The Adventures of Whistling Badger

The Wilson Mash

2009-10-31T12:45:00.000-07:00

Happy Halloween!

From Tom, Sarah, Katie, Rocky, and Stup

Small Miracles

2009-10-13T05:34:00.000-07:00

"You are my greatest adventure."
--Mr. Incredible

I used to get a chuckle out baby parents who talk about their kids' age in weeks or months, rather than just using years like everybody else. I still think it's funny, but I finally understand why. Katie's world has expanded more in the past three months than mine has in the past ten years.

Two weeks ago, I had the great blessing of being present when Katie discovered what her hands are for. She was playing on her floor gym, which at ten weeks (see, I'm doing it too!) means thrashing her arms and legs around randomly. While thus busily engaged, her hand happened to bump against a little turtle toy hanging down above her. It swung out a bit than bumped back against her hand. She froze, did a perfect double take, looked at her hand, then back at the turtle. I could almost see her thought process: "Well I'll be darned! When I hit that thing, it moves!" So she hit it again. And again. For fifteen minutes, she was completely enraptured as her hand smacked the daylights out of that poor little turtle. She was happy for hours afterward, no doubt overwhelmed with the thrill of scientific discovery.

This past weekend I got to spend more time than usual with Katie. She is on a fairly regular cycle by now: Eat. Play. Sleep. Repeat. She is, by now, an old pro at Smacking Stuff. She has even expanded her repertoire to include Grabbing Stuff. Her floor gym plays music for her, Twinkle Twinkle and Animal Fair and Skip to my Loo, in calypso/reggae arrangements that were charming and clever the first four hundred or so times we heard them. I want to expand her musical experience, of course, so yesterday during Play Time I got out one of my low whistles to play for her. Might as well start getting her used to the harsh realities of sharing a home with a whistle player.

I played through a couple of Irish tunes, which my sweet daughter completely ignored. That was actually a better result than I dared hope for, but not particularly entertaining. So on a whim, I started playing "Twinkle Twinkle," with the same rhythm as the music on her floor gym.

Katie's head instantly swiveled my direction, eyes and mouth wide. She watched me breathe, watched my fingers move, and as I cycled through her floor gym songs, she listened. And even though the sound was very different, she knew.

Parenthood makes adults and children of us all. Every day I see new textures in Jesus' teaching that I cannot enter the Kingdom of Heaven unless I accept it as a little child. Let go of the old ways, and be exhilarated by the discoveries of learning a new way of life.

To my non-parental friends, I make this request: Try not to roll your eyes when parents rhapsodize about their children's most mundane accomplishments. Try to keep groans to a minimum when you hear young mothers discuss, with straight faces, how many diapers their tykes dirty in a twenty-four hour period. It's hard to believe, I know, but from this side it almost makes sense.

This is a time of epic discoveries for my young explorer. I'm glad I get to be along for the ride.

Love in the Time of Colic

2009-10-05T17:20:00.000-07:00

We had our first serious snow storm yesterday. None of us were quite prepared for it. Our young trees, most of them still fully leafed out and green, were soon bent almost to the ground under the weight of heavy, wet, fall snow.

Late in the afternoon I went out and shook them, hoping they would get through the night without too much damage. But the snow kept coming. By the time I got back to the house, they were already bending under the weight again.

I can identify with them. These are tough times at Wilson Manor. Somewhere around eight or nine weeks ago, Katie started showing symptoms of colic, and it has steadily gotten worse since then. Just like the trees, there are moments of respite--such as yesterday, when our wonderful friend Becky came over and spent the day helping us out--but the pressure keeps coming, and we are soon bent to the point of breaking again.

At risk of over-dramatizing things, it feels like I imagine it must feel to live in a war zone. Even during the good times, we are never completely at ease because we never know when the enemy will strike, when the giggles and coos will turn into those horrific screams. Nerves are shot; health deteriorates; relationships are strained. I'm afraid to pick up my little girl and play with her, because often that's all it takes. Our days are defined by the frequency and duration of screaming fits.

So we plod through our hours and days and weeks, doing our best to keep smiles on our faces and in our hearts, to dwell on all the amazing discoveries and developments taking place, to excel at our jobs, and to love each other, no matter what, like we promised we would. Doing our best to stay in touch with the God who can turn even the most horrible of times into something beautiful, something sacred.

I woke up this morning and looked outside to see our young trees bent to the ground, but somehow unbroken. When I relieved them of their burden of snow and ice, they very slowly, almost deliberately, started righting themselves. This encourages me. I guess most of us are stronger, more resilient, than we think we are. It just takes time.

We're going to get through this with our love intact. Thank God, I really think we're going to make it.

Taming the Wild Things

2009-10-02T20:27:00.000-07:00

I just saw the trailer for "Where the Wild Things Are."

They're making a MOVIE out of "Where the Wild Things Are." A movie. Can't we let ANY beloved classic books just be books?

Nope. Gotta turn it into a movie. Gotta milk a few million more bucks out of it. I guess it was just a matter of time. From now on, whenever the story is mentioned, whenever I wear my Wild Things tie, some poor little kid will say, "I have that movie!" Just like Robin Hood. And the Jungle Books. And Peter Pan. And pretty much every other children's story that's ever been written.

But this is worse than those. This story is imminently unsuitable to be turned into a two-hour movie. The book is only a few short pages long. It is simple, as beautiful for what it leaves unsaid as for what it says. Full of great themes and deep meanings unsaid, allowing the story to be read as just a fun story. It is more poem than novel.

Making a story like that into a movie destroys this magic. And, just in case that isn't stupid enough, it's rated PG. "Not suitable for Children." How on earth can "Where the Wild Things Are" not be suitable for children? What is WRONG with these people?

I take this rather personally, I'm afraid, because like most men who were once small boys, I was and am Max. That story is about me. And now they've gone and made a movie out of it.

Another wild thing tamed. The world is a sadder place.

A Father's Protection

2009-08-27T05:48:00.000-07:00

Tuesday night chapel talk at Wyoming Bible Camp.

Song of Solomon: Nine Months Later

2009-07-21T14:42:00.001-07:00

If Solomon had waited nine months before writing his song of songs...

May he wash the dishes with the washings of his hands!
For your housework is better than wine!
Draw me after you and let us run away together!
For the baby has come into the king’s chambers.

While the King was at his table,
the diaper gave forth its fragrance.
I said to myself: I will change the diaper,
and remove its fragrance far from me.
In the tents of Kedar, far to the east:
They should be about right.

My beloved is to me like a pouch of myrrh
which lies all night between my breasts.
Beware, oh daughters of Jerusalem:
Do not awaken love prematurely,
For that kind of stuff is what got us into this mess
in the first place.

Like an air raid siren among the lilies,
so is my baby in the night watches.
In the shade I took great delight and sat down,
but her cry was loud in my hearing,
and there was no rest.

The king has brought me into his bed chamber,
and his banner over me is bottle feeding.
Sustain me with caffeinated beverages,
refresh me with ice cubes down my shorts,
for I am catatonic.

I adjure you, oh daughters of Jerusalem,
my beloved adjures you; our dog adjures you;
the dead adjure you from their graves:
that you do not arouse or awaken my baby
until she pleases.

***

How beautiful you are, my darling,
how beautiful you are!
Your eyes are like hollow caverns in the rock.
Your hair is like a flock of goats
that have descended into the depths and drowned.

Your lips are like a scarlet thread,
drawn tight against the slow, creeping madness
of sleep deprivation.
Your breasts are like two fawns,
twins of a gazelle,
only larger,
and they hurt more.

Your lips, my bride, drip honey,
or perhaps it is just drool:
I cannot tell for sure.
The fragrance of your garments is like
the fragrance of someone who has not yet showered today.

A garden locked is my sister, my bride,
a rock garden locked,
a spring sealed up.
And so I said to myself,
Man, it’s gonna be a long, long, long time.

***
My beloved is dazzling and reddish,
at least his eyes are.
The locks of his hair are like clusters of dates,
and that is as close to a date as I am going to get.

His eyes are like doves, gunned down
beside streams of water,
lifeless, and shot through with red.
His lips are lilies, sprayed with herbicide,
drooping, blubbering, entirely without character.

His abdomen is like a bowl of mashed potatoes,
inlaid with bacon.
His voice is raspy from singing of lullabies
late in the night watches.

His mouth is full of nonsense
and his jokes are not funny.
This is my beloved and this is my friend,
oh daughters of Jerusalem.

***
Who is this who groans in the dawn,
as pale as the full moon,
shrinking from the sun
as from an army with banners?

Oh you who lie in the nursery,
my companions are listening for your voice.
It is pretty hard to miss.

Hurry, my beloved,
and be like a gazelle or a young stag
on the mountains:we can catch a quick nap before she awakens.

Kathryn Elizabeth's World Debut

2009-07-21T14:09:00.000-07:00

Katie finally joined us Thursday, the 9th, at 7:13 pm. There was considerable drama early on, and she almost had to be flown to Salt Lake with lung problems (two pneumothoraxes and a good deal of gunk sucked down), but she rallied, pulled herself together (literally), and after a couple speed bumps, she is now healthy as a horse. Tough girl.

But enough about that, you say. On to the pictures!

Sarah being very brave right before they induced her. I am so proud of her for coming through it so well.

Doesn't she look like a fighter pilot? I think she looks like a fighter pilot.

Resistance is futile. You will be assimilated...

Katie's first view of the world was from inside an oxygen mask.

It was almost a full day before we finally got to hold her. Torture for all of us!

Ah, ain't she purdy?

Happy girls

Having a snooze with dad at the hospital

"WARNING: USE OF THIS PUMP IN A MANNER INCONSISTANT WITH THE USES DESCRIBED IN THIS MANUAL MAY RESULT IN BODILY INJURY."

We're outta here!!!

Katie and dad in their Sunday-go-to-meetin' clothes.

Every Little Thing is, in fact, Gonna be Alright.

2009-06-15T06:49:00.000-07:00

I thought some of you might enjoy listening to my kids sing a little Bob Marley to wrap up their spring concert a couple days ago.

You can hear some of their original songs here. Just scroll down a bit to find the links.

Ladies and gentlemen, I love my job. :)

Veni. Vidi. Vici.

2009-05-15T14:54:00.001-07:00

Ladies and Gentlemen, as of 8:30 this morning it is official: I have completed and passed all necessary work to recieve a Master of Education Degree in Curriculum and Instruction (Technology).

Thank you. Thank you. There will be refreshments in the lobby.

I will not attempt to describe the tribulation this program has caused over the past two years for an active, outdoorsy person such as myself, nor the havoc it has wrought upon my bowhunting, rock-climbing, back-packing, and thowing-sticks-for-the-dog careers. It is too horrifying to put into words.

But no matter. It is over. Done. I never have to do this again.

The following video perfectly captures my feelings concerning this triumph over the nefarious forces of Acadamia: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rGa70tVYVKo

The world is shiney and new again. Real life awaits. Bring on the mountains. Bring on the world. Bring on the baby. I'm ready.

The Modern World is a Very, Very Stupid Place

2009-05-09T12:14:00.000-07:00

I am not a big fan of McMansions. You know, those enormous, pointless eyesores that rich people stick on top of hills. Unless these people sincerely enjoy living on windswept, barren sagebrush flats, there is only one reason to put a home on top of a ridge line: To show the world how much richer they are than everyone else.

None of which would bother me in the slightest--live and let live--except that from a distance these monstrosities look like giant zits on the face of Wyoming. They really mess up the view. They make me want to look for rocket launchers on ebay.*

While I'm on a curmudgeonly tirade, did you ever notice how many of those houses have garages that are even bigger than the house? It is a very messed up society where we give our cars more spacious accommodations than ourselves. That's all I'm sayin'.

Thanks for letting me get that off my chest. Now, back outside to finish pumping water out of a big hole in the ground, so I can repair the big piece of rubber we put in there so the hole will hold water. At least something makes sense in my world.

*For any DHS personel who might be reading this post, the preceding statement was a joke. Mostly.

Certainty and Meaning

2009-04-06T07:18:00.000-07:00

The Lord of Hosts is on our side.
The God of Jacob is our refuge.
--Psalm 46

Bill, my boss at school, has a sign in his office, attributed to some really smart person. It says "The need for certainty interferes with the search for meaning" (my paraphrase; I can't remember the exact words).

I have thought a lot about that saying, and I think it contains a lot of truth. Dogma is often the enemy of meaning. We pick through the teachings of Jesus and his followers with a fine comb, analyzing every word and tense, trying to find rules and regulations to impose and/or follow, often where none was intended. In the process, we utterly miss the bigger meaning of the teaching in question. In almost all of Jesus' teaching, the emphasis is on the internal, not the external. But we tend to look for certainty in practice, often at the expense of the true meaning.

This is nothing new, of course: Jesus once accused the religious leaders of his day of "straining out a gnat and swallowing a camel"--what a great mental image.

The problem with Bill's saying, though, is it is only partially true. Certainty is important, too; in fact I don’t think you can have one without the other. Through some extensive research, I have become convinced of the physical reality of Jesus' resurrection and other miracles. Some say it doesn’t matter whether Jesus’ resurrection was physical or just spiritual. But here is why things like this matter:

I have often struggled with the problem of suffering in this world, especially among innocent children. Twice in my life I have visited pediatric hospitals; in both cases I was a wreck for days afterwards. On a daily basis I come into contact with little kids who have experienced things no little kids should even have to know about. Some of these kids just don’t seem to have a chance. Attempts to find meaning in the mutilation or death of a child come across as hollow at best. More often such attempts are downright insulting.

But that is where certainty becomes important. I am certain that God is powerful, just, and merciful, and that he conquered death through Jesus. And that certainty is enough. I don't have to impose some sort of trite "meaning" on something that really just doesn't make sense. I can seek for a meaning, but in the end I might not find it, and that is alright (if not exactly comfortable). I do not need to articulate what God himself has not articulated. I just need to trust God to be who I know him to be. It is enough that HE is all-knowing. I don't have to be.

Isn’t that what Psalm 46 is getting at? Be still (stop struggling) and know that he is God; trust him even when he is hidden and things are scary. Also Hebrews 11. All those people accomplished great things, but died—often in horrifying ways--without seeing God's greater purpose. They trusted him.

And of course the entire book of Job, especially 38 through 42:6. Job's friends very comfortably found meaning in Job's suffering, explaining it away in a series of well-reasoned arguments. Job, meantime, is not at peace because it doesn’t make sense, and his friends' arguments don't reconcile with what he knows to be true. In the end, confused, conflicted Job was vindicated as the one who was right. But God never did explain himself--he just showed who he was and told Job to trust him.

That's one reason that the certainty of Jesus' resurrection is important to me. It shows, in a very real way, who God is and what he is up to in the world. And being certain of that, I can be OK letting some other things go. In my certainty of God’s goodness, I find true meaning. I can be still, and know that He is God.

All-You-Can-Eat Crab at the Oxbow

2009-03-07T18:36:00.001-08:00

You know it has been a truly amazing dinner when you have to wipe butter off your glasses before you can drive home.

TW

Valentine's Vagabonds

2009-02-14T21:12:00.000-08:00

I have never much cared for valentines day. I always felt like the only people who profit from valentines day (other than the card, choco, and jewelry companies) are ladies who have attached themselves to clods too unromantic to do anything special the rest of the year. Besides, when you are single it stinks intensely having a whole day set aside to remind you of what you're missing. My lovely wife is of another opinion, however, so I have mellowed somewhat, especially this year. Any excuse to celebrate and give gifts can't be entirely bad, and at worst today is as good as any other.

All that said, we had an almost-perfect day today. Around mid-morning we got in my trusty blue 4-wheel-drive steed to do some exploring. Before pulling out of the driveway, I presented Sarah with her valentine present: A "Lander Nordic Skiing" tshirt. We are expecting a youngster in June, and Sarah has been a bit saddened about all the things pregnancy has taken away: Things like intense outdoor activity, ability to sleep comfortably, all that sort of thing. This shirt served as a reminder of better times to come.

Then we hit the trail. We had set aside this day to explore several roads which we had been meaning to check out for a long time. After a brief trip down Hidden Valley Road (yes, there are several Ranches there, in case you're wondering), we spent most of the day exploring the west shore of Boysen Reservoir, one of the bigger lakes in Wyoming which is completely surrounded by sagebrush desert and mountain ranges. Truly fascinating country, especially in winter when the lake is frozen solid and the fellow visitors are minimal.

Once we got as far as we could go on the roads, we got down to the business of relaxation, with a couple nice walks on the frozen beach, scrambling about in the blissfully rattlesnake-free rock formations, some snuggling and a nap in the back of the truck (do not attempt this in Wyoming Winter without the proper equipment and training), and lots of staring in awe at the lake and the mountains.

Having had our fill of the lake, we headed off toward our next planned destination, a tiny ranching town nearby called Pavillion, where there was rumored to be a good burgers-and-steaks restaurant. Avoiding the easy highway route, we found ourselves barreling west down Sand Mesa Road, a dirt track through some beautiful ranching country which is swarming with wildlife--big muley bucks, antelope, and thousands upon thousands of ducks and geese. All with the Owl Creek Mountains towering on the right hand, and the Wind River Range on the left.

There are worse ways to drive to dinner.

We finally got to the chosen restaurant and were surprised to be asked if we had a reservation. It is Valentine's day, of course, but this is a town of 150 people, for crying out loud! Having been found lacking, we were nicely seated at the bar, only to find that the normal burgers and steaks menu had been replaced with a "Special Valentines Menu" of lobster tails, prime rib, and lots of stuff we couldn't pronounce. Cheapest thing on the menu was $25; most things were over $30. Well, our experience has been that usually restaurants that charge that much really shouldn't.

So, we got back on the road, and soon found ourselves at the Midvale Bar and Grill. Midvale is a town on the maps only--in real life it's a loose collection of farm houses without so much as a Mormon Church. But they do have a bar and grill, and generally these little middle-of-nowhere places really put on the chow; if they didn't, they wouldn't stay around long since they rely on local business. Here we found the menu (and the prices) more to our taste: A good ribeye, potato, beans, grilled bread, and a good salad. Since cigarette smoke really sets off asthma, the friendly patrons directed us through the bar into the non-smoking dining room, which--get this--we had all to ourselves.

Now, how many valentines days do you get to eat steak with your sweetie, in a dining room all to yourselves, without so much as making a reservation or even knowing where you are going?

You can have the fancy chocolates and flowers and all that stuff. Those things are all well and good, but if that's all there is, it wears thin pretty fast. Spending some time just enjoying the world with the person you love--that's what romance is all about in my book.

Sorry for the long post. Just couldn't decide what to leave out.
Good night--
Tom

January Fly Fishing

2009-01-12T05:58:00.000-08:00

My dad blessed me with a new fly rod for Christmas, and I just couldn't wait until summer to try it out. So this past Saturday saw me embarking on the first fly fishing trip of 09 down at Wind River Canyon, a fabled tail water where legend has it that three to five pound rainbows and browns are there to be taken.

The canyon was beautiful under a light dusting of snow as I bundled up in multiple layers, bag-lady style, complete with fingerless rag wool gloves, and hit the river.

I had never flyfished in the winter before, and I have to say it has its pros and cons. Most of the positives involved things that were missing: there was nobody else on the river except a couple of bait fishermen a quartermile downstream who were gone by the time I geared up. Also, not a rattlesnake in sight. No bugs, either, except for a few hardy midges scooting along on the surface of the river.

Cons? Well, it was cold. Really cold. I can put up with a good bit of cold, but when the guides on my rod started clogging up with ice, it's hard to cast. Hard to navigate, too, with the steep banks frozen and dusted with snow. I did manage to stay out of the river, though, which brings me to another disadvantage to winter fly fishing: If I do this much, I am going to have to invest in a pair of waders. The Wind is a fair sized river by Wyoming standards, and most of the good holes are out of reach from the bank, but it's just to chilly to get in the water this time of year.

The result? Nothing. Skunked. Whatever the legendary five pound rainbows and browns of the Wind River were hungry for, it was not clumsily presented green wooly buggers or bead head hare's ears.

But I'll be back.

Maybe after it warms up a bit.

My sphere of influence grows...

2008-12-02T18:07:00.000-08:00

CDBaby, the company which sells my CD's online (and a whopping dozen of them I've sold on line so far!), informed me yesterday that someone in Hawaii had ordered my latest offering. I am intensely curious who in Honolulu would know I exist, let alone pay good money for a CD. Unfortunately, the individual in question chose to remain anonymous, so my curiosity remains unsatisfied.

No matter. My CD's are now halfway across the Pacific. My goal of world domination seems just a little closer.

*

Sunday Morning

2008-11-16T07:04:00.001-08:00

It is 8 a.m., and as usual I have already been up a couple hours. Sarah will wake up soon, but for now she is still sleeping, exhausted from building that little body. The chickens are doing whetever it is chickens do out in the yard; a big, smelly dog snores worshipfully at my feet; the sun is bright; there is frost on the lawn and ice on the pond.

I like to get up early. Once the critters are fed, they tend to quiet down, leaving me a few moments to sip my tea and do my thinking in peace. Just for a moment every morning--usually as I'm headed out to feed los pollos estupidos--the first rays of sun light up the peaks while the valley is still dark. I have seen it dozens of times, but it never fails to catch my eye. No matter how rushed I may be, it never fails to make me stop and whisper thanks to the God who made the world so beautiful.

And it never occurs to me to grab the camera until it's over. Just as well. Some sights just don't translate to film.

Tiny Things, Enormous Things

2008-11-05T20:21:00.000-08:00

According to the latest census data, there are 783,051 Wilsons in the United States. If all goes as planned, around the end of next June there will be 783,052.

(pause to let that sink in just a bit)

We had a bit of a medical scare yesterday. The doctor had reason to believe something was seriously wrong, and had Sarah go in for some emergency tests. Everything was just fine, and although it was a tough afternoon, it turned out to be a blessing: they took an ultrasound, several months before they normally would, and we got to see what is happening in there. The little critter looks sort of like a little oblong light gray blob right now, smaller than a jellybean. But here’s the thing: on the edge of that blob, there was a tiny little white fluttering movement. The beating of a heart.

I’ve seen a lot of amazing things in my life, but that little tiny beating heart about takes the cake. How can something so commonplace be so miraculous? I know this happens thousands of times everyday, and it has happened to some of you numerous times. It’s just that it has never happened to us; it has never happened to this child.

783,052? No. Just one. Just this tiny one...

Halloween 08

2008-11-02T19:07:00.001-08:00

Trunk-or-Treat Party at the church parking lot. You might notice a lack of kids. That's because very few showed up, and those that did came after dark. But as you can see, the "adults" had lots of fun. Personally, I blame all the sugar.

Adventure First.

Nobody messes with my Sarah!

I mean, Nobody messes with my Sarah!

Man, can't I do anything original?

Serious blackmail potential here, Wes...

Is this supposed to be sad...

2008-11-02T06:31:00.000-08:00

...or comforting?

Overcoming

2008-10-14T18:51:00.000-07:00

Commit to the Lord whatever you do,
and all your plans will be established.
--Proverbs 16:3

This past weekend we had a guest speaker in church, Russ King from Nashville. Sunday morning he talked about the journey from victim, to survivor, to overcomer. To extremely condense a very rich sermon, the victim is still living in the tragedy, expecting special treatment and/or sympathy. "I'm one of the Hurricane Katrina victims." The survivor no longer expects to be treated special, but still defines him/herself by the tragedy, maybe even takes pride in it: "I'm a hurricane Katrina survivor." The overcomer has incorporated the experience, learned from it, and moved beyond it, thinking of it as an experience, not a tragedy, and refusing to be defined by it. "Oh, why yes, I did live through Huricane Katrina. It was quite an experience..."

Moving from one phase to another is not an entirely natural process: It takes effort, courage, and faith. It is very much like the process of forgiveness: If you still define the person--and your relationship with them--by what he did to you, you have not fully forgiven.

Glued on the dashboard of my truck is a little purple metal plaque with Proverbs 16:3, given to me a very long time ago by a very special person with whom I was parting ways. When I glance at that plaque, as I have just about every day for the past thirteen or so years, I do not think of the person who gave it to me, nor of the exquisite pain of our parting. I think of the God who has established my ways, through that and many other good and bad times.

When all the distractions go away, that really is how I define myself: Not by the triumphs I have savored or the tragedies I have survived, but by the God who is teaching me to overcome both.

Thank you for bringing me this far, Father.

Free Advice

2008-10-14T18:45:00.000-07:00

Don't stack your firewood pile up to the rafters on the side of your shed.

Why, you ask?

OK, I'll tell you why: When one of those ridiculously wet, heavy fall snows occurs, the snow will have nowhere to slide off the roof of your shed. And when a thousand pounds or so of wet, heavy snow has no way to go other than down, that's the way it will go, roof or no roof.

Much to the detriment of your shed.

That's why.

Kipling on Common Sense

2008-10-10T06:09:00.000-07:00

The following poem was brought to mind by the current financial mess (not to mention the current presidential election). We really never learn, do we?

The Gods of the Copybook Headings by Rudyard Kipling

As I pass through my incarnations in every age and race,
I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market Place.
Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.

We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn
That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:
But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,
So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.

We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,
Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market Place;
But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come
That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.

With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch,
They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch;
They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings;
So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.

When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.
They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.
But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "Stick to the Devil you know."

On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life
(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)
Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "The Wages of Sin is Death."

In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,
By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;
But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "If you don't work you die."

Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew
And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four—
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man—
There are only four things certain since Social Progress began:
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire;

And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,
As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will bum,
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!

Aspen Camping

2008-10-04T20:22:00.000-07:00

I got home yesterday and was delighted to find that Sarah had the truck all packed up and ready to go camping! YES! We drove up the Loop Road, and down into what I think is Lower Townsend Creek. God really pulls out all the stops this time of year when it comes to decorating. Rather than make some sad effort to describe it, I'll just save several thousand words and let the pictures do the talking.

Three on the Third

2008-10-04T19:35:00.000-07:00

My nifty friend Lindsey, along with several of her nifty friends, have a nifty tradition: On the third of every month, they do three cartoons (or collages, or paintings, or photos, or interpretive dances, or engineering projects...) which more-or-less depict their day.

I've been intending to do this for quite some time. Yesterday the time seemed right, although I didn't get the last one drawn until today--last night I was too immersed in transcendent beauty to bother with such things.

So, here is my cartooning debut, a day in the life...

Making the Scene

2008-09-22T06:11:00.000-07:00

Morning!

The Woods Tea Company, from Vermont, is my favorite folk band, pulling off sea chanties, Irish tunes, and random goofiness with equal panache. They have had a rough couple years with the loss of two of their band mates, but they continue to make great music.

Several years ago, I learned the Robin Hood song from one of their CD's. It has been a perennial favorite of my kids at South.

So, the other day I was goofing around trying to learn to use some new recording software, and recorded my first graders' warm-up song. It was good for a chuckle. So I emailed it to Howard, the band leader, thinking they might get a kick out of it.

It appears that they did:

http://woodstea.net/Blog/Entries/2008/9/18_Robin_Hood.html