October 2024

Halloween

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Happy Halloween. Over the years, I haven’t made too much of the holiday. We’re not the ones to do a lot of decorating of our home. I’m not a big fan of wearing costumes. In my mind, All Hallows Eve doesn’t cary the meaning that I find in the celebration of All Saints. However, this will be our fourth Halloween that we have lived in our current home and it is in a neighborhood where a lot of people gather to celebrate Halloween. More than other places where we have lived, we see a steady stream of children and their parents out going door to door to gather treats. Our grandchildren live on a farm with neighbors much more spread out and they like to come to our neighborhood to go trick or treat. They are not alone. Children from around the area come to our neighborhood where the houses are close together, the streets are narrow and winding, cars go slow, and there are a lot of homes that are decorated in celebration of the Holiday.

There are a few houses in our neighborhood that have a similar attitude toward the holiday as our niece. She told us on this visit that she always decorates for Halloween on Labor Day so she has two full months of decorations and Halloween fun. And there are quite a few homes in our neighborhood where the decorations are more elaborate than our niece’s home.

Our agenda for today is to drive home in time to make supper for our grandchildren, their parents, some of their friends and the parents of the friends. We already have treats on hand so the we will be ready for all of the children who will come. We have a pretty good system. With hundreds of children coming to our home, we try to have plenty of treats. However, we’ve run short the last three Halloweens as the number of children seems to increase each year. The problem has been solved each year by our grandchildren, who are going out around the neighborhood and who gather far more treats than they can consume. They come back to our house, sort through their candy, and give some of it back to us and we in turn hand it out to the children coming to our door. It is a form of recycling, I guess.

Since we have moved, I have begun to look forward to celebrating Halloween. I sit out on our front porch and watch the parade of children in costumes going by. I hand out treats and enjoy seeing the children as they come and go. Sometimes i keep track of which costumes seem to be most popular. I’m pretty sure that we can count on a dozen firefighters, some of whom have fairly authentic bunker gear. There will be quite a few children in costumes depicting characters from animated movies. And there will be a few in inflatable costumes, often dinosaurs or dragons. I enjoy seeing the ones in home made costumes. The display of imagination of children and their parents is a joy.

Today’s drive home brings our week-long visit to Oregon to a close. We’ve had a good time. We’ve enjoyed some beautiful sights, some great time with family, and a reminder of how beautiful the Oregon coast is. We’ve seen our share of rain which is typical for autumn on the coast, but we’ve also had some sunny times with blue skies. I was able to get out one of my kites and fly it, a treat that I don’t often enjoy.

When we lived in the middle of the country, I didn’t understand how much variation there is of coastal locations. The Oregon coast is directly on the Pacific with a regular surf and a lot of sandy beaches. We live on a protected bay of the Salish Sea, which is protected from the larger waves of the Pacific by a lot of large offshore islands. Our beach is gravel and there are days when the water in our bay is completely flat with no waves at all. Many of the sea creatures are similar. Walking on the Oregon beaches and peering into tidal pools we see familiar crabs, sea stars, jelly fish, and other species. When we eat out a local restaurants the menus are similar. But the scenery is different and the sound of the ocean is different.

It is good to visit. It is good to return home. With a bit of luck we’ll ease through Portland traffic and pass Seattle during times when things are not too crowded. The amount of traffic in Seattle can easily make the difference of an hour or more, but our timing should be pretty good. We’ll see a bit more traffic in Portland as we’ll leave as many people are heading to work, but we’ll allow enough time to get home with time to spare and we have things pretty well prepared for a quick transition from traveling to hosting guests for Halloween.

One of the advantages of having collected many years of experience is that we’re pretty good at transitions. We enjoy traveling and we enjoy being at home. We delight in quiet days without many obligations and we revel in busy days with a lot of coming and going. The variety in our lives is something that we find to be invigorating.

Still, as children walk around our neighborhood this evening they might notice that our house is not one of the ones with elaborate decorations. We don’t have any giant spiders on our roof and there is no imitation graveyard on our front lawn. I’ll be passing out treats dressed as a 70-something man with a white beard and not much hair on top of his head. I won’t look quite like a typical Pacific northwest retiree as i don’t go in for short pants and I won’t be wearing sandals, but I shouldn’t be too scary for the children.

It will be a fun and exciting day and I may sleep in a bit tomorrow morning. Life goes on and I am grateful to be a part of the flow. Happy Halloween!

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Estuary

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There is a line from James Weldon Johnson’s telling of the Creation Story that has been playing in my brain for decades. I have read that poetic telling in the style of an African-American preacher in the time of slavery over and over again. We used to use that version as part of our celebration of the Great Vigil of Easter and at other occasions as well. There are many lines from that poem that I have memorized, but the one that often plays in my mind as I walk through the corners of Creation that I have been privileged to visit is this:

The lakes cuddled down in the hollows of the ground,
And the rivers ran down to the sea;

I am often mesmerized by water. I grew up next to a river that flows from the high country through the mountains and down to its confluence with the Yellowstone River in Montana. The Boulder River is aptly named as its bed is full of river rocks, some of which are larger than the pumpkins people are carving for Halloween. When the river is at flood, you can hear the boulders crashing down the river with a music all their own. The river that flows by the place of my childhood summers is one of two in Montana of which I am aware that have the same name. The other one also has its share of boulders.
I have been lucky to paddle on a lot of different lakes and down quite a few rivers. The movement of water is one of the songs of my life, but I also have been serenaded by the absolute quiet of a canoe on a lake at sunrise. I’ve learned to dip my paddle with almost no splash because of the delight of the quiet.
Lakes indeed do cuddle down in the hollows of the ground and rivers run down to the sea.
I, however, have lived most of my life a thousand and more miles from the sea and my imagination about how those rivers run down to the sea has been far less beautiful and far less complicated than the realities that I am discovering now that I am spending more time next to the coast.
Of course I learned about deltas in school, the Mississippi River delta being the primary example. The river carries all kinds of dirt and mud and sand as it flows along and as it enters the ocean it deposits those materials and the stream of water is divided as it flows around all of those deposits. Over the years the deposits form significant land mass and provide protection to inland places from king tides and even hurricanes. The altering of the Mississippi River system by upstream dams has reduced the flow of mud and dirt and affects the natural formation of the delta. This process is heightened by the creation of dams and levies designed to limit coastal flooding. The result has been a reduction in the protective effects of the delta. The delta itself is currently being washed away by natural ocean erosion and the effect is reducing the delta at a more rapid rate than it is being built up by the river. It is one of many environmental crises that have resulted from dense human population.
Not every river has a delta, however. I have followed the mighty Columbia river as it flows toward the sea for decades as I have driven to and from the coast where Oregon and Washington meet. We have taken multiple vacations to the cost near where the Columbia enters the Pacific Ocean. Many years ago, I had a series of meetings that were held at the Maritime Center in Baltimore, Maryland, where pilots are trained to guide large ships through tight harbors and dangerous currents. There is a significant display in the Center about the Columbia Bar Pilots and the history of their work. I met several of the pilots who were at the center for advanced training and have learned a bit about how the Columbia meets the ocean. The mouth of the Columbia is unusual for a big river because it has no delta. Instead, sediment is transported down subsea canyons to deep water, leaving the river mouth subject to waves, tidal flow, and currents. It's the most treacherous place for ships on the Pacific coast.
The lakes huddle down in the hollows of the ground and the rivers run down to the sea, but their pathways to the ocean are not all the same. Where we now live, we cross a tidal creek nearly every day when we are on our walks. I knew that tidal creeks and rivers existed, but I had never before spent time looking at them in such detail. Terrill Creek, which flows into Birch Bay a bit less than a mile from our home, is tidal for over three miles. That means that the water in the creek rises and falls with the tide. When the tide is rising the creek runs upstream to a slough three miles from the ocean. When the tide is falling the flow of the creek reverses and the fresh water from upstream flows back toward the ocean. The creek is a mixture of fresh and salt water over the course of the entire three miles and well into the slough. The amount of salinity varies with the time of the year and the time of day. The creatures that live in the water are a mixture of those adapted for living in the ocean and those whose lives are spent in fresh water. Most notable among those specialized creatures are the salmon who are hatched in fresh water and then swim out into the ocean for much of their lives, returning to the fresh water to spawn at the end of their lives.
Yesterday our walk took us to another way that the rivers run down to the sea. We walked alongside a large estuary. Dozens of acres of shallow water are fed by springs and at least three creeks that run down to the sea. The ocean tides rise and fall in the estuary which is rich environment for a wide variety of creatures. Despite the constant surf of the Oregon coast, the estuary is an area of calm interface of fresh water and ocean.

The rivers run down to the sea in many different ways and I am only beginning to learn of a few of those ways. It is a fascination worthy of the great poem.

Mushrooms

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A longtime friend of mine grew up with a University Professor father. They moved when his father changed jobs from one university to another, but his father’s research involved field work in forests, so he grew up with a deep love and appreciation for wilderness. When we were younger we enjoyed paddling in the summer and skiing in the winter during the years that I lived in Idaho. I moved, but he has continued to live in Idaho and has retired to a small town in the middle of the state that gives him ample access to the wilderness. As often happens, we ended up talking about our families of origin one day and he told me that his father was a mycologist. I didn’t even know what a mycologist was. It is a person who studies fungi and mushrooms.

His father’s work explained how my friend had lived in Idaho, but that the family had moved to Maine when he was growing up. Later my friend moved back to Idaho. The state held many fond memories for him. But I understand his father’s desire to find woods with more moisture than is the case with most Idaho places.

It isn’t that there are no mushrooms and fungi to study in Idaho. Foresters like Peter Wohlleben and Susan Simard have published extensively about their research into mycelium, a root-like structure of fungus that is made up of a mass of branching hyphae. Mycelium can be found in almost all soil and is critical to the health of all forests. For generations foresters treated trees as if they were independent plants without understanding the role of mycelium in plant health. The deepening understanding of mycelium has led to significant and revolutionary understandings of basic concepts of forestry and forest health.

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Having lived in and near forests for much of my life, I have been largely unaware of the fungus and mushrooms that are above ground expressions and part of the reproductive structures of much larger underground fungus. I would see mushrooms in the forest occasionally and I learned to harvest and prepare a few specific types for food, but for the most part I get my mushrooms from the store when I need some. Knowing that not all mushrooms are edible and some are poisonous to humans, I have a fear of accidentally harvesting and eating the wrong types.

I am not a mycologist. I don’t know how to identify mushrooms. However, a walk through the forests of the pacific northwest at this time of the year gives a tour of many types of mushrooms. Several types of mushrooms sport bright colors and are beautiful to behold.

Yesterday we started a walk along the beach here on the Oregon coast. The open ocean here is so different from the protected bay of the Salish Sea where we live. Here the surf is constant and the waves crash without ceasing. The beach is sandy and extends for miles. It is the rainy season here, so after a short walk on the beach the rising tide and rain encouraged us to seek shelter in a forested area just over a sand dune from the shore. There we were treated to a pathway through the forest. The canopy overhead protected us from the rain, with a constant dripping from the leaves overhead, but protection enough to make our walk a joy without getting us too wet. It was an enchanting walk. I don’t remember ever noticing such a delightful undergrowth. All of the trees were covered in moss and the light filtering through the canopy combined with the dripping of the rain to give the place a secret and magical feel.

There were all kinds of mushrooms growing everywhere. I took a few photographs, but it is a place worthy of a return visit with a different camera lens for more exploration. I know that this type of forest is not unique to the Oregon coast. Nearer to our home are many more opportunities to explore and learn more about mushrooms. If fact there recently was a guided tour and opportunity to learn more about mushrooms near our home while we have been gone. Some of my friends have posted pictures of some of the mushrooms they discovered on the walk.

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I checked out several websites about pacific northwest mushrooms and one site had beautiful photographs of 133 different types of mushrooms. These often grow together attached to a vast network of underground mycelium.

This world offers many opportunities to behold beauty even when we do not understand. It is unlikely that I will take up the study of mushroom identification, but it seems like I need to learn the names of some of the types of mushrooms that are common. At least I know I will be looking down at the ground as I walk this fall and winter. And I’m sure I will find time to go out with my camera to capture images of tiny parts of the beauty that my eyes behold.

For now, the walk through the coastal forest inspires memories of J. R. R. Tolkien’s fantasy writing. The forest walk was like a visit to Middle-earth and I could imagine the homes of Hobbits scurrying to and fro around the area. Tolkien isn’t the only author who was inspired by damp coastal forests and described them in his writing. In Norse writing Miðgarðr is a place that inspires tales of a mythological past. In Old English works, including Beowulf, Middangeard is a similar place that is born of human imagination, but also of the reality of beautiful forest places. From Little Miss Muppet to Humongous Fungus children’s books are filled with illustrations and descriptions of mushrooms ad toadstools. I can easily imagine how walking through a forest filled with mushrooms with a child might inspire stories and adventures of imagination.

Our walk yesterday underscores how much I do not know and understand about the place where I live. A closer inspection will certainly inspire sufficient new discovery to keep me engaged for years to come.

Visiting Portland

I’ve been visiting family in the Portland, Oregon, area for the past several days. My wife’s sisters gathered here. None of the sisters lives here, but it is fairly close to the home of the youngest one and they started their gathering in a rental home and then traveled out to the Oregon coast for a few days. I’ve been staying at my sister’s home for a couple of nights and will join Susan and her sisters at the coast today. Then, when the sisters go their separate ways next week, we’ll come back for a short visit with my sister before heading home.

Portland is a familiar place to me. My sister has lived in Portland off and on since she graduated from college. Although she has lived in several other places for periods of time, she has lived in Portland for more years than any other place. I have visited her in the city many times. During the decade that we lived in Idaho she lived in Portland and the Conference office of our Conference was located in Portland as well. We often came to Portland for church meetings and visited my sister during the trip. I’ve come to Portland with vans of youth headed for rallies and camps dozens of times.

I generally know my way around the city. A lot has changed over the decades, but the Interstates 5, 205, 405, and 84 provide access to the city and remain as landmarks along with the Willamette and Columbia Rivers. Highway 26, also known as Sunset Highway is a pathway through the western suburbs heading over the coast mountains to the ocean. Unlike farther north where we live where the Cascade mountains are close to the ocean, in Oregon there is another chain of lower mountains between the Cascades and the coast.

Portland is famous for many things. It’s official nickname is “City of Roses,” and there are certainly a lot of beautiful rose gardens throughout the city. Each fall enormous murders of crows gather in the city where they spend the winter. The sight of such large groups of the black birds is truly amazing. The bridges over the Willamette are impressive feats of engineering beauty.

In recent years, Portland has received national and international attention for its homelessness crisis. From 2015 to 2023, homelessness in Portland increased by 65%. It is now estimated that there are around 6,500 people in the city who do not have homes. Short term shelters are overwhelmed and cannot keep up with the demand. 6,500 people and 2,000 shelter beds means that many go without. The city has invested billions developing affordable housing and providing social services to those living without houses, but the wait for affordable housing in the city is a years-long process.

The homeless population of Portland is spread out over a wide area throughout the county. There are hundreds of unsanctioned camps. A dozen or more locations are cleared nearly every day due to safety and environmental concerns, but the people have nowhere to go other than to form another unauthorized camp in another location. The constant moving and the dispersed nature of the camps means that consistent case management is nearly impossible and hundreds of people have little or no access to available social services for the treatment of physical and mental health needs.

As it struggles with the immense problems of homelessness, Portland remains a vibrant city with delightful neighborhoods, a rich cultural scene, a fascinating restaurant scene and so much more. It seems that each time we visit one of our nieces or nephews who live in the city we discover new and interesting places to eat.

Of course homelessness isn’t unique to Portland. It is a problem in cities around the world. The cities of the Northwest, Portland, Seattle, and Vancouver, all struggle with a lack of affordable housing and too many people waiting for assistance.

Seeing the numbers of homeless in the city makes me grateful that our family members who live in Portland have found secure housing. A niece and her family, a nephew and his wife, live in their own homes. Another nephew has lived in the same apartment for several years and is comfortable and safe there. My sister lives in a planned neighborhood of active seniors. Homeowners must be over the age of 55 and as far as I know there are no children living in the community. There is a shared clubhouse with a swimming pool, meeting and entertainment space. The streets are quiet. Although the neighborhood is technically gated, managers of the neighborhood are able to leave the gates open to provide easy access for visitors.

Staying for a few days in this community, I am aware that I clearly fit the demographic. When I walk my sister’s dog, the people I meet are all around my age. I suspect that some don’t know that I’m a visitor. I could easily be one of the people new to the community. As long as my sister has lived here there have always been a number of homes for sale and there seems to be a steady turnover. That may have to do with the age of the residents. I’m sure each year a number of folks here have to move in order to obtain health care and support services. A few come to the end of their lives. There is a steady stream of folks seeking to move to the neighborhood.

I love visiting my sister and I feel comfortable in her home and walking around her neighborhood, but visiting her here makes me appreciate the neighborhood where we have our home. In our neighborhood there are children playing in the yards, teens gathering in the common areas, and when I take a walk I meet people who are older and people who are younger than me. I understand and appreciate the need for senior communities for the consolidation of services and support, but I am grateful that for now I am able to live in a place with children.

As such, I know I have to finish my visit as planned. After all, I need to be home for Halloween to hand out treats to all of the children.

Protecting and restoring freedom

In the United States, we generally assert that we enjoy freedom of religion. From a legal perspective, that freedom hinges on two clauses of the First Amendment of the Constitution. The first is the Establishment Clause which prohibits the government from establishing a religion. The second is the Free Exercise Clause, which protects the right to practice one’s religion as long as it doesn’t conflict with a compelling government interest or public morals. Both clauses have resulted in challenges of interpretation represented by thousands of law suits of citizens seeking religious freedom on their own terms.

A common misconception is that the establishment cause prevents prayer in public schools. In its typical enforcement, however, public schools only urge teachers not to lead mandatory prayers, but it does not ban students’’ exercise of prayer and personal devotion. The courts have continually plaid in on issues surrounding the free exercise clause as well. When do certain religions practices cross the line and become in conflict with government interests and public morals?

The resting interpretations of the First Amendment have resulted in an imperfect system.

Our history has many glaring instances of the denial of religious freedom often in direct conflict with the constitution. Many Americans don’t realize that it was not until the passage of the American Indian Religious Freedom Act (AIRFA) in 1978 that Native Americans were legally permitted to freely practice their religions. Public ceremonies including the Sun Dance were prohibited. Incarcerated indigenous Americans were barred from practicing their religion The ban on the practice of Native American religious ceremonies was so severe that some religious practices and traditions were forgotten through decades of being forced underground.

In addition to the practice of cultural genocide through bans on the practice of religion despite the guarantees of the First Amendment, Many indigenous Americans were subjected to the establishment of religion through the practice of forcing native children to attend boarding schools. The Federal Indian Boarding School Initiative Report, released in May 2022, identified more than 400 schools operated in 37 states. It also identified over 500 deaths of Native children and further noted that records are incomplete and many records have been lost or destroyed so the numbers of deaths are likely far greater than those officials noted.

Many of the government funded boarding schools were run by religious organizations. The aim of the schools was to force assimilation. This process resulted in many instances of physical and sexual abuse of children as well as cultural abuse in the form of forced participation in religious programs and ceremonies. Students in boarding schools had no other options than participation in Christian worship while their native language and religious practices were banned from the schools.

Our history is a story of the failure to apply constitutional right of freedom of religion equally. While some Americans enjoyed that freedom, others did not.

The United States was not alone in its practices of cultural genocide and the failure to protect the rights of indigenous people. Canada’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission, launched in 2008, has led to federal government apologies and the payment of more than $3 billion in reparations to date. A 2015 report included a 94-point call to action for the Canadian government.

As the name of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission implies, part of the process of bringing justice after years of abuse and injustice is telling the true story of what happened in the past. Many if not most people currently living in the United States are largely unaware of the ways in which freedom of religion has been denied to Indigenous Americans.

Next month, November, is Native American Heritage Month. It is an opportunity for all Americans to learn more of the truth about our past and to offer reconciliation to those who have suffered. Native American Heritage Month was first signed into existence by President George H.W. Bush in 1990. While there have been some significant efforts at increasing awareness and education about Native American history in more than three decades of observing the month, there is still a lot more education to be done. After all there were more than 200 years of failure to enforce the provisions of the constitution in regards to religious freedom for Native Americans. It will take much more effort to tell the truth about our history and to make all Americans aware of our shared story.

In addition in recent years there have been open and public calls from some Evangelical Christians who are advocating for the establishment of Christianity as the official religion of the United States. Some Christians have gone so far as to call for the ban of other religions. As a progressive Christian who does not agree with the theological and biblical interpretations of some Evangelicals, it is quite clear to me that the version of Christianity that they would like to make the official religion bears little resemblance to my faith. Furthermore it betrays a fundamental lack of understanding of the religious practices and principals of the founders of this nation.

Freedoms need constant protection. There are always individuals and systems that erode basic freedoms. The quest of power often involves the denial of the freedoms of others.

As our country prepares to observe Native American Heritage Month this November, there are many ways that all citizens can contribute to protecting the rights of all. These include being careful in the exercise of the right to vote, but also advocating for policy reform, supporting indigenous organizations, working to protect the environment, and sharing the work of Native authors, leaders, and activists.

Protecting the rights of all will require ongoing commitment from nonnative and Native Americans. Learning more of the truth is a critical step in that process. As our nation celebrates the rich heritage and unique contributions of Indigenous peoples, each citizen is invited to learn the truth about the path and to participate in discovering a path forward that honors and respects the rights of all people, including the right of freedom of religion.

Stories of pianos

My nephew has an upright piano in his home. The piano has a beautiful oak cabinet. It has a soundboard that has very narrow and very straight grain in the wood. It could use a bit of work. Some of the pins are not quite tight enough to hold the strings in tune for long periods of time. Some of the felt on the hammers is old and a bit hard. But if you sit at the piano and play it, you can tell that it is a lovely instrument and with the right care it might continue to make music for another century.

Upright pianos don’t have much monetary value these days. They are very heavy and hard to move. They require a lot of maintenance. There was a time when there were a lot of pianos in private homes, spinets, parlors, uprights and even a few smaller grand pianos. There was a time when most elementary, middle, and high schools had multiple pianos. Piano technicians could earn their living by going from home to home and school to school to tune the instruments. Children took lessons and learned to play them. I know because that piano in my nephew’s home is the piano on which I practiced when I took piano lessons more than six decades ago. The piano was in our home for all of my grown up years. These days, many homes and schools have replaced pianos with digital instruments that are easier to maintain, lighter to move, and offer a different feel in the keys. It is a bit like the difference between typing on a computer keyboard and typing on a manual typewriter.

The piano that now lives in my nephew’s home came to my growing up home before I was born. My mother played that piano nearly every day. My sisters also practiced their lessons on that piano. Our family gathered around that piano to sing Christmas carols. It made sense, when our mother moved from our home to a new place in Portland, Oregon to be closer to my sister’s home for the piano to be moved as well. It moved around in several homes after our mother gave up her first place in Portland. Eventually it ended up in my nephew’s home.

But those moves weren’t the beginning of that piano’s story. Before I was born it had already traveled a lot of miles and collected a lot of stories. In fact, the 800 mile trip from our Montana home to Portland Oregon wasn’t the piano’s longest single journey. After it was built, it was shipped to St. Louis, Missouri to a piano dealer. Meanwhile, in Fort Benton, Montana, my great, great grandmother was trying to settle into life on the frontier. Her husband was a court reporter who had been enticed to move his family to the end of the steamship line in Montand Territory so that official records of the courts could be established. His wife, Hattie, loved to play the piano and for a while the only piano in town was in the saloon. The saloon keeper allowed her to play her “church music” on the piano in the early mornings before customers arrived at the saloon. However, family lore reports that she was banned from the saloon by its owner when he found out she was a member of the WCTU and engaged in actively campaigning against alcohol consumption.

Part of the court reporter’s salary had to go to the extravagance of purchasing a piano in St. Louis, Missouri, and having it shipped on the steamship up the river to Fort Benton where it became the first piano in a private home in that town. Hattie played that piano and she gave lessons on that piano. Among her students were her five granddaughters of whom my mother was one.

My nephew’s piano is not the only piano with a rich story. I know well and have played at the keyboard of a Steinway grand piano that was purchased by a young doctor early in his career. That piano was once moved out of his living room by removing the front window so that the piano could be taken to a school auditorium for a concert by George Winston. He was so impressed with the story that he dedicated one of his albums “to friends in Miles City, Montana.” When the doctor retired the piano was moved to Billings where it was lifted by a crane to the deck of a top story apartment and moved in though the sliding doors to the living room. When the doctor was no longer able to live in the apartment, the piano was moved across the state to Missoula where it now is in the home of his son who is a piano technician and who knows how to care for it.

There are other pianos with stories. In the church we served in Rapid City is a piano that was once the instrument of the Rapid City Concert Association and later donated to the church. It underwent a complete restoration and refinishing while I served that church. Another piano in the church was purchased by a musician and a flaw in the soundboard was discovered. It went back to the manufacturer for a complete rebuild and had a new sound board installed. The work took more than a year. In the meantime, the owner fell in love with another concert grand piano and ended up temporarily owning two amazing instruments before we wee able to purchase the piano for the church through a long process of “horse trading.”

A piano that I have never seen, heard or touched that has an amazing story is a Yamaha concert grand piano. The beautiful 8’ instrument was purchased after a lot of fund-raising and careful planning and delivered to the Gaza branch of the Palestinian music school, the Edward Said National Conservatory of Music. It was the only concert grand piano in all of Gaza. When the troops of the IDF entered Gaza in response to the Hamas led terror attacks against Israel on October 7, 2023. Virtually all of the school’s musical instruments were destroyed including over 50 violins and scores and scores of other instruments. The destruction of the piano was begun, including cutting some of the strings and breaking some of the hammers, but somehow that destruction was interrupted and the piano has survived so far. It is still too dangerous for music teachers to return to the partially destroyed school, but pictures have emerged of the piano that show it is currently in a condition where it could be restored. I’m campaigning for that piano. It still is capable of teaching a new generation of students with the proper care. And with enough support form people around the world. There is another century of stories for that piano to collect.

Sisters

I was born into a family that already had three girls. I have always had sisters. On the one hand, being from a family with strong women gave me a bit of familiarity with females. On the other hand, I grew up with a sense that there were rules that mad for a separation of genders. The youngest of my three sisters was a school pioneer for me. She was two years ahead of me in school and she told me what i needed to know about where the classrooms were located, who the teachers were, what the rules were, and how to be a student who didn’t get into trouble. She was a good student who had a lot of friends and her friends were often at our house. I joke that being the baby of the family of three big sisters had its drawbacks. My oldest sisters were old enough to be charged with my care for short periods of time and one of them especially had definite opinions about how I should be dressed. My joke is that all they ever did was change my clothes. Fortunately for me, two and a half years after I was born a brother came along and deflected all of that baby energy away from me. During that time our house was also expanded. Half of the roof came off and a second story was added which gave our home a second bathroom and private rooms for the girls.

I learned that boys were never to go into the girls rooms and don’t you ever forget it. I don’t think it was my parents’ rule, but it sure was my sisters’ rule. Another rule i learned was never look in a woman’s purse. I’ve confirmed that rule with a friend who also had sisters. Both of us get nervous when our wives ask us to get something from their purses. I don’t know how that rule was so firmly impacted. I don’t remember ever actually looking in a sister’s purse. I just remember knowing that it was something that i should never do.

There are rules from my childhood that I have questioned and that I no longer follow. For example in our house dinner was the midday meal and it lasted from noon until 1 pm. When we got old enough for school, we were allowed to get up from lunch five minutes before one when our father left to go back to work and we had to rush to school. When I became an adult, we ate dinner as our evening meal. Lunches were lighter fare and were consumed in less time.

I also grew up with strict orders to sit in the middle of the pew at church. I didn’t know why. Our family got big enough that we needed a full pew to sit in church, but I don’t think I sat at the end of a pew until after I was married. Now I sit at the end of the row all the time. Lightning hasn’t struck. God doesn’t seem angry. Church goes on fine with me sitting there as far as I can tell.

But I never look into a woman’s purse.

One of the quirks of my life is that on the night of my first date with the woman who has now been my wife for more than 51 years, my oldest sister died. It is a long story but the important part is that my wife never met my oldest sister in person. She has, however, heard a lot of stories.

Not long after that first date, I started to be a regular at the dining table of my wife’ family. I was a bit young and socially challenged in college. Although I had shared a bedroom with a brother since I was two, I had roommate problems when I went to college. I went through three in my freshman year and I worked it out to have a private room with no roommates afterward until I got married. I was lonely and homesick and way too proud to admit it to anyone. So I accepted every invitation to a meal at Susan’s house. And here parents were gracious and invited me a lot.

Susan is the oldest of three sisters and marrying her gave me two more sisters. We’ve been a part of each other’s lives for a long time. I’ve known them since they were in high school. And, for the record, I’ve never peeked into one of their purses.

Susan and her sisters are close and after their children were raised and out of the house and their parents came to the ends of their lives the three sisters have gotten together about once a year for what they call sisters’ retreat. Every third year Susan is the host and the sisters come to where we live. I am always welcomed at one or more meals with the sisters and included in some of the activities. Now that I’m retired, I usually come along when my wife goes to sisters’ retreat and hang out with the sisters some of the time and go off to do my own thing other times so that the three sisters can have time to be together..

This weekend is sisters’ retreat. Part of the time the sisters will be at a beach cottage that belongs to the youngest, but they are starting out in a short term rental house in the suburb of the city where my sister lives. A few years ago another of my sisters died, so I only have one sister from my birth family and we are close to each other. She’s still willing to fight any bully willing to pick on me. So, I’ll spend part of sisters retreat with Susan’s sister and part of the time with my sister. It is going to be a fun time. We have a lot of shared memories and more than a few stories to tell.

It is a comfortable time for me because I’ve always known the rules about sisters. Mind your manners. Don’t smack your lips or chew with your mouth open. Comb your hair and make sure your fingernails are clean before sitting down at the table. Shut up and let someone else talk. and never look into a woman’s purse. I know the rules and I’m OK with them. It’s going to be a good weekend.

Joy

I was in a tire shop yesterday, dropping of our son’s car. He had arranged for the shop to install new tires and perform an alignment, but he works in another town, and his wife was taking care of their preschool son, so delivering the car to the shop was something I could easily do to help the family. The shop has a courtesy shuttle, so I could get a ride back to the farm with very little disruption to my schedule. I could have watched the two year old while his mother took the car to the shop, but they were in the midst of stacking firewood in the woodshed and it seemed like the easiest thing all around was for me to take the car in.

There was a brief period when I was in the tire shop waiting room while the technician checked for other potential problems. The shop has a large display area filled with tires with a few small tables around the perimeter. There is a counter where coffee, water and popcorn can be obtained and a larger counter behind which store employees serve customers with estimates, scheduling, and other issues. I chose a seat near the window thinking that I might be temporarily entertained by watching the coming and going of the vehicles, customers and technicians.

The real show, however, was in the waiting room. A couple was waiting with their child while their car was being serviced. The child was a similar age and size to our youngest grandchild. Like others his age, he was running full speed ahead. The showroom provided him with significant open space to get going and his parents were taking turns following him around the room. Sometimes they had to put on a burst of speed to keep him headed in the right direction. He wasn’t causing any problems and he was being carefully watched so was not in any danger and he certainly was providing entertainment for me. He waved at me each time he ran by.

On one lap around the room he headed straight for a tire on a display stand near where I was seated. In the center of the tire was a round piece of cardboard with an advertisement telling of the features of that particular tire. The young boy didn’t realize that the tire and cardboard were two different things. He thought he could put out his hands and run into the tire and it would stop him. Instead, when he reached the tire, he placed his hands on the cardboard which easily gave way and he plunged head and hands first right through the middle of the tire ending up with his head and hands sticking out one side and his feet sticking out the other.

The move surprised all of us. His father plunged for his feet to keep him from going all the way through the tire. I grabbed the tire, fearing it might fall off of its stand and fall on the child. As his head came out the other side of the tire, the child had an incredible look of amazement and surprise that instead of stopping when he got to the tire as he expected, he was suddenly lying in the middle of it. After a few seconds of surprise, the little one started to giggle which combined with the situation to make me and his father both laugh.

I never learned the name of the little boy. I only exchanged a dozen words with his father. I didn’t ever say anything to his mother. But he gave me such a gift in the middle of a busy day. Yes, it is fun to laugh and laughter is a gift, but there was something more in our brief exchange. For just a moment a little boy was experiencing his world as safe and fun, knowing that his parents were there for him and would protect him. For a moment, he wasn’t seeing strangers as threats. For a moment I sensed how much he was loved and cared for by his parents. For a moment we all shared his boundless joy.

I’m sure that the boy and his parents will not long remember me. I, however, will treasure the memory. I love children. One of the blessings of my life is that I was able to work with children for all of my career. For 25 years I worked in a building that housed a preschool and I could walk down the hall to watch 3 and 4 year olds as often as I wanted. I could step out of my office and hear the joyful noises of the classes of children.

Another blessing of my life is being able to live near our grandchildren. I get to see them almost every day, to play with them, to read stories to them, to hear their laughter and dry their tears. We have the good fortune of being trusted by our children and their spouses to have access to our grandchildren.

But there are times when I have to be very careful. There are dangerous people in the world. And some of them are adult men who harm children. Some of them look like me. Stories of predators who bring violence to innocent lives abound. Parents have to teach their children about stranger danger. Whenever I am out in public I don’t want to add to a child’s fear, so I observe but don’t approach children that I do not know. I focus my attention on them and on their parents so that at the first sign of fear or alarm I can step back and make sure I am not perceived as a threat. Once, when I was photographing one of our grandsons at a playground I was approached by a concerned mother of another child playing there who wanted to know what I was doing. She didn’t understand that I was related to my grandson because his mother was also present. She had picked up that relationship, but in her mind, I didn’t belong and an old man with a camera photographing children at a public playground was a potential threat.

Yesterday, however, I wasn’t a threat. For just a brief moment, I was part of the safety net protecting a precious young one - a partner with loving parents who could share laughter and the unbounded joy of their child.

Life gives me so many gifts of joy that I have learned to expect joy in the everyday places. Remembering the child, I’ll be looking for joy wherever I go.

Thoughts about writing a book

Being retired gives my mind more time to wander. I’ve always tried to make room in my life for creative thinking. When I was working a very demanding job in which there were always undone tasks because of a lack of time, I made opportunities for activities that allowed my mind to wander. Routine home life tasks such as mowing the lawn or washing the dishes didn’t require intense concentration in the way that other jobs such as composing sermons or sitting with individuals and families in crisis did. Even when I was very busy, I found times to go for a walk or paddle a canoe. I found that doing the largest part of my weekly study early in the week gave me time to mull a sermon for a few days before committing to a particular framework and outline.

I am now retired. I preach on very rare occasions. I have two Sundays lined up for preaching between now and the end of the year. The addition of those will bring my annual total to four. When I was working, there were a few weeks when I preached four different sermons in the same week. There is more time in my life for unstructured thought.

In some ways I am no less busy now than I was when I was working. Those close to me know how I tend to start more projects than I am able to finish. For as long as I can remember I have been eager to start new ventures and thought that I could accomplish more than I am able. I am not afraid of lofty goals. As a result, I have a lot of things going on in my life.

I am active in our church. I serve on the board of a nonprofit. I care for the bee colonies on the farm. I help with light maintenance on the farm including oil changes, home repairs and other tasks. I write this daily journal. I am building a cedar kayak and believe I can launch it early next spring. As is my usual practice, I have at least three books that I am reading and a stack of books on my “to read” list.

On Monday evening, I met with an editor to learn more about a small press and the kinds of books they publish. I have carried the dream of writing a book and having it published for decades. One of the lines I sometimes quip is, “The reason I am not published as a book author is that I haven’t written a book.” That is close to the truth. I have a list of published items that are mostly curricula pieces with a few journal articles along the way. I have never completed a book length manuscript. But the dream of being a published author remains. My meeting with the editor got me to thinking of several different projects that I might pursue.

I have an archive of 17 years of writing a 1,000 word journal entry every day. With considerable effort, and perhaps assistance of an archivist, I could draw out a collection of personal essays around several different themes. On my computer are two significant collections of prayers that I have written, one drawn from the discipline of writing a unique prayer for each class I taught, another the prayers for the earth and creation justice that I have prepared for various events over the years. I have a file of poems I have written and perhaps a few of them are worth editing and collecting into a volume. There are several possibilities of book-length writing projects that could occupy me for years to come.

So what did I do? After meeting with the editor, I got up yesterday morning and went for an hour long bike ride. Then I came home, took a shower, ran an errand, and sat down at my computer and wrote several thousand words of the beginning of a short story. I saved the document in my “Writing Projects” folder, which has a sub folder of “Short Stories.” The unfinished story joins several other unfinished stories. I’m pretty good at starting projects. I just don’t ever get them all finished.

I’m not a fiction writer. I have no illusions about writing a novel. I think of myself as a writer, and as a story teller, but not as a fiction writer. Then again, I don’t think of myself as a poet. I write poetry and belong to a poetry writers’ group because I love language and I enjoy the discipline of writing assignments that expand my thinking.

I think my attempts at writing short stories are a type of mental exercise aimed at keeping me thinking creatively more than they are attempts at producing a finished project. On that score, I don’t need to have a book published with my name on the cover to think of myself as a writer. I started the process of publishing my journal entries on my website as a personal discipline. I wanted to become a better writer. I don’t know how much my writing has improved, but I know that writing is important to my sense of keeping mentally fit. As I experience the normal decline in short term memory that comes to aging people, I find meaning in things that challenge my thinking.

I’ll continue to mull possible writing projects while I try to complete a few tasks that I have started. I’ll continue to let my mind wander as I go for walks and ride my bike. I’ll continue to sit at the keyboard and allow words to flow across the screen of my computer. I’ll pen a few poems, write a few prayers, and tell a few stories.

When I was in my first year of college I set a few personal goals for myself. Those goals included succeeding in my academic year and earning a doctorate. They included becoming married and raising a family. One of the goals on that list was to write and have a book published by the time I reached 30. I’ve gone past 30 years twice with more than a decade on top and still there is no book. I’m still mulling the idea, but don’t look for my name in your local bookstore yet.

Whose idea is it?

As photocopy machines became ubiquitous and churches started to be sued for illegally copying music and other material, I attended a workshop about intellectual property and the legality and ethics of licensing and other mechanisms for churches to legally use material that had been created by others. At the workshop, the presenter jokingly referred to Charles Wesley, the Methodist leader and brother of John Wesley, who published the words to between 6,500 and 10,000 hymns, saying, “Under current US copyright law, Charles Wesley could have only published 6.” He wasn’t trying to document specific numbers, but rather to make the simple point that the understanding of the ownership of ideas has undergone dramatic changes over time. In different times and different cultures appropriating the idea of another has been viewed quite differently than it is in our country today where huge numbers of lawyers ply their trade in attempts to protect ownership of ideas and creations.

As a pastor intent on following the law, I soon learned that one of the reasons that the popular hymn, “The Little Brown Church in the Vale” or “Church in the Wildwood” wasn’t in very many hymnals was that permission to print the hymn is very expensive. All of the money that has been transacted when famous artists such as Alabama, The Statler Brothers, Dolly Parton, Andy Griffith or the Carter Family have recorded the song has not gone to the estate of William S. Pitts, who originally wrote the tune and the words. Pitts sold the rights to the song for a small amount of money. Those rights have been exchanged as a commodity as their value has increased over time.

I remember being surprised to learn that our national anthem, The Star Spangled Banner, with words of a poem by Francis Scott Key, was set to a tune not written by Key, but rather to a popular English drinking song, “To Anacreon in Heaven.” The tune used by Key was originally dedicated to the ancient Greek poet Anacreon, known for his love of wine. Key was not a poet by trade. He was, rather, a lawyer. Presumably he followed the law in marketing his song. I doubt, however, that he ever paid royalties to the Anacreontic Society, a London gentlemen’s club that used the tune with different words as its theme song.

I have a distant relative who was a pioneer photographer in the Montana Territory before statehood. His portraits of Crow, Cheyenne, and Sioux leaders became treasured. He, however, was not a prudent manager of money and sold the rights to his photographs for small amounts when he was in need of cash. Later some of his images appeared in a book that also contained demeaning and pornographic images of women. He had not taken the objectionable photos, but his name has been subsequently become associated with exploitation. The books of photographs by L.A. Huffman no longer appear in many stores because of that association.

The concept that an idea can be owned has not always been present. There have been times when using the idea of another person has been seen as a way of honoring that person and giving that person a compliment. It is easy to understand why creators need to have their work protected and deserve fair compensation for producing their art. It is more difficult to see how that compensation can become an inheritable and exchangeable commodity.

Recent news stories have once again made me think of copyright and ownership of intellectual property. The maker of the film Blade Runner 2049 has sued Tesla, Elon Musk and Warner Bros Discovery, saying that they used imagery from the movie without permission. Production firm Alcon Entertainment claims it specifically denied a request for use of the material. In a separate action, the director of the 2004 film, “I Robot” accused Mr. Musk of copying his designs for humanoid machines and self-driving vehicles. The Tesla robotaxi event held on October 10, was titled “We Robot.” It seems as if there might have been some copying involved.

I have no idea how these law suits will be resolved, but I suspect that large amounts of money will be involved. Musk is a very rich man and the possibility of large judgements seems likely. The news, however, raises the question about whether the plaintiffs in the suits themselves were the originators of the ideas. “I, Robot” is the title of a collection of science fiction short stories by Isaac Asimov. The collection of previously published stories are organized around the them of the interaction between humans and robots and the ethics of those relationships. That 1950 book has inspired a lot of cinematic variations. An episode of The Outer Limits was named “I, Robot.” BBC Radio aired radio dramas of four of the stories from I, Robot. There may even be a reference to an idea of the book in a Dr. Who episode, “The Robots of Death.”

The list of artists who have filed lawsuit against the Trump campaign for unauthorized use of music continues to grow every day. Some have gained temporary injunctions prohibiting the use of their songs by the candidate. It will take years for the suits to play out.

It is very hard to say where an idea originates. Although I claim ownership of this journal entry, the ideas upon which it is based come from a lot of different sources. I read a lot of articles published by others. I check out BBC and CBC and NPR and other media outlets. I even monitor Fox, reading more headlines than stories. I use search engines to check details and used Wikipedia to look up the dates of the movies referenced here. Is this my idea? Perhaps, but it is not exclusively mine. It is based on the thinking of many others. Some of the content of this article is based on a workshop that I attended whose leader’s name I cannot remember. I don’t even remember exactly when and where I attended that workshop. And there are a lot of songs credited to Charles Wesley that inhabit my brain. I don’t need to get out a hymnal to sing “Christ the Lord is Risen Today,” or “Come, Thou Long Expected Jesus.” I’ve been known to belt out “O For a Thousand Tongues to Sing” without giving credit to the author of the words.

I think of myself as a writer and a source of original ideas, but it may be more accurate to describe me as a collection of ideas of others that get assembled into my essays.

Out of focus

I began wearing eyeglasses when I was six years old. I immediately recognized their value. With my glasses I could read the chalk board at school. With the exception of a few years of experimenting with contact lenses, I’ve worn glasses ever since. Just before my sixteenth birthday, I took my first flight physical. Passing the physical combined with turning sixteen to allow me to fly solo in an airplane without an instructor. It was a big goal of my life at the time. My flight physical came with a restriction. It required me to carry a spare pair of glasses whenever I flew as pilot in command. Having a spare pair of glasses was a great step forward for me.

For those ten years, and likely for several years before I got my first pair of glasses, I got used to periods of being out of focus. I have no record of how many pairs of glasses I broke or lost in that period of time, but it was a lot. Once I fell in the river and lost a pair of glasses. By that time I was required to participate in the cost of replacement. I offered a reward of a new fishing pole to anyone who could find the lost glasses in the river. My brothers and our friends spent weeks trying to recover the glasses. I looked again and again as well with no luck. The glasses were found nearly a year later when the river level dropped. They had become wedged between two rocks where the motion of the river so deeply scratched the lenses that they were unusable.

In those days it took about a week to obtain a replacement pair of glasses. We’d call the optometrist’s shop and tell them what we needed and then we would have to wait. When they came in we had to travel 80 miles one way to have them fitted. Even though that was decades ago, I still know what it means to be out of focus. If I ever were to forget, all I have to do is to open my eyes and look around the room before I rise from bed and take up my glasses from their nighttime resting place.

As a result I knew exactly what he meant when a close friend wrote me a note about a worship service that I led in our campus ministry program as an undergraduate student. He used the metaphor of being out of focus for what he experienced as a service that was disjointed and the various elements didn’t quite flow together. He was a stage performer who was locally famous and who sometimes performed on stage without his glasses. I was able to receive his criticism and use it to improve my skill at worship planning. I’ve never forgotten his words and gentle feedback.

That was 50 years ago. I’ve planned a lot of worship services since then. And I’ve attended a lot more. And I have avoided using his metaphor to describe worship planned and led by others while I have personally used it to evaluate my own work.

However, “out of focus” is the image that lingers in my mind after worshipping yesterday at our church. It was the day of an important celebration. Our congregation was celebrating 25 years of being open and affirming. The pioneering decision for the entire congregation to enter into a covenant promising to be open and affirming of lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender folks has been a very important part of our story. It has shaped who we are as a congregation. It has inspired other congregations to follow. It has helped us to more fully live out the meaning of the Gospel.

Our celebration, however, was for me a bit out of focus. I’ll refrain from open criticism. However, I will mention one thing. Members of the congregation had folded thousands of origami cranes. The worship and arts committee had strung many of them together to make beautiful strings of cranes to adorn the front of the sanctuary. The effect was truly stunning. In addition each worshiper was given a short train of three paper cranes. Written on the wings of the three cranes were the words from the United Church of Christ’s Still Speaking campaign: “No matter who you are or where you are on life’s journey, you are welcome here.” At one point in the service the bulletin declared we would have a ritual of welcome for all. It wasn’t much of a ritual. Mostly it was an announcement that we were to take the cranes home as a reminder. At no point was there any mention of the importance of orizuru (origami cranes) in Japanese culture. The crane symbolizes peace, love, hope, and healing. They are closely associated with the story of Sadako Sasaki, who suffered from leukemia from radiation caused by the atomic bombing of Hiroshima. According to the book by Eleanor Coerr, she managed to fold only 644 cranes before she became too weak to fold any more, and died in her sleep on the morning of October 25, 1955. In Coerr’s story family and friends helped finish her dream by folding the rest of the cranes which were buried with Sadako. The book may not be entirely accurate. According to her older brother Masahiro, Sadako not only exceeded 644 cranes, but she died having folded 1,450 paper cranes. When we visited Hiroshima we saw some of the cranes Sadako folded. They were very tiny, folded from the wrappers of the pills she was given to help ease her symptoms. The Children’s Peace Monument near ground zero in Hiroshima features the display of thousands and thousands of paper cranes folded all around the world and sent to the Japanese people as a memorial and a promise that never again will humans use atomic weapons.

To appropriate a powerful symbol without even mentioning its cultural source left sadness in my spirit. Our congregation is not only an open and affirming congregation. We are also a just peace congregation. Our celebration was just five days from the 69th anniversary of Sadako’s death. August 6 is atomic bomb remembrance day, also known as Hiroshima Day, but no mention of that event has occurred in our church since I’ve been a member.

Origami cranes are a beautiful and powerful symbol. Using them in worship without reference to the source from which they were appropriated is simply out of focus. Coming back into focus will require more than just cleaning my glasses.

Resurrection in humor

I never met Robert Adolph Boehm. In fact I didn’t even know he had lived or that he had died until nearly a week after his funeral. I’ve never been to Clarendon, Texas. I’ve never met the people of Robertson Funeral Directors. I don’t know any of the members of Robert Boehm’s family, not his son, nor this grandchildren, nor his great-grandchildren. But I have read his obituary. It is posted on the Funeral Home website. Click here to take a look for yourself.

Robert Adolph Boehm was just a little bit older than me and from what I can gather he died of an accident, suddenly and unexpectedly. It is likely that he was still in the depths of grief following the death of his wife of nearly sixty years. His son, Charles had his life turned upside down by having both of his parents die within a few months. Like others of us who have experienced the death of parents, he was faced with some inescapable tasks that come to adult children and he rose to the task. Specifically, he had to write his father’s obituary and the one he wrote has gone viral.

According to the interview on CBC radio which prompted me to look up and read the obituary, Charles was inspired by reading another obituary posted online. That of Joe Heller, who died in Centerbrook Connecticut in 2019. I’m not sure what inspired him to read that particular obituary. Maybe it has its own Internet fame as well.

It is easy to see the style comparisons in both. It is also easy to see how the love of children inspired them to use humor as a companion on the road of grief.

Heller’s daughters wrote, “When doctors confronted his daughters with the news last week that “your father is a very sick man,’ in unison they replied, ‘you have no idea.’” They also noted, “Joe was also a consummate napper. There wasn’t a road, restaurant or friend’s house in Essex that he didn’t fall asleep on or in. There wasn’t an occasion too formal or an event too dour that Joe didn’t interrupt with his apnea and voluminous snoring.” Toward the end of his obituary they added, “No flowers, please. The family is seeking donations to offset the expense of publishing an exceedingly long obituary which would have really pissed Joe off. Seriously, what would have mad him the happiest is for you to go have a cup of coffee with a friend and bullsh*t about his antics or play a harmless prank on some unsuspecting sap.”

I feel like I know Joe from reading his obituary. And I have read a lot of obituaries over the years that didn’t tell me much at all about the person who died. One of the things that I learned early in my career as a minister was to always read the obituary of the deceased, but to avoid having it read out loud at the funeral. Those who care have already read it. Those who don’t won’t be at the funeral. Obituaries give the bare bones facts: date of birth, names of relatives, military service and jobs held. They rarely tell the story of the life of the person. Whenever possible, I paid visits to grieving family members and tried to inspire them to tell stories about their loved one. It was from those informal stories, told in a living room or the church parlor that I crafted funeral services. It is remarkable how often those storytelling sessions were punctuated not only with tears, but also with laughter. I have been present for enough of the first tellings of beloved stories in the face of loss to be a firm believer in resurrection. Through those stories I have come to know people that I never met face to face. Their presence is real.

And now I’ve met Joe. But I’ve also met Robert A. Boehm, with whom I began today’s journal entry. “Robert also kept a wide selection of harmonicas on hand—not to play personally, but to prompt his beloved dogs to howl continuously at odd hours of the night to entertain his many neighbors, and occasionally to give to his many, many, many grandchildren and great-grandchildren to play loudly during long road trips with their parents.” Another person that I never met face to face but wish I had has come alive for me in the telling of his story.

The stories of these two men have been shared over and over again. Robert’s story made it to the national radio station of the country on the border of the opposite side of his country. It is likely that both of those stories have been read by hundreds of thousands of people giving them fame that they did not know during the time of their earthly lives.

Our people have some stories like that. When Moses led the people of Israel out of slavery in Egypt, he was inspired by God to ask them to always tell the story of their exodus to their children. They did and so did their children and grandchildren and great grandchildren and every generation. At some point the stories got written down and collected into scripture. Those stories are not only treasured and told by Jews, but by Christians and Muslims as well. Along with the stories of Moses and Ruth and Esther and the kings and the prophets, Christians have been telling stories of Jesus for more than two thousand years.

Every time the story is told, Christ is present in the telling. Every time the bread is broken and the cup is passed, Christ is present in the sacrament. Through all of the tellings land retellings we come to know not only the sadness of grief that was present at his dying, but also the pure joy that came at his resurrection. Humor is shaped by language and culture and sometimes gets lost in the seriousness of ritual and tradition, but it is present in the scriptures. And sometimes, when a smile crosses our face or a giggle escapes our lips, we become alive with the life of Christ.

Preparing for disaster

25 years ago the news headlines were warning of a potential disaster caused by errors in computer code. Multiple computer operating systems were based in earlier code written with only two digits for the year in their dating function. That meant that when the century changed from the 1900s to the 2000s there were potential confusions in dates in the computer systems. Businesses invested significant funds in having the code in their computers checked and corrected for the problem. The issue was called Y2K, shorthand for “year two thousand.”

I assisted with a few funeral for people who died in the early 2000s who had not expected to live as long as they did. They had repurchased funeral markers, sometimes at the time of the death of a spouse and had their names etched into the stone along with their year of birth and the digits 19 for the year of their death, expecting that the stone could then be finished with the correct two digits following the 19. When they lived past January 1, 2000, the stones had to be corrected, sometimes resulting in a less than perfect appearance. It wasn’t the same as the Y2K problem, but it illustrates how confusion can occur.

Since then most of us have gotten used to entering four digits for the year of our birth when filling out forms.

Back in 1999, however, the Y2K problem threatened at least a bit of confusion at the turn of the century. The most dire predictions included reports that power systems might go down, supply chains might not be supported, and even that essential services such as delivery of water and operation of sewage plants might be threatened by faulty computer code. A member of the congregation I was serving asked me in all seriousness, “What are you going to do if everything fails on January 1?” I had to be careful with my response because I shared none of that person’s fears. I was confident that life would go on as usual and that we would not face major problems. My answer was something like this: “I will come to the church and together we’ll make a plan to serve those who have needs. There are a lot of resources here and this is where people will come for help.”

As it was, I checked my computer early in the evening on New Year’s Eve. Since computer systems had not failed in Japan or Australia with the coming of the new year in their time zones, I figured that things would be OK the next morning where I lived. I slept without worry and life went on as usual the next day. I wondered how much worry and lost sleep had occurred for the church member who had asked me about what I would do.

I was reminded of the Y2K fears years later when supply chain issues during the early months of the Covid-19 pandemic caused shortages of goods on store shelves. Asked by a church member about what we would do if we ran out of toilet paper, I indicated the cases of toilet paper in the church’s normal inventory and the fact that the church wasn’t using much of the supply with in person worship suspended. “If you totally run out, we could probably get you a roll from the church,” I said. We didn’t stock up and we never ran out of toilet paper at our house. We never even borrowed a roll from our camper which was in winter storage, but had a supply of spare rolls.

Sometimes worrying about potential disaster can divert attention from everyday living. On the other hand, totally ignoring the threat of disaster can leave people unprepared at a time when a little advance preparation could make a big difference. Back to back hurricanes in Florida and other southern states serve as reminders of the importance of being prepared and having supplies in the event of a disaster. In other communities across North America wildfires have prompted short notice evacuations. Having a disaster evacuation plan in place simply makes good common sense for all people.

Because churches are among potential places of refuge in disaster, I have been part of a working group at our church that has been coordinating with local disaster preparedness officials to do what we can to prepare the church to serve as a shelter if need occurs. Through those meetings I learned that our region is not in a place threatened by hurricanes or tornadoes or even wildfire. The city of Bellingham’s worst disaster was an explosion and fire from a ruptured petroleum pipeline. In addition to pipelines, trains transport toxic substances through the city with the potential for disaster. When it comes to natural disaster, earthquake and tsunami are the biggest threats. Having lived all of my life before the last 4 years more than a thousand miles from the coast, tsunami preparedness hadn’t entered my consciousness.

A series of mild earthquakes have recently prompted local media to once again engage in tsunami awareness education. People are advised to know tsunami evacuation routes, understand how warnings will be issued, and be prepared for rapid evacuation. We don’t live in the tsunami evacuation zone. In fact we live right next to the assembly area in case of an evacuation. If an evacuation occurs, people will come to our neighborhood. However, we can hear the sirens from our house when they are tested. If a tsunami hits our bay, we might need to be prepared to help provide services to displaced people.

I’m trying to take preparedness seriously. We’ve made inquiries about having a battery system installed in our home so that our solar panels will provide usable electricity in the event of a grid failure. We keep our pantry stocked in case we have to go for a while without being able to drive to the store.

And there is one more thing. Each new year’s day, when the tsunami sirens are tested at noon, I plan to be where I can hear the sirens and know what they sound like. After all we have a tradition in our town of celebrating the new year by going for a swim in the ocean at noon when the siren sounds. It is, however, only a test. Were it an actual emergency, we would be running away from the water and heading to higher ground.

A distant witness

I want to be perfectly clear. I do not know what happened in the home of Robert Roberson on the last day of January, 2002. It is important to also say up front that I am not a medical examiner and am not trained in medical care beyond advanced first aid training. Furthermore, Although I have received training from a coroner on investigative procedures, I am not a criminal investigator and do not understand all of the nuances involved in collecting evidence of a possible crime.There are a lot of things I do not fully understand. I have friends who have been diagnosed with autism and who have trouble reading the emotions of others and expressing their own emotions to others, but I am not an expert in the diagnosis or treatment of autism. When I was a student, I did a clinical rotation in which I was a member of a counseling team providing court-mandated counseling to a couple who had been charged with abuse of a tiny child who suffered broken bones as an infant, but I don’t fully understand the dynamics of that case and was shocked by the court decision to return the infant to the custody of the parents.

To make my lack of training and understanding more clear, it is important to note that I have not read medical or criminal reports related to the death of Roberson’s daughter, Nikki. The information I have about the case comes from reading a couple of online news articles.

Here is what I know: On the night that Nikki died, she was being treated for pneumonia. The drugs that she was prescribed are no longer given to children because they can cause serious complications. Roberson reported that his daughter fell out of bed. When he checked her later, she was not breathing. He took her to an emergency room where she was pronounced dead. Court documents show that medical staff suspected child abuse because of bruises on her head, brain swelling and bleeding behind her eyes.

That is enough information for me to know that there was a terrible and irreversible tragedy. Whatever happened a child dying from such severe injuries is terrible and all of us have the responsibility to do whatever we can to prevent such tragedies. All of the members of her family have experienced trauma that should have been prevented if it could have been prevented. But death is final. It cannot be undone. The baby died. Her death affected not only family members, but medical providers and the law enforcement officers who become involved.

The death is what is known as an unattended death. That means that she was not under the care of a doctor and no medical personnel witnessed the death. It also mandates a thorough and careful investigation into the time, means, and mode of death. In Nikki’s case an autopsy was ordered and the results were that she died of blunt-force head trauma. Her death was ruled a homicide.

The day after Nikki’s death, Robert Robinson was arrested. He was subsequently charged and convicted of capital murder. He was sentenced to be executed by the state of Texas. Among the evidence presented in the case was a lack of emotion displayed by Roberson when questioned by medial staff and law enforcement.

He has steadfastly and consistently maintained his innocence and continued to stick to his account of the events of the tragic night.

Roberson was scheduled to be executed at 6 pm yesterday. 90 minutes prior to the time set for his death, a judge issued a temporary restraining order to stop the execution so that Roberson can testify in a hearing in the state legislature next week. The decision came after a panel of the Texas House of Representatives issued a subpoena for him on Wednesday for him to appear at a hearing on Monday. They issued that subpoena in part in an attempt to delay the execution. The Texas House of Representatives is not dominated by opponents of the death penalty. However a bipartisan group of 86 Texas lawmakers along with dozens of medical and scientific experts and others including best-selling author John Grisham and several pro-death penalty Republicans has called for clemency. They argue that the conviction was based on outdated science, before authorities gained proper understanding of “shaken baby syndrome.”

Among Roberson’s supporter is Brian Wharton, the lead detective who investigated the incident. He told the Associated Press, “I will forever be haunted by the role I played in helping the state put this innocent man on death row.”

The US Supreme Court declined to intervene to cancel the execution outright. The judge’s order is temporary. The Texas Board of Pardon and Paroles has denied Roberson’s clemency petition with a 6-0 vote. It remains to be seen what the outcome of the case will be and whether or not Roberson will be executed.

The case stirs a lot of emotions for me. As a parent and grandparent who has been given the awesome responsibility of care for infants, I share the pain of Niki’s loved ones and grieve for the loss of the innocent child. As a pastor who has spend a lot of time in emergency rooms, my heart breaks for the medical professionals who had to examine and pronounce the death of an infant. As a former law enforcement chaplain, my heart goes out the to detective who is haunted by his role in the case. As a person trained to explain coroner procedures to shocked and grieved family members, I am passionate about preserving evidence and seeking truth.

I also know that killing Robert Robertson will not reverse Niki’s death. It will not bring “closure” to those who mourn. The death of a child is a loss that you never get over.

As a survivor who lost a sister to murder, I have been a consistent opponent of the death penalty. I see no evidence that state sanctioned killing provides any deterrence to crime. I see no evidence that it eases the pain of those who grieve. What I do see is that killing a person convicted of murder is irreversible and that in many cases states have executed innocent persons. Killing a person convicted of murder destroys evidence that might later be used to understand what happened.

The cost of lifelong incarceration is high, but not as high as the cost of an execution. I remain convinced that it is the obligation of the state to preserve evidence.

I don’t know what happened on the night that Nikki died. I do know that executing Robert Robertson will not bring us closer to the truth. While I watch for the outcome of this case, I will continue to pray with mixed emotions: grief, compassion, fear, and uncertainty.ny

Spam likely

We are planning to take a short trip to Oregon later this month. Our plan is to stay with family most of the time, but there is one night when my wife will be staying with her sisters and I will be on my own. The simple solution was to book a motel room for one night. Since I’m the one involved, I followed my usual practice of doing a little Internet shopping. Often the best rates on the rooms I want appear on sites that offer prepaid reservations with limited options for change. I check those sites against the actual motel websites because they are not always less expensive. For example, in September we stayed in a vacation rental. The property could be booked through VRBO, but the property manager offers direct booking as well. The property manager’s fees are lower than VRBO because the VRBO organization makes a surcharge to support its system.

You have to be careful with booking sites because they often have rules about a minimum number of nights to stay, surcharges for short stays, different check-in and check-out times and prepayment rules.

One night in a discount motel is a different matter. The offer I found on a booking site was about 25% lower than the price offered by the motel’s web site. Prepayment is not an issue as I prefer the discount. When I proceeded to book the web site, however, I had to register with the booking company. It was one that I have not previously used. The process of registering was relatively simple. I carefully unchecked the boxes allowing marketing emails and phone calls and I tried to register without giving my phone number. However the site would not allow me to continue without giving my phone number.

I’m pretty sure that I’ve opened the door to yet more spam phone calls. There are a lot of different ways that marketers obtain phone numbers. One of them is by purchasing lists from web sites to which I have given my number. I may have blocked marketing calls from the booking company, at least temporarily, but I’m fairly confident that I have not blocked them from giving my phone number to other marketers.

Unwanted marketing calls are a part of modern life. They are annoying and software developers are working on solutions that help somewhat. My phone now displays “spam likely” when phone calls come from marketing companies. At first I thought the system was great. I would just allow “spam likely” calls to go to voicemail. Most marketers didn’t bother to leave messages and I could choose whether or not to respond to those who did. There is, however, a major flaw in that system. My phone consistently displays “spam likely” when the phone call is placed by one of the doctors providing care. They will usually leave a message, but the call back number that they leave is not a direct number for the provider, but rather an automated system that only allows me to leave a message for the provider, setting up a loop. I can’t get the information from the doctor without answering “spam likely” phone calls. This has been especially frustrating as I have been going through a series of medical tests where the provider wants to explain results to me and does not post the results to the medical charts I can view online before having that discussion.

I understand the issue from the physician’s perspective. They have many circumstances when it is not possible for them to receive phone calls. Their personal phones would be impossibly cluttered with unwanted and unnecessary calls if they allowed for direct call backs. The medical system provides a way for them to make calls that do not reveal the number from which they have placed the call. My software “sees” those calls as marketing calls and labels them “spam likely.” School systems employ similar software, making it equally frustrating for parents to speak with teachers.

We might get a bit of relief now that the Federal Trade Commission will be enacting a “click to cancel” rule over the next six months. The system is designed to make it as easy to cancel subscriptions for online services as it is to sign up. The rule is aimed at services that result in recurring charges and not at marketing information, but it may provide a way for users like me to quickly remove our information. For example, if I could sign up for a booking company’s services, make a single reservation and then unsubscribe from that company’s program I might prevent that company from transferring my contact information to other companies. I suspect that marketers will find a quick work around, but I intend to unsubscribe from as many services as I am able as quickly as possible.

Communications have always been a challenge and carrying a personal phone with me everywhere I go has not solved all of the problems. I first agreed to carry a cell phone to make myself more accessible to church staff and members when I was out of the office. Now retired, cell phones are the only phones we have. My cell phone number is out there on the Internet because I have used it to communicate with all kinds of companies and service providers. Unwanted marketing robocalls come in to my phone far more frequently than wanted communications. It seems to be part of contemporary life.

Long gone are the days when a marketing call was placed by an actual person. I used to feel sorry for telemarketers whose job it was to place phone call after phone call, mostly meeting rejection. I was quick to hang up on marketers because I felt like doing so as soon as I detected unwanted communication at least saved a few seconds of the marketer’s time. Those jobs have to be really difficult. A click when a phone call is ended must be preferable to someone on the other end yelling at the caller. These days, however, most of those phone calls are from automated systems and don’t involve actual conversation with another person.

I certainly don’t have a solution. There are plenty of times when I ignore “spam likely” calls and let them go to voice mail. However, I still answer when I’m expecting a call because “spam likely” doesn’t mean “spam certain.” A good step in the right direction would be for those making necessary communications such as health care providers to upgrade their software to identify them without enabling direct call back. I’m looking forward to the day when my phone might display “healthcare provider” instead of “spam likely.” I don’t view an opportunity to speak directly to a doctor as spam.

Favorite season

From time to time our son will make a game by asking his children to come up with questions to ask me. They will go one at a time, each asking a question and waiting for my answer before going on to the next one. Sometimes they’ll ask three questions each. Sometimes they’ll keep it up a bit longer. Recently one of my grandchildren asked me “What is your favorite season?” I’ve been asked a lot of “favorite” questions by my grandchildren: favorite color, favorite food, favorite book, etc. I paused with the season question because I try to always answer truthfully and the truth is that I’m not sure I have a favorite season. There was a time, many years ago, when I would have quickly answered, “winter.” I went through a phase of enjoying skiing as my favorite outdoor activity. When we lived in Boise, Idaho we did not have air conditioning in our home and had AC in only one of our vehicles. I am not a fan of being too warm and although we could escape the heat by going into the mountains, the summers in southern Idaho were a bit too warm for my liking. I suspect that if I lived in Arizona or Texas I might be quick to think that summer is not my favorite season.

But summers are really nice where we now live. Although locals complain that summer temperatures are warmer than once was the case, my experience with living here has made me enjoy summer a lot. Our house here, however, does have air conditioning as well as all of our vehicles. On the other hand, we have not needed to run AC at night and when we do use it we do so for short periods of time. There are a lot of summer activities that I really enjoy including trips to the mountains, camping, bike riding, hiking, and paddling. Being retired has given me more time for gardening and I’ve had some very nice successes with flowers since moving out here.

For as long as I can remember I have enjoyed both spring and fall. When it comes to gardening, I like planting a lot more than weeding and planting fall bulbs yields such great spring successes. This is tulip country and tulips, hyacinths, daffodils and iris all yield rich rewards. I love the changing colors of autumn, but I also love the fresh buds of spring.

It is hard for me to choose one season as a favorite. I like them all. Having said that, I am aware that the seasons are a bit different in this place than in other places where we have lived. We don’t get much winter around here. At least we don’t get extended periods of snow and cold temperatures. We’ll get frost, though we haven’t had our first frost of the year yet. We’re still getting a good tomato harvest right now. In the middle of the winter, it might snow but it is rare for the snow to stay on the ground for more than a day or so. We did have a short time when nighttime temperatures reached into the teens and even single digits a couple of years ago, but I don’t break out my warmest clothes very often.

Another difference is that fall is rainy season around here. Poets go on and on about spring showers, but we get a lot of fall showers. I can hear the rain on the skylights in the kitchen as I write. I learned a lot about this region’s seasons the fall that we purchased this house. We moved into it in October and November was a particularly rainy month that year. Inland from where we live both the Nooksack and Fraser Rivers flooded. Communities and farmland on both sides of the international border experienced a lot of destruction from flooding.

Our two year old grandson hasn’t gotten into the swing of asking questions. He is discovering new ways of making his words work for him, and he likes to have stories read to him, but he is not yet much of a talker. Unlike the rest of us, who are entertained by thinking about seasons and which might be our favorite, he pretty much lives in the present. So for him right now, fall is his favorite season and rain is one of the things he likes about fall. A couple of days ago, he came running to greet me as I pulled into the farmyard. He is just the right height to grab me by the belt buckle and as I spoke with his mother, he was pulling at my waist to get me to come with him. As I followed, he had to pause several times as we crossed the yard to splash in puddles. Like all of the children in his family he has a good set of rain boots. They are essential on the farm. I, however, was not wearing my boots and was not in the mood to stomp in puddles and get my feet wet. I noticed, however, that wet feet weren’t a problem for him. He was clearly splashing water into the tops of his boots and you could hear the water sloshing in his boots as he walked. What he wanted to show me was that he had taken several large chunks of bark from the woodpile and they were floating in a particularly large puddle. I’m pretty much responsible for that particular puddle. The low spot is where I let the tires on my pickup spin when I was moving a trailer. I’ve been meaning to replace the dirt and rake it smooth, but haven’t gotten around to the chore. What is a small problem for me is a big delight for our grandson. He had his own boat pond with the bark and the puddle.

Having lived most of my life in places where it doesn’t rain very often, I worried about the move to this place. I thought I might not like all of the rain. It doesn’t seem to bother me that much, especially when my guide is a two year old who doesn’t mind it a bit. So today I’ll let fall be my favorite season. There is nothing better than playing boats with a two year old. I plan to have a different answer to the question when winter, spring, and summer roll around.

The confused holiday

Yesterday was the day of the confused holiday in the United States. It was a federal holiday still called Columbus Day even though the holiday and the role of Christopher Columbus in American history is controversial. Many Native American groups and other critics have advocated for changing the holiday to something else, citing Columbus’ mistreatment of natives and his legacy of European settlement. It is one of 11 federal holidays observed by the government and those who work for the federal government. Since 1990 South Dakota has observed Native Americans Day instead of Columbus Day and since we lived in South Dakota for 25 years we became used to recognizing that day as a time to rededicate ourselves to the hard work of reconciliation. Although the official federal holiday is still known as Columbus Day, President Biden issued a proclamation in 2021 and each subsequent year recognizing Indigenous Peoples’ Day.

Washington, where we now live, is one of 13 states that do not celebrate Columbus Day. Yesterday was pretty much business as usual, with state offices, schools, and most city and county offices open. Of course there was no mail service because the Post Office is a federal function. Along with other federal services most major banks observed the day as a holiday as well.

It isn’t just the United States. Columbus Day is observed in Italy and Spain as well as some other countries in the Americas.

We do have an official state holiday in Washington to observe Indigenous Peoples’ Day. The Friday after Thanksgiving is a state holiday officially known as Native American Heritage Day. Like other states, it is mostly observed with Black Friday sales and a lot of shopping. Since we aren’t into shopping all that much we try to observe the holiday by not going shopping, but that is a personal decision.

Across the border, the second Monday of October is Canadian Thanksgiving. The holiday weekend in Canada is celebrated much as Thanksgiving is celebrated in the US with large family meals, religious services, and the like. I often listen to CBC radio when I am driving and yesterday as I ran a few errands, I noticed that there was special holiday programming on CBC. Otherwise, it was pretty much a normal day for us. Our grandchildren were in school. The school bus ran on schedule. Our son went to work as usual at the library. Being retired we took the day off as we do all of the other days.

I’m not sure how to go about educating ourselves about the misinformation that we received in our educations about history. Part of the process is to learn the truth about those whose lives have been celebrated. Many of my friends have posted memes around the theme of “Columbus didn’t discover anything.” Christopher Columbus was seeking a trade route to India when he came ashore at Guanahani, an island in the Bahamas, on October 12, 1492. His navigation calculations included a gross error about the size of the planet, leading to the misnaming of the indigenous people of the Americas as “Indians.” North, Central, and South America got their names from another geographic explorer, Amerigo Vespucci, but that is a different story. Labeling the indigenous people he encountered “Indians” wasn’t Columbus’ worst offense. Columbus and the men in his employ treated the people living in the places they traveled and occupied with extreme brutality and violence. They used slavery and forced natives to work for the sake of profit.

Their brutality and violence was justified by a religious doctrine coming from a series of papal bulls, or official decrees from the pope collectively known as the Doctrine of Discovery. The first of those papal bulls, Dum Diversas, was issued by Pope Nicolas V in 1452. The Doctrine of Discovery gave authorization to explorers to claim “terra nullis” or uninhabited any place that was not populated by Christians. Under that doctrine land was seized from the people who had inhabited it from time immemorial. Beyond authorizing the illegal seizure of lands, the Doctrine of Discovery was used to justify genocide of native peoples.

In July 2013, the 29th General Synod of the United Church of Christ passed a resolution of witness calling for the UCC to repudiate the Doctrine of Discovery. That resolution had among its official sponsors the South Dakota Conference of the United Church of Christ. I had the honor of serving as Moderator of the Conference and sitting on the Conference Board of Directors when the resolution was forwarded to the General Synod by the Conference.

It took another decade for the Roman Catholic Church to officially repudiate the Doctrine of Discovery. Pope Francis issued an official statement on March 30, 2023 that said in part “The Catholic Church therefore repudiates those concepts that fail to recognize the inherent human rights of Indigenous peoples, including what has become known as the legal and political ‘doctrine of discovery.’” The statement equivocated a bit when it came to accepting responsibility for the results of previous papal bulls stating that those papal bulls were manipulated by colonial powers. Nonetheless the official repudiation has been accepted by many Indigenous peoples as a gesture of reconciliation.

While Italian and Spanish settlers have contributed richly to the diversity of the United States and the presence of those cultures and traditions has much to be celebrated, it seems misplaced to focus that celebration on the person of Christopher Columbus or on the day his ships first came ashore in the Americas. Instead, one of the ways I recognized the day yesterday was to once again remember the day when I walked with Matt Iron Hawk through the cemetery behind the Bridger United Church of Christ. Bridger is located near the site where the survivors of the Wounded Knee massacre stopped to rest after walking from Pine Ridge during the winter of 1890 - 91. There are graves of Wounded Knee survivors in that cemetery. The place is known as “Takini” in Lakota. Matt was a native Lakota speaker. I asked Matt to translate the word to English for me. Some have said it means “survivor.” Byron Buffalo said it means “barely surviving.” Matt told me it means, “We’re still here!”

Whatever we call the day and whenever we observe it, the presence of the Indigenous peoples of this land is worthy of celebration and thanksgiving. It is also worth way more than a single day of observation.

Goods crossing the border

One of the things that is interesting about living next to an International border is observing goods that are transported across the boarder. While the United States imports a significant amount of milled lumber from Canada, I have seen semi trucks with milled lumber going from the US into Canada. That kind of a load is fairly rare, however. The big shipments of goods that we notice often seem to be going only one way. On the railroads, for example, we see lumber coming south from Canada and we also see empty rail cars returning to Canada. Every day there are multiple trains carrying coal to Canada for export to Japan that return empty to the US.

I am fascinated by the exchange of vehicles. Auto transports carry nearly new used cars both directions. I’ve been told that the relatively weak Canadian dollar compared to the US dollar makes the price of a used car in Canada attractive. US auto dealers purchase used cars at auction in Canada and import them for sale in the US. Importing Canadian vehicles into the United States is a multi-billion-dollar business. Most dealers comply with the rules and regulations of legal importing, but there is also a “gray market” in cars that are illegally imported. Those vehicles may have issues with titles, illegal odometer swaps (odometers report kilometers in Canada and miles in the US and are required to be swapped, but mileage is not always computed correctly). Gray market vehicles may also have voided warranties and can present problems with obtaining insurance.

While cars are imported from Canada, thousands of cars are exported from the US to Canada as well. The cars that are going from the US to Canada usually spend a period of time on a lot on our side of the border as paperwork is brought up to date. Just up the road from our home is a lot of at least 10 acres filled with newer used cars and we drive by several other similar lots going to and from area towns. When a vehicle is exported from the US to Canada it must have a transaction number from the U.S. Customs and Border Protection that shows it has been reported to the U.S. government as an export. This number must be issued at least 72 hours prior to the vehicle showing up at the border crossing. Vehicles must meet safety standards and have proof of inspection as well. Since it is expensive for transport trucks to sit idle, the cars are unloaded onto lots where they sit for the mandatory waiting periods and then are loaded onto different trucks to cross the border.

I am not an expert and don’t fully understand the process, but it is interesting to watch all of the activity with vehicles near the border.

When crossing the border, agents ask about certain items that we are transporting. When entering Canada we are almost always asked about guns and alcohol. When returning to the US we are asked if we have bought any items in Canada. There are also questions asked about foods. Transporting eggs, fresh fruit and vegetables, and other items is prohibited. However, I see people loading multiple carts of food into cars with British Columbia license plates in the Costco parking lot each time I go to that store. I doubt that all of those people are engaging in illegal activity. They must know what is legal to import.

Border towns have multiple businesses that receive mail delivered to US addresses that are picked up by Canadians. Part of this has to do with free shipping with businesses such as Amazon Prime. A Canadian living near the border can set up a US mailbox to receive Amazon Prime shipments which are delivered free. Then they drive across the border to pick up their packages.

We have neighbors who work full time in import and export. I’m not sure what their jobs entail, but I think it is a lot of computer work to make sure that regulations are followed and proper documentation exists.

When I was looking online to figure out the flow of cars into and out of the US, I discovered that the small South Caucasus nation of Georgia is a multi-billion dollar hub for vehicles from the US. Many of the vehicles are purchased from salvage lots, repaired in Georgia and exported to former Soviet republics. Last year Georgia imported $3.1 billion worth of cars and exported $2.1 billion. Export from Georgia to Russia officially stopped as a result of the 2022 invasion of Ukraine, but recent investigations have shown loopholes exploited by cross border dealers.

The demand for US luxury cars in the countries of the former Soviet Union is high. Increasingly there is also high demand for hybrid and electric vehicles. A Tesla involved in an accident and written off by an insurance company has a high probability of ending up in Georgia for repairs. It seems to me that there must also be a significant market in automobile parts from the US to go into the wrecked cars that are imported when they are rebuilt. Repairs in Georgia cost a fraction of similar work done in the US because of the difference in the cost of labor.

Unlike export to Canada, vehicles exported to Georgia are not required to meet stringent safety inspections. The articles I read did not comment on whether or not there are shortcuts in safety requirements such as bypassing air bags or other equipment required in western nations, but I suspect that there could be some compromises made.

And now you have read most of this journal entry by someone who doesn’t know what he is writing about. I’m no expert on import and export of lumber, vehicles, food, or anything else. I’m just a retired guy who happens to live near the border and who watches the trucks and people going back and forth across the border. Maybe this entry will spark some reader to spend more time than I did researching on the Internet. At the very least, I have some new questions to ask if I go shopping for a used car sometime in the future.

Shared spaces

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Our little bay stretches between two points that jut out into the sea. At the north, Birch Point isn’t really a point at all, but rather a rounded knob that curves around with Drayton Harbor beyond. On the south, there is a genuine point, Point Whithorn is the name of the geographic feature, a series of high bluffs with a short, steep trail leading down to the water’s edge. There are two oil refineries and a now idle aluminum plant with docks that extend out into the sea south of Point Whitehorn. The industrial area, along with the aquatic reserve between them and the point are generally known as Cherry Point.

We lived in our house and explored our neighborhood for three years before we discovered Point Whitehorn Marine Reserve. It is 54 acres of forest, bluff and beach. There is an ADA accessible trail to viewpoints at the top of the bluff. The trail crosses 19 small wooden bridges and passes by giant old growth trees with dense undergrowth. The viewpoints before the steep trail down to the beach offer spectacular views of the Strait of Georgia and the San Juan Islands.

Yesterday was a picture perfect day for a walk through the reserve and down to the beach. There aren’t many truly cloudless days in this part of the world, but there were no clouds to be seen yesterday afternoon. A bit of sea haze was on the horizon between us and the islands, but they were easy to see. The water was calm and the day just right for a comfortable fall walk.

Like folk who have lived here longer than us, we have begun to understand the cycle of seasons. We know that rainy days are ahead for us. Unlike other places where we have lived where floods occur in the spring, November is flood season around here. The rains usually begin in October with several successive atmospheric rivers dumping lots of rain on everything west of the summit of the Cascades. The level where the rain turns to snow descends with the coming of fall and generally ends up around 4,000 feet, where the snow falls wet and heavy. Rivers fill with water and the managers of the dams in the mountains make complex considerations trying to keep their reservoirs full for maximum electric generation year round. Reservoirs store not only water, but for practical purposes they also store electrical energy. Controlling the release of water through the dams allows power operators to maximize electricity production. When the reservoirs are full, however, dam operators are forced to release excess water that can result in downstream flooding. When the rains are accompanied by warmer air causing snow melt in the higher elevations, area rivers flood.

Winter can also bring king tides with cause coastal flooding. The king tides don’t come as early as the November rains so the two phenomena aren’t simultaneous.

Anticipating the coming of rainy season, we are reveling in the clear days and relatively warm daytime temperatures. It is a season for slightly longer walks and for lingering to enjoy the beauty of this place we call home.

When we got down to the beach yesterday, we found friends there enjoying the day. These friends have two boys, a second-grader and a fourth-grader. The boys were having a great time building a lean-to out of driftwood and decorating it with rocks and shells they found on the beach. There were some relatively large pieces of wood that required the boys to cooperate to move them into place and there was a fair amount of discussion as to how they should be placed to enhance their structure. Their structure was large enough for the boys to crawl under a makeshift roof that provided a bit of shade, but that wouldn’t have kept them dry in the rain. It was clear that the younger brother was enjoying being under the cover more than the older brother, who stayed outside of the structure all of the time that we were chatting with their mother.

The mother said they had talked about going to a park for the day. There are several nice parks in our area, some with lots of open space for play, climbing structures, swings and other amenities. The boys, however, had told their mother that they preferred to go into nature, by which they meant a place with less development. The Point Whitehorn Marine Reserve was just the right place for their outing. I asked the boys if they had see the giant tree that had fallen leaving a small cavelike divot beneath the upturned roots. Someone has hauled a small stump into the area which seems quite inviting. It is large enough that the boys could stand up under the shelter of the roots above. The boys immediately knew the place to which I referred. The younger one said he likes going under the roots. The older one reported that he thinks the place is “creepy.” He doesn’t like the way the roots hang down from the area overhead.

Our conversation couldn’t have taken 15 minutes and the boys were busy building all of the time. However, it was enough for me to learn quite a bit about them and to notice some differences in their personalities. The conversation reminded me of how much I enjoy being out in nature, but also how much I enjoy being with people. When I walk through the forest, I enjoy the solitude and the quiet. I can also find great pleasure in an empty beach with a log or rock on which I can sit and enjoy the peacefulness. But I don’t need to have the natural places of this world to myself. Our walk along the beach was enhanced by a conversation with friends, and the piling up of driftwood, rocks and shells by a couple of young boys added to the interest of the beach and the joy of the day.

I don’t need to own a large amount of land, but I am grateful to live near protected natural places that we share and all can enjoy.

Social media

I have never been on the cutting edge of media. I worked for a few years as a small market radio DJ. Our station broadcast at 1,000 watts and covered approximately 100 miles in southwest North Dakota and northwest South Dakota. The station is now owned and operated by Schweitzer Media, but when I worked there it was independent. That was a long time ago before live-streaming. I used to drive across the west changing radio stations as I went. There were a few stations with larger transmitters and sometimes at night you could drive for hundreds of miles on the same station, but usually we tuned the radio as we went.

We were slow to get a television at our house. It simply wasn’t a priority. When we want to watch a television program these days we do so on a computer monitor. We don’t subscribe to cable or satellite television.

It was a bit different with computers. I have long been and continue to be a bit of a gadget person. In the early days of email before there were internet browsers, I had a 300-baud modem that worked over the telephone. I took the telephone handset, which was hard wired, and inserted it into a cradle where the modem generated tones to dial and to communicate over the phone lines. It was very slow. I uploaded and downloaded messages only once per day and read and wrote messages offline. I continued to acquire gadgets, obtaining a digital assistant that kept my address book and calendar before cell phones existed. I wasn’t among the first adopters of cell phones in part because I didn’t feel I needed one. I eventually got one. I was a bit quicker to switch from a flip phone to a smart phone but Apple was already on its 4th model before I got an iPhone because service was limited where we lived.

As a pastor, I tried to keep up with social media somewhat. I reluctantly opened a Facebook account to follow the travels of a nephew. It seemed to be his only method of communicating with us. I began to follow a few friends who lived far away. I was, however, slow to post on the platform until the pandemic. When we were forced to cancel in-person worship, I moved fairly quickly, live-streaming our worship services over Facebook, setting up meetings over Go To Meetings, and posting videos daily. I still do not link my address book or my photos to Facebook, preferring a bit of privacy and having a desire to retain ownership of my creative work.

Along the way, I opened a Twitter account, but became disillusioned with the platform as it rebranded to X Corp. I posted worship services and daily prayers one YouTube and still watch a fair amount on that platform. I have an Instagram account, but don’t post often. The account is linked to my Facebook account so occasionally I will post a photo to Instagram that shows up in my Facebook feed. Messenger is also linked to Facebook, and I used to use it a fair amount because it was a preferred method of communication with or Lakota partners in South Dakota who live where cell phone service isn’t always reliable and often do not have land lines in their homes. I have a LinkedIn account, and occasionally connect with colleagues over that media, but will go for days without paying any attention to it. I feel that being retired I no longer need to sell myself online. I experimented with Discord a bit when I served as Interim Minister of Faith Formation at First Congregational Church in Bellingham, but I never clicked with the platform and have since been inactive.

Of course I maintain my website and publish my journal daily. So I’m not completely ignorant about media, but don’t look for me on WhatsApp, TikTok, WeChat, Telegram, Snapchat, Weibo, Reddit, Pinterest, Quora, Threads, imo, Twitch, Piscart, Vevo, or Tumblr.

The reason I am thinking about social media today is the experience of the last couple of days. With the solar cycle reaching max and eruptions sending ions toward earth where they collide with gasses in our atmosphere resulting in spectacular Aurora displays, a lot of friends and colleagues have had fun experiences looking at the Northern Lights. I keep thinking that we might be treated to a good display since we live right on the 49th parallel, but the combination of bright lights from the city of Vancouver and frequent cloudy skies mean that we haven’t yet seen displays that rival what we used to see when we lived in North Dakota. On Thursday evening, however, we could see Northern Lights from our home and I took a few pictures.

Yesterday a colleague posted that she had spent two hours driving in rural areas in Northern Michigan expressly to see the lights and had seen nothing. She had seen a lot of pictures posted by others but had not experienced the Aurora herself. Another colleague jokingly posted a picture of a cloudy sky across which lines had been drawn in crayon colors, commenting that he hadn’t seen the lights, either, but wanted to join in with all the folks who had. I tried to post a picture I had taken for my colleagues, but since my photos and Facebook aren’t linked, I struggled to remember how to post a single picture. Finally, I posted the picture to my Instagram and it showed up on my Facebook feed. It wasn’t what I had intended and instead of being displayed to just those two colleagues, it went out to everyone who is one of my friends on Facebook. Comments began to appear in my various feeds. It was fun to think of friends who commented on the picture. Then I received a message with a comment on Messenger from a woman I have known all my life. I don’t know her exact age, but she is in her 90s. While I was struggling to remember how to conduct a conversation over Messenger, she was clearly active online, adding regularly to the conversation. I suspect she was juggling multiple conversations at the same time.

I have been comfortable not being able to keep up with folks the ages of our children and grandchildren. I am, after all, old and retired. But I really need to be able to keep up with friends of my parents’ generation. The mother of one of my childhood friends has motivated me to become more attuned to social media. I don’t expect to be cutting age, I just want to keep up with those who are 20 years older than I.

Shifting giving patterns

It is becoming common for the payment machines at retailers to ask customers to donate to various causes. We use our debt card for many purchases and are often given the option of making a donation. Those retail sales appeals are generally imprecise when it comes to giving details of the donations. A few months ago, a grocery store clerk asked me if I wanted to donate to cancer. I commented that I was generally opposed to cancer and might be more inclined to donate to cancer research to which the clerk said, “Yea, that’s what it is.” The clerk, however, didn’t know what organization was receiving the donations. I’ve been asked to support veterans, contribute to neutering pets, help hungry people, and support law enforcement, all while shopping for everyday items.

There is a local bookstore that has a cause each month for “round up,” in which customers are asked to round up their payment to the next highest dollar with the proceeds going to a different cause each month. I am friends with the bookstore owners and we happen to agree on a lot of things, and the causes seeking donations are often ones that I already support. Sometimes I agree to round up my purchase.

Then again, I’ve been known to give cash to a stranger who approaches me in a parking lot with a story of an immediate need. I don’t check the veracity of the stranger’s story. I don’t check to see if they are misusing funds. I’m pretty sure that giving that kind of support isn’t efficient and generally doesn’t solve any problems long term.

The cause at the drug store and the grocery store this week is hurricane relief. I can see why. The news coverage of the devastation of back-to-back hurricanes with associated flooding and tornadoes demonstrates significant need of disaster relief. Real people are suffering and in need of help. Despite attempts to use natural disaster for political gain and some truly dangerous lies that have been circulated in the aftermath of the recent hurricanes, disaster response is one place where government works. Taxpayer dollars go to work quickly following a disaster and help bring some relief to those who have lost so much.

Most of the mail I receive are invitations to donate. In the past couple of weeks I have received at least two notices that my membership has expired in organizations to which I don’t think I have ever belonged. A veterans organization that is new to me asked, “Please consider extending your gift by automatic payment.” I don’t think I’ve ever made a donation to that organization.

I don’t read all of the appeals for donations that come my way. Some end up in the recycling bin without being opened. However, I am not opposed to donating to worthy causes. Life has been good to me and I have enjoyed privilege. Part of the responsibility of someone in my situation is sharing with others who have needs greater than my own. I’ve done a lot of fund raising over the span of my career. I’ve asked people to donate to church organizations, arts organizations, housing projects, food banks, youth shelters, and a host of other organizations. One of my general “rules” for all of that is that I tried to never ask anyone to donate to a cause unless I had already made a donation myself. I’ve served on the boards of many different nonprofit corporations over the years and I’ve made contributions to each of them.

It is pretty clear that giving patterns are shifting. More people are making online donations than was the case in the past. When making appeals, most organizations are set up to receive electronic payments. Sending checks in the mail is no longer the major way donations are made. I am aware of this in part because we have shifted how we make donations as we have entered the retired phase of our life. We are required to make mandatory withdrawals from our IRA account and there is a tax advantage to making donations directly from those accounts. While we once paid our church pledge monthly out of our income, we now make an annual gift from our retirement funds.

I have always tried to plan giving so that I support the causes and organizations in which I believe. While I have no objection to impulse giving when the donor can afford the gift and the cause is worthy, it seems to me to be less efficient. Rather than donating a few pennies or a couple of dollars at the checkout in the store, I prefer to donate to the special appeals from our church for many causes.

This journal entry was inspired in part by my sorting through stacks of paper on my desk. Among the items I have are appeals for donations that somehow I didn’t place in the recycling bin, but also have not yet made a donation. Most of them are causes that either I will not be supporting or that I will support by making a donation through a different channel. Only one or two will result in my making a gift at this time. Sorting through those appeals, I wonder why I kept them and put off making a decision. I don’t want to become callous to the suffering of others. I do want to be generous. But I am not as impulsive as once was the case. I like to think that my gifts make a difference. I want to be thoughtful in my giving. And I don’t control large amounts of money. I’m a small player when it comes to finances. There is a nonprofit hospital in our region with an annual budget in the billions. I haven’t donated to it. I believe in nonprofit medical care, but it doesn’t seem like my donation makes any difference at all in the operation of that particular corporation. I don’t have billions, or even millions to give.

I end up being a bit confused. I suspect that my skills as a fund-raiser have eroded over time. I don’t really know how to inspire giving in others any more. So I keep moving donation requests from pile to pile. I try to be thoughtful. And I cling to the hope that sometimes I am able to make a gift that genuinely helps someone.

Another rant about immigration

Recently I was running an errand on the Lummi Reservation when I noticed three vehicles of the US Border Patrol coming toward me. They didn’t have their lights and sirens going, but it was a bit unusual to see three together. Within the next mile, I saw two more. Border Patrol vehicles are white with a green stripe and The logo of the US Customs and Border Protection Agency on the door. They also have the words “Border Patrol” in Green letters along the side and across the back. They have light bars like other law enforcement vehicles. Around here about half of the Border Patrol vehicles are pickup trucks and the rest are SUVs. We see the vehicles quite a bit in our area. In the town of Blaine they have a large fenced area where there are a lot of the vehicles parked and there are always a lot of officers around the border itself. When we take guests to the International Peace Park at he border we usually end up talking with some of the agents on foot patrol in the park.

But Lummi is a about 15 miles by road from the border, and while it is not unusual to see a single Border Patrol vehicle anywhere around here, seeing so many got me to thinking about what might be going on. They were probably on the back roads for the same reason as I was. I had taken the back roads because construction crews are installing a new multi-lane traffic circle at the Interstate exit for the reservation and Lummi Island. I prefer to drive on the back roads to being stuck in slow moving traffic. There are a lot of reasons why Patrol Officers need to know all of the back roads and the best ways to get around the traffic snarls.

I suppose that the vehicles might have been part of a training exercise and navigating the back roads is routine, especially when official duties may require them to know how to get around traffic on the Interstate. Perhaps they had some official business with Reservation officials. I guess there are a lot of possible explanations.

I like living near the border and we have definitely become more comfortable with border crossings since we have lots of reasons to go into Canada, usually on day trips. Our preferred major airport is in Vancouver. We like to go to Point Roberts, which requires a short drive through Canada, for day hikes. There are lots of other reasons to make the trip and to interact with Border Patrol officers.

From time to time we read in the newspaper about major actions by Border Patrol officers. Not long ago they seized a semi loaded with marijuana attempting to cross the border. Marijuana is legal in Washington and in British Columbia, but it is illegal to transport it across the border in either direction. There are routine arrests for drug violations. There have even been a few stories of high speed chases with offenders.

Another reality of living on the border is that we have many friends and neighbors who belong to cross border families. Some such families were formed by someone from Canada falling in love with and marrying someone from the US. Other families have members who live on one side of the border and some on the other side because of jobs. Our neighborhood used to be a place where many Canadians owned vacation property and there are still a lot who come here for recreation. There is also a regional housing shortage that results in people crossing the border to find affordable housing.

So here is my political statement for the last month before the election: Anybody who tells you that immigration is a simple issue is either misinformed or lying. Immigration is a huge issue worldwide and there are no simple solutions. No matter how big or long or strong a wall along a border is, people will travel back and forth. The majority of illegal immigrants in the United States entered legally and their status changed when visas or other official permission expired.

I was reminded of the complexity of immigration this week when I learned from CBC radio of the emergency work that that the Canadian Embassy was doing as a second hurricane bore down on Florida. There are more than 115,000 people of Canadian birth who live in the state of Florida alone. And Florida is as far from the Canadian border as you can get in the US except for Hawaii. It isn’t just our neighborhood where Canadians live. They live all around the country. And Canadians in the US are not the victims of forced relocation. They come here voluntarily. That is a luxury that a lot of people in the world do not have. According to the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees there are currently 117.3 million people in the world who have been forcibly displaced as a result of persecution, conflict, violence, human rights violations, or events seriously disturbing public disorder. Some of those refugees are still in the country where they started, being displaced internally. However, there are 43.3 million refugees who have been forced to leave their home country.

Some of those people end up in the United States, most of them entering legally. There are 6.9 million people seeking asylum because of immediate threats to their lives. The number of asylum seekers admitted legally to the US reached a high in 2020 at the height of the Covid-19 Pandemic. In 2021, the most recent year for which full statistics are available, the US admitted 17,692 asylum seekers, a 43% drop from the previous year. Asylum seekers are allowed to remain in the US legally while their case is adjudicated.

Other immigrants are actively recruited to come to the US. For example our nation imports large numbers of physicians and other health care workers to staff our hospitals, nursing homes, and care centers. Our medical schools simply do not supply enough doctors to meet the health care needs of our country. My recent increase in need of specialty health care has demonstrated to me how much I personally am dependent upon doctors, nurses, and technicians who have immigrated to the US.

So if a candidate proclaims that they posses a plan for a simple solution to immigration, don’t believe them. There are no simple solutions. It will take complex thinking and multiple problem solving skills to address issues that will continue to be a part of life for decades to come. That doesn’t make for good sound bytes for campaigns, but the truth is often difficult.

Waiting for sunrise

The days are definitely getting shorter up here on the 49th parallel. Sunrise today is at 7:23 am and sunset is at 7:03. That means that more than half of every day is dark. Back at the equinox, on September 22, day and night were nearly equal. We know shorter days are coming. By winter solstice we will have only slightly more than 8 hours with the sun above the horizon. We get our sunshine in the summer. At summer solstice our days are over 16 hours long.

The system of latitude and longitude is an ancient measuring system. Once early observers came to the conclusion that the earth was spherical, they imagined a system of grid lines to mark any location on the surface of the earth. Ancient Greet astronomers came up with a system of dividing the earth into 360 degrees. Hipparchus, who lived in the second century BC developed a system of longitude. His prime meridian passed through Alexandria. The modern system continues the system with a couple of adjustments. The prime meridian is imagined to pass through Greenwich, near London, England in the modern system.

For centuries before the development of Global Positioning Satellites, mariners determined their location on the globe using two primary instruments. A chronometer is a very accurate clock set to the time at the prime meridian. By observing the time at noon, when the sun is the highest in the sky, the distance from the prime meridian could be observed. Chronometers, sometimes called sea clocks, were in widespread use well into the 20th century. The technician who repairs and adjusts our antique clocks still works on sea clocks and tells us that they are the most complex devices he services. They are equipped with gimbals to keep them level and the mechanisms employ very tiny screws to set level.

Latitude was determined by measuring the angle of the sun above the horizon using a sextant, an instrument that uses internal mirrors to measure the angle between two objects. Charts were developed so mariners could use the measurement of the sun’s angle at noon or the angle of the north star at midnight when traveling in the northern hemisphere to determine their position on the globe.

The system used the units of time for precision, so longitude and latitude are divided into degrees, minutes, and seconds. That is probably much more detail than most people need to know. For the purposes of this journal entry, I am ignoring longitude and using only a few lines of latitude as reference points. I’ll start with the equator, where the length of days is the same all year round. Since I live in the northern hemisphere, I’ll consider just that half of the globe for this conversation. The North pole is 90 degrees, so halfway between the equator and the north pole is the 45th parallel, which runs close to where we lived in South Dakota. We’ve lived most of our lives near that line. The farthest south we’ve lived is Chicago at about 42 degrees north and our current home next to the 49th parallel is the farthest north we have lived. The difference in the length of days and in the rate of change is easy to observe when we compare where we not live with our home in South Dakota.

If we were to continue to travel north to the Arctic Circle, at approximately 66 degrees, we would be at the southern limit of the area where for at least one day each year the sun does not set and for one day the sun does not rise. In the summer at the Arctic Circle there is a season of perpetual sunrise or sunset. For reference, if we were to drive to the Arctic Circle in Canada, it would be a trip of over 2,000 miles one way.

Back here on the 49th parallel, we have reached the season of the year when we start to plan and think about our outdoor activities. My bike is equipped with a headlight and taillight, but it still is pretty risky riding it on streets where cars drive at night, so I plan my bike rides later in the morning this time of year. I no longer feel that I have time for an hour bike ride before church on Sundays, though such exercise is simple in the summer. Since I’m retired, I can ride my bike at nearly any time of the day, so these days I ride in the mornings some days and in the afternoons on other days. Because we live near the coast, we have the gift of mild weather, so I’ll be able to ride my bike year round, but there will be rainy days when I choose not to do so, especially in the period between November and February. Now in the in-between time of autumn, I have to adjust my thinking because I no longer can go for my bike ride as soon as I get up in the morning. I open the blinds on the sliding door in our kitchen and sit at the table eating my breakfast as I wait for the sunrise.

Waiting for the sunrise is a time for me to reflect and remember. I’ve waited for the sunrise a lot during my life. Growing up with my father’s work involving flying light aircraft in high mountains, we got ready and took off at first light if flying fire patrol over Yellowstone Park. We needed to complete our rounds before the day got hot and the air over the mountains unstable. Aircraft performance deteriorates with rising temperature.

I learned to drink coffee while waiting for first light to hunt as a teen. The game we hunted is most active near sunrise and sunset.

As a younger adult, I used to rise early for my daily prayers and preparation for my work as a pastor. In the summers, I would head for the lake in the dark so that I could wait for sunrise while paddling my canoe.

Here on the 49th parallel the wait is just a bit longer these days. It is a good thing I’m retired because now I have time to wait.

The long way around

Our house is 2.7 miles from our son’s farm. There are lots of reasons why we enjoy living so close to farm. It is so easy for us to run over to the farm to see our grandchildren and to help when there is need of an extra hand at the farm. Our son generously shares space in their barn with me so that I have a workshop where I have several projects including a kayak that is nearing completion. It is no problem for us to farm sit when they need to travel out of town for a few days. If there is a special need, we’re just a few minutes away. If we need to watch a child while a parent is helping others, the child can be dropped off at our house or we can run over to their house in minutes. In the three years that we have lived here, we have made quick trips when a key was locked inside the house, when a child needed to be taken to the emergency room, when an extra driver was needed when different children had events in different places, and other reasons. We routinely share meals both at the farm and at our house.

2.7 miles is a very convenient distance to travel by bicycle. The only problem is that two of those 2.7 miles are on a two lane road with almost no shoulder and a 50 mph speed limit. It is no place for a bicycle. Although we occasionally see people riding bikes along that road, it seems too dangerous for us or our grandchildren.

This simmer I purchased an electric bicycle and I have really enjoyed riding it around the area. With the bike in assist mode, it has a range of nearly 40 miles, which is farther than I want to ride. I can, however, make a 20-mile loop from our home to the end of the spit on Drayton Harbor, riding both directions all the way around our bay. The boost mode allows me to go up steep hills without becoming winded and it is a wonderful treat when riding into the wind. It isn’t unusual for me to ride at an average speed of 15 mph. The bike is equipped with a speedometer and odometer and so I know that I have ridden it more than 1,000 miles since I got it.

The bike has a sturdy basket and a rack on the back, so it is a breeze to get a few groceries from the campground store or the slightly larger grocery store up the bay a couple of miles from our house.

I’m no stranger to riding a bike. When we lived in Boise, Idaho, I often rode my bike to and from work. Boise has an excellent greenbelt system of parks and bike paths that made it possible for me to ride all around the city, often being able to travel a shorter distance than required if driving a car. In those days I didn’t have an electric bike and didn’t feel a need for one. Rapid City, however, was a different matter. We lived up a hill from town and the 10 mile each way ride was too much for me. I never did ride my bike from home to the church, though I rode many trails in the hills as well as riding around the city.

Were the road different, I would definitely ride to the farm, often on a daily basis. I enjoy the exercise and it is wasteful to drive my pickup when I have nothing to haul.

Since I’m a person who enjoys looking at maps and driving on back roads, I’ve explored most of the country roads around here by car and am exploring them further by bike. I also have discovered two roads that parallel the road from our house to our son’s farm that have wide bike lanes alongside them. Even though the speed limit is 50 mph on both roads, there is plenty of room to ride my bike even when the traffic includes semi trucks going to and from the refinery.

The weather was just right on Sunday for a ride, so I set out to explore a back roads route to the farm. I had two possible routes in mind and so made a loop out of the trip, going one route on the way to the farm that got me there in 9.2 miles and returning by a slightly shorter route of 8.7 miles. I was so pleased with the trip that I repeated the loop yesterday going the opposite direction. Yesterday, I was able to spend a couple of hours at the farm working on my kayak, so I plugged in the bike while I worked and never saw the energy meter on the bike go below 3/4 charge. I’m feeling pleased with the new-found ability to ride my bike to and from the farm. With the boost of the electric bicycle, I can make the trip in about a half hour. Since my walking pace these days is only about 3 mph, the bike gets me there quicker than I could walk going directly and walking has the same dangers as riding the bike, so taking a direct route walking is not a safe option.

Riding my bike to and from the farm is a sign to me that I am settling into retirement. When I was working, I don’t think I often was willing to take that much time to cover a similar distance. I had things to do and places to go. These days, however, a half hour trip to the farm seems like a fun adventure when the weather is good. I’ll probably always be a fair weather bike rider. I have ridden it some distance in the rain and I have good rain gear, but I wear glasses and haven’t yet found a good way to deal with the way rain distorts my vision when it is running down my glasses.

For now I’m celebrating that I know how to go 17.9 miles to complete a 5.4 mile trip. Now that I’m retired, I have time for “long cuts” instead of always seeking out the shortcut.

Seeking peace in a world of war

Like most other people whose formal education began in US elementary and secondary schools, my history education consisted mostly of reading and classroom activities teaching about a series of wars: The American Revolution, The War of 1812, The Civil War, World War I, World War II, The Korean War, The Vietnam War. Our history books rarely mentioned the acts of war against Native Americans that were part of the settlement of the continent by Europeans. And most years our US history class didn’t make it to the Vietnam War. It was not mentioned in all of the history books we had even though the US was involved in the war for all of my school years. Unlike some previous conflicts, although the US was involved in the war and the war produced casualties of US combatants, the war was officially between North Vietnam and South Vietnam. It was, in many ways, however, a proxy war between the Soviet Union and the United States.

The Vietnam War had an impact on me personally because the United States had a draft. The draft applied to men only and I registered as required by law. By the time I was old enough to register the war was quite unpopular in the United States. Huge protests were being held in American Cities. Members of congress were expressing opposition to the war. The draft was officially ended with my age cohort. No one in my birth year was drafted, though we registered and received our lottery numbers. My lottery number was 11. Had I been born one year earlier I would have been drafted.

Even though the War in Vietnam carried on for a long time with nearly 20 years of US involvement, it did have an end date. On April 30, 1975 Saigon fell. Residual conflicts in Laos and Cambodia continued after that date, but historians can post a date for the end of the war at least when it comes to US involvement.

Of course for many who were directly involved the cost of war never ended. In round numbers, 58,000 US soldiers died. Grief over the loss of a loved one never ends. By the 1990s, another 58,000 veterans of the war were living with homelessness, another lasting legacy of their involvement in the war.

For those who experience combat war never ends.

Unlike the War in Vietnam, those who fought in the Korean conflict can’t put an end date on US involvement in that war. Technically that war has been ongoing for nearly 80 years since August of 1945.

It would also be accurate to say that the Arab-Israeli conflict has been ongoing for all of my life. There are sub-wars within the conflict that have start and stop dates, but there has been ongoing conflict in the region since May of 1948.

And those wars are short compared to some wars in history. In European history we studied the Hundred Years’ War which really lasted for 116 years. And there was a Second Hundred Years’ War that lasted 126 years. The Ottoman-Hungarian wars lasted for 160 years and the Russian conquest of Siberia lasted nearly 200. The Crusades are officially dated at just under 195 years. According to Wikipedia, the Muslim invasion of India tops the list of the longest wars in history at 1213 years from 644 to 1857.

One way to characterize human history is to report it as a story of unending war. The wars overlap. There are countries who have had perpetual war for all of their history. Today marks the first anniversary of the October 7 attacks that were the deadliest day in Israel’s history. 1,189 people, including 815 civilians were killed. 7,500 were wounded and 251 were taken hostage. The response to those attacks has continued to expand over the year since. The air and ground campaign in Gaza has killed more than 41,500. And one year in the conflict has spread from Gaza to become a regional war with Lebanon reeling from deadly air strikes claiming victims in Beirut every night. Terror attacks against Israel continue. Just today a gunman was shot dead after a policewoman was killed and ten others injured in an attack in Beersheba. And the world response to the conflict has increased antisemitic incidents worldwide. The Anti-Defamation League has identified 10,000 incidents in the US in the past year.

We know how to start wars, but we don’t know how to end them. Even when we can put an official date to the end of a conflict, the effects of that conflict continue. US combatants have officially withdrawn from Afghanistan, but the people who live in Afghanistan haven’t experienced peace for more than 46 years.

And in this world of perpetual war there are always innocent victims. It isn’t just soldiers who die in wars. It is impossible to count the casualties of the Somali Civil War or the Lord’s Resistance Army Insurgency, or the drug wars in Columbia or a hundred other ongoing conflicts that are not mentioned in this journal entry. The history of humanity continues to be shaped by conflict and the unjust deaths of innocent civilians.

In the context of all of these wars, the ritual of passing peace in worship is much more than a symbolic gesture. It is the practicing of a critical skill. When we turn to those who are in the same room as us and wish them the peace of Christ we are acknowledging that peace comes from beyond us and is beyond our capacity to understand. And yet we have been empowered to offer that peace to one another. I am well aware that passing the peace around a room of people who are similar to us and who worship with us is not extending peace to the places in the world enmeshed in active combat. But for me it serves as a reminder that war is not inevitable. Peace is possible. Prayers for peace are not in vain.

May the Peace of Christ be with you.

Worldwide Communion

One of the joys of our four years of seminary education was being immersed not only in the study of theology and practical ministry, but also living in Christian Community. In those days, Chicago Theological Seminary was housed in a large building with a tower. There were two formal chapels in the building and we had some deeply meaningful times of worship with our classmates. CTS drew students from around the world with special relationships with a few countries. We had close friends and classmates from Australia, South Africa, Indonesia, and other countries as well as students from many different states. CTS has always been a fairly small school, but then as now hosted a very diverse student population. Our worship experiences were not limited to our own seminary, however. Hyde Park was home to the Chicago Cluster of Theological Schools, a consortium that had emerged from the previous federated theological faculties. We could cross register and take classes at the other schools in the cluster including the Divinity School of the University of Chicago, Catholic Theological Union, Jesuit School of Theology at Chicago, Meadville Lombard Theological School, Lutheran School of Theology at Chicago, McCormick Theological Seminary and several other schools accredited by the Association of Theological Schools. Students from Garrett Evangelical Theological Seminary also cross-registered and came down from the northern suburbs of the city to attend classes. And we all worshiped together.

The celebration of communion was a connecting point. Not only did we study the history and traditions of the church and its liturgies, we experienced sharing the bread and cup with classmates from around the world from a wide variety of different theological and liturgical traditions. We shared the sacrament with Catholic priests and Unitarian ministers, with Lutheran and Episcopal and Presbyterian and Methodist and Christian Church, Disciples of Christ and Reformed colleagues.

Throughout our active careers the first Sunday of October was a deeply meaningful day for us as we celebrated Worldwide Communion Sunday with Christians around the world. It had direct emotional impact on us as we remembered our Australian and South African colleagues with whom we had celebrated during our seminary years in Chicago and thought of them serving their congregations. Sharing communion brought to mind our Baptist colleagues working in rural communities in Illinois and our Catholic colleagues serving congregations in Boston and Rome and our colleagues from other denominations serving in a wide variety of settings from hospital, military and law enforcement chaplaincies to large urban congregations to small rural and isolated congregations. We felt connected to Christians around the world even though our careers began in two very small and isolated congregations in Southwestern North Dakota. Our nearest United Church of Christ colleagues were 40 miles away and we formed friendships with colleagues who served Lutheran, Methodist, Catholic, Assembly of God, and other denominations.

On Worldwide Communion Sunday we felt connected to all of those people. We also felt our connection with those who had gone before us. We told the stories of the saints of the saints of the history of the church and we listened to the stories of the saints of the congregations we served. We remembered those who had died and at whose funerals we had officiated. And we felt connected in the simple sharing of bread and the cup.

As we served different congregations in different settings we recalled the other congregations where we had worshiped and shared communion. And in each place the liturgy brought to our mind those in the future who will celebrate the sacrament long after our time on this earth has come to its end.

This world is full of divisions and desperately in need of connections. Today as we share communion at our church in Bellingham, Washington, we will be especially mindful of those who celebrate in dire circumstances. Beirut, Lebanon is ten hours ahead of us on the clock, so many faithful Christians there will have already shared communion when we get to our service. They woke up this morning after what the BBC called the “Worst night so far in Beirut” as Israel carried out strikes against Hezbollah which was firing rockets into northern Israel. One year after the deadly Hamas strike against Israel the war is spreading far beyond the initial strikes in Gaza. Peace seems impossible as tens of thousands of innocents have been killed and their survivors blend grief with hatred and a desire for revenge. Faithful Christians paused in Beirut today and shared the bread and the cup with words ancient and meaningful.

Mozambique, Africa is an hour behind Beirut. There Christians celebrated communion in the midst of political instability as independence era leaders bow out of leadership.

Our colleagues in Japan and Australia will be sleeping early tomorrow morning when we get to church today in our country, but they will have celebrated communion with words of institution and prayers of consecration that we would recognize because they have been drawn from our shared history.

Matthew’s Gospel ends with the commissioning of disciples. Jesus says, “Go therefore and make disciples of all nations . . .” More than two thousand years later there are Christian disciples in all of the nations of the world. Worldwide communion is being celebrated on every continent. And we are connected to those people through our shared sacrament.

One of the things I did during my career as a pastor was to write hundreds of responsive liturgies for the sharing of communion. I saw it as one of my roles to put the ancient words of institution and consecration into the mouths of lay members of the congregation. There is a long history in the church of understanding sacrament as not the province of officiating clergy, but being a direct connection between God and individual believers. I tried to give those believers the words of history and tradition as together we celebrated a sacrament that will be passed down to our great grandchildren and beyond.

Now I am old and retired. But I am eager to approach the communion table in our church today. There will be a bite of bread - not enough to satisfy, but just a taste. There will be a drop of juice and with those elements connection with so many others around the world throughout all of history. In the bread and cup we will touch one another and be renewed.

May this day be holy and blessed for you.

AI immortality

CBC radio did an interview which I have now heard twice with a man who claims to be married to an AI chatbot. He discovered an application that offers AI generated conversation with a very human sounding voice accompanied by visual images. I am uncertain whether the images are viewed with goggles or on a screen or both. After several sessions and explorations, he decided that he was in love with his avatar. He proposed and she accepted, but only after he purchased her a ring from the program’s store. They arranged a ceremony in the virtual world and he continues to spend hours each day speaking with her and sharing the details of his life with her.

I try not to judge other people, and I know that different people make different decisions about relationships. I also know that dating and finding a partner is a very difficult process, perhaps made even more difficult by the multiple dating apps available. At least the dating apps play to fantasy by allowing one to consider many more potential partners than one might meet in real life situations. They also consume time and energy that might be invested in conversation and getting to know people face to face. I confess, however, that I simply don’t understand how one could be married to a computer generated fantasy. At least that is how the AI generated mate seems to me.

My perspective is a minority one, I suppose. Only a minority of our friends have been blessed with marriages that have lasted more than 50 years. We know happy and well adjusted people who have been married multiple times. We know loving families that have been reconfigured. We know that our relationship is only one of many different relationships that people discover, engage in, and celebrate. What we call marriage is not the only definition of a relationship to which that word is applied.

I have also noticed several articles recently about companies that offer various AI programs that use recordings of a loved one’s voice and information entered by either that person or another person in their life to create what they are calling an eternal relationship. When the loved one dies, the AI program continues to offer virtual conversation with that person by generating responses and delivering them in the voice of the one who has died.

People have longed to talk to loved ones who have died. There are those who claim to have special powers to contact persons beyond death. Seances and ceremonies are held in which simple messages are “received” and delivered.

I have a similar reaction to the AI programs promising unending relationship that I have to the mediums who offer seances for communicating with the spirits of those who have died. I don’t believe that they offer true connection. It isn’t that I don’t believe in life beyond death. I do. It isn’t that I don’t believe in spiritual connection. I do.

What I don’t believe is that true relationship can be turned into a commodity that is bought and sold. Just like physical intimacy for profit in the form of prostitution is not the same as a genuine relationship where two souls share a wide variety of intimacies including physical intimacy, a subscription to a company that sells a unique set of algorithms to imitate conversation and connection is not the same thing as forging a spiritual connection that reaches beyond death.

For now at least, I have no interest in doing business with the companies promising AI immortality. I’ve spent far too much time sitting with people going through grief to believe that grief can be avoided. Death is real. Loss causes pain. It is true that in the depths of grief a person can long for just one more conversation, just one more touch, just one more smile. But it is also true that facing loss and honestly sharing grief offers a way to deeper meaning and understanding. For humans, love without the possibility of loss is not really love. We are granted the gifts of life and love and they are precious treasures. But we do not go on forever and subscribing to a software service does not change that reality.

People have been seeking immortality for as long as humans have inhabited this planet. I’m confident that the sellers of the AI promise of immortality will find plenty of customers. As a pastor and witness to many stories of life and love and death and loss I am confident that there is a big difference between immortality and eternal life. As a Christian I know that as painful as it is, the crucifixion and death of Jesus is a central part of our faith. Without death there is no resurrection. Jesus really died a human death. His loved ones really traveled the road of grief. Those of us who continue to follow the resurrected Christ understand that death is not something we can avoid. Death is a reality so inherent in the human experience and God’s love for humans is so great that God became human to share all of human experience. Our faith teaches us that we are not alone, even in the depths of grief - even in the experience of death.

I suppose that the sellers of AI immortality could argue that I am no different. I live within an institution that solicits donations and deals in money. I received a pay check for all of my working career from churches. I have a pension that makes monthly deposits into my bank account that supports my lifestyle. I think, however, that there is a significant difference. I hope that in my career I never promised people that they would not experience pain and loss. I hope that I never misled someone into thinking that faith is only about pleasant feelings and happy times. I hope I never promised immortality to anyone.

Most importantly, I hope that I never turned faith, hope, and love into products that could be bought and sold in the marketplace. To do so is to fail to understand faith, hope, and love. They can’t be purchased regardless of what the popup ad on your computer promises.

Selling and buying

My father taught me a little bit about what it takes to make sales in a competitive market. He was good at sales, whether it was trading airplanes, farm machinery, vehicles, feed, or other farm supplies. He succeeded in a small town environment in the days before Internet sales and FedEx deliveries. My professional life didn’t involve making deals for retail sales, but many of the principles he taught me helped with building church budgets, fundraising for nonprofits, and other aspects of the work I did. I am grateful that I was able to learn about business and life from his examples. Here are some lessons I learned.

Focus on what the customer wants and needs. Long term success is not about what I want to sell, but what the customer wants to buy. Snake oil salesmen try to convince customers that they want or need something that gives them no benefit. They have bottles that they need to sell. Don’t get stuck with product that your customers don’t need.

Be fair and be honest. Customers don’t mind profit. They do mind getting gouged. There was a Hutterite colony that purchased nearly all of their farm supplies and equipment from my father because he would show them his invoices and tell them how much markup he was making to cover overhead and modest profit. They didn’t mind paying their fair share, but they didn’t want to overpay. He often said that it is bad business to overcharge and making too much on a sale will “come back to bite you in the end.”

Think long term. When trading in a used piece of machinery, consider who the customer for that item might be. A series of deals can allow for trimming margin in one sale in order to complete multiple sales.

Maintain a reasonable inventory. If you don’t have what the customer wants, they will go to another place to make their purchase. Unsold inventory becomes more expensive with the passage of time.

Of course, my father did business in a different time. He ran his repair shop and parts businesses to support sales. These days most dealerships run those departments as separate entities with profits dedicated to that department.

I was thinking about my father and his way of doing business recently as I was cleaning out old email and text messages from my devices. Every day I receive advertisements for products that I don’t want or need. I regularly look at items on retail sales sites that I have no intention of purchasing. I might be looking to see what is available for someone else. I might be interested in something that I will never purchase. I might be trying to solve a problem and doing a bit of random searching to see what is available. Whatever the process, the algorithms that determine which ads pop up on my computer and land in my in box seem to be way off. I am constantly receiving pitches that make me think, “Just because you want to sell it doesn’t mean I want to buy it.”

I may not be a typical customer. I’ll browse through a seed catalogue looking at the pictures of plants that grow in different climatic zones than mine. I don’t intend to purchase those items. Sometimes I just enjoy looking at gorgeous pictures. Sometimes I enjoy thinking about how far particular fruits and vegetables have to travel to get to our grocery store. In a similar way I will look at all kinds of products on the Internet that I have no intention of purchasing. I am not currently shopping for a new car, but I’ll still walk around the sales lot when my car is in the shop for service. One of my favorite ploys is to ask a salesperson, “How long do you think this car will last?” When they tell me, I say, “Oh good! That means the one I have doesn’t need to be replaced.” It amuses me even if it doesn’t make an impression on the salesperson.

I have found it useful to use the Internet to check inventory at a store. I can enter my preferred store in a hardware chain site and it will display if a particular item is in stock. A similar feature allows me to check inventory and prices at other stores, including the big box stores. After a bit of Internet shopping, I can make a decision and go to a single store to make the purchase. I’ve discovered that a local hardware store often has lower prices on items that I need. This week when all of the stores are selling lots of RV antifreeze, the best price by about 15% was a small local hardware store. As a bonus it is closer to my home so I didn’t have to drive to the big box store.

Another thing that distinguishes me from some other shoppers is that I like to see and touch an item before I purchase it. I do buy things sight unseen from the Internet on occasion. Still, I prefer to go to a store to make a purchase. The big online bookseller now has a feature where you can see the first few pages of a book online, but that is not at all the same experience as flipping through a book from the liner notes and author bio, scanning the contents, looking at a few footnotes and getting a flavor not only of how it begins, but what it is like in the middle. I will often go to the bookstore in search of a specific title and end up seeing other books that interest me. More than once I’ve decided to forego the book that brought me to the store and purchase one that was next to it on the shelf.

Customer service still matters a great deal to me. Being able to find a clerk in a store that can answer questions and will take time for me is a rare experience, but one I remember. Sometimes I get treated the way my father treated his customers. When that happens, I’m likely to become a repeat customer.

Two towns

Our little drive around what is called the North Cascade Loop was a fun adventure, but in some ways didn’t go exactly as planned. The bottom line is that we were too late for some of the fruit. Although a phone call to our favorite fruit stand a few weeks ago indicated that they should still have peaches, the peaches were all gone before we made our trip. We did get a case of apples and some pears, but if the purpose of the trip is to get fruit, we will need to plan to drive the loop earlier next year. There are reasons why we delayed our trip this year, chief among which was our trip to South Carolina which was timed for our daughter’s birthday.

Nonetheless, we had a good time. Yesterday we got in a lovely hike in the high country as well as a beautiful drive through the mountains. We got home before dark and counted our ability to take such a fun trip as one of the benefits of being retired. We could have done the same trip on the weekend, but we would have encountered more crowds. Leavenworth, the town where we stayed overnight is starting its Oktoberfest weekends and will be busy with way more people in a couple of days.

One of the things about the trip that I have been mulling is the contrast between tourist towns. Since I live in a tourist area, I’m interested in how visitors are treated and what small towns can do to make themselves attractive to tourists. The contrast between Leavenworth and another town, where we ate lunch yesterday couldn’t have been more stark. I won’t put the name of the other town in this entry because my reaction to it was so negative. And, to be honest, comparing the two towns is not fair. They are not at all the same size and have different histories. Both, however, are very dependent upon tourist trade. The historic industries of those towns - farming, ranching, logging, railroad - are no longer major economic drivers. Both have tried to make themselves over as tourist destinations.

The town were we have lunch has a bit of a physical challenge. It is more isolated than the first, more than an hour farther away from the large population base of Seattle, though the two towns are very nearly the same distance from our home. And, frankly, although it claims to be a mountain town, it is a bit too far out on the desert plains to have a mountain feel. You can see the mountains from there, but the town isn’t in the mountains.

What struck me, however, wasn’t the distinction between Bavarian style architecture and wooden boardwalk old west themes. It wasn’t the difference between mountains and high plains. It wasn’t even the obvious difference in size. In one town we had our choice of dozens of places to eat. In the other we walked around town trying to decide which of three options would offer the kind of lunch we prefer. Our choices were greasy burgers, overpriced pub food, and paninis warmed in a grill that should be cleaned more often.

The difference that was so obvious to me was the people. In own town we were met by locals who were smiling and who appeared to like their jobs. In the other, no one smiled at us. No one welcomed us. Even the tourists on the street were more somber, less likely to engage in conversation, and rushing about. There were quite a few people walking up and down the streets, but not very many going into the shops. Things were a lot more run down and it was easy to see why. They need more tourist dollars to support the local economy.

We’ve visited that small tourist town multiple times over the years. We drove through the north Cascades a couple of times each year when we lived in South Dakota and our son lived west of the Cascades. We visited the town before Covid, so the challenges it faces are not entirely the result of the pandemic, though I’m sure it took a hit from people staying home for a couple of years. Each time we have stopped in the town, we have been eager to get out of town and up into the mountains. While we can imagine making Leavenworth a destination for a fun trip, we’d not plan to stay in the other town.

I could go on and on about the things that were off-putting about our visit yesterday. However, I don’t want to make this journal entry all one bit complaint. What I hope I am learning from the experience is that how I treat other people in my town can make a difference for them and for the overall health of our community. When I meet strangers on the beach or walking along the paths in our town, I am going to be conscious of smiling and saying “Hello.” If I know they are from out of town, I resolve to find words of welcome for them. I will thank them for visiting and say I hope they are enjoying themselves. If they ask, I’ll tell them were we locals go for good seafood or a quick cup of coffee. I’ll offer directions when asked.

I’m just one person and the impression that visitors have of our town depends on more than my attitude. Our town has fewer services than the smaller of the two towns I’ve been comparing in this entry. We don’t have many choices for a quick lunch, either. But we are blessed with the beauty of a delightful bay on the sea, the abundance of seafood and people who know how to responsibly harvest it, and weather that is delightful most of the time. If we can add the key ingredient of people who offer a warm welcome it should help all of the shops and restaurants in our town.

And, as I travel, putting a smile on my face even when I’m in a town that isn’t as much fun as others, might make a difference, too. I’m sure it is no fun working in a business where the customers are all grumpy.

In the mountains again

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There is a saying, “You can take the boy out of the mountains, but you can’t take the mountains out of the boy.” OK, that isn’t the real saying, which is “country” instead of “mountains.” Furthermore, it probably isn’t really true. In my case, there aren’t many mountains left int he boy. Four years in Chicago, seven in North Dakota, ten in Idaho, twenty-five in South Dakota and now four in northwestern Washington have pretty much erased my mountain nature as far as I know. Never mind that where I grew up in Montana isn’t exactly in the mountains. You can see the mountains from there, but I grew up pretty much in the valley. And you have to be careful about the use of the word, “mountains” as well. Although I maintained my Montana high country bias in my definition of mountains and never adopted the local vernacular, the folks who are native to the Black Hills of South Dakota refer to the highest of the hills as mountains, and technically I have to admit that they are accurate. Black Elk Mountain, for example, is higher than any point on the North American continent east of it and there are plenty of places called mountains out there: Appalachian Mountains, Blue Ridge Mountains, and White Mountains. Folks in New England brag of having 50 mountains taller than 4,000 feet as if that was something. We have plenty of mountain passes over 4,000 feet here in Washington.Black Elk Peak in South Dakota is 7,244 feet - more than 3,000 feet higher than those New England “mountains.” Folks in Colorado, which has more than 50 peaks over 14,000 feet must laugh when they hear about New England Mountains. Then again, Colorado shares a border with Kansas. Did you ever hear of the Wichita Mountains? Probably not, because unlike the city with the same name, they aren’t in Kansas. They are in Oklahoma. Mount Pinchot, the highest point in the Wichitas is 2,746 feet above sea level. Heck the airport in my home town is 4,500 feet above sea level. (OK 4496 if you are setting a digital altimeter.) Take that New England mountains.

Anyway, I’m not really a person of the mountains any more. Our house is at 72 feet above sea level and we walk most days down to the beach which is at sea level. Still, I love the mountains. And, from time to time I need to take a trip to get up into the mountains, breathe the fresh air, smell the trees, and be reminded of my roots.

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I might say we have a tradition of an annual fall trip up and over the Cascades to the fruit country on the other side, but that wouldn’t be accurate. Before we moved out here, we tried to get to the fruit stands in the summer or fall as we were traveling home from our regular visits to our son and his family out here. Since we have moved, we’ve made at least one trip over the mountains every year and sometimes we’ve arrived in the fruit growing area around Wenatchee. This year we are making the trip right at the beginning of October when, according to our favorite fruit stand, they still have fall peaches, plenty of apples, and other fruit. Our intention is to purchase several cases today and take them home to eat, freeze, dry and use in other ways.

We’re driving what is known as the Cascade loop. Yesterday we came over Stevens Pass (4062 ft) on US 2 between Everett and Leavenworth. Today our plan is to go back over Washington Pass (5477 ft) on Washington 20.

On our way we’re staying in Leavenworth, a small town that has made itself over from a logging town to a Bavarian themed village. It is pretty much a tourist town, but we enjoy being tourists from time to time. I might say I’m returning to my German roots. After all I had Weisswurst with sauerkraut and pickle relish for dinner. The place where we ate had 16 types of mustard, so I put horseradish mustard on one half and garlic mustard on the other half. I also had real German potato salad and a local non-alcoholic IPA to wash it all down. The problem with that and my German roots is that although my last name is German, we’re at least 4 or 5 generations removed from the old country and about the only thing German about us is our last name, which has had its spelling modified from the original German.

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Still, it is fun to be on the east slope of the cascades. The mountains were are similar what is familiar to me about my Montana home and our years int he Black Hills. Note I said “similar,” and not “the same as.” Yes there are more pine trees on this side of the pass, and there are a lot more cottonwood trees. But there are also quite a few plants that are unique to the Cascades such as elderberry and blackberries. So I sort of feel a bit at home here. I like the mountain vistas and the winding roads. But with all of the tourist hype of Leavenworth and the particular fauna of the Cascades, it doesn’t really feel like home to me. The deer around here are black tailed and different from the white tails of the Black Hills. And they are really used to tourists around here. They don’t mind if you walk up to them to take a picture.

I’m really looking forward to stocking up on fresh fruit today and I know the drive home will be spectacular. Even though it is not yet an annual tradition for us, perhaps driving the North Cascade loop sometime in the fall is a tradition worth forming. And I could make a habit of eating German sausages and potato salad once or twice a year without any problem.

You can take the boy out of the mountains, but he’ll probably come back from time to time.

Eating well from nature's bounty

One of our new friends, who we met after moving to the Pacific Northwest, grew up on one of the islands in he San Juans. He knows the waters and islands in our area of the Salish Sea like I know the creeks and drainages of the Boulder River valley in Montana. I find it fairly easy to remain oriented on land and am aware of the four directions, I find travel on the water to be more confusing. Whether riding on the ferry or cruising on another boat, I rely on the captain to keep us going in the right direction.

Our friend owns a modest boat and is a skilled fisherman. Last night we sat down to an excellent dinner that featured a large Halibut filet that he gave us. I baked the fish with butter, paprika, garlic, and salt and pepper. The meat was tender and flaky. A few beans fresh from the garden boiled and then sautéed in a bit of olive oil and a tossed salad rounded out the meal.

Halibut fishing in the Salish Sea around the islands is tightly controlled. Anglers must have a Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife (WDFW) catch record card and record the size and weight of each fish caught. The limit for halibut is one fish per day that meets size requirements with a six fish per year limit. halibut are caught in the spring and in the fall. I suspect that the portion of the filet that ended up in our freezer was part of preparing the freezer for another fishing trip. It came from a big fish. Our piece was over 3” thick and was more than enough to feed two of us for dinner. The leftover fish is going to make a great lunch.

I’m not going to become a great fisher. I grew up fishing for trout in the creeks and streams of Montana and I learned a bit about fishing in lakes and reservoirs over the course of my life, but I have never had a passion for fishing like that of some of my friends. I do, however, love to eat fish and I know several ways to cook fish. It is different for our friend. Like his innate sense of location when he is out on the water, fishing comes from deep in his past. He grew up on boats on the water fishing for salmon, halibut, rockfish, lingcod and Pacific cod. He can’t remember the first time he went fishing with his father and uncles. It is just something that he has always done.

The sea offers a rich bounty of food for those who know how to harvest it. The local parks and recreation district offers classes in harvesting crabs, clams and mussels. I plan to take those classes, but so far have not made the time. I’d like to know more about harvesting food. I don’t intend to ever own a boat big enough for offshore fishing. I can use our small row boat and probably even a canoe to set a few crab traps once I learn the rules, the places to go, and the proper techniques. All of that, however, is still in the future for me. I have not yet disciplined myself to learn the skills needed.

I do my “fishing” at the Lummi Seafood Market. there is a tribally owned market on the reservation a few miles from our house that sells crabs, clams, mussels, and fish fresh off of the boats. The Lummi nation has a fishing fleet and historic treaty rights to harvest seafood.

Salmon is considered by many to be the most important resource of the Salish Sea. Salmon are the nearly exclusive diet item for the resident Orca and they are a primary food source for porpoises, seals and sea lions as well. Since time immemorial salmon has been the primary protein source for coastal people. Before we moved to the Pacific Northwest, I thought of salmon as a single species of fish. There are, however, nine different species of salmon in the Salish Sea. Five species are the primary ones in the waters off of our section of the coast: chinook, coho, chum, sockeye, and pink. Salmon are caught offshore as well as in the rivers of the region where they hatch and where they return to lay their eggs. Each species has its own timing of the runs and each has a distinctive flavor and texture. Our friend the fisherman can tell which species by taste and texture. My palate is not yet that sophisticated. What I do know is that whatever is currently running will be what is available at the market and that I can count on consistently excellent eating from the salmon sold there.

We’ve been doing a bit of sorting in our freezer lately. Perhaps that is what brought the halibut filet to my attention. It has been in the freezer for several months. In the early summer, our freezer needs to have room for the cherries from our tree. Strawberries, blueberries, raspberries, and blackberries join them in smaller quantities. When I’m lucky, there might even be a few huckleberries, though those usually are consumed before they make it to the freezer. Today we will drive across the mountains to the fruit stands on the other side of the Cascades for a fall stock up of apples, peaches and apricots. We don’t freeze apples. They will keep crisp long enough for us to eat a case. We do dry a few for winter snacking. But the peaches and apricots will go to the freezer for winter eating.

We also have chicken and beef from the farm in our freezer. We also will need to have a little room in the freezer for one more thing. I’m not a bird hunter but decades of living in the Dakotas has given me a taste for pheasant. Even though we’ve moved from the Dakotas, we still have one source of pheasant and will have a bit in our freezer this year. Our friend, the fisherman, makes the drive to South Dakota each year for pheasant hunting. And just as is the case when he is on the water in his boat, he keeps oriented and doesn’t get lost when he heads out into the prairies of the Dakotas.

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