It's been a good day. I'm moving forward in various ways. Of all that, more later - maybe much later.
A favorite passage is in my mind tonight:
Ecclesiastes 12
1Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth, while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh, when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them;
2While the sun, or the light, or the moon, or the stars, be not darkened, nor the clouds return after the rain:
3In the day when the keepers of the house shall tremble, and the strong men shall bow themselves, and the grinders cease because they are few, and those that look out of the windows be darkened,
4And the doors shall be shut in the streets, when the sound of the grinding is low, and he shall rise up at the voice of the bird, and all the daughters of musick shall be brought low;
5Also when they shall be afraid of that which is high, and fears shall be in the way, and the almond tree shall flourish, and the grasshopper shall be a burden, and desire shall fail: because man goeth to his long home, and the mourners go about the streets:
6Or ever the silver cord be loosed, or the golden bowl be broken, or the pitcher be broken at the fountain, or the wheel broken at the cistern.
7Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it.
8Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher; all is vanity.
Sometimes, I fear that's me, all is vanity.
Tomorrow is my birthday. I'll be 54. Jeez, looking at that number, it's just hard to believe. And the darn thing is, the older I get, the dumber I feel.
I send you all love & respects tonight.
Mizpah!
R
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Word from a welcome guest
In response to a comment by Pete to the backpacking post, I said that somewhere I had an old inspirational quotation on point. I found it. The language is very, very dated, it reflects a sexist mindset of around 1915, when it was written, but there is a message here. And so, I offer:
Excerpt from The Book of Camp-Lore and Woodcraft, by Daniel Carter Beard
When you, my good reader, get the pack adjusted on your back and the tump line across your forehead, remember that you are being initiated into the great fraternity of outdoor people. But no matter how tough or rough you may appear to the casual observer, your roughness is only apparent; a boy or man of refinement carries that refinement inside of him wherever he goes . . . Under all circumstances use common sense; that is the rule of the wilderness and also real culture.
The most important thing that you must learn on the trail is not to fret and fume over trifles, and even if your load is heavy and irksome, even though the shoulder straps chafe and the tump line makes your neck ache
DON’T FIGHT YOUR PACK
There are two kinds of “packs” -- the pack that you carry day after day on a long hike, and the pack that you carry when on a canoe trip and you are compelled to leave the water and carry your canoe and duffel overland around some bad rapids or falls. The first-named pack should be as light as possible, say between 30 and 40 pounds, for on a long tramp every pound counts, because you know that you must carry it as long as you keep going, and there is no relief in sight except when you stop for your meals or to camp at night, But the last named pack, the
PORTAGE PACK,
the kind that you carry around bad pieces of water, may be as heavy as you can, with safety, load upon your sturdy back, because your mind is buoyed up by the fact that you know you will not have to carry that load very far, the work will end when you reach the water again, and -- strange to say -- the mind has as much to do with carrying the load as the muscles. If the mind gives up you will fall helpless even under a small load; if the mind is strong you will stagger along under a very heavy one.
When I asked a friend, who bears the scars of the pack straps on his body, how it was that he managed to endure the torture of such a load, he replied with a grin that as soon as he found that to “fight his pack” meant to perish --meant death! -- he made up his mind to forget the blamed thing and so when the pack wearied him and the straps rubbed the skin off his body, he forced himself to think of the good dinners he had had at the Camp-fire Club of America, and also, of all the jolly stories told by the toastmaster, and of the fun he had had at some other entertainments. Often while thinking of these things he caught himself laughing out loud as he trudged along the lone trail, FORGETTING the hateful pack on his back. “In this way,” said he, with a winning smile upon his manly and weather-beaten face, “I learned now not to fight the pack but to FORGET IT! Then he braced himself up, looked at the snow-capped mountain range ahead, hummed a little cowboy song and trudged on over the frozen snow at a scout’s pace.
Now that you know what a pack is, and what “fighting a pack” means, remember that if one’s studies at school are hard, that is one’s pack. If the work one is doing is hard, difficult or tiresome, that is one’s pack. If one’s boss is cross and exacting, that is one’s pack. If one’s parents are worried and forget themselves in their worry and speak sharply, that is one’s pack. Don’t fight your pack; remember that you are a woodcrafter; straighten your shoulders, put on your scout smile and hit the trail like a man!
If you find that you are tempted to break the Scout Law, that you are tempted at times to forget the Scout Oath, that because your camp mates use language unfit for a woodcrafter or a scout, and you are tempted to do the same, if your playmates play craps and smoke cigarettes, and laugh at you because you refuse to do so, so that you are tempted to join them, these temptations form your pack; don’t give in and fall under your load and whimper like a “sissy,” or a “mollycoddle,” but straighten up, look the world straight in the eye, and hit the trail like a man!
Some of us are carrying portage packs which we can dump off our shoulders at the end of the “carry,” some of us are carrying hiking packs which we must carry through life and can never dump from our shoulders until we cross the Grand Portage from which no voyagers ever return. All our packs vary in weight, but none of them is easy to carry if we fret and fume and complain under the load.
We outdoor folks call our load “pack,” but our Sunday School teachers sometimes speak of the pack they bear as a “cross.” Be it so, but don’t fight your pack.
Mizpah.
R
Excerpt from The Book of Camp-Lore and Woodcraft, by Daniel Carter Beard
When you, my good reader, get the pack adjusted on your back and the tump line across your forehead, remember that you are being initiated into the great fraternity of outdoor people. But no matter how tough or rough you may appear to the casual observer, your roughness is only apparent; a boy or man of refinement carries that refinement inside of him wherever he goes . . . Under all circumstances use common sense; that is the rule of the wilderness and also real culture.
The most important thing that you must learn on the trail is not to fret and fume over trifles, and even if your load is heavy and irksome, even though the shoulder straps chafe and the tump line makes your neck ache
DON’T FIGHT YOUR PACK
There are two kinds of “packs” -- the pack that you carry day after day on a long hike, and the pack that you carry when on a canoe trip and you are compelled to leave the water and carry your canoe and duffel overland around some bad rapids or falls. The first-named pack should be as light as possible, say between 30 and 40 pounds, for on a long tramp every pound counts, because you know that you must carry it as long as you keep going, and there is no relief in sight except when you stop for your meals or to camp at night, But the last named pack, the
PORTAGE PACK,
the kind that you carry around bad pieces of water, may be as heavy as you can, with safety, load upon your sturdy back, because your mind is buoyed up by the fact that you know you will not have to carry that load very far, the work will end when you reach the water again, and -- strange to say -- the mind has as much to do with carrying the load as the muscles. If the mind gives up you will fall helpless even under a small load; if the mind is strong you will stagger along under a very heavy one.
When I asked a friend, who bears the scars of the pack straps on his body, how it was that he managed to endure the torture of such a load, he replied with a grin that as soon as he found that to “fight his pack” meant to perish --meant death! -- he made up his mind to forget the blamed thing and so when the pack wearied him and the straps rubbed the skin off his body, he forced himself to think of the good dinners he had had at the Camp-fire Club of America, and also, of all the jolly stories told by the toastmaster, and of the fun he had had at some other entertainments. Often while thinking of these things he caught himself laughing out loud as he trudged along the lone trail, FORGETTING the hateful pack on his back. “In this way,” said he, with a winning smile upon his manly and weather-beaten face, “I learned now not to fight the pack but to FORGET IT! Then he braced himself up, looked at the snow-capped mountain range ahead, hummed a little cowboy song and trudged on over the frozen snow at a scout’s pace.
Now that you know what a pack is, and what “fighting a pack” means, remember that if one’s studies at school are hard, that is one’s pack. If the work one is doing is hard, difficult or tiresome, that is one’s pack. If one’s boss is cross and exacting, that is one’s pack. If one’s parents are worried and forget themselves in their worry and speak sharply, that is one’s pack. Don’t fight your pack; remember that you are a woodcrafter; straighten your shoulders, put on your scout smile and hit the trail like a man!
If you find that you are tempted to break the Scout Law, that you are tempted at times to forget the Scout Oath, that because your camp mates use language unfit for a woodcrafter or a scout, and you are tempted to do the same, if your playmates play craps and smoke cigarettes, and laugh at you because you refuse to do so, so that you are tempted to join them, these temptations form your pack; don’t give in and fall under your load and whimper like a “sissy,” or a “mollycoddle,” but straighten up, look the world straight in the eye, and hit the trail like a man!
Some of us are carrying portage packs which we can dump off our shoulders at the end of the “carry,” some of us are carrying hiking packs which we must carry through life and can never dump from our shoulders until we cross the Grand Portage from which no voyagers ever return. All our packs vary in weight, but none of them is easy to carry if we fret and fume and complain under the load.
We outdoor folks call our load “pack,” but our Sunday School teachers sometimes speak of the pack they bear as a “cross.” Be it so, but don’t fight your pack.
Mizpah.
R
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Backpacking through adulthood?
I was conversing with my very oldest & dearest friend the other night. (We went to Mrs. Jones' Kindergarten together in 1958.) For some reason (and I forget what it was), I mentioned the three phases a growing boy goes through with his backpacking. The first phase of camping is when you read the list that's in the Scout manual of stuff to put in your pack, and you take all of that stuff. The second phase comes when you get tired of lugging all that stuff around, so you pare down the load and take only take what you really, really need. In the second phase, you have a really tight and light pack. The third phase comes when you are a little older and a lot stronger. At that point in your life, you like some creature comforts, so you take what will make you comfortable, even though that makes for a heavier pack. A good air mattress, for instance, is pretty heavy.
She distilled what I was describing into what may be a formula for adulthood. "So in the first phase you follow the rules, in the second phase you defy the rules, and in the third phase you think for yourself."
Damn, and I thought I had the turn of phrase to describe this whole life thing.
Mizpah.
R
She distilled what I was describing into what may be a formula for adulthood. "So in the first phase you follow the rules, in the second phase you defy the rules, and in the third phase you think for yourself."
Damn, and I thought I had the turn of phrase to describe this whole life thing.
Mizpah.
R
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
Criminals' families really do suffer, too
On the site tonight, there is discussion about Scooter Libby deserves what he gets, and that he's the one responsible for the trauma to his family. That's true as far as it goes, but I think it's worthwhile to take a look at exactly what this sort of thing does to the families, both immediate and extended.
This is the first time I've written about this - ever. I've not discussed it at any length with anyone, either. Damfino why I'm willing to do so at this time.
When I started practicing law in 1978, I shared an office with other lawyers, one of whom was my oldest brother. In 1984, I had a fucking banner year. I settled some big cases, I did a couple of murders, I had a new office, I was getting into decent physical shape, I was a line officer in a very busy volunteer EMS company which I enjoyed the hell out of and generally I had the world by the ass. On 13 November 1984, I walked into my brother's office for some now-forgotten reason, and noticed that he was seriously down. As it turns out, he had just talked to the FBI about some information that was bothering him, the upshot of which was that he was involved in what the feds said was a consigliari role in a sizeable cocaine conspiracy. This included at least one trip to Peru (when he said he was going out west somewhere on business), storing bricks of coke at home, breaking into a police lock-up to retrieve items from a dealer's car and general advice to the main conspirators.
This started a family nightmare that lasted, well, until now, at least. In the short term (the first five years), the effects were stunning. His wife was devastated. She had been a stay-at-home mom, which was their choice, and she was a great mom. When he went to prison about 6 months later, she was dependent on family for the sustenance of her three children for a couple of years. She returned to school to get an education degree, and after a couple of years found a job as a first-year teacher. He had three girls, ages 12, 8 and 3. The two older girls understood the loss and the shame. They each were cruelly treated by their peers. Children are just cruel at times. My oldest neice still remembers how her very few close friends (including my current partner) gathered around her and protected her as best they could. The littlest one couldn't understand why Daddy had to leave for "work" for a few years. Watching these children over the next few Christmases was absolutely heartbreaking. (And making those Christmases happen was almost unbearable.) Our parents were devastated, too. Because of issues that I won't discuss, it was left to me to tell them about the whole situation. I carefully picked a day (29 December 1984) which had no significance as an anniversary or anything like that. Immediately upon learning of this, my mother collapsed in grief, and my father reached for the nitroglycerine bottle for the first time in years. When my parents heard about the event (and, just a bit later, when my wife heard about it), they all assumed that since I was in the same office, I might be involved in the conspiracy, too. (I do not resent that the FBI and a federal grand jury investigated me, too. I understand why they had to do that. But even someone lily-white-innocent finds that process uncomfortable in the extreme.) I stood beside my brother as a federal district judge sentenced him to five years in prison. (I was co-counsel, even I'm not stupid enough to have first-chaired that case.) I drove him to the penitentiary. About half of my clients vanished. Oh, fuck it, it was a horrible time, and there is fallout until today.
So, I was a little misleading when I commented on the community blog about Spitz Channel's family. The reason that I talked so much with HIS brother was that I was still in the same place.
Trust me when I say that Scooter Libby's family doesn't deserve the pile of stinking pus that is about to be dumped on them.
R
This is the first time I've written about this - ever. I've not discussed it at any length with anyone, either. Damfino why I'm willing to do so at this time.
When I started practicing law in 1978, I shared an office with other lawyers, one of whom was my oldest brother. In 1984, I had a fucking banner year. I settled some big cases, I did a couple of murders, I had a new office, I was getting into decent physical shape, I was a line officer in a very busy volunteer EMS company which I enjoyed the hell out of and generally I had the world by the ass. On 13 November 1984, I walked into my brother's office for some now-forgotten reason, and noticed that he was seriously down. As it turns out, he had just talked to the FBI about some information that was bothering him, the upshot of which was that he was involved in what the feds said was a consigliari role in a sizeable cocaine conspiracy. This included at least one trip to Peru (when he said he was going out west somewhere on business), storing bricks of coke at home, breaking into a police lock-up to retrieve items from a dealer's car and general advice to the main conspirators.
This started a family nightmare that lasted, well, until now, at least. In the short term (the first five years), the effects were stunning. His wife was devastated. She had been a stay-at-home mom, which was their choice, and she was a great mom. When he went to prison about 6 months later, she was dependent on family for the sustenance of her three children for a couple of years. She returned to school to get an education degree, and after a couple of years found a job as a first-year teacher. He had three girls, ages 12, 8 and 3. The two older girls understood the loss and the shame. They each were cruelly treated by their peers. Children are just cruel at times. My oldest neice still remembers how her very few close friends (including my current partner) gathered around her and protected her as best they could. The littlest one couldn't understand why Daddy had to leave for "work" for a few years. Watching these children over the next few Christmases was absolutely heartbreaking. (And making those Christmases happen was almost unbearable.) Our parents were devastated, too. Because of issues that I won't discuss, it was left to me to tell them about the whole situation. I carefully picked a day (29 December 1984) which had no significance as an anniversary or anything like that. Immediately upon learning of this, my mother collapsed in grief, and my father reached for the nitroglycerine bottle for the first time in years. When my parents heard about the event (and, just a bit later, when my wife heard about it), they all assumed that since I was in the same office, I might be involved in the conspiracy, too. (I do not resent that the FBI and a federal grand jury investigated me, too. I understand why they had to do that. But even someone lily-white-innocent finds that process uncomfortable in the extreme.) I stood beside my brother as a federal district judge sentenced him to five years in prison. (I was co-counsel, even I'm not stupid enough to have first-chaired that case.) I drove him to the penitentiary. About half of my clients vanished. Oh, fuck it, it was a horrible time, and there is fallout until today.
So, I was a little misleading when I commented on the community blog about Spitz Channel's family. The reason that I talked so much with HIS brother was that I was still in the same place.
Trust me when I say that Scooter Libby's family doesn't deserve the pile of stinking pus that is about to be dumped on them.
R
Sunday, March 4, 2007
Just thinkin'
Rags is on my ass again to update my blog. But I don't feel like I have anything important to say. Darn it.
I've learned a lot in the last week. Perhaps I'll write about it sometime. It involves more people than just me, so now is not the time.
Yesterday and today, I was at the office most of the day. Part of that time was spent reading for enjoyment. Specifically, reading westerns. A few years ago, I wrote a semi-serious piece for a miniscule literary journal about the western as literature. I haven't a clue where the hell that journal is, or where any drafts of the piece might be lurking on my computers. I'm very lax about storing stuff and about backing up non-business records. (If anyone has a suggestion for a techno-tyro such as myself for safely and easily storing personal records, I'll be glad to listen.) Anyway, perhaps I'm rather plebian in my tastes, but by golly, I do like a good western.
The leading western writers are Zane Grey and Louis L'Amour. (One of my son's middle names is Zane, after Zane Grey.) What they write are stories that generally follow the familiar western formula - a feet-of-clay protagonist, presented with issues of evil and hardship, who uses personal strength and integrity to prevail. Mostly, these protagonists are males. (Grey had more female heroes than L'Amour did.) That is generally the case in literature until 1970 or so, with some notable exceptions. (My favorite is from Main Street, by Sinclair Lewis.) The morality of these tales is what counts, to me.
My habit of reading westerns has figured in at least one case I have done. Some years ago, I was a guardian ad litem for an elementary school-age child who was the subject of a family custody feud. At the time of the case, the child was living with her maternal grandfather. The paternal grandparents were asserting their claim to the child (I hate it when they talk about "the child," or, worse, "the kid," like she's a sheep or something), because the child's mother was dead from an accident, and the child's father was dead at the hands of the maternal grandfather. The grandfather had recently been acquited of murdering the father, not because he didn't shoot him, he did - but because the father was a nasty abuser who was immediately menacing the grandfather. (Note - the best fact to have in a murder case is an unlikeable victim.) The paternal grandparents reasoned that the maternal grandfather was a violent sort of fellow, and one could understand their viewpoint. Part of my job was to talk to the parties. In interviewing the paternal people, well, the apple hadn't fallen far from the tree. As I talked to the maternal grandfather, we were just chit-chatting, and I asked him what he liked to do. He replied that he loved reading westerns. We talked for a good while about Grey and L'Amour, and that opened the gate for this old fellow to tell me a great deal about himself. Ultimately, I recommended that the maternal grandfather have custody of the child.
Well, that's my little story of westerns.
Hmmm - Oh, I know something else that I've been thinking - Schell, darling, update your blog - we're worried about you, OK?
And Rags, how do you enlarge the bumper sticker art that you have on your blog to print? I'd like them large to post round my office.
And to all of you, I bid you a pleasant evening, and an enjoyable week.
R
I've learned a lot in the last week. Perhaps I'll write about it sometime. It involves more people than just me, so now is not the time.
Yesterday and today, I was at the office most of the day. Part of that time was spent reading for enjoyment. Specifically, reading westerns. A few years ago, I wrote a semi-serious piece for a miniscule literary journal about the western as literature. I haven't a clue where the hell that journal is, or where any drafts of the piece might be lurking on my computers. I'm very lax about storing stuff and about backing up non-business records. (If anyone has a suggestion for a techno-tyro such as myself for safely and easily storing personal records, I'll be glad to listen.) Anyway, perhaps I'm rather plebian in my tastes, but by golly, I do like a good western.
The leading western writers are Zane Grey and Louis L'Amour. (One of my son's middle names is Zane, after Zane Grey.) What they write are stories that generally follow the familiar western formula - a feet-of-clay protagonist, presented with issues of evil and hardship, who uses personal strength and integrity to prevail. Mostly, these protagonists are males. (Grey had more female heroes than L'Amour did.) That is generally the case in literature until 1970 or so, with some notable exceptions. (My favorite is from Main Street, by Sinclair Lewis.) The morality of these tales is what counts, to me.
My habit of reading westerns has figured in at least one case I have done. Some years ago, I was a guardian ad litem for an elementary school-age child who was the subject of a family custody feud. At the time of the case, the child was living with her maternal grandfather. The paternal grandparents were asserting their claim to the child (I hate it when they talk about "the child," or, worse, "the kid," like she's a sheep or something), because the child's mother was dead from an accident, and the child's father was dead at the hands of the maternal grandfather. The grandfather had recently been acquited of murdering the father, not because he didn't shoot him, he did - but because the father was a nasty abuser who was immediately menacing the grandfather. (Note - the best fact to have in a murder case is an unlikeable victim.) The paternal grandparents reasoned that the maternal grandfather was a violent sort of fellow, and one could understand their viewpoint. Part of my job was to talk to the parties. In interviewing the paternal people, well, the apple hadn't fallen far from the tree. As I talked to the maternal grandfather, we were just chit-chatting, and I asked him what he liked to do. He replied that he loved reading westerns. We talked for a good while about Grey and L'Amour, and that opened the gate for this old fellow to tell me a great deal about himself. Ultimately, I recommended that the maternal grandfather have custody of the child.
Well, that's my little story of westerns.
Hmmm - Oh, I know something else that I've been thinking - Schell, darling, update your blog - we're worried about you, OK?
And Rags, how do you enlarge the bumper sticker art that you have on your blog to print? I'd like them large to post round my office.
And to all of you, I bid you a pleasant evening, and an enjoyable week.
R
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
