The Butter Rum Cartoon

THE ELEPHANT

2012-01-26T01:02:00.000-06:00

I recently read the twenty-five Tarzan books by Edgar Rice Burroughs. The one creature throughout that brought the most security was the elephant (Tantor in the language of the great apes). Out of all the animals, and most humans, only Tantor didn't fear Tarzan. It says "with Tantor he made friends." Tantor carried Tarzan at times on his back, and at times, when Tarzan was captured and rescue seemed impossible, Tantor would come crashing through whatever obstacles to rescue his friend.

If we had never been brought a revelation, it seems natural that man would worship the sun as a god---the sun who brings warmth and light and life and goes to bed at night and comes up each morning to watch over us. And it seems natural to regard the elephant as sacred, the mighty creature who should, by rights, be called the king of the jungle, who fears no one (except perhaps mice). But we have been brought revelations, which some choose to believe and some choose to reject, and the world is tossed into confusion.

Most remember that Indian object lesson about the blind men and the elephant. There were three blind men who had heard that the elephant was a very strange creature, and they wanted to know more about it. A passing elephant merchant led each blind man to feel the elephant to learn what the animal was like. The first man felt the elephant's legs, the second its trunk, and the third its tail. Then they thanked the merchant for his kindness and left, later to sit down and discuss this creature. The one who felt the tail said, "This queer animal is like our straw fans swinging back and forth to give us a breeze. However, it’s not so big or well made. The main portion is rather wispy." The man who felt the legs said, “No, no! This queer animal resembles two big trees without any branches." The man who felt the trunk said, "You’re both wrong. This queer animal is similar to a snake; it’s long and round, and very strong." And so they argued, each insisting he was right, and of course never came to an agreement, because none of them had examined the whole elephant. The moral of the lesson is: How can anyone describe the whole until he has learned the total of the parts?

This story has been told countless times by those who say it's impossible to know God and that no one can say that another's concept of God is wrong. This is largely true; God's infinity is a mystery to our finite minds. But there's a fact in the blind men story that many pass over: That each had to venture to be with the elephant in order to get any personal experience in the first place. They weren't satisfied simply with the hearsay of others. Instead of illustrating the confusion of who or what God is, this story should bring home the example of the three men who took the initiative, despite their disabilities, to learn about God first-hand. If they had not been blind, they would have become familiar with the whole elephant.

Now let's say I'm a prophet. Let's say you've never heard of or have seen an elephant, and I've come to present to you a revelation. There is a mammal living naturally in Africa and Asia, the largest land animal on earth. It eats almost five hundred pounds of vegetation each day, and spends sixteen hours eating it. It can drink up to eighty gallons of water a day. It lives in tight social units, each led by a female matriarch. It has the largest brain in the animal kingdom, and almost hairless skin an inch thick. It has a long, flexible, prehensile trunk---a fusion of the nose and upper lip---with forty thousand muscles in it, and this trunk can hold two-and-a-half gallons of water. The creature loves water, can swim long distances, and uses its trunk as a snorkel. It has enormously enlarged incisors that can grow into tusks many feet long, never stop growing, are made of valuable ivory; and in the same way you and I are right or left handed, this animal favors either the left or right tusk over the other. It has the longest pregnancy of any animal---twenty-two months. It sleeps standing up, and has a very sharp memory. It uses its feet to listen, and can pick up sub-sonic rumblings made by others of its kind, through vibrations in the ground. It purrs like cats do, as a means of communication, and can make sounds too low for us to hear.

Would you believe me?

FOR HEAVEN SNAKES

2012-01-23T16:22:00.001-06:00

One of the most unusual experiences I had as a mailman was when I went up to deliver a package to a house in Branson, Missouri, and saw a huge snake, several feet long, wrapped around the porch railing to the right of the door. I thought it was a leftover Halloween prop. As the woman answered the door, I noticed the snake's head wobble a bit back and forth while its tongue shot out and in, and I said in surprise, "That's real!" The woman saw the snake and screamed! She hurried me into the house with her for moral support while she telephoned for help. I identified the snake as a boa constrictor, but was still leery of it, for the reason I'll come to in a minute. I suggested she call my friend, Jeff, at animal control, and she did. I waited around a bit, but had to continue my mail route, so eventually slipped out past the snake and left. It turned out that it was indeed a boa constrictor, obviously someone's escaped pet, and a neighbor told her that a few days earlier she saw it crossing the street. Jeff had no luck finding the owner, but they finally donated the snake to a museum for a live display.

Thirty years before this porch episode, I bought a pet boa constrictor at a pet store in Fayetteville, North Carolina, while I was in the Army. It was a thoughtless act. I had always wanted one, and finally had the money, and there it was, so I bought it...although I then lived in an Army barracks in Fort Bragg. It was the beginning of a weekend off. The pet shop guy said the snake had recently eaten, and that it needs only one rodent a month. I had fun that Saturday, winding the constrictor around my neck and carrying it around town. And that night I rented a motel room, to relax in private while learning to know my new pet.

I was on the couch (a sofa bed) watching TV, with the boa constrictor lying in my lap. Suddenly its head darted right up to my face! I looked and saw that the snake was coiled in my lap with its head raised, like a cobra without the hood, and it looked like it might strike again! As quickly and smoothly as I could, I slid sideways out from under the creature and jumped up and away. To my dismay, the snake then slithered through the crack and into the couch, out of sight. What now?

My Pet in the Motel Bathroom

I was now afraid of the big snake, seeing that it had the gall to snap at me. But I couldn't very well leave it in the couch for the next motel guests. After getting up the nerve, I finally, carefully, began unfolding the sofa bed, worried that the mechanism might injure the animal. As I held the end of the bed up, I saw that the snake was wrapped around the frame right by my hand, and I yelled and dropped the bed.

It was a long time before the boa constrictor decided to crawl out on its own, and when it did, I threw a T-shirt over its head and grasped onto its neck, handling it as though it were poisonous, and put it back in the carrying sack.

From then on, I treated it like a dangerous snake, picking it up that way each time. Back at Fort Bragg, I kept it in the bottom drawer of my locker, impressing the other guys in the barracks, but knew that an inevitable inspection would occur, and then what?

In the Headquarters Platoon, though, we were largely unsupervised, and so I carried my "dangerous" constrictor around in the large, two-story barracks, followed around by interested G.I.'s. At one point, I had the snake coil around the stairway banister, and a big, black fellow began going up the stairs, not noticing the snake. He grabbed onto it, thinking it was the banister, and yelled and jumped away. We all had a good laugh, and fortunately he, too, after the shock, thought it was funny.

When I realized it was simply too impractical to keep a boa constrictor in an Army barracks, especially when I was afraid of the critter, I tried to return it to the store. They wouldn't take it back. So I brought it to the new Aqua Rama Pet Shop halfway to Fayetteville and gave it to my friend the manager as a gift. He examined the snake, and said that it hadn't eaten for some time. He said that's why the snake struck at my face. It wasn't trying to bite me (it would have bitten me if it wanted to); it was just letting me know it was hungry and in a bad mood. I asked if boa constrictors do bite (I had always thought they only squeezed) and he said sure, explaining that it's no big deal---feels like getting hit with a wire hairbrush.

And so endeth my career as a large snake handler. It was back to garter snakes and pet tarantulas for me.

PUBLIC BREASTFEEDING

2012-01-19T17:01:00.006-06:00

Thorough readers of the Butter Rum Cartoon are aware that I've had a good deal of experience in the nudist lifestyle. Around 1990, my growing family and I lived even full-time in a nudist camp for two-and-a-half years. Micki cleaned the lodge and so our cabin rent was free. It was the only time in our lives that we actually tithed ten percent of our gross income to the Church. We discussed our nudist lifestyle with our priest, having recently joined the Church and wanting to do things right, and he said that he had no problem with it, but that he might have to meet us at the gate to give us anointing of the sick (last rights). He said that the main concern is scandal in the Church, that some parishioners would have difficulty with this, and so we kept our nudist lifestyle under wraps.

Yesterday I found the Normalizing Nursing in Public League (the NNIPL) on Facebook, and was thrilled. I clicked "Like" and added the comment: "I am so happy to have found this group! Every mother has a right to feed her baby when it's hungry." And I've received positive feedback for that simple statement.

Micki has breastfed all our children, until they weaned themselves. This helps children grow up with a sense of security and well-being. We have one picture of her nursing two of our children at once (isn't this why there are two breasts?). But of course she's been told by some that they're offended by breastfeeding and to do it in private. Not wanting to offend, Micki gave in. She was hurt and I was angry, but we respected their wishes. The next day, elsewhere, she'd nurse openly again. I grew to respect the nursing mother, to consider it one of the most beautiful aspects of nature, and to appreciate the economy of it.

"For we were nursed upon the
self-same hill." - John Milton

And at times I was very pleased with people's reaction. In 1980, Micki and Leif (then just under two-years-old) and I hitchhiked over four thousand miles. In Wisconsin we were picked up by a businessman in a large, nice car. I sat in the front seat, and Micki and Leif were in the back seat. As we traveled through the beautiful country, passing idyllic farms and hearing about the quality of Harvestore silos, Micki lay down and began nursing Leif. At one point the driver turned and noticed her breastfeeding. He took a second quick look in surprise. Then I saw his shoulders relax, his whole body seemed to relax, and he gave a pleasant smile to no one in particular and said quietly, "That's nice."

The driver who said, "That's nice."

People like this are a blessing. And everyone has the potential to be a blessing. I would go to prison before saying that there's anything at all obscene about a mother feeding her child. For that matter, there's nothing obscene about the breast. This is a conditioned problem of our society. There's a Canadian video online in which a young man and woman, both topless, are distributing fliers on a city sidewalk. Public nudity, per se, is not illegal in that city. Several passersby casually accepted fliers. But eventually a police officer comes up and tells the woman to put her top back on. They explain to him that it's not against the law, but nevertheless he repeats for her to put her top back on. And so, not wanting trouble, she obeys but expresses how hurt she is that her partner is allowed to be shirtless but she isn't. It's not fair, she said. I agree.

In the nudist camp, nudity of course is normal. And anyone in the camp who is disgusted by nudity would of course be considered perverse. Perverse is the opposite of normal. Why is that? It's simply that what's accepted in a society is acceptable. I would have a conversation with people in the (clothing optional) camp, and later that day, thinking back, I honestly wouldn't remember if they were nude or not. Nudity was normal; no big deal. There's nothing sexual about it; it was simply natural and acceptable.

In January 1966, National Geographic magazine included an article, with photos, about The Waurá: Brazilian Indians of the Hidden Xingu. At seventeen, a preacher's kid, I was fascinated by a society in which nudity was normal and natural, and it was later that year when I found and sneaked into a nudist camp and passed myself off as a member for seven hours before leaving with an open-mind and new realization.

But I'm not pushing nudism here. I'm pushing only the acceptance of public breastfeeding. This is a given. No matter what you think of the human body and how obscene it is, although everybody has one, if a mother can't feel free to feed her baby without shame when it's hungry, there is certainly something wrong with our society. Have we come this far away from nature?

In my opinion, the breasts are the second most beautiful aspect of a woman. They used to be my first choice, but that's when they were tabooed by my environment and a rare sight to behold. Nowadays I believe the face is the most beautiful aspect. The Muslims understand this; that's why the most austere of them insist a woman's face be covered. It's conditioning by society. And it took me only seven hours in 1966, actually less, to be unconditioned. An attractive feature of any person is not necessarily obscene...thank goodness. When Pope John Paul II visited the South Pacific and was approached by topless natives, he didn't freak out, but was as cordial and loving as always, understanding it as acceptable in that society, without criticism. On the contrary, he wrote the Theology of the Body.

Recently a mother was breastfeeding her baby in a Houston area Target store. She was asked to move to a private location (the restroom) and refused. Three separate employees harassed and humiliated her. She then called Target's corporate customer service number and was told by both the representative and her supervisor that they knew about the laws, but that "just because something is lawful doesn't mean it's acceptable in the store." Enter, Target Nurse-In. On Wednesday, December 28, 2011, at 10 a.m., a crowd of nursing mothers came to feed their babies openly in the store. It's my understanding that by then the store had changed its unnatural policy, but the women staged their Nurse-In anyway, to assure the point. Good for them! We need to be strong about this, and follow what we believe is right, despite the guff. It has worked and is working for other civil rights movements, and it will work for this one. And hungry babies will thank us. At the risk of seeming hard-core, I'd savor the moment of seeing someone come tell a nursing mother to go do that in private, and have the mother say, "Breasts are soft, but noses break. Go sit down."

Breastfeeding is the "new thing" now. More and more people are hearing from more and more media that mother's milk is much healthier and beneficial than formula. The Nestle Company got into hot water, and boycotted, for pushing its formula on third-world countries. The main problem is that formula must be mixed with water, and the water in many poor countries is polluted, and babies were dying. All the while, the mothers could have fed their babies healthy breastmilk, but they were convinced that artificial formula was the impoved, civilized way to go.

Our son, who works at McDonald's, told me the other day that the restaurant has made a special, screened-in area for breastfeeding mothers to feed their babies. It was spurred into being by an incident there in which a pervert was staring at a nursing mother enough to annoy her. My son was pleased that the mothers now have a place to escape this kind of behavior, but I threw out the statement, "Stop perverts, not mothers." Our other son, listening in, who is more congenial than I, corrected me, saying, "Stop perversion, not people."

The Normalizing Nursing in Public League has a website where you can buy clothing and all sorts of things with its logo on it, and also shirts with various sayings on them. I'm going to order the men's T-shirt sporting the logo along with the words: "If breastfeeding offends you, feel free to put a blanket over YOUR head."

I wasn't breastfed as a baby. I grew up in the era of Dr. Spock and bottles of formula. I sure wish I had been breastfed, for both health and well-being, but I'm not so envious as to want to deny this privilege to other children, or have their mothers be ashamed of it. Godspeed, natural mothers! Good job!

THE AVENGERS

2012-01-19T01:51:00.000-06:00

The Avengers, John Steed and his partner Emma Peel, two unique British detectives/crimefighters, had to deal with highly unusual criminals, some approaching science fiction, and of course this was cool. But what intrigued me most was how cool Emma Peel almost always was in dealing with them. She often dressed in a tight leather body suit, was beautiful, used martial arts, and not only kept her composure while confronting lethal threats, but would joke in the face of the killer. She was modern and drove a sports car, while her partner John Steed was old-fashioned, wore a derby, fought with an umbrella, and drove a vintage Bentley. There was no real romance between them (he called her "Mrs. Peel"), they lived apart, but there were subtleties that sometimes made us wonder. John Steed (Patrick Macnee) was always there, but over the series' seasons his partner changed. Emma Peel, played by Diana Rigg, was the most popular, and my favorite, and I have every one of her episodes on DVD. The show was popular in the Sixties, but our children enjoy it now about as much as we enjoyed it then.

O WAD SOME POW'R THE GIFTIE GIE US TO PLAY CHICKEN

2012-01-16T16:18:00.001-06:00

Walter Watkins

Our good friend, Walter Watkins, was born, lived, and died, on his family farm, much of the while alone. The eight-by-twelve foot cabin that Micki and I lived in for our first year of marriage was built on our land right next to Walter's farm. We visited often. And when we invited Walter to come with us for a drive into the Cascade Mountains, at a drive-in restaurant twenty miles east, Walter told us with excitement and appreciation that that was the furthest he'd ever been from home.

Walter died of cancer, and it was sad to watch the disease progress and this good man decline. Afterwards the farm was put into the hands of his sister and her husband, Loyal and Bill, and they had Micki and I house-sit on the farm for free. It was the first time Micki and I had lived on a farm, and we took advantage of it by buying a flock of chickens. We also bought a purebred, white boxer as a pup, named him Buck, and he grew fast.

Our chickens had a coop in the barn, and we enjoyed caring for them and watching them and collecting eggs. We also bought a big, white rooster, to oversee his feathery harem.

Sam walking Buck on the Watkins Farm

One day Buck, now a pup grown almost to full size, was running free while the chickens were out of the barn and foraging food in a little field. Buck spotted them and decided it'd be great sport to chase the flock and catch one of those fat, meaty birds. As our dog tore after them, Micki and I yelled at him to stop, but Buck wouldn't listen. The hens clucked in terror while running as fast as they could to the barn. They would never have made it before Buck reached them, but something wonderful happened.

To our surprise and to Buck's, the big, white rooster ran crosswise between the boxer and the hens. Buck accepted the challenge and swerved to chase the rooster instead. As Buck gained on his prey, all the hens managed to reach the barn and run in through the little coop door to safety. The rooster almost didn't make it. Buck had some of his tailfeathers in his mouth when the rooster barely survived by darting under the fence and into thick blackberry bushes.

Micki and I were amazed by this heroism. That rooster risked his life, and barely survived, to save the hens. Buck trotted back to us finally, to be hooked to his chain, and later that day the rooster came out of hiding and returned to his flock. To this day I have a tremendous respect for roosters, and would feel like a fool to call a coward a "chicken."

I'LL TELL YOU A SECRET

2012-01-15T23:57:00.000-06:00

I'll call her Annie, because I don't remember her name. We both attended Everett Community College in the early 1970's, before I met and married my wife. I had been captivated by the Jesus Freak Movement, and so had Annie, and we got to know each other at the Christian meetings held on campus.

In my apartment I had begun collecting Jesus freak paraphernalia---record albums by The Way, Love Song, Malcolm and Alwyn, etc.; a large, framed picture of Jesus smiling; and I subscribed to "Agape," like a Christian underground newspaper. Evangelists were trying to reach the hippies, and they reached me. I bounced around going to all sorts of Christian meetings and events, as did Annie, and the two of us were good friends in Christ. It was this time that I spoke about in another post, when the world seemed so friendly; everyone smiled at me; but I realized it was because I was first smiling at them.

But when we ride solely on emotion, eventually our steed tires, and we dismount for a rest. Over the years, I've seen many enthusiastic Christians, especially those whose worship is emotional display, plummet into disillusionment and even resentment. One friend of mine, who taught various classes in our church, held Bible study meetings in their home, and with his wife would even call out my Dad on what they considered error, years later ran into me at college. He had gotten a divorce. And when I began mentioning Christian faith to him, he interrupted, saying, "Don't talk to me about the Bible."

An army buddy of mine, Mark, had been raised Catholic, but had converted to Jesus-freak-style Pentecostalism after the army. He came to visit me while he was still gung-ho and I had dismounted for a rest. One day when he was out painting a local church, I came upon his journal on the bedroom dresser, and couldn't help glancing into it. It was filled with all sorts of inner conflict, most all of it struggle and very little joy. I was thankful that I didn't fight with myself like that. (The next visit I had from Mark was a surprise, years later and after I was married with children. He had changed drastically, and was even creepy. It was hard to communicate at all with him, he seemed terribly depressed, and while wandering around town with him, he finally intimated with me, in few words, that he had become involved for a time in a satanic cult, and it was obvious he had had a nervous breakdown. About his experience all he could say was, "It was terrible...terrible.")

Although I had dismounted my emotional ride, I found I still at least maintained some morals. My landlord discovered I had a Yashika 35mm camera kit, with lenses and tripod, and offered to buy it. Not only that, he offered me a job. It turned out that he and his wife had a pornography studio in their home, two blocks away. They had me over, told me about the deal, and showed me some photos, including one of one of the girls I'd be "posing" with. I turned him down, but did trade my camera kit for their old station wagon.

I had received my Associate of Arts and Sciences Degree from college, and was walking home from my job at the Everett Public Library, when I saw Annie. It had been a long time, and there she stood, on the front walkway of a neat, haunted-looking, apartment house, where I found she rented a studio apartment on the top floor. She was happy to see me, and invited me up. I was expecting to talk with her all about our faith and Christian experiences, but instead, Annie sat on the edge of the bed and began to talk about things I couldn't realize as fast as I heard. The word "virgin" kept popping up, and it finally dawned on me that she was saying she no longer was concerned about being one, and wanted me to remedy the situation. This attractive girl who prayed and worshiped with me, now wanted to have sex with me. Many guys would have been thrilled, I imagine, but I became very sad. As soon as I could, and as politely as I could, I left Annie still sitting clothed on the edge of the bed. She had been vibrant in her Christian faith, and now... I walked home feeling sick in my heart.

So what happened? What happens to the zest we pump into our faith? I, too, fell, and afterwards even tried other religions, forsaking Christ. I'm thinking that form of expression is the culprit, along with false theology to begin with. There are Christian denominations that push our using emotional displays of worship. They criticize more staid forms of worship as being void of the Spirit, distinguishing them as "religious" rather than "Christian." And certainly no one (who is sane) can stay emotionally enthusiastic all the time, and when they get tired as their church insists they shouldn't, they feel as though they're not fulfilling their calling. They can't keep up, so they drop out. Simple physics.

And some denominations preach that the spirit is really us, while the body is a fleshly temptation we lug around. Hence the constant internal conflict. And when ("when," not "if") we fail to overcome temptation, we give in. We can't help it, we're losers, so we shrug our spiritual shoulders and accept sin as our way of life, whether we like it or not. Simple physics.

Man is the first creature to have both body and soul. We are unique among animals and spirits. We are both. This is not a curse. This is a blessing. The "flesh is weak," but our Creator did not hang it on us to hurt us. It is a part of us. Body and soul, we are whole, and we can't succeed at life unless we grasp onto both. Worship based on emotional spiritual worship is groping to the heavens without standing on a foundation. We finally find ourselves floating and helpless, and wind up gripping onto anything for some sort of security. In contrast, worship based on rote and physical foundation is to lie down and not rise at all. We feel secure, but secure only.

Of course, as with most things, the answer lies somewhere in the middle. Let's ride on our emotions if we want. But when we dismount, let there be a firm foothold in the faith. Let us not lose heart if we must walk for a time, leading our mount, but remain forever steady, with a firm grip on the reins. God made it all. He is supporting us as He draws us up. We can enjoy the light He fills our spirits with, even while we feel the earth and the water and taste the bread and the wine. We are human beings, body and soul, wonderful creation. And when we see that picture of Jesus smiling, we can smile back.

It wasn't until about fifteen years later that my wife's encouragement helped lead me finally to accept the wholeness of Christianity. Since then I've not only led my steed but have been chased and trampled by it. And I've fallen and scraped myself on the foundation countless times. But now I can always roll over and gaze at the sky, and shake my head, laughing at my clumsiness. As you read in these posts, I have no fear in telling you about my failures, nor about sharing with you my faith. That's because we are both body and soul, one in the Spirit, direct blood descendants of Adam and Eve. I have no secrets from you.

TWENTY-FIVE CENTS

2012-01-13T22:44:00.000-06:00

I've always said that my favorite view of Seattle (or any big city) is in the rear-view mirror. But one day I happened to be walking in Seattle, alone, and a big man in long hair and beard ran up and began walking right next to me. It was a relatively quiet street, no one else on the sidewalk within a block, and I wondered if this might be a mugging. But the man started talking with me, and I soon found myself throroughly enjoying his company. He brightened my whole day---the greatest conversationalist I've ever heard. After two blocks, he said, "Say, you don't happen to have a quarter, do you?" I happily gave him a quarter, and he smiled, thanked me, and walked off another way. Many have approached me, bumming spare change, but this guy certainly earned his! To this day, forty years later, I enjoy what he gave me for only a quarter.

1920's SLANG

2012-01-13T22:04:00.000-06:00

In my last post, The Mighty Mouse Fun Club, I felt it necessary to use the term "swellest." Of course visions of the Bowery Boys and the Untouchables ran through my head when I typed it, and I reminisced about a time in which I had never lived. I'm familiar with beatnik and hippie slang, but missed the lingo of the 1920's. "Neat" and "cool" roll off my tongue, but "swell" sort of trips off it, and I wouldn't mind seeing "swell" come back. Maybe all these slang terms of the early Twentieth Century would be swell to use again:

ab-so-lute-ly - affirmative
all wet - describes an erroneous idea or individual, as in, "He's all wet."
and how - I strongly agree!
applesauce - an expletive same as horsefeathers, as in "Ah applesauce!"
attaboy - well done!; also attagirl!
baby - sweetheart. Also denotes something of high value or respect.
balled up - confused, messed up
baloney - nonsense!
bank's closed - no kissing or making out, e.g., "Sorry, Mac, the bank's closed."
bearcat - a hot-blooded or fiery girl
beat it - scram or get lost
beat one's gums - idle chatter
bee's knees - an extraordinary person, thing, idea; the ultimate
beef - a complaint or to complain
beeswax - business, e.g., "None of your beeswax."
bell bottom - a sailor
berries - that which is attractive or pleasing; similar to bee's knees, as in, "It's the berries."
Bible Belt - area in the South and Midwest where Fundamentalism flourishes
big cheese - the most important or influential person; boss. Same as big shot
big six - a strong man; from auto advertising, for the new and powerful six-cylinder engines
bimbo - a tough guy
bird - general term for a man or woman, sometimes meaning "odd," e.g., "What a funny old bird."
blind date - going out with someone you do not know
bluenose - an excessively puritanical person, a prude
bootleg - illegal liquor
breezer - an convertible car
Bronx cheer - a loud spluttering noise, used to indicate disapproval. Same as raspberry
bull - (1) a policeman or law-enforcement officer including FBI, (2) nonsense, (3) to chat idly, to exaggerate
bull session - male talkfest, gossip, stories of sexual exploits
bum's rush - ejection by force from an establishment
bump off - to murder, to kill
butt me - I'll take a cigarette
butter rum cartoon - (1) something that makes little or no sense yet its profundity impresses or inspires people, (2) something profound and life-changing yet its nonsense delights people.
caper - a criminal act or robbery
carry a torch - to have a crush on someone
cash - a kiss
cash or check? - do you kiss now or later?
cat's meow - something splendid or stylish; similar to bee's knees; the best or greatest, wonderful
cat's pajamas - same as cat's meow
chassis - the female body
cheaters - eyeglasses
check - kiss me later
ciggy - cigarette
clam - a dollar
copacetic - wonderful, fine, all right
crush - an infatuation
daddy - a young woman's boyfriend or lover, especially if he's rich
dame - a female
dapper - a flapper's dad
darb - an excellent person or thing; a person with money who can be relied on to pay the check
dead soldier - an empty beer bottle
deb - an debutant
dick - a private investigator
dogs - feet
doll - an attractive woman
dolled up - dressed up
don't know from nothing - don't have any information
don't take any wooden nickels - don't do anything stupid
double-cross - to cheat, stab in the back
dough - money
drugstore cowboy - a guy that hangs around on a street corner trying to pick up girls
dry up - shut up, get lost
ducky - very good
dumb Dora - a stupid female
earful - enough
edge - intoxication, a buzz, e.g., "I've got an edge."
egg - a person who lives the big life
fall guy - victim of a frame
fire extinguisher - a chaperone
fish - (1) a college freshman, (2) a first timer in prison
flat tire - a dull witted, insipid, disappointing date. Same as pill, pickle, drag, rag, oilcan
flivver - a Model T; after 1928, could mean any old broken down car
flapper - a stylish, brash, hedonistic young woman with short skirts & shorter hair
fly boy - a glamorous term for an aviator
frame - to give false evidence , to set up someone
gams - a woman's legs
get a wiggle on - get a move on, get going
giggle water - an intoxicating beverage; alcohol
gin mill - an establishment where hard liquor is sold; bar
glad rags - "going out on the town" clothes
gold digger - a woman who associates with or marries a man for his wealth
goofy - in love
hair of the dog - a shot of alcohol
handcuff - an engagement ring
hard boiled - a tough, strong guy
hayburner - (1) a gas-guzzling car, (2) a horse one loses money on
heebie-jeebies - the jitters
high-hat - to snub
hit on all sixes - to perform 100 per cent; as "hitting on all six cylinders"
hooch - bootleg liquor
hood - hoodlum
hoofer - dancer
horsefeathers - an expletive; same usage as applesauce
hotsy-totsy - pleasing
it - sex appeal
iron - a motorcycle
jack - money
jake - OK, as in , "Everything is jake."
jalopy - old car
Jane - any female
java - coffee
jitney - a car employed as a private bus
joe - coffee
john - a toilet
joint - an establishment
juice joint - a speakeasy
joint - a club, usually selling alcohol
keen - attractive or appealing kisser
left holding the bag - (1) to be cheated out of one's fair share, (2) to be blamed for something
level with me - be honest
line - insincere flattery
live wire - a lively person
middle aisle - to marry
Mrs. Grundy - a priggish or extremely tight-laced person
moll - a gangster's girl
neck - kissing with passion
nifty - great, excellent
"Now you're on the trolley!" - Now you've got it, now you're right!
nobody home - describes someone who is dumb
on the lam - fleeing from police
on the level - legitimate, honest
on the up and up - on the level
orchid - an expensive item
ossified - a drunk person
owl - a person who's out late
palooka - (1) a below-average or average boxer, (2) a social outsider; from the comic strip character Joe Palooka
pet - same as neck, but more so
piker - (1) a cheapskate, (2) a coward
pill - (1) a teacher, (2) an unlikable person
pinch - to arrest
pipe down - stop talking
pushover - a person easily convinced or seduced
putting on the ritz - doing something in high style
rag-a-muffin - a dirty or disheveled individual
razz- to make fun of
real McCoy - the genuine article
ritzy - elegant
rubes - money or dollars
sap - a fool
says you - a reaction of disbelief
scram - ask someone to leave immediately
sheba - a woman with sex appeal
sheik - a man with sex appeal
shiv - a knife
sinker - a doughnut
speakeasy - an illicit bar selling bootleg liquor
spifflicated - drunk. The same as canned, corked, tanked, primed, scrooched, jazzed, zozzled, plastered, owled, embalmed, lit, potted, ossified, or fried to the hat
spiffy - an elegant appearance
spoon - to neck, or at least talk of love
struggle buggy - the backseat of a car
stuck on - having a crush on
swanky - ritzy
swell - wonderful
take for a ride - to drive off with someone in order to bump them off
Tin Pan Alley - the music industry in New York, located between 48th and 52nd street
tomato - a female
torpedo - a hired gun
upchuck - to vomit when one has drunk too much
wet blanket - a solemn person, a killjoy
what's eating you? - what's wrong?
whoopee - to have a good time
you slay me - that's funny

THE MIGHTY MOUSE FUN CLUB

2012-01-12T18:47:00.001-06:00

From Fall of 1957 to Winter of 1958, the best comics in the world were published, by Literary Enterprises, Inc. in New York City. With the Pines Comics label, CBS Television presented MIGHTY MOUSE FUN CLUB MAGAZINE, a total of six issues, with almost a hundred pages each.

I was eight, then nine, years old, and, thanks to the inspiration of these comics, became the president of the local chapter of the Mighty Mouse Fun Club. Neighbor kids and I held our meetings in the garage attached to our barn behind our parsonage next to the Methodist church on the corner of 4th and H Streets in Blaine, Washington. Not only were these comics the best, with Mighty Mouse as the hero and including the most wonderful characters, but it invited us to join the club and taught us how to go about starting our own chapter, on page 10 of the first issue. And besides great stories, each issue was loaded with games and activities to entertain club members. How could I not start our chapter? And this seed planted in my youth is what gave me the impetus to later found the American Tarantula Society, be secretary of the Rachel Society, and creator of the Butter Rum Cartoon.

The Mighty Mouse Fun Club didn't have any lengthy creed, but only a motto equally challenging to live by: "Always be fair." And for the entertainment of those striving always to be fair, Mighty Mouse brought us the swellest of friends: Clint Clobber, Dimwit, Dinky, Flebus, Gandy Goose, Gaston Le Crayon, Heckle and Jeckle, Little Roquefort, Rudy Rooster, Sick Sick Sidney, Sourpuss, Terry Bears, Tom Terrific and Mighty Manfred the Wonder Dog, and others. My favorites, besides Mighty Mouse of course, who incidentally has his headquarters on the Moon, are Clint Clobber, because it seemed so pleasantly odd to have a lead character be a custodian living in the basement of a hotel; and Tom Terrific, for having the audacity of having a World Headquarters; and especially Ernie Pintoff's character, Flebus, because Flebus was "a nice little guy."

Flebus

Wouldn't it be cool to build
this in your yard?

These comics are from the day when their publishers weren't afraid to include several pages of carols at Christmas time---even Christian carols like "O Little Town of Bethlehem" and "We Three Kings." And their readers who were taught always to be fair later balked when Marvel and D.C. took over the genre. Few kids today even know that such comics ever existed.

My original copies disappeared somewhere along the line. I can't imagine trading them with Curt the hermit, so maybe I passed them down to my nieces and nephews. When eBay came along, I envisioned finding them again. The collector who sold me one of them on eBay, though, told me that he very much doubted that I could manage to collect all six issues. Well, I did, and now have them again! Not only that, but I'm convinced that anyone truly wanting to can also acquire all six issues online. And I invite those who do to help me start an online chapter of the Mighty Mouse Fun Club. Right now I'm the only one I know who has the whole collection.

I was so sad when a seventh issue never came in Spring of 1959, but I did have a happy farewell gift, although never noticed it at the time. Surely, being chapter president with a clerical flair, I must have written to the comics' publisher back then. But it wasn't until rebuying the issues on eBay and rereading them that I discovered something special in the last issue, at the bottom of page 15 in the "Fun Club News."

THE ADDAMS FAMILY

2012-01-11T01:16:00.001-06:00

When I was in grade school, although we lived in the middle of Blaine, Washington, we had a barn behind our house. It was a great hangout for a kid--literally, because I'd often hang out the high back window to steal apples from Ben Gaskill's tree. Ben Gaskill smoked cigars and was always a scary figure to me; yet his tree grew the best green apples--tart and juicy. For some reason, there was a bunch of stuff stored in the barn, many things in boxes, and to this day I don't know if all of it was ours or if it was left there by past residents. Anyway, one day I came upon a plain green hardcover book, with a slightly damaged spine, and the worn words, "Monster Rally." This was quite a treasure for a fairly-sheltered son of a preacher, and when I opened it to find Charles Addam's cartoons, loaded with dark humor, I was totally fascinated. I had never seen dark humor before; and to see a theatre full of people crying while watching a sad movie, and one man in the middle with a big evil grin on his face, was wonderfully funny to me. So when I heard that they were going to have a TV show of "The Addams Family," was I excited! By then I had acquired several more of Charles Addams' books and was familiar with his humor and his characters, and was a bit disappointed to find the TV show so "cleaned up." It was like the Cleaver family in black. And the same props were used over and over. They could have made it a lot better, and did, later, in the movies, which were more faithful to Charles Addams. Then again, if, at that time, they had put the unadulterated Charles Addams humor on American television, the show never would have been allowed to last its two full seasons. It was close enough to Addams, nevertheless, to have me love to watch it and now buy the entire series to watch and enjoy again and again. And I can hardly expect any TV producer to make me relive that marvelous find in a dark barn.

PROOF OF INSURANCE

2012-01-09T02:24:00.001-06:00

Along with most other employers, the United States Postal Service stresses SAFETY. We would have regular "stand-ups," during which we'd have to take time off our time-pressured jobs to gather around and listen to our supervisor give a safety talk. It was never new; we had heard it all many times before; but it was required by upper management for us all to waste the time.

When I was first hired on with the Postal Service, I had to last through a probationary period before being assured my job was secure. During probation, nothing bad was to happen. We were also given initial instructions in safety---among them: Never drive the jeep in reverse unless it couldn't be helped; and watch out for dogs waiting inside the door, hoping to nip the fingers of the postman poking mail through the mail slot.

It was while on my very first time around a route on my own, a walking route, that I came up to a house door with a mail slot in it. I carefully pushed some letters through the slot, pushing open the metal flap hinged inside, when my imagination took over and I feared a dog smiling and licking his lips behind the door. My fingers were exposed enough inside to be snagged by dog fangs, and when I thought I heard a growl, I jerked my hand back so hard that the metal flap caught my fingers and sliced them to the bone. There was no dog; the mail slot bit me! I started bleeding huge drips of black blood, so badly that I knew I needed medical attention. But, we were not, especially during probation, to divert from the route. I took the chance and dared to venture a few blocks away to the nearest store, where I bought band-aids and tried my best to bandage my wounds. Then I continued the route, and never told my employers about the incident.

Another route, during probation, took me in a jeep out into the suburbs and along a country road. I noticed I had overlooked a piece of mail for the previous stop, and so wanted to back up to the mailbox. But we were not supposed to drive in reverse, and I wanted to obey their safety rules. The road was fairly wide, and I was driving a small mail jeep, so I went forward instead and made a U-turn. It turns out that the front of those little mail jeeps sticks out further than I thought, and the right front wheel went off the road and into a deep ditch. The jeep suddenly stumbled to a 45-degree angle, spilling some of the mail inside as packages tumbled. Thankfully I didn't roll it over. And thankfully I did this silly move right in front of a house. First I got down into the ditch and tried by myself to heave the jeep up onto the shoulder. I had enough of an adrenaline rush almost to do it, but not quite. So with my tail between my legs, I went up to the door of the house and knocked. A young man answered who quickly and mercifully followed me out and helped me physically push the jeep out of the ditch. I told him how much trouble I'd be in if my boss found out about this, and he assured me he'd keep my secret. There was no damage to the jeep, and no one ever knew about the (taboo word:) accident.

Remembering past experiences such as told about in my last post, and now with this, it soon dawned on me that one can be too safe. It wasn't long before I poo-pooed the safety talks at work and decided to live dangerously so as not to get hurt. Over the years I became notorious for driving without a seat belt (big no-no) and even driving with my postal truck door open (another big no-no). Occasionally I would get caught, even by the postmaster himself, and have received several reprimands and more than one letter-of-warning concerning these crimes. Fortunately they occurred more than six-months apart, which is as long as they stayed on file and in effect. It got to the point that most all my co-workers knew I was this careless, and during stand-ups the supervisors and postmaster would even make little derogatory comments about my neglect of safety. But no longer did I slice my fingers to the bone or drive into ditches, and I was known for being fast at carrying my route.

I had one official accident in my 24-year postal career. It took place in a very quiet neighborhood filled with retirement duplexes, where there was virtually no traffic to speak of. I stopped at a stop sign, looked both ways, then pulled out to turn left; but just as I pulled out I saw a van come right in front of me! I couldn't stop in time, and I hit it broadside. What happened is that the mail trucks, built for safety, are cluttered with outside rear-view mirrors, so much so that, at the speed we were going, the van stayed the whole while behind the mirrors. My vision was blocked and I didn't see it coming.

I felt terrible and assured the people in the van that I was entirely at fault. Fortunately no one was hurt. Both the postmaster and supervisor came out to see what happened and fill out paperwork, and the police came also. I insisted to the cop that it was my fault, but he gave a ticket to the OTHER driver! The reason? They couldn't provide proof of insurance. It seemed so bizarre, and I felt sick. As we stared at the dangling headlight and broken corner of the mail truck, the postmaster just looked at my supervisor and shook his head, never saying anything negative to me. I finished the route driving my busted truck.

Later, at work, my supervisor was finishing up the mass of paperwork regarding the accident, then had me sign it. Under "Cause of Accident" he had written: "Faulty equipment design." I thanked him for this, and for "being a friend to me out there," (because he hadn't been a friend to me until then). I never got in trouble for the accident, never heard about it again afterwards. Usually a mail carrier involved in an accident, whether or not it's his fault, is required to go to a safe driving course all over again. I didn't. The reason is that a fellow carrier, Bob, had gotten into the identical accident just weeks before, having the mirrors block his vision as he pulled out onto a busier street and ran into somebody's car. But since he was about to retire, they just let it go; and that provided a precedence for me to get away with it, for the sake of fairness. If the truck makers weren't so safety conscious with the many mirrors, neither accident would have happened.

And after 911, the whole Postal Service went nuts. They began locking doors at our workplace, making it extra difficult for us to do our jobs; and since terrorists could gain access to many secure places if they were driving a stolen postal truck, it became a much bigger deal to keep them locked whenever we were away from them at all (it used to be policy that we didn't have to lock them if we were out of sight of them for less than a minute). But think about it. If you were a terrorist who thought nothing of murdering thousands of civilians simply to make a point, would you wait silently around the corner in hopes of stealing an unlocked postal truck while the driver is momentarily away and quickly able to report it stolen? Or would you simply walk up to the driver in a quiet area of his route and shoot him where he sat, throw his body in the back, and take his truck and his uniform? Ever since 911, I have, with an irritated sigh, let people know that the terrorists won. They made America fearful and paranoid, and that's what "terror"ism is all about.

I have gotten hurt more by being too careful than by being careless. It's more important to me to know how to respond when bad things happen, than to try worriedly to keep away anything bad. Maybe it's the gunslinger in me. Maybe it's the American in me. Or maybe it's something much deeper, that remains from the root of mankind, something in the soul that grips onto what freedom it can. Life, has no proof of insurance.

TOO SAFE

2012-01-07T20:48:00.002-06:00

Andy and Agnes and Dad (standing) and me (sitting)

I could write a lot about Andy and Agnes Brekhus. They were like my second parents. I spent countless enjoyable hours with them on their Allen, Washington dairy farm, and, after they retired, at their Camano Island home on the shore of Utsalady Bay. Andy and Dad were good friends all through life, since elementary school in Stanwood. I've already written a post about Andy introducing me to Curt the hermit, but could also write about their Samoyed dog pulling me on my sled, and about the Brahman bull who chased me and even tried leaping over a barbed-wire fence to kill me, and about the man who attempted suicide across the road and Andy saving his life, and about homemade rootbeer, and the possum that played possum, and about shocking my head on an electric wire, and about their niece Cathy, and Andy's flatbed dumptruck, and the auction, and being surprised by a wild cougar while hunting, and about shooting rotten eggs, and about Andy being my foreman in the pea fields, and about the voyage to Goat Island, and all sorts of adventures; but here I'll just tell the brief story of the train bridge.

Andy and Agnes came to visit us in Sultan when we moved there in 1965, and Andy and I went for a walk to explore some of the town. So what's a 57-year-old man going to do with a 16-year-old boy? Step out to the middle of a train trestle bridge and wait for a train to come, that's what. Two bridges cross the Sultan River where it runs into the Skykomish and becomes the Snohomish River---one is the Highway 2 bridge, and south of it and parallel to it is a train bridge. The highway bridge has a sidewalk; the train bridge doesn't. Andy and I were talking about how we had never been on a train bridge while the train crossed it. How could we go on through life without experiencing this adventure?

Underside view of the train bridge crossing the Sultan River

So, the two of us stepped from tie to tie on the high train track until we were in the middle of the bridge, and we talked about all sorts of things while waiting for a train. Finally we heard one coming in the distance. Andy climbed precariously over the railing and stood leaning out while holding onto the railing bar. I thought this was a bit risky, and thought I'd do much better. I quickly crawled inside one of the steel girders. No way could I fall, stuck in there, and no way could the train hit me.

The tremendously loud train charged onto the bridge, passing between the girders with a hundred cars. The bridge shook violently and I watched Andy avert his face from the wind while holding tightly onto the trembling metal. But I didn't watch long, for the bridge shook so much that I began hitting my head against the inside of the girder. It hurt, and it seemed like the train would never stop roaring across the bridge. I was literally beat up inside that girder I thought would protect me, while Andy was out there having a blast.

Afterwards, with our ears still ringing, the two of us had a great laugh as we walked the three blocks back to my house, despite my headache. Perhaps this was why, at work at the postal annex until I retired last March, I scoffed at my employer's constant reminders to "be safe." Sometimes we can be too safe.

TIME FOR BEANY AND CECIL

2012-01-06T22:24:00.000-06:00

After World War II, many thousands of veterans came home to their wives and their happy reunion was celebrated in such a way over a period of several years that it resulted in the phenomenon since referred to as the "baby boomers," of which I am a proud member. I was born in 1949, when televisions with their rounded screens and many tubes encased in wooden boxes were becoming commonplace in American homes. My generation was the first to grow up with TV.

My first memory of television was in 1952 while visiting my oldest sister in California, when I was three. Time for Beany came on, and I was completely fascinated. It was the puppet show, televised live, and I remember asking my sister what show it was, and she responded, "Oh, just some cartoon." This was prophetic, for years later Bob Clampett, the creator of Time for Beany, would produce an animated TV series with the same characters--the cartoon: Beany and Cecil. Watching the DVD collections of these old shows today, I realize they contained a lot of clever adult humor I never caught as a kid. It's obvious that Bob Clampett was influenced by the beat generation; both the puppet show and the cartoon could be called hip. And come to find out, most of the music in Time for Beany was provided live by Korla Pandit, who is also one of my favorites.

PET SLIME

2012-01-06T12:53:00.003-06:00

It wouldn't be difficult to get rich. It's possible that after reading this post you'll go out and get rich.

The idea came to me, practically was shoved into my face, in some science course at Everett Community College. If I remember right, I dropped out of that class because my grades were plummeting and I wanted to maintain my high grade point average and stay on the Dean's List (honor roll). But before I left, the instructor told us about slime mold.

Between his fascinating description of this organism, he held up a piece of paper with dried, yellowish slime mold on it, telling us that, when dry, the creature remains dormant indefinitely. Then he brought us into the back room and showed us wet, living, active, slime mold, and told us that the organism will grow and spread and (slowly) move. We were amazed.

Slime mold can be found all over the world, possibly on the top of a rotting stump right in your own backyard. One fascinating thing about it is that scientists were having trouble trying to classify it (Protista), since it has conflicting characteristics of both plant and animal. What I thought was the most interesting thing is how, when dried, it remains dormant indefinitely until wet. If the instructor told us right, and didn't miss any important part, he inadvertently told me how to get rich. Finding slime mold is no problem. Growing slime mold is no problem. And it dries on paper, still alive.

The "pet rock" craze was just winding down. Some brainy fellow had the idea of selling rocks as pets, and sold them along with instructions on care. It was a joke, but a lucrative one. So I was going to get rich also, but with a real living creature. Here's the idea: While pet rocks took a lot of postage, books can be sent economically via media mail. So write a book, a brief and humorous children's book about how to care for PET SLIME. The book could include an appendix giving serious facts about the creature, to appease teachers and homeschool parents and extra-curious kids, and then, the best part: The book would include a page with actual slime mold dried on it. This page could have a perforation and be easily torn out, then, after adding water, the pet slime would come alive again and start to grow and move!

When Micki and I were visiting our friend, Michael, and his family, I told him my idea. Michael, although a socialist and proudly on welfare, was an incredibly intelligent fellow-student who maintained straight-A's and had a vocabulary higher than I could hope to always understand; and when he heard my idea, he slapped his hand on the arm of his chair and hollered to his wife, "I told you he was a genius!"

I had only two steps to make before taking off with this idea and getting rich. One was to find out if slime mold is poisonous. I didn't want the lady coming home from suing McDonald's for their hot coffee to have her kid eat the page of dried slime mold and get sick. Also, I had to test to see if it really works, having slime mold dry on a piece of paper, then putting it between other papers under pressure to simulate a stack of books, letting it sit a couple years, and adding water to see if it indeed comes alive again and grows and moves.

But I never got around to taking these steps. Michael's comment about my genius was pay enough for me. And anyone who reads this blog deserves to get rich. So I pass the idea on to you, with my blessing. Go for it. Get rich. But when you are, maybe you'll be kind enough to remember that you got the idea from the Butter Rum Cartoon.

ALF, THE DOWN-TO-EARTH ALIEN

2012-01-04T20:58:00.000-06:00

Beginning in 1986, this series is not that old, but I still enjoy it. This "Alien Life Form" had a down-to-earth humor that hit the spot. Years later, listening to Rush Limbaugh, I'm constantly and pleasantly surprised at how much Rush's voice sounds like Alf's. The characters of the Tanner Family who adopted Alf as a family member all sort of disappointed me, but really it was all for the best because the furry alien from the planet Melmac outstaged them, which is how it should've been. My favorite episode is the Alf Christmas Special, which combined multiple situations including Alf's helping deliver a baby on a stuck elevator. Nobody can surpass Johnny Carson in hosting "The Tonight Show," but if Alf had succeeded him, I would have been an avid late-night viewer.

COMING OF AGE IN WICHITA

2012-01-03T19:09:00.001-06:00

I was eighteen in 1967 when I hitchhiked from Sultan, Washington, to Wichita, Kansas, on thirty dollars. My folks didn't think I could do it; nevertheless Mom had made a little pillow for me to carry in my suitcase, and Dad came to me on the highway's shoulder before my first ride to add another ten dollars to my twenty.

The trip went remarkably well, filled with proof of a caring God, and when I arrived at my sister Linda's home on Millwood Avenue, I sneaked in the back door. Her husband Ron was out on the job, but Linda sat there, writing at the dining room table, with her back to me. When I crept up behind her and said a hearty "Hi!" Linda jumped enough to knock her chair over. Then she hugged me. What she was writing was a letter warning me not to hitchhike because it's too dangerous.

I had lived a fairly sheltered life, being the son of a Methodist minister, and I soon found that arriving in Wichita at eighteen years of age was stumbling into sudden adulthood and freedom. Linda and Ron were decent people, but not as religiously lifestyled as our parents. Now I was in a home that had parties, and beer in the refrigerator, and they let me do what I wanted to do.

When we lived in Blaine, Washington, and I went to elementary school while Linda went to high school, I always thought of her as a bit wild, and I didn't even know that she was a member of the Refrigerator Raiders gang. I did know, though, that she'd sneak off to dances, and that at least one of her boyfriends rode a motorcycle and wore a leather jacket. One day I was riding my bicycle down the street, and happened to see Linda in her car, the "Crazy Crinkle," stopped at a stop sign. I rode up alongside her and said a hearty "Hi!" much like I'd do almost ten years later in her Wichita dining room. Linda looked shocked and ducked out of sight. Weird behavior, I thought, to try hiding from her own brother like that. Come to find out, Linda smoked. She tried hiding the fact from us, and so when I pulled up, she panicked and threw down her cigarette. Then it dawned on her that she had just thrown a lit cigarette on the car's carpet, and so she ducked down to find it. I was terribly disappointed to find that my sister smoked, but I helped her keep her secret. (It turned out that our older sister Gloria also secretly smoked.)

In Washington State you're still not quite adult at eighteen. Drinking age is twenty-one. But the Kansas beer has slightly less alcohol volume, and the drinking age there was eighteen! Also you had to be twenty-one to go to X-rated movies in Washington, but only eighteen in Kansas. So suddenly I was considered an adult. Whoa.

My brother-in-law, Ron, knew the comparatively sheltered life I had led, and wanted to help me celebrate adulthood. He took me bar hopping, and to X-rated movies. To this day I appreciate him for this. It wasn't the drinking or the movies (which, by the way, would hardly be R-rated today); it was that he became more than my brother-in-law, he became my friend.

The movies we sat through had only partial nudity, and even less plot than skin. It wasn't until four years later that I would enjoy my favorite "X-rated" movies---"The Telephone Book" and Bill Osco's "Alice in Wonderland."

While I was applying for work at Cessna Aircraft, Linda and Ron were planning a Halloween costume party at their house. Meanwhile I stayed in their basement. The bedroom down there had concrete walls and floor, and a nice double bed. Despite the cleanliness of the main living quarters, the basement was infested with cockroaches. It was when I got up in the night and went across the room to turn on the light switch at the doorway that I got their full impact. At most every step in the dark, I could hear a crunch beneath my feet; and when I clicked on the light the dark floor suddenly spread into a gray floor as the hundreds of roaches ran to the cracks. The dead roaches showed me where I had stepped. Other than this, they didn't bother me at all, and stayed well out of sight.

I went to the karate school arounnd the end of the block to rent a costume for the upcoming party---a karate gi. They let me rent the white uniform, but refused to include a black belt (understandably), so I wore a beginner's white belt with it. Linda and Ron's party had a good turn-out, and there was drinking, and I drank, and there was cigarette smoking, and I smoked. For an addition to my costume, I had put on makeup to look like I had a black eye. After getting somewhat under the influence, my wearing the karate uniform, along with comments from some guests, increased my bravado and decreased my intelligence. I went out into the backyard to find a brick. After finding an old red brick with some slight cracks in it, I returned and set up two chairs with the brick crossing between them. Everyone gathered around to see the drunk kid in a karate costume break a brick. "Think through it," I remember hearing from some ancient lore, as I slammed the edge of my hand hard against it. While everyone yelled, I danced around holding the hand I thought I broke. Then I saw why they were yelling: On the floor lay two halves of a red brick!

Among the guests at the party were Ron's cousin Glen and Glen's wife Linda. This was a couple unlike any I had ever known growing up in a parsonage. Glen had a rough sort of worldly look to him, and his wife Linda was a brunette and quite attractive, with, to a sheltered eighteen-year-old, a sort of mysterious mystique about her. Having been raised in a home that wouldn't allow even such words and phrases as "gosh," "golly," "gee," "darn," and "shut up," and still never having had sex and thinking all but few girls are virgins, I was shocked to hear Glen and Linda sit on the couch visiting with Linda and Ron, (Glen's) Linda telling of her sexual experiences and Glen remarking surprised, "I thought you told me you only screwed twice!" I was repelled but in awe of this couple.

As the party wound down, I ended up at the kitchen table alone with Glen, while in his inebriated condition, and mine, he told me things I'd never heard before, and that I should meet some of his friends sometime---who, by his description, I didn't really care to meet. I told him about the time I had sneaked into a nudist camp, Fraternity Snoqualmie, and he told me he had a collection of nudist magazines and that he would loan them to me.

True to his word, Glen soon returned with a stack of magazines I had never known existed, and said I could borrow them for as long as I wanted. There are good nudist magazines today (Naturally being among the best, especially since it's published several true stories of mine), but none can compare to the nudist magazines of the 1950's and 1960's. This was the genre's heyday. I had sneaked peaks at girly magazines in stores, and even stole many, and finally actually bought Playboy in Montana; but nudist magazines were very different. Despite showing complete nudity of men, women and children, they were wholesome! Sexuality wasn't flaunted or exploited or even displayed. And instead of hot, airbrushed, perfect women, these magazines illustrated life being enjoyed by everyone just as they are. It was like seeing my wonderful day at Fraternity Snoqualmie on paper on my lap. For hour on end I would relax in the cockroach-infested basement and peruse these magazines, learning every one by heart. Later, in the Army, I would subscribe to one of them, Nudism Today, I would spend my last military leave in a Miami nudist resort, and after the Army would even join a club in Washington State and eventually live there full-time with my growing family.

I kept smoking, and chose Benson & Hedges cigarettes because of the clever commercials concerning its being longer than other cigarettes (elevator door closing on it, etc.). If they did mind it, Linda and Ron never let me know, for both of them smoked, and I felt free. I stayed in Wichita that time a total of three months, and later in my stay, having eventually gotten the job at Cessna and renting a nice apartment of my own, I ran out of cigarettes and felt the loss. I noticed myself beginning to shake because I didn't have one, and realized I was becoming addicted. So I stopped smoking cigarettes. I tried a pipe regularly in South Carolina while staying with my oldest sister Eunice and her family, and in years to come I would smoke marijuana, and to this day I enjoy sitting on the porch every few months with a good cigar. But I never got back into cigarettes. Much of this has to do with something my older brother said to me years before. I idolized Paul and asked him why he doesn't smoke, and he said, "I never saw the sense in it." That makes good sense. By the way, Paul and I once made a hookah water pipe, and smoked two bowls of tobacco through it, getting to feel very sick, then dumped the water out on the sidewalk. A yellowish sludge of what the water had filtered splatted in wet piles onto the cement, making us sick to look at it. We realized aloud to each other that, for those who don't filter their smoke through a hookah, this yuck is what collects in their lungs! It was a good lesson.

Taking advantage of the fact that I could drink legally, I bought a beautiful knight's-helmet decanter and kept it as a centerpiece on my Wichita apartment's table. Not knowing any better, I filled it with Pink Catawba dinner wine. One of my friends at Cessna was Bobby, a black man who understood and took advantage of the fact that he worked at the plant as a token minority, a victim of Affirmative Action, and tended to be very lazy, pissing off all the white guys. But Bobby became my friend, and would often drive me to and from work, although my apartment was walking distance away, in his big car that would make any seaman feel right at home. One day, taking me home, Bobby turned the steering wheel but his car wouldn't turn. The wheel broke loose from the steering column. Creepy! He managed to slow down and pull over without tragedy. Later at the apartment, I invited him in for some wine, and it was then I learned that I hate Catawba Pink dinner wine! Awful stuff. Bobby didn't let any ungratefulness be known though, and we had a good long talk.

Bobby and I were among several trained sealers at Cessna Aircraft, the first to be trained to seal fuel tanks now being built into the wings of certain small planes. Other than the tank-sealing goop tending to make our steel-toed boots ugly, we didn't mind the job. What we did grow to mind was to buck rivets. Whenever our supervisor, Larry, found it desired, he would pull one or two of us off our sealing jobs to go up the line and buck rivots for the riveters. This involved deep stretching while holding heavy steel blocks on the inside of wings to meet and flatten the ends of the rivets being riveted by the riveters. It was fairly hectic, hurrying to keep up with the riveter and occasionally missing the right spot, and miserably noisy. We preferred the laid-back job we were trained for. So bucking rivets became one of our pet peeves, as did our supervisor, Larry.

Incidentally, someone there told me that vodka can't be smelled on the breath, and so I once came to work feeling quite good on vodka, and, indeed, no one sensed it. I've been since told that this isn't true, about no breath smell, but fortunately I lucked out. Around that time, while I had vodka on hand, I took advantage of it after eating a box of Black Crows licorice candy. I was drunk enough to get sick while making my way up my apartment steps. Remember this, if you remember anything at all: You do not want to get vomiting drunk after eating Black Crows.

Anyway, one day, when I wasn't in the best mood and was feeling antsy and wanting to continue my hitchhiking adventure, Larry came over and said, "Lund, I want you to go buck rivets."

"Do I have to?" I asked.

"If I say so, you do!" he said.

"Then I quit," I said.

Larry looked as though someone had slugged him in his fat stomach. His eyes and mouth all opened wide and he held out his hands and said, "Wait here! Wait right here," then ran off. All my co-workers learned what had transpired before Larry returned with two big-wigs in management. They calmly told me that I had the choice of quitting or being fired, and I shrugged my shoulders and repeated, "I quit." Then one of the big-wigs took me under his wing. He had me do a little paperwork in an office, then took me on a private tour of Cessna Aircraft. He was a nice man, treating me respectfully despite my quitting without notice, and gave me such a nice tour of the place that, by the time I walked out the door, I thought Cessna was a pretty good outfit.

When I walked out into the parking lot, I noticed that the cars of my co-workers were missing, and wondered why. It was hours before the end of the shift. Later I heard that, prompted by my quitting, the sealing employees staged a big walk-out. They didn't wait around for a guided tour. They just left, and the whole assembly line shut down.

After arranging my farewells, Linda was my first ride in my ongoing journey, and she waited until my second ride picked me up and disappeared over the horizon. After working three months at Cessna Aircraft, I blew all my extra money on Christmas gifts, except for the fourteen dollars that got me to Charleston, South Carolina, where Eunice lived. While walking through a Charleston suburb in the dark, a big black man ran up out of a deep ditch and stopped right in front of me. All I could see besides a faint, large silhouette were two wide-open, white eyes. I leaped back, but he yelled, panting, "You scared me half t' death!"

"You scared me!" I shouted, relieved. We both burst out laughing, and we went our separate ways.

And so I continued on in my journey around the U.S., and in my journey of life, discovering new things, trying out new experiences, meeting with joys and fears, and finding that many fears are unfounded. Most wrong things I've done eventually become lessons learned. Most good experiences remain to comfort me. But, after all, I'm still coming of age.

DEAR WENDY

2012-01-03T01:20:00.000-06:00

702 W. Casino, P-104

Everett, WA 98204

July 15, 1989

Dear Wendy,

That's funny---I had just been thinking up a storm about you and the world project, and the next day here comes a letter from you! Thank you; glad to hear from you!

No, I can't imagine learning about the Soviet Union in just two days. The package I received from Moscow was full of all sorts of neat stuff, and after years I have yet to get through it. One book entitled Soviet Union: 100 Questions and Answers is especially interesting (and I haven't even gotten through that yet!) and gives subtle insight into the Soviet way of thinking (at least the Soviet government's way). And one day for the jumbled and constantly changing nations of Africa is inconceivable! But, for sure, an awful lot of words can be spoken in a day; isn't it about 32 pages per hour? Anyway, if not for the grading, it sounds like fun. Hope you passed the exams with hovering hues (or is it "flying colors"?).

That's great you're going for it---writing around the world---and a neat theme: wildlife. Your beautiful illustrations certainly give you away, and I hope you get the job in Minnesota (an instruction coordinator position at a nature center sounds more attractive than a biologist position; and although Kansans are generally amiable, Minnesota is much prettier in landscape).

Who knows whose tail the FBI is on? In the army I discovered that the CID (the U.S. Army's intelligence organization) was investigating me, primarily for subversive activities while maintaining a "secret" clearance, I assume. At Fort Bragg, North Carolina, the CID headquarters even posted a newspaper clipping of me on its bulletin board, picturing me at an anti-army rally (with Rennie Davis, Jane Fonda, et al) giving the peace sign. A CID agent, under the guise of "just another G.I." once invited me to go for a hike in the Sandia Mountains there near Albuquerque (while I was learning about nuclear weapons at Sandia Air Force Base), and after an afternoon of hiking and a lot of subtle questions and acceptable answers, he confessed to me his real intent of determining if I was a government risk. Once in North Carolina I attended a G.I.'s United meeting---a subversive affair, since U.S. soldiers are not allowed to unionize---and shortly thereafter the Post Commander himself called for me to report to him, giving me friendly advice not to continue attending these meetings, specifically the next one, which was to be held on post and would involve arrests. I hadn't given my name at that meeting I did attend, and saw no one I knew, and so evidently was being investigated at the time and someone was there who knew me.

This was all a game to me then; I loved the thought of it, and sought out the air of subversion, because I was a "hippie" caught in the military and resented it. Now that I'm out and honest, I couldn't begin to guess where I stand with any agency in the business of paranoia, but it doesn't matter to me. Still it would be a game. They can investigate to their worried hearts' content, but would only be impressed, to their chagrin and my delight. After my receiving packages from the Soviet Union and Iran and Libya, etc. (the one from Libya even arriving broken open and repaired with clear plastic), there's a good possibility that some minor investigation was made, but their report would make fine light reading.

My advice is not to write to "enemy" nations if you have something to hide that might incriminate you---something that can still be discovered, that is. Otherwise, go for it! The FBI and even CIA act in the interest of "truth, justice, and the American way," and would not keep agents on the payroll for the main purpose of spying on a school teacher applying for a nature center position in Minnesota, nor even a mailman associated with such subversive organizations as the Roman Catholic Church and the American Sunbathing Association. Aerogrammes are a good idea.

I don't know when I last wrote, or what I last talked about, but anyway last Easter I did join the Catholic Church, which is something I'm very pleased with doing. Catholicism is much more prevalent there in Albuquerque than here---with the Spanish influence there and the Scandinavian influence here, and I don't know where you're at in this regard. Nevertheless, for my critical friends I've assembled a very short reading list for mutual peace of mind. If they're not converted by reading Catholicism and Fundamentalism by Karl Keating and Theology and Sanity by Frank Sheed, at least they'll learn that I'm not crazy to embrace Catholicism. Since doing so, I've never been happier.

Tossing in a little controversy (unintentionally and unnecessarily), my family and I have also joined the Lake Bronson Club---a large nudist camp about 45 minutes from here. This, too, has heightened our happiness and brought us even closer together as a family. Besides the wonderful feeling of relaxation and appreciation for God's creation, and the feeling of total acceptance, I suppose the main reason for me is the marvelous release from cultural restraint. Whatever, it's fun to doff the textiles for a swim in the lake, a nature hike, or a hard game of volleyball. Brochure enclosed.

Our third son should be born in two weeks! An ultrasound revealed the secret: it's a boy. Andrew Dale. Micki is planning a water birth here at home, renting a special birth tub, and with the assistance of one of the leading midwives of the Northwest, Chris Campbell. Water births are new to the United States, but commonplace in France and the Soviet Union. The baby leaves the water in the womb and enters the brighter water of the birth tub, heated to body temperature and with even a near equivalent of sodium. The videos we've seen are remarkable; instead of screaming into a traumatic new world, the babies enter it with ease and fascination, so obvious by their bewildered faces. They rise from the water slowly and gently to find their mothers' breast---a pleasant introduction to their newfound freedom. As is usual in these births, I'll be in the tub, too, across from Micki, and will "catch" Andy as he swims out. What joy!

Well, let me know how the jobs go, how the exams went, and how the world responds. Have fun! I haven't contacted Alex since our friend Joe died. If you see him, tell him either to write or to be patient, ok?

Your friend,

Dale

ROWAN PARK AND HAYMARKET SQUARE

2011-12-30T03:23:00.000-06:00

Stationed at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, for my last year and a half in the Army, I tried to be as rebellious and radical as I could get away with. This wasn't difficult in 1970 and 1971. Radicals had a lot going for them. We still had the draft. So many were protesting that, along with the Vietnam War, and countless guys were in the Army who didn't want to be there. Angry G.I.'s were trying to start an illegal union, called G.I.'s United, and were holding clandestine meetings here and there. Fayetteville had a coffee shop hangout for radical G.I.'s, called Haymarket Square. And Rowan Park was "our park."

I lived in a one-room apartment off post, officially with three other guys, but about twenty-five lived there. Drugs were easily obtained mainly in Rowan Park, and our commune for awhile was open basically to anyone who hated the Army and didn't hate drugs. A few women lived with us, too---one the girlfriend of one of the guys, another a Tarot card reader, and another an encyclopedia saleswoman who decided to stay. We had whole keys (fifty ounces each) of marijuana in clear plastic bags on an open shelf in the apartment. Despite the harsh penalties for drugs then, we didn't do much to hide them.

Rowan Park was where we went to play Frisbee when we were stoned or tripping, and sometimes even when we were straight. One time I went there alone and ended up sleeping under a picnic table when night came. In the middle of the night, I was gently awakened by a pleasant, soothing voice. I opened my eyes and looked into a girl's face, not four inches from my own. She smiled and said, "Hi. I'm Tinkerbell. You wanna join us?"

That was how I met my band of friends who weren't in the Army. They were hippies. I crawled out from under the picnic table to see about eight to ten other, long-haired people gathered in a circle, sitting on the grass, passing a joint. They accepted me as one of them, and soon I was very high with them. One of our theme songs was the Three Dog Night's "Celebrate." We became frequenters of Rowan Park. I never knew where any of them lived. As far as we were concerned, we lived at the park.

In May of 1970, some superstars of the anti-army movement came to hold a massive rally at Rowan Park, including Jane Fonda and Rennie Davis. About three thousand people attended. Police lined the perimeter. I sat on the ground next to a friend, and we had only one tab of LSD between us, so I broke it in half and as we partook of the hallucinogen, I glanced up and saw a reporter with a big camera aimed at us. Putting the half tab in my mouth with one hand, I gave the peace sign with the other, and smiled; and that photo got into the newspaper and the clipping onto the bulletin board of the Army's Criminal Investigation Department (CID).

After the protest show, groups gathered to go onto post to find G.I.'s to talk with, but the demonstration's ringleaders, including Jane Fonda, were arrested before they left the park. While watching Jane Fonda being arrested, a big cop came by and forcefully shoved me back, much to my disapproval.

Word had it that there was to be a big G.I.'s United meeting at the Quaker House in Fayetteville that evening, and so I went. The meeting was quite boring and I was tripping on acid, so I stepped out a back door to walk around. As I came into the front yard, a car pulled right up onto the lawn in front of me, and out stepped Jane Fonda. I was the only one around for her to talk to, and so she told me how ironic it was: Here she was arrested for demonstrating against the Army; her efficient lawyer got her released quickly; and on the way back they stopped at Kentucky Fried Chicken and got their food free because she's a movie actress. Through my dilated eyes I then watched her shake her confused head and sigh.

Not long after that, while at work on post, someone came and said that the post commander wanted to see me! Unheard of! I was missing some patch or something and so was "out of uniform" when I went to the post headquarters and reported to him. He didn't mention anything about the uniform. Instead he told me that there was a G.I.'s United meeting planned at some baseball diamond on post, which was illegal, and that all who attend would be arrested. He strongly advised me not to attend. Apparently there had been spies at that meeting in town, but why he picked me to try to keep me from arrest is unknown. Anyway, I didn't go to the on-post meeting, nor did I know about it in the first place.

Mugshots from a similar arrest in Cleveland

After that rally, Rowan Park was even more on the policemen's "shit list." One night our group, including Tinkerbell, was sitting in a circle, passing a joint. I was the one holding the joint when we saw in amazement a police car driving into the park, right over the lawn, speedily coming towards us. I quickly pounded the joint two inches into the ground with my thumb, while another guy pulled a baggie out of his pocket with ten tabs of LSD in it. He said, "I wonder how good _____'s acid is, and he gulped down all ten hits. The police told us that some neighbors had complained about noise in the park, and that we needed to be quiet. Then they drove off, without searching us. Afterwards several spotlights shown on us from around the park's perimeter, apparently to intimidate us. We weren't intimidated, but just sat there in our circle, quietly waiting. After the lights went out and the police drove away, we left for the night. The next weekend, the guy who took the ten hits of LSD was there in Rowan Park, walking around aimlessly, still tripping.

One particular guy in the group became more of a friend to me. He was a big, long-haired, bearded fellow. One day, after hearing that my favorite drug was synthetic THC, he told me that he could get me five hundred hits, if I were interested in selling it. This drug was like smoking marijuana without any of the side effects (smell, sore throat, munchies, etc.), simply popping a pill, and everything seemed like a good dream. Why wouldn't I want to share this nice experience? So I agreed to meet him at the park at such-and-such a time, to get the five hundred hits and to pay him. Well, I was there, but he wasn't. Then came a young guy running across the park to tell me that our friend was arrested trying to buy the THC and was in jail. My heart fell. About two months later, I was coming into Rowan Park and saw my bearded friend from a distance, standing by the stage, and I yelled out Three Dog Night's "Celebrate! Celebrate! Dance to the music..." And from beside the stage he heard me and joined in, and we greeted each other as though no misfortune had occurred at all. Maybe he was used to it, but of course that episode convinced me never to deal drugs.

Downtown I hung out at Haymarket Square. The management of this coffee house made a business out of being as radical as they could on behalf of discontented soldiers. The large room was full of little tables surrounded by chairs, and there was a counter for ordering coffee house fare. Along the counter were also little piles of literature, as controversial as could be found, from G.I.'s United material to communist pamphlets about Mao Tse-tung. Pete Seeger came there once to sing for us and talk to us. Then, in April of 1971, Jane Fonda returned, along with Donald Sutherland, Peter Boyle, Dick Gregory, etc., to put on the "F*** the Army" Show right there in Haymarket Square. Elliot Gould was scheduled to come to the performance also, but then declined due to "personal reasons."

I sat about ten feet from Fonda, Sutherland, Boyle, etc. as they acted out little, protest skits. The only one I really remember enough to tell is when they pretended they were sitting in an audience when it came time to stand for the flag and sing the Star Spangled Banner. All stood and sang except for Donald Sutherland, who sat quietly. The standing singers became more and more perturbed, trying to goad the obvious protester into standing, but he refused, and they ended up beating him off the chair and onto the floor. Then with him lying there, beat up, they stood and finished the song: "O'er the land of the free..." The room rocked with applause. Later, outside, I noticed Jane Fonda, off by herself and leaning against the building. Occasionally a G.I. would pass by and talk with her, but she mainly stood there alone. No swarming fans, no bodyguard(s) that I could tell. She may be the bane of proud vets, the scourge of patriots, hated by many, but I still remember her from "Barbarella," and I've got to say that she has one fine body.

During another day in Haymarket Square, a quiet day, Mark and I sat there, bored. A young man came up to us and said, "Would you like to go to a Buddhist meeting?" With nothing else to do, Mark and I looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders, and said, "Sure." The fellow drove us to some house in Fayetteville where a large room-full of Buddhists and guests were gathered. A man there talked to us about Buddhism, helped us memorize their chant, "Nam-myoho-renge-kyo," and told us what it means. He, and most all the Buddhists present, then took out their beads, like a rosary but beads only. They held it between fingers and just rubbed it as they then repeated the chant. His explanation of why the beads was, "Because it feels good." Well, it all did make for an interesting afternoon, but when Mark and I stepped out to discuss the experience, we both shared a deeper conviction in Christianity. It was inspiring to see the Buddhists so faithfully and enthusiastically talk about their faith and perform their ritual, but deep down both Mark and I knew it was a bit "out there," and instead it made us get homesick for the Christianity we had grown up with and had not been so faithfully practicing. And so we left feeling happy and inspired and enthusiastic, but not in the way the Buddhists had hoped.

And so Rowan Park, and Haymarket Square, and the little commune, and Fort Bragg, and the Army, soon drifted into only memories. I went home.

PLAYING CATCH

2011-12-29T19:33:00.000-06:00

I was flying home to Washington State from South Korea, and had to transfer at Anchorage from a military plane to a commercial one. The Anchorage airport was all I've ever seen of Alaska. Before I was born, though, my family spent time in Alaska, and Dad even had a pet seal. He had a hard time, though, protecting it from the local fishermen who wanted to kill it because seals eat a lot of fish. I wasn't so fortunate. Never had a pet seal.

The taxi taking me the short distance from the miltary airport terminal to the commercial airport terminal hinted to me that Alaska was more expensive than Washington, costing me five dollars! Five dollars was worth more in 1970.

While I waited for a free military stand-by flight to Seattle, a woman came down the terminal hall and gazed into the waiting room. Along the way she said hello to everyone, and she beamed. Despite some teeth missing, hers was the most beautiful smile I'd ever seen. And she was the first Eskimo (Inuit) I had ever seen in person. She was short and broad, with darker skin and straight black hair, and was wearing clothing of leather and fur.

She took in all and everyone as though she loved what she saw. It was as if the world were magic to her, and if she looked at you, you'd know she loves you. After two years in the Army, returning from a hardship tour overseas, I was amazed as I watched her. And she saw me, and she kept her infectious smile, beaming, and so I smiled back, and probably beamed myself. Then she turned, said hello to a couple more people, and walked away.

I haven't seen an Eskimo since, but I like Eskimos. They remind me of a smile. Perhaps since, when this woman thought of American soldiers, they'd remind her of my smile. So what does it take to make the world a better place? I remember after my Christian conversion it seemed like everyone smiled. As I walked down the street, passers-by would smile at me. Bus drivers smiled at me. Everybody smiled! And then it dawned on me. I was smiling, and they were simply returning it.

When a father goes outside to play catch with his son, they're happy. Their whole home seems happier. But when we play catch with a smile, the whole world seems happier...and is.

I WON THE STAN BORESON CONTEST!

2011-12-26T18:09:00.000-06:00

Stan Boreson, the "King of Scandinavian Humor," is my Dad's second-cousin's cousin. I grew up with his long-running and successful King's Klubhouse children's show on Seattle's King-TV, and I can still recite the Klub's long, secret password.

One day, when I was eight, King's Klubhouse announced a big contest, sponsored by the Seattle-King County Safety Council. I don't remember what we had to do to enter the contest---something pertaining to safety of course---but the first prize was a large toy semi truck that had, I believe, one hundred silver dollars in its trailer! Of course I entered.

Weeks later, I was playing in one of the Blaine gullies when a friend happened by and shouted down to me, "Hey, Dale! You won the contest on Stan Boreson!" If screaming cheers could make one fly, I'd have had to dodge planes on the way home!

It seemed like forever, waiting for my giant toy truck full of silver dollars! Finally a large envelope arrived from King-TV for me. It turned out that I did win, but my friend hadn't got the part about my not winning first place. Instead, this is what I received:

"THE PROMISE" IN BRANSON

2011-12-23T14:13:00.000-06:00

At the end of the last Millennium, our daughter, Disa, starred as baby Jesus in the tremendously successful musical drama, "The Promise," in Branson, Missouri. It was an elaborate affair, with many live animals coming on stage -- so realistic that when the actor playing the adult Jesus came riding down the aisle on a real donkey, passing us and waving, I excitedly waved back like a little kid.

As well as "The Promise," Disa starred as baby Jesus in "Two from Galilee" at the same theatre, a musical drama about the love story of Mary and Joseph.

Disa was actually employed, registered with Social Security, and received paychecks; and as her parents, we were allowed backstage to watch our baby being wrapped in swaddling clothes, and afterwards we'd make our way through a side curtain and into the huge auditorium to watch the show for free. Once I even needed to walk under the live camel standing in front of the curtain. Also our whole family was invited to and attended the end-of-season "Promise" cast party, eating and celebrating with wonderful actors and actresses, many of whom came up to compliment our baby and visit with us. We even won door prizes.

It was so fun watching the birth of Jesus being presented on stage in such an awesome musical performance, and at the end of the scene Joseph took the baby from Mary and held our youngest daughter high to present her to God the Father. So it was a double impact for us.

Disa was so well behaved throughout that the cast was amazed. If she did happen to cry, which was very rare, the microphones were set up to drown it out with the stage performance. Only one time did she blow it, when Mary handed her to Joseph and he began to lift her up, Disa vomited...and Mary jumped back...and the audience roared with laughter.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

PHANTOM OF THE OPERANT

2011-12-23T03:05:00.000-06:00

We visited Universal Studios in 1988, a wonderful experience! Out of a gathering of 350 people, our son Leif, then almost 10, was chosen to demonstrate the special effects of how Elliot rode his bicycle through the sky with E.T. So there was Leif on the bike on stage, but on the screens above there was Leif riding with E.T. through the sky.

As we walked through the grounds, we watched a man accurately and convincingly dressed up as the Phantom of the Opera, slinking around scaring people. When he sneaked up for our 2 1/2-year-old son Sam's reaction, Sam casually reached out and touched the Phantom's grotesque teeth! A few minutes later, I turned to see the Phantom of the Opera down on his knee and Sam walking up to hug him. In front of a gathering crowd of people, there were monster and child in loving embrace.

Perhaps more than just I walked on that day wondering why the whole world can't be like that.

1974 SWISS ARMY CONDOR A350

2011-12-17T18:05:00.002-06:00

Rarest bike
Dale Lund's 1974 Condor Swiss Army Motorcycle took home the Rarest Bike trophy during the Vintage Motorcycle Meet at Leatherworks in Branson Saturday, May 21. Lund, of Branson, said his Condor is a daily rider and is completely original, so don't be surprised when you see him tooling around town.

Photo by Craig Donze

On May 21, 2005, I won my only trophy. The annual Branson Motorcycle Rally was on, and for the first time I happened to have time off work on the day of the Vintage Motorcycle Meet. And so Micki and I rode into the event with everybody staring at the Condor, and parked at the end of a line of entries. We were then mobbed by people walking up and asking questions. There was no entry fee, and right away, Tracy, the man sponsoring the event, came and said that I'm up for the Rarest Bike trophy. Micki and I spent two fun hours, eating free donuts and me drinking free coffee, talking with other bikers about our bike and theirs. One fellow even adjusted my rear brake for me. When the awards were presented at 11 a.m., trophies were handed out for Best Custom, Best Restoration, Oldest Bike, etc., and when Tracy held up the trophy for Rarest Bike, he paused and looked over the audience and asked, "Has anyone ever seen a Condor before?" About two hundred bikers -- total silence.

With the trophy in my hand and our getting ready to ride off, a man came up and asked if he could take a picture. Throughout the two hours, many pictures had been taken of the Condor and of me and the Condor, and there was always a small gathering around the bike, and so I thought this was just another; but it turned out to be a reporter for the Taney County Times and the Branson Daily Independent, and the photo made front page!

Having purchased the bike mail-order and sight unseen for $2500 from Major Surplus and Survival in Gardena, California, it has taken Micki and me to Eureka Springs, Arkansas and back, our daughter Glory and me to Wichita, Kansas and back, and me to Traverse City, Michigan and back, as well as regularly commuting to work. I also took a road trip with the Freedom of Road Riders motorcycle club. It got to where I began calling the bike a "friend maker." I also bought some (mostly foreign) military clothing to go with it, including a Swiss Army helmet. On the way through Michigan, I was riding along a less-traveled freeway, when a car passed and I saw it slow down up ahead still in the left lane. Eventually I caught up with it, and smiled when I saw a woman leaning out the passenger window with a camera, taking a picture when alongside.

Only three thousand A350 Condors were made, in the 1970's. The engine is by Ducati. The electrical system and headlight is by BMW. The rest is Swiss. When the Swiss Army switched over to BMWs in 2001, the Condors were put into dry storage (having been well kept up) and sold in batches around the world.

One day, on my way home from work, an oncoming car turned left in front of me, too close for me to avoid at my speed. When I saw we were going to hit, I assumed I was going to die. Not wanting to exit this world while seeing gore, I closed my eyes. When the accident seemed to be taking a long time, I took a peek only to watch the handlebars sideswiping the car. After closing my eyes again, something caught, throwing my body through the handlebars (breaking them), and I heard the thumping of my body hitting the pavement.

Scratches on my Swiss Army helmet after the accident

I never lost consciousness, and didn't get any "road-rash" -- didn't even hurt my postal uniform -- but did separate my right shoulder and suffered pain in my right kidney area. My first thought, though, was the furious question: How could anybody dare run into a 1974 Swiss Army Condor?!!

The other driver's insurance company paid for the Condor's repair (with parts shipped from Colorado) plus $33,000. I was off work for four relaxing months. Afterwards I thought, hey, if I can get someone to turn in front of me every year, I'd be doing all right.

Since then, the Condor has conked out a few times en route, with trouble kick-starting it afterwards. A few years ago I attempted to adjust the carburetor here in the yard, then couldn't get it started, so wheeled it into the basement. There it's sat ever since. Even if I never ride it again, I sure got my money's worth with all the great memories shared with my Rarest Bike, my friend maker.

A BRIEF ROMANCE

2011-12-14T23:51:00.000-06:00

Her name was Merriann Farrell, but I didn't know it. She had begun attending Burlington-Edison High School that year, 1964, as a junior. I was a sophomore. I was in love.

She was a different kind of cute, kind of tomboyish, but very girlish, dark tanned, vivacious, and popular with several junior-class boys. There was no way she would go for me. Not only was I a year younger, but I looked young for my age, was shorter, and wasn't popular.

I saw Merriann only in the hallways between classes, and always surrounded by at least two guys. When I'd pass by, she'd look right through me. It was so frustrating! Here I loved her, and she didn't know I existed, nor did she care. Of course I didn't know her name, but so what? That could come later. I was determined at least to have her know I existed, so one day, at a rare moment when there were no guys between us in the hall, I walked up to her and asked, "Will you marry me?"

Whoa. Merriann suddenly saw me, then stared at me, then smiled at me. It wasn't a friendly smile. She walked up to me, even backing me against the wall, and with her face not six inches from mine, she scoffed, "What did you say?"

"Will you marry me?" I repeated. I don't remember what she said, but she laughed loudly and ridiculed me. At least three of her boyfriend wanna-be's stepped up beside her to determined whether or not they should pound me, but decided that threats and derision would suffice. Merriann continued to chew me out for some time, face (closely) to face, and I stood there, pressed against the wall, and enjoyed every minute of it.

There was no way we could get together in love, but I succeeded in getting us very close together emotionally. From inches away I could finally explore her wonderful face as her bright, firy eyes stared into my delighted ones. She and her entourage eventually left me after my proposal, but I had gotten closer to Merriann Farrell than any other sophomore in the school, and after that, every time I passed, she noticed me in the hall.

THIS IS A HONEY OF A POST, BUT WILL YOU READ IT?

2011-12-12T15:36:00.002-06:00

Two Mormons came to my door in Everett, Washington around 1990. One was in my face, while the other fellow was obviously the trainee, standing back quietly. I had converted to Catholicism in 1989, and had a collection of material from Karl Keating's "Catholic Answers." Unfortunately, the tract I wanted was hiding -- "Problems with the Book of Mormon." I remembered there was something in it, about bees, that impressed me about the falsehood of the Book of Mormon, but I couldn't remember it enough to tell my visitors at the door.

And so I said to them, "I have proof that the Book of Mormon is false, but I don't know where it is right now. Would you come back in a few days? By then I should have it." They agreed to come back the following week, and left.

Before I even had a chance to wonder where to search for the tract, the two Mormons returned and rang the doorbell. The lead fellow said, "We talked it over...and we won't be coming back next week."

I said, "Here I tell you that I have proof that the Book of Mormon is false -- proof -- and you're not willing to listen to it? If you won't listen to the truth, from now on you'll wonder what that proof was. You would rather believe in something that someone might have proof is false?"

"I'm sorry," he said, "we won't be back." And they left.

By the way, I've since found the tract, and the part I wanted to read to them is: "Scientists have demonstrated that honey bees were first brought to the New World by Spanish explorers in the fifteenth century, but the Book of Mormon, in Ether 2:3, claims they were introduced around 2000 B.C. The problem was that Joseph Smith wasn’t a naturalist; he didn’t know anything about bees and where and when they might be found. He saw bees in America and threw them in the Book of Mormon as a little local color. He didn’t realize he’d get stung by them."

Certainly the history of bees is not infallible, and anti-Catholics would not heed a Catholic tract, but this is not the point. The point is that two Mormons came to the door, I told them I had proof that their book is wrong and invited them to return to find out what that proof is, and they were frankly too afraid to hear it.

I'm picking on Mormons here, but I could have, and almost did, choose Jehovah's Witnesses instead, or scores of other religions. I have several good Mormon friends and my own brother is a Jehovah's Witness, so I don't mean to step on toes. I myself have professed religions that make these seem pretty tame, such as Baha'i, Taoism, and Asatru, to name a few. But the above episode is a perfect example of the conflict between truth and will.

Relativism is a natural extension of the primacy of the will. "Whatever I choose to believe is true for me." And for many years I would seek out religions or denominations that agreed with what I chose to believe, then got in with others who were members of these creeds, eventually and inevitably to be disillusioned and leave. Apparently it was hard to live with myself.

The will is powerful. Hypnotism enjoys its influence. The will has even cured diseases. A fun test you can do yourself, demonstrating will's power is with food. Many foods we dislike we actually choose to dislike, convincing ourselves against taste, texture, source, etc. But tell yourself you now like something you've disliked before, say, oysters, and you will savor them with pleasure. As a kid, I hated macaroni and cheese, even though I'd never eaten it. I didn't like its looks. One day my parents forced me to eat it. In rebellion, I kept my mouth almost closed, and shoved the macaroni and cheese in, making a cheesy mess on my lips. It was good! And for a long time after that, I ate this delicacy with my mouth almost closed, messing my lips, because I thought it tasted even better this way.

And many of us treat religion like food. We have a term, "cafeteria Catholics," for those who join, or grow up in, the Church, but have trouble accepting all of its dogma, so pick and choose what suits their taste. Brought to extremes, this is what has also brought about massive schisms and countless breakaway denominations.

I was terribly anti-Catholic, choosing to believe unfounded prejudices learned throughout my youth, and when my wife Micki was being suckered in by Catholic friends in the 1980's -- POW! I did not want my wife to be Catholic! After years of arguments, I came to the point that I felt it necessary to learn enough about Catholism to argue against it with more than my will. So I explored the truth. A year later, I myself joined the Church. It was all I could do, being a new respecter of truth, with my will tagging along behind me.

The will is powerful and important. But truth is existence itself. And to accept truth, and allow our will to conform to it, is to beome whole.

A TARANTULA GOES TO CHURCH

2011-12-10T16:29:00.003-06:00

After my book All About Tarantulas was published in 1977 and I had founded the original American Tarantula Society (ATS) in 1979, our pastor, Rev. Charles Root, was inspired to give a sermon on February 18, 1979 that included praise for the ATS. He was even wearing our club badge as he spoke.

At an earlier date, I had given a little sermonette from his pulpit on the subject of "Fear." As I began to speak, I opened a margarine container and out of it my large tarantula crawled onto my hand and began making her way up my arm. There was a general gasp throughout the congregation. By the time my little talk ended, my tarantula was at my shoulder.

On July 9, 1979, the Bellingham Herald published a lengthy article, "Dale Lund's spider club is giving the whole country the creeps," by staff reporter Carolyn Hughs, in which she wrote: "Lund's -- and tarantulas' -- new fame has had other effects, as well. The club's attempts to revolutionize people's thinking about them was incorporated into a sermon about Jesus' teachings by the Rev. Charles Root of Nooksack Valley United Methodist Church. Although not a spider owner, he has joined the club, out of curiosity."

Feeling perhaps a little explanation and elaboration was due, Rev. Root wrote this letter to the editor, published the following July 13th:

All creatures

Dale Lund's spider club may give some people the creeps, but maybe not the "whole country."

Carolyn Hughs deserves some thanks for helping people know that most of us live with prejudices that have little to do with truth, and Dale is rendering us all a service in understanding that ordinary creatures as well as extraordinary ones have a fascinating place in life if we are willing to observe and understand. I'm referring to Carolyn's article in the July 9 Herald.

I did indeed join the Tarantula Society out of some curiosity, but for more than curiosity was my desire to support a young couple in a quest giving meaning and interest in a phase of life. Too often out of fear, ignorance or hostility toward that which is not understood, people squash, spray or otherwise destroy creatures as well as ideas.

There is no record that Jesus said anything about spiders; so, Carolyn, I would try not to incorporate into sermons what would be out of context. What I would certainly say is that I am sure God is interested, as I believe Jesus was interested, in people who are open to observe and care about knowing truth not just as Scripture, not just as tradition, but also as experience and reason, and who then change their lives in response to that truth. This is a United Methodist dogma defining our theological task.

My sermons are preached in the Nooksack Valley United Methodist Church only 17 miles out of Bellingham on Sunday mornings, in the summer months at 10 in the morning.

They are a part of worship which is not entertainment; so when Dale Lund presents one of God's wonderful creatures in a part of a service of worship, and little Kerry Gardner, a beautiful, redhaired little girl, walks up to get a closer look, there is a feeling of wonder, awe, love, joy and beauty that is heartwarmingly worshipful.

Charles F. Root, Pastor

The Nooksack Valley

United Methodist Church

BRIEF JOKES TO TELL PEOPLE IN PASSING

2011-12-10T04:32:00.000-06:00

These jokes are not original, but I want to share them because they're short but effective ice-breakers. Throughout my mail route, I would often find myself on an elevator or a hundred other places with a stranger. Ordinarily people would remain quiet, and remain strangers, but not me with my big mouth. I would act fairly serious while saying some of the examples given here, and the other person, caught unaware, would belly over with laughter. Many times their response afterwards was, "Thank you, I needed that."

Did you hear about the dyslexic Satanist?
He sold his soul to Santa.

What do you call a boomerang that doesn't work?
A stick.

What has four legs, is big, green, fuzzy, and if it fell out of a tree would kill you?
A pool table.

What's the difference between an oral thermometer and a rectal thermometer?
The taste.

What's the difference between roast beef and pea soup?
Anyone can roast beef.

Why are there so many Smiths in the phone book?
They all have phones.

Why do bagpipers walk when they play?
They're trying to get away from the noise.

Why do gorillas have big nostrils?
Because they have big fingers.

Why is a dragon big, green and bumpy?
Because if it were small, white and smooth, it'd be a Tic Tac.

It was really fun to be, say, on an elevator (or anywhere) with a serious and quiet group of people, and ask in all seriousness, "Did you hear in the news about that actress who attempted suicide last night?" They would all give me full attention in their sudden curiosity and say, "No, who?" I would then say, "Oh good grief, she's famous and I can't think of her name now. She stabbed herself with a knife." They would be frustrated as I tried to remember her name, and I'd finally say, "She played that blonde...Reese? Reese..." Then of course someone would blurt out, "Witherspoon?!" And I'd say, "No, with her knife"...then smile. That dark humor brought me the best feedback, and people would remember me and tell me days later that they've been having fun telling my joke.

These are just some suggestions. The important thing is not to remain strangers, and to help brighten up someone else's day...which of course will also brighten yours.

"THE CORNFIELDS OF ILLINOIS" WAS PUBLISHED!

2011-12-05T16:15:00.000-06:00

My story, “The Cornfields of Illinois,” was published in the current Winter 2011 issue of Naturally magazine! It’s not found among my posts in the Butter Rum Cartoon, but you’re welcomed to subscribe to Naturally to read it. I wrote it, and they published it, so it’s good.

FROGS WITHOUT LEGS

2011-12-05T02:43:00.000-06:00

NEW BUTTER RUM CARTOON PROMO

2011-11-20T16:05:00.000-06:00

NUTRIA BITES HOOTERS GIRL IN STARBUCKS OCCUPY RIOT

2011-11-16T22:30:00.000-06:00

Arkansas - the first nudist state

You won't believe this fiasco! Naked stewardesses were waiting in line to see "Breaking Dawn" when suddenly three hundred Hooters waitresses came running in terror from an Occupy riot. It seems a passing postal employee opened the back of his truck, releasing a large number of nutria he had stolen from a fur farm into the midst of the demonstration. Obama was there, trying desperately to keep order, but it was no use. They all went wild in the streets, and encouraged a blog writer who had sneaked into two nudist camps to begin a post this way. But after you've read all these keywords above which will hopefully get you this far, go to What's in This Blog and find some stories to read that are both interesting and true.

WORDS FROM THE WORLD

2011-11-09T23:42:00.000-06:00

In my post, Captain Ask, Friend of the World, I told about my fun project in the mid 1980's of writing to every nation in the world, asking for information about their country. Almost every nation responded and some very generously. From all this information, I gleaned brief quotes from several countries which I present below for your interest and entertainment. The scanned letter that follows the quotes you might find especially interesting at this time.

BRAZIL

“Brazilians can be proud of the fact that, more than most other peoples, they are free from racial discrimination. This is in large measure a legacy from the Portuguese, themselves a people of mixed blood who from the start intermarried with Indians and negroes.”

CHILE

“They say that, when God had created the earth, He had a few bits left over--morsels of desert, a few luxuriant forests, some enormous mountains, pieces of fertile valleys, lakes, ice, snow, a number of islands and beaches, a lot of sea and a little plain. He looked for an isolated spot and deposited the whole lot there, carefully and tenderly, like an artist putting the finishing touch to a picture. Thus, Chile came into being.”

CZECHOSLOVAKIA

“Present-day Czechoslovakia is a peace-loving socialist country which is fully committed to its peaceful construction and which wants to live in peace, friendship and cooperation with all countries and nations of the world.”

FIJI

“Fiji is made of about 332 islands, which vary in size from 10,000 square kilometres to tiny islets a few metres in circumference. These spread over thousands of square kilometres of ocean in the heart of the South Pacific. Around one third of these islands are inhabited.”

ICELAND

“Iceland is world famous for her medieval literature, especially the so-called Sagas of Icelanders, realistic and secular prose novels written in the vernacular in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, constituting the sole original contribution of the Nordic countries to world literature.”

IRAN

“I fight, first, for the sake of my religion and secondly, for the sake of my country. I will fight to the last drop of my blood and I will not abandon Imam Khomeini. I am sure we will overthrow Saddam who is the puppet of western imperialism and eastern socialist imperialism.
“I hope that under the leadership of Imam Khomeini, we can destroy Israel and set free those 12,000 innocent Palestinian children who are now slaves of the Zionists.
“I ask those brothers who were helping the poor alongside me to continue their path after my death since this is what Islam wants.
“The best consolation for my family is to take revenge on all of the enemies of the martyrs of Islam, ever since it came into being. At the end, I pray for the good health and long life of the great leader of our Revolution: Imam Khomeini.” -Parviz Baharmast

ISRAEL

“So long as still within our breast the Jewish heart beats true, so long as still towards the East, to Zion, looks the Jew, so long our hopes are not yet lost--two thousand years we cherished them--to live in freedom in the Land of Zion and Jerusalem.”

MALAWI

“For men there are no dress restrictions, although certain of the more bizarre forms of dress favored by the hippy, including wide bell-bottomed trousers, are frowned upon. Long hair which, loosely defined, is hair falling in bulk to the collar, is, however, illegal. To avoid embarrassment on arrival in Malawi, male visitors are therefore urged to ensure that their hair conforms with Malawi’s regulations.”

MALAYSIA

“The keynote of Malaysia’s foreign policy is peace. Malaysia places great importance on fostering and maintaining regional co-operation in Southeast Asia; promoting Islamic solidarity; consolidating non-alignment; seeking friendly relations with as many countries as possible; and strengthening links with nations with whom Malaysia has common interests.”

MONGOLIA

“In the little more than 60 years since the People’s Revolution Mongolia has made the transition from feudalism to socialism, bypassing capitalism, and is now building a socialist society. For the Mongolians this period, which is rather short in terms of history, has become an era of great revolutionary changes, an era in which the ideas of Marxism-Leninism have triumphed on their ancient land.”

SOLOMON ISLANDS

“Although contact with the outside world over the past 100 years has brought many changes, the bulk of the people still cling tenaciously to their traditional way of life, their inherited culture and customs, their legends and beliefs.”

SOUTH KOREA

“World Map -by Yoon Suk-joong
My homework is to draw a map of the world.
I drew and drew all last night, but
I haven’t finished half of it yet.
   Without your country or my country,
   Without your nation or my nation,
   If the world were just one big country,
   How easy to make, my world map would be.”

TAIWAN

“The Chinese people like to do things together; they are not afraid of crowds. Their sports reflect this. Many of them are just for individual well-being and do not involve the spirit of competition.”

THAILAND

“Thailand embraces in its bosom all people of Thai blood. Every inch of Thailand belongs to the Thais. It has long maintained its sovereignty because the Thais have always been united. The Thai people are peace-loving, but they are no cowards at war. They shall allow no one to rob them of their independence. Nor shall they suffer tyranny. All Thais are ready to give up every drop of blood for the nation’s safety, freedom and progress.”

USSR

“Unlike mere lack of belief, atheism must be scientific, conscious and sensible. An atheist has the knowledge required to back up his materialist outlook. He begins to acquire this knowledge at school and it is developed and consolidated at higher educational institutions, which are free of religious dogmatism in our country. However, the atheist education of our youth in no way infringes upon the rights and freedoms of believers.”

WEST GERMANY

“’Religion: It scarcely plays any role today in the land where the Reformation was born. American religion has simple messages to present to churches that are often packed. German churches are scholarly, liberal--and empty.’” This is how an American journalist described the situation of the churches in Germany. A harsh judgment, and quite true.”

WESTERN SAMOA

“You lie on a mat in a cool Samoan hut, and look out on the white sand under the high palms and a gentle sea, and the black line of the reef a mile out, and moonlight over everything--
“And then among it all are the loveliest people in the world, moving and dancing like gods and goddesses.
“It is sheer beauty, so pure it is difficult to breathe in it.”

ZAMBIA

“Remember that the most important thing to this nation is MAN. MAN you, MAN me and MAN the other fellow. Everything we say and do evolves around MAN. Without him there can be no Zambia, there can be no nation. That is why we believe in Humanism. That is why we say MAN is the centre of all activities.”

ZIMBABWE

“No one can fail to be moved or excited by the sight of a herd of elephants moving with ponderous grace to a waterhole, or rolling in mud-baths like children at play; a lion moving stealthily in pursuit of its quarry, herds of skittish wildebeests or neat zebra, or the see-saw gallop of giraffe.”

LIBYA

Incidentally, my phrase "your beautiful country" in my letter to them was somehow translated as "good and sincere feelings towards" Kadhafi. Go figure.

OUR SON LOST

2011-11-08T23:44:00.001-06:00

It was Wednesday, October 26, 2011. Things were going normally, a regular day in my retirement here in Branson, Missouri. Our daughter, Julia, was watching TV. Glory was about to go out with friends. Sam was resting. My wife, Micki, had gone to pick up Disa. Leif was at home in his apartment a couple miles away. Andy was off on his extended hitchhiking trip around the western United States. I was in the kichen when the phone rang. I checked the caller I.D. and said aloud, “It’s the government.”

“Just answer it,” said Glory and Julia, exasperated…so I did.

“Mr. Lund?”

“Yes.”

“This is Tim Phillips of the Rocky Mountain National Park Service. We received a 911 call from your son, Andy. He’s missing, somewhere above the tree line in the National Park. There was a bad snow storm and the temperature is expected to drop to 19 degrees tonight. We’ve lost telephone communication with him, but Andy said that he’s very cold and he’s trying to keep warm in his sleeping bag under a rock. We have three two-man search teams up there now trying to find him, but I wish he’d come out from under the rock so they could see him. The canyon up there is filled with boulders, many as big as cars, and the storm brought two feet of snow…”

I had bought Andy’s sleeping bag. It was good only down to 45 degrees. No way could he get through the freezing night.

I listened in horror. And by my terrified end of the conversation, Julia and Glory understood that their beloved brother was lost in the Rockies. Glory’s friends pulled into the driveway and she went out the door, glancing back with an expression I had never seen her give before. We didn’t see her again until after work, the night of the next day, when she told me she had been “hiding,” not wanting to come home to hear the news.

Tim Phillips, the Park Ranger, sounded worried himself, and I began trembling, trying to stay strong and keep calm. Years before, a call came in the night--a policewoman telling me that our son, Sam, was in an accident on his bicycle, that he was apparently hit by a car and was bleeding from the mouth and going in and out of consciousness. The ride to the hospital was the longest in my life, so shook that I’d turn on the windshield wipers when my tears flooded my eyes and blurred my vision. It turned out that there was no car involved in the accident, that Sam had lost control on a hill and hit a curb, had been knocked out in the fall, but suffered no internal injuries.

Now I was on the phone again, with a Park Ranger explaining to me what he’d learned of our son Andy’s situation before his cell phone died, about the search efforts, and asking if Andy had any friends who might know where he was going. Tim Phillips gave me his email address and wanted me to send him whatever contact information I could find on who might have seen Andy last.

Even before I hung up, I watched our daughter Julia go out the door and walk down the dirt road. Andy is not only her brother but her best friend. She missed him horribly as he had been hitchhiking around the country, and now he was missing in the snowy Rockies in freezing weather. I was sitting at the computer when Julia came back, her eyes swollen from crying. I was struggling to find names and addresses and phone numbers of Andy’s friends who might know more about where he was, but my mind was frightened and foggy and my hands shook on the keys. I was making stupid mistakes. Julia came and stood behind me as I searched Facebook and put information on an email to Tim Phillips. Suddenly I fell apart and reached back for Julia and lay my head against her and sobbed like a baby. “This is so hard,” I cried, and she, who suffered the worst of anyone, put her arms around me to console me.

We told Sam, the brother who had studied survival techniques with Andy before Andy left, and he was thoughtful and quiet. And when Micki drove up with Disa, Julia went out to tell them. Micki said that, seeing Julia’s expression when she came out of the house, she thought one of our children had died. Our youngest daughter Disa was broken.

This explained the morning of that day. Micki jumped up early, wide awake and nervous and wanting to pray. She asked me to pray the rosary with her, and, being in the middle of some project, I passed it off with a careless “You pray for both of us, okay?” Micki prayed for four hours. She felt something was wrong, but she didn’t know what. It was about this time that Andy had awakened from the first night, very cold, and seeing that a sudden snow storm had added another foot-and-a-half to the foot of snow already on the ground, and that the temperature had dropped terribly. It was then that he knew he needed help. Micki had always amazed me with our children when they were young and nursing. Whenever they were hungry, she would have a “let-down”--her breast milk would leak--and she would be there to feed them. It seemed a psychic-biological phenomenon to me; and many times since, she’s demonstrated to me that this mother-child connection never stops. I should have prayed with her that morning.

But to make up for my failure, with Facebook, emails and phone calls, Micki and I asked our friends and loved ones to pray for Andy. And they then asked their friends and loved ones to pray, and soon countless people were putting Andy on their churches’ prayer chains. The response was tremendous! Micki had tried to call our own priest for prayer, but could get only recordings on the phone. So we emailed another priest she and Andy know well--Fr. Dan Hirtz of Salem, Missouri, who had taken them to the March for Life in Washington, D.C. Later, Fr. Dan emailed back, saying that he was praying, and that ALL the priests were praying. As a matter of fact, he said, I and all the priests of the diocese are at the annual get-together right there in Branson! There were hundreds and possibly thousands of people doing what I had been too busy to do that morning. But I was too busy no longer. I prayed…and prayed…and prayed…and we prayed together as a family.

Tim Phillips called us periodically through the rest of that day, but no progress had been made. I was getting more desperate. I had made the mistake of reading about hypothermia, and from what I read, there was no way Andy could survive the night. Tim had told us that our son was above the tree line, and that Andy had told him he had no way of making a fire to warm himself. I checked the weather there, and it had dropped not to 19 degrees, as predicted, but to only 5. And finally the call came that the six men searching were being called back for the night. Sunshine was in the forecast for the next day, with some warmer temperatures, although still cold. But it was that night I was concerned about, and now Andy would have to suffer it alone and unfound…and the temperature dropped to zero.

As horribly worried as we were, we would have been even more so, had we known what Andy had gone through. When he had awoken Wednesday morning to almost three feet of snow, in bitter cold, terribly thirsty, he realized he needed help and called 911 on his cell phone which hadn‘t had service in three weeks and was on low battery. He then laid out his red, space blanket hoping rescuers would see it. As instructed on the phone, he blew his whistle periodically through the day. When, at 3:30 in the afternoon, his phone went dead, Andy was afraid the rescuers wouldn’t find him, and so he began making his painful way down the glacier to the lake, thinking his chances would be better there. In going down the steep, ice-and-snow-covered slope, he slipped and tumbled more than once. Already his hands weren’t working right. Finally when he got to the lake at the bottom of the slope and tried to move along its shore, he slipped and fell into the icy water up to his boxers.

Andy knew that if he didn’t take off his wet clothes, he would freeze and die. He hurried under a rock shelf, out of the snow, but when he tried to take his boots off, the laces were frozen and his hands wouldn’t work. He tore some pages out of his journal and wrinkled them up, then managed somehow to get a cigarette lighter lit. (Later we found that his hands were so numb that he couldn’t feel any lighter in his pocket.) With this brief little fire Andy managed to warm his hands enough to make them able to undo his boot laces, pull off his soggy boots, and then quickly pull off his wet and freezing pants. He then curled up in his inadequate sleeping bag, often rubbing his feet and toes to try to prevent frostbite. Now shoeless and with bare legs, going again out into the snow was out of the question, and the slippery boulders were a challenge even to an experienced and well-dressed hiker. And there, under the rock shelf, Andy waited through the bitter day, and into a night that would cause his father to lose hope.

He hadn’t eaten for twenty-four hours, his few Cliff bars were gone, and he was terribly thirsty and becoming dehydrated. Not having the means to melt snow, and knowing that trying to quench his thrist by putting snow into his mouth would lower his body’s core temperature and cause more harm than good, he resorted to drinking his own urine. He prayed often, and waited.

Searching for Andy in Chaos Canyon

It turned out that Andy thought he was near Lake Haiyaha and told the rangers so in his 911 calls, when he was really near Emerald Lake. So that day the six men fruitlessly searched Chaos Canyon, two miles away. During Andy’s hitchhiking trip, he had passed through Colorado before, and had gone hiking in Rocky Mountain National Park, trying to reach the Continental Divide on foot and stepping over it, ceremoniously entering “The West.” He didn’t quite get there. Andy has always been very determined. He sets challenges for himself, whether they be walking on stilts, riding a bike, or hiking across the Continental Divide, and he keeps on and on until he accomplishes them. And so when he came through Colorado again, he tried a second time to cross the Divide, even though it was the end of October, and, because of having to scavenge food and equipment first, left later in the day.

When Tim telephoned and said the searchers had been called in for the night, my heart fell. Knowing of Andy’s inadequate sleeping bag and that he didn’t have a coat that would suffice in zero degrees, I asked Tim straightforwardly, “Do you think Andy will survive the night?”

“He’s young, and strong,” Tim said, and he tried to keep me from losing hope.

I went in to talk to our son, Sam, and told him how impossible it seemed. “Before he left,” said Sam, “Andy and I spent a lot of time studying survival techniques. I have faith that he’ll know what to do.”

Even so, I knew, it would take a miracle.

Micki stayed awake all that night, much of that time praying in the chapel at church. I stayed up late into the night, but wanted to be clear-minded for what the next day held in store, so forced myself to go to bed finally and try to sleep. But I felt so guilty, crawling into a warm bed while my son lay freezing on a mountain. And when I’d began to doze off, I’d snap awake, hoping that Andy could stay awake, having heard that the first sign of freezing to death is getting sleepy and falling asleep, never to wake up.

But Andy did survive the night. As cold as he was, he did doze off a few times in the night and wake up again. He came to a point, though, that he thought he was dying. The cold was severe, and he had become much weaker. He kept praying. He prayed all twenty decades of the rosary. And thinking of his loved ones and remembering their faces helped him in his fight to live and not give up.

Micki’s sister, Alicia, managed, with Walmart’s help and cooperation, to pay for more minutes on Andy’s cell phone. But his battery was dead.

At about nine o’clock the next morning, Thursday, after Andy’s second night lost in the Rockies, over two dozen men and women hiked up through the deep snow to look for our son, volunteers from both the Colorado Mountain School and Larimer County Search and Rescue, and along with them, overhead, flew a helicopter from the National Guard. But now, thanks to Andy’s friend, Tierra, and researching Facebook, they knew better. They knew that Andy’s goal was the Continental Divide, and instead of Chaos Canyon, focused on Emerald Lake and the Tyndall Glacier area, carrying airhorns and whistles. Donna, a family liaison, had been assigned to keep us abreast by phone of the search efforts. Meanwhile I had been researching the area online, and learned that this was a record year of deaths in the Rockies. Crews had recently given up searching for a missing man in the Rocky Mountain National Park after four days.

National Guard Helicopter

When Andy heard a helicopter approaching, he wiggled out from under the rock shelf in his sleeping bag, waving his arms, but the aircraft kept on going. Encouraged, though, to see that a helicopter was looking for him, and by then too exhausted to return to the rock, Andy stayed out on the snow in his sleeping bag, hoping to be found soon. He saw a hiker across the lake, headed down the mountain, not part of the search team, and yelled out to him. The lake was so large and the figure so far away, that Andy wasn’t sure at first that it was a man, but the water helped carry his voice, and the hiker heard him. Andy yelled for him to get help, and the hiker said he would. And indeed, the hiker met the search team on the trail. Eventually Andy heard voices being transmitted on radios. He heard an airhorn, and he blew his whistle. It had taken the search and rescue teams only two hours to find him Thursday morning, after the night I knew would kill him.

Soon several were there with Andy, checking his health and trying to get him warm, giving him water and food. The helicopter came and dropped supplies, including clothing and footwear. Andy said they were so kind and caring that he felt pampered. It was touch and go for a time on whether he could walk or not, he was so weak, and they were wondering how to get him down off the mountain. But Andy actually ended up walking down with them on his own power.

At 12:06 p.m. our time, Donna telephoned us. All we knew was that our son was missing and they were searching for him. We didn’t know about any of these adventures I’ve been talking about above. I saw no way that Andy could have survived the night, and so, instead of hoping for the call to tell us he had been found, I was dreading the call to tell us that they had found his body. The first thing Donna said was, “We found your son…” There was no elation in her voice, and I felt weak. Micki sat across the kitchen table from me. Only a couple seconds passed, but they seemed an eternity, before the words were spoken: “…He’s alive and okay.”

I broke down. It was then I realized all the tension that had been gripping me, for even the relief was almost unbearable. I bawled in joy and awe at witnessing a true miracle, and couldn’t speak for some time. I looked at Micki and my lips said, “He’s okay,” and she broke down crying.

Andy was taken to Estes Park Medical Center. He was weak, dehydrated, malnourished, there was some muscle and nerve damage, and his CK level was way off, threatening his kidneys. When we finally reached him by phone, his voice was the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard. The first thing I said to him was, “Do you know you’re a living miracle?”

“I’m beginning to find that out,” said Andy. Then he asked, “Who told you? Who told you I was up there?”

“The Park Department called and told us you made a 911 call,” I said.

“Ohhh,” he groaned, “I told them not to tell you. I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Well it’s a good thing they did,” I said, “because there have been hundreds of people around the country and the world praying for you.”

“Yeah,” he said, “I felt that.”

That evening three close friends of Andy’s visited him in the hospital. One of them, Aaron Marsh, later called and told us that it was a great visit and that Andy was even up and walking around the room.

Andy with his Aunt Vickie

Vickie Hawkes, the sister of my sister Linda’s deceased husband, stepped in as the family representative to be there for Andy, and she commuted to Estes Park from her home in Denver to visit and care for him. She will now and forevermore be known as Andy’s Aunt Vickie.

Of course we notified everyone we had told, that Andy was found alive and remarkably well, and we were overwhelmed by happy friends and loved ones thanking God for answering their prayers. We had all witnessed a true miracle!

Jim and Victoria Mears

There was no serious frostbite (he’s kept all his fingers and toes), but Andy spent two nights in the hospital, as they hydrated him, built up his nutrition, and lowered his CK to an acceptable level. Then Vickie took Andy to her home in Denver. Meanwhile Victoria Mears, the wife of my cousin Jim, in Oregon, contacted me through Facebook, telling me that she has a lot of frequent flier miles. She offered to pay our way, round-trip, to go see Andy in Colorado, and/or pay for Andy to fly home. So the next day, Vickie took Andy to the Denver airport, and Sunday night Andy arrived in Springfield, Missouri, where his family was there to meet him. Even Sam, undergoing tests for severe abdominal pain, came with us. I expected to see Andy walking weakly along the corridor from the plane, but when Andy saw us, he broke into a run to get to us. And he came home to find “Welcome Home” signs and decorations and snicker doodle cookies, all made by Disa.

The following week, Andy went to the doctor to learn the results of follow-up tests. His CK level is normal! All levels are normal! He’s perfectly healthy! And he’s gained ten pounds! He’s even gone hiking again since he’s come home, but this time with family members here in Branson. We have all had our faith renewed in the power of God and His answer to prayer.

Andy has felt so guilty for causing all this trouble, and he wrote on Facebook: “I am a fool, but a very loved fool, and a very, VERY blessed one. Thank you all. I'm so sorry. And SO grateful for you.”

And I commented, saying: “What do you mean, ‘fool’? You brought the world together.”

Andy would get access to computers along his hitchhiking journey, and he’d keep us posted on Facebook and telephone about his adventures. His sister Julia asked him in a Facebook message, days before his Rocky Mountain episode, if he would write a book about his journey and, if so, how would he start it. On October 24th, the day before he went to hike in the Rockies, Andy sent her the proposed beginning of his book:

“The boy woke up under a rock. But he said, ‘That’s okay. There’s a lot more day. Even good days will start that way.’”

_____________

The following is the Mission Report of the Larimer County Search and Rescue:

October 26, 2011 (Wednesday) RMNP Assist/Chaos Canyon - Missing 20's-Year-Old Male Hiker
It was a cold morning at the Rocky Mountain National Park search and rescue offices. The air temperature was one degree Fahrenheit. It might as well have been zero. The average snowfall report was between 18-24 inches of fresh snow. We knew we were here to search for someone but just didn't have all the details yet. Now it's 7am and time for the mission briefing.

Andy is his name. He's in his early 20's; he carries minimal gear and is lost somewhere in Chaos Canyon. The recent storm caught him off guard. He is cold, tired, and just about out of food and water. All this info comes from Andy himself. Wednesday afternoon he used his cell phone to call 911. With the days getting shorter rangers were only able to perform a quick and hasty search. That's where we come in.

After the briefing and a thorough pack check we departed for the trailhead. Not every role in search and rescue is glamorous. I think all of us in the field want to be the one who gets to save somebody. That's why we do this, we want to help others! However, it seemed 90% likely Andy was in Chaos Canyon and we were tasked to clear Tyndall Gorge. So that's what we did.

We left the Bear Lake trailhead about 9am. Keeping a no sweat pace we made our way up to Dream Lake. In winter it's a good idea not to get wet from sweat. If you have to stop for any length of time you get very, cold very fast. Hypothermia can set in quickly. Plus at our pace we were able to look around us for signs of Andy. Stopping at times to look through binoculars to find him. Calling his name out. And sounding a small portable air horn. About one hour into our search we got our first clue.

A gentleman coming down the trail on snowshoes said he heard someone calling for help up near Emerald Lake. Could this be Andy or do we have another mission? Andy is not supposed to be in this valley! We are all optimistically reserved about this report. We continue on, not forgetting to keep our search going by calling and looking for Andy. We're not more than 15 minutes up the trail when two more people on snowshoes coming down say they heard someone yelling "HELP" from the west side of Emerald. Now it's game on.

We immediately go into action mode. I stop to get some chemical heat packs out of my backpack (they take 20-30 minutes to get warm). I also take a minute to get a drink of water. Dehydration is a big problem for everyone at high altitude and in the cold. Not sure what we are getting into, I do it now! The rest of the team continues on.

They arrive at the lake just minutes before me and can hear Andy yelling from across the lake. We determine that crossing the lake is too dangerous. The edge is still so soft that we are stepping through the ice. The ice is also creaking and cracking. The north shore of the lake is the easiest route around. But is actually impassable because there are huge ice slabs and rocks breaking free from the cliffs above and crashing down near the water's edge. It sounds like a continuous avalanche. The south side is more stable because it is in the shadows of the mountain. However, it is strewn with huge boulders covered with almost two feet of snow, and full of potholes and pitfalls that can swallow you up! The south route it is.

I stay back at the east end of the lake to perform the duty of spotter as my other four teammates continue around the lake. This is an important role in case something happens to the others as they make their way to Andy. Or even while they are administering care. I would be the only one left who knew what happened and where it happened. Fortunately, all I had to do was stand there and watch them for nearly two and a half hours.

During that time they were taking care of Andy. He had spent a very cold night huddled under a giant house-sized boulder. Reports were that he had gotten wet in the lake and his blue jeans and boots were frozen. His sleeping bag, spirituality, and youth are probably what saved him last night. Warm fluids and dry, warm clothes were given to him. A helicopter that was assisting in the search earlier was now bringing in additional medical gear, clothes and warm fluids. Since there was nowhere to land, the helo carried the "care package" on a line about 100 feet below the air ship. The package was released by an electronic hook. After all this care was given Andy was able to stand up. And after a few minutes of trying to get his balance and strength back he was determined to walk out!

I can only imagine how difficult the travel was for him to get around the lake. Our team had a hard time even though we were all well rested, fed, and warm. During the patient care time, team 1, which had been searching Chaos Canyon, came up and staged with me at the east end of Emerald. When Andy and my teammates got to our location, team 1 took all of the additional gear plus Andy's gear from us. We all then hiked back down to the Bear Lake trailhead at Andy's pace. There was no hurry. Andy was casually loaded into the ambulance and was taken down to the hospital without lights and sirens.

Lessons learned. Be prepared! You never know what Mother Nature may bring you. Know where you are and where you are going. A map and compass are great to have but know how to use them. A cell phone can be a great tool. But don't rely on it. If he had been stuck just 20 yards any other direction, we may not have had the same outcome today. :-)

120 miles driven (total for 2 vehicles)
Mission time 07:00 ~ 16:00
5 LCSAR members
1 PVH TEMS member
Russell Giesey
L74, SL, R1, WFR
Larimer County Search and Rescue

___________

Branson Hometown Daily News: Dad Calls Andy Lund "A Living Miracle

Branson Tri-Lakes News: Branson Graduate Rescued

THANK YOU TO ALL WHO PRAYED FOR OUR SON

AND SUPPORTED US DURING THAT TRAUMATIC WEEK.

WHEN I LOST HOPE, YOU STOOD STRONG.

YOU HAVE REAFFIRMED THE FACT THAT

WE HAVE A LOVING GOD WHO HEARS US.

THE ULTIMATE REBEL

2011-10-24T12:55:00.004-05:00

Plans were sort of up in the air in 1968. I had struggled at a difficult, lumber mill job two states away, and quit after a month. I had hitchhiked around the United States for six months. And I was back home with my parents, and broke. Finding a good job was a discouraging process, and the portable TV and suitcase that Mom and Dad had given me for my high school graduation just sat there haunting me. Meanwhile there was a secure job readily available for any healthy, young man; and rather than wait for the inevitable draft, I finally enlisted in the U.S. Army, following the tradition of my father and my older brother.

Big mistake.

I had believed the lies of the recruiter, and understood that, rather than fighting in Vietnam, an enlistee could pick his own career in the Army. The downside was having to spend three years in the service instead of two. When I found out on that first military day that the roster guide’s impression of Sergeant Carter was not an impression, and I got in trouble for laughing, I was immediately disillusioned. And when I enlisted to work in the Army post office and was instead put into nuclear weapons maintenance, I realized I was a victim of a lie that would take three years of my life.

I rebelled.

I deserted in basic training, but was arrested and brought back. My first leave was spent in a rock festival. On the way home on my second leave, I stopped by Haight-Ashbury. I joined the War Resisters League. My favorite books were by Thoreau. I lived in a commune off post. I hung out in Fayetteville, North Carolina’s infamous Rowan Park and frequented its more-infamous Haymarket Square. I was shoved by a cop at the huge Anti-Army Rally in 1971, and I talked with Jane Fonda alone in a front yard while I was on acid. For something to do, I blocked a road on Fort Bragg with a Molotov cocktail. Of course meanwhile I also did diligent and quality work for the U.S. Army, and finally received an honorable discharge after three years of faithful service.

After the Army, I rebelled. Having been forced to keep my hair short and mustache trimmed for three years, I let it all grow wild. I didn’t have to worry about pleasing an employer, because I took advantage of the G.I. Bill which paid me a monthly, albeit meager, subsistence for going to college. With this money, I went to school, rode a bicycle, and rented a rat-infested apartment. My landlord offered me a modeling job in his back-room pornography business, but I declined. I did trade him my Yashica camera kit, though, for an old station wagon that turned out to be junk.

Eventually my hair grew over my shoulders. I had a full beard and a long mustache. I wore a coat made from one of my old Army blankets, with an embroidered goat on the back, and in college got the nickname “Goat.”

It was when I was eating my untrimmed mustache along with my food that I finally realized that the Army was still controlling my life. I was going in an opposite direction because of the Army. I had rats in my hair, food in my beard, and was eating my mustache, because of, in rebellion of, the Army. What the heck?!

And so, with a smile, I finally committed the ultimate rebellion. I got my hair cut and beard shaved off, reverting to before I ever went into the Army, as if it never existed. No longer would my internment in the military control or even influence me. Freedom suddenly washed over me and I felt great! After I had wallowed in resentment and negativity, life suddenly opened its doors to me. I got a job at the Everett Public Library, I got married, and I’ve lived happily ever after.

HOMOPHOBICMISIA

2011-10-23T00:05:00.000-05:00

Most Baptists don’t like Catholicism. Most of them tolerate it politely, but most are dead against Catholic doctrine. But all Catholics I know call Baptists Baptists. They don’t call them Catholic bashers. Even though some Baptists are pretty vocal against Catholicism, they’re still not openly called Catholic bashers.

Okay, let’s say that Catholics begin referring to Baptists as Catholic bashers, and that the term sticks. Soon everyone is using it. It’s picked up by the media, and eventually you read or hear the term Catholic basher for Baptist almost daily. It becomes acceptable, and finally even politically correct. And if a Baptist were to resent the term and get angry at the Catholics who use it, he would be bordering on hate crime.

Sound absurd? It is. I am getting so tired of the overused misnomer, homophobe, obviously coined by homosexuals who want to label someone who doesn't like homosexuality as some sort of coward. At least one fellow tried to correct the error, and figured out the term, homomisia. But the suffix misia can mean hatred, disgust for, revulsion of, etc. For me, disgust rings closest, but hatred is way out there, so I don’t like homomisia either. After a lot of thought, and trying my best not to be negative, I think a much more accurate and appropriate term, rather than the derogatory homophobe, would be nature lover.

GILA MONSTER

2011-10-19T12:10:00.000-05:00

Along Highway 99, south of Blaine, Washington, in the 1950’s, was a roadside museum, and in it was a live Gila monster, the only venomous lizard native to the United States. One day a couple brought their little son to visit the museum. While his parents talked with the owner, the boy stared at the Gila monster with fascination. And after the little family left, the lizard’s cage was empty.

The boy had opened the cage and put the Gila monster under his coat, and away they drove. Several miles down the road, the venomous stowaway was discovered. The parents wheeled around and rushed back to the museum.

When the big lizard was returned to its cage, and the owner learned that the boy had actually handled it and stuck it under his coat, the man said, “Don’t you know the Gila monster is poisonous? If it had bitten you, it could have killed you!”

And the boy said, matter-of-factly, “He wouldn’t have bitten me. He likes me, and I like him.”

I’ve never forgotten this event. There’s a lesson to be learned here somewhere.

THE STREETS OF BLAINE

2011-10-17T20:21:00.000-05:00

I’d be up in the treehouse next to our barn in the middle of Blaine, Washington, behind our parsonage and across the yard from Dad’s church on the corner of 4th and H Streets. These were the days, through the 1950’s, when McKinney’s Funeral Home was still across the street, and Interstate 5 hadn’t yet cut through town, chopping off Martin Street, the dirt road leading straight to my school on Mitchell Avenue. I used to walk those four blocks to school each day. In my treehouse, I’d be thinking about our next water war with the neighborhood kids, and how next time I wouldn’t give anyone the chance to hit me on the side of my head with a water balloon while I was up in a tree and didn’t see it coming. I’d be thinking about when I saved a woman’s life right there on H Street. I’d be grumbling about the Cowens taking away my slingshot. I’d wish that Wynn Hawes, the mayor’s son, wouldn’t be such a homebody and would come over to play. I’d be hoping that someone would find my brother Paul’s model plane lost in the woods somewhere in Lincoln Park. I’d be dreaming of different stories to write in the Butter Rum Cartoon when I’m 62. And in the midst of my thoughts, I would hear a distant sound, and suddenly I couldn’t get down from that treehouse fast enough!

“C’mon, Lassie!” I would shout with joy as I ran for my bike. Starting off at a run, I would hop onto my one-speed bicycle with its balloon tires and zoom out onto the empty streets toward the sound, with my small, faithful, black-and-white dog running beside me. South on 4th Street, blocks ahead, I’d see other kids running and riding their bikes toward the school. On Boblett Street is where we all saw it, coming our way, and we kids were happy! I was more than that, I was ecstatic! It was the Borderites marching band, the high school band practicing for parades! But they were the parade! I’d be hard-pressed to remember a joy better than riding my bike down the sidewalks alongside the marching band, waking up the quiet town with its horns and drums. Even Lassie had a smile on her face as she trotted beside me. To the band members, we kids were merely objects in their peripheral vision as they studied the music notes fastened to their instruments. They had no idea how wonderful they were to us, unless they had experienced the joy themselves several years before. I would follow them until they returned to the school and the music stopped, then ride home in an uplifted and renewed world.

The streets of Blaine were quiet then, in the Fifties. And sometimes I wanted them to be, like after my sister Linda and I went to a movie at the theatre, about four blocks away, and walked home in the dark. The two of us would walk down the middle of the street. That way, if someone did jump out of the bushes at us, we would already be halfway across the street. And unless that happened, we knew well not to run home. Linda explained to me how, when you run, you scare yourself, imagining that someone is chasing you. Instead, we walked quietly and spoke softly, down the middle of the street.

H Street hill was the awesome giant of coasting hills. Probably nowadays, there are more places for cars to pull out onto H Street on the way down, but then there was nothing. It was a straight shot, from top all the long way down to the bottom. No turns. Paved. Long. A bike-rider’s dream. I walked all the way to the top and coasted down H Street hill many times, but one time gave me one of the worst scares of my life. Zooming down H Street hill is not the safest way to find out that the front wheel of your bicycle is out of balance. After accelerating to some unknown but amazing speed, my bike began to shake! The front wheel was wobbling frantically and getting worse. It was all I could do to keep upright, and I laid on my coaster brake, but it was going too fast to stop. Finally I did manage to slow down enough to stop the shaking. It was the last time that bicycle descended H Street hill. But it wasn’t the last time the bike went down Devil’s Dive.

Devil’s Dive was a no-no. It was an insane thought in the minds of bored children. At the foot of H Street hill is the entrance to Lincoln Park. And somewhere at the back of Lincoln Park, across the road that went to the gravel pit, was Devil’s Dive. It was a bumpy, dirt “path” that you wouldn’t know whether to call a hill or a wall. The Omak Stampede in eastern Washington State comes to mind, but this would be on bicycles, not horses. At the top, Bill Beckett, David Chapman and I sat astride our bikes and gazed over the edge, daring each other. If we were to make it in one piece to the bottom, there was a large puddle we would have to maneuver around. We studied the bumps and dips of the insane idea, trying to figure out how we could avoid them and keep control.

Finally we lost our heads completely and did the impossible. Bill dropped over the edge first. I hesitated a moment, then followed. And behind me came David. I was grateful that my bike rolled along with me, not collapsing into some rut and throwing me headlong to my death. Bill actually made it! He even managed to miss the puddle. And with him as a guide, I did the same, and the two of us finally came to a gentle stop, shouting out our exultation at still being alive! Very alive! I looked back to see how David was doing, and there he lay. His bike was on its side in the dirt, and David was unconscious with his face in the puddle. Bill and I ran to him and pulled him out of the muddy water, and David came to. He coughed and sputtered and stood up, as alive as we were. Devil’s Dive. We are the only three I’ve known to have coasted down it.

Blaine had several gullies right in the town, and still does, but there were more then. And each of these gullies was my personal jungle. I knew them well, did much of my most profound thinking in them, pushed Danny Dement into a sewer ditch in one, threw a rock and knocked out Quentin’s front tooth in another, and in yet another killed a snake that was killing a mouse. The mouse died anyway. Across H Street, just east, past Moffatt’s house, was a haunted house, and just passed it was a gully. I say haunted house, because it was a tall, narrow, two-story, brown house needing a paint job, and deserted. That, to a kid, is obviously a haunted house. But there was more convincing evidence. Rumor had it that a school teacher used to live there, and that one day she went out and crawled halfway across the fat, drain pipe that spanned the gully, tied a rope around it, tied the other end around her neck, and jumped off, hanging herself. Yes, it was a haunted house, and a haunted gully, for that matter.

Life would have no meaning if there were to be a haunted house without a boy to sneak into it, and so one day a brave friend and I went over and studied the house, finally finding an openable window on the gully side. I shoved the window open, and the two of us slithered in. The house, in the daylight, wasn’t as scary as I had expected or hoped it to be. It was entirely empty, but it was fun to sneak through the place and climb the stairs and explore the upstairs rooms. From an east room, I gazed out a window at the view of the gully, and at the big pipe bridging its way across it. When my friend joined me in the room, I said, “I’m going to go across on that pipe.”

“You’re nuts,” he said.

Downstairs, just before leaving, I saw something lying on the floor--a wooden coin--and picked it up. On it was imprinted, “Wooden Nickel.” I had never heard of a wooden nickel, nor had I ever heard the warning, “Don’t take any wooden nickels.” I stuck it in my pocket.

Moments later, we stood at one end of the big, black pipe. It went straight across the top of the gully, and the center was a good twenty feet off the ground. I straddled the pipe, and began the long trek across, leaving my friend at the gully’s edge. When I finally made it halfway across, I stopped. Here a woman killed herself. She tied a rope right here, and around her neck, and dropped, and died. Right below me she hung. I have her wooden nickel. I looked around at the green jungle below. Behind me I saw the large old house, and my friend, waiting and worried. I could hear a car passing by on its way toward H Street hill. Birds were singing all around me from the trees and underbrush. And then, I heard a distant sound, a happy sound, and a booming of a base drum. The Borderite band was on the march. We were missing a parade. I made my way forward, hurrying to reach the other side. And all along the way, I wondered what would make anyone want to die when there are such wonderful things as a marching band!

SINCE I'VE RETIRED FROM THE POSTAL SERVICE...

2011-10-16T16:27:00.000-05:00

I’ve been my own supervisor. I haven’t worn shoes, only sandals. No one has counted me. I’ve read over forty books. The only mailbox I’ve opened is my own. I go to bed when I’m really tired. I get up when I’ve had enough sleep, or earlier, knowing that if I get too sleepy later I can take a nap anytime. When I go downtown (my old route) people hug me. I make enough money to maintain our previous lifestyle. I don’t go outside if it’s too cold; I don’t go outside if it’s too hot; I don’t go outside if it’s raining; unless I want to. I haven’t scanned one bar-code. I haven’t even touched a scanner. I’ve gone on vacations without annual leave. I haven’t had to call in sick. When I was sick, I rested until I was well. I’ve lost my uniforms; I think they’re at the bottom of some pile somewhere. I have no time commitments. I haven’t driven much, but when I do, I don’t sit on the right side. There is no standard operating procedure. I never have to carry an extra bundle, or even one. The only games I’ve played are of my own choosing, like Swedish Checkers. I haven’t received one letter of warning. I have time and energy to plan and do projects, like build a shed and a privacy fence. If someone stops me to talk to me, we can visit for hours. I can leave empty equipment in my vehicle. I can be slow. I can be efficient, using my own methods. I don’t have to wear an I.D. badge (although I hid it in my case drawer and didn’t wear it anyway). I can have glass containers in my work space. I don’t have a work space. The main problem I have now is, while filling out info in an online social network and coming to “occupation,” I don’t know whether to type “retired mailman” or simply “retired.”

SCARING GERALDINE

2011-10-11T16:35:00.000-05:00

In the mid 1970’s I was an acquisitions clerk for the Everett Public Library. It was a great job, but my position was due to be phased out. Meanwhile Mel, the library custodian, retired; and because Gary Strong, the director, didn’t want to lose me, he offered me the custodian job. It paid better, but I didn’t like the idea of leaving that great job of being the first to unpack the new, library books, to become a janitor. I needed the money though (I had just gotten married), so I accepted the offer.

I forget what it was called, but there was this neat program at the time in which teenagers could come and work at the library as helpers. I had boys help me prepare library books, during my acquisitions clerk job, by covering the dust covers with mylar and taping them to the books, stamping certain pages, glueing in card pockets, etc., and I also had boys help me in my custodial work. Brent was one of these boys--a tall, smiling-faced fellow who said his favorite were humor books--and Brent helped me before and after my job switch.

Geraldine was the library director’s secretary. She worked in the main office upstairs on the main floor. Despite her high position, Geraldine was a humble person--thirty-something, fairly tall, fairly nice-looking, and friendly. One day I came to work with disappearing ink, in a little squirt bottle. You could spray this dark blue ink on anything, and when it dried it would completely disappear. It was loads of fun. Well, I happened to be leaving for lunch as Geraldine was returning, walking outside in front of the library. She was wearing a white coat. Heh heh heh. Feinting an accident, as I passed her, I squirted ink all over the front of Geraldine’s coat. She jumped back, looked down, and groaned. Amidst my laughter, I managed finally to explain that it’s disappearing ink and would soon be gone. “No it won’t,” she moaned, “This is a new coat, and it’s not supposed to get wet. Even water will stain it.”

Yet she put up with me, and finally the day came when I overheard that Geraldine was going down to the supply room in the library basement. I slipped out of the office and ran downstairs. My custodian room was right next to the supply room in the basement, and although each room had its own door, inside the two rooms were separated only by open shelves. I grabbed Brent along the way, and the two of us hurried into the custodian room and slithered through the shelves into the dark supply room. Brent was much taller than I, and the two of us stood just inside the locked supply room door, waiting.

Soon we heard the clicking of Geraldine’s shoes on the hard floor of the library’s dimly-lit archives. This was a spooky part of the large building, and Geraldine assumed she was alone. Because there was nothing to prevent anyone from sneaking down into the archives, there was always that haunting feeling that someone unwanted might be hiding there. Geraldine unlocked the supply room door with her key, and opened it. And at the same time, out of the darkness, Brent and I poked our heads into the doorway, Brent’s head above mine, and together said a loud, “Hi!”

Geraldine stumbled back and turned white. She was so scared that her expression didn’t even show emotion--just kind of a dead-pan numbness trying to keep her consciousness. Brent and I then laughed heartily and walked out of the room. Geraldine managed to remain upright, and getting her breath, stepped into the supply room to get what she needed, and Brent and I went back to work.

Awhile later, I was called into the office and told by the director not to scare anyone again. Geraldine felt so weak after her fright that she had to take the rest of the day off. Fortunately I kept my job, and fortunately I’ve gotten away with the many times I’ve scared people since then.

THE FACE IS FAMILIAR

2011-10-09T13:25:00.000-05:00

Here in the Butter Rum Cartoon you’ll find some references to classic TV, with some brief reviews of a few of my favorite shows. One fellow I’ve always appreciated is Jack Benny. He had a unique way about him, and a wit so humorous that he’d get you laughing the hardest when he’d stand there not saying anything at all. Although what I’m sharing with you below is not a regular Jack Benny Show, he does star in it, and it’s one of the most entertaining and pleasant things I’ve seen on TV. (I like the guy who introduces it, too.) I know in this harried world, especially with a mouse in your hand, how difficult it is to kick back and relax for almost a half hour; but what the heck, ignore the inner and outer distractions for a time, and enjoy twenty-five minutes of what television used to be like. You can do it.

YOU CAN CHANGE THE WORLD

2011-10-07T02:10:00.000-05:00

I just finished enjoying the four DVDs of a collection of Jack Benny, and was blown away by a show stuck into the last disc, called You Can Change the World. It was shown on TV sixty years ago, and is profoundly apropos and much needed today. And thanks to the Internet, I can show it to you right here right now for free!

I was inspired enough to search out the Christophers, and...to change the world.

CAMPING WITH DAD

2011-10-02T14:08:00.001-05:00

Dad was stationed overseas around the time I was born, and for a long time there were my siblings and Mom, no Dad. And by the time he came home to stay, retiring from the Army chaplaincy as a lieutenant colonel, I hardly knew the guy.

Bonding is important, folks. Knowing this, when I became a father myself, I made sure even to take part in the actual birth of each of our children. For all my growing-up years, I was close to Mom and distant towards Dad. Mom and I would even talk about Dad behind his back, while he was out helping people as a Methodist minister. Mom found it difficult to be a minister’s wife, always feeling that touch of jealousy as she watched her husband express agape love to his parishioners while she was set aside for housework and child rearing. Meanwhile I developed thousands of interests, none of them to do with my father.

A few times Dad tried to remedy this by taking me camping--just him and me. It was hard to leave my comfortable room with my fascinating stuff to venture out into the wilds with a man I couldn’t relate to that well, but even so, I didn’t want to hurt the man’s feelings when he offered to give me attention. So off we went in a car loaded with camping supplies.

Dad would choose a campground somewhere in the western foothills of the Cascade Mountains that divide the state of Washington into two countries, and the campground would always contain a river or large stream. We didn’t fish, but the water would give life to the place and lull us to sleep at night. Our family-size tent wasn’t made of taffeta walls with polyurethane weatherproof coating and pre-attached poles. It was heavy canvas that smelled like canvas, with a big wooden center pole. Its pegs were fat, wooden, potentially-vampire-killing stakes, not the skinny metal things that bend when they hit a rock, and if we were short a peg, which we always seemed to be, we would cut one from a tree branch and sharpen it with a knife.

We had olive-drab Army cots to sleep on--a piece of canvas stretched between pieces of wood and held up off the ground by wooded legs. The canvas was stretched so tightly that it was risking injury to assemble the thing, but perhaps not as risky as the sharper contraptions called cots nowadays. Our sleeping bags were old and also Army issue, and I don’t remember ever sleeping through a warm night in them. I would shiver through the damp Cascade nights, but always thought this was the normal thing to expect on a campout.

Now the funny thing is that, out of the few times Dad and I went camping, I remember so little. I don’t remember any of our conversations, or even our hikes, other than that both were fairly short. But what I do remember will last until I die, and hopefully beyond.

Although I know our menu was varied, I remember only the tuna fish. And this is because, after each of us opened a can, Dad would announce that we had no forks and so would have to make them. At first I thought the idea was absurd and wondered how he could be so thoughtless as to forget forks, but it turned out to be a joy as the two of us perused twigs on the trees around us, until we found the makings of a wooden fork. And with pride in my industriousness and creativity, I was soon delving into my can of tuna fish with a two or three pronged masterpiece from nature’s bounty. It even made the tuna fish taste better.

One day as we were hiking around the campground (by the way, the two of us always seemed to be the only campers at each campground), Dad stopped and got down close to the ground and looked at something. I stepped around to see what it was. A sasquatch footprint? A snake eating a mouse? A prehistoric artifact uncovered by erosion? No. It was a flower. A wildflower. Good grief, I thought. Dad looked at this flower for a long time. It stood alone among the rocks and packed dirt. He gently touched the delicate little petals, then looked around, then looked back at the flower for awhile. I stood there wondering, What the heck? Then Dad turned and looked at me with an expression of wonder, and said, “And some people think there is no God.”

Finally the morning came to pack up and head for home and for all the fascinating things in my comfortable room. And while we winded down the mountain roads, Dad handed me a piece of paper, and said, “Can you memorize this?” It was the lyrics to a song. We ended up singing it together. At first I felt like a fool, singing this goofy song with Dad, but it took me hardly any time to memorize the words, and Dad raved about how quickly I learned it, and so I wound up feeling pretty good about myself in singing with Dad. When we got home, I remember the first thing Dad told Mom was how quickly I could memorize something. And so I returned to my secure room upstairs, but in my hand I had a piece of paper to add to my fascinating things:

THE HAPPY WANDERER

I love to go a-wandering,

Along the mountain track,

And as I go, I love to sing,

My knapsack on my back.

Chorus:

Val-deri,Val-dera,

Val-deri,

Val-dera-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha

Val-deri,Val-dera.

My knapsack on my back.

I love to wander by the stream

That dances in the sun,

So joyously it calls to me,

"Come! Join my happy song!"

I wave my hat to all I meet,

And they wave back to me,

And blackbirds call so loud and sweet

From ev'ry green wood tree.

High overhead, the skylarks wing,

They never rest at home

But just like me, they love to sing,

As o'er the world we roam.

Oh, may I go a-wandering

Until the day I die!

Oh, may I always laugh and sing,

Beneath God's clear blue sky!

WHEN I DIE

2011-10-01T00:00:00.002-05:00

As afraid as I am to die, when the time comes I think I'll look back and consider my life a full one; and I'll look forward to all my loved ones who have gone before me; then hopefully I'll make the people laugh around me; and then I'll die in hopes of seeing the One who made it all possible.

THE NUDISM OF TARZAN

2011-09-29T22:44:00.000-05:00

In the past seven weeks, I’ve read all twenty-five Tarzan books by Edgar Rice Burroughs. Below are some quotes I found along the way:

“He welcomed the rising sun with its promise of warmth as well as light - the blessed sun, dispeller of physical and mental ills.”

“He began to realize that being half-clothed is infinitely more uncomfortable than being entirely naked. Soon he did not miss his clothing in the least, and from that he came to revel in the freedom of his unhampered state.”

“Clothes he abhorred - uncomfortable, hideous, confining things that reminded him somehow of bonds securing him to the life he had seen the poor creatures of London and Paris living. Clothes were the emblems of that hypocrisy for which civilization stood - a pretense that the wearers were ashamed of what the clothes covered, of the human form made in the semblance of God.”

[Referring to a character other than Tarzan:] “The sun, beating down upon his naked body, had no such effect upon his skin as would the sun of the outer world under like conditions, but it did impart to him a golden bronze color, which gave him a new confidence similar to that which he would have felt had he been able to retrieve his lost apparel, and in this fact he saw what he believed to be the real cause of his first embarrassment at his nakedness - it had been the whiteness of his skin that had made him seem so naked by contrast with other creatures, for this whiteness had suggested softness and weakness, arousing within him a disturbing sensation of inferiority; but now as he took on his heavy coat of tan and his feet became hardened and accustomed to the new conditions, he walked no longer in constant realization of his nakedness.”

“Something told him that Fate may have ordained that he was to serve his country quite as well naked as uniformed. Else why had Fate plunged him thus into an enemy stronghold?”

“’Put some clothes on the thing,’ said Mrs. Leigh; ‘this is absolutely disgraceful.’ Tarzan looked at her with disgust. ‘It is your evil mind that needs clothes,’ he said.”

WHEN BACKSLIDING, TURN AROUND TO GO FORWARD

2011-09-23T10:41:00.003-05:00

Religion was easy, growing up as a preacher’s kid. It was all laid before me. The only difficulty was in being devout enough and active enough to appease my Dad. Take for example the evening I didn’t want to go to the MYF (Methodist Youth Fellowship) meeting, and said so. Dad told me in many words how disappointed he was in me, but I stuck to my guns. After Dad left for the meeting, my brother Paul looked at me with a disgusted face and quietly said, “You don’t think much of Dad, do you?”

Then there were times that I overdid it. Methodists don’t have altar calls often, where people in the congregation are asked somehow to express their conversion before witnesses, but one day I expressed mine. Dad was elated. That week, while riding with Dad in the car, he stopped for a hitchhiker, and the fellow got in and sat down in the back seat. Dad felt the urge to witness to him, and began by saying proudly, “My son here just became a Christian.” All sincerity aside, I found myself cringing and sliding down a bit in my seat. As time went by, I slipped back into being the occasional disappointment.

Finally away from home, in the Army, in Korea, some correspondents I met through placing an ad in an underground paper sent me some gifts, including two books--Nausea by Jean Paul Sartre, and the Bhagavad Gita. Here were books differing with Christianity, and it was almost like, but not as fun as, coming upon a copy of Charles Addams’ Monster Rally in our barn. Jean Paul Sartre was an atheistic existentialist, and the Bhagavad Gita is a Hindu classic. I loved the way Nausea began, but, although I’ve tried twice, gave up trying to get through it. The Bhagavad Gita just seemed like a hard-to-read fairy tale, and I couldn’t get through that either.

Nevertheless these books sparked my pleasure of rebellion, as did my frequent drug use, and somehow I managed to learn of the Church of the Awakening, founded by John and Louisa Aiken in Socorro, New Mexico, and get a hold of their 83-page manual, Explorations in Awareness. This I could read, and, with no suggestion from them, felt inclined to donate $5 each month to their church through much of my tour overseas. But since LSD was hard to obtain in Korea, I eventually lost my enthusiasm for this religion.

Eventually I slid into relativity, and began thinking that whatever religion I choose for myself, is true for me. In other words, absolute truth does not exist, or at best, doesn’t matter. This makes as much sense to me now as being Tinkerbell’s disciple does, but you might be surprised to learn how many seemingly intelligent people actually believe in relativism.

Once a person gets into this mode, anything goes. I decided to be a Taoist. That sounded cool, and I felt privileged to learn that “Tao” is pronounced “Dow.” Of course I bought an English copy of the Tao Te Ching to study, and tried my best to make heads and tails of hubs and wheel spokes and flow like a river. Visiting an old friend after returning to civilian life and settling down with a good job, I tried to tell him about my new-found religion, and he just sat there looking incredulous and shaking his head. I resented that, but really felt like a fool resenting reason. All he had to do was shake his head a little bit, without verbally disputing Taoism, to plant the seeds of my discontent.

I realized I was, deep down, still more Christian than anything, and so happily got and perused Frank Mead’s Handbook of Denominations. This was really cool. It was like Christianity’s shopping center. I could make up what I’d like to believe, then page through the book and find a denomination that agreed with me. I could create God in my own image, and find a gang to hang out with who also liked my image. I could be a relativist and a Christian at the same time!

I got married during this confusion, and Micki and I ended up spending years church-hopping. We would think we found the perfect church, at first, but then things would begin to fall apart, sometimes to the point of ostracization. When a bunch of people try to create God in their own image, and then gather together, they become to each other a sort of annoyance and interference. Two people never draw exactly the same picture.

Somewhere amidst this mess, we ran across the sister of one of my childhood friends, who turned out to be Baha’i. When she later confided to me that she used to be afraid of my Dad, I should have known better. Nobody could be afraid of such a loving man. Anyway Micki and I got sucked into this break-off sect of Islam. Even Islamics hate and persecute Baha’is. And being in this young religion, we felt sort of like the disciples must have felt in the early Christian church, except that, in Baha’i, Jesus is relegated to merely one of a line of prophets, and the new and final one is a now-deceased man by the name of Baha’u’llah. There are many Baha’i books, containing very flowery writing, and most of them are somewhat pleasing. I’m very grateful that when I joined the faith the local Baha’is were generous enough to skip some of the more elementary books and present me with the Synopsis and Codification of the Kitáb-i-Aqdas (Baha’i’s most holy book). I won’t go into my terrible regrets and embarrassments, but suffice it to say, if you’re ever tempted to join this religion, you’ll save a lot of time and money and face by reading the Synopsis and Codification of the Kitáb-i-Aqdas first. After my disillusionment, and remembering some of my reading, I asked the sister of my childhood friend a question. Baha’i respects most all the prophets of the various religions throughout history--Abraham, Krishna, Zoroaster, Moses, Buddha, Jesus, and Muhammad among them--believing them to be honest and true messengers of God leading up to the last prophet, Baha’u’llah. So I asked, “Muhammad claimed to be the last prophet. Where does that put Baha’u’llah?” And the sister of my childhood friend said, matter-of-factly, “Muhammad was the last prophet of the Adamic cycle.” Micki and I left Baha’i.

I thought I could do better. I sat down and lay down and pondered over ideas, and finally came up with Gatrystarism. The word meant, to me, “Love Truth Harmony,” and this religion described God as that: The Harmony of Love and Truth. In a sense, it turned out to be a play on the Trinity, although I didn’t notice it at the time. After formulating a bunch of ideas and arranging them into some sort of form, I proudly explained my new religion to Micki. She listened patiently, then said quietly and simply, “If you can believe in that, why can’t you believe in Christianity?” Micki has always been very wise.

I went back into Frank Mead’s Handbook of Denominations and we hopped onward from church to church. After a lot of misery, we finally tried returning to my roots--the Methodist church--and I even wondered at becoming a Methodist minister. But there are some facts that Micki and I have taken for granted--one of them being the sanctity of life. And the United Methodist Church had become so “out there” in its acceptance of contemporary ideas that I, who owned a complete set of the works of Methodism’s founder, John Wesley, had trouble seeing Methodism’s continuity. Finally I learned that the United Methodist Church’s “pro-choice” position was the result of a vote in its general conference. I wrote a letter to the local Methodist minister, telling of our concern, and that you cannot vote on sin. He responded, by letter, saying how disappointed he was in me, having thought that I was a Spirit-led person in his church.

And so we hopped on, to denominations supposedly more loyal to John Wesley. Good grief.

I was in a bad way when Micki went on vacation to southern California where she grew up, where friends now taught her more about the Catholic Church. And, in months to follow, I was becoming an agnostic while she was becoming a Catholic. You can read the details in I Wrote the Bible.

Then you can read what happened in A Letter Telling of My Catholic Conversion. After a lifetime of confusion, I became tired of trying to find perfection in groups that had been presented with the fullness of Christianity but then threw out what parts they disagreed with or weren’t comfortable with, to become separate listings in Frank Mead’s Handbook of Denominations. Instead of trying to tell the truth, I accepted Truth. Instead of getting God, I gave myself to Him.

And so the Catholic Church is perfect? Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Give me a break. The divine revelation of God is perfect, but His church is made up of human beings, and perfect human beings are not on the highways and in the supermarkets of today. And it’s good finally to realize that I’m human, and that God is God.

MYSTERY COIN

2011-09-21T23:34:00.002-05:00

Here’s another WHAT IS IT? Contest, and this time I don’t know the answer! This coin/medal belonged to my Dad, and now I have it and don’t know its purpose or when or where it‘s from. I can’t find a satisfactory explanation of it online, nor can I find another precise image of it. The coin is 1 3/8” (35mm) in diameter and appears to be made of bronze. On the front is an image of a man riding a horse, in apparently Middle Ages garb, and around it it says: “HIC RHODUS HIC SALTA.” This is a Latin phrase from Aesop’s Fables, literally translated “Here is Rhodes, jump here!” or more understandably, “Prove what you can do, here and now.” On the back of the coin is an image of a sail ship and the words: “Norske Love.” It turns out that Norske Love was an actual Danish Norwegian warship in 1765. There is no other information on this coin/medal. Can anyone tell me what it is?

I REALLY ENJOY BEING PUBLISHED

2011-09-19T14:05:00.002-05:00

My memoir, What is a Gentleman, has been published, filling page 36 of the Autumn 2011 issue of Naturally. This story tells of an experience I had while in the Army, stationed at Camp Ames, Korea, having to do with my subscribing to a nudist magazine leading me into a confrontation with my superiors. Never did I dream then that this event would one day be published in a nudist magazine!

CAROL KLEYN LEARNED TO PLAY THE HARP AT 21

2011-09-09T13:19:00.000-05:00

It was 1976 or 1977 when Micki and I went with family and friends to the Renaissance Pleasure Faire at Agoura, California. I wore a long, brown, hooded, Monk’s robe, and nothing underneath, yet thought I was going to die in the heat. Sweat streamed down my body. And I envied the woman who would portray Lady Godiva that year--probably the only comfortable person at the Faire (and yes, she really went nude, covered by only her long hair).

Micki’s younger sister, Anita, was among those who went with us. As we walked from the parking lot to the Faire, beside the path sat a beautiful, young, blond woman playing the harp. Out of the dust being kicked up with each step of the passers-by, Carol Kleyn was playing and singing the most enchanting music, and we couldn’t help but stop and stand in awe.

I will only say here that Carol didn’t learn to play the harp until she was 21, and she couldn’t have been much older than that when we stood there amazed by her talent. A brief online autobiography, written in 2011, can be found by clicking here. And a sampling of her music can be enjoyed by clicking here.

Her music was mesmerizing and we hated to move on, but we did the next best thing--we bought her album, Love Has Made Me Stronger, before going, and Carol autographed it for us. But Anita sat down beside her to listen longer. It turns out that Carol Kleyn, for some reason, didn’t even gain entrance to the Faire that year, but settled for playing and singing beside the hot, dusty pathway to it.

As we meandered about inside the Faire grounds, Anita caught up to us, and in her hands she carried Carol Kleyn’s album. “Did you buy one, too?” we asked her. Anita flushed and showed us what Carol had written on the album cover’s back. We looked at it and at her in confusion. When Anita had been sitting beside Carol and enjoying her music, a deaf friend of Anita’s came by. Anita knew a little sign language, and so for a brief moment the two girls signed to each other. And so, of course, Carol thought to herself, “This poor deaf girl beside me can only watch me play.” So the sweet musician picked up one of her albums and wrote on the back, “I hope someday you’ll be able to hear this,” and signed it and gave it to Anita. Anita was then too embarrassed to tell Carol that she can hear just fine, and so just smiled and nodded and left with her treasure.

It’s been a long time that Carol Kleyn’s album has been relegated to obscurity, but finally it's available on CD, etc. and you can buy it at Drag City. I’ve already ordered the CD version of this Love Has Made Me Stronger album that brings back such wonderful memories for us. And Carol Kleyn’s BandPage is even on Facebook!

This is an affirmation that beauty lasts forever. Even though sometimes we have to look through the dust to find it, it will never be forgotten.

MY WIFE HAS A NEW BLOG

2011-09-03T08:36:00.000-05:00

In the Butter Rum Cartoon song lyrics, it says:

Venturing upon Mount Higgins
With my dog and hunting bow,
Saw a lady in a river,
So I went down to say hello...

You can now hear from the Lady in a River.

THE ONE-STRING GUITAR

2011-08-26T02:45:00.001-05:00

When I was in “junior high” at Edison Elementary School, I took band. My chosen instrument was the trumpet, because my sister Linda already had one from when she took band. It was a silver-colored trumpet, with very minor dents.

Although I managed to flatten my chin and slightly spit into it initially to make a trumpet tone, I could never play it worth beans. My teacher blamed it on my never practicing. I blamed it on the trumpet. Finally one day he took my trumpet and tried it in front of the class, making it sound beautifully, then handed it back to me. Sure enough, it was because I never practiced.

My band teacher went to our church at Allen to play a trumpet solo during the worship service. From sitting in the pew right in front of me, he walked confidently to the front of the sanctuary, raised the horn, and blew the most wonderful sounds. I had never heard him really play serious music before; he had only taught us; and I had never before heard such beautiful music come out of a trumpet. Instead of ear-piercing, it was soft and pretty and spirit-lifting. After the masterpiece, he returned to his seat in front of me, but before sitting down, he looked back and me and winked.

After making only lousy squeaks come out of that instrument, and somehow, even with his inspiration, never finding the time to practice, my band teacher recommended that I switch to choir in order to try to save my grade.

Choir was upstairs rather than in the school basement, and had a different teacher. She tested my voice range and found that I was an alto. Bad news. Altos don’t sing the song. They sing another song at the same time the real song is being sung. Harmony. And I never could manage to keep track of these other notes while listening to the familiar tunes the lucky others were singing. Patting my head while rubbing my stomach is easy, but this was impossible. I might as well have been accompanying the song with my trumpet.

Thank goodness there was salvation at the end of the year! For extra credit, we could make our own musical instrument! And, if successful, it would be enough to pass the failing kids…like me. Each evening that following week I worked at home, sawing and sanding and varnishing and listening and measuring, etc. etc. until I finally brought my musical instrument to school: A one-string guitar.

It was a simple one-by-two-inch stick about two feet long, sanded and varnished, looking good. At the end was one tuning peg, with a single C-string running from that to an anchor near the other end. As accurately as I could, I had fastened frets to try to make at least one scale. Not having enough energy to make a sound box for it, I had taken posterboard and formed a fairly large megaphone at the end opposite the tuning peg. It was very loud for whomever it was aimed at.

As required, I went up before the class to demonstrate my instument. I sat down on a chair, with the board lying across my lap and the megaphone aimed at the students. Carefully pressing beside the frets with my right hand, I used a guitar pick in my left hand to pluck out “Mary had a Little Lamb.” It went along just fine until the very last note, which was painfully and loudly off-key. The whole class cringed and groaned, then burst into laughter. The teacher smiled big. I passed.

TARZAN'S ENGLISH-APE DICTIONARY

2011-08-20T14:46:00.001-05:00

I’m now reading all twenty-five Tarzan books by Edgar Rice Burroughs. When I was a kid, I was really excited to find that my new Dell Tarzan comic book had an Ape-English Dictionary in it! It listed the words Tarzan used in ape language, along with their English meanings! What more could a boy want?!

Well, after about fifty years it’s finally dawned on me what more a boy could want. When apes talk, they often speak too fast to understand them, even with the Ape-English Dictionary. It can be really frustrating. What’s needed is an English-Ape Dictionary, so we can speak to the apes. So I’ve taken the original Tarzan Ape-English Dictionary, with its ape words in alphabetical order, and have instead alphabetized the English words. This will be invaluable during your next jungle safari, and also a lot of fun during your next visit to the zoo.

TARZAN’S ENGLISH-APE DICTIONARY

photo by Julia Lund

afraid - utor
ant - kando
antelope - wappi
arm - wang
arrow - etarad
baboon - tongoni
baby - balu
back - rand
bad - sord
battle - bar
beast - tor
beetle - nene
belly - gu
beware - kreegah
big - zu
bird - neeta
black - go
blood - galul
blue - m’wa
blunt - tand-litu
boar - horta
bone - dano
bottom - ug
bow - ry-balu-den
boy - ab
branch - balu-den
brave - tand-utor
bright - tu
broken - tub
brook - no
brother - abalu
buffalo - gorgo
cast - aro
catch - rem
cave - zu-kut
center - karpo
chief - gund
clan - hotan
climb - unk-nala
cold - bur
come - yud
corn - ut
country (tribe’s hunting grounds) - pal
cow - kalo
crocodile - gimla
crooked - ry
cut - yuto
dance - kordo, voo-dum
dark - tanda
dead - bund
do surrender - kagoda
down - tand-nala
do you surrender - kagoda
drink - ud
drum - dum-dum
dry - tand-lul
dull - tand-litu
ear - yad
eat - popo
egg - klu-kal
elbow - band
elephant - tantor
empty - tand-vulp
eye - yat
face - lot
fall - amba
fang - gash
fat - dak
father - pastar
fear - utor
female - kalan
few - tand-ho
fierce - lu
fire - argo
fish - pisa
flat - bo
flesh - dako-zan
flower - ro
fly - busso
foot - b’zee
forest - hoden
friend - yo
front - gugu
fruit - sopu
full - vulp
get up - tand-ramba
girl - za
giraffe - omtag
go - unk
good - vando
gore - yut
gorilla - bolgani
grasshopper - nesen
great - ben
great apes - mangani
green - wa
growl - gor
hair - b’zan
hand - bowing
hard - eho-dan
hate - ugla
he - bu
head - b’yat
heart - thub
hen - klu
here - yel
high - at
hill - ta-pal
hippopotamus - duro
hit - kob
hole - kut
hollow - eho-kut
home - wala
hot - koho
house - wala
hungry - po
husband - por-atan
hut - wala
hyena - dango
ice - dan-lul
in - zor
jackal - ungo
jump - kas
jungle - kambo
kick - lob
kill - bundolo
kind - sato
knee - abu
lake - dak-lul
lame - mado
laugh - rota
leaf - wa-usha
leaves - ho-wa-usha
left (direction) - tandlan
leg - zee
leopard - sheeta
lie (untruth) - nur
lie down - ramba
light - a
lightning - ara
like - gree-ah
limb - balu-den
lion - numa
lioness - sabor
little - eta
long - om
look - yato
lose - adu
loud - pandar
love - gree-ah
low - eta-nala
male - atan
many - ho
mate - por
meat - dako-zan
middle - karpo
mighty - ko
mighty lioness - ko sabor
milk - kal
monkey - manu
mosquito - lano
mother - kalu
mountain - ved
mouth - tho
much - eho
muscle - vo
neck - tag
negro - gomangani
nest - wala
no - tand
noise - panda
nose - lat
not - tand
nut - dan-sopu
ocean - zu-dak-lul
out - zut
panther - sheeta
rain - meeta
rat - pamba
red - ga
rhinoceros - buto
rifle - pand-balu-den
right (direction) - lan
rise - ala
river - gom-lul
roar - zugor
rock - dan
rooster - tan-klu
rough - es
run - gom
scream - kree-gor
see - yato
sharp - litu
she - mu
shield - jabo
shoot - aro
short - mo
sick - gumado
side - luto
silence - tand-panda
silent - tand-panda
sing - voo-voo
sister - za-balu
skin - zan
smoke - whuff
snake - histah
snare - rala
snow - tar-bur
soft - pan
spear - arad
stab - yut
star - hul
starve - tand-popo
stay - tand-unk
stick - balu-den
sting - lana
stomach - gu
stone - dan
stop - dan-do
straight - tro
strange - jar
strong - zu-vo
sun - kudu
swim - lul-kor
swing - yang
tail - at
talk - gogo
tall - to
that - wob
there - yeland
thick - dako
thin - tandak
thirsty - ubor
this - wo
throw - aro
thunder - pand
tom-tom - dum-dum
tongue - lus
tooth - gash
top - eho-nala
tortoise - kota
tree - den
tribe - hohotan
truth - rep
up - nala
valley - pele
village - ho-wala
vulture - ska
walk - kor
warm - eta-koho
warrior - tan
water - lul
weak - pan-vo
weep - pan-lul
well - van
wet - eho-lul
whisper - eta-gogo
white - tar
white men - tarmangani
wife - por-kalan
wild cat - skree
win - gando
wind - usha
word - rea
wrestle - olo
yellow - mal
yes - rak
zebra - pacco

KORLA PANDIT

2011-08-17T19:55:00.000-05:00

In the 1979 comedy, “The Jerk,” starring Steve Martin, his character Navin, who “was born a poor black child” never could keep the beat while listening to his adoptive black family’s music. Then, lying on his bed, listening to the radio, he hears a very different kind of music, honky music, and notices his feet are keeping the rhythm perfectly. When someone comes in to change the station, Navin yells, “Don't touch that radio! Don't touch it! Turn it up! Turn it up! I've never heard music like this before! It speaks to me!” The same thing happened to me when I heard the music of Korla Pandit.

I discovered Korla Pandit by learning that he did most of the soundtrack for the live TV puppet show, “Time for Beany”---the first show I remember on television, that debuted in 1949, the year I was born.

John Roland Redd, an African American, was born in St. Louis, Missouri in 1921. This musician, composer, pianist and organist began work on the radio in 1938 in Iowa; eventually migrating west to Los Angeles where he reinvented himself with the help of his new wife, Beryl June DeBeeson, who, incidentally was born in my home state of Washington, in Bremerton. He donned a turban, changed his name to Korla Pandit, and made up a romantic history for himself, being born in New Delhi, India to a Brahmin priest and a French opera singer.

Beginning in 1949 and into the early Fifties, Korla Pandit had his own TV show, five days a week. Always wearing a turban, he never spoke on the show, but instead gazed into the camera as he played the Hammond organ and Steinway grand piano, often at the same time. His dreamy gaze was such that many accused him of hypnotizing his television audience. He was replaced by Liberace in 1953. But his music continued until his death in 1998.

I’ve now purchased and downloaded many of Korla Pandit’s songs, and enjoyed listening to the CD on a recent road trip with my family. As we drove between scores of huge power windmills in Illinois, his song, “The Hypnotist,” was playing. The awesome soundtrack with the scenery inspired me tremendously! “Don’t touch that CD player! Don’t touch it! Turn it up! I’ve never heard music like this before! It speaks to me!”

Here is a YouTube video of Korla Pandit playing “Miserlou.”

GETTING EVEN

2011-08-17T12:45:00.000-05:00

At the entrance of the 1984 New Orleans World's Fair

It was during a tough time in our marriage, when Micki was converting to Catholicism, and I was converting from Protestant fundamentalism to agnosticism. I needed a break, and so did Micki, from me, so I decided to go to the 1984 World’s Fair in New Orleans with one of my 833rd Ordnance army buddies, Alex Lovato.

Micki and I had no vehicle then, so this meant me hitchhiking from Everett, Washington to Alex’s place in Albuquerque, New Mexico. From there we would go in Alex’s Mustang to New Orleans, visit the World’s Fair, then drive up and visit a mutual buddy in Chester, Illinois, and then Alex would drop me off in Wichita Kansas, where I would visit my sister while Alex drove home. I would then hitchhike from Wichita back to Washington State.

The hot sun beat down on me in the Southwest. I did my best to stand hitchhiking in the shade of even tiny, road signs. I chugged two large cokes at a roadside café within a few minutes. But by the time I got to Albuquerque I had a triple sunburn on my face, the worst I’ve ever had. I looked like Clint Eastwood in “The Good, the Bad and the Ugly” after he had been left in the desert to die. Alex brought me over to his parents’ house to introduce me, and I ate with them there, looking like a monster.

From Albuquerque we drove to the World’s Fair, but on the way, in southern Arkansas, Alex’s battery went dead. This was a scary place. Most everyone was black, and every white guy looked dangerous. We learned that a Walmart was two miles away, and I suggested to Alex that we hitchhike. That was out. Alex apparently had a greater fear of hitchhiking than he did prejudice. And so the two of us began our two mile walk to Walmart in the humid, southern heat.

Cars full of black guys cruised slowly by, with no love showing in the myriad of eyes as they stared at us. I think I must have made some comment to Alex about him being safer than I because he wasn’t as white; but Alex informed me that a great prejudice exists between blacks and Mexicans, too.

We managed to get to Walmart alive, where we bought a new battery and a handle to carry it. It was heavy, and I was hot, and I pleaded with Alex to agree to hitchhike back to the car. He wouldn’t, and we practically had an argument there on the shoulder of the street. Finally we came up with a solution. Alex would walk back alone, while I hitchhiked with the battery.

He was only a couple blocks down the street when I was picked up by a rough-looking, middle-aged, black man. This driver did his best to be cordial, and he knew about our situation by the time we gained on Alex. I asked him if he’d be willing to give my friend a ride, too, so he stopped next to Alex and I called out the window, “Wanna ride?”

Alex hesitated, then got into the car. For the rest of the way, the driver explained to us why he picked us up. He said that once he was in a bad way, needing a ride, and a white man picked him up and helped him out. It was sad how this driver of ours felt he had to justify his good deed, how he needed to explain why he would do a favor for a white guy. When he dropped us off at Alex’s Mustang, as we were getting out, I turned and looked at the driver and smiled and said, “Now you’re even. Thank you.” He smiled back and nodded.

Alex was elated. We had hitchhiked two miles and survived! I mentioned that I had hitchhiked fifteen hundred miles to his place and survived, too.

The World’s Fair wasn’t as good as the 1962 Seattle World’s Fair, but it was fun with the Vatican Exhibit, the Space Shuttle, the synchronized swimmers and all. Our visit with Joe in Illinois was nice, although Joe had a terminal illness and died not long after that. Of course visiting my sister and her family was great. And I finally hitchhiked home without a hitch. Within a few years our tough home life turned to bliss, and time went on. Since then I’ve thanked countless people for their help, and they, too, have smiled back and nodded.

BUTTER RUM CARTOON NOW AVAILABLE AS A KINDLE BOOK AND A NOOK BOOK

2011-08-13T16:35:00.005-05:00

These posts are now put in general chronological order into a new Kindle book, available at Amazon, and a Nook book, available at Barnes and Noble, complete with black-and-white pictures, for just $4.99. Now (if you have a Kindle or a Nook) you can trip through the Butter Rum Cartoon with ease wherever you go. I even bought the book myself!

WHO TOLD YOU THAT YOU WERE NAKED?

2011-08-02T22:05:00.002-05:00

“Who told you that you were naked?” God asked Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. They had sinned. They had disobeyed a commandment of the Lord, so now they were hiding from Him in the midst of a place God had intended would be a paradise for them. Adam and Eve hid in shame from their Creator and from each other, trying pathetically to cover themselves with leaves.

“Who told you that you were naked?” It wasn’t God’s will that they think of themselves as naked, that His creation hide from Him, that they disobey Him. He had formed them from the elements of the earth and from each other, and saw that it was good. But even the first of His human masterpieces to walk in paradise chose to alienate themselves from Him, and they tried to hide. With fig leaves they tried to hide from their Creator who knows all things, sees all things, and is everywhere at once--even in the places where the fig leaves must come off--where man and woman do not hide from each other, and where, as everywhere, the idea of hiding from God is absurd.

And just as our merciful Lord allowed the Israelites an earthly king, which resulted in countless tragedies, so He allowed clothing for our sinful first parents in their silly attempt to hide. And we’ve been hiding ever since.

Even after God sent His only Son as a sacrifice to die on the cross for our sins, we still hide as though nothing happened. By all historic accounts of crucifixion, Christ hung nude on the cross, but while we venerate the Roman cross He died upon, we manufacture makeshift wraps and aprons to hide the holy and pure body of our Lord in the crucifix.

Our bodies beautifully created by God, that He looked upon and saw were good, have been twisted by sinners into something bad and yet desired. Now people charge us money to see them, or hope that, by seeing them, we purchase some product in memory of them. Instead of the attempted hiding of our bodies producing chastity and innocence, it’s perverted God’s good creation into objects of lust and tools for greed.

So much time has passed that we’ve come to think of the covering of our bodies as natural and proper. It was traumatic for me in school, in P.E., to undress in front of other boys in the shower room. I had grown up in a fundamentalist Christian home in which covering the body was believed to be God’s will rather than something God allows. But after all the media’s teasing with the human body, the time came when my curiosity and hormones joined in a union determined to learn more. So as a teenager, after an unusually sheltered childhood, I sneaked into a nudist camp and passed myself off as a visiting member for seven wonderful hours of revelation. (You can read about this adventure in Dale Sneaks into a Nudist Camp.)

All fashion and clothing merchants notwithstanding, realizing it consciously or subconsciously, we continue to hide ourselves. Between the flesh-flaunting billboards and a button away from nude TV, we automatically pull up our pants and button our shirts, and proceed into our social world behind textile walls of man-made color and design, trying our financial best to portray to others not who we are so much as who we wish to be. At the end of the day we glance or gaze at our nude body in the bathroom mirror and consciously or subconsciously ask ourselves, “Did I fool them today?” You take a second look at your real self and say, “They have no idea.” But they do, because they’re doing the same thing.

Something happened to me in the nudist camp, though. I was naked outside in the light of the sun instead of in the bathroom in front of a light bulb, and for the first time I could say to the men and women of all ages around me, “Here I am. This is me.” And they all saw me, and were cordial and smiled and said, “Hi.”

In an online nudist site, I notice that a majority of members are professed Catholics. I wondered about this. It’s true that, unlike many Protestant faiths, Catholics have not separated the body and spirit into conflicting units (see Theology of the Body by Pope John Paul II), nor have they removed the body of Christ from the crucifix, but leave it there to remind us of the great sacrifice that more than makes up for the sins of our first parents. But perhaps the main reason nudism is more acceptable among Catholics than most other religions is that Catholics have always been aware of the release and elation that results from coming out of hiding and being accepted--in the Sacrament of Reconciliation--Confession.

We’re not supposed to hide. When we first sinned and alienated ourselves from our Creator, God did not say, “Now go and hide from Me and from each other.” Instead He asked, “Who told you that you were naked?”

WE DIDN'T MISS THE OX

2011-07-18T18:01:00.001-05:00

When I lived with Penny in Korea, we had a nice double bed. This was uncommon in most of Korea in 1969. Most Koreans slept between two thick quilts on the floor. Several times I had gone either alone or with Army buddies to Taejon, a nerve-racking, horn-honking, ten-mile, taxi trip. I or we would meander about the city, taking advantage of its wares and vices, and I would usually buy something and bring it “home.” Each time, Penny would be upset. She would see how I had been ripped off, and told me that if I had brought her along, I wouldn’t have had to spend so much.

During the night of April 4, 1969, Penny died. She never did go with me to Taejon.

Some months later, some buddies and I went to Taejon again. South Korea had yet to build a paved highway, and the only vehicles on this pot-holed, dirt road were taxis, buses, and occasional cars driven by people wealthy enough to afford them. We passed a bus that had left the road and lay on its side in a field. Pedestrians everywhere had the right-of-way, and the taxi drivers would constantly honk their horns trying to clear the way.

In the city, after having survived the ride, we walked about, seeing things for sale we had never seen before. There were booths selling dried squid, hanging from racks and bothered by flies. I bought some, and ate it, and liked it. I called it “jerky of the sea.” We bought a ginseng root in a jar, without even knowing what a ginseng root is.

Down a back street (all streets seemed like back streets) we came upon a quilt shop. I stepped in and immediately admired a beautiful, thick, Korean quilt hanging on the wall behind the counter. Before it, stood a short, middle-aged man with a happy and hopeful smile on his face. He greeted us, “Annyong hashmnikka.”

I couldn’t take my eyes off the quilt. It was brighter than anything around--orange, with a mushroom design on it. “How much?” I asked, pointing. He turned and looked, then said with pride the amount, which I forget, but for me it was affordable. “I’ll buy it,” I said.

He looked incredulous, then thrilled, and called employees, or other family members, to help him take it down. They were busy talking in Korean as he wrapped it up for me to carry. Then, to our surprise, he closed up his shop, and with a group of his friends around us, they directed us to climb into an ox cart out front. We did, and since there was no ox, several men pulled the cart a block down the street, beaming and practically cheering with words we couldn’t understand.

Apparently this quilt had been the shop’s pride and joy, the most expensive thing in their stock, and I had popped in and purchased it. It was a cause for celebration!

The cart stopped in front of a bar, and we climbed out and went inside with the men. We couldn’t communicate verbally, but we could in every other way, and we were all good friends for the festivity. They bought all the drinks, and it was there that I drank makkoli for the first (and only) time. I had heard that this liquor is made from fermented coconut milk, but it isn’t, although it looks like it. It’s really a “rice wine”--about 6 to 8 % alcohol volume. They made sure I had enough to enjoy myself, as we all did. Afterwards they wheeled us back to the shop, and we shook hands good-bye, with much appreciation on both sides.

Sometimes you don’t know when you’re going to make someone’s day, but you know and remember when someone makes yours.

This Korean quilt was enjoyed for many years afterwards. When I married Micki six years later, we lived our first year in an 8-by-12-foot cabin with no utilities, near Lake Stevens, Washington, and for the first six months without heat. A motorcycle was our only transportation, and both of us worked, in different towns. Often, we’d ride home in the rain to a cold cabin, and would finally climb up into the sleeping loft and cuddle on our mattress beneath this thick, warm, bright orange, Korean quilt with the mushroom design. Having first ridden with it in an ox cart on the other side of the world, this quilt traveled with our growing family when we moved to various other homes in various towns throughout the years, until finally it just gave out. But it’s there in my memory as real as it ever was, and its memory still warms me.

MY CAMPAIGN AGAINST MARIJUANA

2011-07-16T15:15:00.000-05:00

Marijuana is a bane on society. This forbidden plant has wreaked havoc on what would otherwise have been an uninterrupted pendulum of civilized industry. I succumbed to this vice while in the Army, and it lead me to do worthless things rather than focus my attention and resources on nuclear weapons maintenance and data processing.

Once a chaplain came to speak to our company about the evils of marijuana, and he talked about it being addictive. I spoke up and, standing up, said, “Sir, when I was overseas I smoked marijuana for several months like some people smoke cigarettes. Then I stopped for a couple months and never even missed it.”

Avoiding the dispute on the drug’s addictiveness, and being presented with a victim he could criticize and use as a bad example, the chaplain peered at me like a psychologist and asked, “Why did you smoke it?”

I hesitated, then said, “Just for the pleasure of it.”

“Do you think you needed this pleasure?” he asked.

“Sir,” I said, “in the Army, in Korea, you need all the pleasure you can get.”

The whole room full of G.I.’s burst into cheers and applause as I sat down, and the poor chaplain lost the respect of his audience and the impetus of his speech. See what this terrible drug can do!

And so now I am bitterly opposed to the use of this terrible narcotic, and will do all I can to rid society of its use. Never would I even slightly suggest collecting seeds of marijuana known to be highly effective and taking the largest seeds and placing them between two napkins, blotting paper, etc. and adding enough water to cover the napkin. This might encourage readers then to cover the top or put them in a dark closet for two or three days until these dangerous seeds have sprouted at least a half inch or longer! And who knows? They might even try to prepare a garden while the seeds are sprouting!

They might go so far as to get a wooden box like an apple box, tomato flat, etc. and add about one inch of gravel to the bottom, then fill the rest of the box with a good grade of soil or add a commercial fertilizer per manufacturer’s instructions. The minds of these poor readers may already be so far gone that they wouldn’t even know that too much fertilizer will burn and retard or kill the plants.

If I were to encourage these misled people, I could just imagine them going on to moisten the soil thoroughly and leveling the top. They’d probably take a pencil or similar article and punch holes two to four inches apart with interspacing rows. Good grief, in an apple box up to 35 plants may be planted!

I could see them planting their sprouts with the seed above the ground and the sprout in the soil, and tamping the soil firmly, but not packed, around each plant as they insert the sprouts, and so there is no way I would encourage this evil doing!

Of course they would hide their malevolent weeds in a closet or garage or any place where they won’t be trampled on. They’d rather not transplant them outside, of course, because the little “beasties” of the wild love young, tender plants. And unless some method is taken to protect them, these misguided drug farmers would more than likely only find stalks and stubble to harvest.

I wouldn’t dare let them know about lighting. They would then learn it’s important. Marijuana grows from three to fifteen feet high, but if they use artificial light they’d be able to keep the unwanted stalk down in size without sacrificing the foliage. They’d just use a blue light for the first 30 days. They could leave the light on for 24 hours a day, even though 17 hours is just fine. Plants don’t need to sleep; the more light, the faster they mature.

I won’t be the one to tell them that blue light keeps the stem from growing in height but will make a sturdier stem. These drug addicts might set their lights (as many as needed to give good illumination) so they are 12 to 14 inches away from the top of their plants. They might know that if the temperature at plant level rises above 100 degrees they should use ventilation or less light. How awful--at the end of 30 days they would have quite a garden!

And at the end of those 30 days, they might figure out they should change to red bulbs and start the gradual cut down on the time they have the lights on, from 24 to 16 hours. After a week, they’d cut to 14 hours, and after another week, to 12 hours. They’d leave it at 12 hours until the plants begin to flower. When the plants flower, they’d be able to tell the worthless male plant from the sweetness of the female, as the female will have larger and heavier flower structure while the male will be skimpier and usually taller. Some of these desperate people smoke the male plant also, but it has nowhere near the strength of the female. I’d be the last to tell them that, of the female plant, the top leaves and the flowers are the best, but that the whole plant, root and all, are useful for effect.

These evil-doers would probably know by the flowers and the seed pods when the plants are ready to harvest, and they would wet the soil and pull the whole plants out, root and all. They’d remove the flowers and top leaves (these are the most effective and referred to as “supergrass”). They would dry these, whole, in the sun for two weeks or until they are crumbly. This they would consider marijuana at its best. But they may be so demented as to sprinkle wine or rum lightly on the dried leaves and put them in a “baggie” or covered bottle, to enhance the flavor of the grass immensely. For the rest of the plant, they would remove the leaves from the stem and dry the same way or hang the whole plant upside down for two weeks and pick off the leaves as they want, saving the stem and root for the last, as it is much harder to smoke. Or they might remove the leaves and place a small quantity in the oven under low, low heat for 20 to 30 minutes, or until crumbly, and run them through a strainer. Of course they’d be careful not to heat the leaves in the oven enough to burn them.

While stationed at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, an Army buddy, Mark, and I used to spend weekends with impromptu adventures. One weekend we hopped a freight. After only about a mile, the train pulled into a railroad yard and Mark and I had to do all sorts of acrobatics to escape with our lives. After trudging through the woods we came upon a barge in the river, untied a dinghy off the back end, and journeyed in it down the river, all night. In the morning we grabbed an overhead tree and climbed down it to the bank. We had no idea where we were, and we began walking.

After awhile Mark stopped, eyes wide, and said, “Look where we are.” All around us were thousands of marijuana plants, towering over our heads! Moments later, we were looking down the barrel of the young farmer’s gun. As he directed us to his house, another young man joined him, also with a gun. Mark and I were fully aware that we might have come to the end of our earthly journey. See how evil this drug is!

The two men had us go into their house. They had talked with us during the walk back, and continued to talk with us in the house. By now they were smiling. They put their guns away. We had a very cordial visit, and eventually Mark and I left to try to find our way back to Fort Bragg. I wouldn’t dare confess why they let us go, with smiles and waves. What poor, misguided farmers! Apparently someone in their past didn’t have the discipline I have, and actually told them how to grow marijuana!

COSMO THE MERRY MARTIAN

2011-07-15T12:19:00.001-05:00

My favorite comic book of all time is the Mighty Mouse Fun Club magazine which premiered in 1957 when I was eight. It was published by Pines Comics and lasted only six issues. But it inspired me to start a neighborhood Mighty Mouse Fun Club chapter. We held meetings in our garage, and I was president. Having given these comics to my nephews a long time ago, I’ve since found and purchased all six issues again, and continue to enjoy them, although we haven’t had a club meeting in fifty-four years. My favorite characters in these comics’ stories are Flebus and Clint Clobber.

My second-favorite comic book of all time was a contemporary of the Mighty Mouse Fun Club, premiering a year later, in 1958, and also lasting only six issues. This six issue business was obviously a conspiracy to irk me. Anyway, it’s Bob White’s Cosmo the Merry Martian, an Archie Series publication, and since giving my original copies away I’ve managed also to find and buy all six issues, and still love to read them.

The main character is Cosmo, the first Martian to visit Earth. His sidekick is the obnoxious Orbi. Their scientific mentor is Professor Thimk, and Cosmo’s sweetheart is Astra. Each issue ends with a to-be-continued cliffhanger, including the sixth and last issue. Not fair! I’m still waiting to see what happens when Cosmo and his interplanetary friends pay another visit to Earth!

Their first visit occurs in the first issue. Cosmo and Orbi blast off for Earth, but a meteor accident forces them to crash-land on our moon. There they meet the Moon People, all named Oog, who live underground in Moon City, marvelously displayed in a full-page illustration. The Moon People have often visited Earth, making themselves invisible with comet dust, and so take Cosmo and Orbi on a tour to our planet and to a baseball game.

In the second issue Cosmo and Orbi venture alone to the forbidden and terrifying Dark Side of the Moon, where they meet the dreaded Gillywump! Soon they make a second visit to Earth, along with the Moon People in order to help the Gillywump.

Professor Thimk, Cosmo’s sweetheart Astra, and Orbi’s dog Jojo, take off for Earth in the third issue to rescue Cosmo and Orbi. But instead of returning to Mars, all five of them, along with some Moon People and the Gillywump, travel to Venus, where they encounter Venusian giants.

The fourth issue is my favorite, in which the Venusian giants take the Martian (and Moon) crew to their queen, who turns out to be a knock-out. Although most are enraptured by her, she chooses Cosmo against his will to be her king, sending all others out, including Cosmo’s sweetheart Astra. A daring escape ensues with the Venusian giants in pursuit.

In the fifth issue the Martian and Moon crew travel to Saturn, where their spacecraft is damaged by Saturn’s rings and crash lands on the planet. There they meet the Saturnians--vegetable people--and Orbi has an Alice-in-Wonderland experience of shrinking and growing and winds up a giant on Saturn’s ring.

In the last issue, our crew returns to Mars, along with some Moon People and some Saturnians. All is well until a demented Martian, Dr. Beatnik, takes off with his army to invade Earth, and our interplanetary friends set out to stop him.

These Cosmo comics came out during the space race and well before man set foot on the Moon. It would be two years before the first man, Yuri Alekseyevich Gagarin of Russia, would orbit the Earth. No doubt Cosmo the Merry Martian was a great inspiration to these heroes of space exploration. And when the seventh issue finally comes out, we will learn what happens when the entire interplanetary crew visits Earth.

MOS, APO, AIT, CID, and LSD

2011-07-14T22:44:00.002-05:00

One reason I enlisted in the Army was because I understood an enlistee could choose his own M.O.S. (Military Occupation Specialty). So I chose the postal service, or A.P.O. (Army Post Office), but they gave me Nuclear Weapons Maintenance. When I was to spend a tour overseas, I chose Europe, and they gave me South Korea. Coming back from Korea, I chose Fort Lewis, Washington, to be close to home, and they gave me Fort Bragg, North Carolina. I was almost done with my three-year service when it finally dawned on me that I should have asked for the opposite of whatever I wanted.

My A.I.T. (Advanced Individual Training) for Nuclear Weapons Maintenance was at Sandia Base in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Although we did learn some worthwhile things, like how to disarm a nuclear warhead, I ignored much of it and laughed at several of the “secret” films we watched, because I remembered seeing them in high school. Having a secret clearance, we were ordered not to mention certain things to anyone. But one day, sitting around a table in the barracks, I laughed at one of the things we had heard in training that I had also heard in high school, and said, “Just think, I could get in trouble just for saying _____.” And I said it. The others laughed with me.

The following weekend, a fellow approached me and asked if I’d like to go hiking with him in the Sandias. I had never seen him before, but he looked nerdy and cool and I was bored so I said sure. We had a nice hike, but I noticed he asked me a lot of questions along the way. After we had come down off the mountain, he turned and faced me and explained that he worked for the C.I.D. (Criminal Investigation Department) and had heard that I was somewhat loose of tongue concerning secret information. He had been told to spend time with me to find out where my head was at, but then smiled and said that he had enjoyed the day and thought I was okay. I never saw him again.

After A.I.T. in New Mexico, I was to spend a leave at home before being transferred to Camp Ames, South Korea.. The plane was supposed to go to San Francisco and then to Seattle, but when we were only 130 miles from Frisco, it began circling around and the pilot said that San Francisco was fogged in and that he’d circle until receiving further instructions. We circled for an hour and then flew to Las Vegas and waited there. Then we flew to Los Angeles but ended up circling over the Mojave Desert because L.A. was fogged in. A half hour passed before we landed in Los Angeles to wait there. Finally we flew to San Francisco.

I was going to get home that night no matter what I did, so wasn’t in any hurry. Around a corner in the airport terminal there were a few hippies selling the “Berkeley Barb” and the “Oracle,” two underground newspapers. I bought both of them and asked the hippies how to go about getting to Haight-Ashbury. They were extremely polite and told me just what buses to take where. I thanked them and walked to the bus station. Wearing my Army dress-greens uniform, I got some strange looks from behind the ticket counter when I said I was going to Haight-Ashbury. It’s like a dragon asking the way to the fair maiden.

“Hashbury” wasn’t at all like I expected it to be. It felt weird to be there in uniform, but everyone was nice anyway. I bought five boxes of incense, a wild terrycloth jacket, Simon & Garfunkel’s Sounds of Silence album, and Joan Baez’s Volume 2 album. But my do-it-yourself hippie kit was lacking something. So I walked up to a young hippie and asked him if he knew where I could get some grass. He said, “Sure, I have some; how much do you want?”

I said, “A lid [an ounce] I guess; how much is it?” It was ten dollars. I said okay, so we walked around a corner. He sat down and pulled some out of his boot, and dropped it into a sack I was carrying. I gave him ten dollars (which I found was the usual price for a lid in Hashbury), and then walked down the street thinking to myself that now I had everything I could get there. Not so.

As I passed by a young couple, the guy whispered, “Acid.”

A few steps further I stopped and thought, I don’t have that. So I turned around and walked up to them with an innocent smile and asked, “How much is it?” He said it was $2.50 for one tablet. I said, “I’ve never bought any before; is that a reasonable price?”

The girl said, “It’s very reasonable.” She was telling the truth. I found out that it usually cost three to five dollars. I bought it just for the feeling of having it, but never planned to take it. I was afraid of LSD (Lysergic acid diethylamide). After buying a green leather, incense-fragranced stash bag for the pot, and some rolling papers, I left Haight-Ashbury. I had no trouble flying to Seattle, and Mom and Dad were there to meet me.

Calvin, a buddy of mine in my hometown of Sultan, was the only one I told about the pot and acid. I asked him if he wanted to take the acid and he did, but his enthusiasm and my curiosity made me want to, too. We left it undecided, and while no one was home at his place, we smoked marijuana for the first time in his barn. We were high on that when we went inside his house and cut the LSD tablet in two, and each took half. The tablet was very small, and we wondered if it would do anything after being split into even smaller pieces. Calvin had heard that it takes about fifteen minutes to a half hour to start working. It felt funny to think that we had just taken the thing that has had so much publicity, with so much controversy. We waited. The marijuana high went down, and the acid still hadn’t started. After about an hour I got on my motorcycle and left.

I rode around awhile and went up to the high school to watch the kids come out. I was wearing a shiny gold, Russian Cossack shirt (something like a Nehru) with a Greek medallion, brown slacks, green socks, leather sandals, the new bright terrycloth jacket with a free-love medallion, dark glasses, and a recently-painted psychedelic helmet. On my motorcycle there was a bright flower fastened to the headlight, a shrunken head hanging from the rear-view mirror, and a large flower decal on the front fender. I looked like a real soldier.

While watching the kids come out to the buses and talking with some, I went into a kind of semi-trance. I sat there, hardly knowing what I was looking at, and gripping to the seat. I had almost forgotten about the LSD, and didn’t know what was causing the funny feeling.

After the buses left, I started riding around again. I saw an attractive girl I hardly knew walking down the street. I pulled up to her and asked, “Want a ride?”

She smiled and said, “I’m almost home,” and pointed to her house a half block away.

I don’t know if she could tell I was on something or not; I could hardly tell what was what or what I was saying. “So what?” I said.

She smiled and started to blush, and held up a lot of stuff she had in her hands, and asked, “What should I do with all this?”

I said, “Lay it on the street.”

She laughed and said, “No thanks,” and I said, “See ya later,” and rode off. I was so mixed up that I still didn’t realize it was the LSD.

Finally I knew something was happening, so headed for home. It was a really cold day and I was so drugged that I couldn’t face Mom. I said dumb things and my eyes were dilated. I hid the marijuana in the garage, ran into the house, and said, “Boy, it’s cold out there,” and ran into the bathroom. Everything was turning. The effects seemed less out in the cold, but in the warm house they were stronger. I swam from the bathroom into my bed, and then the trip started.

I rolled over and over, with beautiful ideas coming into view. The bedroom light was off but the room was bright and colorful, even with my eyes shut. I had intercourse with an imaginary girl, and had all the effects of a “good trip.” Then it started getting worse, with colors that didn’t match, and so on. I kept trying to make it go away by jerking my head, but all it did was make my neck sore. Suddenly Mom opened the door. I lay still and looked at her. She asked, “What do you want for supper?”

I could hardly make out what I was saying, but I guess I said, “What do you have?” She told me a bunch of things, and I couldn’t remember what she said. I agreed with some things, and she started out the door. Assuming I fumbled that conversation, I said, “Boy, I got so cold that I can’t get warm; I think I have a fever.” She brought me an Empirin and went to fix supper.

I felt terrible. Now I would have to go out there and eat at the table in the middle of an LSD trip, and not let anyone know. When the time came, my eyes were dilated, I was shaky, and what dumb words I said I fumbled over. I slowly made my way through four bites, and I could tell that Mom knew there was something wrong. I said that I was really sick, and that Calvin and I were planning on going up to John Latimer’s that night, and that I didn’t think I was well enough to go. John Latimer was an old friend of ours who then owned the airport on the hill.

Mom said, “Why don’t you call Calvin and tell him you can’t go?”

I knew that I couldn’t carry on a decent telephone conversation in front of Mom, so I said, “If he calls, just tell him I’m sick,” and I went back to bed, and the colorful hallucinations began again.

Later the door opened and Mom said, “Calvin is here with another boy; do you want to see them?”

I said, “Tell them to come back here.”

By the way Calvin looked as he walked into my room, I could tell the LSD was working on him, too. We gazed at each other in our painless agony and burst out laughing and couldn’t stop. Calvin told the other guy what was what and brought him along to try to keep us under control. Finally I managed to stop laughing, but Calvin kept on. I was afraid that Mom would become suspicious, so I hit him on the head as hard as I could and almost broke my hand, but he couldn’t feel it and kept on laughing. I smiled and said, “Put your hands up.”

“What for?” he asked, and I said, “Just do it.”

As he put them up in a funny position, I rammed him square in the stomach with my fist. He went crashing over my globe and banged into the chest-of-drawers. Thank goodness he didn’t have any more wind to laugh with, and it settled him down. I was anxious to talk to him about his trip, so got dressed and after telling Mom that I’d be all right, we left on foot for John Latimer’s.

On the way, Calvin told me that he was at basketball turnout at the school when it started. He goofed up clear through turnout, and ended up with a gigantic hairy nose that he kept trying to hide. After taking a shower in the locker room, he forgot how to dress himself, but finally figured it out.

It was silly to go to John Latimer’s while on LSD. John and Gladys were good, straight, Christian people. But we had said we were going to John Latimer’s, and didn’t want to lie. I had brought my issues of the “Berkeley Barb” and the “Oracle” to show John, and he looked at them as if they were written in Swahili. We blew it. It was obvious that we were either drugged or drunk, and yet John was friend enough to offer us a ride back to town. To my knowledge, he kept our condition a secret.

Downtown we ran into one of my old school teachers, and I think we blew it in front of him, too. Eventually I went home, went to bed, and took more trips into my sub-conscience, finally falling asleep. In the morning, I still felt odd, but my eyes were no longer dilated, and I could think straight.

Although, in order to escape from the Army mentally, and for exploration and for fun, I smoked grass and dropped LSD many times after that, I’ve felt guilty ever since for that first time at home. I can’t remember where Dad was at the time, but they were so happy to have me come home on leave. Mom had tried to serve me my favorite foods for supper and have a nice visit with me that evening, but I could only take a few bites while watching the food swim around on my plate, and I didn’t dare visit with her. For the sake of a new experience, albeit controversial, I passed up a precious evening with my Mom. And all the dreamy motorcycle rides and color shows and nonsensical laughter can’t begin to compete with a mother’s love. Genuine love is the ultimate high.

CARING HIPPIES WHO READ THE HELIX

2011-07-14T15:54:00.001-05:00

If anyone responded to this ad in the Seattle “Helix” in mid-1969, please let me know. Most of those who wrote to me are listed below:

Dave Masterjohn and his wife Jan answered this ad and
corresponded with me with several long letters and even
gifts. Later I spent a week with them and took this picture.

Adra Valentine - Seattle WA
Ann Katherine Weed - Fremont CA
Becky Ridley - Woodinville WA
Billie Jo Foster - Olympia WA
Bob Grinstein - Thomas City WA
Candi Eustace - Seattle WA
Cindy - Everett WA
Cindy Wilson - Seattle WA
Dana Rea - Medina WA
Dave Masterjohn - Kent WA
Debbie Johnston - Bellevue WA
Debbie Wyckoff - Everett WA
Debie Sherman - Mount Vernon WA
Diane Strand - Seattle WA
Dianne - Seattle WA
Dorrit Jensen - Seattle WA
Dyanna Laing - Seattle WA
Gail Smith - Seattle WA

GeGe Reukauf - Seattle WA
George Moore - Seattle WA
Jan Fox - Tacoma WA
Jan Masterjohn - Kent WA
Jan Shroy - Seattle WA
Janet Heineck - Seattle WA
Janet Holman - Spokane WA
Jay Hershey - Olympia WA
Jennifer Lynne Alexander - Seattle WA
Jinny Byham - Seattle WA
Joey Elizabeth - Seattle WA
Kas Snodgrass - Tacoma WA
Kathy Lantz - Seattle WA
Kathy Owen - Bellevue WA
Kathy Rowe - Renton WA
Kenny - Seattle WA
Laura Crocker - Seattle WA
Laurie Hurja - Bellevue WA

Linda - Boise ID
Linda Dordness - Mountlake Terrace WA
Linda Dukes - Seattle WA
Linda Schneider - Seattle WA
Lonny - Seattle WA
Lorie Phelps - Tekoa WA
Lorna Woodward - Seattle WA
Lynn Adams - Kent WA
Margaret Goring - Seattle WA
Margaret Parkinson - Seattle WA
Marilyn Simmons - Boise ID
Mary Archey - Everett WA
Mary Holmaren - Seattle WA
Melissa Queen - Bellingham WA
Mona - Olympia WA
Nancy - Seattle WA
Patricia Murphy - Poulsbo WA
Patty Sprinker - Tacoma WA

Ray Kelleher -Mercer Island WA
Rex Kennedy - Edina MN
Richard Minor - Spokane WA
Robert Burrell - Olympia WA
Roberta Young - Monroe WA
Ronnie Boyer - Kent WA
Shar Carter - Auburn WA
Shelle Lyons - Mercer Island WA
Shirley Prather - British Columbia
Steve - Seattle WA
Steven Doyle - Bellevue WA
Sue Howard - Seattle WA
Sunshine - Walla Walla WA
Tim Madison - Marysville WA
Tom Whiting - Fort Lewis WA
Trinidad Foster - Olympia WA
Vernon Jackson - Seattle WA
Veronica Tomaszewski - Seattle WA

Many others also wrote to me. This ad was perhaps the best ten dollars I ever spent. During the loneliest time of my life, soon after my girlfriend Penny died and while still in the Army overseas, more than a hundred people helped to cheer me up. And not only did they write, several more than once, but I later got to meet some of them in person. I was invited to join four communes, five girls wanted to ride with me in a motorcycle club I was thinking of starting called Gross Inc., and I felt happily overwhelmed by friendship.

A LETTER TELLING OF MY CATHOLIC CONVERSION

2011-07-13T14:18:00.000-05:00

A letter I wrote to my sister and her husband 22 happy years ago:

702 W. Casino, P-104

Everett, WA 98204

April 4, 1989

Dear Linda & Ron,

Our Lady of Perpetual Help Church in Everett, Washington,
where Micki joined the Church in 1984
and I joined the Church in 1989

…A bit of family gossip that you probably know, but I suppose it should come from me, too: I joined the Catholic Church! If you grew up like me--and I think you did--you probably heard the horror stories of Catholics worshiping Mary and statues and all, and confessing just to a man (a priest), and on and on. I still remember the Dahls across the street in Allen; they were Catholics! Yuckers! And so we boys always had a suspicious dislike for each other. Also there were the stories that Catholics believe that only Catholics will be saved, etc. (Not true.) Anyway, when Mom heard that I was joining the Catholic Church, she expressed an uncomfortable silence. And the best thing she could say about it is that it’s not as bad as Jehovah’s Witnesses. Ironically, Paul [brother who converted to the Watchtower] sort of paved the way for me to do this without much stir, because the orthodoxy of Catholicism is more acceptable to most than the intimidation of Jehovah’s Witnesses, and Mom’s right: it’s not as bad.

I lucked out another way, too, because I’m not having to go through the persecution that I made Micki go through. When Micki joined the Catholic Church five years ago, I tortured her emotionally, and wouldn’t let up. We argued (I argued) for years, and really made her life miserable. Meanwhile I backslid into agnosticism (to say it mildly) and was a pathetic influence on our poor sons who were caught in the middle. Yet meanwhile Leif, too, joined the Catholic Church, and Sam was baptized in it. I just flailed my intellect and built upon my wounded pride.

Fr. Seamus Laverty
is now the priest at the Church of Saint Patrick
in Tacoma, Washington

But then a crisis happened in our marriage (which you also probably know about) followed by a dramatic reconciliation. For me, it was a difficult exercise in humility and a sudden realization of my true priorities. I decided I love my family. During a week’s separation, in a fit of traumatic desperation, I even went alone to talk with Micki’s priest. At the time, he happened to be walking over to hear confessions in the church, and he agreed to meet with me in the confessional. Fr. Seamus Laverty has a policy of letting the person/people-in-need come to him rather than going to them (and possibly embarrassing them or putting them on the spot), but as a favor to me, he broke his policy (which I’ve since found out is extremely unusual for him to do) and kept his promise to me by phoning Micki and talking with her. He told her that I really was very sorry. (By the way, I just found out that was exactly one year to the day before my joining the Church.)

To make a long story short, we got back together, and since then we’ve been happier than ever. It was during this happy time that I thought that rather than falling back on the old horror stories I would study the Catholic faith, from Catholic sources, to learn what it’s really all about. I’m sure Mom would love to blame Micki for my Catholicism, and it’s very true that if not for Micki’s conversion I would never have studied it in the first place (that I know of). No matter what kind of person I became, she stuck to her guns; and she did have a reasonable answer for any argument I came up with. And so it’s true that Micki is the one to (not blame but) thank.

But for sure the sources I discovered without Micki’s help turned out to be primo! Since most of my arguments came from Protestant fundamentalism, I found a great book of Catholic apologetics--exactly what I had long been searching for--in Catholicism and Fundamentalism by Karl Keating (highly recommended by me now). I enjoyed the book so much, and was so impressed by it, that I took Keating’s advice in his final chapter by buying some of his recommended books, including the one that did me in! Besides the Bible, the most profound book I’ve ever read, and the one that finally convinced me to join the Catholic Church, is Theology and Sanity by Frank Sheed. It’s such a good book that this month I’m planning to order ten copies to have on hand to loan or give away to interested loved ones. Also it’s a good argument cop-out. No doubt, Paul will try to argue with my joining, because the Catholic Church is one of the Jehovah’s Witnesses’ very worst enemies. I’m finding that Catholics are very charitable towards them--almost naively so--but Witnesses hate Catholicism because it, above all, represents the orthodoxy of Christendom which they’re trying hard to break down. After all, it was the Roman Catholic Church that condemned their Arianism as heretical as far back as 325 A.D. Anyhow, if Paul or others try to argue, I can always say, “Here’s an excellent book on Catholicism. Read it, and then we can really get down to a good discussion.” Of course people who simply hate the Church and want to argue won’t make the effort to read the “enemy’s” book first. So I’m off the hook. Then again, maybe I’ll be inspired to tell them about it myself.

So these two books convinced me; the first one shook the basis of my arguments, and the second one planted a much more sensible anchor in reality. Meanwhile I began following the lengthy procedure of becoming a Church member, involving attending catechumenate classes from October until the Easter of the following year. I had tried this twice before, and both times became so disgusted that I dropped out after a few classes. But this time I was coming from a different place, and wasn’t so arrogant. I enjoyed every class! And when Easter came, I was happy!

Wonderful friends came to the confirmation service at Easter time. Beforehand some friends brought a homemade, decorated, “Congratulations Dale” cake to our house, and these same friends videotaped parts of the whole wonderful event. They say the video turned out really good--that I look very happy--and they’ll give us a copy. Friends all over brought gifts (including more good books!), and the Parish held a large reception for us (eight others joined with me) and had a huge cake with all our names on it. The ceremony itself was well rehearsed and beautiful! If nothing else can be said about the Catholic Church, they sure know how to make a new member very welcome! That wonderful time will be in my memory always! And I never dreamed how much I would enjoy and appreciate a communion!

And yes, I did go, the day before, back into that confessional. And rather than hearing me cry out my marital problems, Fr. Seamus Laverty heard me cry out all the sins of my life. And what turned out to be a less-than-ten-minute experience helped me probably even more than I’ll ever know.

So what this particular family gossip means is that ol’ Dale (who turned 40 that same Holy Week, by the way) now happens to feel better about himself than he’s ever felt. Thought you should know…

Lot o’ love,

Dale

A LOVE POEM

2011-07-13T00:58:00.000-05:00

THE DOOR OF LIFE
-Dale Lund

You could have someone much better than I;
You could have him at command…
Someone richer, someone smarter,
Someone famous in our land--
Someone tall, dark and handsome
With a super-hairy chest,
Who speaks a dozen languages
With French being his best.
All the girls would envy you
And make eyes at your man,
And he in turn would quickly learn
You’re not his only fan.
But never could you find someone
Who loves you more than I--
Who’d cherish you and care for you,
And finally, by and by,
You’d love me almost just as much,
For my love spreads and grows--
Like some disease you want to have
That cripples all your woes.
I’d commit my entire being
To your happiness on earth;
And when you pass away from here
To feel your second birth,
You’d still feel the warmth inside
That was planted there by me--
The one who waited patiently,
The one who made you free.
The door of life is facing you;
It’s waiting for the key.
You have the keychain in your hand.
Please open it to me.

CAPTAIN ASK, FRIEND OF THE WORLD

2011-07-13T00:19:00.000-05:00

In 1985, for something to do, I wrote to every nation in the world for information. First I compiled a list of every nation. Then I wrote, in most cases, to the “Department of Information” in the nations’ capital. If there was no such department, my letter would be forwarded to the proper place. The letter was brief. It just mentioned my project, included a bit of personal info about our young son, and told them that anything they could send me about their “beautiful country of _______” would be most appreciated. It didn’t matter if the country was a friend or foe of America. I wrote to every one. And most every country responded, some very generously. Ironically, two of the very few who didn’t respond were the Vatican and the United States.

The idea in the back of my mind was to compile much of this first-hand information into a large, children’s book of nations, guided by an imaginary Captain Ask, who was such a friend to all the world that he was granted a world citizenship and was welcomed everywhere.

I’m sure my mail carrier wondered when, in the same week, I received heavy packages from Libya and Iran and the Soviet Union. My collection grew to three large file drawers full of various things, plus 71 books and 103 booklets! For no other cost but postage on my letters, I received a cassette tape from Grenada which includes the actual sounds of the multinational invasion; high quality books from Greece on Greek art; 13 books from the Soviet Union; 5 books from Libya including a hardcover edition of The Green Book by Kadhafi himself; collector’s item letters from the revolutionary governments of Libya and Bourkina Faso; a useable catalog of bushman handicrafts from Botswana; 21 8x10 glossy photographs from Mongolia; an illustrated children’s book from Cuba on the facts of life; and scores of other only-person-on-the-block-to-have items.

Two countries surprised me. The only things that two “enemy” nations--Iran and El Salvador--sent were several beautiful children’s books, void of any propaganda (except for one of the seven Iranian books). And the Iranian books even contained hand-typed sheets translating the text into English.

It was a fascinating hobby encompassing three years, but I never did follow through on Captain Ask and the children’s book of nations. Eventually I donated most of the material to a local school, keeping only some of the most unusual and treasured items. But if ever you want something to do, there it is. Make your postman wonder. (Make the CIA wonder.) Write to every nation for information and see what you get. Most government employees are complimented by your interest and take pride in what they send you. And if you steal my idea about Captain Ask, friend of the world, that’s okay.

I WAS BURNED - NO KOREA DEFENSE SERVICE MEDAL

2011-07-05T22:09:00.002-05:00

Found out today that I was supposed to have been awarded this Korea Defense Service Medal for being one of those who served in Korea since July 28, 1954. But since my military records supposedly were burned in an archives fire in 1973, they don't know I served there in 1969. If any U.S. Army higher-ups are reading this, you can find written accounts of my 13 months in South Korea at:
http://oldelephantwings.blogspot.com/2008/03/happy-mountain.html and
http://oldelephantwings.blogspot.com/2008/02/butter-rum-cartoon.html and
http://oldelephantwings.blogspot.com/2010/06/war-and-peace.html and
http://oldelephantwings.blogspot.com/2010/11/what-is-gentleman.html and
http://oldelephantwings.blogspot.com/2011/05/heres-what-happened.html and
http://oldelephantwings.blogspot.com/2011/01/elusive-gi.html
and I've also managed to get copies of my medical records, despite the fire, of my carbon monoxide poisoning in Korea. I have the email addresses of at least five men who were stationed with me at Camp Ames, S. Korea. (One of them actually received this medal.) And I have my Form DD214 which mentions my tour in Korea (see below).

Oh well, at least I've got this picture of the medal, and a picture is worth a thousand words.

DALE LUND FOR PRESIDENT

2011-07-05T10:53:00.000-05:00

Dale Lund is announcing his candidacy for President of the United States of America. You won’t have to wonder where he was born or anything about his past experience, for it’s all written here in the Butter Rum Cartoon for the world to see. Lund will piss off the liberals and confuse the conservatives. He believes that life has meaning, that the American dream can be restored, and that all power-trippers should be encouraged, but not forced, to move to Mount St. Helens where they can enjoy playing King-of-the-Hill. When Bill Clinton was found to have smoked marijuana in his past, he said, “I didn’t inhale.” Everybody knew he was lying, as he continued to do throughout his presidency. Lund did inhale, his life is an open blog. He’s done both good things and bad, and has learned from most of them. Vote for Lund and watch the fun. Meanwhile read and enjoy the Butter Rum Cartoon. It beats debates.

I SAW A U.F.O.

2011-07-04T17:03:00.000-05:00

My first motorcycle and first tarantula

In another post in the Butter Rum Cartoon (see UFO over Sultan, Washington) I tell about how I made a “UFO” that fooled a lot of people. But does this mean that I think all UFO’s are hoaxes? Read on.

Both of the following events took place in the late 1960’s, around the time of my hoax. I had a lemon of a motorcycle at that time--an 80cc Yamaha--that never did go as fast as it was supposed to, and that was notorious for collecting carbon in the spark plug and killing the engine. Nevertheless I put up with it. Once I even carried two other riders on the back, and when spotted by Shipley, the town cop, and seeing that he was coming after us to ticket us for three-on-a-bike, I whipped around a couple corners and smashed through a hedge, ending up in someone’s backyard. Shipley never did find us.

But it was on a clear evening, when I took Geneva for a ride. We were cruising in the twilight on a paved road in the woods northwest of town when suddenly there was a bright flash of light. My motorcycle died immediately, and I coasted over onto the shoulder, furious that it would conk out now, while we were having such a pleasant time. Because I was so angry, I distorted the facts, thinking that the bike conked out and made me mad enough to imagine the flash of light.

As Geneva stood by, I got the tool kit from under the seat and took out the spark plug to check it for carbon. It was too dark by then to see a flake of carbon stuck in the plug’s gap, so I pretended there was and blew on it and fiddled with it to make sure it was okay. As I was screwing the plug back in, Geneva asked, “Did you see that big flash of light just before the bike conked out?”

“You saw it too?!” I asked.

Neither of us could figure out what it was. We were out in the wilderness. The weather was clear. And whatever it was seemed to kill the engine. Any ideas?

The other event occurred while I was visiting my sister Gloria’s family in Bellevue, Washington. Night had fallen, but some of us were outside in front of the house, play-fighting with boffers--foam swords I had purchased out of the Whole Earth Catalog (see how constructively I used these boffers in my post, Our Love Story). During a break in the fighting, we gazed at the stars, and I saw a “star” moving slowly across the sky. It looked just like John Glenn’s capsule when I watched it pass by in February of 1962, when Glenn became the first American to orbit the Earth, and I told Gloria’s kids so. We were all fascinated, assuming we were seeing a satellite. It was too high and too bright to be a plane, and too tiny to be any kind of searchlight (besides, the sky was cloudless). But when the object was directly overhead, without slowing down it suddenly made a ninety degree turn and headed off in another direction! I can think of nothing that would do this, and several of us saw it. Any ideas?

So, do I believe UFO’s exist? This second sighting was definitely of an unidentified flying object, so I’d be a fool to say I don’t believe in UFO’s. But I sure would like some explanations. For that matter, I believe Bigfoot exists (see Sasquatch Encounter).

MUSIC APPRECIATION

2011-07-02T11:01:00.002-05:00

I’m a P.K. (preacher’s kid). I was going to say that I was a P.K., because Dad passed away in 1978 and, at 62 I’m no longer a kid. But I believe that Dad is now living a life greater than ever, and I still feel like a kid, so…I am a P.K.

Anyway, really I just want to talk about taking the school bus home after school. But I didn’t take the bus home, so…I won’t be talking about that. Besides, I’m not talking, I’m writing.

I lived in Allen, Washington, a tiny, podunk town four miles up the Chuckanut Highway from Burlington. I was a sophomore at the Burlington-Edison High School. Another grueling day managed to drill its way by in school, and it was time to go home.

Mr. Sullivan, the school bus driver, was a big man with an attitude. He was also very anti-Christian and knew that I am a P.K. Well, when I was boarding the bus, I stopped beside Mr. Sullivan as he waited in the driver’s seat. I leaned toward him and whispered, “Your violin’s open.” His eyes widened and he looked down at his fly and reached to zip it up. When he saw that it wasn’t open to begin with, I smiled and said, “Ohhhh, is that what you fiddle with?!”

Mr. Sullivan stood up, and the next thing I knew, I was standing on the sidewalk as the school bus drove away. I had to call my Dad to come and pick me up. Some people just don’t have a sense of humor.

IF YOU SEE THIS HITCHHIKER, PICK HIM UP

2011-06-30T17:39:00.001-05:00

Hitchhiking is a Lund Family tradition. Today begins our youngest son Andy's turn. He's left on an extended hitchhiking trip to set foot in every state west of the Mississippi River. He's loaded down with a heavy pack in the heat of summer. If you see him, pick him up. Meanwhile please pray for him, for a good and safe journey. And if you're willing to put him up for the night, if need be, feel free to say so and leave info in a comment, or email us at butterrumcartoon@gmail.com. Besides having a warm smile and being a great listener, for sure he'll have some tales to tell.

DAZZLING DIAMONDS DANCING DISA

2011-06-28T17:08:00.001-05:00

In the "Thriller" segment of the Michael Jackson tribute show at Legends in Concert, Disa is the zombie in the white.

When our youngest daughter Disa began classes at Dance Branson three years ago, when she was eight, it was a dream of mine that she would one day be performing on stage in a Branson show. On June 24th of this year, 2011, my dream came true. At only eleven years of age, Disa was one of the dancers for Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” segment in Legends in Concert--the “world’s greatest live tribute show!” at the American Bandstand Theater. Disa, dressed as a zombie, danced in perfect sync with a stage full of other fine dancers. I was amazed how much she had progressed in these three years at Dance Branson.

Disa helping one of the Preschool Class dancers on stage at the Recital.

And last night, June 27th, we enjoyed watching Disa performing four dances at the Dance Branson Dance Recital 2011. First, though, she helped guide the Preschool Class in their stage performance. To help with her tuition, Disa is a teacher’s assistant at the school, and these little kids love her. Then, through the recital, Disa did her own dancing in marvelously choreographed performances, proving that she wasn’t a “thriller” only in the Michael Jackson tribute.

Disa as the Lilac Fairy (center) in Sleeping Beauty: The Dance of the Fairies.

But few people know the trials some of these dancing students go through. Disa’s right ear drum disintegrated from an infection years ago, and just after ear surgery, when her balance was affected, Disa began dance school in the same week. Although the ear drum was rebuilt, her hearing in that ear wasn’t restored. If you watch Disa perform, and look closely, you can see the hearing aid on her right ear. She’s practically deaf in that ear, and has hearing loss in her left one, too. But despite having trouble hearing the music, and suffering migraines, loss of balance, and stage fright, Disa has struggled on, determined to become the wonderful dancer she is becoming. She says, “I feel like a different person when I’m dancing. I feel like all the bad stuff in the world just goes away.”

Disa with proud parents, Micki and Dale, after the Dance Branson Recital 2011.

And the one writing all this is a very proud father, who has good hearing, and who has never learned to dance at all.

“I feel like a different person when I’m dancing. I feel like all the bad stuff in the world just goes away.”

INDIANS IN A SMALL WORLD

2011-06-25T17:00:00.003-05:00

As far as I knew, only white people lived in my hometown of Blaine, Washington, in the late 1950’s. People of other races were stationed at the Blaine Air Force Base, and would come into town and/or attend our church, but only white kids went to Blaine Elementary School, where I went. And when I heard that "Indian" boys started going there, I was excited!

Wolten & Montforts was a large store in downtown Blaine, and Mr. & Mrs. Wolten, who owned a large house on the corner of 3rd and Clark, had adopted six Native American children. One day I went into the boys' lavatory at school and saw Bill, the oldest of the children, at one of the sinks. Usually-shy-aloof-unsociable-me was so impressed by a real Indian that I walked up to Bill and asked, "Would you be my friend?"

Bill glanced over at me, hesitated, then said, "I guess so." And he meant it. From then on we were fast friends. I admired and was fascinated by this guy--a genuine Indian!--and followed him around as his true friend.

One day I was playing in the Woltens’ yard with Bill and his year-younger brother Richard, and thought to my ignorant self, 'Hey, these are real Indians. They must know how to make a tipi.' And so I asked them if they would show me how to make a tipi. They must have gotten a big kick out of this silly, preacher's kid, but they never made me feel silly. As a matter of fact, the two of them went right to demonstrating to me how to make a tipi. They gathered together some makeshift poles and coverings, and put some awkward thing together that they could call a tipi. It wasn't like in the movies, but I was okay with it. It solidified my love of tipis, and perhaps this is why you find a tipi in the chorus of the Butter Rum Cartoon song.

Mick Blakely was a bully in the elementary school. One day our class was in the school gym, and someone from behind tapped me on the shoulder. I figured it was just another regular kid, and was going to show off by whirling around and swinging my fist over his head. Well, it was Mick, and he was tall, and to my horror I accidentally socked him right on the side of his head. Of course a chase began, across the gym and down the hall, until Mick caught up with me, knocked me down, and pounded me.

Well, Bill Wolten was also bigger than I, and tough, and my good friend, and I asked him after that if he would be willing to be my bodyguard against such bullies as Mick. Bill agreed, and I was delighted finally to be safe! Days later, again in the gym, Mick came over to pick on me. Bill saw it and came over. He said a few words to Mick, taking a hold of Mick's chin with his fingers to intimidate him while he spoke. I was amazed by my hero. But then a tragedy happened. Mick didn't back down...and they fought...and Mick won...and Bill cried. It was like the world fell out from under me, but I can't imagine how badly Bill must have felt. I lost my security, but he lost a lot of his pride. At least Mick was content with beating Bill and so left me and some of my other friends alone. But it was then our turn to try to give Bill some support.

Bill died in 1978. His brother Richard died in January of this year, 2011. Just recently I became Facebook friends with Berwyn Bough. She also lived in Blaine around that time, and remembers my Dad being the Methodist minister there. Hence, our friendship. Well, two days ago, I discovered to my utter amazement that Berwyn is Bill and Richard’s younger sister! In Blaine we lived only a couple blocks from each other. And now, half a century later, Berwyn happens also to live in Missouri, only 35 miles from us!

You know, after this, I don’t think I would be surprised if someone rings our doorbell, and I open the door to find Mick Blakely standing there ready to beat me up. Come to think of it, years before asking Bill, I should have gone up to Mick Blakely in school and asked, "Would you be my friend?" Then Mick would have learned how to build a tipi, too. And we could have all gathered inside it to smoke a peace pipe!

READING, WRITING, AND WHAT THE HECK

2011-06-20T22:02:00.001-05:00

I am a member of the local writers group--the Ozark Writers League (OWL). Other members have raved about OWL, saying that its benefits far surpass the cost. This is true. OWL is well organized, yet informal, with enthusiastic members enjoying and being encouraged and inspired by its seminars, etc., for reasonable dues. I am proud to be a member of the Ozark Writers League.

So why do I feel claustrophobic at its events? No one else there seems to have any problem with them. They learn. They get ideas. They take notes. They socialize. But I practically count the minutes through the day, looking forward to the moment I can return to my car and drive away, thankful for having spent the day at a good writers seminar. My notes throughout the day hardly fill more than one page of a pocket notebook, and I never look at them again. I doubt if others feel like this; perhaps they do.

I’m mainly a memoir writer, and writing to me is a very personal expression of one’s uniqueness. And so when I hear suggestions of “the way to write,” it’s all I can do not to stick my fingers in my ears. I don’t want to use other writers’ formulas or styles. The avocation of writing brings out all the wonderful feelings of nonconformity I held dear in my youth. While playing alone in the gullies of Blaine, Washington, I felt deep in my heart an odd assurance of security. In my first two years of high school I had to see the school counselor once a week to discuss my “unusual” behavior. I was the first person in at least my whole town who obtained a live tarantula for a pet, years before they would be sold in pet shops, and eventually wrote a book about their care (All About Tarantulas, 1977, TFH Publications). I sneaked into a nudist camp. I hitchhiked around the U.S. I savored my nonconformity; so much so, that after joining the Army I deserted it during basic training (being arrested and brought back the next day). I can’t begin to fit all this and much more into anyone else’s formula. I don’t want to. In all fairness to OWL, they don’t want me to. They encourage writers and the uniqueness of writers, and publish accomplishments in the newsletter. I don’t believe it’s the group’s intent to confine creativity into any formula or style.

We recently had a day-long OWL seminar given by a freelance editor from Oregon. She was very good, but by the last segment of her lectures, she felt inclined to change her course. She asked the group if she should continue according to the printed-out lesson plan, or if they’d prefer hearing about the mechanics of getting published. The majority opted for the latter. And so the last segment of the seminar was the most interesting and, in my opinion, the most useful.

Writers want readers. And this is the chief problem with writers groups. Everyone wants to write, but few care to read. Being with other writers is, to me, like having an armory of guns but no place to shoot them. It would be sheer bliss for me to be a writer, not in a room full of other writers, but in a room full of readers. Hence this blissful blog.

A wonderful compromise was in Creative Writing courses at Everett Community College. These were classrooms full of would-be writers. The instructor gave us a free-hand in what we wrote. Then he made copies of our work and passed them out to the others in the class. Whereupon we would read and, either by pen or mouth, critique each other. The names were not given, so the critiques were fair and not biased, and each writer would learn how each of his creations were appreciated or criticized. This was invaluable to me, and this is why I “majored” in Creative Writing. And this is why I enjoy this Butter Rum Cartoon blog so much, why I check frequently the statistics of views received, and crave comments after each post.

We don’t learn to write from other writers anywhere near as much as we do from readers.