Ruhi Book 3

Bart and I are facilitators for those who want to teach Baha'i Children's Classes. I really, really like this course. It is one of the courses we took back in 1992 or '93 when we were contemplating and then began homeschooling. Why? Because it doesn't so much teach curriculum (although it does have outlines for 15 lesson plans) but because it teaches the attitude that the teacher is required to have before, during and after teaching children.

We are to teach the children how to teach themselves. How to mine for the gems, within. The teacher should not be attached to the outcome of the lesson. Did the child learn the quotation by the time they return to class the next week? What does it matter to the teacher? It should only matter in the context of teaching the child how to memorize and what the child gets out of the accomplishment. The teacher shouldn't judge themselves on the child's abilities or accomplishments, neither postive or negative because both of these are purely subjective.

If the child easily memorizes the quote but is terrorizing the kids when out playing what difference did the memorization do? If the child is terrorizing the other kids outdoors, shouldn't the teacher know the homelife BEFORE deciding on appropriate response? Yes, stop the negative behavior and protect the rest of the children but before the blaming and naming game begins find out what the child is reacting to. Is it a selfish nature? Use the selfishness to show a postive side of selfishness, like working with the rest of the kids to get something done because it means a treat for everyone, and therefore the child, when the task is accomplished. Don't deny that negative appearing traits exist, train child to use what is perceived as negative to a have postive outcome.

Detachment from the outcome, that is the teacher of a Baha'i children's class teacher. The good and the bad. Pride in the child's accomplishment for the sake of the child, not because the teacher was the one to guide the way. The Baha'i children's teacher can expect to be with the same group of children for a few years because it is neighborhood classes, around the kitchen table, so the teacher should be fairly familiar of the child's homelife as well as culture, etc ...

O My Lord! O my Lord!
I am a child of tender years. Nourish me from the breast of Thy mercy, train me in the bosom of Thy love, educate me in the school of Thy guidance and develop me under the shadow of Thy bounty. Deliver me from darkness, make me a brilliant light; free me from unhappiness, make me a flower of the rose garden; suffer me to become a servant of Thy threshold and confer upon me the disposition and nature of the righteous; make me a cause of bounty to the human world, and crown my head with the diadem of eternal life.
Verily, Thou art the Powerful, the Mighty, the Seer, the Hearer.
- 'Abdu'l-Bahá
(Compilations, Baha'i Prayers, p. 36)

Tarabithia ALERT SPOILER!

Tarabithia hurt! And you know why? It didn't invest enough time with me to hit me like that. I felt betrayed and cheated. Expecting this retreat to a magical world instead I get kid angst, dealing with bullies and why they bully and then an emotional heart bang that was unexpected, unneeded and unearned! Sucky!

I loved our "Tarabithia." We called it? What, what did we call it all those years ago? It was up behind Shaner's old mansion on twentieth and Irving and probably incorporated a, what had to be at one time astounding, huge garden. Out of the ground would emerge a cement arm, or urn or basin. Steps that led to nowhere. Pieces of fountain were scattered. Hard, condensced bushes took on vague animal shapes. It was our world and we deeply resented it when, in our play, our world collided with lost adults as the wound their way from Cathedral Tree to the Astor Column, inevitably getting lost in the spider web of trails we knew like the back of our hands.

We would scream in delighted terror that a predator had entered our mists! Alert, alert! Hide the goods (candies, twinkies and such stolen from mothers' cubbards for fathers' lunches) flee into the thickets and brambles! "Wait, wait!" the lost adult would wail, "I'm not going to hurt you! Come back, please, come back!" Will, of course that meant he was going to hurt us! What troll tells the truth?

The adult would stomp away, muttering and swearing, words we quickly stored away and tried out on one another outside of the ears of our parental guards. One time, as we played, a man with an overgrown beard and dishevilled hair suddenly emerged and yelped, "HELP ME! I LOST! NO ENGLISH!" We were so startled, we couldn't even move. He stared at us and we stared at him, hearts racing sure we were about to be murdered by a crazed, long lost logger from the first Norwegians, or maybe a Viking, that had come to the area. Finally, it dawned on us that unless we showed him the way out he would be here forever, waiting to pounce, killing us off one by one! We led him down out of the woods and he called his thanks as he hastily made his way off the hill.

With one of our neighbors being the locally infamous Roger Miller, whose poor wife often invited us in to play in their childless home and baked us all birthday cakes, another being a doctor of questionable ethics, and the inevitible neighbor of nefarious means of making a living (it was the seventies, think about it) predators did, indeed abound. Of my own knowledge, none of these true to life boogey men "got" any of us children. One of my playmates is now in prison while another is a police officer. I wonder how that kind of thing happens? The prison inmate being a kind, compassionate child, always looking out for the youngest on our adventures in the "wild." The police officer forever taking his toys and running home whenever the game ceased going his way! As adults did they meet one another in their line of work? Did they look into one anothers' eyes and say, "Remember when we created magic together? When did our ways part?"

I loved our "Tarabithia." A magical world and time when I could do anything, be anything! Magic was not only possible nothing was possible without it. A beautiful world that we saw, I thought, together. I wonder now what others saw in Shaner's old delapitated garden?

Ayyam-i-Ha Surprise

Later, I will take a picture of the laptop I have been using for the last few months, loosing keys, bit by bit like an old crone slowly going toothless but still willing to gum her food, just to get out few juicy bits before finally giving over and dying.

So, here it is. My inspiron e1505 and I can honestly say that I was soooo taken by surprise I sat down and sobbed. Yes, I hinted, whined and cajoled but with not one single indication in sight that I was being listened to I had thrown in the towel. Then, the tax man cameth and spitteth in my faceth. I knew then that I would have to wait a good long time for a new laptop and I just didn't see how that the old one would last. My PC was oooollld and stuffed w/photos and programs and papers and clutter and so forth. Spring cleaning was going to suuuuck!

Then, my mommy came home for Ayyam-i-Ha! And we drew names. And my mommy picked my name. And there is a $30 limit. And everyone knows my mom hates limits. And my mom drew my name and ignored the limit and I got a new laptop.

I am so obnoxious right now I can hardly stand myself. I have a new laptop, I have a new laptop, I have a new laptop! Hahaha! Hahaha! Hahahaha-hahaha!

Now, to try to transfer EVERYTHING from the old computer. For those of you who know me you know what an INTENSE project that is. I LIVE through research via my computer. Teaching via the computer, taking classes via the computer. I am the website manager of our local Baha'i Community as well as Twowings Learning Center our family's social and economic development project. I also have our family website and Bart and my pilgrimage website. Then, random files as the secretary of the Spiritual Assembly of the Clatsop County Baha'is, files from the Parkinson's Resources' Support Group, files from stories I am working on, etc, etc, etc...

Whine, whine~ Grin! I think there is an information cable so I can transfer directly from the old laptop to this one. I am glad for this kind of "trouble" to be "bothered" with. Nice stuff to be bothered with, eh?

Baha'i Ayyam-i-Ha. The time of year that you gift those you may have been overlooking during the year. An opportunity to thank your near and dear as well as do acts of charity in their name. Thank-you Mom! May I be able to gift each of my daughters, similarly, during a year when ... well ... just when they really need something like this. Thank-you!

Auntie's Questions Birth More

At Auntie L's blog she links to her hero who she thinks is also a real cool guy. I think the guy is pretty cool, too. Although, God knows, we have had our differences over the years and will have them in the future, all in all what makes him pretty remarkable is that he attended public school, yet it never prevented him from not only asking questions but asking whatever questions he feels needs to be asked.

Ban the CAM and instead have each 16 year old make a list of 20 questions he still doesn't know the answers to but thinks he should in order to have a productive life. When he finds the answer to those 20 questions then he has graduated high school and can start college/university or vo-tech school.

Self-motivated learning, keeps them involved, its their life let them pick the questions that matter to them. I think one of the reason's why there are question askers among the publickers (what we call those who remain in the public school system) is they're the ones that maybe they were skippers, tokers, drinkers or daydreamers. Whatever, they weren't paying attention when others were being told which questions they were permitted to ask, which they weren't and when it was appropriate to ask them. Consequentially, they thought they could make their own decisions, take chances on sticking their foot in their mouth and plow ahead! Really ticks some people off, this propensity to ask questions without proper authorization. It could be dangerous to one's health so note the advisory before continuing to do so.

For 2005 the graduation rates are: Astoria 77%; Knappa 85.7%; Jewell has an 84.6; Seaside 95.3%; Vernonia 82%; and Warrenton 84%.

Phenomenal Women

Maya Angelou, of course, in my book a phenomenal woman. Her poetry I began reading when I was in seventh or eighth grade after I read her book, I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings. A few grades later, as a sophmore in high school, a teacher sucked that love out of me. A Ms. Snyder taught me to sneer at poetry. She showed that there "really" was only one way to appreciate poems and that was to "understand" them as she did. I dutifully regurgitated what she taught, got an "A" in her class (yes, I still have the poetry journal with the "A" in it) and because back then hadn't yet learned the proper way to express dismay at authority, promptly cut off my own nose to spite my face and refused to enjoy poetry for decades.

Fishing through a box of books I came upon, And Still I Rise. OH! I know this friend! And I began to read, devouring line by line.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

This imagery fills me with so much.

From Momma Welfare Rolls:
Too fat to whore,
Too mad to work,
Searches her dreams for the
Lucky sign and walks bare-handed
Into a den of bereaucrats for
Her portion.
'They don't give me welfare.
I take it.'

I like that! I may have a lot of problems with the state and welfare system, but I like this woman going for what she figures is her due. Why is it her due? Because ...
and because ... and because ...

Then from I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings:

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

Powerful poem from a woman who can make you feel a part of her life, of her race, of her pain. And finally, if you try hard enough, you can feel a part of her sex and beauty:

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Maya Angelou

I am stronger for having read these words. I am nobler for having known her life. A part of her became a part of me, making me a better person.

Holding ourselves back

From the moment I remember "being," I remember the stories of how our families, on both sides, must pay for our heritage homelands’ roles in WWII. My father’s family is Prussian which was absorbed into Germany. He was raised, mostly, by his grandmother, with the help of some beloved nannies. She lost all three of her sons within three years of one another, and she said it was God’s punishment. He would punish those who should have done something about Hitler, especially the Germans. That sense of debt, of owing humanity goes deep into you. On the maternal side my grandmother’s maiden name is Canaris. None of her brothers were allowed to fight against the Germans because they were related to Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, head of "the" SS, until he was caught as a double agent trying to kill Hitler. My great-uncles were sent to fight against the Japanese in WWII. Yet, right this moment my brother sits in a family room in Japan with his wife, Takako, and their daughters, Ruriko and Suyeri. My great-uncles were ashamed that their cousin was unable to kill Hitler, and the family owed a debt to society for that failure.
In recognizing that failing these people raised up a generation of children who now are relatives to all those who were once thought people to be conquered or subdued. My cousins are Carribean Indians from the Dominican Republic. I have stood next to them as they were called nigger. I have cousins who are the Indians who are being shot at as they try to exercise their right to fish. I have cousins who are the Japanese who wonder how we just stood there and let the government take other Americans land just because their eyes looked different. I have children who are Hispanic and wonder why we allowed their grandparents to be kidnapped and railroaded into a native country. I have cousins who are not only Jewish but every single one of God’s religions.

To understand the feelings that each minority race, tradition or religion has gone through is beyond our ability to empathize. What we can do is acknowledge the pain that has been suffered is pain suffered on behalf of all of humanity, on behalf of each us, in the painful process of rebirth into a global civilization.

When we become we, is when we well have truly progressed. When the Japanese internment camps become our collective acknowledged shame; when the Holocaust becomes our collective acknowledged horror, when the annihilation of the Indians becomes our colective anger, when the acknowledgement of the economic sacrifice of the African slaves becomes our dearest wish for reparation then we will recognize we are one humanity, with lots of differences, incredible and wonderful and intense, differences.

But, for now, we are nowhere near sharing the suffering and the pain. Some of the people who are suffering right now for their cultures/religions that have been the subject of severe discriminatory practices are the Bahá'ís in Iran, where a program of extermination has been ordered by the government. Bahá'ís are not allowed to marry, own property, go to school or have jobs in most sectors. The reason for this is that the Iranian Government regards the Bahá'í Faith as a misguided or wayward Islamic sect with a political orientation that is antagonistic to the Iranian revolution. However, Bahá'ís view themselves as an independent religion with origins in the Shi'ite Islamic tradition. Apostasy, specifically conversion from Islam, can be punishable by death. Bahá'ís are considered apostates because of their claim to a valid religious revelation subsequent to that of Mohammed, despite the fact that Bahá'ís do not consider themselves to be Muslim. The Bahá'í Faith is defined by the Iranian government as a political "sect," linked to the Shah’s regime and, therefore, counterrevolutionary. All of this is according to a report compiled by our own government. In 1993 the UNSR reported the existence of an Iranian government policy directive pertaining to the Bahá'ís. The directive lays out the design for the Supreme Revolutionary Council, who instructed government agencies to block the progress and development of the Baha'i community; expel Baha'i students from universities; cut Bahá'í links with groups outside the country; restrict employment of Bahá'ís, and deny Bahá'ís "positions of influence," including in education. The report also stated that Bahá'ís must be expelled from universities, either in the admission process or during the course of their studies, once it becomes known that they are Bahá'ís. They may not teach or practice their faith or maintain links with co-religionists abroad. The fact that the Bahá'í world headquarters (established by the founder of the Baha'i Faith in the 19th century, in what was then Ottoman-controlled Palestine) is situated in what is now the state of Israel, exposes Bahá'ís to government charges of "espionage on behalf of Zionism," in particular when caught communicating with or sending monetary contributions to the Baha'i headquarters. The Iranian government is persistent that until the Bahá'ís have been annihilated and all traces of the Faith obliterated from the land they will not stop with their ongoing harassment of the religion.

The Human Rights Watch have reported that in China the government has persuaded the Bush administration that a little known Uighur exile group, the East Turkistan Islamic Movement, was responsible for terrorist acts and belonged on America's list of leading terrorist threats. The isolated terrorist acts have been used to justify a wholesale crackdown on its Uighur Muslim population, including intensive political vetting of imams, surveillance inside mosques and screening of literature and poetry for even vague hints of dissent.

The Somali Bantu are descended from six African tribes and in the 1700's and 1800's Arab slave traders armed with muskets and whips plundered these regions. These slave traders captured untold numbers of men, women, and children to be sold on the Zanzibar slave market and shipped to the Persian Gulf and the Middle East. The few Somali Bantu now left have been driven away from Africa entirely because of the persecution and violence. Returning to Somalia with any reasonable expectation of a life of freedom and security is not possible.

There are countless others throughout the world. On every continent, almost every country has a group of people that they have chosen to arbitrarily persecute, giving everyone someone on whom to blame the problems of society.

While we are progressing to some degrees, in that we are able to watch ourselves and acknowledge these follies, until we are able to accept the fact that we are all one race, the human race and the people that we are harassing and harming, is us we will make little steps forward only to be dragged back, over and over, like an elastic band snagged on the nail of prejudice.

Tribal Lands:Doing What's Right and Figuring Out What That Means

There are two sides to every story, so the saying goes, so I sift through the story of the Klamath Indians wishes to restore their reservation after having sold it off to the US government back in the 1950s. Their money was held and dispersed by trustees who paid themselves well for their services. The Klamaths say they were terminated as a tribe vis a vis the US government. A website against the Klamaths receiving US federal lands as a reservation uses the Klamaths own constitution to supposedly show that the Klamaths were never terminated as a tribe. However, it was not the Klamaths' contention that they thought they had ceased to exist, they knew the US government tried to force them out of existence.

Much is the same with our local Indian tribes. Many supposed land sales in which a few supposedly bartering on behalf of a whole nation, or a clan on behalf of a whole tribe all the while selling lands at a mere fraction of its worth or the sale of the land is still considered justified even when the rest of the treaty has not been honored.

A while back it was proposed that the local tribes step forward to assert their claim to the property that is now being proposed as a site of the LNG holding terminals. I think we see, over and over again, how dishonor is rewarded by further dishonor. We steal and in turn the land is stolen from us, we then wish that the original land owners would fight to get their land back.

If we want to protect the land from the LNG corporations we can, indeed, fight to restore these lands to their indigenous owners, and I would hope we would honorably continue the fight to see that they are federally recognized and their lands permanantly preserved. I wonder if that is something we would really do, locally?

Happy Birthday to our Pal

The anniversary of my grandmother, Beatrice Fern Canaris Woods' birthday was today. Born in 1912, grandma saw this nation go through many, many changes from travel by horse and carriage to travel to the stars. From women not allowed to vote to a woman being governor of Oregon. From war, to war, to war, to war. From weapons of the British MLE (which we both shot but called the 303) to the nuclear bomb, my grandmother watched humankind love one another and destroy one another for ninety-two years and when she left this world she had grandchildren and great-grandchildren from every corner of it.

She was born in the Eloquiem Valley. Her mother was a Matthews from Michigan whose parents hailed from Mariposa Canada. Her father was a Canaris born in Clatskanie. His parents were John and Elizabeth. Elizabeth was from England. John was from a small town in Westphalia, Prussia. At the outbreak of WWII grandmother's brothers were not allowed to fight against the Germans because of who they were, cousins to Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, so they had to fight against the Japanese. For a few years "they" were "japs". The Germans were "jerrys". My mother's name is Jerry, and my brother lives in Japan with his Japanese wife and their children. Internationally, grandma never taught to hold grudges and she encouraged apologies to be asked for and granted.

My grandmother was quite proud of her "cousin's" role in saving lives in WWII as well as the way he died. We do not know that he was her cousin. The army may have been playing it safe for anyone with certain names during war time. Both Canaris families lived in Westphalia in the early-mid 1880s. My grandmother certainly was as closed mouthed and secretive as a spy, however, and could certainly shoot like someone well trained.

She was quite an angry person, maybe almost bitter about some areas of her life. She didn't trust anyone between the ages of 13-18! Once they were over that age they became her friend again. She alluded to being molested or raped and then being laughed at or disbelieved by her siblings and cousins. Maybe that age group? We will never know, now, I think. She loved long letters and wrote eloquently and well with beautiful handwriting. For years she worked at Utzinger's book store and that was her heyday!

Everyone knew her as quite the lady. Always well coifed (she had two children who were beauticians) with long elegant fingers always bejeweled. We all knew we got our best swearing combos from grandma. She never said "the" four letter word. She said a variety of ones we never hear anywhere but from her. "Ah, go piss up a slack rope" was one of her favorite expressions. One of the funniest things she would say, but she would say it when she was really, really irate, "see that tree, buster? Will, go climb it!" And then she would would make a fist with her right hand and twist it while thrusting it up into the air. She would nod her head while she did it. Grandpa would shake his head and say, "Ah, Bea! Why'd you go and do that?" I never understood what that particular phrase or gesture meant.

Personally, I was impressed with her audacity to speak her own mind even in the day and time when that wasn't so popular. She gave up being an Eastern Star when she became a Baha'i and took quite a bit of flak for that. When some Baha'is were upset with her new, black Dominican, grandson, she took them on, too, with equal determination. Trying, in her own way, to show zenophobia for what it was. Just because some people said they were Baha'is it didn't mean they were necessarily ready to embrace all of its principles or laws. She, too, had much to learn about this religion she had newly embraced and was often at the forefront of study classes and deepenings. I have her Baha'i library and so many of the books have her handwriting throughout it, pencilling in the definition of words as well as her understanding of concepts. Sometimes another explanation would appear in another color of ink and would be another understanding of the text. She was a member of the first Spiritual Assembly of the Baha'is of Clatsop County and was its librarian for the next twenty years or so. She contributed books around the world and her slipper pattern was taught to rural women in India to help them overcome the devastation of the legacy of being of the caste of Untouchables.

Man, that woman could weild a mean pair of knitting needles and crochet hook. Not only the best slippers but also the finest afghans, kitchen towel toppers and cotton wash cloths! She taught me how to knit and crochet and I am the only one that I know of that knits with my hands over the top of the knitting needles instead of from underneath. We've wondered if some of these pecularities could have come from Canada? Or maybe from Prussia? Her father's mother stayed with the family when grandma was young but her mother never spoke of her Matthew's family. She said it was hinted that the Michigan family was not happy that Hattie had married the farmer from Clatskanie.

Grandma died when she was 92. My husband and my daughter sang her into the next world, holding her hand at Columbia Memorial Hospital. Then, my husband left the room and my daughter began the ritual of washing her body, preparing her for the coffin. Always before, I was the one that prepared the body for burial. Baha'is do not embalm and if refrigeration is not available must be buried within 24 hours. We wash our own people and then rub rose oil into their skin. Grandma was the first person Katrina had ever prepared, and she did so all by herself as my husband stood outside of the hostpital room and chanted the Tablet of Ahmad, over and over. Katrina washed Grandma Bea and rubbed the oils in from the top of her head to the soles of her feet, taking over an hour and one half to complete. So much love from a great-grand-daughter to the grand dame. With love, Grandma, with love. We miss you. We know this next adventure is the best one yet, pal! Thank-you for the memories.

Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, Grandma's cousin?

Yikes! Where did the 19 hand towel dispensers disappear to?

Hi! My name is Carrie and I have an addiction. Its called auctions. Specifically government surplus auctions. It has been 32 days since I bid on an item.

I have 500 green helmit covers. The reason that I have helmit covers is because they came in the lot shipment with the half shelters, which I bought because I could (and did) get them for $25 for 70 of them. Put them together and you have a whole tent, 35 whole tents. If you could put them together, which you don't know until you get them home. And we could and did put six tents together, except they didn't have poles so they went over tree limbs and that was fun, right guys? Guys? Well, it was fun when they were kids. Right, guys? GUYS!

Like when I got that box of 250 socks for $10. No, not pairs. Individual, two hundred and fifty wool and cotton socks. Yeah, they were salesmen samples and none of them were mated but that taught the kids about fun and art and looking for the best almost mates. To this day none of them are influenced by the whims of fashion. Okay, except the barbie doll daughter. But, even she only has three pairs of mated socks. And I wasn't cruel. Remember, we homeschooled, no one even knew they had on mismates.

Our first projector was an Ask bought for $100 (including a screen) from a surplus auction. Hooked up to a dvd player or the cable box and we had a wide screen television that none of our friends could beat. Our portable dvd player (an orbit game, tv, cd, mp3, and video pic viewer) and our most recent Sanyo projector are both auction purchases, both ebay, though. We also have 15 1980 apple computers in a heap in an old rotting tent. So, you have to put up with a few mistakes until you get to the good stuff.

Right now I am looking at a drafting table, 747 pairs of fire jeans, a suture kit and a 1990 Toyota forklift with a worn starter silinoid. I think I can hide it somewhere on the property until Bart just stumbles across it. Then, maybe, he'll think its left over crap from when mom and dad owned CT&S? I have until tomorrow night at 8 pm, when this auction is over. It may be days until another GSA is posted. Thank God for ebay.

Blogger Party Change?

So far there are two people, plus me, who can make it "for sure" on Feb 4th. Would Feb 11th be better for more people to attend? If we move it to the 11th I would like to make it at 1:00 PM.

Blue Scorcher(1493 Duane St. in Astoria), Feb 11th, 1:00 PM. What do you think?

Guarding Us Still

We watched The Guardian last night on the big screen and as much as I really hate that crap of sergent raising up the boy and making him into a man, ala An Officer and a Gentleman, I really liked this movie.

My Grandpa Roy was a lifer in the Coast Guard. As a surfman and then a boatswain mate first class he battled the water his whole life. He knew how to come into any of the harbors up and down the Oregon and Washington coast by the whistles and bells of the bouy and by the stars. Many a captain stepped off the helm to let Roy Woods bring that ship in.

To see the waves that those small boats battle to save lives chills me to the bone. All of us children were taught to swim at a very young age. Coasties swim, a swabby don't know how. My father was Navy. Hahaha! It was probably 15 years before the two of them grew to like one another. By the time my parents' divorced the bond had grown to love. My dad still doesn't know how to swim, all of us kids could swim across the Walluski and when the tide was going out that was a mean feat. We all have a healthy respect for the rivers and especially the mouth of Columbia and the sea. One of my dearest friends lies at the bottom of river, somewhere. Hey, Brian, here's to you!

My cousin, Jimmy, and cousin-in-law, EJ, spent eight hours in the Bering Sea, waiting for the coast guard to find them when their fishing vessel went down. Shouldn't have ever gone out, except for the owner's greed. For years afterwards they couldn't even sit in a tub of bathwater without sweat dripping off of them in memory of that time. My grandfather would talk for hours to them about that awful night, hoping to pull them out of their day/night terrors.

He was a talker, my grandfather! The stories he would tell. He ran bootleg in Aberdeen back in the 20s. His father died when he was nine and he was raised by a bunch of older brothers who showed him the side of their hand, when they had time. So, he was on his on as often as not and he could make a lot of money runnng booze through the redlight district. Police never bothered the 12 year old boy, who was so small he looked like he was eight. Grandma would get so angry at him for telling us those stories. "Watch it, buster," she would warn, "you'll get yourself into a heap of trouble for what you were up to!" She didn't believe the statute of limitations ever ran out, and they both were afraid the retirement money would disappear. Made more money after they retired then they ever did while working. He retired when he was 68, mandatory. He died when he was 96! He always chuckled that "they" didn't know what they had gotten themselves into giving him lifetime retirement with insurance! Grandma had 12 heart pacemakers put in!

He deserved the money and the benies. After taking the helm so many times to guide the ships into a safe harbor, after receiving the Gold Lifesaving Medal, he retired from the CG as a cheif, giving him a few extra dollars in the pay envelope. Yet, a few years later when he retired a second time from the Astoria School District (as head custodian of the new Junior High School) that designation was stripped from him when the title was reclassified for those who had captained a 52' boat or larger, only. Grandpa said the CG knew what it was doing and a patriot didn't fight something like that. What was a few extra hundred? How he got the rebels for grandchildren, I'll never understand!

In this town it is good to know the signs of a coastie. Your friend/family member might be dating one, or maybe your loved one's thinking of joining? Have fun with this.

Seperate But Together

I read the local blogs and feel that I am a friend of the family, knowing so much personal information about them. They share a lot of family stories, inviting you into their lives. As an aside: personally, I don’t see NorthCoastOregon.com as a blog. Its sort of our own local Indy Media that Tryan took the initiative to find a way to bring to us after Portland’s Indy Media took away the coastal voice and just lumped everything that wasn’t Portland under "oregon and cascadia" and even then more than half the articles are still metro crap. NCO really filled that void Indy Media left gapping open.

I find that this blog isn’t just my story. It is the story of my family and my friends which can cover quite a lot of ground. I have been married twice and have stayed good friends with my first set of in-laws. We just celebrated Thanksgiving together, with them coming over to our home. They are a pretty large family. My own family, immediate and aunts, uncles and cousins and their families extends to about 1/16 of the county. My husband’s family covers another 1/16 of the county. Together, we are related to about an eighth of the people who were born and raised here. We tell the children that they really shouldn’t date anyone locally unless they have lived here less than 10 years. More than that and you still have a chance of them being someone’s exe’s children and that could just end up being awkward. I think its just plain old, well, for lack of another word, trailer trashy to be marrying your cousin’s ex. I think once someone’s been in and out of a family, its done. No one else in the family can marry them. Thanks for playing, Bob, take your door prize and go to the next game.

At what point do I guard someone else’s privacy? My favorite times have been with one of my loved ones, family or friend. What is my right to expose that moment? This is my quandary. I don’t want to betray a confidence that may be implied.

I think, for some, that might be why the blogs are anonymous. For others who write about just a specific thing (like a hobby or maybe a political or news blog) they might not be so personal. I feel, though, like what I have to bring to the table is my life. It just happens to be wrapped around, snake through, be entwined with, so many others. Sometimes, it feels like gossip.

One time, after an evening visiting with some close friends and their children, we were driving home and my son was sitting there rather sulkily, not joining any of the car songs. I asked him what was the matter? "You told that story, again!" he exclaimed in a pained voice. "Oh, but its such a cute story. I love telling it and we were with friends. There’s no reason for that story to embarrass you after all of these years." I rattled off excuses, rather irritated that we were having this conversation. "But its MY story," he replied, softly but firmly. He was about twelve and rather small for his age, but oh so serious and suddenly I flashed back to a time of hearing my aunt tell a story about me and how embarrassed and angry I was. It’s his story, he had claimed it, rightfully, to decide who would tell it and where it would be told. His to decide if it was to be told at all. At what point did that happen?

It is time for me to learn how to tell the story that is mine while leaving the story that is their’s to them. In the meantime, I hope they remember it is a learning PROCESS. Little by little, day by day! Remember, everyone is laughing with you, not at you!

We don't need no education?

So, after taking the Guy’s weekend seminar, Blogging for Dummies, I have decided to give posting daily a try. What I might do is write up a week’s worth a head of time and then try to remember to post them. The man really is a phenomenal writer and since he has alluded to writing under his "real" name in publications I can’t wait to meet him at our blogging get together and see what else he has written.

I really admire the local posting community that I’ve been reading. For the most part they are people who write well. Sure, a red pencil could come out, however, the red ink has always ticked me off. It seems to silence soooo many people and so many items that are red lined are completely arbitrary. One English Prof wants punctuation whenever the writer pauses. Another doesn’t want a comma unless you can prove its needed but feels a paragraph isn’t complete unless it has one semi-colon. Sure, there are rules but as we all know there are exceptions to the rules. And the kid that goes to the PA’s study group is going to get graded more lenient.

I am of the mind that grades just don’t matter. I was almost always on the Dean’s list so I do not say this because of being on the receiving end of poor grades. Quite the opposite. I was on the receiving end of, often, undeserved good grades. In high school I skated. It is one of the main reasons my kids never went. High school in the USA is where young adults go to be babysat for 40 hours a week while they plot revenge on the society who sentenced them there and then we promptly forget it as middle aged adults with high school age kids. TEACHER! Leave those kids alone!

I don’t care if they’re punctuating correctly. I do like them to publish more often. If I’m investing time into getting to know them I don’t like to suddenly be denied the knowledge of what they are thinking about. On the flip side of that the idea that someone might be annoyed that I haven’t written something new in a week or two flips me out. I have too many obligations as it is. Who cares if some nameless, faceless person is annoyed with me? Uh-oh, what if … [imagination runs wild] it’s a potential client or friend or I could have done some good or now I left a bad impression?GASP!

LOL! It’s a blog. I haven’t written anything important or earth shattering. Sure, I am annoyed when someone I read hasn’t published but it hasn’t made me want physical challenge or to not do business with them, etc… I am going to try to publish daily. If I don’t, read a back issue of the Guy’s, or MO3s, or …. Go read what they’re writing about you know who over on one of the forums.

BLOGGER GET TOGETHER!

Blogger get together for everyone who is blogging in Clatsop County and nearby. What do you all say to Sunday, February 4, Blue Scorcher Bakery, 2 PM?

At the last one, some showed and didn't know one another so maybe everyone wear something red? Or, everyone carry a book (which one)? Or, what's a better way to know who we are?

NO, this is not me! It's the photo I took from the Daily A's article about Blue Scorcher. It sounds like a great place. If people want to offer another venue, we can chat about it.

RSVP on the comments. If the 4th doesn't work for a majority of people then we can change it.

Missing Haifa

We have some friends who will be leaving to go on their Baha'i Pilgrimage at the end of February. At the end of February it will be one year since Bart and I were on our Pilgrimage and how I yearn to be there, now.

I loved the snow here. I love my family here and adore my grandchildren. We enjoy our Baha'i community. Bart likes his work and I like school. Our hearts ache with hunger for the middle east.

When we hear the call to prayer resonating from a television program tears sting my eyelids and I see the cobblestones of Akka's streets. People scurry this way and that as people seem to boil out of buildings into streets already teeming with masses of humanity. Side streets so very tiny you hardly can believe it is a street until you see a tiny Citroen barrelling down it with a motorcycle passing it on the side! Pedestrian right of way? Never heard of it!

The very best pressed honey nut brittle was outside of the Al Jazzaar Mosque. We spent a whole day walking those blessed streets of Akka, cobblestone by cobblestone, the one time prison city by the sea. Bart bought a bedoin headress there and looks quite tribal Arabic when he is in full beard. The sun beat down so hot that day that children were jumping from the ramparts into the sea for money from the tourists. I laughed and Bart gave them handfuls of change they may or may not have been worth dollars, I cannot remember now. The children obviously thought the I should have squealed and told them to stop because the jump did look spectacular (I'll dig out the photos) but I knew they wouldn't be doing it if they hadn't a hundred (or thousand) times before. Bart peaked over the side and commented that it was still quite a feat!

It the evenings, before listening to a member of the Universal House of Justice speak to the pilgrims, we would walk to a falafel shop and have the most scruptious falafels with fresh pita bread made before your eyes and the best tsatziki sauce and hummus. Fresh avacados with every meal and as much grapefruit and oranges as you could eat.

Of course, the main attractions for Baha'is, are the Shrines. I am someone who has not had an easy road with my "religion," yet my faith has remained pure and confident. I may not understand myself but there is within me a core that is so strong and sure that I am left in marvel at this feature. I know it through meditation. What some would call prayer, some introspection. I know faith. I know assurance. I know there is a Divine Being and I have never felt It more strongly than a few times while on Pilgrimage. Someday, if we should meet face to face and the moment is right I may be able to convey to you my experience. It is too private for a blog, or at least for me here and now.

The center of Haifa is called "Hadar" and it is where most of the commercial parts are located. They don't really cater to the tourist trade, here, but we found great places to eat and a market to bring food back to the hotel. We always thought we would have another day to do our shopping and ended up getting people postcards and things from the airport at 4:30 am on the morningn we left, we just ran out of time. Baha'is who do not work at the World Centre (or visiting family working there) can only stay in Israel for 2 additional days. Basically because it is for the best, worldwide, with the strain the way it is between religious denominations and Baha'is are forbidden to use their religion as a point of contention. Please, be careful of how that is said. Not the principle's of the religion, etc.. Another blog entry, maybe.

When we travelled about Haifa (and weren't on the tour bus) we often took a sheroot or a taxi. A sheroot is a taxi van that doesn't go where you want it to but rather has specific destinations with very few stops in between. Sometimes it seemed that they were independently run. But we went all the way to Akka from Haifa for about $5.50 so it was a HUGE bargain. A travel site has this to say about the underground transportation (which we took numerous times):

Moving between the top and bottom ... you can also go from the city to the Carmel [top] in only 8 minutes by taking the Carmelite. I'm talking about is a funicular subway, which is probably one of the few of its kind in the world. This fun and interesting way to get from one point to another was opened in 1959, and while it was closed for several years due to disrepair and lack of funds to fix it, it's now open again for your convenience and enjoyment. The Carmelite has six stations - the lowest one being "the city" and the top most being the Carmel. Since this is a subway, it goes totally underground. And because it climbs a hill, it's very step-like in its build, traveling at an average of an 8o angle. The tunnel is 2000 meters long, and climbs a total of 268 meters from the city to the Carmel and travels an average of only 28 kilometers per hour. Before the renovation, there were drivers on these but now they're totally automatic and computerized. Throughout the tunnel there is only one set of tracks except for a spot in the middle where there are two sets. It's at this point that the two trains (one going up and the other going down, of course) pass each other on their journey. If you're ever in Haifa, I recommend you go on the Carmelite just for the experience, even if you don't need to get from one spot to another via this type of transport.

The friends we met! Oh, I am half afraid to even try to name any in case they ever found this remote little site and thought I had forgotten them! I haven't, on most days I remember everyone's! We met up with 225(ish) people from about 100 countries/states. Only two others from Oregon that we had known from before this trip. That large group was broken down into smaller groups of 25 for morning or afternoon tours and then, when you weren't on a tour you arranged your time yourself with friends you met. When we weren't at Baha'u'llah's Shrine at Baji we were combing Mount Carmel with our new found friends Karin (from Cape Town, South Africa), Parissa (from Perth, Australia), dearest Bonnie and Serge (with the lovely hair from Quebec), Jack from Hawaii, our friends from Slovania (names just flew out of my head), as well as from the family from Spain! Ack, there was the young couple that scared us all so much when they put their passports in their knapsacks and their knapsacks in the luggage compartment under the bus which angered the 15 year old with the machine gun who stopped the bus and wanted to see ID!

Even that, machine gunned youngsters guarding the bus stops I forgot until just this moment, doesn't make me want to stay away. I crave the pictures coming to my mind's eye of that world. I can dredge up, at a moment's notice the vivid colors of the market place, from the burkha's the older women wore and the dresses of the younger ones to the cloths covering the stands and the flags flying overhead, to the gems worn intertwined in the silvers or goldwork of fine jewelry, ornate heargear or tableware. My ears ache to hear the cacaphony that comes from so many different languages being spoken in a sing-song voice, almost becoming a symphony of well tuned intruments deliberately playing out a secret concerto for the tourist with the discerning ear to hear.

We hope we have the opportunity to one day return.

Bite Me!

I am soooo very happy to say good-bye to this year. It has not been one of my favorites. Although living through it beats the alternative without laughter and love I would seriously think of embracing the alternative without a backwards glance.

This year we just can't seem to get ahead on anything. Not on bills, not on planning, not on payments, not on my graduate school, not on B's career plans, not on buying the house/property, not on buying a hunting cabin in Eastern Oregon.

We've misplaced our sync. The "we" in "we" has seemed to have gotten lost more this year than in any other in the past 20. We had it in Haifa and I think we left it there, just along the shores of the Mediterranean.

AND

I

WANT

IT

BACK!

So, until then, I preoccupy myself. Sometimes, I type my name into the search engine of Google to see what I can see. What I see is that I am a badass! Or a real nice lady! Depending on who you ask, LOL! At first it made me kind of mad to read what someone else was accusing me of and then I guess it was sort of a compliment. Sort of?

For this next year I want an adventure with my husband. A real and true, harsh "do you think we'll make it" type of adventure. I don't want that to be symbolic. I don't want that to mean "will this marriage survive?" I want it to be an adventure that when I write about it later, it will be like, "WOW, they lived to write about it?"

I am tired of manning home base and reading about the others "doing" something. This is my year. This is our year. I want everything to go smoothly and either the loan or the grant to go through for the school and then I want the time to get everything in order so we can be free. Maybe we will do that thing where we travel to the places that have a natural disaster and need help afterwards. B says he can get the info for that through his work. That sounds like something we could have a blast doing. We do international travel well together. At the very least, we can travel and teach here. I don't want us to put this off any longer. It just isn't getting any easier to go and do things unless we get into the habit of doing it, now.

Rather shamefacedly I must confess I like the phrase "Bite Me". It just says so much and can be used for so many things. Today, it is both my initial reaction to the person who was a bit of an ass, as well as what my husband can do most anytime he wishes! HAHAHA!

I WAS There!

So, I go at EXACTLY 3:00 pm and what I see is a pretty full coffee house with no place for a table of seven rambunctious bloggers to sit. I do not see boy wonder. I do not see mot's three and I have brought grandson with me. So, I am standing there, contemplating options when the barrista says, "Be with in a moment." And then, "Can I help you?" And I say, "Do you have a group coming in?"

He raises an eyebrow. A group of what? Ah, bloggers? I can't say it. I think I blushed. My family already gave me heck. Your going where? You have a play date with people who write online stuff? Like articles?

No, they write like an online journal. And its not a playdate.

That anyone can read? What is it?

Yes, anyone. Its coffee and talking.

Why, why would they do that? Talking about what?

Because, its a way to practice writing. Its a way to get good at it. Its a way to share. Its a way not to feel isolated. Its a way to survive here! Its a way not to drink the Koolaid! Its a way to make it through the rain! Its a way ... We'll talk about not making Koolaid.

Oh, so does that mean that since you were invited to go you also write about us, online, for anyone to read? What does drinking Koolaid have to do with it?

Yes, that's what it means. I write about "us". Koolaid is a term for people at the end of their rope, like I am with this conversation and the person talking to me.

Then, when the guy looks at me because I stammer out "a group" he says, "No, not that I know of." And I hang around a bit and of course how do I know if any of you are there besides wandering around saying, "Hi, are you a blogger?" I stomp back outside and decide you meant the other Astoria Coffee place (the Company). So, I go all the way down to the one by Geno's, which is closed until after the New Year's and, guess what? None of you are there! So, then I go all of the way back to the other one and then my grandson is sound to sleep in his car seat and I have lost the impetus to get him out of the car seat and back into the coffee shop as I circle the block four times trying to peer inside to see if I can see inside and suddenly be struck with an image that I must have seen on someone's website.

"I am pathetic," I mutter to myself. Then I decide that I have it on the wrong day and so I do my other errands and hurry home so I can check my email to see if I can still make it. Oh no! Not only was it the right day, it was the right time at the right place. SIGH! And now, insult to injury, I am getting messages of "sorry you couldn't make it" and "you were missed"! And while those are nice, I WAS THERE.

WHERE THE LELH were you all and did my family put you up to this?

ROTFLMAO!

We are trying this again! I pick the place and the time and nooooooo wende, we are not waiting a year!

Bumper Bumping

The fine art of bumper sticker reading! Isn't it grand? I can't even recall how many "almost" wrecks have happened because we are trying to read the small print on a bumper that ends up saying, "If your reading this your too close, get ready for a nose full of asslead"! My child looks at me rather dubiously, "Does that say what I think it says?" inquires the, at that time, nine-year-old manchild. "Yep," I reply. "What an insult!" he responds, "Are you going to tell?" I would looooove to go tell on the car driver/idiotic slogan slapper onner, but to whom do I tell?

Some of the all time guarantee to irritate bumper stickers are NRA stickers: Guns don't kill, people kill. Or My idea of gun control is using both hands to keep it steady. And, not necessarily NRA but many people with NRA also display this bumper sticker: IF GOD DIDN'T WANT US TO EAT ANIMALS, HE WOULDN'T HAVE MADE 'EM OUT OF MEAT!

I haven't quite figured out if bumper stickers of the cars in Clatsop County show the real mindset of its residents, what they want others to think about them or were just left on the auto from the previous owner. BITCHY WHEN PROVOKED and BITCH WITHOUT A CAUSE. Are these really statements I want people to know about myself? I think they just have to be examples of real laziness, not wanting to strip them off the old car. However, it still means someone, sometime, somewhere put that bumper sticker there. Maybe a vengeful ex?

There's the obvious Clatsop resident: Friends Don't Let Friends Eat Farmed Salmon Support your local commercial fisherman and Spotted owl tastes like chicken. But then there's the people who doesn't know who they are. They have a Save a logger, shoot an owl right along the side of a sticker reading Equal Rights for ALL Species. Visualize Whirled Peas rests atop America, Right or Wrong. I'm confused. Do I like the people at the stop light in front of me or don't I? Do I wave at the tot giving me the the semi-blow-your-horn signal or do I pretend I don't see him? For God's sake, people! If you don't understand the purpose of a bumper sticker, don't put it on your vehicle! How are you going to make new friends? Reaffirm old ones? Sheeeesh, there's responsibilities here!

I'm not sad about losing my mind, I'm enjoying every minute of it!

A Great Way To Endure A Storm

Laughter is good! Family coming together, of course, corny but true. We lost power from the very beginning until Friday evening at about 6:30 pm, right after having made up our minds to eat dinner at Goldern Star. Warmth and seeing people other than each other. Cabin fever in the dark but man the moment those lights came on! We ordered Chinese take out, ate in and watched Teladegga Nights on the movie screen.

While the lights were out we played Balderdash and laughed and talked and also played statute of limitations. You know that game? Its when adult children tell their parents things they did while growing up and we all judge whether or not the statute of limitations has run out on the crime or if punishment can, in fact still take place. As children punishment was swift and the crime, usually, forgotten. As adults the crime takes on disporportionate sinister overtones, as if it had to be worse than that or you would have revealed it sooner. There is never a statute of limitations on revealing that you hold the record for driving the wrongway down every street in downtown Seaside within one hour w/o getting a ticket.

I'd rather talk about Balderdash. Funnnny game. The way we play it is without the board. If you (the reader) hold the card you pick to read aloud either the word, or initials, or the name, or the date or the movie. The players make up a definition, what initials stand for, a bio, what happened on this day or a plotline and write them on a slip of paper containing their name while the reader writes the truth. The reader then collects all of the papers and reads them, convincingly, aloud. The players vote for the one they think is the truth. The more convincing that the reader makes the others sound the more likely the players will vote for one of them. If NO ONE votes for the truth the reader gets four points. If someone does pick the truth they get two points. Each person that writes a convincing fib that someone mistakes as the "truth" gets one point.

It is hysterical! Some of ours from the other night: NPBOA> Nanny's Problems Brought Out Assoc or National Party Boat Owners Alliance? Six Lessons From Madam La Zanga> A lovely 46 year old woman gives piano lessons to a student who learns to play perfectly until a freak accident involving a firetruck and a rubber duck leaves the student with amnesia. Can his teacher help him struggle to the answer? OR A Cuban night club owner causes a commotion on a cruise ship?

We had blocked the kitchen in with blankets, keeping the heat from kerosene and propane lanterns and our bodies contained to one area. At the outset of the dire warnings we had boiled water and put it in good hotpots and thermoses so we had tea and hot cocoa and made a few runs to the coffee stands. Later in the evening we wrapped in blankets and watched The World's Fastest Indian with the portable dvd player plugged into to the car starter.

The wind howled, the rain poured. We lost a little bit of wood off the house. We watched the wicked witch of the east sail past our window. We watched a 67 year old man with prostate problems and angina set a world record for the fastest streamlined motorcycles under 1000 cc that still stands today on a cycle he built himself! We held hands a little, quarrelled a little, laughed a lot, snacked a lot (couldn't let it spoil) and were sooooo happy the dang phone couldn't ring.

I hope the storm didn't cause too much damage or other's pain or loss. It brought some inconvenience here and a lot of fun and laughter.

Forty-five going on sixty-five

When I was 25 years old I found a lump in my neck. It itched. I had just left my husband of two and one half years, had two small children and for the first time in my entire life was living completely on my own. No roommates (other than the munchkins) like the first year out of high school when I was at community college, waiting to go to Udub (where I was accepted but didn't have the money). I was going to be a lawyer. Back in the day before we knew what financial aid was, since I was the oldest of five, we didn't have a clue what packages were and so if a scholarship wasn't offered we thought we had to pay for it all so we decided I would do the first two years at Clatsop and go from there. I made one half year at Clatsop before life sucked me away from the books. By the time the fourth child was graduating from high school my parents had a better grasp on the financial aid process. Now, out of their five children four of us have Bachelor's and one of us have a PhD. I start my Masters in this Winter. Pretty good considering my mother has yet to obtain her GED, my father has his high school diploma (last class to graduate from it when it was REALLY high above Columbia's waters).

So, I was 25 and already married and divorced with babies in tow. I was determined not to go on welfare (no one in my family ever had) but didn't want to have someone else raising my children and so I began baby sitting, condescending to enroll my children in the state health plan rather than leave them without any health insurance. Back then you had to go in and fill out reams of paperwork and take part in an interviewing process. I can see the woman to this day and have to strive not to loathe her. Three times my home was picked for "random" searches to see if I was hiding my husband there while accepting state help! The good part of it was that because of my income I was automatically enrolled with my children in the health plan as well.

I often wonder what would have happened "if". What if my first husband and I had not broke up earlier that year? I might never have got the lump on my neck even looked at, so many other things were worse than an itchy spot on my neck. Even if I had gone in to see the doctor his words to me were, "If this lump were on my wife I wouldn't even worry about it but given your history of cysts we should biopsy this and make sure this is benign." However, you can bet anything if I didn't have any insurance Dr. Patrick wouldn't have operated on me and wouldn't have found the cyst that was a tumor wrapped around my collar bone.

Fifty-four radiation treatments and 20 years later everything in the path of the radiation has since begun to falter and slip. My thyroid began giving me problems about four years ago but it wasn't until last year (and almost 100 lbs) that I was recommended to an endocrinologist who found the problem and gave me the correct medication. Finally, slowly but surely, I am loosing weight I found!

Exercise is still hard, with radiated muscles and organs not able to recover adequately, and the pain from esophagitis isn't encompassing me. Thank goodness for water and our hot tub.

So many of our friends have no idea that I survived cancer because I forgot about it. They know that I have had weight problems and have suggested every diet under the sun for a sluggish thyroid, however I just don't find my identity in a bodily function. I am not a cancer survivor, I am someone who happened to have survived cancer.

My oncologist warned us that my insides were 20 years older (where the radiation hit) than my outsides). It was scarier to me than hearing I had cancer. When I was 25 I knew it couldn't kill me, now there are days I wonder if it wouldn't have been better?

Selfish, my husband spits out at me, "That is a very selfish thing to say. " Yes, I acknowledge, it is. However, when it is late at night and once more I cannot sleep because my back aches soooo much and my legs feel like they are being pinched up and down, over and over I wonder if I can keep taking this year after year. My maternal grandparents lived well into their 90s and my paternal grandmother lived into her 80s. My grandfather died of massive heart attack when he was 48, brought on by DTs. I could shoot for that one, but that would realllllly piss my husband off and most of the time he and the grandson are my only friends! ;)

What I want for Kwanzaa because I can't wait for Ayyam-i-Ha

I HATE COMPUTERS!!!!
Crap, my little workhorse laptop has taken suuuuuch a beating. Rigt now I am trying to see past the red scribbles all over the screen just to see to post. I have dyslexia today,  I am missing half of my keys because by grandson lifted them off leaving them with just the white nubbies and I they all stick together. It is torture to type and yet I soldier on. AAAACK! You would think I had something worthwhile to say other than WAH!

So, dear souls who love me. We have agreed to draw names and spend only $20 on one person for the Solstice Night celebration (aka Christmas Eve). I think that, spontaneously you should all email one another (or call, its quicker) and pool your 20s and buy Wife Aunty Mom Sister Daughter Cousin Niece Friend a new laptop.

NEW, not her old one revamped. DO NOT bring her old one to any shop. It goes into the garbage, it has been recycled and cannabilised too many times and now deserves a funeral. She wants a brand new one with a CD/DVD burner. I want it to be wireless ready with mobile broadband! 80 GB harddrive and 1 GB memory would be nice.

Sigh. If I don't hit the backspace then my sentence will look horrible and it can get very frustrating hwen I do hit it constantly. Te other da I ws watching my gradnson type. he was copying meand he was ypin veyr hard and yellig athe kybaord! HA! Hope that doesn't keep him from writing when he grows up.

I do cringe when my children write, though. I hope none of them blog. If I start reading about a crazy mother who has an obsession with government auctions, leg warmers, knitting slippers and afghans but nothing else, and they were the only ones being homeschooled in the days of Christian support groups only so we were horrible parents, I will know one of them has only just begun their revenge!

Before it gets to the revenge part though, and I mean it, BUY ME A PLAPTO i anem a lappot er ppalto ISHT!

Making a list, checking it twice

I have a project which I MADE my father and my husband start for me. Yes, I MADE them build me a bookcase. They were not happy. I was looking at the beautiful book case in my grandmother's tiny study. The bookcase runs down one wall and els down the other. It is attached to the ceiling and feels as if it is to the floor, too, however it also has crown molding everywhere so you can't tell at ceiling or base or corners where it is attached at all. An adult could climb the book case and it wouldn't fall over. It has adjustable shelves. It is the only thing in this typical ranch style house that makes it in any way unique from any other Adair home of the 1970s.

Do I need to say the bookcase my husband and father built me was not built to these standards? I wanted down the length of one wall and a little onto another. It is barely five feet long. It is seven and a half feet tall. I am not, otherwise the bookcase that they built is shaped rather like myself, sort of literally, in a rather sloppy hour glass shape. When I went to put shelves into it we discovered the shelves will not be interchangeable because each shelf only has about a one foot area in which it can actually fit at the length it was cut!

I had the shelves cut at the lumber yard using one length taken from the middle of the bookcase, before I had noticed that it was shaped so, er, absurdly. It was just that, since it was built six months ago it has been covered and used as our movie screen. Now, with our study being used as a spare bedroom for an out of country guest, we need to have the books moved around so the "new" bookcase needs to be used. After the shelves have been recut not even a mouse will be encouraged to climb it until I use brackets to attach it to the wall.

As I was placing one of the shelves onto its "adjustable" mounting brackets my father came into the house.

"Who built that crooked monstrosity?"

"You and my dear husband!"

"Will, he must have done all of the measuring for it."

"What would measuring have to do with the wood bending in the middle like that?"

"I don't know, it just does. It's hard to explain to someone who doesn't work with wood."

"It's hard to explain to someone who pretends to work with wood what a bookcase looks like, too, I suppose?"

"Guess when the next time your getting a free bookcase is going to be?"

"Right after the next time I ask for one?"



I don't know why he doesn't stop by more often.

Let It Snow 'Cause I'll Never Be A Good Mom Anyhow

Yes, it is snowing! And wonder of wonders our satellite internet is still connected! All during the rain showers it wasn't working but during the snow it is? Ohhhh, the snow clouds are coming from a different direction? Whatever! I have internet and its snowing. AHHHH! Magic.

Great story over on CCM. I remember hearing about that and it reminds me of when we took our first two children, a daughter and son, sledding, somewhere on one of the logging roads. Bart and I with Bart's sisters, Janice and Joyce and their husbands, Jim and Brian, respectively.

We arrived at the spot and built a large bonfire from dried wood brought from home and added wood from downed trees left there for the wood cutters with permits. Snow was thick on the ground and draping each tree like baptismal gowns. Everything was glittering and "pristine" just as a woods decked in new fallen snow is supposed to be. That is, before you begin sledding on it.

I believe we had one sled and then an inner tube for each one of us. Sleds are supposedly easier to steer, however for some it is like the difference between a manual and a shift. A tube is like a manual, hands on it responds better and you have more control over it. You lean one way and it goes that way, lean the other and it goes that way. Lean forward and it goes faster, drag your feet and it slows. Yeah, sometimes it spins but that's what makes it funnnn!

So, we head up to the top of the hill and form this long chain with the sled in front and the inner tubes following, each holding on to the feet of the person in front. We are laughing at the impossibility of hanging on to each other as we get going real fast and end up flying apart, banking around the corner of a snow bank to come to a rest on the flat a short distance from the bonfire.

Each time we took a run in this manner we were making the run smoother, slicker. After about four runs we decide we are done with the sled trains and we are going to go down singly. The children, Katrina and Matthew, clamour to go first on the sled. For some reason, six adults figure this is a mighty fine idea, there could not possibly be any repercussions from two children plummeting down this logging road on their own trying to steer this sled.

We did have the good sense not to start them off as high up on the hill as we had been starting for the sled train but it was still about halfway up the hill. Our logic was that we wanted them to have a good, fast memorable ride. Yes, they still remember it, vividly. Although, not sooo fondly. I, on the otherhand, can hardly recall it without peeing my pants. Laughter, accompanied with peeing of pants is always good news although not necessarily so for the pee-er.

You see, in my family we greet disasters with laughter. Nervous, uncontrollable, laughter. One time, story for another blog entry, my mother lost her face ( literally) and when my sister was telling us about it she was laughing so hard on the phone as soon as I heard her voice I almost fainted. Laughter on a phone call, in our family, is baaaad news.

On the other hand, we laugh at near misses, too, and we laugh for fun. You just have to learn how to interpret the sound. Belly laughter or squeals or high peals nearing lunacy? The day of the sledding accident was belly laughter although my daughter swears it should have been high peals as it was the day she lost her ability to be a teen model.

My son was in front steering, he did and does continue to have the quicker reflexes, with our daughter sitting in back. They started down the hill and it quickly became apparent that it was much too slick and they had started up much too high. They were headed for the banking corner and there was no way they were going to make it, Matthew just didn't have enough experience to make the turn. They hadn't learned to work together, in tandem, leaning into the turn.

"Jump," we all screamed, "jump!"

As they shot by, my daughter turned her head to us, "HEEEEEEELLLLLPPPPP!" she wailed, ever so pathetically. My son kept his head forward, focusing intently on the run, not realizing yet that he couldn't make the turn without the full participation of his sledding challenged sister who was rigid with fear behind him.

They hit the bank and sailed over it up, up into the air landing in a pine tree and bending it backwards. In turn it sprang forward, again launching them into the air where they cartwheeled over and over until they landed in a snow bank. It was the most athletic thing I had ever seen my daughter do. Matthew, having played football and baseball, knew how to lay there, moaning, however his sister sprang up instantly, hopping from one foot to the other. "I want to go home, I want to go home, I want to go home, NOW!" she was screaming, over and over.

Katrina literally looked like she had run into a porcupine or a cactus bush. She had needles sticking out of her coat and her snow pants and her gloves. She had needles sticking out of her cheeks, and her nose, and even out of her eyelids. And she was hopping back and forth, from foot to foot and her horrible, horrible mother was laughing so hard she couldn't even comfort her. "I broke my nose," she wailed! "My eyes are blinded," she sobbed! And the more she said the harder I laughed.

I was laughing so hard at my poor children my sisters-in-law thought I had put something into the hot chocolate. They checked it before pouring some for my daughter. Then, they began plucking her, which set me off again. When I finally regained my composure Katrina wouldn't let me hug her, for some reason finding little comfort in my arms! I was voted bad mommy for the day and not allowed any hot chocolate.

To this day Katrina doesn't find this story funny in the least. Just ask her. She's the new part time librarian at CCC. She'll just love it that you read this story. But tell her you think I'm an awesome mom.

Oh, we homeschooled and the lesson for that day was when to trust and when to use your own judgement(sarcasm). At least that's the lesson I was trying to convey, I wonder what they learned? They both have travelled the world and Katrina got her first degree before she was 22 (Matthew's still enjoying college). She said it was because I always made it easy to leave home. I wonder what she meant by that?

Women like apples, Men like wine

I was emailed a joke by a sister-in-law a while back:

Women are like apples on trees. The best ones are at the top of the tree.
Most men don't want to reach for the good ones because they are afraid of falling and getting hurt.
Instead, they sometimes take the apples from the ground that aren't as good, but easy. The apples at the top think something is wrong with them, when in reality, they're amazing. They just have to wait for the right person to come along, the one who is brave enough to climb all the way to the top of the tree.

Now men.... Men are like a fine wine.
They begin as grapes, and it's up to women to stomp the shit out of them until they turn into something acceptable to have dinner with!

Although this joke did illicit a chuckle from me it also has made me think. Why do we feel the need to put down one gender to elevate the other? I think I am even appalled at myself for the giggle. I know when I read it to my husband he was a bit puzzled at what I found humorous. I think it was just the unexpectedness of the ending. I think.

Today is the UN's International Day for the Elimination of Violence against Women. From now until Dec 10, Human Rights Day, is a 16 day campaign to call attention to the violence happening to females, worldwide. According to its website:

The 16 Days of Activism Against Gender Violence is an international campaign originating from the first Women's Global Leadership Institute in 1991. Participants chose the dates, November 25, International Day for the Elimination of Violence Against Women, and December 10, International Human Rights Day, in order to symbolically link violence against women and human rights and to emphasize that such violence is a violation of human rights. The 16 Days Campaign has been adopted as an organizing strategy by individuals and groups around the world to call for the elimination of all forms of violence against women.

I do not know whether to be frightened or encouraged by this campaign. Encouraged that the violence is being acknowledged and a demand is being made to do something about it. Frightened that, in this day and age, this type of violence is still ongoing.

The statistics compiled show that violence is a major cause of death in women aged 16-44! Then this:

The economic cost of violence against women is considerable — a 2003 report by the US Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) estimates that the costs of intimate partner violence in the United States alone exceed US$5.8 billion per year: US$4.1 billion are for direct medical and health care services, while productivity losses account for nearly US$1.8 billion.

I am stunned by this. How could we allow this to happen, today? If we don't care about ourselves, how could we allow this to happen to our daughters? How do we raise sons that beat our daughters? For these types of numbers to be actuated it means we have, some how, created an "environment" that encourages this kind of violence! Isn't that terrifying? I want to weep. When we waste so many resources fighting a "war" on terrorism and such precious few on the terrorism of half our population. What is it that we are doing as a society that creates the impression that beating our daughters is okay? If we don't care about the women themselves then you would think the insurance industry would care about the dollars being spent from their coffers. You'd think industries would be howling at the loss of $1.8 billion in income. You'd think Internal Revenue Services would alert the appropriate state departments, letting them know the revenue missing on $1.8 billion of taxable income which is now totally lost! Where are our economists to howl over this lost income to our overall economy?

Could it be that our medical community wants $4.1 billion in income that they can't otherwise obtain? Is it that desperate for a steady source of income? What would the hospitals' incomes be if that were taken out of their grasps?

Too far of a reach? Too outlandish of a conspiracy theory? Then what is it, why are we allowing this violence to be perpetuated, generation after generation?

The joke forwarded by my sister-in-law gives the impression that women have the strong, upperhand in dealing with the imbalances in the gender issue. The numbers don't bear that out. Who is going to save our daughters while our government is off saving countries that don't want to be saved, "in the name of democracy"?

In the name of democracy why don't we work on the terrorism between our own borders? It is enough to make me weep in despair. What kind of violent tomorrow are we asking our daughters to step into? What kind of man are we making of our sons?

Maybe we are stomping too hard, too often at too early of an age? Maybe he is just being taught to stomp back, harder?

Let the Holidays Begin

I started to post this on Oct 19th, however, we kept loosing our internet connection so it has taken this long to post. I will now try to catch up on my journaling. I really wanted to keep on this, atleast on a weekly basis. The best intentions, sigh.

Thursday, October 19th, at sunset, Bahá'ís began celebrating the Anniversary of the Birth of the Báb. For me, October is the beginning of the year. From here through May there are holidays to plan, decorate and celebrate.

I love being a Bahá'í for the obvious reasons of recognizing the Blessed Beauty, and also for the lesser things, such as recognition that we all come from divers traditions and, as individuals, we are encouraged by Bahá'u'lláh to remember our traditions, if they are not in conflict with our laws, and to take pride in our homelands.

The way our family is composed and celebrates shows the wisdom in why Bahá'í communities really can’t follow all of the traditions of the world or nothing else would get done. In my family we have Euro-Christian traditions along with Asian and Indigenous tribal recent additions. Our holiday celebrations are endless. If you even tried to include individual birthdays we would be together 24/7 just celebrating! Given what Baha'u'llah says about what we should use the day for we should pretty much have all the problems of the world solved by now!

My year starts in October with the Anniversary of the Birth of the Báb on the 20th and then the US of A custom of Halloween on the 31st.

Anniversary of the Birth of the Bab celebration was so wonderful! We missed Alex (with baby David) and Mom, of course. Julie and Theo came up from Corvallis and Allison, Chris and baby Traven were here. Katrina, Marcus and dear Kaden came and Aimee made it just in time from Japan. Matthew didn't have to work, either, and so with Marshall, Steve, Sandy, David and Phyllis along with Joe, Al and Bryan the house was bursting. Turkey and all of the trimmings. Grandpa Roy's homemade cranberry relish lives on, and we used Grandma Bea's aprons as flour flew, veggies were chopped and dippings whipped. SO much love in the kitchen.

Everyone wants to be in the kitchen. We need to knock out the wall to the green living room and just have a big kitchen! SIGH! I want my outdoor kitchen, too!

After celebrating that night, the next day we went to our orchard and then over to Joyce's orchard and picked apples. After gathering about 50 lbs of them we came home and started peeeling, and peeling, and peeling! Then we made tons of apple butter and jars of apples for pies and we still have bags of nice, sticky Kings for winter eating. Next week we start smoking fish and clam digging starts as well (actually, it started tonight either here or over in Long Beach). Our freezer is already full between two deer and 50 lbs of halibut. Where we will find room for the two elk my hunters are sure (haha) to bring home is something we will have to figure out then.

Julie and Theo had also brought up some berries and so we canned them along with the apples. Now we have rows and rows of preserves. A nice comfy feeling and one I so strongly remember from the days when this was Grandma's kitchen and pantry. Safety, a time away from cares. No worries. I hear Kaden's little voice, "Babika, well hi! Watcha doin?" and I see his momma at his same age standing in the same spot talking to my grandma on the anniversary of the Birth of the Bab! WOW! What a flashback. I hope she is looking at us, now, with a bit of a smile.

Oct 31st post
We didn't get to see Alex and baby David as they stayed in Tualitin, going to the light show and trick or treating there, so it was left to Kaden to entertain us. Poor Bart had to work clear down the coast so I took pics w/the cell phone. So cute as a cowboy with his horse! He loved talking to all the other tricker treaters. I caught up to them in front of Godfather's and then walked (and carried) Kaden back to my car by the Flavel House. Long walk with a horse, too! We took a break on the bench in front of, ummm, McMahons? No, a block further down by the old sandwich shop that had great soup but closed shop. When I sat Kaden down and propped the horse next to him, Kaden reached out and kissed it and people started, "Ooohing" and asked to take his picture. I, being the excellent grandma that I am not, did not have a camera so told them, "Sure, go ahead" belatedly remembering the class I had taken in my Gender Studies class less than four years ago! However, we have already shared his photo on our family site and anyone searching could find that and do what they want with the photos. Soon all of the sites will have the protection over being unable to download pictures, like many artists already have, but how sad that we will have to jump through hoops to get our own or family member's pics.