world and shared the good news to creation. Today, the result is more than a field of dreams. He built it, and still today they come.<br />
<br />
Salvation Mountain is Leonard's song, the song God gave him to sing. <br />
<br />
Was Henry David Thoreau right, that most men live lives of quiet desperation, and go to the grave with the song still in them?<br />
<br />
Maybe the more important question is, who among us is "most men"?<br />
<br />
No two of us are really the same, are we? NO ONE is most men, not really.<br />
<br />
Sure, we can try to generalize. But check the fingerprints. That means you get to be whoever God and you decide you will be. You can be quiet and desperate, or not. You choose. God lets you. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHpN1B7pROj-ZpOTDAJae-FeP3Z3wn-G3ArV5OUP2aTNVxzgaPLF6IiS0Odi_f4xBClsKXgE3Qsz7Pd3wZa4FcquzliuzUKTSY_vlPJM3ZWOxKxupHPhnXAR81lMG6KyIrNXv8DFBhBJXn/s1600/salvation+mountain+inside.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHpN1B7pROj-ZpOTDAJae-FeP3Z3wn-G3ArV5OUP2aTNVxzgaPLF6IiS0Odi_f4xBClsKXgE3Qsz7Pd3wZa4FcquzliuzUKTSY_vlPJM3ZWOxKxupHPhnXAR81lMG6KyIrNXv8DFBhBJXn/s1600/salvation+mountain+inside.jpg" /></a>You can choose to choose Him, and He will unleash the song He wrote for you: raw, unvarnished, or impeccably refined, but in all cases viscerally you and incomprehensible to you at the same time. He will mine it from within you and it will bubble up like warm water from underground. He promised. Just ask.<br />
<br />
You can also choose not to sing at all, or to make up your own song. Good luck with that.<br />
<br />
Since this is my square, I get to say what seems to me. And it seems to me that most people go it alone, without His effervescence of holy inspiration, and are often cranky or sad. Or fussy. Or whatever you want to call it. <br />
<br />
Even when we don't choose to go it alone, we spend most of our time trying to grab the wheel from Him and aiming it for the ditch. Good part is, if we have let Him in the car, He will guide it gently to the ditch for us, saving our hides, even if we are in the middle of a full blown tantrum. After which we complain mightily that He didn't deliver the car undented. And He keeps loving us anyway, because God is love. The Bible and Leonard say so, and they are right.<br />
<br />
Dents are part of the ride, I'm afraid. That's how we learn to relinquish the wheel. Leonard knows this too.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/6u0P9kwfF4s?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
I hope you will visit Leonard at <a href="http://www.salvationmountain.us/bio.html">http://www.salvationmountain.us/bio.html</a>. You can see pictures of his mountain there, and find his physical address. He likes it when you visit, but if you write him, his friend Bob will answer, because Leonard will be busy building.<br />
<br />
That's because building is the song God gave Leonard to sing, and he sings it very well.<br />
<br />
Are you singing your song today? Is it bubbling up from your soul like magma from deep places? Share, please, and be blessed.</div>Sylvia Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07072854262445202538noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7930791855767070749.post-39426823314329492272012-01-01T18:08:00.000-08:002012-01-01T19:46:47.135-08:00Resolve this: It's a faith thing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">OK. So you had a tough year.<br />
<br />
Me too. This is where we all let out a collective, "Wah wah wah."<br />
<br />
I feel better now, and I hope you do too.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaVDRH07qp3VpQxRWjWatE_VqUIMOM5yvwR2N8heR6Yy3oNvAivKvghuAapk7CicAIIoVtacpuw5ws0-_lnOnx3gjf3-lIKm8xF6Zp5h0b6Su2gsQdBmFZ3b_4-I8QD3Lx1wOHiqhyphenhyphenjqaN/s1600/fireworks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaVDRH07qp3VpQxRWjWatE_VqUIMOM5yvwR2N8heR6Yy3oNvAivKvghuAapk7CicAIIoVtacpuw5ws0-_lnOnx3gjf3-lIKm8xF6Zp5h0b6Su2gsQdBmFZ3b_4-I8QD3Lx1wOHiqhyphenhyphenjqaN/s1600/fireworks.jpg" /></a></div>I know I am normally much more depressed, and depressing, than this, but I have just finished making my New Year's resolutions. I had no plans to make any resolutions until I found myself giving advice on a friend's Facebook post this morning.<br />
<br />
I'm not one of those people who comment on everything that moves, but sometimes a post just cries out to me, begging for my unique reply.<br />
<br />
My art school alumni friends are extra special to me, because they represent those halcyon days when our hair cascaded lush and thick over our shoulders, when joy and sorrow came and went of its own accord and we counted it all joy. Those days are where my novel "Corners" is set, the Shelley years, the years of possibility and New Year's resolutions (see my '11 blogposts starting with the month of April).<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikUAAS-eQVUNz8bYs5-fBu9cR7AOb1_kGxsmdgnDLb3sgaW071MGYpYeV_ANYhRWv78AUiOnO7OXGONPTOEuh5EIEqlG341EqAfmLsrUvvjS6A3oqHMoJ4n2Ekm9iTZ6gQQodKZkYovABK/s1600/times+square.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikUAAS-eQVUNz8bYs5-fBu9cR7AOb1_kGxsmdgnDLb3sgaW071MGYpYeV_ANYhRWv78AUiOnO7OXGONPTOEuh5EIEqlG341EqAfmLsrUvvjS6A3oqHMoJ4n2Ekm9iTZ6gQQodKZkYovABK/s1600/times+square.jpg" /></a></div>So one of my art school friends had pulled on his sad pants this morning, as I so often do. In fact, I had already done the same myself today, when I saw his post. It's gonna be a bad year, I can tell already, said he. No different from last year. I want a refund.<br />
<br />
"You're just stuck in the border crossing," I said. "Give it time."<br />
<br />
Say what? No sooner had I pressed the button on this nugget of wisdom than I had to ask myself, what the heck did I mean by that?<br />
<br />
So I got in the shower. And I thought, and I thought, and I thought. And I arrived at the conclusion, this advice was meant for me, my own self, most of all.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXI0Mo7G0aLdvUutmPiHCUI5iD-dImVSkYDRuASiPkoU_QZyS4W3cYdNfV_UgA-7m4TG8XtZgtk0LxN2HGQnBOt-eDhM1podbVta9-OTVnL-obbpIWXd6lFw7h76xamdpxuJtWWM35qLp0/s1600/shower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXI0Mo7G0aLdvUutmPiHCUI5iD-dImVSkYDRuASiPkoU_QZyS4W3cYdNfV_UgA-7m4TG8XtZgtk0LxN2HGQnBOt-eDhM1podbVta9-OTVnL-obbpIWXd6lFw7h76xamdpxuJtWWM35qLp0/s1600/shower.jpg" /></a>I pondered the border crossing metaphor, as the water tattooed my skin, whoosh whoosh, thrum thrum. If you think about it, a border crossing requires a toll. Dollars and cents, or feats of strength, or acts of courage, if you're waxing metaphorical. You don't just get to cross over scot free.<br />
<br />
So since we were waxing metaphorical, I decided the toll was two coins, and the coins were feats of strength and acts of courage.<br />
<br />
The feat of strength would involve the act of correcting one obvious error in the way I think every day. The act of courage would be following through on at least one behavioral change that would naturally flow from that correction.<br />
<br />
<br />
Conclusions such as these can only be drawn in the shower. <br />
<br />
So how in the world did I get from here to there, other than through the steady drilling of hot water? <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUPZ0943ZLRAYhQM4XqnWDXeg13qGtR6RVCUT8i8_sNN3cy2vZIroVS5pGElJef93DyHH6WCk5DYTvOyGOCYq4Q4q8s9ygPibfgMr3BjTQJOrKh_4grjpRuxrF113KZ4JGiC1_6AAjM1KK/s1600/two+coins.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUPZ0943ZLRAYhQM4XqnWDXeg13qGtR6RVCUT8i8_sNN3cy2vZIroVS5pGElJef93DyHH6WCk5DYTvOyGOCYq4Q4q8s9ygPibfgMr3BjTQJOrKh_4grjpRuxrF113KZ4JGiC1_6AAjM1KK/s1600/two+coins.jpg" /></a></div>I have absolutely no idea. Nor do I have the slightest clue as to how I will begin to identify which thought error I must correct, let alone the behavioral change that will follow.<br />
<br />
This is where faith comes in. And here comes the gift that comes with it. <br />
<br />
"Do not be conformed to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.<br />
<br />
Then you will be able to test and approve what God's will is." Romans 12:2.<br />
<br />
Now, as a believing Christian, I have no doubt that God the Father both commands and comprises the scintillating force field which generates, animates, and maintains the construct of all spiritual, intellectual, and physical existence. I have no doubt that in the smallness of our individual minds we can only conceive Him as what Nobel Prize winning physicist Max Planck describes as "the Great Mind which is the matrix of all matter." And I have no doubt that the Holy Ghost of Christ breathes His wholeness into the sub-atomic fabric of our personal beings as we allow it, transforming us if we don't cry uncle.<br />
<br />
In a way, for me, this is almost not faith, but just my experience.<br />
<br />
My faith and my experience tell me that He will continue to transform my mind only as I continue to ask Him to. I don't know how He does this. I only know that He promises to do it, and I watch Him do it day by day as I allow Him to do it. <br />
<br />
He does it by leaving me small gifts in places where, in my ham-handed awkwardness, I can find them. Gifts like the Facebook posts of friends; gifts like life experiences that change the everyday fabric of my existence, even when I don't want them to. Gifts that drive me to stand in the shower for great lengths of time, pondering whatever metaphor He has decided to show me today for a guidepost.<br />
<br />
As a created thing, I am physical and weak - selfish, greedy, and all of that kind of stuff. Prone to tantrums. Prone to wanting my way. Guideposts, I need. It's a good day if I don't ignore them.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinDthdUCdZmn6mTOy7f6M0DTcgEyser1A6oTNbNGMLg49XSpS2yBF6CilGFw0Q2dJmvxbswWFLBxNk1tobEVjmU8ss5nfirl331Rjsx3Y3hHuGS_85fvblw92L3653vyy2Spv1FSImPe2i/s1600/fractal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinDthdUCdZmn6mTOy7f6M0DTcgEyser1A6oTNbNGMLg49XSpS2yBF6CilGFw0Q2dJmvxbswWFLBxNk1tobEVjmU8ss5nfirl331Rjsx3Y3hHuGS_85fvblw92L3653vyy2Spv1FSImPe2i/s1600/fractal.jpg" /></a></div>The twelfth chapter of Romans - the same chapter that prescribes being transformed through the renewing of my mind - tells me what to do to make the transforming happen, if I quiet my mind long enough to listen. <br />
<br />
Do not think more highly of myself than I ought, but think of myself with sober judgment. Serve in accordance with my gifts, not gifts I wish I had but don't. Let others serve in accordance with theirs. <br />
<br />
Honor one another - this crowd I've been given to live in and travel this world with - above myself.<br />
<br />
Be joyful in hope; patient in affliction - underline that; faithful in prayer.<br />
<br />
If I did even ONE of these things, it would surely begin the process of transforming my mind.<br />
<br />
The feat of strength is beginning. The act of courage is continuing. He will do the rest. The rest is all faith, and Him.<br />
<br />
So here is my New Year's resolution: Since I have no strength but to take a single step, I will take just one: to watch my thoughts, and reflect on the criteria above. Then I will give Him my mind to transform, minute by minute, His way.<br />
<br />
He will do the rest. At least, that is, as much as I will let Him, and no more than I can stand.<br />
<br />
And I will try my best not to cry uncle any more than I absolutely have to.</div>Sylvia Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07072854262445202538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7930791855767070749.post-43776247907794709232011-12-18T12:43:00.000-08:002011-12-18T12:43:04.802-08:00Ghosts of Christmas past<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">Funny how, as much as things change, they ultimately remain the same.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The holidays conjure fever dreams of holidays past, stirring reminders of how we became who we are right now.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/-cUaO1P2mfo?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">One day last week, lost in a really nice bottle of Chardonnay, I contemplated out loud with friends how, from the very first days of my youth, the handprints of my earliest decisions have continued to remain visible on all of my decisions to this very day - all of the good, and all of the bad.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Do we ever escape which way we decided to turn when we stood on our very first corner? Consider this, before you start running your maze today: no turn is ever fully undone, no matter how hard we try to go back. Even if we only turn left, or right, forever, Thomas Wolfe is still right: you can't go home again.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">This does not stop us from trying. The steps we take daily are painfully predictable. The ground beneath us changes relentlessly, uncompromisingly, even if we stand still and nothing else changes except the passage of time - yet still we strive to reconstruct the womb, that place of rest we huddled in before we knew the world would force us to dance for our lives.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Fact is, we just can't go back there, because the there that was there is not there any more.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Embrace the wave. It will drop you. You will fall in the trough. You will learn to swim on the fly. You will not drown. You haven't so far - have you? If you had, you would not be reading this.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Pray a prayer of thanks today, for the long and winding road that is right now taking you to who knows where. You can't go back. The road to back was washed away a long time ago. You really don't want to go there anyway.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">You know me by now, so you know what I am telling you. I am telling you now to let Jesus choreograph your dance, instead of predictably turning the same corner day after day after day. He can see the stage you're dancing on a whole lot better than you can. After all, He built it. So let Him have His way. Trust, and be thankful.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Here is the Christmas chapter of "Corners" for you below. I wrote this not too long ago, but I'm a whole lot older now than I was when I wrote it. I can't go back even that far, let alone to who I was when I lived it.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Merry Christmas, my friend. Let go, and rejoice.</div><br />
<br />
Shattuck and University<o:p></o:p></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i>“An eye is blind in another man’s corner.” – Irish Proverb<o:p></o:p></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">I<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJexAQhKeqWPKCywJb9VDz6TjROOv1q5Rl0T13uQDgcW-7Xi-k7gWjYJ2awb06KWxaGIU994Hl-2GypAnc3mhh8CsSwZVdQ6xcSSrVdJs923smuwBXlAoDP_w_6o-8bJg-r9zSNPXTThAU/s1600/russin+hill+corner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJexAQhKeqWPKCywJb9VDz6TjROOv1q5Rl0T13uQDgcW-7Xi-k7gWjYJ2awb06KWxaGIU994Hl-2GypAnc3mhh8CsSwZVdQ6xcSSrVdJs923smuwBXlAoDP_w_6o-8bJg-r9zSNPXTThAU/s320/russin+hill+corner.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">The year I dropped out of Berkeley, Graham and I found a third floor Victorian apartment on Hyde Street, just three blocks down from the corner of Union Street on Russian Hill. Graham was now a college dropout too, a corporate jock working for the man full time at the gas and electric company. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Our apartment had become Bob’s crash pad of choice rather than his family home in Moraga, the pressure from the aging mistress he had been maintaining across the street having become too great. Her 19-year-old, Stacy, had finally discovered the affair - she had found a desperate letter her mother was in the midst of writing to her barely legal lover, bemoaning the fact that they could spend so little time together as a result of Bob being busy with work and school. Stacy descended into a drastic state of depression, exacerbated by the funk she had already been in as a result of having aborted a child she had herself conceived with Bob the previous spring, without having told him.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Barb and the Ethiopian boy, Yonas, were an item now. As it turned out, Roger’s trip to prison had been the greatest gift she had ever received, since she would never have chosen to walk away from him on her own. On her own, she had ignored voices both silent and audible, allowing the present warmth of Roger’s eyes to muffle them. Still, she had been rescued, in spite of herself. Since thinking of Roger now caused her to feel a stabbing pain dead in the notch of her throat, the place where things get stuck for a moment if you are choking, she thought of him rarely, and this caused her some guilt, but not a great deal.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And so it was I began my second year at Cal in fall of 1973 already set apart, having taken a year away to heal. And I was tied with tighter knots than before to home and to Graham, separate from the maelstrom of the counterculture. Graham was now a born-again corporate lifer at 20, never to make another steel drum as long as he lived.<o:p></o:p></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">II<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Seemingly by magic, Bob had become natively fluent in both Spanish and Italian after a year of immersing himself in a Romance Languages major, during my year away. He now strived for only one goal as our 1973 year began: to be European. He had a plan to become first a vagabond on the Continent, and then to find simple employment there, living on little, slipping quietly out of the American cataclysm and into the deep mysterious green pool of the beckoning unfamiliar. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The two of us had signed up together for the whole tour: French I, II, and III, 8:00 am to 9:30 am, Monday through Friday, every single day for a year. Our fellow travelers on this imaginary trans-Atlantic voyage were an impish nineteen year old named Jacki, kind of a cross between the Mona Lisa and Peter Pan; and our teacher/tour guide, a graduate student in French Language and Literature named Scott Winfrey. Scott couldn’t have been more than 23 himself, with deep marine blue eyes, and a leonine mane of flax blond hair framing his face. Originally from Montana, he exuded the essence of a genu-ine Frenchman, not only in his fluency and inflections, but in his mannerisms, the tilt of his head, the way his lips pouted when framing his “oeu’s,” the way he draped his hand like a divo and sidestepped the length of the room when speaking passionately and at length, which was often. He had traveled in France every summer since he was eighteen. Jacki and I found him devastatingly handsome, and he appeared to return the favor.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Jacki and I commuted together by bus, and together rode the 7:22 from the AC Transit stop on Shattuck up University Ave. to the Tolman Hall side of campus every single morning, rain or shine, like clockwork. We became bus sisters, nestled together like sardines in a can or twins in the womb, depending on our mood, pressed into the same seat, the same routine, the same hot bosom of the same family of commuters every single day for a whole year. We knew things about each other that nobody else knew, the things that made us who we were at 7:22 in the morning, still loose and groggy from having studied until 3:00 am, combined with the lack of urgency to operate a motor vehicle. Our hair was still a little unkempt and our guard a little down, enough to free us to share the human things that show who someone really is at the core.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Over the first three or four weeks of our daily ritual, I learned that Jacki had been an Air Force brat who had struck out on her own to see the world. Her dad was a high-ranking officer, and he was, from her perspective, a force to be reckoned with, as he would be for any child. But Jacki was not intimidated by his stature, having been born her own woman, and possessing a natural, smart-assed cynicism that constituted both her armor and her means of connecting to those she chose to let in. Yet still alive inside her were the small, lonely girl who never believed her Daddy loved her, and the girl whose fundamentalist mother had tried to break her rebel spirit by locking her in solitary confinement for long hours at a time, so painfully long that she was still afraid of the dark.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At nineteen she had just finished hitchhiking through the verdant Redwood Valley area of Northern California, through Ukiah and the Russian River, having also finished a side trip through “a far Eastern religious type thing.” Whatever was not Air Force, whatever was not capitalist, whatever was simply NOT – that was what Jacki was seeking. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Up there by the river, she had stumbled upon an evangelical church community with a fired up Indiana preacher who taught peace, freedom, equality, and the full integration of all races, all colors, all people, man and woman alike, worldly goods and all. The core of their membership had migrated there from Indiana to plant the little church, coming to California to escape right-wing persecution and to be closer to the poor, in addition to finding a geomorphically safe haven in case of nuclear holocaust, according to people who study such things. Once there, their numbers had grown quickly. The group was an eclectic mix, from the county Deputy District Attorney, to the poorest of the poor who had found their home, including food and clothing, inside the congregation. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A number of them lived together as a family in a little village off the road, safely battened down each night to protect them from the rednecks and back woods folk that populated the immediate area. The pastor was a genuine faith healer, had a broken heart for children in need, and spoke strange, unknown languages of Heaven that flowed from his lips like water from underground, languages that had never been heard on earth before, except from the lips of those touched by God.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Jacki was now employed at the church in their newer San Francisco congregation, the big one, handling finances for its overseas work and all of the pastor’s public relations. This was no small deal because the church had become very important in the City, and had hosted such dignitaries as State Senator George Moscone, Assemblyman Willie Brown, Art Agnos, Joseph Alioto, Angela Davis, and the Rev. Cecil B. Williams. The protocol involved in her position was considerable, and the relationships she made critical, because it was through these relationships that the church would save the poor of San Francisco from desperation, just as they had done in Ukiah.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9vFCs48m1xXNEi88FRcQ3yP7pIB2ZnFfc3MJKZCCjlndH577_rWEjbn4kmjV-BFTFtH1ZoodgI0caBjCLuS4_x8M3Gtf_fvdSoxh6p2CjMPslYk2WQJXm5h-eDRFFsCT-ZtegBJo7TXBg/s1600/peoples+temple+buses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9vFCs48m1xXNEi88FRcQ3yP7pIB2ZnFfc3MJKZCCjlndH577_rWEjbn4kmjV-BFTFtH1ZoodgI0caBjCLuS4_x8M3Gtf_fvdSoxh6p2CjMPslYk2WQJXm5h-eDRFFsCT-ZtegBJo7TXBg/s320/peoples+temple+buses.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>“Why don’t you come to church with me sometime?” Jacki asked. “It’s over on Geary at Fillmore. The 38 bus goes right to it, the Peoples Temple. You’d like it.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
A vague memory of a Berkeley school bus bound for Strawberry Canyon buzzed around me like a fly. I swatted at it unsuccessfully.<br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I frowned, trying to think of when I could make room in my day for anything new at all. “Well, I get pretty busy on the weekends. I just got a job at a bookstore, on top of staying on part-time at the power company. But I’m not ruling it out yet.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But I had ruled it out, albeit unconsciously, because something in the middle of the warm, sticky harmony of the space between us was tiny and hard and cold, and – empty. Whether that was wisdom or neglect, I still haven’t sorted out.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">II<o:p></o:p></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Everywhere you go in Berkeley, you see tulip trees. Liriodendron tulipifera. I had learned the Latin name for them from the herpetologists, who also loved botany. Sometimes, on the bus in the morning while Jacki and I were riding to French class, we would just sit quietly, looking out the window at the trees and the street life they sheltered. Other times, we would show each other things and places that had been part of our lives, like the massage parlor with Barb’s flat on top, once Barb’s and Roger’s, and the sign lettered in Olde English, “Herein Lies the Rub.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">One day we were talking about our majors. Jacki told me she was taking French because her financial work with the overseas projects required her to travel to Europe, and sometimes to other places where French was spoken, like the Bahamas and French Guiana, sometimes even Paris. She didn’t have a major picked out yet, but she knew her future was somehow connected to Peoples Temple. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Maybe I’ll take some business classes later when I know more about what’s in the cards for me, but right now I’m just enjoying the ride, so to speak. Jim looked at me one day and told me I have a special gift. He said I was someone who can be trusted with many things. No one had ever told me that before. I guess I’d been told I was smart enough, even pretty, in a boyish sort of way, or funny. But no one had ever told me I was special. That I could be <i>trusted</i>, with things that mattered to them. Not even my own father – well, especially not my own father. I would go to the ends of the earth for Jim Jones, and back. And I believe he would do the same for me.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">III<o:p></o:p></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Attendance was light as usual that morning as Jacki and I walked into class, with seven or eight of the 35 or so chairs, each equipped with its own right-armed note table, occupied only by the dust that floated in the flood of 8:00 am light that hovered above them. There were two left-armed chairs in the room, and Bob always got there on time so he could nab one of them.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The light was beautiful in the side rooms at Dwinelle Hall at 8:00 am, especially in fall, the sun slanting at just the right angle through the high, narrow windows along the corniced ceiling, illuminating the surfaces that still carried the scuffs and carvings of decades gone by, traces of who knew what great scholar or poet or villain had shared this space with us. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Bob was already there, and he and Scott stood inches apart, eye to eye, while the rest of the sparse group looked on. Scott was showing Bob a large format brochure of some sort, the color pictures of rough hewn stone houses and rolling hills and the Arc de Triomphe brilliant enough to capture attention even from a distance. Scott spied Jacki as she entered and accosted her immediately.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Ma petite Jacqueline, this is for you aussi,” he bubbled, fully in character as always. “Robért is going to travel to France with me before Christmas, and you’re coming too. We have scholarships every winter break for four epatant beginning French students to travel and practice abroad, and the two of you are my choice. You may not say no! Quelle est tienne réponse?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“My response is yes! But can I ask my boss?” Jacki asked, looking pleased and worried at the same time. “I think he’ll like the idea. But is <i>he</i> allowed to say no?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Absolument non! And you tell him I said so.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oui, monsieur. I’ll check,” she answered, lips smiling, eyes frowning. Bob walked past my arm-chair on the way to his left-handed one, raking his fingertips across my desktop as he passed. “I’ll miss you, ma petite. No Christmas caroling this year.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Je sais, je sais,” I sighed, feeling abandoned, a great grey expanse of emptiness spreading dramatically like a pool around me.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Done for the morning, we came out into the light and headed across the quad toward the Life Science Building, where the songbirds were doing their free-fall dance, skyrocketing in pairs to heights at least two human body lengths above the five story structure, then diving twice as fast to within inches of the ground, passing each other in a tantalizingly close arc. Then they ascended again, passing in midair, flirting, practicing for next spring’s avian love dance. Bob grabbed my hand and swung it up in the air, then back down, then up again, and winked at me. Smiling broadly, I suddenly felt very sad, and very, very alone, knowing that Bob and I would never be together, but totally failing to understand why. And having Graham back at home, slaving away as the financial head of our informal family day in, day out, didn’t make me feel any better.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
So Bob flew away for the winter, far across the farthest pond, and laughed and drank Bordeaux and met new people and learned to speak fluently in a language I almost didn’t understand. When he came home, he was a newer, deeper, shinier, more joyful Bob than ever, one that I would love even more than I had before. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">IV<o:p></o:p></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Bob arrived back from Paris the morning of Christmas Eve, and I knew as soon as I saw him that he had not really just come home, but instead had just left it. A faraway joy shone at the back of his dappled blue-green eyes, and the taut cords of muscle that had always coiled just under his skin like a hyperactive spring had smoothed out and loosened their grip, leaving what appeared to me to be a man occupying the space where the boy had lived before. I could have sworn his voice was slightly deeper, too, but with more - flair.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Graham and I met him at the shuttle stop, where the bus had just brought him back from SFO. He had left with one back pack and one giant Samsonite suitcase, and come back with an extra backpack, full, hinting at the trouble he had taken to bring home the perfect thing for everyone. He chattered all the way up the hill on the 41 Union, a new French accent coloring everything he said.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Do you really speak French now?” I asked, the electric arms that tethered the bus to the lines overhead clacking against each other as we pulled to the curb for a stop. “You sound like a transplanted Frenchman! And you look like one, too!” His hair was a little fuller, his shirt had that je ne c’est quois, and his hands floated like birds, inflecting important phrases avec l’emphase. And he smelled good.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A flood of rapid French flowed from his lips in response, more and faster than I had the capacity to hear, given the almost two weeks I had just gone with virtually no French in my head whatsoever. “Well, I didn’t understand a word you just said, so I guess you speak French,” I replied, starting to unzip his extra backpack.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Not so fast, ma cherie. There’ll be time for that later. Let me tell you about nôtre petite Jacqueline, though, and how much fun <i>she</i> had.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“C’est vrai? Tell me more.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“She flew the coop, twice. Once all afternoon, and once all night.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The bus hissed as it came to a stop at the red light. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“The afternoon she ran off was the day Scott took us to sidewalk cafés so we could practice ordering everything in French, and then strike up conversations with the waiters about how to get around Paris and whatever else they would agree to talk to us about. So we were at Les Deux Magots near the Quai, and you could see directly into Café de Flore on the opposite corner. She was sitting over there with her back to us with a guy in a grey business suit, which in no way matched what Jacqueline was wearing, being Jacqueline, as you know.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I know indeed. Go on.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>“She had had a little flat case with her on the plane that she kept under her seat, and she never got up that we saw, so she must have used the bathroom when we were sleeping, because those were two of the longest flights I have EVER been on. She never took off her sweatshirt, either. Quel horreur.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yeah, yeah, keep going –“<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Well, in the café, she had the case by her foot. The two of them were talking, and the man was making notes in a little book. He tore out a page from the book and handed it to Jacki, and she put it in the back pocket of her jeans. When they had finished their drinks, she picked the case up off the ground and laid it flat on the table. He took it, and they both got up and walked off toward the Champs Elysees. We watched them until they disappeared in the trees. What do you think about that?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Well, she said she did financial business for the church that took her overseas,” I speculated. “That sounds like business.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Actually, there’s a Swiss bank in that direction, across the Quai.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Well, that’s probably it. It’s part of her mission work,” I said matter-of-factly, flagrantly ignoring at least two separate voices proposing less friendly explanations, one of them in French. “That’s probably why the pastor let her go.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>“That’s some mission she’s on then.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Why don’t you ask her?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Peut-être pas - perhaps not, ma belle.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Well, here’s our corner anyway,” I noted, as I pulled the cord overhead to ring for the stop, grabbing one of the backpacks and stepping out into the aisle, reeling a little from the motion.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Graham, a man of few words as always, just smiled slyly at Bob, and hefted the big Samsonite up and over the seat, working it up the aisle toward the front of the bus.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I missed this place more than I thought,” said Bob, looking at Graham, and then back down the Union Street hill toward North Beach as we climbed out into the veiled wintry light. “We still have a lot to talk about, mes amis. A whole, whole lot.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">V</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Bob had parked his car around the corner on Green Street, and our neighbor Al the cable car grip man had moved it for him every couple of days. He was expected at his mom’s house for Christmas Eve dinner, but neither Graham nor I had re-established normal relations with our parents yet since we had moved in together, so we had planned a quiet dinner at home. It was almost time for Bob to load up the Mustang and head for Moraga, but first, we had a few things to share, a couple of gifts, and Christmas chatter. Graham and I had put up a scrawny six foot Douglas fir in our bay window, hung with 99-cents-a-box ornaments from Woolworth’s on Market Street, God’s eyes we had made, cranberry and popcorn garlands, and multicolored lights, one string. It was about three cuts above a Charlie Brown Christmas. I poured everyone a glass of apple cider with a cinnamon stick, and Graham and I curled up on the gold velveteen sectional, Bob in the Cost Plus beanbag chair.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Hmmm. For me?” asked Bob, pulling out two wrapped gifts from under the tree.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“For you,” Graham replied, twirling the mustache he had been growing since Thanksgiving. It made him look just like a captain of industry.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Bob opened Graham’s gift first, a large flat package wrapped in red foil with two stick-on bows.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Is it underwear, Dad?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“No, son,” replied Graham. “Just open it.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Tearing off the paper, he found a framed 16 x 20 matted black and white print, on Agfa Brovira Rapid glossy, unpressed, of a stand of redwood trees across a clearing in Muir Woods, a place Graham and Bob had often gone alone to hike and breathe and talk about whatever. Graham had taken it himself the last time they were there together, and had printed it in our bathroom while Bob was in Paris. It was signed in the lower right corner. Their friendship was a deep one, and had its own unfathomable identity separate from me, separate from any other combination of the three of us. Bob held the photo at arm’s length, moved.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Thanks, man,” he finally said in a hushed voice. “Thanks.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Graham nodded, his eyes moist, and Bob gently set the picture down and reached for the other gift labeled with his name.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Ma petite,” he said. “What have we here?” He shook the oblong box and held it to his ear.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You’d better wait till you open it before you decide if you want to shake it, not break it,” I replied, raising an eyebrow.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yes, mommy,” he sing-songed, and ripped off the paper. “Oh, wow, this is special. Thank you, sweetheart.” He leaned over and gave me a peck on the lips. It was a high-powered tabletop telescope on a tripod stand, one he could use to find the planets we used to lie on our backs and look for on clear nights, which were rare and special in Daly City, over on the high school football field right at the end of the block where Bob lived.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I will look for Venus just for you, my love. Thank you.” He set it down and reached for his backpack and unzipped it, pulling out a long box and a tiny square one.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Graham, friend, this is for you.” He handed Graham the long box, and Graham carefully removed the muted tissuey paper, exotic and foreign looking, folding it neatly in four and setting it on the arm of the sectional. He opened the box and pulled out an inlaid wooden kaleidoscope, which he immediately put up to his eye.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Amazing,” he said, and walked from the lamp to the Christmas tree, then to the kitchen window, then the bathroom, aiming it into every source of light he could find to see the variations in the colors and shapes, turquoise and rose, purple and sea green, stars and triangles and whorls, both two-dimensional and three, a transforming work of art.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“It’s really far out, man. Thank you.” It did not need to be said that the kaleidoscope was the gift of seeing the world abstractly instead of literally, in motion instead of still, in living color instead of in black and white. Just once in a while, Bob wanted Graham, when the mood struck him, to go to that place and know that Bob had taken him there, and Graham was happy to go if it was with Bob – but never with me.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Now you, cherie.” He handed me the small box. “But don’t open it just yet. Graham, do you mind if I borrow your imaginary wife for just a minute?” Graham shook his head no, and the two men caught each others’ eyes in some unknown silent communication.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Walk with me, petite.” And he took my hand and led me outside, down the stairs to the front stoop. “Sit with me. Now open.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You are a man of mystery, Bob Bertrand,” I sighed, as I tore away the paper and found the grey jewel box inside. I gingerly popped open the lid.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Inside was a delicate gold locket, with tiny ornate openings cut out around the outer edge of the heart on the face. I rested my hand on my collarbone and took in a small gasp.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Take it out, open it,” he said anxiously.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I lifted the small heart from its cotton resting place and put it in the palm of my left hand, gently prying back the cover with my right. Inside was a tiny photograph of the Eiffel Tower.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Bob, I . . ,” and I put my arms around his neck and hugged him.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Let me,” he said, pulling away, and took the locket from me, turning my shoulders away from him and reaching around my neck to clasp the locket closed. “I stood in front of the Eiffel Tower and thought about you when I was gone, and I wanted to bring it back so you could keep it.” Then he took my shoulders again and turned me to face him.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Cherie, I have something to tell you.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We looked at each other for a minute in complete silence, except for the cable revolving on its pulley system under the cable car tracks in front of us.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“When I was in Paris, I met someone.” My heart stopped still, and I didn’t breathe. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I found myself on solid ground because we had both known for some time that something was not aligned with us, something we didn’t understand. And now it looked like somehow, he had found his answer, and I was happy for him, and ready. I was ready, and had been. Still, for him to have found the right person so quickly after all we’d been through together . . .<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I stopped myself. “I see. I’m glad for you, sweetie. What’s her name?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He breathed, one long deep breath.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Scott. His name is Scott – yeah, Scott the teacher. And you know I didn’t meet him for the first time. I only met him in a new way. I don’t believe he’s the one I’m going to share my life with. And he certainly is not you – no one will ever be you, ever.” There were tears streaming down his face now. “But he helped me find the Bob that I’ve been looking for all this time.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He waited for me, and then spoke again.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I love you with all my heart. You’re the other half of me. It’s unfair in a lot of ways. But this is who I am. Do you still love me?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinSZfEnvddcp13m7u6Av9EQ0iDPRWj8PoV1natkMO3zVaU12SA7PRj7_Ukkky48Gr_LKkIuj81ZeJGn-ZvYWcvIhyphenhyphenuWLNfZBBpDQa1qG7TNWI8Y_kL8R4UyzMbgqr8_OW6w5-cGh4odGtt/s1600/harvey-milk-thumb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinSZfEnvddcp13m7u6Av9EQ0iDPRWj8PoV1natkMO3zVaU12SA7PRj7_Ukkky48Gr_LKkIuj81ZeJGn-ZvYWcvIhyphenhyphenuWLNfZBBpDQa1qG7TNWI8Y_kL8R4UyzMbgqr8_OW6w5-cGh4odGtt/s1600/harvey-milk-thumb.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">I was stunned by a sudden peace I didn’t recognize, overcome with perfect love that lifted me high over the street, gave me a lightness of letting go. It was – inexplicable, and sudden, like a recognition.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh my God! Wow. Well, I think I love you more. Are you all better now? Will you be OK?” I stroked his cheek, which was tense again underneath like a coiled spring.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We wrapped our arms around each other and held on for dear life. He was trembling so hard it worried me. “I’ll always be here, always. Don’t ever be afraid of losing me,” I whispered.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“OK,” he gurgled into my hair, right in the same spot where Barb had rested her face, after she had returned from her break with time and space on the bus back from Strawberry Canyon. “Now let’s go back upstairs.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
When we had pulled ourselves together and walked into the apartment, Graham was at the kitchen counter, pouring the filling into the pie shell for the pumpkin pie. He turned, and he and Bob were eye to eye.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Everyone OK?” Graham asked.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yes, OK,” Bob answered, and Graham nodded knowingly and looked back at his task, wiping a spill he had made and rinsing his hands. “I put the chicken in when you were outside, Shel. It’ll be ready at 5:00.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And I was alone.</div></div>Sylvia Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07072854262445202538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7930791855767070749.post-26739877001989439282011-12-11T12:21:00.000-08:002011-12-11T15:59:59.219-08:00What sword would you die on?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivOMFBQi-99nfMu4_7d_71-SP05zh_DHXku6HdY5yEkxaIsS0RTUMacXUAe6NYk90lhncHREA-KRV4OX20reEDadYb36NB_hNlLFXeEXP823bbs0Nok_qP8kM9KwcSfL8nzIekAtUJKjQR/s1600/sermon+mount+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivOMFBQi-99nfMu4_7d_71-SP05zh_DHXku6HdY5yEkxaIsS0RTUMacXUAe6NYk90lhncHREA-KRV4OX20reEDadYb36NB_hNlLFXeEXP823bbs0Nok_qP8kM9KwcSfL8nzIekAtUJKjQR/s1600/sermon+mount+2.jpg" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">"In difficult ground, press on; On hemmed-in ground, use subterfuge; In death ground, fight." - Sun Tzu</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">"For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also." - Jesus (Matthew 6:21)</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">Where is your heart? What sword are you willing to die on?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">Sun Tzu's "The Art of War" is oft quoted by generals, CEO's, athletic coaches, computer obsessed hermits, and other wannabes of all stripes. You have certainly had bosses who embodied the mind of Sun Tzu, and you bear the scars to prove it.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">Sun Tzu has much to say about victory. As a morally inadequate leader, he used his most astute observations about the human condition to make decisions about how to manipulate his own men to win in battle, with little or no regard for their lives. Hence the above - inscribed for the successful to consider, or for the morally inadequate, like Sun Tzu, to use to their own advantage.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">Know that there is TRUTH in what Sun Tzu said. Each of the above is what <i>will</i> occur, if you consider examples from your own life, when you are cornered. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWcd8wbcpoGv7eTnNwGdCOK027Nwq-4BHPQonM_boMNUar6_9YAyee_J9gW1k1kAiymYnI4meNbh3ARj5cqpaZ7qZIEeDaP8GgjH6Htq8H1tPdOpX3eNbV1Ls9uT4F-i9OeK7OfQkjT0uj/s1600/sun+tzu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWcd8wbcpoGv7eTnNwGdCOK027Nwq-4BHPQonM_boMNUar6_9YAyee_J9gW1k1kAiymYnI4meNbh3ARj5cqpaZ7qZIEeDaP8GgjH6Htq8H1tPdOpX3eNbV1Ls9uT4F-i9OeK7OfQkjT0uj/s1600/sun+tzu.jpg" /></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">In difficult ground, the instinct is to press on. This is why parents send their adult children mercifully out into the world to make their own way, even though what they would prefer is to keep them home near the fire.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">On hemmed in ground, your native savvy for survival will chemically elevate your brain to its highest acuity, its sharpest edge. When there's only one way out, you get smarter, really quick. You will find it easy here to recall examples from your own experience.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">Only in death ground will you fight to the death, and should. In death ground, your "fight" instinct will by your very nature kick in <i>unless</i> your will to live has already been impaired by other conditions, such as depression or learned hopelessness. Fight or die.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">Sun Tzu knew these things, and deliberately put his soldiers on Death Ground when he knew he needed them to fight with all they had. Still, you can use his observations for what they are worth, which is a lot.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">These conditions are actually simulated in everyday life all the time. The question is, what do you consider to be difficult ground, hemmed in ground? </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">What do <i>you </i>consider to be death ground?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">Where is your treasure? What is worth dying for to you, even figuratively speaking?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">There was a terrific special about Sun Tzu on the History Channel this week, equally as informative as Thursday's edition of the X-Factor, which I will address later. To illustrate the Death Ground Theory of Sun Tzu, the commentator referenced the Battle of Normandy.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixf5sVBN1ikAkT51T9I-nqTp-1_T4hNWvvBqcm2pyDOL7M5tflRgzrPgweykdtBRaZ1DxBD7QuQz2M8C-KnveijD7jdGGUVTx8C9LQ0uV8U9CtSU_f8bj5gsN19gvJ1gQMjRV96uX3eZx7/s1600/death+ground.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixf5sVBN1ikAkT51T9I-nqTp-1_T4hNWvvBqcm2pyDOL7M5tflRgzrPgweykdtBRaZ1DxBD7QuQz2M8C-KnveijD7jdGGUVTx8C9LQ0uV8U9CtSU_f8bj5gsN19gvJ1gQMjRV96uX3eZx7/s1600/death+ground.jpg" /></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">Here goes Amateur History Lesson 1A, straight from the only slightly informed brain of this hippie historian. Please be forgiving as you read, considering that my primary concern in high school was the history of social movements and related policies, not the classic Presidential and military history to which high school kids are normally treated.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">So, carrying on, it appears that in 1944 the best option for landing on enemy territory dictated a beach attack, which would leave American troops on Hemmed In Ground. Eisenhower scrupulously concealed his plan with subterfuge. He diverted Hitler's attention to a fake fleet of blow-up rubber tanks, planes, jeeps - the works - all of which he kept elsewhere, to trick Hitler into thinking the attack would occur not on the beach at Normandy, but at Calais. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">Seriously.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">Eisenhower's</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;"> forces deflated and moved the decoys repeatedly in the dark of night to simulate what would occur with real inventory, going so far as to use rollers to simulate the tracks that would have been made in the dirt as they moved.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">On D-Day, faced with the tack-tack-tack of bullets pelting the shells of the very tanks that temporarily shielded their faces, American troops confronted the reality that they would soon step out onto occupied soil, sitting ducks, even in spite of the decoy maneuvers. The front line was sure to die.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">No retreat was possible. Death Ground.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnwlepQTF6qgWnp4vCQEWqDR_sZp1RzGbTtj2cGzmdPkiDzMOw-zADs5-9jriO8RqOjiXmRkVfUDSEWWRgrdRnkTxMI5TmW_h3thyphenhyphenUc1D5aN1XAjCWUHdd5N_1e72wwN63RJoDVCYk8SvE/s1600/normandy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnwlepQTF6qgWnp4vCQEWqDR_sZp1RzGbTtj2cGzmdPkiDzMOw-zADs5-9jriO8RqOjiXmRkVfUDSEWWRgrdRnkTxMI5TmW_h3thyphenhyphenUc1D5aN1XAjCWUHdd5N_1e72wwN63RJoDVCYk8SvE/s1600/normandy.jpg" /></span></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">Line after line of men was cut down. Lifeless or dying bodies - bunkmates and brothers - stacked up in the doorway, steaming, as the men at the back awaited their fate, or their destiny. Horror crouched mere inches from their faces, the hot stink of blood thick in their nostrils. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">Their response? To storm out with guns blazing, penetrating deep into Hedgerow Country. From Death Ground to Hemmed-In Ground: their destiny.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">In the Hedgerow Country, where centuries of dense growth blocked even the fiercest tank penetration, only hand to hand, gut to gut combat was possible: knives, guns, garottes, bare fingers. Nazi soldiers lay in wait in the darkest corners of the maze. Each boy's consciousness had to achieve its highest level of acuity to survive, had to remain on highest alert, shot with adrenalin.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihoW1tkQeqP-DcOlpV0qtPJjnckF5jTVyJWHOaEid-HQf0us3qsL1r4cTie5tFclW6kEcrA9LZ52UhdTA7BmU_cSnuUaY_U_NvMEY_PBPoztpQu2YC0YjCP0q6anOI9F6fQ5Qg-mzoh5LM/s1600/hedgerow+battle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihoW1tkQeqP-DcOlpV0qtPJjnckF5jTVyJWHOaEid-HQf0us3qsL1r4cTie5tFclW6kEcrA9LZ52UhdTA7BmU_cSnuUaY_U_NvMEY_PBPoztpQu2YC0YjCP0q6anOI9F6fQ5Qg-mzoh5LM/s1600/hedgerow+battle.jpg" /></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">Eisenhower, with his men blocked as they were by the now accursed hedges, bombarded the nearby Caen to lure the Nazi forces out of the labyrinth and into the light. Subterfuge. Victory. Unimaginable loss, and incomparable courage.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">It causes me to wish I'd paid attention to the World War II unit more closely. American balls out courage is demonstrated there in remarkable ways.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">As we watch ourselves, and our friends and neighbors, it's clear, sometimes painfully so, where their - where our - treasure lies. In daily life, rarely do we find ourselves lying in wait behind a pile of dying soldiers, committing our souls to a cause so large our brains cannot grasp it in the moment. Our fight or die instinct presents itself in more mundane ways most of the time.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">We have instincts waiting for a cause, and we choose our causes every day. This is how our small worlds are shaped.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixXQgTvrqouhpCVnF4sojkQpyoBQD9P4SeLl0pnCPs_7bPrYuMN5Od3BixZYuKpi4FkEawZpv1iJMsPaa-aM1eU71LfRJCSC8TCo9OEaXYmjw8LrYbUL4PWepAjqKauJJbdMwtakWcNzc2/s1600/rachel+in+tears.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixXQgTvrqouhpCVnF4sojkQpyoBQD9P4SeLl0pnCPs_7bPrYuMN5Od3BixZYuKpi4FkEawZpv1iJMsPaa-aM1eU71LfRJCSC8TCo9OEaXYmjw8LrYbUL4PWepAjqKauJJbdMwtakWcNzc2/s1600/rachel+in+tears.jpg" /></span></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">Example: on the X-Factor (Fox Network) this past Thursday, little Rachel Crowe, just thirteen, was eliminated from the field of musical competition only five short steps from victory. She had sung her heart out, week after week, throwing it all down, fight or die, against people more than twice her age, for her treasure. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">Music. Performance. To be herself. "If I were a boy." Treasure.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">When the news was announced that this would be her last night on the stage before millions, only a moment of shock flashed over her face. In an instant, she melted to her knees, then to the floor. Then, the heaving gasping sobs came, then a bawling noise like a child whose mother has just died.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">Then, standing, she faced her mother. No one had died. Yet she confronted her: "Mommy, you promised me. You promised I would win." Still fighting, mindless of the national crowd, fighting to the death for her treasure.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">But then a shift came. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw judge Nicole Scherzinger, so abject herself that she couldn't speak. Scherzinger had been the one who could have saved her to sing another day, but instead had thrown her to her fate, on the other side of the hedgerow from her treasure.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">But what did Rachel do next? Did she attack, garotte, stab the one who threw her dream on the ash heap? </span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/pn6KDFvE68E?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">Not at all. Instead, she turned to her greater treasure: the compassion that resides in her child soul, and then to its twin in her judge, her friend. She momentarily set aside her loss, not so large and permanent after all, and turned to what really mattered - to comfort her grieving friend, to thank an audience and a fan base who had loyally supported her - a true princess, if you remember the tale.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">It was not so different with fifteen-year-old Drew Ryniewicz the week before, who upon her elimination simply said through her grief-stricken sobs, "You need to know that Jesus loves you. That's what I really came to say." Treasure.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpvs89vdyqpR1MTtq4HCfV5bdWKEHT8jSGNGTACOW60NMJCmrImK7Vdx_8kb27RhqxfneGB7YpjIeJJw7JBLC5pf8S-V3jDlpDKFVmnyC2IOmhnAzXC4iKTlm0LsIo1iSEAYiC6QXg5kMp/s1600/drew2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpvs89vdyqpR1MTtq4HCfV5bdWKEHT8jSGNGTACOW60NMJCmrImK7Vdx_8kb27RhqxfneGB7YpjIeJJw7JBLC5pf8S-V3jDlpDKFVmnyC2IOmhnAzXC4iKTlm0LsIo1iSEAYiC6QXg5kMp/s1600/drew2.jpg" /></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">Where is <i>your</i> treasure today? The answer to that question daily shapes the outcomes of your life. The answer shapes your soul, and its destiny.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">Make a conscious choice about what your treasure is today. Know that, in the end, you will likely be called to die for it, either literally or figuratively. Are you ready? Are you willing?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">What sword do you want to die on? How will you instruct others, with the manner in which you choose to lay your life down?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">Comment below, and tell us.</span></div>Sylvia Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07072854262445202538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7930791855767070749.post-38901707749169671282011-12-04T12:25:00.000-08:002011-12-04T12:55:00.409-08:00Bible time: Why worry now?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">If I wanted to make some money and could get somebody to bet with me, I would bet that you have worried about something in the last twenty four hours.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKdxfLKUkO618_QxsL8tIGNLqjK2nrRKGVRLXEyOs46T4T9VGkVkBNx20IWiIyXt8u-Q-yvlDTGVlw6Sy0uBiosOjQ-8l6VrI-luTGYipLioQsjWUaktEghpeOGyHKEs6yjn3RhKjANifi/s1600/alfred+e+neuman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKdxfLKUkO618_QxsL8tIGNLqjK2nrRKGVRLXEyOs46T4T9VGkVkBNx20IWiIyXt8u-Q-yvlDTGVlw6Sy0uBiosOjQ-8l6VrI-luTGYipLioQsjWUaktEghpeOGyHKEs6yjn3RhKjANifi/s1600/alfred+e+neuman.jpg" /></a>More likely the last twenty four minutes.<br />
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And I would win.<br />
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Not I, you say. I am a positive upbeat soul, a veritable Alfred E. Neuman. What, me worry?<br />
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Hold on, now. Ask your mother if you worry. Or your wife, or husband, or kids, or boss, or co-workers. At least one of them would tell you different, you worry wart. I guarantee it.<br />
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Worry by our very nature waits, crouched in our bowels, a primeval survival mechanism born back when the earth was still steamy and moist with its own birth, and unimaginable violence lurked in its deepest, blackest places. Worry lives in us so that we can be ready in case a tyrannosaurus rex (did man co-exist with those?) or a serial killer jumps out, or a flood fills the cave we live in. <br />
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The worst that could happen, back when the world was new, was just a whole lot more LIKELY to happen than it is today, here in this age of antibiotics and education and law enforcement and subsidized housing.<br />
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Still, there is plenty to worry about.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAaJGPUtJns61uZqqeYUe9RkOjaQsjeCl7LhSPFIwHwvjTgOKXr8hfXeZhbFii7poMRHC8Wtnjr0oU1XKCvSgUWjyd7aUJkQbynrDusEFTzrBgOTbteTcuAsE3mfrw-6Dlh12xjBj20ZD2/s1600/t-rex+eating.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAaJGPUtJns61uZqqeYUe9RkOjaQsjeCl7LhSPFIwHwvjTgOKXr8hfXeZhbFii7poMRHC8Wtnjr0oU1XKCvSgUWjyd7aUJkQbynrDusEFTzrBgOTbteTcuAsE3mfrw-6Dlh12xjBj20ZD2/s1600/t-rex+eating.jpg" /></a>Indeed, awful things still do happen. We know what they are. <br />
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Just as often, mercy intervenes, when it is not yet our time. I am reminded of a friend who lived in Half Moon Bay with his wife and toddler, back in the '70's. It was a crystal blue day with a stiff chill, characteristic of Peninsula towns, and the extended family was gathered with neighbors out front, roasting corn and chicken on the grill, trading stories and sipping spiked punch, while the babies waddled and dug in the dirt and played with the kittens. John Barleycorn Must Die and Cream and Paul Butterfield blared out through the front door from the stacked turntable inside.<br />
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How quickly it happened, there while they celebrated. A moment turned away, and my friend's toddler was face down in the shallow pond, dark stains of green water already soaking up the sides of his red overalls - still as death. <br />
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His mother turned, saw, screamed, dropped her cup, panic cutting her from throat to gut in a single stroke. She was halfway there in less than a second.<br />
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But even quicker, the neighbor's goose, on the scene before the mother ever reached her baby's side, had snatched the baby up by the straps of his overalls and flipped him onto his side, out into the dirt.<br />
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Seeing the child who had grown up as his own, he had crossed the yard in two gallops, wings outstretched like a squawking barnyard angel. The baby's plump cheeks lay flat, pallid. Then, one cough, one gag, a rush of green. An ambulance ride with a new teddy, gifted by the EMT. Safe.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZU-AELgAqBcUlSDzguEVmh366lx4eUTqxbt5KnIcVPYc6fNwzUHbq52jK1acLWtgW8KEGgRIr24biKY6qersowMkTTnvgI2NiWMVJ-h44jY8_gm9muFc-7yRjDbILlgvrjdIqk0rU6XJR/s1600/goose+running+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZU-AELgAqBcUlSDzguEVmh366lx4eUTqxbt5KnIcVPYc6fNwzUHbq52jK1acLWtgW8KEGgRIr24biKY6qersowMkTTnvgI2NiWMVJ-h44jY8_gm9muFc-7yRjDbILlgvrjdIqk0rU6XJR/s1600/goose+running+2.jpg" /></a></div>Sadly, that goose, soon to become famous in the front page story that followed in the local paper, was declared in violation of zoning ordinances within the week and seized, possibly to become some government official's pet or Christmas dinner. One never knows. But even in spite of this, he had fulfilled his destiny, had made a difference in his brief goosey life.<br />
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Yes, things we don't like will happen. But so much GOOD, so much warm, so much organized and safe and beautiful will happen right alongside the bad things to soften the blow. We have so much to be thankful for.<br />
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Most important, we must ask ourselves the question: Do I BELIEVE? Do I believe in a higher power who organizes my life, who has mercy on me, who sends barnyard angels to save me? A higher power who loves me?<br />
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<i>I</i> do.<br />
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I believe that Jesus is the living Son of God, on this Sunday. That God came to earth in human form to show us what love looks like, that He allowed us to kill Him on purpose so that He could become a Soul that would be our Holy Spirit.<br />
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He breathed His Spirit into John's mouth before He left this earth. He breathes it into us whenever we ask Him to.<br />
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I believe that He is our daily Counselor who lives within us and moves us with His own hands to do His best in this world. That He rescues us every second, and that if it appears He will not rescue us, He has so much better planned for us that we can't even see yet. That it might even be Heaven He has for us, right now, today.<br />
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Believing this requires trust. He will teach you to trust, if you ask. But you have to ASK.<br />
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Worry is good when it moves you to prayer - to ASK. Worry is bad when it simply moves you to greater worry.<br />
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Bible time:<br />
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<i>Genesis 10:13 -15. I have placed my rainbow in the clouds. It is the sign of my permanent promise to you and to all the earth. When I send clouds over the earth, the rainbow will be seen in the clouds, and I will remember my covenant with you and with everything that lives.</i> This was written back when the earth was still fresh and wet with its own birth, and really wet from a super big flood that required Noah to trust.<br />
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<i>Psalm 37:1-2. Don't worry about the wicked. Don't envy those who do wrong. For like grass, they soon fade away. Like springtime flowers, they soon wither.</i> Given by God to David, a man after His own heart.<br />
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<i>Matthew 6:28-30. Why worry about your clothes? Look at the lilies and how they grow. They don't work or make their clothing, yet Solomon in all his glory was not dressed as beautifully as they are. And if God cares so wonderfully for flowers that are here today and gone tomorrow, won't he more surely care for you?</i> Straight from the mouth of Jesus, the right hand of the Three in One.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUHWbbLoxLTbrnGRzMQYXTnNBqSxswHMPxbPKcZZh8aM9LSWf6C4pa9j034kqeu9Sqew8mx9IFc0BRJj8D-t7upOp1NX0s8vhRQxQp77eZmcJ3I-bY1B9iBzKJalDo-1c_0KzlyFv9yjwc/s1600/big+blue+sky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUHWbbLoxLTbrnGRzMQYXTnNBqSxswHMPxbPKcZZh8aM9LSWf6C4pa9j034kqeu9Sqew8mx9IFc0BRJj8D-t7upOp1NX0s8vhRQxQp77eZmcJ3I-bY1B9iBzKJalDo-1c_0KzlyFv9yjwc/s1600/big+blue+sky.jpg" /></a>I believe, and have seen with my own eyes, that there are barnyard angels lined up to get me to the perfect destination He has planned for me. He moves them with His own hands to save my bacon every day.<br />
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I believe I must trust Him and do as he expects - must listen to His small voice instead of the clamor of my own worry - especially in case it's my job to be someone's barnyard angel today.<br />
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I am a worry wart, I confess it. I must lay it down and pray through it every day of my life. There is SO much to worry about.<br />
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But there is ever so much more to be thankful for. What a life! What a sky! What a beautiful warm fire. My family - there are no words. I love my job so very much. Thank you, Jesus. Thank you.<br />
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I love you. He loves you more. Don't worry. Be happy.</div>Sylvia Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07072854262445202538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7930791855767070749.post-79050958872883801652011-11-27T13:10:00.000-08:002011-11-27T19:25:32.893-08:00Une semaine de vacances<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Tomorrow, I go back to class, after a week's vacation.<br />
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Despite the title, and the French movie trailer below, you will find no French in this post - at least not any good French. This is simply because I don't speak any, although I wish I did. <br />
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I have under my belt three quarters of French I took at Berkeley, 1973-74, seated close beside my then-budding antagonist, who stars in the novel blogged below; that's it. Didn't use it, lost it. C'est dommage.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnSSa7JBn9_ErTq5appVC9JQLnHOPXBphIFhLo9gD1jmAMLAK4qg9qr4vSozllshzqxusrRs1o4USF3H-ZBBjvUZlwcl5MLPh7oqbfMV4RGE7FmDnQFCCSw2S0P9AQuch_S-iPMubzc45S/s1600/childrens+music.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnSSa7JBn9_ErTq5appVC9JQLnHOPXBphIFhLo9gD1jmAMLAK4qg9qr4vSozllshzqxusrRs1o4USF3H-ZBBjvUZlwcl5MLPh7oqbfMV4RGE7FmDnQFCCSw2S0P9AQuch_S-iPMubzc45S/s1600/childrens+music.jpg" /></a>In spite of this fact, toward the end of this past week's vacation from teaching, I began dreaming in a kind-of French (I <i>think</i> it's French) that I don't understand. Is it real French? Peut etre! I hope so. Still, I don't understand it. <br />
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I think I may know why this is happening.<br />
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In 1980 or so, at the end of a perfect summer, I saw a French film with my first husband, "Une Semaine de Vacances." That's the film's name, not my first husband's - curse of an English teacher, to notice those things.<br />
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He was a musician, a trumpet player, and had the most alarmingly deep green eyes flecked with hazel and blue any living woman has ever seen. We were happy, my husband and I, in those brief days. We were in LA for a while so he could play his horn, and we both taught school: I junior high English and photography; and he elementary music, traveling from place to place like the Pied Piper, packing clarinets and saxophones and flutes and trombones as he went. <br />
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The sadness of it, that we didn't know how happy we were back then.<br />
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Anyway, we were coming on to the end of one of those long lazy summers that teachers enjoy when they still don't have the encumbrances of house payments or credit debt or bad health. No summer school to worry about, just the endless summer and each other, year after year after year. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQzZRX4cf88W6dXxqJ0CVYFuFtlBBHUvWtqXmNlStX81S-8lnyYXgQwDT8QtqpzhmSvrb4BL04b3f-S7tIB0R-mjeQeXpqXUPGvj0Cxjim8smnNdiZ6BBN9hN4Cq-yWjpdgdMq7AQJuBV7/s1600/Brand+library.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQzZRX4cf88W6dXxqJ0CVYFuFtlBBHUvWtqXmNlStX81S-8lnyYXgQwDT8QtqpzhmSvrb4BL04b3f-S7tIB0R-mjeQeXpqXUPGvj0Cxjim8smnNdiZ6BBN9hN4Cq-yWjpdgdMq7AQJuBV7/s1600/Brand+library.jpg" /></a></div>That summer we had spent a lot of time at the beach, and at the zoo taking photographs, and at Brand Library on the glorious front lawn thumbing through art books. Brand Library is the legacy of Leslie C. Brand, built in his sprawling estate El Miradero, and features the most magnificent collection of arts materials, including monographs, I have seen anywhere, among other treasures. A virtual paradise for a musician and his artist bride. <br />
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That summer in particular was a hard one to let go of, to go underground again for awhile, out of the sunshine, back to the here and now. Maybe somewhere inside I knew what we had right then wouldn't last forever, that it wouldn't weather the dry steady wind of daily family living.<br />
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Somewhere around the last day of that summer, we wandered into a little French film at the multiplex cinema in the Encino Galleria. There were no more than 50 chairs in the hall, and we were two of maybe ten people in the whole place, huddled together with our lattes and butter cookies, to go with the subtitles. "Une Semaine de Vacances." <br />
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In the musty dank of the theater, Nathalie Baye was in the car with her husband, about to be dropped off at the junior high where she taught French (her equivalent of English, comme moi). Real film, on the reel. You could hear it. Clickety-click. <br />
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With her through her car window, we could <i>feel</i> the familiar cacophany only made possible by the very young, bristling with their junior high-ness, bumping and slapping up against one another, creating heat ripples of naive life-blooded energy in the air as they passed. Their gutteral Frenchisms gave them a certain extra-ness, sharpening their edge somehow, making them - more.<br />
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The warm pressure of his arm bolstered me, deep in our huddle against the AC. <br />
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Together with her, we made a break for it, jumped out of the car and ran for our lives. Free! A week's vacation - voila. Almost to be equalled later by Albert Brooks quitting his job in "Lost in America," but not quite, since it was teachers. <br />
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God bless her husband. He covered for her.<br />
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That ninety minutes or so, we hid in the French countryside with our heroine, wondering what it would be like to run off and change our names and travel the continent and never be seen or heard from again. There was a bliss in this wondering that I can't quite conjure now in the practicality of my advancing age, even embracing the gentle rocking of welcome life changes I'll blog about sometime in the future.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/tCAmNnqd07E?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
In the end, she remembered who she was, our heroine. Like resting on the beach after surfing, she was ready for the board again, her feet knowing exactly where to go, how to shift her weight to stay abreast for a long ride. A natural. She loved the white-hot brilliance of her students, just as I do mine. Ils sont epatants, she said. Oui. Je suis d'accord.<br />
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So after this week, une semaine de vacances, I'm ready to roll, in love again, at least till Christmas. Being a solitary soul for the time being, they are my only love, only second to my own grown babies and my dogs. They have been the iron strand that has tied my life together through everything, always different, but always somehow the same.<br />
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Epatant.</div>Sylvia Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07072854262445202538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7930791855767070749.post-76932658560303416992011-11-21T13:01:00.000-08:002011-11-21T15:49:47.773-08:00The Astro-tude example: "Network" revisited<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">The entire nation was treated to a display of callow youthfulness last week when 15-year-old Astro (I thought he was twelve until somebody set me straight) threw a classic temper tantrum on the TV music contest "The X-Factor," after viewers placed him in the bottom two.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSzaFiNAEx6tMi1f4SP4EeyOkX-syyG_f-TGqNgXzTDcz55RgzcivBsBIMw5bN31_tnCETMdAJxEvhQYBFepM7gXRdggahDhy1jc9l_9cFxRB61FrLOeEoi2KRHBCQOvRem2UDItp6ruTB/s1600/Astro-Cries.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSzaFiNAEx6tMi1f4SP4EeyOkX-syyG_f-TGqNgXzTDcz55RgzcivBsBIMw5bN31_tnCETMdAJxEvhQYBFepM7gXRdggahDhy1jc9l_9cFxRB61FrLOeEoi2KRHBCQOvRem2UDItp6ruTB/s320/Astro-Cries.jpg" width="320" /></a>Media have been awash with play-by-plays of the meltdown, as if what he had done were only a few cuts below a game-losing play in the Super Bowl, or a national disaster.<br />
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He's fifteen, for Pete's sake. Cut the kid some slack. Or maybe you think we should take him out back and beat the crap out of him. Obviously I'm kidding. Are you?<br />
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We have gotten <i>way</i> too entitled in what we believe we have a right to see on television. Not too long ago, there WAS no reality TV - only the 1976 movie "Network," starring Peter Finch and Faye Dunaway. Consider "Network" to be something like Orwell's "1984," only for the future course of television instead of for the whole world.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh2mwJYLyq1_Rxu0-E-dyEb8vSxoCAmY-O4ya3dTmr8iwCSTa7qLFqprEoJXeA5cR1KPkNf1Vk8G8IhYxeZ50Nx95wjIigVMlh_XdwaMHkIC7ff4YguI6PGUg6KsVatHs5DOB_gD9nsc1h/s1600/Astro+upset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh2mwJYLyq1_Rxu0-E-dyEb8vSxoCAmY-O4ya3dTmr8iwCSTa7qLFqprEoJXeA5cR1KPkNf1Vk8G8IhYxeZ50Nx95wjIigVMlh_XdwaMHkIC7ff4YguI6PGUg6KsVatHs5DOB_gD9nsc1h/s1600/Astro+upset.jpg" /></a>When my compatriots and I first saw "Network" in our callow youth, some 35 years ago, we were dead certain it could never happen here. The sheer outrageousness of it all - only in the movies could such a thing happen. <br />
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Most of my main characters, if you have been reading my novel "Corners" (blogged below), would have felt the same way. On the other hand, the "alternative" ones would have expected it, even embraced it and participated in it, if given the chance. But I digress.<br />
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In "Network," one of the major affiliates decides to program a new series starring a fading newscaster (Finch) who is beginning to lose his mind, making him out to be some kind of soothsayer. He makes predictions on his own national show and systematically melts down week by week, in front of the viewing audience, as his mind reaches the breaking point. <br />
<div style="text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm_Rlf-lFUrWm3BZX8g3OulgaaRcXiIxWSfjvP3-GyqPzU0qex_2H3EKNSWuE_x5zbJqMY3ALIdDcWPY1rM3eK6euTZbeJY_wgCkA1FfmO2arLyVwr6yZyAWDG3HpFufnRuHUXIa6k24Z8/s1600/peter+finch+network.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm_Rlf-lFUrWm3BZX8g3OulgaaRcXiIxWSfjvP3-GyqPzU0qex_2H3EKNSWuE_x5zbJqMY3ALIdDcWPY1rM3eK6euTZbeJY_wgCkA1FfmO2arLyVwr6yZyAWDG3HpFufnRuHUXIa6k24Z8/s1600/peter+finch+network.jpg" /></a>In the fictitious world of the movie, this makes for awesome ratings. He whips the nation into a shared frenzy with his ranting, inspiring millions to hang out their front windows and scream, "I'M MAD AS HELL AND I'M NOT GOING TO TAKE IT ANY MORE!" (which is a boomer mantra to this day, by the way). To the Network, this simply means everybody's watching! Good sign, says the Network.</div><br />
In the movie, advertising commitments go through the roof. Viewership is at an all time high. Then, disaster strikes - Finch's diatribes go too far even for his smarm-drunk audience, and ratings drop precipitously. The Network has to "take him out" by hiring revolutionaries to assassinate him on camera (newsmakers!), thereby restoring a winning lineup. <br />
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In 1976, "Network" was considered a cautionary tale. Not so today. Today, minus the revolutionary assassins, it's reality. Reality television, that is.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9uyoAtFwpUcO6ObXAMuD3WbYhJQD9bsyPL0hSTuuPRJDDMF1Ybi61YkolXYuQ-3L3_pYhvwPWbmBpWTmVcPfixPh4LkzwomLOtBza1dn9Q60Psyw6yvzJvVRYuup1uaRAjQoyj2j24nsu/s1600/russell+and+taylor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9uyoAtFwpUcO6ObXAMuD3WbYhJQD9bsyPL0hSTuuPRJDDMF1Ybi61YkolXYuQ-3L3_pYhvwPWbmBpWTmVcPfixPh4LkzwomLOtBza1dn9Q60Psyw6yvzJvVRYuup1uaRAjQoyj2j24nsu/s1600/russell+and+taylor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9uyoAtFwpUcO6ObXAMuD3WbYhJQD9bsyPL0hSTuuPRJDDMF1Ybi61YkolXYuQ-3L3_pYhvwPWbmBpWTmVcPfixPh4LkzwomLOtBza1dn9Q60Psyw6yvzJvVRYuup1uaRAjQoyj2j24nsu/s1600/russell+and+taylor.jpg" /></a>Consider Russell Armstrong, husband to Taylor Armstrong, of the "The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills." In the wake of nationally televised accusations of spousal abuse combined with financial strife, he killed himself. Killed himself - that's right. Even after his death, the episodes depicting the real-life events that precipitated his demise, already in the can as the tragedy occurred, are being aired weekly as we speak.<br />
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Also consider "Bad Girls' Club," a literal blow-by-blow aired weekly on the Oxygen channel, which is supposed to be the women's network. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsWgMLRckZzu03eXCzs4qDi1jfr75W1AI-a2lZ8gxeVBIwwnGfb4m7P4iGX3LNR26j_SdVS7TvEbH1ubhwIs9IO6YUEsOXtiu73Tt5zFp0jGDXOWnBSmkw9SUvHJ4Ql1nbT4AcadlQTGw7/s1600/bad+girls+club.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsWgMLRckZzu03eXCzs4qDi1jfr75W1AI-a2lZ8gxeVBIwwnGfb4m7P4iGX3LNR26j_SdVS7TvEbH1ubhwIs9IO6YUEsOXtiu73Tt5zFp0jGDXOWnBSmkw9SUvHJ4Ql1nbT4AcadlQTGw7/s1600/bad+girls+club.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsWgMLRckZzu03eXCzs4qDi1jfr75W1AI-a2lZ8gxeVBIwwnGfb4m7P4iGX3LNR26j_SdVS7TvEbH1ubhwIs9IO6YUEsOXtiu73Tt5zFp0jGDXOWnBSmkw9SUvHJ4Ql1nbT4AcadlQTGw7/s1600/bad+girls+club.jpg" /></a>On "Bad Girl's Club," young ladies with obvious mental illnesses and/or addictions - or whom I am guessing have been raised in extreme poverty, or with incest, abuse, or neglect - live out their dysfunctions before us, trapped together in a network-funded house. They beat the hell out of one another; engage in alcoholic binges, orgies, and other gratuitous sex; mortally insult one another; steal each others' boyfriends - and the beat goes on, so to speak. In other words, the suffering and shame which have been visited upon each of their hearts and souls through their saddest life experiences is exploited for our viewing pleasure. Heinous.<br />
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What poor Astro went through in front of us was at least a relatively run-of-the-mill, albeit less than perfect, childish episode. Being a child, he did not deserve to be exposed in his spoiled and callow glory in front of us all. He deserved simply to be severely scolded by his beloved mother and sent to bed early, grounded with no cell phone or computer for a week.<br />
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So how is it he came to be so exposed?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/vc9afgirZ2U?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
In a massive brain fart of bad judgment, the Network recently amended its policy to allow children under the age of sixteen to strut the reality stage, right alongside 21 and 30 and 40 and even 60 year-olds, on the field of competition. <br />
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Why? Because they're just so doggone FASCINATING and exotic, these kids, to be that GOOD and that young at the same time.<br />
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Sick. This is just plain unvarnished bad policy, not to mention bad for the very kids the Network purports to help.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinMC-488EsFMa455imF-LiKiir57vCNLJ0MVNrKvuHAszdErmfj2dqj7V-zFz8NFeX84Q2X4u2hA004W9qHFjfCXSwYLqrYJIr0oKNlHeR7RgoDUIAatHcMp7cfrvc1T0WlNjvL2ieNvJG/s1600/Rachel+crowe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinMC-488EsFMa455imF-LiKiir57vCNLJ0MVNrKvuHAszdErmfj2dqj7V-zFz8NFeX84Q2X4u2hA004W9qHFjfCXSwYLqrYJIr0oKNlHeR7RgoDUIAatHcMp7cfrvc1T0WlNjvL2ieNvJG/s1600/Rachel+crowe.jpg" /></a>To know that this is deliberately exploitative, all you have to do is watch the Network announce the surviving X-Factor contestants each week, "in no particular order." <br />
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They hold the results of the very youngest contestants - 13 and 14 and 15 years old - until the bitter end. As each one is grandly announced, their result is held dangling and twisting over a chasm of silence as the audience waits and quivers in shared terror with them. Then, the names are read, one at a time.<br />
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Watch as 13-year-old Rachel collapses in breathless sobs on Simon Cowell's breast, barely able to stand. The heartless Simon, moved to tenderness, strokes her back and holds her till she gathers herself enough to walk off stage. <br />
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Watch as 15-year-old Drew chokes on her own tears, clutching her shirt as she staggers off in a combination of shock and relief, not yet sure of her joy in it all, moaning.<br />
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You can't tell me that isn't staged to deliberately squeeze and wring the softness of their youthful hearts, bruising them just enough to entertain us.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFdL4tfk5h3Ub4N9CNseDVv51Z7khaKwjqo8-_Yyr_JNdUq6lqhO-tvzgJtuSBX3eoXMhQnSz_DQuioc0P8QKBRz5B-GZuL7PX0fJlVSgr-QC7-z9eMRAYu__nehV8oc2uCNBxsETobpl4/s1600/Astro+rapping.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFdL4tfk5h3Ub4N9CNseDVv51Z7khaKwjqo8-_Yyr_JNdUq6lqhO-tvzgJtuSBX3eoXMhQnSz_DQuioc0P8QKBRz5B-GZuL7PX0fJlVSgr-QC7-z9eMRAYu__nehV8oc2uCNBxsETobpl4/s1600/Astro+rapping.jpg" /></a></div>Astro stumbled, God bless him. He needs an afternoon reading the book of James, not to face his own shame on national television. <br />
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We and the FCC and LA Reid and Simon Cowell, and every other grownup within reach, deserve a horsewhipping for allowing a Network to do him that way, for allowing him to stand there in the first place.<br />
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But not Astro. Astro simply deserves the gift of time with his mom, another couple of years to grow. Most important, he deserves to be GUARANTEED, by the very industry that tried to eat him alive, that he will have a place among their brightest stars one day - when he's old enough. And when that happens, we need to be standing there, forgiving him.</div>Sylvia Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07072854262445202538noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7930791855767070749.post-57401761326226305972011-11-13T11:31:00.000-08:002011-11-13T12:48:40.860-08:00On being a free radical: thoughts from a Teen Mania mom<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I am a former Teen Mania mom. I shall preface my further thoughts on that with a few musings.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgziM2-6dKws34MSyoIk0OOIj_ayHQ0hpkkAoBQitDJJRtYblHPQHDabaYFrXLF9AAwV7svp07vMhTEmqFK7oo5lL_n6JmKiXDdvX_u0XnX95pGg6pqbaiqiz_qKgY9y886Wmrc9LZegEff/s1600/HA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgziM2-6dKws34MSyoIk0OOIj_ayHQ0hpkkAoBQitDJJRtYblHPQHDabaYFrXLF9AAwV7svp07vMhTEmqFK7oo5lL_n6JmKiXDdvX_u0XnX95pGg6pqbaiqiz_qKgY9y886Wmrc9LZegEff/s1600/HA.jpg" /></a></div>First, I missed you all last week. I failed to blog because I was busy working on losing my home, a very 21st century boomer thing to be working on, I'm afraid. This, too, will be a blessing.<br />
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As a result of and in spite of losing my home, I'm free today, thank you Jesus. I will now not have the encumbrances of crushing financial obligation, heavy repairs, yard maintenance, refurbishment, or other such earthly chains on me when I retire in two years. I can very simply go back to my roots in the San Francisco Bay Area, if I time my lease right.<br />
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That's the free part. And yes, I'm still a radical in many ways, too, albeit lost temporarily in the Great Central Valley of California. Like free radicals which are found in the wild, my nature is to drive processes, regulate them, or flip them on their ear till they're free-wheeling in black space. Sometimes, I get trapped in a box. <br />
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I'm a mom. I'm a born again Christian. I'm a hippie. I'm a pro-lifer. I have run for office. I'm a Democrat, sometimes. I support PFLAG. Nuff said. <br />
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If you have any further questions, link up with my main character, who lives in my novel <i>Corners</i>, blogged in full below, from bottom to top.<br />
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Back to business. As a former Teen Mania mom, I was dismayed when I found I had missed last week's MSNBC special, "Mind Over Mania," especially now that it has been pulled down from You Tube. My daughter saw it, though, and she had a few things to say about it. From what I have heard, the special reviles Teen Mania without mercy. I will have to see it one day to decide for myself what it does.<br />
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My daughter was class of 2006 from Teen Mania's Honor Academy, the focus of the MSNBC documentary. My son was almost, within two weeks, class of 2007. They had very different experiences, my daughter and son. In the end, I believe both benefited from it greatly, in radically different ways. My son may tell you different, but the best part of him has Mania written all over it.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjRshmvEKHXLw4iMPF3MVZIxNCxRbhXeuLWSCT3tVMzUPJLazOyjzp8e288CbPvMIma4YZVpYwH7TO-e-1z2AXsutmFmsjwVtTftAAyWXg8m4RlUI15X7dy13auOuL2siGyoWX2A6C9BcU/s1600/rings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjRshmvEKHXLw4iMPF3MVZIxNCxRbhXeuLWSCT3tVMzUPJLazOyjzp8e288CbPvMIma4YZVpYwH7TO-e-1z2AXsutmFmsjwVtTftAAyWXg8m4RlUI15X7dy13auOuL2siGyoWX2A6C9BcU/s1600/rings.jpg" /></a>The Honor Academy (HA) is the youth-driven engine behind the traveling teen revival, "Acquire the Fire," and the worldwide missions program "Global Expeditions." Run virtually exclusively by kids between the ages of eighteen and twenty-four (there are usually no more than two people older than 24 on the 400-student campus at any given time, and those two are nearly impossible to reach), the isolated HA campus possesses an aura, even an undergirding value system, of radical youth, much like the communes of the '70's that my cohorts and I frequented in our younger days. And these kids are <i>radical</i>, know it - souled out believers in Jesus Christ, and they are as youthfully human as the day is long.<br />
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We learned of the HA at a packed Acquire the Fire (ATF) event at Sacramento's Arco Arena, on one of those junkets my church used to roll out to in the '90's and early 2000's, my Sequoia stuffed to the gills with youth of every stripe. ATF is designed, staged, recruited and put on the road by teams of youth, your kids and mine, who have signed on for a one-year stint or more at the HA. My daughter was ATF Call Center when she was there, my son Global Expeditions (GE) Call Center. HA interns do everything from recruiting and deploying missionaries and youth pastors, to booking speakers and musicians, to rolling out buses filled with intern cast and crew. They stage hand it, act it, clean it up, fundraise it, train it, acquire passports and visas for it, you name it. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5IMXWz5hfq1xv4vNY1OejPK8yX8n5skRutQyv8v8SktD3xcupqhEKfn0IjbeCsPvOo_2Hm-XnV4OPC6oc5FsMr9XKY-46XTNUye4h1lJHq6aoB0R661QaX3vA6ZHaqYbF6z9n49YLmUaT/s1600/battle+cry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5IMXWz5hfq1xv4vNY1OejPK8yX8n5skRutQyv8v8SktD3xcupqhEKfn0IjbeCsPvOo_2Hm-XnV4OPC6oc5FsMr9XKY-46XTNUye4h1lJHq6aoB0R661QaX3vA6ZHaqYbF6z9n49YLmUaT/s1600/battle+cry.jpg" /></a><br />
They have a Teen Mania Board and donor list studded with the greats in modern Christian leadership to back them up every step of the way, too. Endorsements come from the likes of Jack Hayford (Former President of the International Church of the Four Square Gospel and now President of The Kings University), Josh McDowell, TD Jakes, Randy Phillips (Promise Keepers, President), Mike Bickle (Director, International House of Prayer), Joyce Meyers, George Barna. And the list goes on.<br />
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The Honor Academy campus is located in pretty doggone deep East Texas, about forty minutes east of Tyler between Van and Lindale, out in the land of unannounced hot August T-storms. It is the former home of legendary worship musician Keith Green, a man known to many as the daddy of modern worship. Green was killed there on his own airstrip in a small plane crash, still young and at the peak of his career. The Vineyard Church which he helped inspire, now a denomination found in places across the country, remains a Sunday morning destination for HA interns to this day.<br />
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Ron Luce, a born-again believer who grew up raised by Jesus with no earthly father figure, acquired Green's property and converted it into the HA, which features brick buildings constructed to withstand the rural East Texas winters, and a miraculous monster pool featuring a towering water slide and recreation area. The "Back Forty" is acreage on the property using for trainings and exercise, as well as for meditation. The Back Forty is where ESOAL (Emotionally Stretching Opportunity of a Lifetime), the activity now made infamous by the MSNBC special, takes place each year. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTNdIVICByZr1UYO_dWhI6nlYeCfkJm_eVM4Xj-63Ke1ZmSpb-Ln3skE5qJzoy7XlJBIQH-pNimhVNUtF0vwgE-G1G1lWJzBKXsmOW9hLn__mbH3Ec1pWYib83BouW_IfdQDtjj1GcCqCt/s1600/ESOAL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTNdIVICByZr1UYO_dWhI6nlYeCfkJm_eVM4Xj-63Ke1ZmSpb-Ln3skE5qJzoy7XlJBIQH-pNimhVNUtF0vwgE-G1G1lWJzBKXsmOW9hLn__mbH3Ec1pWYib83BouW_IfdQDtjj1GcCqCt/s1600/ESOAL.jpg" /></a>ESOAL is something like boot camp - REAL boot camp, without the bullets. There is mud. There are blisters. There are teams charged with surviving together and pulling buses out of the mud with nothing but boards and ropes and each other. In ESOAL, they become prepared to be missionaries in the field, to find their way home with no direction, to literally carry their crosses beside one another, to be humble. In ESOAL, they know exactly who has their back and exactly who holds them accountable. It is only one of the many stretching experiences interns sign on for when they enroll. My daughter made it most of the way through ESOAL, but rang out at the disgusting food opportunity. My son had to opt out of the whole thing for health reasons, and his reasons were honored.<br />
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During my daughter's ESOAL experience, Hurricane Rita hooked northeast right into their event and dumped buckets of rain, then fizzled. I remember watching the white whorl on the Weather Channel and praying. They marched on.<br />
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This is one of the times when the grownups show up, and there they stay for the duration.<br />
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At the HA, you commit to a code of honor. You promise purity while you are there. No smoking. No drinking or drugs. No inappropriate fraternizing with the opposite sex. No lying, cheating, stealing. No internet. If you fall, you are honor bound to confess first to God and then to the Honor Council - the Council is kids, true - who will make a recommendation on your behalf about what is best for you. These recommendations can be harsh, no question. <br />
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I have grieved over many of the recommendations - precious young men and women sent home for kissing. A downtrodden street child who had paid his own way and now glowed from head to toe with the Holy Spirit, sent home for sneaking a cigarette. A boy almost at the end of his year, sent home for reading his lessons from the forbidden internet instead of from the book. Still, all of these young people had ridden the edge before. Many more were forgiven and given study activities or work detail to help reset their habits.<br />
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During my son's year, he struck out on a driving trip to Arkansas with a fellow intern, keeping a promise to visit a childhood friend who also had wanted to attend the HA. The only problem was, there was a tornado watch in effect. Somewhere around Texarkana, his car spun out along with about three other cars, fishtailing and whipping around 180 degrees, then sliding sideways and slamming into a road sign against the passenger door. As he told it to me from his cell phone at the roadside, his door had simply popped open and he was standing on the road, absolutely safe, he knew not how, beside his car when it was over. And so was his friend Oscar, somehow. Saved by grace? I believe so, as does he. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvVeltbdhVhrHnia7bsomw5eTI4t9_p0ewkCv0UbPGeRtuWbEUGwufb6lHii7fWeD-cFxzmuxb6bazZ7lmHi11yjlXfJFPjTxngEKT4g9jIkJGRHjfBBULsHeOpvHCDhTWihrtTazlcnpf/s1600/HA+prayer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvVeltbdhVhrHnia7bsomw5eTI4t9_p0ewkCv0UbPGeRtuWbEUGwufb6lHii7fWeD-cFxzmuxb6bazZ7lmHi11yjlXfJFPjTxngEKT4g9jIkJGRHjfBBULsHeOpvHCDhTWihrtTazlcnpf/s1600/HA+prayer.jpg" /></a><br />
My daughter believes she was similarly blessed while out there. A big rig apparently passed through their car from its right to its left as they rode in the left lane on Highway 20 back from Dallas in the rain, three little girls crammed in the back seat reading their Bibles. They were sure they would die. They are convinced of what they saw instead, all five of them.<br />
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Is Teen Mania a cult? I have several rules for declaring something a cult. In a cult, the leader declares himself Lord. He stops at nothing to keep you tied to him - lies, theft, denial of your basic human needs. Nothing is voluntary. The leader wants your very life, forever. A cult never ends. In a cult, you can't go home, because they will find you. In a cult, even your parents can't get you out without a paid kidnapper and a de-programmer.<br />
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Does Teen Mania engage in these practices? Absolutely not. Are the young people highly zealous in their pursuit of recruits, and highly zealous in holding them accountable once they are there? To be sure. Highly.<br />
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Anyone signing up for the HA or an overseas mission who is younger than twenty-one should in no uncertain terms have a parent on deck who is prepared to step up and BE A GROWNUP; a parent who is ready to stay tight with the two grownups on campus, if you can find them (be ready to HUNT if necessary); a parent who is ready to send a car if possible, to send care packages, to send cash for sundries, to make sure the minimal monthly payments for food and lodging are attended to. Your child will need a parent who is ready to be there on the phone in the wee hours of the morning when your child's determination begins to flag, to assure him that he has your earthly love as well as the love of Jesus.<br />
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Yes, I am a former Teen Mania mom. I will be the first to tell you that Teen Mania is not perfect, because nothing earthly is perfect. It is a radical experience, no doubt. But then, that's how we roll, my babies and I. That's how we roll. Radical to the bone.</div>Sylvia Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07072854262445202538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7930791855767070749.post-68281313106375613882011-10-30T13:06:00.000-07:002011-10-30T13:30:24.566-07:00Chopped: Cooking for the 21st Century Boomer<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">If you're a boomer (and you probably are if you're reading this), you certainly watch the Food Network, at least occasionally. And if you watch the Food Network, you have probably seen the cooking contest program, <i>Chopped</i>.<br />
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(Digression: How does this relate to <i>Corners, a novel</i>, you ask? Answer: Shelley was the deli girl, remember? She created gourmet catered dishes out of her imagination from almost nothing when she was a school girl. But then I am not Shelley - at least not entirely =) Still, Shelley grew up to be a boomer, didn't she? Hmmm. Back to business.)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfdPUb0Eaxa_ALqmHhaLtcTt86S7B7vYWkkBIC1_WM314gAXArkUNfx7So9OK81-UcGrX6vqGnocJtUv4ZQ7JL_SCoT2wNg55aAfD17DkpszHN3pmW-OdkS2qvn4ZYzpO-tExJZGOZ4EWh/s1600/chopped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfdPUb0Eaxa_ALqmHhaLtcTt86S7B7vYWkkBIC1_WM314gAXArkUNfx7So9OK81-UcGrX6vqGnocJtUv4ZQ7JL_SCoT2wNg55aAfD17DkpszHN3pmW-OdkS2qvn4ZYzpO-tExJZGOZ4EWh/s1600/chopped.jpg" /></a></div><i>Chopped</i> always features four real life, better-than-the-average-bear chefs competing against each other for $10,000. Each week there is a winner, and sometimes, at the end of the season, they have a really big contest in which all of the weekly winners get together and cook their socks off really fast, cut themselves, drop boiling water, curse, throw down their aprons in displays of poor sportsmanship, and compete for a lot more than $10,000. Now that's some good television.<br />
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In the course of these weekly rituals, the contestants are each given a basket with three or four "mystery ingredients." These they must include in their dishes or be chopped, unless one of the other chef-testants really screws the pooch and produces a dish of such horror that it can barely be eaten.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjD3v_G6WGO-_O-A4WtqztDUf6B54DCEQu61wT-ssMGCuFc391UBZq-JQXKZ7oCWVZQ0jxZ7wXXY2-W2R1qH0zK8MKEMGTQ6gDuBmi1VF8WFae5xsAVlEnGJSgvw1J2n6NKxzG1gTStYL6/s1600/brains.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjD3v_G6WGO-_O-A4WtqztDUf6B54DCEQu61wT-ssMGCuFc391UBZq-JQXKZ7oCWVZQ0jxZ7wXXY2-W2R1qH0zK8MKEMGTQ6gDuBmi1VF8WFae5xsAVlEnGJSgvw1J2n6NKxzG1gTStYL6/s1600/brains.jpg" /></a></div>These "mystery ingredients" may include such things as durian, which is a fetid foul smelling tropical fruit; quince, brains, chicken feet, jelly beans, and whatever else the producers dug out of the sofa cushions. At the moment of tasting, the adventure comes in watching the judges approach the quivering morsels impaled on their forks as if they were eyeing a live possum at the end of an animal control stick.<br />
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There is an obvious application for the 21st Century boomer here. <br />
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As the housing market and the economy have gone SPLAT, we boomers just don't have the disposable income for fabulous gourmet cooking that we used to have in the 80's and 90's when we all learned to be foodies. Instead, while struggling to pay the monthly note on our underwater-and-drowning homes, we are digging in the sofa cushions to find ingredients for our evening meal. This is all while dreaming about the days when we used to moan and roll our eyes over gourmet take-out, or whip up a little butter and vanilla poached lobster tail or baby lamb chops rubbed with rosemary, olive oil and garlic.<br />
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We have a need to make our leftover lemon hard candies, year-old ground sage, and apple cider vinegar taste like Mario Batali prepared them right there in our own kitchen.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1AUy6HSKj92Qdc_leYK-64OtVIQur06xLgAtAyeqmBvPbOrcjtMUP7pOQnn5xWtkgcGM2sjxjYexnG58iy0dKDDZF10HGJ2zmZQYnLes6EdtlMWTha54xpfDWJnGJrukHBX9EZPQMYx_7/s1600/old+oranges.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1AUy6HSKj92Qdc_leYK-64OtVIQur06xLgAtAyeqmBvPbOrcjtMUP7pOQnn5xWtkgcGM2sjxjYexnG58iy0dKDDZF10HGJ2zmZQYnLes6EdtlMWTha54xpfDWJnGJrukHBX9EZPQMYx_7/s1600/old+oranges.jpg" /></a></div>So last night, in the spirit of <i>Chopped</i>, I honored my pledge to spend not one thin dime off the budget and raided my pantry. In it I found raspberry jam and about a half inch high of elderly crystallized balsamic vinegar. In the fridge, I found a skinny WalMart chicken and bag of oranges from September, soft but still useful. En garde.<br />
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The bird got marinated in the juice of all the oranges (they were actually pink inside, like grapefruits - I'm not sure why; maybe they were ossified grapefruits) along with a little chopped rosemary that grows by the front door, some sea salt and ground pepper; then basted with olive oil (giant tin can from Raley's - lasts forever and cheap) and a blend of the raspberry jam, balsamic, and some of the orange juice. Next, roasted the whole thing, cut in quarters, in an aluminum baking pan at 375 for about 45 minutes (just kept checking the thigh joints till the juices ran clear). Popped a couple of scrubbed potatoes in next to the pan, no foil, with a vent cut in the skins.<br />
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While it all hung out in the oven, I dug deep and found a can of refrigerator biscuits I had never used because I accidentally bought the ones flavored with honey. Sauteed some slightly wilted broccoli florets in a fry pan with a little olive oil and a shake of garlic salt while the biscuits browned.<br />
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</div>When I pulled out the bird, its juices, infused with sweet orange and rosemary, had risen about one third of the way up the pan and created an amazing simmer sauce - a little fatty, so I drained it - that left the bird succulent and redolent with chicken-ness. The oil, raspberry, and vinegar had developed a fragrant, crackly skin, beguilingly golden and flecked with berry seeds and herbal bits. Miraculously, everything hit the table at once. And everything disappeared down to the last crispy potato skin, laden with sour cream and dripping with butter, in less than ten minutes. Sigh. All that, <i>1408</i>, most of the family, and some Yellow Tail to wash it down. Foodie heaven.<br />
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Boomer-ism is about making it happen and letting the sun shine in, come what may, is it not? There's something about the chips being down that bring out the best in a boomer. What's your experience today? Are you up? Are you down? Have you turned that frown upside down? Share, and if you have a favorite sofa cushion recipe, share that too.</div>Sylvia Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07072854262445202538noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7930791855767070749.post-44278585641753228292011-10-23T12:32:00.000-07:002011-10-23T15:37:11.304-07:00Closet reality<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Now and then I watch one of those reality TV shows about people who hoard. I have to confess I can't watch them too long, though, because they pinch just a tiny bit where it hurts.<br />
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I have one closet in my house that I would consider a hoard. My children know about this closet, and they are nodding their heads and moaning in affirmation right now if they are reading this.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjerY5Sc_4zqoI__qXVjNshFHr7lGSybgAbaHf7NnltieCcuTWwifougiLuvYFtoJ_Hig3LXSb-grLbCNH949rpKY2zj7uhnyuzp_iBpuv_F1Efd6H6PiF8lbje79hUHQ-ghlp3C6QssR6P/s1600/hoard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjerY5Sc_4zqoI__qXVjNshFHr7lGSybgAbaHf7NnltieCcuTWwifougiLuvYFtoJ_Hig3LXSb-grLbCNH949rpKY2zj7uhnyuzp_iBpuv_F1Efd6H6PiF8lbje79hUHQ-ghlp3C6QssR6P/s1600/hoard.jpg" /></a>This closet contains certain of my garments that date back to 1990. For those of you who are old enough to think that sounds like yesterday, it's actually 21 years ago. This same closet contains virtually <i>all</i> of my garments dating back to 1994. There are teddy bears and other stuffed items that belonged to my children when they were little, too, from the late 80's.<br />
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Wow, you may say. I bet that's a lot of garments. And why back to those particular years? What the heck?<br />
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First of all, cut me a little slack here, because it's only one closet. So let's move on to the details now, in a general kind of way.<br />
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1990 to 1994 were probably among the best years of my life, second only to 1974 to 1978. (That's one important reason why my first novel, blogged in full below, if you scroll a while, is set from 1974 to 1978. But I digress.)<br />
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Those were spaces in time - the late 70's and the early 90's - when I was entirely my own woman, free as air, relatively manless for the most part. <br />
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During those times, I was beautiful. This is not just me talking here, or my mother: I was, objectively speaking, clock-stopping gorgeous. Probably not coincidentally, I was also transcendently happy, in a clueless sort of way.<br />
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In 1990 for a few fleeting years, I was even chic, I am told. My skin was seamless. My eyes were bright. My hair was thick and full and fell into place. I was fit and trim enough for all practical purposes, as Emily Webb's mother would say, and aerobically fierce. I was powerful in my chosen field, and rising.<br />
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I think I stopped throwing clothes away when I first knew my life was not going to get any "better" for a while. Granted, my life did not get any worse, either, at least not at first. But in 1994, I will suffice it to say that I got . . . caught up. There is no finger pointing here. This is my fault. I was a big girl and had full knowledge. But get "caught up" I did, and thus began a sad, gradual descent that took almost twenty years to get in check.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAp-Lcz2UBxV4rg6QaOSHA2-7E4S2Ppb-9rSAVbvO7TBbdYzTipEYz6Q02nqtWhYhad0KA80fo0kYxbwAtTEmPXu6ksFpKAfczGZUHg_PGB48fVqIoVmw7_dUyslKITOVkGHMZIdhdQ4wy/s1600/tulle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAp-Lcz2UBxV4rg6QaOSHA2-7E4S2Ppb-9rSAVbvO7TBbdYzTipEYz6Q02nqtWhYhad0KA80fo0kYxbwAtTEmPXu6ksFpKAfczGZUHg_PGB48fVqIoVmw7_dUyslKITOVkGHMZIdhdQ4wy/s1600/tulle.jpg" /></a></div>So I have every single garment I ever bought from 1994 to today because 1994 was the year the slide began. That was the year my hair went white. That was the year I started imperceptibly gaining weight, little by little. That was the year that surprise, then denial, then sorrow, then bartering, then anger, then resignation started gaining ground - one by one at the molecular level, seeping in like tulle fog on a Merced October morning. <br />
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Oddly, I have always been resilient and astute in almost all other things during these many years, as those who know me will tell you. But in this particular fog-machine area of my life of which I speak, I have lived gobsmacked and blindsided past all recognition all these many years, and all the while working like a mule. Go figure. Am I sorry I did it, sorry I hung in? I can't say that I am - while there was not what I can name as "happiness" in it for me, at times there has been the satisfaction that comes from labor well intended, and from that a deeper joy.<br />
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I did my level best in my ham-handed way, trying to please Him as I did; and He has said well done, and set me free.<br />
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Today, I'm going in with Hefty bags and cardboard boxes. I'm going to pack those garments out one by one, starting today, just the way they went in. I will pack out the party dresses from the beautiful years, the wedding dress from #2, the work clothes from when I was important and thin - all of it. I can do that because today I am free, from the inside out, from the molecular level on up. One day in 1994, I turned a corner and stayed there for a really long time; but today I see a new corner, and I intend to turn it and run as fast as I can. That's all the detail anyone needs to know to get the gist.<br />
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Our hope lies in getting up and finding a new corner to turn the minute we get our wits back about us. That's what I'm doing today. I can feel my wits, and they are razor sharp! Praise God!<br />
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Do you have your wits about you today? Please share. God bless, and happy cleaning.</div>Sylvia Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07072854262445202538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7930791855767070749.post-59751249171303685002011-10-16T15:43:00.000-07:002011-10-16T20:28:25.038-07:00By the skin of our teeth: San Francisco's deadly dance with Jim Jones<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It has now come out that Jim Jones, the madman who lured nearly a thousand people into the Guyanan jungle to ultimately face their deaths 33 years ago, was likely orchestrating a 9/11 like attack on San Francisco before his reign of terror came to an end, stopping the plot. A link to an article which reveals this is posted to the right.</div><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5UusBN6UOJFece1RXswMai0VbVdWvkhPbuMTWvk-ArCVg-ChAZkZpnXcrjJXL7a2fw1RLM2hFBHDDdrspp_7CC1vSuigUisbquNBBZPjR8JIW_r8aaZktWoERKhkZ91WxQc5VIVv-aEoT/s1600/SF+skyline.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5UusBN6UOJFece1RXswMai0VbVdWvkhPbuMTWvk-ArCVg-ChAZkZpnXcrjJXL7a2fw1RLM2hFBHDDdrspp_7CC1vSuigUisbquNBBZPjR8JIW_r8aaZktWoERKhkZ91WxQc5VIVv-aEoT/s1600/SF+skyline.jpg" /></a>According to reports from a witness to the plan, he had sent a highly placed Temple follower to flight school in Oakland to learn to fly a commercial jetliner, just well enough to steer it after murdering the pilot and taking over the cockpit - but not well enough to land it. His intent had been to load the plane with some 200 Temple leaders whom he saw as defectors, allowing them to think they were simply on a chartered commercial flight for the day.<br />
<br />
Thank God his plot did not have time to hatch, killing potentially thousands along with his own leadership. Still, more than 900 individual American souls were lost in their place on November 18, 1978, on Guyanan soil.<br />
<br />
The 33rd anniversary of the Jonestown murder-suicide tragedy is rapidly approaching. Survivors, family, and friends will gather at a recently dedicated memorial in Oakland to pay respect and remember, and to mourn. The memorial is a milestone in itself, taking decades to get approved and to build.<br />
<br />
Jonestown remains a subject that many don't want to hear about, or read about, or think about. I am often asked, why on earth did you choose to write a novel with a central plotline that features Jonestown? Who would want to read such a thing?<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwHrLftZZ_Nt-ODvNbPO2jG3BHDhdRj3okAXh1QZ30YyGJx2pWgQ-ziDE25GBokfyVr0MVYzwYNPKNAvH1ucAENxyLEmP-NKyTA4-Ubpbliam0uqrL4wTy3M23UrLBHD4VKSbRKXGZXPwa/s1600/Jones+the+speaker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwHrLftZZ_Nt-ODvNbPO2jG3BHDhdRj3okAXh1QZ30YyGJx2pWgQ-ziDE25GBokfyVr0MVYzwYNPKNAvH1ucAENxyLEmP-NKyTA4-Ubpbliam0uqrL4wTy3M23UrLBHD4VKSbRKXGZXPwa/s1600/Jones+the+speaker.jpg" /></a>Jonestown is remembered largely as a suicide, although more than half of the people present that day were murdered. More than a third were infants or minor children killed at the hands of their own parents or guardians. Many more were shot or injected with poison into their backs when they refused to drink from the vats of cyanide prepared for them. By labeling Jonestown a suicide, in effect we blame the victim. Why on earth would we want to do <i>that</i>?<br />
<br />
Whether we like it or not, we carry guilt, those of us who were nearby and didn't notice what was gravely wrong. We carry guilt for what happened that day, and in the many dark days before. <br />
<br />
We had made the Peoples Temple a part of our Bay Area power structure. Jones himself was chief of the Housing Authority for the city of San Francisco. His Temple attorney was a deputy in the City Attorney's office. Jones rubbed elbows with the soon to be assassinated mayor and Supervisor Harvey Milk, as well as with Willie Brown and Joseph Freitas and Richard Hongisto. Indeed, he helped them all get elected, with his Temple soldiers managing and manipulating multiple registrations to individual voters sufficient to swing the vote. With their own attorney in charge of the Voter Fraud unit for the City, an investigation of the matter resulted in not one conviction.<br />
<br />
We loved Jim Jones. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVf5MpE1woHAsxtcmwMEhVQmgAIMkcEBn6BZlz5iX7PRNTyMbTeakrmzWFECoTc5HsBfF1Ao4GcERK5loZH1Pld57l2yqNLvxJRMHxTAzd85ahTjLfEdOlhqMqJ89t4Iz3GcDmYJ6womcG/s1600/jonestown+babies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVf5MpE1woHAsxtcmwMEhVQmgAIMkcEBn6BZlz5iX7PRNTyMbTeakrmzWFECoTc5HsBfF1Ao4GcERK5loZH1Pld57l2yqNLvxJRMHxTAzd85ahTjLfEdOlhqMqJ89t4Iz3GcDmYJ6womcG/s1600/jonestown+babies.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jonestown babies in the nursery</td></tr>
</tbody></table>And all throughout that time, his people were hungry, oppressed, corporally abused, even drugged. They were brainwashed and robbed, taken in from the street as they hit bottom and manipulated into his grip, then harvested of their worldly goods for his gain. They were taken off to the jungle, unclear any longer on what was right and what was wrong, divested of their passports and social security checks and their jewelry. <br />
<br />
Many had been manipulated into signing over their homes to Jones, having been targeted using information he gathered through his position with the city. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho2NAQ0P8w_kWfsVliBm2HWpEKlhB8RtnoslOqM3-bg9OhkCQcvq_sJwL4LtgohOXXTHOOw9R5EYvuKjxy8H316pYT8uckowDX20oSUbppnxA8jhkDhS-KRinynwemANxUZ3FgrFXeWwyW/s1600/Jones+Moscone+and+Mondale" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho2NAQ0P8w_kWfsVliBm2HWpEKlhB8RtnoslOqM3-bg9OhkCQcvq_sJwL4LtgohOXXTHOOw9R5EYvuKjxy8H316pYT8uckowDX20oSUbppnxA8jhkDhS-KRinynwemANxUZ3FgrFXeWwyW/s1600/Jones+Moscone+and+Mondale" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">l to r, San Francisco Mayor George Moscone, <br />
Jones, and Vice President Walter Mondale</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Some of them, mainly the poorest of the poor, had been divested of their children, convinced to sign them over to Jones for adoption. He corralled many more from the string of foster homes and group homes he ran through the Temple. The ones most in his control - the ones Jesus would call the least of these - were stranded overseas, hungry, cold, wet, tired, and overworked. It must have seemed to them as if it all happened in a dream.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXV6qW061Wkh5kXyzoTGb5QLvXck5Sx4VV-lvfrNmxTXTQpFwfAUdC68owalfdx5SqruorIPwd2gO0B3irgOWL6lOD2P6lLHEmpuCW9GEQMj3L99MwnBrw85rBwKHUK78yrE6Q_qc_nztw/s1600/Jones+and+children.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXV6qW061Wkh5kXyzoTGb5QLvXck5Sx4VV-lvfrNmxTXTQpFwfAUdC68owalfdx5SqruorIPwd2gO0B3irgOWL6lOD2P6lLHEmpuCW9GEQMj3L99MwnBrw85rBwKHUK78yrE6Q_qc_nztw/s1600/Jones+and+children.jpg" /></a>What would WE have done in their place? None of us really knows. It's ever so much <i>cleaner</i> to remember it as a suicide and call them crazy. It can't happen here; it could never happen to me.<br />
<br />
But guess what. It DID happen, and it could happen again. We all bear responsibility for what happened out there. As an electorate, we are lazy, uninformed, and complacent. We need to step up and manage our own communities, roll our sleeves up and get in it with our own hands. This is America. Our government is supposed to be our own. We need to own it.<br />
<br />
I wrote about Jonestown because as a girl I briefly knew someone who was there, from the early seventies through to the very worst of it. And I knew her just well enough to know that she meant absolutely the best she was humanly able to mean at the tender age of nineteen. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZwWjJuniozcd-M0uNbFQNlagKWJz2VZmYeq7Ix6pRqExBkisARyPzrAqJdvcdWMkDrKzCLJ268wsEdMy2Gagfmw1YiWzvd4DdEqsHG1bG1XVP2DT3Q_VTg9-jy3FtQt-Z0GKbMIMMLGkf/s1600/Jonestown+daycare.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZwWjJuniozcd-M0uNbFQNlagKWJz2VZmYeq7Ix6pRqExBkisARyPzrAqJdvcdWMkDrKzCLJ268wsEdMy2Gagfmw1YiWzvd4DdEqsHG1bG1XVP2DT3Q_VTg9-jy3FtQt-Z0GKbMIMMLGkf/s1600/Jonestown+daycare.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jonestown pre-school</td></tr>
</tbody></table>She worked herself into the ground trying to improve lives, not end them. She wore herself out before she was old enough and wise enough to know what hit her. In a lot of ways she was just like me. The only difference was the church she landed in.<br />
<br />
I knew her just well enough to know that she did not deserve to be demonized, because she did not have the ABILITY as a very young lady to singlehandedly steer the behemoth that was the Jim Jones empire in a different direction. It was just too late by the time his leaders - handpicked for their lion hearts, their broken lives, and their ignorance of human evil - grew up enough to sort it all out. Like all victims, she may believe it was her fault. If so, like all victims, she is wrong.<br />
<br />
When children are led by evil, their values fail. His leadership was comprised of children, and we as a community failed those children by elevating Jones to the highest posts we could offer. If you think nineteen-year-olds are not children, just remember yourself at nineteen. Now imagine yourself alone on the street, and a nice pastor offers you a warm bed and something to eat. You can figure out the rest.<br />
<br />
We NEED to think about Jonestown because it could happen again, and because the dead deserve to be remembered with respect. A Temple survivor I have come to know, Teri Buford O'Shea, has written a book of poetry which she had to self-publish because mainstream publishers wouldn't. I don't need to tell you why she had to self-publish. You know why. You owe it to those who were there to LOOK at it, especially if you were a voting citizen of San Francisco when it mattered, like I was. There's a link to her website to the right, and I hope you will explore it. Teri speaks in a 2008 interview for MSNBC below.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/h6cWT9RMk24?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
I wrote a book with Jonestown as a central plotline because having brushed up next to it, it haunted me, and it haunts me still. Overall, the book is not about Jonestown, per se. The book is really about being lost, and being afraid, and finally finding your way home. It's a book about me, and you, and us. If you are a boomer, or if you are a survivor of anything at all, or if you want to be a survivor of the state you are in, you owe it to yourself to try it. <br />
<br />
My book is blogged below from bottom to top, like blogs are read. I also urge you to view the 13th Annual Jonestown Report, published by the Department of Religious Studies at San Diego State University, linked at the right. There you will also find - among a depth of outpouring from survivors, family and friends - my reflections on writing <i>Corners,</i> along with its last chapter.<br />
<br />
I want to hear your thoughts about Jonestown. Do you ever think of it? Why, or why not? I hope you take a moment to remember.</div>Sylvia Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07072854262445202538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7930791855767070749.post-64899066880737838472011-10-09T16:36:00.000-07:002011-10-09T18:01:51.858-07:00Two-and-a-half-glass-of-wine rant: Shelley's kids fail to launch<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">If you know my main character Shelley (<i>Corners</i>, a novel - right? Blogged below), then you pretty much know me as I was when I was a kid - although I am not entirely Shelley. Not entirely. :)<br />
<br />
You know, then, that I'm a boomer. And I think popular wisdom tells me I'm supposed to be disheartened because my two adult children (a twenty-five and a twenty-three with pregnant fiancee) live at home. <br />
<br />
KIDS: if you're reading this, you'd better read the whole thing before you get mad at me. So keep going.<br />
<br />
Now, back to business. <br />
<br />
However, my feelings are exactly the <i>opposite</i> of disheartened. In fact, I'm glad they're still home, my kids. This is why.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsBSfsc-JLAkvtfnZazCaSONl2iiGeSgtscVP3Y3SqPAZA64vx_03oYRRhM7WFBckobbi0IJMICAWGuXK_2HhTNwtwUcEkSIpAZeVOvUQxJRu2WCMX8r9xY1QfG1vxkAKkvBNbAYF9jNQ0/s1600/pendulum+ride.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsBSfsc-JLAkvtfnZazCaSONl2iiGeSgtscVP3Y3SqPAZA64vx_03oYRRhM7WFBckobbi0IJMICAWGuXK_2HhTNwtwUcEkSIpAZeVOvUQxJRu2WCMX8r9xY1QfG1vxkAKkvBNbAYF9jNQ0/s1600/pendulum+ride.jpg" /></a></div>Every so often, in a national way, the really big pendulum swings. We go from boom to bust, from comfy to chaotic. We prosper. Then stuff happens, maybe a war or a "military action" or an energy crisis, perhaps all balled up together. Economic pressure happens, sometimes suddenly; then, <i>splat </i>(we usually call that a crash, or some other painful term). We recover, after what seems like forever, but it's not forever, really. Prosper a little, then a little more. And the beat goes on. Splat.<br />
<br />
Since no two things that happen are exactly the same - not in the wild cycles of nature, in economics, or in anything else - no two <i>swings</i> are just the same either. Still, the circle only seems to tighten, with the energy crisis and then the crash of '79, then again in '87. The real estate crash of 1990. The bottom of the housing market in 2008. I'm not an economist, but this is what I've <i>felt</i> over my ever lengthening life. Splat.<br />
<br />
On top of this repeating revolving (ow - torque) economic canvas dances the human painting, creating and recreating itself before our very eyes. When the crucible heats up, the culture changes. And right now, the crucible is hot, and some of us are melting.<br />
<br />
Now, my generation - we are boomers, and in our youth we were many. We grew up in a time of prosperity. So as a nation populated mostly with prosperous children, we as a nation questioned the system. We could afford to do this, because we were financially comfortable, largely employed from an early age, not desperate. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9ewzLg-j3fq-gQE8Sa7aQJ2SSW4_DU5L_A-0BGGLjWF2xwluz0GlrwuzVsMXvmxhYssQRtNSE3LjVkzfnTe7eOo-DSwtotvB6dwomV0q1ixDcGOrOIZSANYrC9dulSbJqDA9za1wiha1M/s1600/steven+jobs+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9ewzLg-j3fq-gQE8Sa7aQJ2SSW4_DU5L_A-0BGGLjWF2xwluz0GlrwuzVsMXvmxhYssQRtNSE3LjVkzfnTe7eOo-DSwtotvB6dwomV0q1ixDcGOrOIZSANYrC9dulSbJqDA9za1wiha1M/s1600/steven+jobs+2.jpg" /></a></div>So we questioned "the man," and his fairness, and we believed in our capacity to <i>make</i> things fair through the work of our own hands. We engineered the technology that allowed for the birth of the information age, and then we gave it to our children to push it out to the next level. People may not connect boomers with the techno era, but hey, Steven Jobs was my age, God rest his rebel soul (loved him). So is Bill Gates.<br />
<br />
But did we really make the difference we wanted to make? Are <i>people</i> really different? Are the systems we live in really different, more <i>fair</i>: the economic system, the judicial system, the public services systems, over it all our system of representative government? <br />
<br />
Is prejudice dead, or does it live on as an arm of the system? <br />
<br />
Do the children, the sick, the helpless, the hopeless, the disenfranchised have an even chance at improving their lives, or do the systems we've created <i>keep</i> them pressed to the mat, instead of freeing them?<br />
<br />
The economic crucible is hot, and getting hotter. It's time for change. And I think I see it coming, and wonder if it's just me. I smell it in the wind. <br />
<br />
I hear it in my twenty-something children's beliefs about government, right and wrong, fair and not fair. They and their friends are fascinated by the sixties, the seventies, and all that they implied. Hollywood and fashion, which belong to them now, are equally fascinated with those times, and reflect these things back to them as with a mirror held up to their fascination.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvXjLCZYOOvJXEZt6C6laliTErKXYVpsS-BaLdJzd00Tcq_lBArd9h4OQLiLLbdhLta7AnBA7cBbiB55DVVUZs6PoU4MnROnKK_chuf5n9Xv0-jZpiM9DOObm0MjZ7XU6lcRPTlLGY-8tc/s1600/depression+jobless.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvXjLCZYOOvJXEZt6C6laliTErKXYVpsS-BaLdJzd00Tcq_lBArd9h4OQLiLLbdhLta7AnBA7cBbiB55DVVUZs6PoU4MnROnKK_chuf5n9Xv0-jZpiM9DOObm0MjZ7XU6lcRPTlLGY-8tc/s1600/depression+jobless.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joblessness in the Great Depression</td></tr>
</tbody></table>These "children" struggle economically - unlike us as children - for obvious reasons. They can <i>smell</i> the disdain of the small percentage (most of them my age) who already have theirs - the ones who have theirs and will pay to buy the vote that keeps it that way. This minority of oldsters and their minions will exploit the very information highway X-ers and Millenials have laid, and buy the very media system we built for them to lay it on, to keep what they have in their own aging pockets, and keep the system structured so the young and disenfranchised stay pressed to the mat.<br />
<br />
I believe this new group of young people is not going to tolerate it, this locked system that has a huge membership fee and a secret handshake. We raised them not to tolerate it. They are not worried about staying pressed to the mat because they don't buy the system's right to keep them there, nor do they buy that they have a requirement to acquire a membership card. <br />
<br />
Sure, there may not be real jobs out there right now. But they are ready to opt out if they have to, open their own small companies, educate themselves in the trades they need to do it instead of in the liberal arts colleges that have fueled the system at its worst. They are ready to change jobs if the jobs they have don't meet their needs, to train and retrain, and to work more than one job if necessary to feed their dreams. They are about start-ups, entrepreneurship, individual fulfillment and freedom. They are about survival, and sticking together with the team they have brought with them on life's highway.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/P7ECdYboOVA?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
We boomers can take pride in the fact that we gave this generation the tools to take it to the next level: we gave them all of the information they need to get to the heart of what is true and fair at their fingertips, <i>whenever</i> they need it; all of the information they need to redesign their lives over and over again as many times as they want to, <i>whenever</i> they need to. All that, and guts. That is their power, and I don't believe that even those of us who handed them that power appreciate the drastic difference that these things will make in their lives, and in our world.<br />
<br />
Most important, they also know that we, their boomer parents and all that entails, will not fail them in these times, and they rely on that fact. Does that smack of a "me" generation? Maybe, but I'm not sure I have a problem with that, because for them, me means <i>we</i>, much more than it ever did for us boomers, aka the divorce generation. I sure hope they do that part better than we did, no kidding.<br />
<br />
Will they ever launch? God, I hope so. Really, I know so. But if my house, when I am ninety, turns out to be filled with family that spans over three generations, I know I will count myself blessed.</div>Sylvia Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07072854262445202538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7930791855767070749.post-35723454160173936002011-10-02T15:15:00.000-07:002011-10-02T15:30:07.301-07:00Becoming Dorothy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I was not at all surprised when I talked about "The Wizard of Oz" in my sophomore English class the other day, and found that all of my students had not only seen the movie, but they knew all of the characters, <i>and</i> what each one stood for.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixyHMUqX9Vgq_oGU88rx5ofYCKReHZb38Tk6XR1MfRehGFczlHvMEWhkGatWV7TmI0FodsLHsz-d93L32NN-KUJ6bTxM8xOIkIV_1qOqrCn-FEP2oJuKjRvIZQ0yE6vrryDRnvp4JN7gjr/s1600/oz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixyHMUqX9Vgq_oGU88rx5ofYCKReHZb38Tk6XR1MfRehGFczlHvMEWhkGatWV7TmI0FodsLHsz-d93L32NN-KUJ6bTxM8xOIkIV_1qOqrCn-FEP2oJuKjRvIZQ0yE6vrryDRnvp4JN7gjr/s1600/oz.jpg" /></a>Most of my students face daily - what shall we call it - complications, since I teach at a community day high school (expelled students, struggling students, foster children). If you've been following this blog, then you know that my main character Shelley and I are both teachers (well, she's an aspiring teacher) who innately need to care for lost and hurting children. Some might think that my students would have missed this historic staple of Hollywood film in the confusion of their everyday lives. But in fact it was instant connection for them.<br />
<br />
I knew they would know.<br />
<br />
The Wizard and his pals have become iconic characters who reflect our greatest fears and our wildest dreams, both waking and sleeping, just as they lived in Dorothy's dreams. <i>Everybody</i> within striking distance of a television, some 70 years later, has dreamed that dream, that nightmare, with Dorothy. Who doesn't have somewhere in his life a Scarecrow, a Tin Man, a Cowardly Lion? Who hasn't been pursued by the Wicked Witch? Who hasn't craved the loyalty of an intrepid Toto? Who hasn't felt abandoned and homeless? Who hasn't aspired to be the brave and confident Dorothy, and find her way home?<br />
<br />
If you've seen it, then you know that "The Wizard" (1939) explodes suddenly into Technicolor out of the black and white mist when Dorothy lands in Oz. That moment gained it the reputation of being the first Hollywood film to use technicolor, even though that honor actually goes to "The Toll of the Sea," a silent film (1922).<br />
<br />
So what was it about that color sequence that makes us think of it as the<i> first </i>color moment ever?<br />
<br />
Because when Dorothy stepped out of that broken house onto those gleaming bricks, surrounded by Munchkins, she shed the dark threatening skies of the Great Depression, just as her country was doing in 1939, and walked into the true light of family, friendships, home. <i>Just that way</i>, we can still today step into our own true light with her, out of whatever dark reality we may find ourselves in. Out of the darkness, into the light, and home. We can, if only we know where home is.<br />
<br />
I have always though of myself as Dorothy, a little lost, but basically in charge of my own destiny. I have marched - no, skipped - bravely out of whatever my train wreck du jour happened to be, trusty partner of the moment by my side, flawed friends in tow, loving family awaiting me when all was said and done. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdzxeFsuHpUCWpS3O5SXtj5XCDKjGogJ_nn_b7QhvtvlXwCXtGMNowyveHIpeIUG5Gn_hKm76H6dZaIRWMn6ZkFqGNv3G6QlvxfsLnBV3qqY5XGzRBlongNCH7Uzq0kzNnEeNZg_ZGW2L2/s1600/ruby+slippers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdzxeFsuHpUCWpS3O5SXtj5XCDKjGogJ_nn_b7QhvtvlXwCXtGMNowyveHIpeIUG5Gn_hKm76H6dZaIRWMn6ZkFqGNv3G6QlvxfsLnBV3qqY5XGzRBlongNCH7Uzq0kzNnEeNZg_ZGW2L2/s1600/ruby+slippers.jpg" /></a></div>I guess I expected all of my students to know they were Dorothy too, and that all they had to do was click their heels together and they would be home, because they had it inside all the time.<br />
<br />
But then the class set out to journal and reflect on the question, Which character in "The Wizard of Oz" am I? And I was surprised to find that they don't feel like Dorothy at all, with the exception of one extraordinarily brave girl who has one of the lowest flashpoints and highest IQ's I have ever seen.<br />
<br />
I should have known this too.<br />
<br />
Instead, one wrote that he feels like the Tin Man, because his heart is dried up inside. Another is the Scare Crow, because he just <i>knows</i> he isn't smart (he's dead wrong). Too many girls are Glynda, the Good Witch of the North, because they're in charge of taking care of every single person in their lives, except themselves.<br />
<br />
One is the Cowardly Lion, because he's afraid whenever he goes out walking.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/dbN0sgUnsM4?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
But I know that REALLY all the time they are Dorothy. They DO have it all inside - I can see it there, but they cannot. You know it's in there. I know it. But how do we get <i>them</i> to know it? Right now they're fifteen, and they are stuck. And for so many of them, it's SO VERY HARD to believe that they will ever, ever find their way home, wherever that is, whatever it looks like.<br />
<br />
Every day I think on this, and every day I try my best to bring some vision, some image of the world outside their window, so they can see that <i>right now</i> each grade they earn, each thing they learn, is a clicking of their heels. If only they could see . . .<br />
<br />
So help me here - what are your thoughts? What can we bring into public school classrooms that will conjure the ruby slippers for each and every child? You tell me.<br />
<br />
</div>Sylvia Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07072854262445202538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7930791855767070749.post-65475721120317278912011-09-25T15:38:00.000-07:002011-09-25T15:40:47.399-07:00What kind of change? You tell me.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">So in the spirit of <i>Corners</i> (and if you haven't read it, it's blogged below, from the bottom to the top), what would Shelley do about the American public school system? <br />
<br />
Fasten your seat belt, because as reasonable and naive as Shelley may appear on the surface, she is still at heart a radical for social justice, in her own way.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsd8cJPqg83FK8plhlf7vQwH5iCdXScpBJVCNTcJzCjhe7U-lzGM3zfsM9ZDN4XLLAuseVzdGm0MjBysv-SBL8Iuo6yP8woU-D8MJUYslHvZYgjmXzA2RecDb7ZuYLq_UI8S_YMWcwtH5n/s1600/Beneath+the+Wheel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsd8cJPqg83FK8plhlf7vQwH5iCdXScpBJVCNTcJzCjhe7U-lzGM3zfsM9ZDN4XLLAuseVzdGm0MjBysv-SBL8Iuo6yP8woU-D8MJUYslHvZYgjmXzA2RecDb7ZuYLq_UI8S_YMWcwtH5n/s1600/Beneath+the+Wheel.jpg" /></a>By now, Shelley would be a teacher, probably of troubled teens. From her very tiny window which is a classroom, she would see a thing that extra high-uppity-ups in the school system try very hard not to see: she would see the place where the grinding gears of the federal, state, and district systems meet and mandate her to death, such that she cannot respond, for the very control of it all, to the daily small things that make or break her students. She would see what Hermann Hesse wrote about ever so long ago in his book "Beneath the Wheel." <br />
<br />
Sigh - some things never change.<br />
<br />
And how would Hesse describe the purpose of schooling as he knew it in 1906 Germany? Here he described his experience:<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #fff3db;">"</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #fff3db; color: #29303b;">What would many happy citizens and trustworthy officials have become but unruly, stormy innovators and dreamers of useless dreams, if not for the effort of their schools? In young beings there is something wild, ungovernable, uncultured which first has to be tamed. It is like a dangerous flame that has to be controlled or it will destroy. Natural man is unpredictable, opaque, dangerous, like a torrent cascading out of uncharted mountains. At the start, his soul is a jungle without paths or order. And, like a jungle, it must first be cleared and its growth thwarted. Thus it is the school's task to subdue and control man with force and make him a useful member of society, to <a href="http://www.surfcanyon.com/search?f=sl&q=kindle&partner=wtigca" style="border-bottom-color: initial; border-bottom-style: dotted; border-bottom-width: initial; color: #473624; text-decoration: none;" target="scSearchLink">kindle</a> those qualities in him whose development will bring him to triumphant completion."</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #fff3db; color: #29303b;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #fff3db; color: #29303b;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Beneath the Wheel</i>, 1906</span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">Right in the spirit of No Child Left Behind!</div></div><br />
<i>What would Patrick Henry think of No Child Left Behind?</i> But never mind, I digress.<br />
<br />
From her classroom, Shelley would see that there are two types of students in public school - students who "bring their own," and everyone else.<br />
<br />
The first type of student - or the one who would have learned anyway - was taught to read at home at an early age. This student loves reading because she first read in the warmth of her mother's, or daddy's, or nana's lap; and has now acquired many models of language which allow her to speak and write fluently, because she has continued to read so much, as is her habit. She is allowed to take richly, elegantly designed Advanced Placement courses (at least, better designed by comparison) because she is successful. She was successful on her first day of kindergarten, has received positive strokes for her success ever since (plus the reading and conversing lessons at home, as well as piano), and therefore is pleasant to teach and earns A's easily. This student never has to repeat classes because of failure, and therefore has time for every gram of enrichment the system has to offer, and therefore the greatest relief from regulation because most of her coursework flies high above the radar.<br />
<br />
The rest of the students are students who do not arrive reading as well, or as much; or who are just regular everyday kids whose parents both work till all they can do is lie down when they get home; or who have a single mom or dad, or are a foster child or an abused or neglected child, or any other factor that prevents them from achieving a seamless development of<i> internal structure</i> and <i>personal self control.</i> Both of these, structure and self control, are rare gifts for the young in this day and age. I believe they can be taught in public schools by allowing students to develop passion for what they do and a vision for their own future. But that's another story.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqAhQKYiwRCdw-_AQ1xPkbXWsFgitnm2oBjpkDrZ2kcvvwXk0_b2b8rmOGgKJnaaQdBzXCPyrzmO4OcY-nbGsrK8KF_xy8woBAGcJQiPafxatBPTfPUhRA5alun1HPS8I9qpY5j-AsPzk0/s1600/many+students.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqAhQKYiwRCdw-_AQ1xPkbXWsFgitnm2oBjpkDrZ2kcvvwXk0_b2b8rmOGgKJnaaQdBzXCPyrzmO4OcY-nbGsrK8KF_xy8woBAGcJQiPafxatBPTfPUhRA5alun1HPS8I9qpY5j-AsPzk0/s1600/many+students.jpg" /></a></div>If students are of this latter type - in other words, average kids - they will be treated to classes that are chock full of required learning standards. These standards will have been prepackaged in one or more purchased instructional programs, which must by federal, state and local mandate be "implemented with fidelity." This means you have to do it all, and in order, whether this package seems to be producing astute users of the content or not. Whether or not students are astute users will not be tested, at least not until the Common Core comes out (that might be a whole other blog, if you don't get bored). For now - that means today, for <i>your</i> kid - the standards will instead be tested by multiple choice, and therefore must be taught in a fashion which results in the proper selection of prepackaged answers.<br />
<br />
Believe it or not, most teachers rise above this by virtue of the fact that they "work in" richness and elegance to the program anyway. For those who won't, or don't know how, or who just don't come made that way, the only way to learn this skill of "working it in" is in proximity with other teachers who have "it," and who are patient and caring enough to share "it."<br />
<br />
As higher-ups consider this fact, it is not lost on them that their basic program is extremely dry and therefore does not result in retention of knowledge or depth of learning. So locally, teachers are mandated to include continual incidents of additional prepackaged "engagement" strategies called "pair-share," or "foldables," or "checking for understanding," all in a specific prescribed manner. Observers should be able to see "pair-share," "foldables," or "checking for understanding" going on, whenever they enter the classroom, whether it is a common sense time for such a thing or not. These strategies are expected to enliven the program, and create "sticky" places in the students' brains for the massive number of strategies they are learning to make a nest.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><object class="BLOGGER-youtube-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="http://0.gvt0.com/vi/si_MDwqA3Yg/0.jpg" height="266" width="320"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/si_MDwqA3Yg&fs=1&source=uds" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="http://www.youtube.com/v/si_MDwqA3Yg&fs=1&source=uds" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object></div><br />
Some of us - teachers - were chatting in the hallway the other day. We believe that since we have dramatically increased the use of "pair-share" and "foldables," our students seem more frenetic, less calm, less able to bring their minds around to focus on a concept with any depth. Hmmm. Who would listen to that? This year, probably no one. There's something more that's needed - we know it. But we don't have time to look for it, what with all the folding and pairing and checking and whatnot.<br />
<br />
So what is the moral of this story? This system - the big, sprawling American public school system - is alive, and it has a DNA. And it's DNA is programmed for CONTROL, unless you are a privileged child. This control ripples from the federal level and the state level down through the local level. The system is therefore locked, at all levels. Control is our practice. Fidelity is our mantra. There is no escape unless something very large happens that upends the whole thing.<br />
<br />
What would Shelley do? Shelley is honing her craft, and wants to be a professional teacher who develops students' minds. And she would have no idea what to do, because indeed it seems unstoppable. But she would sure start asking questions. So here we go.<br />
<br />
How do we change the school system so that ALL STUDENTS CAN LEARN? How do we empower teachers to make learning happen the ONLY place it ever happens - in the CLASSROOM, not in Washington, not in Sacramento, and not in the Board Room?<br />
<br />
What has to change? You tell me.</div>Sylvia Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07072854262445202538noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7930791855767070749.post-23670401008964634342011-09-18T10:55:00.000-07:002011-09-19T20:14:52.309-07:00Real life, not a book<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT6fJoxjNfWRczbWxTSOUAU0LpF8xFmLSLEswK1uNpk0A7EJ7V3xpYQvvWIehI9XyqSuVwBBgi77lhwL19z4u7gxPmgZKyp0TWQbUDzk6jOQh6quV2vOAEhlWmEf8TWFvd9s_zHhJGpsFR/s1600/merced+roadside" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT6fJoxjNfWRczbWxTSOUAU0LpF8xFmLSLEswK1uNpk0A7EJ7V3xpYQvvWIehI9XyqSuVwBBgi77lhwL19z4u7gxPmgZKyp0TWQbUDzk6jOQh6quV2vOAEhlWmEf8TWFvd9s_zHhJGpsFR/s1600/merced+roadside" /></a></div>About 7:30 each morning, I hear the buses pull up. They come from all over the east side of the county: Merced, Atwater, Livingston, and points in between. Places known for their poverty, low levels of education, teen pregnancy rate, gangs. We've been written up in the New York Times, the San Francisco Chronicle, the LA Times for these things. Now turn your thinking cap around backwards. We have also sought and won the right to be home to the tenth campus in the University of California system, a crown jewel of the American scientific research engine, and the planned home of a future medical school. We are strange, and we are beautiful, in my town.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9oGVXsx6dXwRvOW-cJEZE6uDk9JyfRNqU18rP9sZN-5OYoEuNIgLFJp-9aWCYe6lXU7DiDiONLNqmaLW06M86LjqjWM40Cj8rlL_KUrdDyRBAV5kiUPo_R2MtVUuNJ9_rjaCxi5oihoLH/s1600/michelle+obama.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9oGVXsx6dXwRvOW-cJEZE6uDk9JyfRNqU18rP9sZN-5OYoEuNIgLFJp-9aWCYe6lXU7DiDiONLNqmaLW06M86LjqjWM40Cj8rlL_KUrdDyRBAV5kiUPo_R2MtVUuNJ9_rjaCxi5oihoLH/s1600/michelle+obama.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Michelle Obama spoke at UC Merced's<br />
first graduation ceremony because students<br />
wrote her letters and asked her to come.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Our students, too, are different, and beautiful. My school, Sequoia High School, is a community day school, and is therefore more different than all the other differents. Secretly, I also think our students are more beautiful. <br />
<br />
Some of my students have been featured on A&E network's <i>Beyond Scared Straight</i>, the Corcoran Prison edition. All of my students' stories are varied and detailed, and I will not tell them to you, because in case they read this, I love them far too much to have them believe that I'm talking about them personally. But you can use your imagination, and it will not fail you. Start with foster homes and the statistics I gave you above, and you will arrive in the right places. You will be right if you conclude that some of them are grieving for parents and siblings and friends lost to indescribable violence, and some have children of their own. Some are expelled from regular schools because of things they've done. That's enough to know.<br />
<br />
So we're reading this book called <i>The Three Doctors</i>. It's part of a program called X-Treme Reading, and we are one of the only school districts in the nation - I really think the ONLY district, but I want to be sure so I don't exaggerate - that is piloting the program to the extent that we are. For this reason, important people at University of Kansas watch our progress closely and personally. <br />
<br />
Note - part of what makes us strange and beautiful: we have hard times, but we try REALLY HARD here. That's how we got the new University. That's how our Congressman (who grew up a little boy from Atwater) got one of our high schools $450,000 for an Engineering Academy, so our students can go to the brand new Engineering School at the new University. That's how Charles Ogletree and Daniel Silva and Bernard Berrian, and hundreds of Japanese Americans who were interned during WWII and then landed on their feet, came from here. Having hard times and trying hard.<br />
<br />
But I digress.<br />
<br />
We're reading <i>The Three Doctors</i>. The Three Doctors are real people who have been on Oprah. They grew up in New Jersey and were once little boys who had lives <i>just like my students</i>, and now they are doctors who have a Three Doctors Foundation, LLC, that helps kids see a better future. You can look at their pictures in the middle of the book and watch their faces and their postures change from streetwise and arrogant and scared, to distinguished and kind and mature as they grow up. My students want to know: HOW DID THEY DO THAT? None of <i>my</i> adults, after being a kid like me, grew up and did exactly that, they say.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><object width="320" height="266" class="BLOGGER-youtube-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="http://1.gvt0.com/vi/UYvzuub_cvE/0.jpg"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/UYvzuub_cvE&fs=1&source=uds" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="http://www.youtube.com/v/UYvzuub_cvE&fs=1&source=uds" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object></div><br />
Since we watched <i>The Freedom Writers</i> and are journaling our life stories in my class, my students asked me, why don't we write to the doctors and ask them to come see us? Even if they can't come, maybe we can talk to them some other way, skyping, or telephone. So we did. We wrote them letters, and we're mailing them next week after we've made them beautiful.<br />
<br />
On Friday we, my class and I, called The Three Doctors Foundation, LLC, on my cell phone, too, and I put them on speaker while I asked the lady there some questions. You could tell even from the other end of the line that she thought my students were very cool, because they were writing letters to these doctors she knows personally, right then and there while we spoke to her from 3,000 miles away. There was a twinkle in her voice that I know must have been reflected in her eyes, and you could hear the twinkle.<br />
<br />
But the best part was, even the very sound of her voice on the other end of the line made my students' eyes light up very bright, and hopeful. Even just the sound of her voice did that. <br />
<br />
So because of that, we really, really hope that we get to meet the doctors, or that at least we could talk to them somehow personally. We are going to work and beg and supplicate, and fundraise if we have to, and seek permission like crazy in hopes of making it happen. But even if we NEVER exchange words with the doctors themselves (but I believe we will, no jinx), the very act of TRYING HARD will have made a difference to my students. We are writing other letters, too, and <i>someone</i> who has tried hard and landed on their feet will come and tell us how they did it. And we will always have our effort with The Three Doctors to talk about, and how it made us think differently.<br />
<br />
By doing this, my students will have rewired themselves just a little to be bright-eyed and hopeful all the time, and to try hard every day. Maybe someday, ten years from now, they will remember that they journaled their life stories, and they will use their material to write their own book, <i>The Three . . .</i> I'll let you finish it. Or better yet, I'll let them finish it.</div>Sylvia Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07072854262445202538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7930791855767070749.post-89578771319742651282011-09-11T12:27:00.000-07:002011-09-11T12:44:32.391-07:009/11: We fall down, and we get up<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Facebook is filled with reflections this morning, this 9/11 day. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1G7U3f0AIq46lHvMOCOQFk1KD8tyiIg17ArqMLxC7uoI-8ejc4LAkVf-EwtSElYQObuIT8anBn8Zj3yez3a31LA5QMhNC9eQzDNeWlqZ8ExzweabIPTkRNtkAWPgQ1m7m1lpMt39l5Ke9/s1600/911+iwo+jima" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1G7U3f0AIq46lHvMOCOQFk1KD8tyiIg17ArqMLxC7uoI-8ejc4LAkVf-EwtSElYQObuIT8anBn8Zj3yez3a31LA5QMhNC9eQzDNeWlqZ8ExzweabIPTkRNtkAWPgQ1m7m1lpMt39l5Ke9/s1600/911+iwo+jima" /></a></div>This is evidence of what I love most about America - well really, Americans. We reflect. We ask questions. We speak freely. We rage, sometimes against the machine, and nobody stops us. We are <i>thinkers</i> because we are free to think our own thoughts.<br />
<br />
Yet even though we think our own thoughts, we hold the same <i>values</i> by and large, like all successful families do. We do this regardless of our political bent, regardless of whether or not we have succeeded in living these values. Faith. Family. Work. Others. Freedom. Country. <br />
<br />
America is also a <i>resilient</i> nation, on the whole. We are resilient individual Americans born of resilient stock. Otherwise, we wouldn't be here, in this place called America. In fact, there would be no America at all. When we fall down, we get back up. Either personally or with our families, either first in our generation or descended from a line, we have come, or been brought here, or been born Native into this earth and hung on here, because we are resilient. We are <i>all</i> descendants of a people who have survived great odds, wherever we, or they, may have come from.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjli1nOBE5FN6E0R48-Ik-f2Th5ftWlBkTKiLbk5zibKZOBu9l1erWlO_c_F685vcze8m8dm9zHd7mqZ3JBlaXUB7UqHD2Uerq2XqctoxB5-Yvcu46u6_1Y5I3-QAyvFStrVhH77WH3N22q/s1600/liberty+911" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjli1nOBE5FN6E0R48-Ik-f2Th5ftWlBkTKiLbk5zibKZOBu9l1erWlO_c_F685vcze8m8dm9zHd7mqZ3JBlaXUB7UqHD2Uerq2XqctoxB5-Yvcu46u6_1Y5I3-QAyvFStrVhH77WH3N22q/s1600/liberty+911" /></a><br />
And we continue to survive successfully because we are people of <i>action.</i> The common thread of our reflections, whatever may have come, is <i>WHY</i> are things as they are, and what am I going to <i>DO</i> about it to make it better? We talk it over, friends even sometimes without meeting. And then we take action, one by one, one at a time and together. We are people of action, we Americans, and we demand of ourselves that our action be for good.<br />
<br />
Josephine Harris, the resilient grandmother who survived Stairwell B, said once as she reflected on that day, "There was no time for cryin'." Time only for surviving, believing, praying, climbing, and living to bring hope to others. Time to lean on the gallant firefighters of Ladder 6, who ignored the grit in their eyes and their bruised and broken limbs and their own panic, and focused on saving Josephine and each other. <br />
<br />
Today, in remembering 9/11/01, there is time to cry, and there is time to reflect. We reflect on Americans at their best, Americans in the act of sharing values and surviving together, against all odds. To look terror in the face and to stand up anyway is the heart of heroism. That is what Americans do because it's who we are, and I thank God that I am a member of this family.</div>Sylvia Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07072854262445202538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7930791855767070749.post-82504868255116906672011-09-04T16:07:00.000-07:002011-10-16T17:24:44.842-07:00We get up<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">THIS MARKS THE LAST CHAPTER OF <i>CORNERS</i>, A NOVEL<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: left;">Excerpt from Shelley’s Diary<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: left;"><i>November 28, 1998<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">For some of us it takes almost a lifetime to grasp how precious life really is. It’s been twenty years now since we were twenty-five, since our lives turned the final corner from childhood to adulthood. And on that corner, we came face to face with the cold hard reality that the best of intentions and well-laid plans do not always produce the ending we would have chosen. Nevertheless, life is still good. I am thinking about this today, because today I went to visit Bob at Holy Cross for the first time. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7rv2ddONM0vox_HdRnpCLA9c5NPqqWk7VvyK023ljByWs07-4HgzN3_5Z6eFhbnp3bwqKBi7XOvM_VhMOTnu374owfscbFLh9g3Jete6ekx8BUzUxvwSyYORyIjUeIo5UiWedKwi3KTzE/s1600/holy+cross.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7rv2ddONM0vox_HdRnpCLA9c5NPqqWk7VvyK023ljByWs07-4HgzN3_5Z6eFhbnp3bwqKBi7XOvM_VhMOTnu374owfscbFLh9g3Jete6ekx8BUzUxvwSyYORyIjUeIo5UiWedKwi3KTzE/s1600/holy+cross.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">dacoach89, flickr</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Bob would have said that with faith, and hope, and love, we can find a much better ending than the sappy-happy, superficial ending we would have thought of for ourselves anyway, because faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen,<a href="file:///C:/Users/Sylvia/Documents/Corners/CORNERSWorkingEditorial2009.docx#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">[1]</span></span></span></a> greater things that are beyond our understanding. And love breathes life into that unseen substance. Bob lived that, every day of his life, especially in the latter days. Bob knew what love was. Love doesn’t play recklessly with the precious miracle of life. Love ministers and suffers and serves with a true and compassionate heart, a steward’s heart, the heart of Jesus. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">My Bob, my soul mate, has been gone a month now. Sometime in ’82 he got the same flu Bob Rizzo had, but not before our precious boy Robbie had been born, our baby who turned eighteen just this week. I have only God to thank that Robbie was born HIV negative, and I too remain so. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">After the flu set in, Bob embarked upon a long and winding road deep into the Way of greater things beyond our understanding (did I ever mention that <i>The Long and Winding Road</i> had been our song?). He became part of every field trial for every drug imaginable, and gave the villainous HIV a good run for its money, sometimes much to his body’s consternation. <o:p></o:p></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFJzgpINc-EbkfLneRSquD-UqAtMVdnP5Y8uUZ5uRFs6yndAVL3CtSP6t8ANKDMf0VBdlQ8R9Tx4TszhaAVagSqTTbmicwE7w9BBn53OuIAkvuEftXYpCB_a8xGGiJ8GRRmh2RBH3TQ0qI/s1600/aids+ward+eric+luse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFJzgpINc-EbkfLneRSquD-UqAtMVdnP5Y8uUZ5uRFs6yndAVL3CtSP6t8ANKDMf0VBdlQ8R9Tx4TszhaAVagSqTTbmicwE7w9BBn53OuIAkvuEftXYpCB_a8xGGiJ8GRRmh2RBH3TQ0qI/s1600/aids+ward+eric+luse.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eric Luse</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">But in ’94 they found a spot on his liver, and the war began in earnest, a war that would pull him deep into the wards of San Francisco General, waiting by the bedsides of the dying; manning the desk in the free clinic; being an anchor in AIDS support groups; bringing his humor, his hope, and his love to people who thought they had none. His hands became a blessing, just like Barb had told him they would be. His Dad would have been proud.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">But the last person I expected to see today was Bruno, off in the distance beyond a quarter mile of headstones, visiting our good friend George Moscone, the grave still heaped with flowers and gifts from those who came to pay their respects on the twentieth anniversary of his death yesterday. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">When I saw him, I stood quietly and stared, knowing that eventually he would feel my presence and turn to look at me. Sure enough, he finally turned, and we walked toward each other slowly among the rows, finally standing face to face. We hugged, and then just held each other. He told me how he had married Janet about 15 years before, no kids, and how he hadn’t bought that house at the bottom of my parents’ street to scare me. He had bought it because he had already picked it out anyway, for us to live in, for when he and I got married, so I could make a closer relationship with my parents. He was going to ask me to marry him the day I had walked out on him, but I hadn’t given him the chance. And he told me that he had never really shot anyone with the gun, but he surely would have, if I hadn’t reacted like I did that day. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/h3ewPHaPBfA?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br />
<br />
I told him how Bob and I had given birth to the most beautiful child ever to be born, a boy whose eyes undulated with all the colors of the earth and sky as his mood demanded. And I told him how I had, in the end, found someone to spend my life with after all, seemingly quite by accident, who was not the yin to my yang, the fire to my ice, like my Bob had been. Instead, he had warm, mysterious, soul divining Daisy eyes, just like mine, patient eyes that I could fall into and rest in, eyes that would stand in the gap to help Bob and Russ and I parent our child. And while we appeared to be polar opposites, we were in fact quite the same, driven leaping flames of perfectionism each in our own way, and this made our union the ride of the century. A perfectly fine ending even though I wouldn’t have thought it up by myself, now that I finally knew Who I needed to have along on the ride with me, now that I knew how to hear His Voice among the others, and how to forgive myself.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Graham married once, briefly, and never again, and remained a master of computer science and a corporate lifer, while maintaining his status as rebel art aficionado. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Jacki was haunted for years by government commissions and agencies, questioned until she had no more answers to give, and then disappeared into the mist to start life afresh, at first small and wounded and confused, and then rising up new and strong, serving the mentally ill and the homeless somewhere out there in parts unknown with a steward’s heart, while raising a remarkable daughter. She was a poet now, and stayed close to the true branch of the very same Christian church that Jim Jones had perverted in his Temple. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">And Barb and Yonas? After a stint in the Peace Corps, and three children later, they went to Ethiopia on a government project, putting their legal and engineering talents together to assure that communities have ample supplies of wholesome, clean water.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Pleased with how we found ourselves and our friends reflected in each other’s eyes, after all these many years, Bruno and I held each other again, there between the headstones, one last time. Then we stood back and took a good long look before we went our separate ways. One last time, his ice blue eyes warmed up just for me, and he mussed up my hair, saying, “Take care of yourself, bella mia. Un milione di baci.” And as he walked away, I could have sworn I heard him say, “Meep meep.” <o:p></o:p></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: center;">* * *<o:p></o:p></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: center;">ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">This book would not have been possible without the love, support, and discerning eye of my husband Bob, who faithfully read every word I wrote, even when it was produced at 2:00 am.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">For my children, Jenna and Steven, and for Scooter, and their friends, I have nothing but gratitude for their patience with my wild stories, the hours I spent with my face in the computer screen instead of with them, and my laughing jags.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">To my friend and mentor Judy LaSalle, a formidable writer, thank you for being a mirror to hold my work up to, day after day after day, and pushing me along when I couldn’t push myself.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">To those whose lives are reflected in this book, my endless love.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">I give special acknowledgement and undying respect to Dr. Fielding McGehee and Dr. Rebecca Moore at San Diego State University’s Jonestown Institute, whose massive, lovingly assembled collection of research and primary source documents is a miracle unto itself, and without which this book would not have been possible. Additional thanks to Michael Bellefountaine. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">And special thanks to Tehetena Girma, aka Queen of Sheba or MiMi G, of the Lion of Judah Society for helping to acquire translations of Mezmur 23 and the Lord’s Prayer from the original King of Kings Amharic, and for being excited about the possibilities of this book. Buruk Fiqir.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><br />
</div><div><br />
<hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" /><div id="ftn1"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Sylvia/Documents/Corners/CORNERSWorkingEditorial2009.docx#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 200%;">[1]</span></span></span></a> Hebrews 11:1, NIV Bible, Zondervan<o:p></o:p></div></div></div></div>Sylvia Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07072854262445202538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7930791855767070749.post-89621857265082820152011-08-28T11:58:00.000-07:002011-08-28T12:10:04.992-07:00Journey to the center of the earth<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center;">I</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR5WBi7Z-T90ji4ZbcYjPzCLAaVN3yVq182OwwU61VrqyIu38FIFVbgr8IftpA8nrxlY2Jo69BXX0nv-HtLveqo2B_6gwS-qB2YC1P-OgG4z5NeUah44vn0cqezIb-xYjyTPA1ObynWmKT/s1600/jonestown+delegation" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR5WBi7Z-T90ji4ZbcYjPzCLAaVN3yVq182OwwU61VrqyIu38FIFVbgr8IftpA8nrxlY2Jo69BXX0nv-HtLveqo2B_6gwS-qB2YC1P-OgG4z5NeUah44vn0cqezIb-xYjyTPA1ObynWmKT/s1600/jonestown+delegation" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joe Ponder, Pensito Review</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: left;">It wasn’t until after dark when the delegation arrived, and Roger was already exhausted from the intensive drilling they had been subjected to ever since the visit was confirmed. Jones’ endless chatter on the PA system had become white noise for him, punctuated now and then by one thing or another that caught his attention.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Just a few nights ago, for example, Jones had been carrying on, reading the news out loud and then ranting about it. Then, for a minute, it almost sounded like he was getting ready to sign off, way too early for his usual pattern. For a moment, Jones spoke thoughtfully, almost gently, and it caught Roger by surprise, but it was only a second or two before he resumed his rabid diatribe.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“I love you very much,” he had started, softly, ardently. “Stand true to socialism. It requires much sacrifice. I’m preparing to make great sacrifice. I know what it requires. I do love you.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Then as suddenly as it had softened, his tone returned to high-pitched and frantic, accusing Ryan of being a fascist and of backing the Pinochet regime. The ranting faded, and he told them again, gently, softly, that he loved them - very, very much. And then the chatter went back to normal. The strangeness of it had sent a chill down Roger’s spine.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">But that was Monday, and this was Friday, and the last of Ryan’s delegation had just gotten off the truck from the airstrip. There was no time for a chilly spine. Roger’s crew was on full alert, hanging back on the edge of the jungle and armed to the teeth, in case the sign was given that something unauthorized was going down. They had instructions to use all necessary force.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">But it looked like so far things were going without a hitch. Twinkle lights glinted in the distance like fireflies. Sweet soul music wafted out from the Pavilion, and after that, the upbeat tones of strangers on the microphone, praising the music and the ambience and recognizing that this place, this time, could truly be the best thing that ever had happened for everyone here. The cheering, the applause, was outrageous, endless, fanatical. The crowd, Roger could hear, was pumped, empowered.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">His heart ached, knowing that the scam was in action, still praying that someone would see, someone would hear, someone would tell what was under the surface. Praying that someone would come and rescue them, here and now. Please don’t leave us out here this way. Please.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">But then some news broke. Word got out to Roger and the others that Gadney had passed a note, and that some locals, including a policeman, had approached the media when they arrived at the airstrip, telling them about the beatings and the torture hole they had hidden at the edge of the jungle, the hole where they dropped naughty children, screaming into the pitch blackness where they said “Bigfoot” lived, as punishment. <o:p></o:p></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTv1eKn2eQluSXvUG0fpD7tMXTWS1wEup9RNDXVdNu6IoZCOtXuJG7wEUOBmjApNsc3XXJ1OmZcgb2iemOtuA-nI6FNn0bN1y8V1VKCRyvHHpqsbjkka2h5Pd4CQaiI-k3TD1bDkpKp_Nn/s1600/Jungle+b+%2526+W.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTv1eKn2eQluSXvUG0fpD7tMXTWS1wEup9RNDXVdNu6IoZCOtXuJG7wEUOBmjApNsc3XXJ1OmZcgb2iemOtuA-nI6FNn0bN1y8V1VKCRyvHHpqsbjkka2h5Pd4CQaiI-k3TD1bDkpKp_Nn/s1600/Jungle+b+%2526+W.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Simon Harding</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">The effect was electric, throwing everyone armed out on the perimeter into high alert. A few were called in closer by radio to be on standby in case anything went down that needed containing. But finally, the evening just came to an end, except for the fact that Roger and three others were to be stationed near the cottages where Ryan and his people were spending the night. This was nothing new for Roger, though. He was used to staying up through the night and into the next day. It was his job to be on call.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Besides, he was enlivened by the fact that Ryan and his people were still here at all. Still here. They were not yet abandoned, all hope was not lost, at least not tonight.<o:p></o:p></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: center;">II<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Sometime early the next morning, security got word that a group had escaped into the jungle along the railroad tracks near Matthews Ridge in the pre-dawn hours, unbeknownst to them, and were nowhere in sight. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Roger was thankful that he had been on duty at the delegation’s cottage and was not responsible for this lapse, because he was sure that, had he been on guard at that end of the compound, his diligence would have caused him to notice the defection. And he had now come to the point where he would have had to keep silent and let them go free at the risk of his own life. Quietly, he prayed for whoever they were, and that they would go the distance and find their way back home to their loved ones somehow.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">From Roger’s viewpoint, the day rolled on almost uneventfully, punctuated by alerts that the media had arrived, and then that Jones had released first one family and then another to leave with the delegation. A second plane had even been ordered. His hopes began to run high. But soon word came that these decisions were designed to buy time: no one was really to be released in the end. Things had officially gotten out of hand. By the early afternoon, Jones was sitting on a bench in the pavilion, confused, begging to be left in peace. Their level of alert was the highest.<o:p></o:p></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5ls_ZvJRisoJhzWAcdI3B-hwubD3wLptBGgzcZgo0vgK0oNMM8CzKogcHAGqO4uJr568uqh328CdPoMcaktswGqOOGRpiBaCmABMKRs6EJHnnWV9u9qWgyu6YPxv3u3xJg1cdPlomX7C0/s1600/lightning+bolt+night.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5ls_ZvJRisoJhzWAcdI3B-hwubD3wLptBGgzcZgo0vgK0oNMM8CzKogcHAGqO4uJr568uqh328CdPoMcaktswGqOOGRpiBaCmABMKRs6EJHnnWV9u9qWgyu6YPxv3u3xJg1cdPlomX7C0/s1600/lightning+bolt+night.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">krissyb</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">And then, out of nowhere, the sky went black. A somber rumbling rolled over the tops of the trees from a distance, and it came, gushing, hot and straight down from the mouth of heaven in a torrent, rain as if to end the world.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">And as quickly as it came, it stopped, leaving a damp discomfort behind it.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">About 3:30, major alerts started coming one after the other over the radio, and guards were being deployed in pairs: first a truck was headed for Port Kaituma airstrip with defectors and the delegation, following a melee out by the gate, families screaming and clinging to each other, divided in what they should do. Then Mother sent everyone to their cabins to keep order and an armed party was deployed to assist with that. From the airstrip again, Sly had tried to cut Ryan’s throat. Then Larry Layton, one of the defectors, opened fire inside one of the planes. It was hitting the fan. It was out of control. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Then came the news. Ryan is dead. Media are dead. Patty Parks, dead. Such a sweet lady, thought Roger. Such a sweet lady. The little girl saw. She saw her mother’s brain.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">And still Roger was out at the perimeter, within eyeshot of the Pavilion, where he had been since his night mission, waiting with his radio for directions. Waiting.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Then Jones came on the PA. The vats had been filled. This is not a drill, this is not a drill. Hope is gone. A few of his brothers were called in for assistance. He could see it coming together, his brothers pushing the mothers to inject the drink into their babies’ mouths, injecting it into their arms. Out of control out of control out of control. This is real. He could smell it. He could taste it. He was frozen. “Mother, mother, mother, mother, mother, mother . . .” came the voice, manic, despairing. Babies foaming at the mouth, children screaming, mothers wailing, old women being dragged to the vats and ordered to drink, those who wouldn’t injected in the back as they struggled. Those who slipped through the grasp of their captors and made the clearing, shot. Bodies dragged back to the Pavilion and arranged as if they had landed that way, naturally. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">And just as many simply took their cup, and drank, and then lay down for the last time, holding hands.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Unsurpassed evil. Incomparable suffering. My God, my God, why have you forsaken us? Why? Where are you? Roger dropped to his knees into the mud, warm wet patches spreading across the knees of his pants.<o:p></o:p></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgldu2cUJmfwo6TKFD4OWDKWNeMbKCjQrLlnYD6CXoCnUSP2faY9Axco6ZOXqjblI0oBFovFIbJbHcAzGTQ-FWP0Wxt9nBnn66SAKV5QDQSmnQSrqN4yWV1yo-j0JUcb6hnggraJxsRwJYW/s1600/green+aurora.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgldu2cUJmfwo6TKFD4OWDKWNeMbKCjQrLlnYD6CXoCnUSP2faY9Axco6ZOXqjblI0oBFovFIbJbHcAzGTQ-FWP0Wxt9nBnn66SAKV5QDQSmnQSrqN4yWV1yo-j0JUcb6hnggraJxsRwJYW/s1600/green+aurora.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stefan Kristinsson</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Then, beneath him, he felt a movement, as if a crack in the earth were moving toward him from a great distance. The earth became as warm as blood under his knees, and it rippled softly up and down, not jarring, but kind, like a mother rocking her baby. He felt drawn to look at the sky, and above him he saw a host of translucent, opalescent shapes, hundreds of shapes, nearly a thousand, knotted together, swooping, soaring, like swallows looping and diving as they return home at the start of a verdant spring, their faces fixed on the sky above them. Over their heads hovered a crown of tinier shapes, hot white points of light like fireflies mingling and rising to a supreme light above them, wings batting, now and then diving down among the others, kissing their opalescent cheeks with their wings.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Roger raised his eyes to the supreme light, the one that pulled the undulating shapes into itself inexorably, and opened his mouth. “Jesus,” he said. “I am,” the light replied.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Roger’s heart opened wide, and he felt words being gently mined from within it, rising into his consciousness like a song. “<span style="color: black;">To him the doorkeeper opens, and the sheep hear his voice; and he calls his own sheep by name and leads them out.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><span style="color: black;">Then, audibly, over the cries of the broken and the songs of the rising, over the opalescent forms still undulating overhead, a sound as of thunder rumbled from deep in the canyons of heaven, speaking words in a language no one understood - no one, that is, except Roger. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">“</span>Bemot t’illa mekakkel ‘inkwa bihêd: ante ke’inê garr nehinna kiffun aliferram, beterhinna mirkwizih ‘innersu yats’enannuññal: befeetê gebbetan azeggajehilliñ: bet’ellatochê feet lefeet; rassên bezeyt qebbah ts’iwayêm yetereffe neuw:: bechernetihinna mihiretih behiywetê: zemen: hullu: yiketteluññal; be’igzee’abhêrim bêt lezellalem ‘inorallehu.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Roger threw down his weapon and began translating desperately, arms in the air, screaming to a face that only he could see, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. Forever! Forever and ever!”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">A deep voice barked from somewhere downwind, “Take him out! Take him out!”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">A shot rang out, a flash of light, and then Roger was one, one with the opalescent undulation as it rose above the jungle floor, steam rising, waves of heat obscuring the sorrow, the grasping cold fingers of evil that pulled the curtain shut below them, blocking out the pain as they rose, at last one, for the first time really a family, into the arms of Jesus.<o:p></o:p></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: center;">* * *<o:p></o:p></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: center;"><i>Out there in the cold distance</i><o:p></o:p></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: center;">I<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“Bob?” I called. “Come quick. Quick!”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">I turned my back on the stove, leaving the green bean sauté to wilt in the pan, and ran to grasp the TV with both hands, as my secret part-time lover ran around behind me and locked his eyes on the set, his arms around me.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTKq9Yyaja7WeETXEoeaNmgFpw7meVRIAKzHnsgXk4ess7YfhMCYU46WQ-2cSCIY1I0fke1rlgKTP9ttpTP8s0vw7TPB-lYcIdAxF2LEV8u6rAQUPUJqYefyF0NGjrRmlFz0fyDREHCw6c/s1600/terri.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="97" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTKq9Yyaja7WeETXEoeaNmgFpw7meVRIAKzHnsgXk4ess7YfhMCYU46WQ-2cSCIY1I0fke1rlgKTP9ttpTP8s0vw7TPB-lYcIdAxF2LEV8u6rAQUPUJqYefyF0NGjrRmlFz0fyDREHCw6c/s200/terri.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">NBC</td></tr>
</tbody></table>“That can’t be?” he asked, yet still knowing, as he watched the hollow eyed, scruffy young woman, furtive and tired-looking, her hands cuffed behind her back, being pushed into a squad car, the officer’s hand on top of her head. “It isn’t . . .”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">I stood transfixed, my throat closed, a hot tear rolling down my cheek. All dead, they say. The children, they say.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“It’s Jacki. Jacki,” I whispered, ashen. And in my heart silently burned the words - Jacki, the friend we let down.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">We had known since October, when Bob had last seen her, that Ryan was taking a delegation to Guyana. I remembered my rooftop dream, flying above a crown of lush green. The bodies. And then Jacki, kissing her fingertips. “<span style="color: black;">Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face.” </span> Quietly, Bob squeezed my hand and breathed in steadily, out softly.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">And across town in their Potrero Hill apartment, Barb and Yonas, their eyes rimmed with red, so near to us yet so far away, were absently picking at their dinner while their baby ate heartily. They had known since early that afternoon that something was seriously wrong. Yonas had come home early, and he and Barb had prayed clear through until they could pray no more, while Amira was napping.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">And somewhere across town, Ray and Bruno stood side by side, afraid to look at each other, and wept.<span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 7.5pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: center;">XIII<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">It hardly seemed any time had passed at all since the great hole had opened up in the world. Still, only days later, Bob and Russ and I found ourselves standing together amidst a cluster of patrons at Toad Hall and watched still another hole ripped in the firmament, right there on national television, ripped right down the middle of where it all began. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">My mayor was dead, shot, and Harvey Milk with him. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwVuPmKyB1MHjkGYpsQ26IMtTaKGxyjYK7DGX9r-DIss9p9nVqhUV0_z2uhM00VBZVB0fIzkcedkslnU9QbKej5KMZ-7zMzEVTahRjnrK5kqPr2Dz_qU0oemlc9b4JPhIPoN041zP2aIxe/s1600/milk+moscone+feinstein.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwVuPmKyB1MHjkGYpsQ26IMtTaKGxyjYK7DGX9r-DIss9p9nVqhUV0_z2uhM00VBZVB0fIzkcedkslnU9QbKej5KMZ-7zMzEVTahRjnrK5kqPr2Dz_qU0oemlc9b4JPhIPoN041zP2aIxe/s1600/milk+moscone+feinstein.jpg" /></a></div>And there was Bruno, standing inside the flickering box behind the gallant Feinstein who stood in the gap, blood still on her hands from where she’d held my mayor’s heart together gamely as long as she could. There was Bruno, weeping as if his heart would break.<o:p></o:p></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: center;">XIV<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">So came childhood’s end. Each of us had struck out on our own and landed in some corner of the universe. We had experimented with flight in our unique ways, and had found the height at which we fell from the sky, wings dripping with wax, a few of us even learning to correct our course before we crashed to earth. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">And we had discovered that the best answer to gravity was to embrace it with arms open wide, digging deep into the earth instead of fighting it – holding on to each other, staying rooted and deep until a day came when we would rise up together without trying, opalescent and undulating, effortless and free, into the light. <o:p></o:p></div></div>Sylvia Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07072854262445202538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7930791855767070749.post-28531439267494461242011-08-21T09:12:00.000-07:002011-09-05T23:34:02.115-07:00Out of the frying pan<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: left;">Excerpt from Jacki’s Diary<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: left;"><i>March 14, 1978<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Pam Moton signed the open letter to Congress today outlining our frustration with being constantly under attack. Jim and I and Stokes really wrote it together, but it needed to be signed by one of the membership. <o:p></o:p></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnZjvjL8nz0fIulH312-zN8Xz72HkWnUXM26XWdwbCi1Z_pI9zuq5TdZHBvFvggfaJiC_yIkOLUVw547By3-lqeFxoD_n0QG2Wdw8LiNifZSGdYVLqJSvJsWs6UJ5qRCwilA_5fRTc2O0w/s1600/dark+jungle+by+joe+maccar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnZjvjL8nz0fIulH312-zN8Xz72HkWnUXM26XWdwbCi1Z_pI9zuq5TdZHBvFvggfaJiC_yIkOLUVw547By3-lqeFxoD_n0QG2Wdw8LiNifZSGdYVLqJSvJsWs6UJ5qRCwilA_5fRTc2O0w/s1600/dark+jungle+by+joe+maccar.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dark Jungle - Joe Maccer</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">It covers a lot of important points, including HEW withholding Social Security checks from our members, and the FCC’s interference with our radio communications. It also exposes how Cartmell and Cobb, the defectors, threatened to use their connections in the IRS and FCC to “starve us out.” Obviously, it’s a conspiracy.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">We let it be known that we’re frustrated enough to look for a socialist nation to take us in if it comes to that, even though what we really want is just to do our work in peace and stay right here. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">We finally came right out and said that we’re devoted to the decision to die rather than to be harassed from continent to continent. So the gauntlet’s been thrown down. Now they need to back off. At least that’s how I feel today. Tomorrow may be another story. I don’t oppose using a death threat to gain the upper hand, but I won’t support actually doing it. We’ve come this far, and I don’t like losing.<o:p></o:p></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: center;"><i>April 12, 1978<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">It was inevitable that the defectors and the Concerned Relatives would make a counterattack to our statement, and they have. They marched into the SF Temple today and delivered a stack of accusations, with affidavits from Katsaris (Maria’s dad) and Yolanda Lunsford. I knew we should never have let Lunsford out. Their accusations are outrageous. Still, some of them are true. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Katsaris’s statement said that Maria sounded like she was being “controlled” when he talked to her over the radio, and that she was being prevented from accepting his visits. He ought to know her well enough to know that nobody controls Maria, except Jim himself. Face it, your daughter doesn’t want to see you. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">He also said people called him and told him it would be “dangerous” if he came to Guyana, and threatened to burn down his house. Well, that’s what you get when you try to force yourself in where you’re not wanted. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">The Olivers attached a statement, too, saying we took their children while they weren’t looking. Those children are nearly grown men. She got the court to order that we send back the seventeen-year-old. Of course we didn’t do it. Those boys are doing fine here.<o:p></o:p></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBeDMSm2-uvUF9JteymzrcVVBirHG5-URI4XBDvR81ZcWXlY69AKgCrYQh07lOdH6G5oXhqlQ6oQXXFkdoPvjate6O79mnU5LUuFal0dosASrON1qaHZ4MjaNsLFLvSHNCX49mrdMnpxy0/s1600/Jim+Jones%252C+roger+ressmeyer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBeDMSm2-uvUF9JteymzrcVVBirHG5-URI4XBDvR81ZcWXlY69AKgCrYQh07lOdH6G5oXhqlQ6oQXXFkdoPvjate6O79mnU5LUuFal0dosASrON1qaHZ4MjaNsLFLvSHNCX49mrdMnpxy0/s1600/Jim+Jones%252C+roger+ressmeyer.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jim Jones - Roger Ressmeyer, CORBIS</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">There was nothing in the pile from the Schoenfelds except their signatures on the petition, but I know they’re at the bottom of this somewhere, them and Katsaris. The Schoenfelds think they’re dedicated to getting John Robert back, but when it comes down to it, they always leave him behind, don’t they? There’s no way Jim Jones is going to give up his son. Tim Schoenfeld signed over paternity to Jim a long time ago. If the court doesn’t agree, we can take care of that, too. We have plenty to say about Grace Schoenfeld and what kind of a mother she is.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">I think the Mertle’s are involved in this somehow, too. We’ve always told them, and now they’re going to see why they’d better watch their backs. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">They’ve got a whole section in their statement about us being devoted to our decision to die. I keep trying to get Jim to backpedal on that. Even though he might think he could really make us do it his way, there are enough people here in his inner circle that are sane enough that we would never let anything like that happen. We could talk him out of it if we had to. I’m sure of it.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">All of the stuff they said about us keeping people from using the phone and censoring the mail, that’s all true. It’s a necessary evil. There’d be anarchy out here if we didn’t control communication, so I don’t apologize for it. <o:p></o:p></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: center;"><i>April 18, 1978<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Harriet went on the radio today to counter the Concerned Relatives’ threat to hire mercenaries to get their people out. What if their people don’t want to go? They say they’re ready to illegally enter Guyana and use armed attack and kidnapping if necessary. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">We’ve notified the President and the State Department and whoever else would listen, looking for a sympathetic ear. Harriet’s involvement is going to be critical in gaining their support because she has a law degree, but she’s also a member who’s lived it with us.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">She did a great job, the way she worked in references to the Freedom Riders and Martin Luther King, and saying we would never march into their gas ovens. She even quoted Patrick Henry: give me liberty or give me death. How ironic, the words of the ultimate patriot ringing against the fascist behavior of his countrymen.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">While she tempered it this time, she really emphasized our willingness to die again. That is going to come back to bite us in the end. Talking about death got quite a reaction last time. I keep telling them, but they don’t listen to me. So finally I just let it go, and keep my mouth shut. <o:p></o:p></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: center;">* * *<o:p></o:p></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: center;">IV<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">About an hour after Yonas got home, the phone rang. He and Barb looked at each other, and she nodded over to him. He should be the one to get it.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">He picked up. “Yonas speaking.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“Hello, Mr. Berhanu? My name is Grace Schoenfeld. I’m with the Concerned Relatives of Members of the Peoples Temple. Marshall Kilduff told me you were looking for an advocate for a Temple member in Guyana.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">He took a deep breath. “Thank you so much for calling, Mrs. Schoenfeld. Are you the same Grace Schoenfeld who was interviewed for the New West article?”<o:p></o:p></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWV2pUrLk3aLfF_OIv3WN9GBg8QHTeDQ_qUOYONnPQm1MtBrpYjulVl4QGNEBEaB4Y9YMAgpu_M6Ty1xWtC50Q4LdRTBylpLmjkVfAoDyj02i2QKRlF_4Fnm9vMjoaMcJ0eMxqRaC2UsqN/s1600/John+Victor+in+Jonestown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWV2pUrLk3aLfF_OIv3WN9GBg8QHTeDQ_qUOYONnPQm1MtBrpYjulVl4QGNEBEaB4Y9YMAgpu_M6Ty1xWtC50Q4LdRTBylpLmjkVfAoDyj02i2QKRlF_4Fnm9vMjoaMcJ0eMxqRaC2UsqN/s320/John+Victor+in+Jonestown.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little boy trapped in Jonestown</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“I am, one and the same. But please call me Grace. My six-year-old boy is in Jonestown. Jim Jones claims that John Robert is his son, but that isn’t true. We had a bench warrant to get John Robert back, but somehow Jones and his people got it rescinded, and we haven’t made any progress since.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“I’m so sorry to hear that. Please, call me Yonas also.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“Alright, Yonas. How can I help? Do you have a relative in Jonestown?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">And so Yonas told Grace all about Roger and the letters he had written to Barb, and Grace gave him background on the Concerned Relatives and their plans. It seemed that the Temple had sent a letter to Congress and declared their commitment to die for their cause. Having been a member of the Temple, Grace knew all too well exactly what that meant: revolutionary suicide, the Jim Jones way. Embarrassed and sad, she explained it to Yonas.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">So the Concerned Relatives had responded with a statement of Accusations of Human Rights Violations and had delivered it to the Temple in San Francisco, and to Congress and the State Department, with special deliveries to Dellums, Burton, and Ryan. Soon after, they, like the Temple, declared a commitment of their own: to use all possible means, including illegal entry to Guyana and armed kidnapping, to rescue their families. It didn’t take long for the Temple to respond. On an international shortwave radio frequency, amidst a flurry of rhetoric and accusations, they had reaffirmed their commitment to die. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Grace and Yonas agreed that she, Yonas and Barb would meet for dinner at Grace’s house the next evening and look at the letters together. When Yonas had hung up, he turned to Barb and shared with her what Grace had told him. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Pale, she took both of his hands, right there by the phone, closed her eyes, and raised her face to the ceiling. A compelling calm settled over the room, like a soft mist around their ankles, and a shaft of clear unobstructed velvet connection between them and the deep blue star studded night sky outside opened wide. Barb opened her mouth once silently, then twice, and a soft rush of breath came from between her lips. Then the words came, soft and round like volcanic stones, still warm from underground.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“Bemot t’illa mekakkel ‘inkwa bihêd: ante ke’inê garr nehinna kiffun aliferram, beterhinna mirkwizih ‘innersu yats’enannuññal: befeetê gebbetan azeggajehilliñ: bet’ellatochê feet lefeet; rassên bezeyt qebbah ts’iwayêm yetereffe neuw:: bechernetihinna mihiretih behiywetê: zemen: hullu: yiketteluññal; be’igzee’abhêrim bêt lezellalem ‘inorallehu.”<a href="file:///C:/Users/Sylvia/Documents/Corners/CORNERSWorkingEditorial2009.docx#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">[1]</span></span></span></a> <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">They continued to stand quietly for a moment, warm and safe and certain, and then they came back to themselves, their eyes locking.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“What did I say, Yonas?” she asked softly.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“You tell me,” he replied. “I think you know.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">She smiled.<o:p></o:p></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi__jb7XZbJL5KbdaPvpcLMfTDD6zWXs78fqCwuh8wMEDR4I407XPPpIb_nVDDxmdlsp47U6BdhtOrehSJMsII-mYxmz6HbQ95z2SrUT4Riw4pjolKHNRoYV7g1yPRvyNpQYtcnK49K5FQK/s1600/Spirit-of-Space-II_1024x768.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi__jb7XZbJL5KbdaPvpcLMfTDD6zWXs78fqCwuh8wMEDR4I407XPPpIb_nVDDxmdlsp47U6BdhtOrehSJMsII-mYxmz6HbQ95z2SrUT4Riw4pjolKHNRoYV7g1yPRvyNpQYtcnK49K5FQK/s320/Spirit-of-Space-II_1024x768.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spirit of Space - Kenneth Graunke</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“It was the last part of the 23<sup>rd</sup> Psalm, wasn’t it? Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”<a href="file:///C:/Users/Sylvia/Documents/Corners/CORNERSWorkingEditorial2009.docx#_ftn2" name="_ftnref2" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">[2]</span></span></span></a><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“Indeed it was,” he answered warmly. “What is very interesting, though, is that the Amharic is directly from the Haile Selassie Bible, the one Rastafarians learn. It’s the version Roger would know.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">The velvet connection opened over them again, but this time only His presence came, without the voice, except where it moved silently within them and mobilized their minds.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Barb spoke quietly. “Roger will hear this too, then, somehow. It will come to him when he needs it most.” They remained there by the phone until the hard edged atmosphere of the world came back in around them, and only the warm presence of Him remained inside, joining them invisibly still, animating them individually and together.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Hand in hand, they went upstairs for the night, and slipped into a restorative, dreamless sleep.<o:p></o:p></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: center;">V<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Barb and Yonas arrived at Grace’s Noe Valley apartment about 6:30, carrying a bouquet of spring flowers and a bottle of red wine. She lived on the first floor above the street, and had already laid out an aluminum pan of takeout lasagna and green salad on her large oak kitchen table when they arrived. She was the only one home.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“You brought wine! God bless you,” she said as introductions were made and she welcomed them inside, inviting them to sit on a mauve corduroy overstuffed divan in her generous bay window and taking the bottle into the kitchen to pour them a glass.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“I’ve moved out here since my husband Tim and I separated,” she called out from the kitchen. “We’re both back from Guyana now – for good – and we spend most of our free time working to get John Robert home. I’m sorry, Barb; did Yonas get a chance to talk to you about what he and I discussed last night?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“We did,” Barb replied. “I was very sorry to hear that your son is stuck out there apart from you,” she added, careful not to mention Amira, but thinking of her sweet face, thankful that she was safe at Grandma Berhanu’s house.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“Well, that’s a long story, probably more than you care to hear about, but it helps a lot that his dad is a terrific attorney. He used to be the attorney for the Temple, you know, and for a while he was the Assistant DA for the city of San Francisco. So if anybody can get John Robert out of that place, it’ll be Tim. He’s a good man, when all is said and done. And he knows detail about this situation that it would take anyone else a lifetime to figure out.” She came into the living room with three glasses of wine arranged in her arms and sat down with them. “Let’s sip and chat a little before we eat.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">She questioned them about Roger, how he got to Guyana and how long they’d known him, and asked if they’d brought the letters. Barb explained Roger’s Moonie and Rastafarian roots, how he had always been seeking a father figure, and how he’d just gotten out of prison when he joined the Temple. Then she took the letters out of her purse and offered them to Grace, who read them both start to finish.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">When she was done, she folded them back up, carefully put them in their respective envelopes and handed them back to Barb. She put one hand on each of her knees and looked down for a minute, appearing to hold back tears. Finally she looked up, a little flushed, but composed.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“You know, Roger’s experience has been so much like that of other young people who’ve gotten involved with Jim Jones. He’s been a seeker, someone trying to find himself, and someone who has both a heart for service and a spiritual bent. He was also just out of prison, so he was more than a little lost and confused. That’s often right where Jim Jones comes in.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCRlJ9_V1xRzDD0LPefiCiyAKVplAwQgPxKegW5H2tl4k-vu3x0CmXwDaJ_bVK1bPxq-F1x78fVi8P5U5EeMPWbp8alE-X_MuahjtkBT-OmLjPpBKqRjsQ6VIdRpDHrK2uW8vj3vPKnNkU/s1600/Jim+Jones+%25281%2529+Peace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCRlJ9_V1xRzDD0LPefiCiyAKVplAwQgPxKegW5H2tl4k-vu3x0CmXwDaJ_bVK1bPxq-F1x78fVi8P5U5EeMPWbp8alE-X_MuahjtkBT-OmLjPpBKqRjsQ6VIdRpDHrK2uW8vj3vPKnNkU/s1600/Jim+Jones+%25281%2529+Peace.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“Jim’s message of social justice is compelling, and his demeanor can be very charismatic. And he certainly presents himself as a father figure – the man tells you he’s God. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“But by the time you realize who you’re really dealing with, how manipulative and self-serving and out of touch with reality he is, you’re in too deep, and the group presses in around you and holds you in. It’s group psychology. He plays the group like a violin, and he’s the impresario. Nobody plays a crowd like Jim Jones. And he uses lies to do it. Did you know he would have us do background research on new members, and then act like he was reading their minds, like the Holy Spirit told him all about them? He hooked quite a few that way.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">She looked down at her hands, almost appearing ashamed. “We were all very young, you know, and idealistic. With all the social services the Temple offered to the community, we were convinced that, whatever issues Jim might have, the cause was still a worthy one.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Barb reached over and put her hand over Grace’s. “You’re such a brave woman to speak out. If it weren’t for you and your friends in the Concerned Relatives, people would have nowhere to turn. Thank you.” Their eyes met.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“You’re welcome,” Grace whispered, her eyes moist. Then she went on. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“The conditions Roger writes about in his letters are exactly why we’re pursuing getting our relatives out, legally or otherwise. One of his weapons is to separate families, keep people from communicating with their relatives outside the Temple, because he knows what members live with is so outrageous, he doesn’t dare let them remember how good life can be. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“So he bans phone calls, censors mail, and has relatives threatened with harm, and even death, if they try to contact their family inside. He’s taken all their valuables and their passports, just like Roger said. He feeds them scraps like animals while he dines like a king. He has them convinced that there are spies in the Embassy and Guyanese guerrillas in the jungle, and if they try to escape, the consequences are death. It’s gotten to the point where the members have lost all hope and joy in their existence, and many don’t care if they live or die. So in effect, he has them imprisoned. Just like in the concentration camp he says the government will put them in if they run away.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Her color began to rise, and she wrung her hands. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“Harriet Tropp gets on the radio and rants about Temple members not being willing to walk into the capitalist society’s gas ovens? That’s just what they’ve forced their own people to do: hand over their freedom and identities to Jim Jones like sheep and march meekly into his corral, and he’s slammed the gate shut on all of them.” She looked down again, breathing hard, and was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry – I get passionate. That’s how I wound up joining the Temple in the first place.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">A tear trickled down her cheek. She wiped it away, and smiled. “Let’s eat,” she said, and they all got up and filled their plates before they sat down at the dining room table together.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">As they ate, Grace told them that Leo Ryan, the San Mateo County Congressional rep, was already very interested in helping. They’d decided to set aside their plans to invade the enclave for the time being, fearing that a frontal assault might compromise the safety of their relatives, or even all of the people in Jonestown, especially considering the repeated statements that they were committed to die if necessary. She said the Concerned Relatives and their attorneys would keep in communication with Ryan and pursue more discreet means first, hoping that would work. If not, a visit to Guyana might eventually be warranted. It was their hope that Ryan would accompany them if that time came.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“What we’re working to do, Barb and Yonas, is to secure the rights of any Temple member to come and go as they please, make calls, and send mail as they like. So we’re working to secure those rights for Roger, too. I truly believe that this coordinated effort is the best possible way to approach the problem. Are you OK with that?” Grace asked.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">With Barb nodding, Yonas replied, “We are more than OK with it. We’re sincerely grateful that you’ve taken this on. Is there anything you need from the two of us? How can we help?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Grace thought for a moment. “Well, considering you’re not relatives of Roger’s, you may not have legal standing to participate in the court actions. We could represent your interests, and call on you if we need citizen support. Could you trust us with that?” Grace asked, concerned.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“Of course we can,” they both said together, Barb taking Grace’s hand again. “I’ve been worried about compromising Roger’s safety by getting involved, considering the tone of his letters,” Barb continued, “so I’m glad that people like you, with inside information, who know how to work with the Temple the safest way possible, are taking action. We’ll make it our job just to wait and pray. I trust you,” Barb answered. “Do you think you could also check on our friend Jacki - Jacki Rayford?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Grace’s face went dark and she became stony silent. Finally, she said guardedly, “I’m afraid Jacki has a central role in the worst of it – to be fair, just like I once had. But she is very, very smart. Whatever happens, I have no doubt that she will land on her feet.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">A cold chill came over Barb, and she felt dizzy. “I’m so sorry to hear that, or perhaps I should be glad that she’ll land on her feet,” she whispered. “We’ll pray with that in mind, and specifically for your son.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“We need all the prayer we can get,” Grace said softly. And so Barb and Yonas gave Roger’s cause to the Concerned Relatives, knowing he was in good hands, both theirs and His. And as for Jacki, all they could do was wonder, and pray. <o:p></o:p></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: center;">* * *<o:p></o:p></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: center;">Excerpts from Jacki’s Diary<o:p></o:p></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: center;">May 20, 1978<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Deb defected this week. My girl Deb. That hurts.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Now and then in your life, not really often, you meet somebody that you really connect with, somebody you can trust and that makes things seem OK when really you don’t have a whole lot going for you. Deb was like that for me. She was smart, and had a sense of humor, and she was my friend. I know I’m not the greatest friend in the world – none of us are any more, the way things have headed around here – but I knew I could always count on Deb.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">She got reassigned to Georgetown last month, and I guess she slipped word out to her family somehow and got a plane ticket. The Embassy helped her. I guess that blows our cover that we don’t really have spies in the Embassy.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-GSyduOkJWvNQ4UCmPyuJM7x3b8i9TPHLuON-wjktKVye6cdstLYK9no4z-WZYzWJqDD7qvGq-ToD4FWj5mkpmQn92c90rEutufBfR7IKj5eCJVBC1gdefO1kl4AQe02pSiT-wDWvK72C/s1600/jonestown+cottages.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-GSyduOkJWvNQ4UCmPyuJM7x3b8i9TPHLuON-wjktKVye6cdstLYK9no4z-WZYzWJqDD7qvGq-ToD4FWj5mkpmQn92c90rEutufBfR7IKj5eCJVBC1gdefO1kl4AQe02pSiT-wDWvK72C/s1600/jonestown+cottages.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">So of course Jim is devolving today. He had Sharon type up this list of 67 different things for the medical staff to take care of. He actually has on that list to “care about every person as if they were your own child,” right in there mixed up with guarding the bathrooms better and watching out for ringworm and iron deficiency. Maybe if we spent that $65,000 a month we get in Social Security checks on people, instead of keeping it in reserve, there wouldn’t be any ringworm or iron deficiency. Has he taken a look around lately? Give me a break.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">On second thought, don’t encourage him to take a look around. We’re better off if he just stays on his meds and locks himself up in that radio booth, ranting. If we can tune him out, at least he isn’t in our business.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Does this mean I’m losing my revolutionary fervor? Maybe if we weren’t living like a bunch of hypocrites I wouldn’t be. But as things stand, I just might be.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Sorry. I guess I’m cranky today. I’m going to miss Deb. This one hurts.<o:p></o:p></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: center;"><i>June 29, 2008<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Ever since Deb left, I can’t stop thinking about our lives here and what we’ve come to. We saw her statement to the Embassy a few days ago (it’s an affidavit now), and she really pulled the scab off it. She told them about the food, the diarrhea, how thin we are, how he works us to death and won’t let us talk to anybody, all of it.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">The thing that’s really got Jim’s head spinning is how she gave away the reason he’s holding little John Robert in here: to make sure Grace and Tim keep quiet about what’s going on. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">She even told what white nights are really like, with Jim up barking on the radio in the middle of the night, telling us the mercenaries are coming to kill us, and the guys from security with their rifles on us making sure we get out of bed. Then we line up, and practice with the Kool-Aid.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">I think the last straw for Deb was that last white night we had, right before she left for Georgetown. It was the one where Jones had us all line up and pick up our Kool-Aid – actually I think we were using Flavor-Aid by then because it’s cheaper – and told us that all hope was gone, the mercenaries were coming and we were going to be captured and tortured, and that the only answer was to “die for the glory of socialism.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Then he told us the stuff really contained poison this time, and that after we drank it, we’d all be dead in 45 minutes. And guess what? Everybody drank it, just like they were told. Just like that, even Deb. Then we found out it was a fake.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">I think after that she just didn’t care any more. But then when she got assigned to Georgetown, I’m guessing life got almost good enough again that she could remember, so she bolted. I can’t say I blame her.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">I get tired of this constant talk of death. Jim is suicidal, I have no question. But I’m not suicidal. Nothing will be accomplished for socialism if 1,000 people almost nobody remembers die in the jungle. And if they do, I am not going to be one of them.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">The stockpile of cyanide here is getting bigger and bigger every week. I know now that one day he really intends to do it. <o:p></o:p></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: center;"><i>August 22, 1978<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjavNLCyq3EeOBkabEpmnLJrgufbeiFPgtVp7BhQIeAXOIlfrHhZnKJkfU8piq1l_DpzN7x1T1qV5kKQNoWoSkRY28xwm5UYOXAdlyGRmYv4wiGWAMpjuTOSSeobJH0-UIR3F1DLG6w5Jfp/s1600/peoples+temple+choir" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjavNLCyq3EeOBkabEpmnLJrgufbeiFPgtVp7BhQIeAXOIlfrHhZnKJkfU8piq1l_DpzN7x1T1qV5kKQNoWoSkRY28xwm5UYOXAdlyGRmYv4wiGWAMpjuTOSSeobJH0-UIR3F1DLG6w5Jfp/s1600/peoples+temple+choir" /></a>Carlton Goodlett, the newspaper editor, visited the project today. We rehearsed everybody half to hell before he came, considering the opportunity of the media putting out good news about us for a change. And sure enough, he liked us. He wasn’t here long enough to really see much. That’s what always saves us. We gave him a real nice musical show, and let him see the baby chicks in the chickery. Since music is about the only sign of life we have around here, it always makes everybody look cheerful whenever we have it. So we always trot it out for the guests.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Well, diary, you know what a smart-ass I am, but I think I’m starting to lose my edge. I don’t know how much longer I can hang with this. Poor Gene, eating those thorazine spiked sandwiches because he had the uncommon sense to defect and then come back to be with his kids. You’d hardly know him if you hadn’t seen him in a while; he’s half the man he used to be.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">I’m sad all the time. I’m tired of standing up for Jim and being his Blue Meanie. People hate me here, because of what he makes me do to them. He tells me I’m the boss, but I’m really just his good little girl. Well, I don’t want to be his little girl any more. And I sure don’t want to die.<o:p></o:p></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: center;"><i>September 2, 1978<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">I’ve been talking to one of our attorneys, Mark Gains, about trying to go to San Francisco to take care of business, and needing him there with me to handle legal matters. Plus he’s pretty easy on the eyes, and Stokes has been busy with other things lately anyway. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">The Planning Commission has met a few times and talked about what we’d do if something really bad happened out here, and there was nobody in charge back home. The PC voted, and they picked me to take over if Jim goes down. I guess that means that maybe they don’t hate me so much after all. Or it could mean I’m the one they most want out of here.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">But I know Jim doesn’t agree. For him it’s about his family, like he said in his will; he wants Marceline in charge. But I might be able to talk him into letting me be ready on the ground in San Francisco to keep things together there, just in case the worst happens. He’s going to want somebody to settle any scores after he’s gone, and to keep the money flowing where it’s needed. The last thing he’s going to want is for his operation to fall apart; the Temple is his legacy. And the most important thing to Jim Jones is that Jim Jones should be remembered for eternity.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">But most important, it would get me the hell out of here.<o:p></o:p></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: center;"><i>September 16, 1978<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Sweet hallelujah. I’m on the plane home. The minute I cleared Guyana airspace my soul had wings. I signed over my bank accounts for Guyana to Evelyn before I left. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Right now we’re on the leg from New York to San Francisco, and we’re somewhere over Texas. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. Up here in the air, I almost feel like I could start over, be free for the first time in a long, long time.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Maybe I will try freedom. I’ll just have to wait and see where things take me. But maybe I’ll give it a try.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Right now, I think I’ll just sit back in this nice comfy seat and take a long nap. <o:p></o:p></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: center;">* * *<o:p></o:p></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: center;">. VI<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">One damp October night, when they were seated at dinner, the phone rang at Barb and Yonas’s. They had been deep in conversation with Amira about Grandma Mayhew’s Pomeranian, which had just had puppies. Yonas’s first instinct was to ignore the call, but Barb knew better.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Sure enough, it was Grace.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“It’s good to hear from you, Grace. What’s going on?” he asked, rubbing his head back and forth, Barb watching him anxiously from her seat at the table.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">He listened intently, hemming and hawing occasionally, nodding as he listened.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">After they hung up, Yonas turned to Barb and sat back down in his place, but closer to her this time. He put his hand on top of hers.<o:p></o:p></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-rUDW-QTp3ywzcPnkfPQZxL_tBgKLmI1dCaZZ2H7mXdPya-wQDMWaRtou5L3rvwMGNNcjgYLx3KbvYmpfSGVE9weanjj5J0_7xp46SoNEG9ZxDh9WjgCWCRkj9iHH15CJdY3KPCA-1IGP/s1600/Leo+and+Jackie" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-rUDW-QTp3ywzcPnkfPQZxL_tBgKLmI1dCaZZ2H7mXdPya-wQDMWaRtou5L3rvwMGNNcjgYLx3KbvYmpfSGVE9weanjj5J0_7xp46SoNEG9ZxDh9WjgCWCRkj9iHH15CJdY3KPCA-1IGP/s1600/Leo+and+Jackie" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Leo J. Ryan and Jackie Speier - AP</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“Well, babe, it seems that one of Congressman Ryan’s – he’s the San Mateo Congressman - one of his constituents had a son in the Temple. This boy decided to quit about two years ago, and very soon after, he was hit by a train and killed, under suspicious circumstances. Then, this same constituent’s daughter had sent her two teenagers on a church trip to New York, with the Temple, and they wound up in Guyana, never to return. So Mr. Ryan has had an interest in the Peoples Temple for a long time. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“Recently he’s been in meetings with the State Department, especially since the Concerned Relatives filed their statement, and has been studying the stuff they’ve collected, plus the affidavit of the member who defected last summer, Debra something. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“So he’s decided to go to Guyana to visit Jonestown with a contingent. He’s going next month.” He watched her face for a moment, to see her reaction.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Her face brightened. “That’s great news, isn’t it? Maybe now there’ll be some action, and people can get their freedom back,” she said hopefully, meaning Roger, and maybe Jacki.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"> Yonas was more serious. “Grace hopes that’s what will happen, but if Jones panics and sees it as an attack, it could be very dangerous. So we need to be conscious of what the developments are and keep putting it back in His hands.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">They looked in each other’s eyes, and then over at Amira as she sifted through a pile of carrot discs on her tray. They knew what Grace meant when she said it could be dangerous. But right now, all they could do was wait, and pray.<o:p></o:p></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: center;">VII<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Bob and Jacki sat obscurely over a cup of coffee in the back corner of that venerable Castro Street establishment Toad Hall, while the Breakfast Club held court in their usual spot. Every morning at 10, the same crowd came together to hang out and dish about the night before, ruminating on issues of the day with whoever would listen, occasionally with their man Harvey Milk, their champion and voice in county government, whenever he dropped by.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Recently back from Guyana, Jacki was still basking in the sunshine of freedom, and could now embrace her new role as Jim Jones’s person-on-duty in San Francisco. Still torn about whether or not to hang with this responsibility, she had determined to take it one day at a time. But just as she had hoped, Temple attorney Mark Gains was nearby, although sometimes in Georgetown, but there in case she needed him, and this made her work much easier to face.<o:p></o:p></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyMrQIt6z6fQwBK8vCKjhlw-PrEaL6vyJFwckrtCt9tsZjyT5l8QDoD092tzhVQowByvzSpCxkbAWY1ccBu7ha7yU-lKBFaIEqg24_lgnQIVYEEgdnzcAh9MaNUAWZ3XqS7ns89Y3C4Xit/s1600/Toad+Hall+2" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyMrQIt6z6fQwBK8vCKjhlw-PrEaL6vyJFwckrtCt9tsZjyT5l8QDoD092tzhVQowByvzSpCxkbAWY1ccBu7ha7yU-lKBFaIEqg24_lgnQIVYEEgdnzcAh9MaNUAWZ3XqS7ns89Y3C4Xit/s1600/Toad+Hall+2" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">by David Corbell</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Bob and Jacki had always enjoyed a special connection that no one else was really aware of, perhaps because they shared that unique brand of disenfranchisement that comes from being wired differently from most of the human race. By virtue of being gay, Bob had always lived as a dissident to some extent, while Jacki had consciously sought out the role, researching it and choosing opposition to the system as her way of making the world a better place. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Having been the right hand woman of Jim Jones for some six years now, she had been enmeshed in a community where gay persons were seamlessly engaged in everyday life without a ripple. In most churches, gay people could not lead prayer in front of the congregation, nor could they expect to fully participate as teachers or leaders without opposition. But such was not the case with the Temple. Theirs was not mere tolerance – the opposite – and even went beyond acceptance. They were all family, very tangibly so. And Harvey Milk loved the Temple, and Jim Jones, for this.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">The reality was that when Jim Jones said “everyone is a homosexual,” whatever his complex inner thoughts and intentions may have been, gays and lesbians heard it to mean “we are all one and the same,” all equals, just as when Jones or some other Temple leader said we are all down and out, or we are all factory workers, or we are all prisoners. Jacki had understood this, having been ridiculed for her epilepsy as a child, and grateful that by contrast, <i>nothing</i> could compromise her place in the Temple family, because she was equal now - nothing, that is, except turning her back on the group, or standing out too much from the others, or getting too close to people outside the Temple. For that, the penalty would be public humiliation, physical punishment, or worse. Indeed, every silver lining has a cloud. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">But Jacki had always been a good little girl. So she had reaped rewards from her spiritual Father Jim, in spades, like no one else had. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">So Bob and Jacki shared their coffee over these subtexts, some of them visible and some of them not, and shared where they were in their lives with enthusiasm.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“You’ve got to meet Russ soon, chèrie. He would love you, because you are such a Peter Pan pixie, even though you’ve let your hair grow out into a wretched mess, and because you love me. Next time we’ll arrange it, oui?” Bob bubbled, all the while keeping the warm new secret of him and me, his Shelley, next to his heart, still and always to be shared with no one.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“That’s a plan,” Jacki said, her eyes twinkling as they hadn’t in a while. She had known Bob about five years now, and since he had come out he was a man transformed, and still transforming every day. She loved to watch him unfold, joy overflowing where once there had been an artificial macho reserve, and had often wanted to get him involved in the Temple. But Bob was too much of a free spirit for any kind of a church, even one that bucked the system by policy.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Besides, she wasn’t sure any more about what kind of a family the Temple made for anyone these days, since Dad was losing his marbles.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“As much as I loved being out at the project, it sure is good to be home,” Jacki mused. “I feel a little guilty because a Congressional Delegation with some press and a few relatives left today for a visit out there, and I’m not there to help. It’s Ryan, from San Mateo County – isn’t that your old stomping grounds?” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Bob nodded. She went on. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“But he knows he can always call if he needs me. Jim’s not real excited about the idea of a visit, you know – the way outsiders get what the Temple does twisted around backwards. He’s scared that they’ll see or hear something or other and publicity will start to fly again, and he’ll get shut down before he’s accomplished what he’s set out to do." <o:p></o:p></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWeIgofLISt_43j9lAJ3w1GOrz48ZI5u0LU4wtfznJNiBmc2cvjzPSHklT0KsG_KBipJabIu2vs8UBe_Vf-a3VD4wImX7B_rcYwXYIgYbmdZK1forhYGu2GpKK4NK_9HDx-_sOzPSkjhnl/s1600/Couples%252C+crawford+barton" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWeIgofLISt_43j9lAJ3w1GOrz48ZI5u0LU4wtfznJNiBmc2cvjzPSHklT0KsG_KBipJabIu2vs8UBe_Vf-a3VD4wImX7B_rcYwXYIgYbmdZK1forhYGu2GpKK4NK_9HDx-_sOzPSkjhnl/s1600/Couples%252C+crawford+barton" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">by Crawford Barton, foundsf.org</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><br />
Bob just looked at her, slack jawed and stock still in that way he had, eyes wide.<br />
<br />
“But he goes over the top, Bob. He’s got this thing stuck in his craw that revolutionary suicide is a noble thing. Maybe if you’re in a revolution. But bad publicity is not enough of a reason for 1,000 people to poison themselves. That’s what he wants, Bob. Am I nuts?” She felt so safe with Bob, she knew she had said too much even before she had finished saying it. Her heart sank.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">He finally spoke after a pregnant pause. “No, honey, you’re not. <i>He</i> is. You know that, don’t you? Tell me you know that.” He waited.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">She was quiet for a minute, looking him straight in his sea green eyes. “That’s why I’m here and not there.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">He looked back at her. “Have you been confused all this time?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “I still am.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“Does Ryan know what you just told me, about the suicide?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“Yes.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“Well? What do you think? Will Ryan do any good out there, let’s hope?” Waves of realization shifted and undulated somewhere behind his eyes. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Rubbing a knot in her neck, she figured she may as well continue. “There’s a small likelihood a few people will be helped. But I think there are really two alternatives that are more likely. One is that Jim will put on a dog and pony show to end all others, and the delegation will leave with their minds changed and think the Temple is the greatest thing since sliced bread, and things will go on like they are, for the short term.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyRd-qDNdQwpVoxvgfMW3GLmW31c7vMSCVMprCG9Qg7QNV0fyNI6ofCJqC42U8i2_juhs9YDCmiTJhWwbGV8_nOCWjlzygW3pz8CghCOfXzUTSrbLwg6E03EeTjYONj882LHJs0hp_Y3Z6/s1600/three+orbs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyRd-qDNdQwpVoxvgfMW3GLmW31c7vMSCVMprCG9Qg7QNV0fyNI6ofCJqC42U8i2_juhs9YDCmiTJhWwbGV8_nOCWjlzygW3pz8CghCOfXzUTSrbLwg6E03EeTjYONj882LHJs0hp_Y3Z6/s1600/three+orbs.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">tammiestair.com</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Bob leaned in. “Other than the suicide, what do you mean when you say things will go on like they are? How are they?” Bob watched her face closely now.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">He waited, and finally, hesitant, she answered him. “Let’s just say that starting your own city in the middle of the jungle isn’t as easy as it looks. Feeding people and keeping them healthy and keeping order don’t always go as well as they could.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"> “OK,” Bob replied flatly. “So that’s why you’re even thinner than you were when I saw you in Paris. I don’t even want to know about what ‘keeping order’ means. What’s the other alternative?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">She inhaled through her nose, and then let it out through her mouth.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“I think the more likely scenario is that Jim will panic and then something really bad will happen. Really bad. But even I can’t, don’t want to, think of what that would be. Don’t want to.” She closed her eyes.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">He leaned in further still. “Does Ryan know these scenarios?” he asked pointedly.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><object class="BLOGGER-youtube-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="http://3.gvt0.com/vi/_tw7hk_Hd1M/0.jpg" height="266" width="320"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/_tw7hk_Hd1M&fs=1&source=uds" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="http://www.youtube.com/v/_tw7hk_Hd1M&fs=1&source=uds" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“Yes. Gains has been appealing to him non-stop. He called his office in San Mateo. He wrote him a letter. He called the House Foreign Affairs Committee and told them Jim would see it as a threat and might react badly. My friend Deb – she defected last spring – went to the Embassy and told them we had almost three hundred semi-automatic weapons, a bunch of pistols, and a home-made bazooka. She told them we practiced suicide. Nobody’s listening. They think they can handle it. Plus so many politicians have been in our corner for so long, it just doesn’t look black and white to people somehow. Even when the Examiner started airing our laundry years ago, we just had too much momentum for anyone to take them seriously. It’s too late now to do anything but wait. The time for doing something passed a long time ago.” Now that she had gotten started, she couldn’t stop.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Bob leaned back in his chair. “Well, I’m sorry, my friend. I wish I’d paid more attention to you when it still might have mattered. I suppose there’s nothing <i>to</i> do but wait at this point.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“You got that right,” Jacki answered sadly. She was lost in thought for a moment.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“Do you remember Barb?” Jacki asked.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“Of course, honey. I just saw her. She and Yonas are practically perfect, and I love them madly. They have a baby, you know.” They smiled at each other through the fog that had settled over the table, Jacki longing for simpler times, even though she herself had not been all that simple back then. How she wished that she had really been the person that I, Shelley, in my naivete had thought she was. Wouldn’t she give anything to turn back the clock and take one more bus ride together, and tell everything, the way it really was? And maybe then, she thought, we could have figured out a way to make it right.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“What do you suppose Barb would do right now?” she asked Bob. “You know Roger’s out there in the project. He’s a guard. He’s one of the guys that gets us out of bed at night when we get up to practice poisoning ourselves.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">“Yeah, she knows he’s out there,” Bob said, “but she doesn’t know that kind of detail, thank God. At least I hope not. Still, she definitely knows there’s something wrong. We all had dinner the day the <i>New West</i> article came out, and she prayed us up a Bible verse about wearing armor.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Jacki looked down at her hands and breathed in. “Good. Then she’s doing exactly what she needs to be doing. Maybe it will help. We better all pray that it does.” </div><div><div id="ftn2"></div></div></div>Sylvia Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07072854262445202538noreply@blogger.com0