Sun Breaks

Somewhere the Sun is Shining. . .

2012-01-23T11:07:00.000-08:00

Shore crab defending his crevice in the rocks

At home in Washington, the snowstorm moved on, leaving rain, rain, rain it its wake. San Diego also had rain, but yesterday the sun came out. Low tides drew crowds of people to the tide pools at Cabrillo National Monument at Point Loma, and we went, too.

Cormorants and pelicans

Tide Pools and eroded sandstone cliffs at Point Loma

Fascination for all ages

Up close and personal

Enjoying the sunshine at the Point Loma tide pools

Snowy Owls Come to Stanwood

2012-01-13T12:09:00.000-08:00

    This has been one of those unpredictable winters with no snow, not much rain, and occasional glorious sun breaks that make us feel lucky just to be alive.

    Late one sunny afternoon this week, Hank came upstairs from his windowless office and said, “Let’s go up in the mountains to enjoy the sunshine.”

    I glanced at the clock. “When we get there, it will be dark. Why don’t we go someplace close and look for birds?”

    We grabbed our coats and the camera and headed toward Camano Island. By the time we reached the new Mark Clark Bridge a few miles from our home, the sun was already dipping toward the island. At the end of the bridge, Hank swung left onto Eide Road. We’d passed this spot hundreds of times but never ventured down to Leque Island, which lies between Port Susan and Skagit Bays.

    The Eide family farmed there for nearly a century. Prior to settlement, the island had been entirely salt marsh. It now consists of wetlands and diked fields where contract farmers plant grain every year as food for wintering waterfowl. About 100 acres of Leque Island’s 325 acres is being restored to an intertidal estuary. This will provide habitat for juvenile salmon and also benefit other fish and wildlife.

We passed the bare spot where the Eide house had stood and continued beside the dike to a small parking area. Almost immediately we spotted a juvenile eagle in a gnarled old cottonwood that once shaded the homestead. Birds flitted from branch to branch in smaller trees that may once have been an orchard.

    Already the light was fading. We were out of sight of the highway. The dike hid the river and the town beyond. In the stillness, we heard the gabbling of snow geese. Soon loose skeins of hundreds of birds passed overhead, hurrying toward the tide flats to spend the night.

     Rounding a bend in the road, we met a couple of men walking back to their vehicle. From the looks of their equipment, they were serious birdwatchers. They told us they’d seen a snowy owl. Our ears perked up. Snowy owls belong in northern Canada and Alaska. But this winter many are being spotted in our area and across the United States, some as far south as Kansas.

    Ahead of us, huge bags of sand backed a wall of concrete blocks where storms combined with high tides, had washed away the dike. A small, energetic woman with binoculars, camera, and a big spotting scope had established herself atop the barrier. We learned she’s a research ecologist, but she and her dog often come to this spot at sunset or early morning to watch the birds. (The dog was more interested in getting us to toss his ball than he was in the birds.)

    She pointed out the dark female northern harriers and the smaller, lighter males swooping over the field, hunting for voles. Short-eared owls made soundless sorties of their own. Our new acquaintance offered to move her scope to an easier-to-reach spot on the dike, so we could see the snowy owl she’d been watching.

    She focused the instrument and let us peer through it. Sure enough, far across the river we could see the fluffy, pale form of a female snowy owl sitting on a stump. Snowies are among the largest of the owls, with wingspans that can reach almost five feet. Since they’re native to the tundra, they seldom perch in trees but rest on driftwood or fence posts instead. They live on lemmings and other small mammals in the Arctic, but when the lemming population crashes or when there’s a bumper crop of juvenile owls, some are forced further south. That’s why happy birders in our area are getting a look at this sudden population increase, or irruption, of snowy owls.

    We thanked our new friend for showing us the rare visitor and walked back through the twilight to our car. Harriers and owls still ghosted low over the abandoned fields of Eide’s farm. Who knew what adventure waited when we dropped everything to answer the call of a sun break and the out-of-doors?

Photo courtesy of: http://animal-wallpaper-free.blogspot.com/2010/04/best-snowy-owl-pictures.html

The Spirit of Generosity

2011-12-27T10:27:00.000-08:00

    This Christmas will go down in my personal history book as “the best ever.” Not because of the gifts, or the way-too-abundant holiday treats, or the decorations. Not because of the Christmas concerts and other celebrations, or the cards and letters reminding us that we’re important to the far-flung people we love.

    What made it “best ever” was the spirit of generosity that touched us in many ways.

    Every year, somebody hangs giant snowflakes and lighted wreaths along our town’s main street. While out walking the morning after Thanksgiving, we caught them in the act. Stanwood Lions Club volunteers were partnering with a TV cable company to put up snowflakes that sparkled in the fog. The man in charge told us the Lions also hoist the lighted Christmas tree to the top of Stanwood’s icon, the old Hamilton Lumber Mill smokestack, as well as install other symbols for later holidays.

    Another day, we joined a number of senior citizens at Stanwood’s Community and Senior Center for Christmas luncheon. We were all delighted when one hundred fifty children from nearby Cedarhome Elementary School filed in to entertain us with a varied and enthusiastic program of holiday music, some of it original compositions from their teacher, Mr. Rich Crouch. Thanks kids and teacher, for sharing your talent!

Dennis Bunch on his Honda 1300cc

    When we drove to Camano Island to finish our Christmas shopping, we were amused to see Santa Claus sitting by the highway, waving from a bright red Honda motorcycle. We stopped to talk with him and take his picture. Santa (Dennis Bunch) has been sitting on that motorcycle for several hours a day, every Christmas season for six years, because he feels its a way he can bless others.

    Volunteers around Stanwood come by ones, by a few, or by the hundreds. The Warm Beach Lights of Christmas, only four miles from town, is known all over the country for its more than one million lights and its family-friendly activities that go on for twenty nights in December. More than 800 volunteers band together to set up the displays, man the events, and later take it all down again. They make this a happy, well-loved destination for young and old.

    For us, what made this Christmas truly “the best ever” was a generous gesture from one of our sons. His sister lives in the Arizona desert. She’s homesick for the damp green Pacific Northwest at Christmas time and we miss her, too. His gift to all of us was to fly her home for a weekend packed with love and fun.

    What better way to celebrate the birth of One who gave the best gift ever than to imitate his giving spirit? That spirit of generosity is the thread that ties the whole package together.

John Aaron Rawlins, a Man for His Time

2011-11-29T09:24:00.000-08:00

Brigadier General John A. Rawlins, Chief of Staff,
at City Point, VA, with wife and child at door of their quarters

Before the American Revolution, three brothers named Rawlins came to settle in the colonies from England. At Sun Breaks, http//rainsongpress.blogspot.com, the entry for August 28, 2011 begins a three-part story about one of them, ancestor James Mason Rawlins, who was willing to give up his family and perhaps his life for what he thought was right.

James Mason Rawlins was born around 1737. Soon after, in 1742, another Rawlins boy named James entered the world. He was James Rawlins III, born to Sarah and James Rawlins II. James Rawlins III became the great-grandfather of John Aaron Rawlins, the subject of this story. By 1826, both John’s family and descendants of James Mason Rawlins were living in Illinois.

Despite a crash course in beginning genealogy, I haven’t yet discovered how or if John Aaron Rawlins is related to our branch of the Rawlins family. But since one purpose in telling these tales is to show how our family (and all American families) help make up the larger history of these United States, here is the story of Major General John Aaron Rawlins.

    John Aaron Rawlins was born in Galena, Illinois on February 13, 1831, one of eight siblings in a family of very modest means. He helped to support the family by hauling the charcoal made by his father to nearby towns and selling it. When his father left to join the 1849 California gold rush, John looked after his mother and siblings. He loved his father deeply but hated his bad habits. Because of his father’s drinking, John vowed never to touch strong drink. One writer thinks it was this aversion, as much as anything else, that became the basis for his place in history.

    John was an intelligent, darkly handsome young man with an unusual gift for oratory. His early education was spotty, but at the age of twenty he entered secondary school with the goal of becoming an attorney. He was admitted to the Illinois bar in 1855 and practiced law in his hometown. By 1858 he’d become interested in politics. Though a staunch Democrat, according to writer Lee Bonnet, he made speeches on behalf of fellow Illinois resident, Republican Abraham Lincoln, in the 1860 presidential campaign.¹

    Then the Civil War broke out. After the first Battle of Bull Run as the fighting moved closer to home, Rawlins organized a band of civilians into the 45th Illinois Volunteers, inspiring the new soldiers with his rousing speeches.

    The town of Galena was intensely loyal to the Northern cause. More generals called Galena home than any other Union city. The town probably contributed more privates, as well. One night local Republicans staged a big political meeting. Rawlins was advised that they would not welcome him as a Democrat, but he insisted he was going, and if asked to speak, he would not remain silent. Wherever he went, he was usually asked to speak, and it happened again that night.

    One of those attending the meeting was a modest, rather inarticulate colonel named Ulysses S. Grant. He had been a clerk in his father’s leather-goods store and knew Rawlins slightly because Rawlins had done legal work for the company.

    When the audience called “Rawlins! Rawlins!” John responded. He made what one author called “one of the great speeches of the Civil War period: a speech which rallied everyone, regardless of party, regardless of previous views about slavery and about sectionalism, regardless of anything and everything. He appealed to the God of battles to aid the great cause of the North; he appealed to everyone to give his utmost.”²

    Grant was among those who wanted to give his utmost. He asked Rawlins to join him as assistant in his military ventures, and as Grant advanced up the ranks to general, so did Rawlins. Eventually Grant made him his chief of staff.

    One of John Aaron Rawlins’ outstanding characteristics was his loyalty. He’d been fiercely faithful to his wife, Emily, with whom he had three children, and remained at her side, comforting her until her death in August 1861 of tuberculosis, a major killer of that day. Though in deep sorrow, he joined Grant to become one of his most trusted confidantes, deeply involved in every decision and every battle. He organized Grant’s military camp and also worked to protect Grant from the demon of strong drink.

    According to historian Elmer Gortz, Rawlins did have an interesting flaw or ability, depending upon one’s perspective. When the occasion warranted, he could erupt into the most passionate, evocative, eloquent surge of swearing imaginable. One of the people who witnessed his colorful language was a northern girl named Emma Hurlbut.

    Emma was working in Vicksburg, Mississippi, as a governess during the siege of the city. Rawlins was assigned to protect her from the unwanted attentions of soldiers and officers. Not only did he do his job well, he also courted and married her. Emma was able to curb his profanity.

    John Rawlins had become a Major General by the time the war ended in 1865. He returned to his law practice in Galena. By then, he’d also contracted tuberculosis.

    In the summer of 1867, General Grant urged his chief of staff to go out West, hoping that the climate might help him recover. Accompanied by an aide and several friends, Rawlins traveled to Cheyenne, Wyoming. There he met General Grenville M. Dodge and a party of civil engineers who were surveying a railroad route westward from Omaha.

    As the company rode west on their horses, approaching the hills near the present city of Rawlins, Wyoming, the ailing general expressed a desire for a drink of good, cold water. Scouts set out to explore. They discovered a fine spring of water near the base of the hills and brought some back to the sick man. General Rawlins declared he’d never tasted a drink more refreshing. “If anything is ever named after me, I hope it will be a spring of water,” he said. General Dodge heard what he said and immediately named it “Rawlins Spring.”

    The town that grew up near the spring, a division point of the railroad, was at first called “Rawlins Spring.” Later, the name was shortened to “Rawlins.”

    Unfortunately, the expedition did not improve Rawlins’ health. He returned to the East, and a short time later Ulysses S. Grant became President Grant. The president summoned his old friend Rawlins to Washington, D.C., and in March 1869, made him secretary of war.

    John Aaron Rawlins died five months later at the age of thirty eight, on September 6, 1869. He is buried in Arlington National Cemetery.

¹ http://www.imrubicon.com/general.htm (Lee Bonnet)

² from Three Galena Generals, by Elmer Gortz, 1955 (Speech to Illinois Historical Society)

Giving the Gift of Heritage

2011-11-08T12:52:00.000-08:00

GIVING THE GIFT OF HERITAGE

    Sharing Your Stories

    Guest Blogger, Sharon Brilla

Something in our hearts responds to story. Before the invention of radio and TV, before we even had access to the written word, stories were the way we passed on our history and our culture. We especially love tales of courage and triumph over difficult circumstances. Stories about family help us know where we fit in the scheme of things. What small child doesn’t beg, “Tell me a story?”

Sharon Brilla, Co-Director of Social Services at Josephine Sunset Home here in Stanwood, says: “One of the greatest gifts we can give to our families is sharing our trials and failures and how we overcame in the midst of turmoil.” She relates this to the Biblical account of Moses leading the Israelites out of their Egyptian captivity to the land God had promised them. Moses told the people, “‘Teach what you’ve seen and heard to your children and grandchildren.’ As we face tough economic times we can help the current generation learn to face adversity and remind them we can be over comers.

“My mother told about putting cardboard in her shoes because she couldn’t afford another pair of shoes. All of us have Exodus stories about how our family has survived when life happens. Our challenge is to share our stories with the next generation and teach them to recognize their own stories.

Christmas time is a perfect opportunity to remind our families of our triumphs and lessons learned from the hard times. This year give the gift of legacy and start a new family tradition.”

Here are some of Sharon’s ideas:

* Start a journal with stories from the past and add new stories throughout the year

* Play a game of remembering past victories. ‘I remember the time Grandpa’s car broke down on the freeway and….’

* Start a prayer journal with your family. Record answers to your prayers.

* Share a time when you failed and what you learned from the failure.

* Encourage younger family members to share their Exodus stories. This year I will remind my grandson of his fears on the first day of school. That morning he asked me to pray, and when school was out, he said, ‘I had a good day, Grandma.’

Here are a few ideas from Sun Breaks:

* When you put your photos in albums, or download them to your computer, be sure to label them with the occasion, place, and people in them. Don’t let your treasured photos end up in a shoe box in some estate sale because no one knows their significance.

* Keep a journal, if only jottings on a calendar to keep track of important daily happenings.

* Keep scrapbooks of family events.

The Snow Geese are Back!

2011-10-26T17:18:00.000-07:00

     Recently, a morning fog mass crept across Skagit Bay and the farms on the delta below us. For a few moments the bank’s leading edge paused at the northern reach of Port Susan and the mouth of the Stillaguamish River. We watched the fog swallow the farms along the shore and blot out Camano Island. Soon it swirled into the treetops on our hillside.

    When we stepped outside, we heard disembodied voices gabbling in the fog. The Lesser Snow Geese were back!

    Later, we drove to the Rexville store on Fir Island, one of our favorite places for lunch, passing a large flock of snow geese grazing in a field. While we waited for our order, Rexville’s proprietor told us he’d recently talked with a Russian ornithologist who studies the birds at their nesting grounds on Wrangell Island, not the Wrangell Island in Alaska’s panhandle, but the Russian island in the Arctic Ocean north of Siberia. He passed on some interesting facts he’d learned from the visiting scientist.

The orange faces show this family group has been feeding in the iron-rich soil of the salt marshes.

    Some of the Wrangell Island geese winter in California. The rest winter locally and would show up soon. The Lesser Snow Geese we’d seen, the proprietor informed us, would not stay. They would feed and rest for a while, then fly on.

    Snow geese usually mate for life and can live from 10 to 20 years in the wild. They raise three or four young every year. During the summer, they molt and can’t fly. The Russian expert described how most of the geese prefer the tundra at one end of the island for their nesting sites, though quite a few nest at the other end. When the goslings get strong enough, the whole of the smaller group (thousands of parents and young) set out walking to join the geese at the other end of the island, at least 40 miles away, even struggling across a rugged mountain range. On the way, many lose their lives to Arctic foxes and other predators but the flock keeps going.

    The snow geese who winter here in the deltas of the Stillaguamish and Skagit Rivers are part of the Fraser-Skagit population, and move back and forth between the estuaries of the Skagit and Fraser Rivers. A sanctuary has been established in the center of the Fraser estuary for the compact white birds with the black wing tips and pink bills and feet. About half of the wintering geese can be seen swirling over the farm fields and intertidal marshes of the sanctuary from mid-October to mid-December, and again from mid-March to mid-April. The other half fly on to the Skagit Delta, where they will be joined by the rest of the flock from mid-December to mid-March.

    In January, 2010, the two flocks totaled 75,500 birds. Researchers estimated that forty percent that year were young birds, identified by their grayer plumage. The following January, there were only about 65,000 birds with very few young. The nesting season in Siberia had been poor.

    Snow geese feed on the intertidal marsh plants of the estuaries, such as bulrush and sedges, using their strong bills to dig up roots and rhizomes. Visitors will notice the head feathers of geese who have been uprooting marsh plants have been stained orange by the iron-rich soil.

    In the fall, farmers plant grass cover, not only for soil enrichment, but for the geese and other wildlife. The geese will also eat any unharvested crops, including leftover potatoes in the field. One of the Northwest’s most spectacular sights is a large, dense flock of snow geese marching across level farm fields in close formation, feeding as they go. If a bald eagle (or dog, or person) comes too close, the geese will take flight, then swirl down in another location like a storm of noisy snowflakes.

    Scientists working on Wrangell Island have banded some birds with colored neck collars and fitted others with radio transmitters to aid in population and migration studies. If you come to watch our winter visitors and notice any marked birds, you can assist the ongoing international research projects by reporting your observations to The British Columbia Waterfowl Society, 5191 Robertson Road, Delta, BC V4K 3N2. Phone: 604-946-6980

Making a Memorable Reunion

2011-09-23T11:40:00.000-07:00

Mary and Connie find their husbands in an early reunion photo

Did your family, like ours, have a reunion this summer? It’s not too soon to begin planning your next one—no matter when you want to schedule it.

About sixteen years ago, when my dad and his youngest sister Mary were the only siblings still alive out of the original seven, we began a tradition of getting together every other August. Our reunions not only allow family members of all ages to connect with each other in a deeper way, but we also feel more connected to previous generations.

Here are some of the fun ideas we’ve used to help draw us closer. Feel free to adapt them for your next family get-together.

~Genealogy Chart
Cousin Jackie’s an expert genealogist who has unearthed fascinating stories about the family. She contributed a beautiful genealogy chart (above) showing ancestors from Thomas and Ethel Rawlins, the parents of the seven siblings mentioned above, all the way back to the 1700s. The chart is featured at every reunion.

~Family Trees
Some of us see each other only at reunions. We use Sister Patty’s family “Tree” to help us place people in the proper families and learn their names. Photos of Thomas and Ethel are at the base of the tree. Twigs on separate branches for each of their seven children feature pictures of the siblings’ children’s and grandchildren.

~Reunion Albums
Cousin Bill, a photographer, made a 2-by-3-foot blow-up of a photo from the first Rawlins reunion. All the cousins, in their sixties and seventies now, were crowded together on the grass in a laughing group. Today’s children like to pick out their grandparents in the black-and-white photo.

(All three of the above ideas can be seen in the above photo.)

Today everyone has a digital camera, so we take lots of pictures. We keep an album chronicling each reunion. It’s fun to leaf through the pages, watching the changes as the children grow up and revisiting memories of loved ones no longer with us.

~T-shirts
At one reunion, someone brought several plain t-shirts and some fine-point permanent markers. We signed our names on each shirt, as decorative or simple as we wished. Later, names were drawn to choose the shirts’ lucky recipients. Another time, everyone wore matching t-shirts screen printed with “Rawlins Reunion” across a silhouette of a tree.

~Video recordings
Video recordings of previous reunions are fun to watch and become increasingly precious as the years pass. One of the most enjoyable featured Aunt Mary, one of the seven siblings, sharing memories of her North Dakota childhood and the early years of the family in Washington.

Everyone, young to old, has fun at the Rawlins Reunion

~Games
Different volunteers at each reunion supervise games for kids and grownups. Home-grown fun is best...like this wrap-the-mummy contest, using toilet paper and cooperative volunteers like Delaney.

~Picture Match
This year we had a contest to see who could match the most graduation photos with the present-day versions of the same people. Most kids were able to pick out their own parents and grandparents, and everyone had fun seeing how we’ve changed.

Listening to William's story

~Tell Me a Story
When our great-great-great grandfather Thomas Main Redfield, a blacksmith, was alive, he wrote long poems telling stories of his family and his travels. William Shaw, his many-times-removed great grandson, turned one of those poems about two children being rescued from a runaway horse and carriage into a dramatic reading. His sister Clarissa Austin expanded another family story about Grandmother Ethel and a prairie fire into a narrative that had us all wondering what would happen next.

~Interviews
Young family members were given a list of questions to use in interviewing older members. Then each interviewer introduced his or her partner and shared the fun and surprising facts they’d uncovered.

~Timelines

Eugene and Vicki look over the timeline

In a timeline game, Cousin Vickie handed out strips of paper: yellow for Grandfather Thomas’s side of the family, green for Grandmother Ethel’s, and blue for their descendants. Names and dates were printed on each strip. All those with a strip of paper gathered at the front where we could all see them, and at a signal, they hurried to arrange themselves by color and date. Then each person put his or her family member(s) in the proper place on a vertical timeline. By this time names were becoming familiar and the timeline helped us see the continuity of the generations.

~Sing-Alongs

Everyone knows "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star"

We brought one of our most enjoyable family reunions to a close with an old-fashioned sing-along. We’d planned to use old-time favorites such as “Bicycle Built for Two” and “Cruisin’ Down the River on a Sunday Afternoon. We found that not even the oldsters knew all the words, so next time we’ll make song booklets so everybody can join in. Meanwhile, we improvised with a mixture of children’s tunes and campfire songs.

James Mason Rawlings: Loyalist or Traitor?

2011-09-09T08:02:00.000-07:00

(This is Part 3 of a 3-part story. For the rest of the story, read the blogposts for Aug. 28 and 30.)

   With the discovery of their plot against the Revolution’s local leaders, the conspirators, including James Rawlings, fled. He must have kept in contact with his family, because about a month later a man named Abram Jones heard that “a certain James Rawlings was one of the heads amongst the Tories and that he was expected to pass by the settlement of Mattamuskeet, or to call there about the next day.”

Lake Mattamuskeet is in Hyde County, on the coast of North Carolina. At that time, it was open to the sea, although now it is a self-contained lake. Jones kept watch for Rawlings. When he spied a small sail off in the sound, he took four men with him and set off after the boat. He found Rawlings and his family in the boat, heading out to sea where they hoped to meet up with an English vessel. One of the children, George, was only three or four years of age. Jones captured Rawlings and carried him before a magistrate, who took the deposition quoted earlier.

   In a follow-up letter from James Rawlings to the “Worshipful Justices of New Bern,” he gave more details about his co-conspirator Lewellen’s schemes. He also said, “Knowing the great influence Capt. Lewelling has over that neighborhood (I) have great reason to fear he will make attempts to invalidate my testimony.” Rawlings stated that he’d refused to kill anyone and “that I, being a poor man, have reason to fear his (Lewelling’s) power and influence over others to my hurt, as all the friends or power I have is to declare the Truth and Humbly Crave pardon for having had any hand in said plot or Scheme, testifying whatever shall come to my Memory I will make known about the matter.”

   Evidently he had reason to fear Lewelling’s influence. He was jailed...for a while. The next mention of him is a wanted notice from Craven County, North Carolina. It appeared October 24, 1777, in the Virginia Gazette, an early newspaper in Colonial Virginia, along with wanted notices for two other men.

The notice reads as follows:

James Mason Rawlings for high treason, he is a noted villain, and one of the principals in the late conspiracy against the state, has lived for 2 years past in Martin County, and is a very famous in the art of Legerdemaen, about 40 years of age, of a very black complexion and had a cut on one of his cheeks, given under seal 9 Sep. 1777.

   A reward of ten pounds was offered for Rawlings, 5 pounds for each of the other two.

   The notice indicates that James Rawlings had escaped his confinement and that he was considered important enough to appear in a Virginia newspaper. At the time of the notice James had lived in Martin County for about two years, 1776 and 1777. He had a dark complexion and a scar (or maybe a wound?) on one of his cheeks. The word legerdemain means sleight-of-hand trickery of any sort. This implies that he was very clever and hard to catch.

Rawlins descendants learning about their history, August 2011

   One researcher discovered that between September 11, 1777 and November, 1777, Rawlings had signed up to sail from New Bern with Captain William Pile but did not report. Pile testified on November 22 that a Colonel White from Georgia had promised Rawlings a better situation and the last Pile had heard, Rawlings was “on the way to South Carolina in the company of Colonel White’s wagons.”

   Whatever happened, James Mason Rawlings dropped from sight. One branch of family tradition holds that he was recaptured and executed. Other family members believed he escaped to England, where he lived out his life.

   After James Mason Rawlings disappeared, Priscilla and their children remained on the North Carolina frontier. His brothers and his own family dropped the "g" from Rawlings, perhaps to avoid being associated with his disgrace. In 1782, Priscilla Rawlins and her daughter Nancy are shown on the membership role for Sandy Run Baptist Church in Rutherford County, North Carolina.

   Records of the early Mormon Church show that their grandson James, an early Mormon convert, had a baptism-for-the-dead ceremony done for James Mason and Priscilla. Since this James was aware that his grandfather was dead, he must have had some knowledge of his death and therefore, the tradition of James Mason Rawlings deserting his family and never being heard from again doesn't seem to ring true.

   The family must have loved and had fond memories of their grandfather, since many of his descendants carried his name. One of his children, Charles, became our direct ancestor. His descendants followed the frontier westward, preaching, farming, blacksmithing, teaching, and helping to build America.

   More about some of them later!

James Mason Rawlins: Traitor or Not? Part 2

2011-08-30T17:21:00.000-07:00

    (This is Part 2 of a 3-Part story. For the beginning of the story, read the blogpost for Aug. 28, 2011)

    Our first Rawlins ancestor in the New World, James Mason Rawlings, was a Loyalist who in 1777 found himself accused of high treason and conspiracy against the state of North Carolina. From the clues available in a few old documents, his arrest and imprisonment seems to have happened this way:

    According to a deposition he gave on August 10, 1777 after his arrest, Rawlings had attended a muster (or meeting) in March of 1777 at the courthouse in Plymouth, Martin County, North Carolina. Returning home in the company of two men, John Lewelling and John Carter, he was told “that the Country was Like to become subject to popery.” Lewelling hoped to forestall this outcome. Hoping for “a Blessing on the Indeavour,” he enlisted Rawlings to help gather a group of like-minded people about him. He asked Rawlings to draw up a written instrument, or constitution, to which people might agree under oath. (This request, taken with the fact that most other conspirators signed their testimonies with an X, tells us that Rawlings probably had more education than others involved in the plot.)

    According to his deposition, Rawlings at first refused to write out this Constitution, but Lewelling’s offer of payment persuaded him to do it.

    A number of people later testified concerning Rawlings’ part in the new society. One man, Peleg Belote, told of his conversation with a man named Absalom Legate. They had heard that the leaders of the rebellion designed to impose a new religion on the people which would compel them to worship images. Legate had persuaded Belote to go to hear a sermon by Rawlings. Legate introduced him to Rawlings and after swearing Belote to secrecy, Rawlings told him about a confederacy forming to support the religion they had been used to. Among other things, they pledged to oppose drafts and protect Loyalist draftees from being forced to serve in the patriot militia. They also discussed ways to help the British.

    Rawlings' deposition continued:

“Now after Many had come into this Society, as it was Term’d, they became known to each other by word and sign; . . .John Lewelling told (me) that if they could destroy Whitmel Hill, Colonel Williams, Thomas Hunter, Nathan Mayo, Colonel Salter and one Taylor, that then the Country would soon be settled In Behalf of the King. . .”

Whitmel Hill and the others were local leaders of the revolution. One researcher, Lola La Rae Sorenson, found that Whitmel Hill helped to uncover and stop the plot. He had married a woman named Winnefred Blount. Ms. Sorenson speculated,

“The fact that Whitmel Hill and James Rawlins were both living in Martin County, North Carolina and were both married to ladies named Blount and were both about the same age generation-wise really intrigued me. They would certainly have had to know each other, especially with Hill involved in bringing Rawlins to trial and stopping the plot to kill him and other patriot leaders."

James' wife was Priscilla Blount. Could the two have been brothers-in-law? Ms. Sorenson wondered.

Lewelling’s schemes built one upon the other. According to James Rawlings’ deposition, quoted here with the creative spelling and grammar of the time, Lewelling told him

“it would be a good scheeme to Git some Body to Diseffect the negroes and thought David Taylor would do it and Give out an oration of their Rising would draw the soldiers out of Halifax, whilst he and Company could seize the Governor and Magazene.”

The Governor of Virginia, Richard Caswell, was expected at Halifax, a tiny town still known as "the birthplace of freedom" for being the location for the adoption of the Halifax Resolves. This was the first official action by a colony calling for independence. Lewelling hoped not only to kill the governor and others, but to seize powder and arms stored at Halifax. When the governor didn’t come at the appointed time, it was

“Dropt for that time, but that scheeme became not public to Many, the Deponent believes, for when he objected against it John Lewelling said if he Divulg’d anything, Death was the portion to him or any one else.”

Another scheme was to go to General Howe, the general in charge of England’s troops in America, and offer him the support of the Society. Rawlings agreed to go with John Lewelling, as he hoped to see his father and friends. This mention of Rawlings’ father was a surprise. Did James plan to travel to England, or had his father also emigrated to America by this time? Whatever the truth, Rawlings and company went only as far as the town of Scotland Neck in Halifax County before turning back.

In a few days the plot to kill the Revolutionary leaders was discovered. John Lewelling persuaded Rawlings to flee and not be taken by any means. Flee he did, but his freedom didn't last long. I'll tell the rest of the story next time.

James Mason Rawlings, Traitor or Not?

2011-08-28T17:15:00.000-07:00

    Some of us have skeletons in our family closets. Some people are proud of famous ancestors. Our family has both skeletons and ancestors with claims to fame, but mainly our Rawlins predecessors were simply people living out their lives in the best way they knew how. They were swayed by political concerns, just as we are, and made decisions based on limited information, just as we do.

    Our first Rawlins ancestor in America, James Mason Rawlings, is a good example. Born about 1737, he emigrated from England prior to the Revolution. Records from the early 1770s show him in Pitt County, North Carolina, married to Priscilla Blount and with a number of children. His brothers, Roderick and Charles, had also come to America. Both of them supported the cause of independence from England. But James kept his loyalty to the mother country.

    He was a staunch supporter of the Church of England, which after the Revolutionary War was called the Episcopal Church. Some records refer to him as “Reverend,” and we know he preached at meetings.

    More than any other colony, North Carolina had a heavy concentration of Tories— political conservatives who remained loyal to England. The Crown had given land grants in North Carolina to many Scottish merchants. They and other merchants depended upon England for their trade. They feared losing their livelihood if the revolution should be successful. . .a not unreasonable fear since later, the property of many loyalists was confiscated. . . and thus they supported the king.

    Other Loyalists, like James Mason Rawlings, were clerics who supported the Church of England. Not only did the church require them to swear loyalty to their God, but also to their king. James and many others worried that if Catholic France entered the war on the American side, the new nation would soon be under the rule of the Pope.

In 1777, Rawlings was accused of plotting to kill revolutionary leaders. A wanted notice in a North Carolina newspaper described him as “a noted villain.” Was he really? I’ll try to answer that question in the next posts.

Night Sky

2011-08-26T15:40:00.000-07:00

   “The skies were really busy last night.”

   A friend’s chance remark last week sent us outside to look for ourselves. We really didn’t expect to see much, even though the night was clear, because we live on a hilltop overlooking the lights of town. Streetlights line the roadway in front of our house. So much light pollution washes across the evening sky that only the brightest stars shine through.

    Growing up years ago in a Cascade Mountain rain forest, hemmed in by tall trees and cloud cover, we didn’t often see the stars either. But on an occasional clear night, we’d go outside, tip our heads back and gaze in awe at the Milky Way’s glowing path of stardust winding through a billion distant suns. Only the dim gas lamp shining through the living room window competed with the brilliance above. We seldom saw a plane pass over in daytime and never at night. Man had not yet been to the moon or fired a rocket into space. One night our parents called us out to see falling stars. They called it a meteor shower. We stood for an hour, ooh-ing and aah-ing as bits of debris in a comet’s trail ignited in the earth’s atmosphere and streaked across the starry sky.

    Now we looked for a place where the glare of street and city lights would be dimmed. We found it in a corner of our back yard where house and garage walled us in on two sides, tall fences on the other two. Suddenly, the sky looked black, filled with more stars than we’d seen in years. Some stars blinked off and on as they traveled across the sky. They were aircraft lights, some on planes too far away to be heard or seen in daylight. Other far-away lights were satellites, their movement barely perceptible. The sky was busy.

    Then, to the north, we saw a steady, bright light, moving smoothly along an east-west trajectory. It was the International Space Station. In a few minutes it had passed out of sight, but it would complete its orbit around the earth and we’d see it again in another 90 minutes.

    It felt strange to know there were people up there, 250 miles above the earth, in that largest man-made object ever to be sent into space. Fifteen nations came together to design, build, and staff the space station, and crews will have lived and worked there continuously for eleven years, come November. We tried to imagine what the inhabitants were doing as the earth revolved beneath them. Might one of them have been looking down at the point of light that represented our community? Might he or she have been wondering who was looking up, wondering about them?

    The night sky has always caused humankind to think deep thoughts. But now, if one can find a place dark enough to see it, there’s even more to think about.

An American Story Begins

2011-08-12T17:30:00.000-07:00

Along with most families in America, ours can tell stories of journeys, bits and pieces of history that help us understand how we got where we are today. We share our own New-World beginnings with many people who trace their ancestries back to the courageous settlers who came to America on the Mayflower.

    When Priscilla Mullins boarded the Mayflower in 1620, she was 17 years old. It was already September, and for two months the passengers endured stale air and discomfort in makeshift quarters between decks as the ship tossed in stormy seas. In one storm, a main beam cracked and the ship began to leak, but the beam was repaired with an iron spike brought from the Netherlands. They pounded caulking into the cracks. When the ship was blown off course, it landed on the rocky shores of Massachusetts, far from their intended destination in Virginia. Priscilla’s parents and brother died during that first terrible winter in the New World, leaving her the only survivor of her family in America.

    Captain Miles Standish, the newly widowed military advisor of the colony, wished to marry her. He sent his friend John Alden to plead his cause. John, not one of the fifty members of the Pilgrim band, was a ship-carpenter by trade. He'd been hired as a cooper, or barrel maker, for the Mayflower, which usually docked at Southhampton, England. Either because of a desire for adventure, or because he already had his eye on Priscilla, he came along on the voyage and became one of the founders of the colony and the seventh signer of the Mayflower Compact. According to a famous poem by descendant Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, when he tendered Captain Standish’s proposal of marriage to Priscilla, she replied, “Why don’t you speak for yourself, John?”

    So he spoke for himself, Priscilla said yes, and they became the parents of ten children who survived to adulthood. Of all the pilgrim families, they have the most descendants.

    Our branch of the Rawlins family traces its ancestry to John and Priscilla Alden through their second child. Elizabeth, born in Plymouth in 1625, was the first white girl born in New England.

    Elizabeth was described by someone who knew her as “dignified, a woman of great character and fine presence, very tall and handsome.” In 1644, she married William Pabodie in Duxbury, Massachusetts, and became the mother of thirteen living children. William, who held the office of town clerk after fire had destroyed the town's records, carefully recorded his own marriage and the births and marriages of his children.

    Later, around 1684, William bought property that would become part of Little Compton, Rhode Island. He and Elizabeth and several of their children and grandchildren moved there. Both he and Elizabeth died in little Compton, Elizabeth at the ripe age of 94. At the time of her death she had 82 grandchildren and 556 great-grandchildren.

I can’t help but wonder how she remembered all those names!

Reunion Raspberry Brownies

2011-08-06T15:59:00.000-07:00

We’ve waited a long time for summer to arrive this year, but perhaps it’s the late arrival that makes these August days so extraordinarily delightful. We're surfeited with colors and smells; our windows and doors stand open to let summer blow through. Bees buzz in the flower beds, hummingbirds hover in the twinberry bushes. The 4 x 8’ box garden is overflowing with good things to eat: lettuce, basil, peas, Swiss chard, parsley. The green beans and carrots are nearly ready. Our berry patch has finished producing but local stands offer big, juicy berries of many kinds and grocery stores tempt us with peaches, nectarines, cherries and other delectables from Eastern Washington.

Our "garden."

What a bounty of flavor, color, and taste! Today we ate blueberries and sliced bananas with our morning cereal, salad from our garden and cherries at lunch, steamed Swiss chard and corn on the cob with local salmon for dinner. For desert we sampled some of the bar cookies I made for the family reunion coming up next weekend. Rhubarb bars using our own rhubarb are a tart-sweet treat. But the bars that really made a hit with Hank are my own invention, as far as I know.

For anyone who loves the combination of chocolate and raspberries, here are the directions for Reunion Raspberry Brownies:

Raspberry Brownies

Ingredients:

family size box of fudgey brownie mix
fresh raspberries, 2-3 cups
sugar, ¼ to ½ cup or to taste
2 Tbsp. cornstarch dissolved in ¼ cup cold water

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease 9 x 13" pan or spray with cooking oil. Mix brownies according to package directions and spread in pan.

Mash berries and sugar together and bring to a boil over medium heat. Cook a few minutes. Stir in enough of the cornstarch-water mixture to thicken to consistency of jam. Cook just until juice looks transparent, then remove from heat.

Using about a cup of the raspberry sauce, dribble it from a large spoon in vertical lines two inches apart across the batter in the pan. Then, use a spatula or knife to cut through batter and sauce going the opposite direction, in lines about two inches apart. (You can do this both vertically and horizontally to make a better mixing of sauce and batter.)

Bake as directed on package. Let cool before cutting.

Raspberry jam would work too, but we really like the flavor of the fresh berries, and the sauce is less sweet than jam would be.

Travel, Then and Now

2011-08-04T16:46:00.000-07:00

Our modern "covered wagon from the backseat

Barbara and granddaughter Stephanie

    We just completed a sixteen-hundred-mile road trip to and from a family wedding in Canada. Along with cousins Bill and Barbara, we rented a brand-new van for the trip. It came with electric doors and windows, comfortable seating for all seven of us, opera-house-quality music, individually-controlled air conditioning, and room for all our luggage, thanks to Cousin Barbara’s expertise at stacking and packing.

    We zipped along through Canada’s Rocky Mountains on smooth, 90 kilometer-per-hour highways lined with high wire fences to keep the wildlife off the road. The government provided frequent rest stops along the way. At night we lodged in motels with all the comforts of home. We were never far from the next restaurant. Bill had his powerful cell phone. I carried my laptop and made use of motel internet in the evenings. I kept in touch with family and could even send them photos taken that day if I wished.

    Our ancestors found no broad superhighways, motels, or restaurants when they followed the expanding frontiers of the new world to the west coast where many of our family members now reside. Canadian cousin Vicki, the bride’s mother, shares my interest in family history. We’ve found stories of our Mayflower ancestors and other pre-Revolution forebears who came to make new lives in the American colonies. Their descendants made their way westward by foot, horseback, ox and wagon. They rafted down the rivers. By the 1800s, my great-grandparents and their family had reached Illinois. When the railroads opened up the midwest, some of them loaded their furniture and cattle on railroad cars and migrated to North Dakota. (At the same time, my mother’s parents were immigrating from Germany, to make their way to North Dakota via Minnesota.)

    When the Great Depression combined with dust storms to make farming impossible for them, my parents fled to Washington by train. Dad’s parents and his siblings, including Cousin Vicki’s mother Mary, joined other midwest refugees heading for the West Coast by car. We can only imagine the rigors of that trip, with everyone jammed into an old Model T, my pregnant aunt Amy riding with her husband atop the load of belongings in a trailer.

    Now we see our Canadian cousins nearly every year. But when our first ancestors came to America, they did not expect to see their loved ones ever again. When parents bade farewell to their children setting off on the Oregon Trail, most of them knew it was a permanent goodbye. Even in 1936, when Mom and Dad came to Washington, they gave up frequent contact with their families. In their long lifetimes, my parents returned to North Dakota to visit only four or five times.

    Though I wept when my own daughter married and moved to Arizona, it’s possible to email or phone her every day. She can hop a plane to come home if she gets homesick. She even vacations in Europe.

    We can be thankful for the courage of our ancestors. While seeking better lives for their families, they helped to build a nation. The story of their travails is an heritage for their descendants.

Community Newspaper

2011-07-08T17:57:00.000-07:00

A famous wrong headline

When I was growing up, a weekly high point for our family was finding the Granite Falls Press in our mailbox. We also received the Everett Daily Herald. In pre-television days, the larger daily paper kept us up to date with events in the wider world beyond our valley. But the local Granite Falls paper chronicled life as it happened to us.

A few weeks ago, I wondered if any of those long-ago newspapers were still in existence. The logical place to look would be the Granite Falls Historical Museum, a jewel of an institution built by volunteers. Due to limited staffing, it’s presently open only on Sundays but it’s well worth setting aside an afternoon for a visit. We walked in and asked volunteer and former schoolmate, Ted Lefebre, if by chance the museum had a collection of local newspapers. To my delight, he led us to a wooden crate full of well-preserved papers. He’d just readied them for shipment to SmallTownPapers.Inc., a company that specializes in digitizing community newspapers. They’d already scanned part of the collection, which is now available online at the museum for researchers. These were to be processed next. As we leafed through them, memories of seldom-remembered friends and neighbors flooded back.

When the weekly paper arrived at my childhood home in the community of Robe, we turned first to the "Robe Valley News." Correspondents in several different neighborhoods kept readers advised of the comings and goings of people the correspondent was best acquainted with. That meant that we seldom read news about some people; too much about others. Still, we enjoyed skimming the neighborhood columns for glimpses into the lives of those we knew.

Today at www.smalltownpapers.com, site visitors can search for keywords or names and in seconds find all the mentions of events or people in the collection. When I typed in our surname, Rawlins, I was delighted to find bits and pieces of our family history spanning several decades, starting with my father’s 1939 For Sale ad in a version of the local paper then called The Snohomish County Forum. He offered 1000 27-inch straight split shakes and a nearly new one-and-one-half volt battery radio. That was before Daddy was a logger. He’d come from the North Dakota farm only three years earlier. Now he was splitting shakes for sale, making a living any way he could.

The war years in the early 1940s changed people’s lives. Browsing through those papers brought it alive. Like towns across the country, Granite Falls had to find ways to fill in for essential personnel, such as teachers and business people who were called off to war. Everyone participated in the “war effort.” The community held scrap drives to recycle metal, paper, and even cloth for defense purposes. Shortages of gasoline and rubber tires affected even the school sports programs. Teams were limited to intramural contests because districts cut out extra bus trips. A two-mile walk to school was considered “the best possible form of exercise” as busses were reserved for farther-flung students. Granite Falls couldn’t find a principal for the elementary school in 1942, so a woman teacher was assigned to do that work until at long last, a qualified principal was found. Being an informed, intelligent citizen was touted as a duty and a privilege.

Over the years, family events mentioned in the paper included birthday celebrations, visiting relatives, and the Easter in 1948 when the correspondent wrote that the Delbert Rawlins car recently rolled over with the family in it. “No one was hurt,” she wrote, “but the car was.” Later on, the paper mentioned my brothers’ overseas stints with the army between the Korean and Vietnam conflicts, and then the births of my parents’ first grandchildren.

Announcements in the paper brought back memories of occasional Friday nights at the movies with the whole family. Granite Falls had no movie theater but for a small charge, we could sit in the bleachers at the high-school gymnasium to take in the weekly movies. We’d probably call them “B” movies today. The plots were sometimes corny, the sound scratchy, and of course, the pictures were in black and white. A cartoon and a newsreel accompanied the main feature.

Sometimes the newspaper’s language seemed flowery, the ideas propounded naive. But reading those old papers does not leave the reader depressed and discouraged as some of today’s newspapers can. We need more of the optimistic, we-can-do-it-together spirit expressed back then in today’s world.

And I appreciate past writers’ commitments to reporting the news without slant. This doesn’t mean opinion wasn’t injected into some of the stories, but it wasn’t cleverly disguised. If someone wanted to sway our thinking, they were forthright about it.

You can see for yourself by going to the Granite Falls museum Web site at http://www.gfhistory.org/. Click on the line at the top of the page about searching old newspapers. That takes you to an article by webmaster Mary Deaton that explains how to do a search. Click on the link she gives to go directly to the archives.

Fred Cruger, director of things technological at the museum, explains, “In the future, we may make that link part of a ‘members only’ page (which would result in users having to pay our annual dues of $10 per year to have online access).” Meanwhile, it's free and will continue to be free to those who physically come to the museum to do research.

A Prayer for Our Country

2011-07-04T13:59:00.000-07:00

Courtesy of PD Photo.org

One way we can honor those who sacrificed their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor to give us the freedoms we enjoy in the United States of America is by invoking God's help for ourselves and those who endeavor to lead our nation today. We prayed this prayer in church yesterday. It was written by Brett Johnson, our minister of music.

The Lord’s Prayer for Our Nation - © July 2011

People: Our Father, who art in heaven,

Leader: How high are your ways above our ways. We pray today that the earthly ways of our nation would be informed by your heavenly ways.

People: Hallowed be Thy name.

Leader: May you be honored in the decisions made by our national leaders and by the manner in which those decisions are made. Instead of a posture of arrogance that can come with the drug of absolute power, may our country’s leadership reflect a posture of humility before you, aware of the awesome responsibility you have entrusted to them.

People: Thy Kingdom come.

Leader: May the designs and plans of our earthly republic mirror those of your divine Kingdom. May our cultural values become the values of your Kingdom, our collective desires, the desires of your heart.

People: Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.

Leader: May our leaders, even unknowingly, accomplish your will in the difficult decisions they make.

People: Give us this day our daily bread.

Leader: We are so grateful for how you have so generously blessed our nation with prosperity. But these are hard economic times for so many in our nation. We do pray that you would use hardship to draw people to you, and as an opportunity for your Body, the Church, to be your hands and feet of justice and compassion to its neighbors within this great land.

At the same time, we recognize that even in our hardest economic climate we are among the most prosperous and wealthiest people on earth. Even in our lean years, give us deep generosity for the true poor of our world and an accurate perspective of relative wealth.

People: Forgive us our debts.

Leader: Forgive us for how easily we turn away from those who are truly destitute across the earth, those whom you called us to care for. Forgive us for how easily we turn to materialism and greed to feed our spiritual hunger. Forgive us for the many systemic sins which plague our culture, from a self-obsessed financial system to a lust- and- violence-fueled entertainment industry.

People: Forgive us as we forgive our debtors.

Leader: Make us a compassionate nation which is working to accomplish good things in individual lives, cultures and national futures all around this globe. Make us a nation less feared for its military might than honored and respected for its humanitarian investment.

People: And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.

Leader: Guard our leaders from the corruption that power can bring to the human heart. Make them men and women of integrity who are able to rise above the petty battles of vengeance and blind political loyalty that our system of government can make them prone to face.

Make them people of depth and purpose who desire your will for their own lives and for the country that you have called them to lead.

All Together: On behalf of our nation, we pray all these things to you, for Thine is the Kingdom, the Power and the Glory forever. Amen.

Abandoned

2011-06-22T17:36:00.000-07:00

We see them frequently, moving in small bands up and down the hill between downtown Stanwood and the high school. They’re not students, but they seem to like being near though not part of the school scene.

One recent June evening two of these teens knocked on our door. They wore knitted caps pulled low over their ears and carried nearly-empty backpacks. They were polite . . . and hungry. Though it was 9 P.M. and nearly dark, they asked if we had any work they could do. They needed $5 to buy food.

They’d evidently not been on the streets long. I wanted to pull them inside and sit them down for a good meal, then give them a place to stay. But warnings came flashing to mind. Instead, I told them we had no work but if they’d sit down on the porch, I’d make them a sandwich. I did that, and added some brownies. Wyatt and Chris thanked me profusely and set off down the road, but not until Wyatt told me where he was from and that he and his father didn’t get along. “But me and my mom are in touch every day,” he said. I asked where they’d spend the night. “I have a blanket,” he said. “We’ll be okay.”

We prayed for the boys that evening, but still I worried about them. The next day, we ran into them in the halls of the community center. They were still walking around looking for work. I asked if they’d stayed warm last night.

“It was cold,” Wyatt said, “but we had a dry place to sleep.” He was reluctant to tell me where, though he did share that he hopes to get his GED.

Our little farming community has a big population of homeless kids. Some sleep in the parks and in dumpsters behind the downtown businesses. Some make a practice of couch-surfing, staying with one friend, then another. Some are addicted to heroine.

Some of these boys and girls are runaways or throw-away kids. Their common denominator is that they feel abandoned. I read a piece by an anonymous foster parent who said “Too many parents, especially men, try to “fix” their children after they are teens, which only teaches them that they are not good enough, at a time in their lives when they need every ounce of self-confidence they can manage.” Perhaps this is what’s going on between Wyatt and his dad.

What can I do to help these lost, aimless kids? I’m not sure. At the very least, I need to understand the problem. I need to have compassion for them. I may never have the skills to deal with their problems myself, but I can support those who do. Youth for Christ has a presence in our town, both in the schools and at The Spot, where kids can go for fun, for help with homework, for relationship-building. Step Up is a YFC program which links community people as mentors to kids who have been neglected in the life skills department. Kids learn the value of work through programs like this and gain help in breaking the welfare cycle. I know there are other places and people who reach out. I need to learn more about what's available.

I can also learn the names of some of the kids. Then I can pray for them by name, that they will come to know the love of their Heavenly Father who will never leave nor abandon them. If the door opens, I can befriend and mentor one of these young people. For them, the need is desperate.

Heaven Is for Real

2011-06-17T20:29:00.000-07:00

In 2003, not-quite-four-year-old Colton Burpo nearly died from a misdiagnosed burst appendix. Even after emergency surgery, doctors didn’t expect him to live. . . but he did. Several months passed. One day his parents asked him if he remembered the hospital.

Yes, Colton remembered the hospital. “That’s where the angels sang to me,” he stated, matter-of-factly. Time seemed to stop for his parents as they took this in. More questions. More matter-of-fact answers. “Jesus had the angels sing to me because I was so scared. They made me feel better.”

“You mean Jesus was there?”

“Yeah. I was sitting in Jesus’ lap.”

Colton went on to describe what his parents had been doing in separate parts of the hospital while he was under anesthesia during the surgery. . . things he had no way of knowing. Over the next year or so, Colton dropped many such bombshells, which his father wrote down in the simple words of his little boy, astonishing things that matched Scripture in the smallest detail; things that Colton could not have known unless he’d actually experienced them.

Colton also had met Jesus’ cousin, John the Baptist, and the angel Gabriel, who stands in God’s presence. He spent time with “Pop,” the great-grandfather who died thirty years before he was born. He recognized Pop as a young man in a photograph he’d never seen, and announced, “No one wears glasses in heaven,” because no one is old there. Most precious of all to his parents was his meeting with his sister, who was waiting for her parents to get to heaven to name her. She told him she died while still in Mommy’s tummy, and God adopted her. They had never told him about the miscarriage; they had never known the sex of the lost child. There were lots of kids in heaven, Colton told them, and Jesus wants people to know that he really, really loves the children.

Since I read Heaven Is for Real, what awaits us there has come to life for me. I, too, have a child without a name awaiting my arrival. My parents, young again, are there, along with dozens of friends, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and other loved ones.

Colton said that the first one we’ll meet there is Jesus, the one who died so we can go to heaven. I can’t wait to see Him face-to-face.

For a look at the book, or more about the Burpo family, go to http://heavenisforreal.net.

Disneyland for Writers

2011-05-25T17:21:00.000-07:00

The Northwest Christian Writers Renewal in Redmond took place Friday and Saturday. It’s been several years since my last writers conference, and the publishing world has been moving on without me. Terms like “e-blast” and web site titles and names of electronic gadgets I’d never heard of swirled through the conversations. Instead of sending carefully-printed proposals and other communications via postal service, everything is done electronically (and more cheaply) now.

Publishing itself is changing radically. There’s still a need for print books and magazines, but many companies now publish e-books which cost much less than the same book in printed form. Many writers self-publish their work, either as e-books or in traditional format.

Then there’s marketing. Authors have long done all they can to help their books sell, but now, most marketing is up to the writer. That’s why one hours-long class dealt with public speaking for writers. And that’s why authors need to know about “e-blasts” (communicating with possible readers through e-mail newsletters), web sites, blogging, Facebook posts, “tweets” and other social networking methods.

Many agents, editors, and professional writers shared their knowledge and encouraged writers to perfect their craft.

It was all fun and exciting, if a little overwhelming. When I commented on how there seemed to be a smile on every face, author Peggy King Anderson replied, “This is like a Disneyland for writers!”

The best part is, we weren’t just entertained. We came away with up-to-date new ways of sharing our work and the inspiration to keep on with what can be a lonely occupation.

Laughter, the Best Exercise

2011-05-18T16:11:00.000-07:00

A favorite topic is food.

Sometimes we do more than talk about it.

Here we're at the Mt. Vernon Kiwanis salmon barbecue

at the tulip festival.

In the Stanwood Community and Senior Center fitness class, we talk about anything and everything. With more than fifteen members, we share a rich pool of experience and knowledge, and sometimes our laugh muscles get the best workout of all. One part of the session we look forward to is “one-liner” time. Betty “Be Happy” Sunde started the custom of bringing a pithy, amusing saying to class each day. She’s entertaining her friends in heaven now, but Ray Lee picked up her mantle. Here’s a few that made us laugh recently. Hope they brighten your day, too!

Headline: Police were called to a day care where a three-year-old was resisting a rest.

Advice: Always borrow money from a pessimist. He won’t expect it back.

Question: Why does someone believe you when you say there are four billion stars, but checks when you say the paint is wet?

Verse: Trains don’t wander
    all over the map
    ‘cause nobody sits
    in the engineer’s lap. Burma Shave!

Huh?
A closed mouth gathers no feet.

Nostalgia isn’t what it used to be.

And one last chuckle: If at first you do succeed, try not to look astonished.

Checker Marathon

2011-05-17T08:41:00.000-07:00

Our friend John Rupert in 1981 with our Checker Marathon

When I married Bob Biggar, I knew he liked to tinker with cars, but I didn’t realize just how much. The story of our thirty-two year marriage was interwoven with stories of his various automotive projects. Most of the time he’d find unique used vehicles and rebuild them to his own specifications. He only kept them until he came across the next project. But one memorable vehicle was brand-new.

The Christmas of 1974, we lived outside Fairbanks, Alaska. The temperature hovered between -30 to nearly 60 below, but the children and I had a good time making our own Christmas tree decorations. We’d enjoyed a special morning of gift-giving and receiving. Then Bob told me my present was in the front yard. I looked out through the frosty window to see a big, battleship gray “tank” looming in our driveway. One glance at his pleased face told me this was no joke. I choked back my dismay.

He went on to tell me the car was a Checker Marathon, brand new, and we could have it painted any color I desired. Yes, it was made by the company that made the big yellow cabs with the black-checked trim, but he assured me it wasn’t a cab. It would carry nine passengers when the jump seat was down. It had a powerful engine and air conditioning, although I didn’t think we’d need that in Alaska.

Still suspicious that Bob had really picked out this vehicle as a present for himself, I chose a beautiful green metallic paint that changed the whole personality of the car. It soon proved its value as transportation for our kids and their friends. It was heavy enough to feel safe on snowy back roads, and after the snow melted and dust from the unpaved roads billowed around us, the air conditioning pressurized the car and kept the dust from entering.

Although we had other cars during this time, that faithful Checker was mine for ten years. It made several trips up and down the Alaska highway and helped us move to Anchorage. When we had to leave Alaska because of Bob’s poor health, we left it behind for 18-year-old Rob to use while he worked in Anchorage for the summer.

Its heavy frame kept Rob from injury when someone ran a red light and T-boned him. The insurance company totaled the Checker and we never saw it again.

And what did Bob do? He bought another Checker Marathon, this time bright red.

Our Children

2011-05-07T16:46:00.000-07:00

Robbie, Age 3 and Lenora, Age 2 1/2 months

God's most precious gifts, our children.

Rob and Lenora were His gifts to me and their father, Bob Biggar. I savored the moments of their growing up.

Six years after Bob went on to his heavenly home,
God brought Hank to me, and along with Hank, five more children. Though Carmen, Kathi, Larry, Kari and Nate were already grown up, each one became precious to me in their own unique ways. I wonder if other moms feel, like I do, that Mother's Day is the most personal of the days we celebrate? I revel in the memories, both old and newer, of God's precious gift of family.

I wish I'd written these two poems. They are entwined forever with my memories of the little ones that called me "Mom." Enjoy!

Little Boys of Three
Isabelle Bryans Longfellow

Look tenderly on little boys of three;
Their softness is as fleeting as a flower,
The cheeks like petals such a little hour,
The deepest dimple theirs so transiently.
Even tomorrow, softness may be hard,
The little cotton cushions on the knees
Turned into bony knobs for climbing trees,
The fists so like a rose grow lean and scarred.
His full-moon cheeks will narrow to a line,
The silken hair become a brush of bristle
As mother's little flower turns to thistle,
And there will linger not one little sign
To prove the cuddly cupid that was he.
Look tenderly on little boys of three.

To My Daughter
Stephen Bender

Bright clasp of her whole hand around my finger,
My daughter, as we walk together now,
All my life I'll feel a ring invisibly
Circle this bone with shining: when she is grown
Far from today as her eyes are far already.

Grumping Toward Spring

2011-05-07T14:57:00.000-07:00


Too wet to play outdoors

Looks like we're repeating last spring's weather. Now and then we're gifted with an absolutely gorgeous interval, surrounded by gray, drizzly, grumpy days. At this moment we're again being deluged, with rain washing in bucketfuls over the windows and turning the scenes outside into impressionist paintings. This spring, every sun break makes us stop, look, and enjoy. I'm reminded of a poem by Don Blanding I found many years ago.

SPRING POEM

(What I should feel, I suppose)

Spring is Nature's teen-age daughter,

April eyes and petal cheeks

Blossoming through maidenhood

To womanhood in transient weeks.

(What I really feel)

Spring is Nature's teen-age daughter

Doing things she hadn't oughter.

Wish I were as young as spring. . .

I'd be doing the same darned thing.

Planting a Native Garden

2011-04-14T19:44:00.000-07:00

Just planted.

Hank and I love to garden, but landscapers we’re not. Our house is built into a hill, so the front yard slopes steeply. The upper part can be dry, but the lower corner stays damp. It grew grass too heavy to mow, and huge dandelions. The mostly sloping terrain gave us a number of micro-climates that we took into consideration when we decided to do away with the lawn and instead, plant a wild garden.

Son Rob began a new business in 2009, raising and installing native plants for civic projects as well as home landscapes. He offered to do the work for us.

With Rob’s help we chose the native plants. We wanted early bloomers for color and to attract hummingbirds, and plants that would produce berries for birds through the winter. We also wanted a few trees next to the roadside hedge to grow up and provide additional privacy should someone build across the street.

He started the project by clipping the grass as short as possible. Then the crew set the plants where they were to grow, dug out a circle of sod, and set each into the ground. Then they covered the remaining grass with cedar chips to a depth of several inches. That smothered the grass and made the few surviving weeds easy to root out. Daughter Carmen sawed a cedar log into 4-inch thick rounds with which we made a curving path through our forest-to-be.

In the lowest, wettest corner Rob planted moisture-loving red osier dogwood and sedge grasses. Vine maples, a mountain ash, and a couple of slow-growing evergreens provide the roadside screen. Along the lower driveway are twinberry and Pacific ninebark shrubs, as well as red flowering currant and snowberries. Plants like salal and low-growing Oregon grape love the shade of the hedge. Two kinds of wild honeysuckle twine up trellises beside the deck. Wild roses and tall, prickly-leaved Oregon grape occupy the center of the yard. Midsize plants include clumps of fern, various grasses, and evergreen huckleberry. Red-berried kinnikinnick, bearberry, and wild strawberries creep over the wood chips to form an evergreen ground cover.

The ground cover will eventually hide the wood chips.

Stems of red osier dogwood with snowberries

Berries of red flowering currant

Red flowering currant and Oregon grape in April

"Stinky Bob" geranium hitchhiked with salal.

Twinberry blossoms

Pacific ninebark

This is the 3rd spring for our native garden, and we’re delighted not only with the variety of plants in the yard, how healthy they are and how quickly they’ve grown, but also with the birds, butterflies, and other living creatures that stop by to enjoy its offerings. Other forest denizens such as wild mountain blackberries and tree seedlings that hitched rides with the other plants are now popping up to delight us.

Interesting. . .even in winter.

Hank says the best thing about our “front yard habitat” is no more grass to mow.

For help in planning your own native garden, explore Rob’s website at http://www.ecotonesolutions.com.

Manga artist Heidi Alayne

2011-04-10T18:31:00.000-07:00

Heidi shows her cousin Annie her latest project.

Haven't you marveled at the skill with which comic book artists draw the same person over and over? They can draw the character in every conceivable pose, with facial expressions that mirror every possible emotion. They sometimes make hundreds of drawings that are consistent with each other. This is especially impressive when the artist uses a realistic style.

A recent visit with Heidi Wall, a young relative who is an artist and a writer, opened my eyes to the potential of manga-style comics. She specializes in magical realism, in the style of the popular Japanese comic books. (Click on photos to enlarge)


Some of Heidi's characters

A panel from a book

For a look at more of her art, go to her website:
http://heidialayne.com

The introduction says:

“Heidi Alayne Wall is a graphic novelist and illustrator who addresses the themes of fragility, purity, and destruction, with a particular focus on the frailty of the human figure. In her work, elements of traditional cartooning are combined with ink wash, gouache, or digitally manipulated photographs to create delicate figures in oppressive environments. Heidi’s charming and attenuated characters draw influence from both Japanese and western illustration, and each piece has a narrative or mystery behind it.”

Heidi understands how the human body is constructed and how it moves. She says photographs or models don’t really help her make her drawings live. What she must do is act out for herself what she wants to draw, or imagine how it feels to be in that position. Then, she says, her brain tells her fingers what to put on paper. The same is true for facial expressions. If she can imagine the emotion she’s trying to portray, and let her face express it, then her hands can draw it.

She doesn’t like to talk much about plans for her stories beforehand, because talking about it dissipates the energy that should go into the actual work. Many would-be novelists find that’s true. . .they can tell you all about the book they’re going to write, someday. But often, talking is as far as they get.

Every chapter of Heidi’s graphic novels has a beginning, a middle, and an ending that heightens the suspense. There is an overarching theme for each novel or series of novels, just as in non-illustrated fiction, and each contains a beginning, a middle, a climax and an end. The main difference is that comic book artists think of their stories as if they’re writing a play. The lines go in the dialogue balloons, and thoughts in the thought balloons. The characters’ expressions and actions do the work of narrative.

She believes that writers’ underlying values come out in the stories they tell. She wants to share her values in an art form that appeals to many of today’s readers.

Heidi’s favorite artists in the field are Ai Yazawa, Clamp (a group of Japanese artists), and Paul Pope (an American artist). Inspiration for her story-telling comes from C.S. Lewis, Connie Willis (who writes excellent time-travel stories), and Neil Gaiman, a writer who collaborates with artists.

I learned a lot from Heidi, perhaps most importantly that manga-style novels, an art form I’d previously ignored, can tell stories as memorable and influential as any other novel.

Fun with Granny

2011-03-25T17:05:00.000-07:00

Granny plus kids=fun!

My mom didn’t keep a bunch of toys around. But the grandkids knew when they went to Granny’s house, they’d have all of her attention and the benefit of an inventiveness that snugged neatly into a child’s imagination. Whether it was a project as complex as a beanpole-and-blanket teepee or something simple as building little houses with Grandpa’s dominoes, time with Granny was time for making memories.

Here are Robbie and his cousin Mike, “fishing” in Granny’s sink. Their poles are drinking straws; their lines are string with safety-pin “hooks.” I don’t remember if they caught anything, but they sure had fun.

Signs of Spring

2011-03-18T19:56:00.000-07:00

Rob befriending earthworms

Rain, rain, rain! But the sun is predicted to return by the first day of spring, (next week...yea!) and the signs are all around us. Cherries in bloom, the first daffodils, rhubarb’s crinkled leaves unfolding from pale green knobs. I’ve even seen a few lethargic flies that managed to survive the winter while tucked away in dark crevices.

Long ago, another wet winter was dragging to an end. Robbie had just turned three. He was bursting with energy and kept me busy thinking up ways to keep him busy. One day as we drove to town he seemed particularly squirmy. “Let’s watch for signs of spring,” I suggested.

He was still for a minute, peering out the window. Then, “I see one! I see one!” he shouted. I pulled up at an intersection and looked around, wondering what he’d seen.

Of course. There it stood in all its glory...a bright red Stop sign!

Kids and Imagination

2011-03-16T20:09:00.000-07:00

Lately I’ve been going through old photographs, trying to scan them into the computer before they are too faded to be worth keeping. Happy memories come back as I gaze at the images of my little ones and remember the funny things they did and said. They're perfect antidotes for these gloomy, not-quite-spring days.

Kids are very good at finding unique uses for ordinary items. Every parent knows that cardboard boxes are the most entertaining toys available.


Here are Robbie and Lenora "packing"	for one of our many moves.

Another day I heard splashing in the bathroom, grabbed my camera, and peeked around the corner. My small daughter looked up. With pride she said, "My dolly clean!"

Beyond the Sunset...

2011-03-15T11:26:00.000-07:00

I just read Terry Esau's book, Be the Surprise. He tells about being stuck in a 25-mile-long "parking lot" on I-17 in Arizona.

He and a friend had their bicycles in their van. Since no one could go anywhere, they set off on their bikes for the head of
the line. People were out of their cars, visiting, playing guitar, even barbecuing brats in the back of a pickup.

On their way back, someone called out, "Did you see the accident? We heard that a girl didn't make it."

That sobered Terry and his friend. By then, people were moving to the western edge of the highway, silently enjoying a gorgeous sunset. Terry watched too, thinking, "Maybe this sunset is for the girl at the front of the line."

I thought of the night we got word that our friend Wanda was dying. We stood at our window, praying for her and her family, as the most beautiful sunset spread like a pool of molten gold across the western sky.

"Wanda's crossing over," I whispered to Hank. And a few minutes later, we received word that she had done so.

She'd reached the front of the line, and like the girl in Terry Esau's story, she now stands with her Creator, knowing that last sunset was really just her first sunrise in eternity.

Meet Max

2011-03-12T13:51:00.000-08:00

You may remember my post from last October, Our Salad-Bowl Nation, in which I shared photos of my “rainbow family.” I mentioned that we were awaiting the arrival of our newest member, a little boy from Korea.

Here he is, with mama Stacy and Grandpa Jim. His name is Max, and he’s still a little bewildered by all the changes in his young life.

Welcome to our “Salad-Bowl Nation,” Max. We’re thrilled to have you in our family.

A New Direction...and a Job He Loves

2011-02-28T20:30:00.000-08:00

Rob with one of his clients at Stanwood Senior Center

Rob Down had worked in management at a large Christian conference center for five years. But, a year and a half ago, like many other people in these times of economic stress, he found himself out of work. Rob had always enjoyed volunteering on missions trips and helping people in all walks of life. Now, too young for retirement and the volunteerism he loved, he couldn’t find a job.

Before his work at the conference center, he’d spent over twenty years as a licensed massage therapist. He remembers massaging his mother’s tired feet when he was a youngster. She always told him the Lord gave him gifted hands. Later, when his father was dying, he saw how the medical profession often fails to understand the needs of the elderly. He used his massage skills to bring comfort to his father and then to other older people.

During his long job hunt, Rob prayed for wisdom and God gave him an idea. He could combine his compassion for older people with his gift of therapeutic massage, and take it to senior centers, and other places where people needed that comfort and relief. Fifteen minutes of massage and encouraging conversation costs $10, or a prayer for the ministry, whichever people can afford. He calls his business “Pay or Pray Massage.”

Now Rob uses his gifts to do what he loves. And he’s making a living. How many people can say that about their jobs?

Stories like Rob’s can encourage us all to take another look at our God-given gifts and inspire us to ask God how He wants us to use them. Maybe some of us will launch out in new directions. Perhaps we’ll find, as Rob did, that being forced to change directions can be a good thing.

Rob Down’s contact information: rhdown@yahoo.com; 425.330.5012

Another client finds relief through Rob's gifted hands.

Ahhh!

...Can Spring be Far Behind

2011-02-26T10:25:00.000-08:00

If winter comes, can spring be far behind?
Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)

We're back to winter this week. The blooming crocuses are buried, the daffodils are budded but shivering, and a couple of sparrows are huddled under the bird feeder trying to keep warm. We're inside a swirling snow globe looking out.


But after all, it is only February, the most coy and vacillating month here in the Puget Sound area. By next week the air may be balmy, with impatient flowers once again heralding spring.

A Question for Readers about E-Books

2011-02-02T16:22:00.000-08:00

I need help!

Like many writers of a certain generation, I find myself spending almost as much time trying to keep up with technology as I do writing. Recently I added a Kindle reader to my laptop so I could also download a couple of books I wanted to read. It's fun, and the books I downloaded were free.

E-book technology is so popular, I'm told, that e-book sales may soon outpace paperback sales. For writers with out-of-print titles, it's an attractive way to get one's work out to readers again. It's inexpensive for the readers and it's profitable for the writers.

My two young adult mystery-adventure books, The Adventure Quest Series and The Megan Parnell Mysteries, were popular with kids, homeschooling parents, and Christian teachers. They are out of print, and I'm considering e-books as a way to get them back into circulation.

Here's my question. Do young teens find e-books as cool as older readers do? Would you, as parents and homeschoolers, encourage your children to read Christian literature on Kindle or other electronic readers?

Let me know what you think, and I'll keep you posted as to what happens.

The Joy of Picture Taking

2011-02-02T10:05:00.000-08:00

    I paid one dollar for my first camera. (I was about twelve.) The negatives were the size of my thumbnail, and the black-and-white prints were less than 2 inches square. Light often leaked in and fogged the pictures. I loved photography, even as a young teen, and was thrilled to have a camera of my own. But to develop the pictures cost money and often I ended up paying for a set of blurred, streaked, unusable photos. That camera was more toy than instrument of art.

    My senior year in college, I acquired a real camera, a Yashica twin-lens reflex. I used it to take color slides which I shared with the children in my classroom when I began teaching. My husband didn’t take many pictures, but he liked cameras and for years kept us supplied with the latest in technology. When he passed away, I stayed with my tried-and-true film camera, years after everyone else had gone digital.

    But when my old Rollei showed signs of aging, I gave in and bought a Panasonic digital. I love it! Taking good photos is as easy as learning to use the dozens of menus in its little digital brain...well, that part’s not really easy. I haven’t yet learned all it’s programmed to do. But it takes good pictures. And when coupled with my computer, the sky is the limit as to what I should be able to do with my photos.

    Yesterday was February 1...as far as I’m concerned, the first day of the last month of winter. The sun shone, a good reason to declare a vacation day. Hank and I tossed the camera bag and tripod in the backseat and set off to see what the Skagit valley had been doing over the recent long stretch of rainy weather. The flat green farmlands of the delta are at sea level or maybe lower...we could see the waters of Puget Sound beyond the dikes. The soil is so saturated the rainwater can’t soak in, even though farmers plow drainage ditches across their fields, so the water sits atop the ground like a sopping washcloth on a countertop. Everything glistened. A good day for picture taking!

Here’s a Great Blue Heron looking for something to eat in one of those fields.

And here’s one of the many eagles we saw, posing for photographers.

This is the Lutheran church near Edison, with Mt. Baker watching over the valley.

Before Welfare

2011-01-06T17:47:00.000-08:00

Poverty is a serious topic for a blog called “Sun Breaks,” but a friend posed a good question the other day. This blog is my attempt at an answer.

“What did people do before welfare?” she asked. “Was living so much easier in the ‘olden days” that people didn’t need it?”

Disaster upon disaster...when the fields blew away

    Her question brought to mind a story my eighty-year-old father told some years ago. When he was a child during the Midwest-Dust-Bowl and Great-Depression years, his family worked as tenant farmers. He loved his mother–my grandmother–who was ill with a neurological disease. The doctor often came to attend her, even though the family had nothing with which to pay him.

    Then one day Grandma suffered a serious nosebleed that could not be stopped. Grandpa told my father to hurry to town for the doctor. Tears trickled down Dad’s cheeks as he told how he ran for miles across the prairie, only to be told that this time the doctor would not come unless he paid in advance. Even though his mother pulled through, the humiliation and sorrow of being unable to help her still broke my father’s heart years later.

    No, living wasn’t easier in the olden days.

    Many factors have always operated to plunge people into poverty. In the early years of our country, people learned their trades by apprenticing themselves to employers, with the expectation of being hired at artisans’ wages when their apprenticeships were complete. Often, when the training was finished, employers fired apprentices rather than pay full wage. Unemployed apprentices and adult workers usually lived in small communities where available work was limited. Since most had no transportation besides their own two feet, many people had to leave their home and families behind as they wandered to other areas in search of work.

    The industrial revolution played a part in the disruption of how people earned their living. The threshing machine was a reason for my grandparents’ descent into poverty. Prior to its invention, farmers needed many hands to flail out the grain. But a threshing machine could do in minutes what formerly took hours of human labor.

    My grandparents lived on their own farm until a fast-talking salesman convinced Grandpa to invest everything he had in one of the newfangled machines. “You can hire out to the neighbors and easily make the payments,” he said. But the salesman convinced so many other farmers in that part of North Dakota to make the same investment that Grandpa couldn’t find enough threshing to pay for the machine. He lost the farm and everything they owned.

    Most common labor in the early years of our country took place out of doors, but when winter weather closed down work on canals, roads, and farms, workers had no way to support themselves. Often they had to go to poorhouses, bleak and dreaded institutions meant to care for poverty-stricken people but also to discourage dependence upon public welfare. In the late 1800s, every county had a poorhouse. Usually, a farm was connected to it, where the occupants were required to work to help pay for their upkeep. Rules were strict, and care was minimal. Many elderly people, who had no relatives or friends to look after them, ended up there, as well as children with or without their families.

A County Poorhouse With its Residents

    Periodic economic depressions also plunged people into poverty, just as is happening today. Throughout the Great Depression, when a quarter of the workforce in the United States was unemployed, hundreds of men rode the rails in search of something–anything– to work at.

    In 1935, the US Congress passed a Social Security Act, which provided a system of Federal old-age benefits and set the basic framework for our present system of social welfare.

    When my father married and brought his wife to Washington State, his aged father and invalid mother came too. Grandpa could no longer work, but the Social Security Act now provided assistance which people called “relief.” It wasn’t much, but it helped with rent and food. It took a long time for the United States to climb out of the Great Depression.

    My father never considered asking for public assistance during lean times when I was growing up. He worked hard when paying work was available, and when it wasn’t, we lived on limited unemployment compensation. He made and sold cedar shakes for roofs and found other ways to supplement unemployment payments. Like many other people, we raised and canned much of our own food, made our own clothes, and lived frugally. We didn’t consider ourselves poor.

    Everyone has an opinion about the safety net we today call “welfare.” I think of Jesus telling his disciples, “The poor you will always have with you.” That’s true, but we can all be grateful for the abolition of the poorhouse and the assistance that is now available for those who truly need it.

Going on Hope and Not Much Else


Migrant Mother and Children

Speaking of Dolls...

2010-12-31T17:36:00.000-08:00


Me with Virginia, sister Lois, and cousins

In my last post, my Minnesota “sister,” Donna, told a touching tale of a depression days Christmas and the refurbished doll that became her most prized possession.

I, too, had a baby doll that I loved with all my heart. I’d named her Virginia, the most elegant name I knew. Virginia’s molded composition head, legs and arms were attached to a cuddly cloth body. Her blue eyes opened and closed. In my first memories of her, her eyelashes were already worn away, like Donna’s doll. When I tipped her forward, she too cried “Ma--ma.”

By my fifth birthday, her dress was faded and torn, probably because it was also used to dress my unwilling kitty. Aunt Mary, still in her teens, sewed Virginia a whole new wardrobe as my birthday gift that year. I especially loved the ruffled dotted Swiss dress with matching bonnet.

I thought my doll beautiful, but a few years later, when my sister received a doll with curly, shoulder-length hair, I looked at Virginia’s molded hair. The paint had rubbed away in spots. My doll needed real hair too, I decided. So next time my mom gave me a haircut, I didn’t ask her advice. I just coated Virginia’s head with rubber cement and pressed the clippings into the glue. I let it dry, but the results were not what I’d envisioned. Poor Virginia...the worst bad hair day ever! Unfortunately, I couldn’t get it all off. So I took some brown enamel and painted over glue and remaining hair. When Virginia wore her ruffled dotted Swiss bonnet, she looked beautiful again.

As little girls do, I grew up. Virginia lay packed away with a few other treasures, growing older the same as me. I got married and had a child of my own. One day I rediscovered my old friend. Fine cracks now marred her painted complexion. And when had the tips of fingers and toes worn away? No matter. Little boys could play with dolls too. I gave my doll to toddler Robbie. Virginia had a fine time, riding on his Tonka truck and watching as he built a house of blocks around her. I heard Robbie’s squeal of delight as the blocks went flying, but thought nothing of it.

At cleanup time that evening, I found Virginia lying amidst the blocks. She’d suffered a fatal injury to her head. It was broken in three parts. I said a final goodbye to my old friend, but not to the memories.

Taken before I owned Virginia. Kitty made a patient baby.

A Doll for Christmas

2010-12-20T20:36:00.000-08:00

Little girls and their dolls have always been the best of friends.

My dear friend and Minnesota “sister,” Donna Gilbertson, shares this story just in time for Christmas. Thanks, Donna!

“I was born during the Dust Bowl years, while Daddy and Mom were ministerial students at Wessington Springs, SD. Just before graduation, Mom became very ill with a neurological disease. They left school and returned to Iowa where Daddy took any job he could find so he could take care of me and my helpless mother.

The Christmas I was eight, my friends were all hoping for baby dolls that cried ‘Mama’ and opened and shut their sparkling glassine eyes. I, too, wished for a doll like that.

On Christmas Eve, I hung my stocking near the evergreen branch “tree” tied to our stair banister, even though Daddy told me Santa wouldn’t bring much this year because times were tough all over the world, not just at our house.

In the morning, I awoke early and slipped down the stairs to see if my stocking was full. It hung from the banister just as limply as when I’d hung it there. Sadly, I turned to creep back up the stairs. Just as I reached the top, Daddy called from the bed in the living room where my parents slept: ‘Donna Mae, maybe your present was too big for your stocking. Maybe you should look around better.’

I went back and looked toward their bed. Nothing there. Nothing on the dresser at the foot of their bed. I pivoted to face the stairs again, silent tears running down my cheeks. Mom’s wooden wheelchair sat beside the stairway, near my stocking. In the wheelchair sat...my doll!

She had hair, and eyes that opened and shut. When I picked her up and turned her over, she warbled a week ‘Ma..Ma.’ I wiped my tears away on the sleeve of my nightie and took her over to my parent’s bed. They made room for me between them and there I cuddled, perfectly happy and content.

My doll’s hair was not perfect, her dress didn’t fit too well, and one arm was a little loose. Her eyes were no longer shiny and the eyelashes surrounding them were gone. That didn't really matter to me. She said ‘Ma..Ma’ and that was enough.

Later I learned that my daddy had walked up the railroad tracks in the falling snow to reach Riceville’s dry goods store before closing time. There he had found my doll, a reconditioned toy contributed by some family, and purchased it for one dollar. In those days one dollar might be a day's wages when he cut wood for someone's fireplace.

That’s why, when people said, ‘You were the apple of your dad’s eye,’ I could really believe I was loved. My daddy died of cancer in December of the year I turned ten. A year later in December my mom died of the disease which had attacked her when I was a toddler, and I went to live with an uncle and aunt. My doll became one of the most precious possessions I owned.”

A Christmas Greeting for You

2010-12-11T15:36:00.000-08:00


What do Christmas angels do when no one's watching?

Click to find out: http://www.jacquielawson.com/viewcard.asp?code=2007134554829&source=jl999

Candles on the Christmas Tree

2010-12-11T14:40:00.000-08:00

Celebrating the Gift

When we Rawlins children were young in the 1940s, money was scarcest at Christmas time. With five children in our family, close as stair steps, frugal meant making do.

Excitement built as we threw ourselves into holiday preparations. We memorized songs and pieces for programs at school and Sunday school. Giggles and shushing came from various corners as we children used our imaginations and household scraps to fashion gifts for family members. Mama’s treadle sewing machine clacked downstairs at night, and Daddy worked in the garage behind closed doors.

We snipped white-paper snowflakes to decorate the windows. Mama pulled her stash of already-used wrapping paper from the far recesses of the under-the-stairs closet. Lois and I heated flatirons on the woodstove and ironed the creases out of the paper. We cut some into strips to make colored chains for the tree, fresh from the woods , damp smelling and spicy.

David and Patty, our youngest siblings, festooned the lower boughs with clumped tinsel. When they weren’t looking, Mama thinned the clumps, hanging the strands higher and more evenly until they glittered in the Aladdin lamp’s light like rain falling through sunshine. The beautiful cardboard angel in her cloud of spun glass soared from the topmost spire. The colored coating inside the old glass balls and blown-glass ornaments was flaking, but we noticed only if we looked really close. The finish on the blue and red and purple clip-on candleholders showed the shiny metal underneath, but who cared?

None of our town friends had candleholders. They used strings of big, glowing colored lights, but electricity hadn’t yet come to Robe Valley. The holders held candles about five inches high, twisted in pretty spirals. Keeping a bucket of water nearby in case of fire, we lit them on Christmas Eve and turned the lamps down. We sang a carol and watched the points of flickering light. Then we blew the candles out, to be lit once or twice more before the tree came down.

(From A Logger's Daughter: Growing Up in Washington's Woods)

Decorating for Christmas

2010-12-09T19:27:00.000-08:00

Recently we've been going through some of those deep waters we human beings find ourselves in now and then. My writing time has been sharply curtailed lately, but I'll grab a quiet moment this evening to share with you a couple of scenes Hank and I passed in our neighbor's yard one foggy October morning. Doesn't it look like the spiders were getting in the Christmas mood?

A Catalogue House

2010-11-07T20:08:00.000-08:00

How many people can boast, “My house came from a Sears catalogue?”

When my great-niece Heidi and her family moved into a charming 1925-vintage Sears catalogue cottage in Seattle, I became enthralled with the whole idea of precut kit homes. Wading into on-line research, I found that approximately 100,000 Sears homes were purchased in the United States between 1908 and 1940. Most of these were in the Northeast and Northern Midwest states, where suburbs were springing up at rapid rate. So finding such a house right in my own Washington State back yard was a thrill.

I found illustrations taken directly from the Sears catalogue. One could choose from 447 housing styles, ranging from simple no-bath cottages of two or three rooms to elaborate and elegant mansions. One could even design one’s own dream home and submit the blueprint to Sears, which would then pre-cut the materials and ship the pieces (some 30,000 of them, not including screws and nails) off by railroad boxcar to the new home owner.

The ability to mass-produce the materials used lowered the costs for customers. Most kit-built homes ranged from $750 to $2500. Pre-cut and fitted materials shrank construction time by 40%, and “balloon style” framing, drywall, and asphalt shingles made the home buyer’s work much easier. Other innovations that Sears incorporated into their designs were central heating, indoor plumbing, and electrical wiring. And once the house was finished, the new owners could order the furnishings from the Sears catalogue and even ask for decorating advice.

Sears was not the only builder of kit homes. One expert says that more than 80% of the people who think they live in a Sears kit home live in one from another company. There are a number of clues to indicate if Sears built a home. One such clue is the five-piece support bracket between the eaves and the outside wall used in some homes. Sometimes identifying a home is hard because later remodels may camouflage the original construction. Floor plans may have been reversed, siding changed, dormers added.

What makes Sears houses stand out is that they have withstood 80 years’ worth of shifts in architectural styles and tastes. Ask Heidi and her husband...they are still great family homes.

This style, the Winona, was sold from 1927-1932.

Heidi's house is hidden from the street by foliage, but you can see the similarities to the catalogue illustration.

Heidi shows off the original breakfast nook

An original light fixture

Central heating and hardwood flooring

Well crafted exterior details.

Sunrise, Sunset

2010-11-04T20:20:00.000-07:00

I grew up in the beautiful Robe Valley in Washington's Cascades, surrounded by tall trees. From our front yard, we looked through a screen of firs at the north face of Mt. Pilchuck. If we walked up the driveway toward the road, we could see Green Mountain behind us. Watching the sunrise meant seeing the sun's rays strike long fingers through the forest to the east. And once in a while, a red-tinged sky above the western tree tops indicated sunset. Not until I grew up and left home did I realize what we missed in our lovely but closed-in valley.

This morning Hank and I drove out to Silvana for breakfast. I stopped to take pictures and realized the sun was coming up. I wonder how many days in the year the sun rises in just this way at this particular spot. By the way, this is Mt. Pilchuck from the west.

Have you ever seen a mountain give birth to the sun?

Where we live now, we watch the sunsets move north throughout the year as summer advances, then back toward the southwest as the north pole tilts away from the sun. These were taken from our front yard in late September, facing almost due west.

How to Change One’s Mind, or Running Athwart of the Generation Gap

2010-10-22T16:22:00.000-07:00

(This is the blog I planned to post today. But first, I sent it to my writing friends for their opinions. I felt it had a crabby feel that didn’t fit the theme, “Sun Breaks.” After reading their comments, I knew I have a lot to learn about generational outlooks. Instead of hiding the blog away in a drawer, I’m going to post it, along with my friends’ opinions. I think you’ll enjoy the discussion, and if you have comments of your own, feel free to add them.)

***Crash course in Generational categories:
   Builders or Strivers - born before 1946
           Boomers or Baby Boomers - born between 1946 and 1964
   Generation X - born after 1964***

   Last night, a pert young waitress in one of the town’s nicer restaurants slid my plate in front of me. “Here you go, Sweetie,” she chirped.

   I felt like sitting her down for a lesson in basic respect. She meant to be friendly, but when did it become okay for young people to treat their elders with such flippant familiarity?

   In past generations, young people called most adults Mr. or Mrs., unless they were specifically invited to use a first name. Teachers or other professionals were always dignified by their title. A couple of years ago at Hank’s all-school reunion, he was thrilled to be seated next to his high-school principal.

   “Call me Leo,” said the ex-principal.

   Hank tried, but the word stuck in his throat. “I’m sorry, Mr. Blodgett,” he said. “I just can’t do it.”

I know how Hank felt. But there’s no problem for many of today’s students. Children commonly address adults by their first names. In some schools, even teachers are addressed this way. Most people of my generation feel that using titles of respect brings about feelings of respect. To us, using proper titles seems like common courtesy.

   When my mother resided in care centers in her later years, everyone from housekeepers to kitchen help to nursing assistants addressed the residents by their first names or by insincere terms of endearment. These people had built the nation, for goodness sake! They’d been business people, nurses, military personnel, parents...but in the minds of those who cared for them, old age seemed to have reduced them all to the level of small children.

   I think the next time a young person in a store or restaurant calls me “Honey” or. . .shudder
. . .”Sweetie,” I shall draw myself up tall, give her my best schoolteacher glare, and say, “My dear, I could be your grandmother. I’m also a customer. If you want my business again, please let your language show respect for your customers.”

Now, here’s what other people had to say.
From Carolyn (from the Silent or Builder Generation) :

   Right on, Joan! I absolutely abhor being called "Honey" or "Sweetie" by servers or anyone else I don't know. Even in the doctor's office everyone is called by first names--except the doctors, who expect to be addressed as "Doctor Jones."
    The dentist my parents went to in Marysville always addressed my father as "Dr. Manus" (Dad had a Ph.D) and my mother as "Mrs. Manus." He knew how much it meant to them to be treated courteously and respectfully, especially when they were very elderly. He instructed his staff to do the same. When I took Mom and Dad to the Navy base, Dad rated a salute and was respectfully addressed as Col. Manus. There is a lot to be said for addressing people with courtesy titles--and "sir" and "ma'am" are part of that.

From Marj (a Builder):

The fruit of the Spirit is love and joy, and my desire is to show those characteristics to those I come in contact with. . .Young people who need to learn respect for elders (and I thoroughly agree with you on this) won't be reading this, and those who might will write it off as an old person's thing. It might have more value as a blog if you can approach the problem positively. Use it to comment on how we older people can respond to the young with love and kindness that will get their attention. I might have said to the young waitress, "I know you are trying to make me feel good with the word "Sweetie," but it really makes me feel a bit uncomfortable to be called that." I might add, "I may have a lot of years behind me, but I am still young at heart."

Here at the Lodge the caregivers, nurses, and all call me by my first name as they do everyone else. But I know by the way they say it and the way I am treated they respect me. They give me the feeling they would do anything they can for me. I have tried to show them respect and love, and they have responded positively.

From Diana (a Baby Boomer):

I have a slightly different viewpoint. I think this is a generational issue, not an issue about respect. We in the Boomer generation, at least on the West Coast, grew up with the view that addressing someone by a first name showed a willingness to accept that person as a peer and not relegate them to the category of an old fogy. This no doubt came as part of the "don't trust anyone over 30" nonsense we were subjected to. My generation, and those that follow it, truly mean no disrespect by using first names. If you were to say, “My dear, I could be your grandmother. I’m also a customer. If you want my business again, please let your language show respect for your customers,” I seriously doubt the "dear" would have any idea what she said that you considered so disrespectful.

I do know that it is very important to address African Americans by their titles and surnames outside the context of close friendship. When Oprah happens to address an older African-American woman in the audience, she always learns the name and proper title ahead of time and uses it. This stems directly from periods in our nation’s history when grown men were called "boys" in contexts where their white contemporaries were not, and many whites addressed blacks by their first names as if they were still in servitude.

Some of the Title/Surname use has turned a little topsy-turvy. You'll notice that in the court system, even the most disreputable defendant is referred to as Mr. or Ms. So-and-So. This is intended to maintain respect for someone who is innocent until proven guilty. At this time, however, it further establishes the younger generations' view that using a more familiar name or endearment conveys approval and respect instead of the opposite.

. . .Personally, I don't mind when a waitress or clerk calls me Sweetie--although, for a different reason, I would give a male clerk or waiter a dirty look if he called me that. Anyway, Sweetie is far better than some other things I've been called in my life, and I recognize that the intent is one of blessing, not disrespect.

From Cindi (also a Boomer):

I, too like to be respected in my profession. But I'd rather have my students' parents and my students honestly communicate and engage in conversation with me, than have them give me a proper title.

From Agnes (a Builder):
   As an "oldie," I confess that it doesn't bother me in the least to have someone call me "honey" or even "sweetie." It's done so often that it just runs off my back, and I think nothing of it. That's just the way some waitresses talk. When we were in the Philippines, parents of missionary kids told them to call us adults "aunt" or "uncle." So as a teacher there, I was "Aunt Atchie," and those kids now grown still call me that.

   So although . . . it's nice to be called a respectful name, I agree with Marj's and Diana's comments too. I think it really is a cultural, age-related matter.

From Marva (19 years old)
I would never call an elder "Sweetie." I could never call my principal by his first name. Obviously my parents taught us to use respectful language to people who are older than us.
(I can vouch for Marva. She's my dear granddaughter.)
* * *

So, here we have it. What do you think?

Our Salad-Bowl Nation

2010-10-02T17:50:00.000-07:00

     I’m writing this while waiting for a friend in a Mt. Vernon public health clinic. I’m thinking how much I love this country of ours. I loved the way it was when I was young and most people lived in communities where everyone shared the same background and experiences. I love the way it is now, enriched by people from every nation under the sun.

    Mt. Vernon is a farming town with a large Hispanic population. Most came here originally to help grow and harvest the berries, corn, cucumbers and other crops that make this area one of the nation’s most bountiful food baskets. They’re on the way toward realizing the American dream for themselves, just as my ancestors did. But for now they need the extra help this clinic provides.

    The waiting room is filled mostly with people who have beautiful brown skin and dark eyes. The fluid cadences of their native languages flow around me. It makes me feel as if I’ve been dropped into another country, but it doesn’t seem strange to my younger friends. They have grown up with playmates and school friends of many national backgrounds.

    It’s still a marvel to me, all these colors, languages and cultures tossed together to make up this country called the United States of America. It’s the same way across the border in Canada. Sometimes the uniting doesn’t go smoothly. The good thing is we’re working at it. We’re hopeful about it. We appreciate the contributions immigrants bring to this country, even while we argue about who gets to come and how.

    It occurs to me that our country isn’t really about being a melting pot anymore. It’s more like a salad bowl. Salads are full of intriguing flavors, textures, contrasts--much more interesting than the bland blended flavors of something out of a “melting pot.”

    Don’t you agree?

These people are just a few members of my own rainbow family. We are Norwegian, German, Chinese, English, Native Hawaiian, Cherokee, Native Alaskan, French, African American, Hispanic...and soon, a baby boy from Korea will join us.

Eternal Mounts

2010-09-30T18:45:00.000-07:00

Along Washington's North Cascades Highway

I never see one of these mountain waterfalls without thinking of a story I heard years ago about Washington’s Cascade Mountains. A friend had been searching for an old mine he’d been told about when he stumbled across the rotted remains of a cabin. Nearby he spied a tunnel, like any other abandoned mine tunnel except for the twin watercourses plunging down the mountain on either side of the opening.

Poking around, he found a few blacksmithing tools among the rotting logs. A rusted shovel leaned against the tunnel’s wall. As he prepared to leave, he noticed stones piled at the base of a sheer rock face as if someone had deliberately placed them there. Looking up, he saw these words painstakingly chiseled into the rock at about the height a person could reach if standing on the pile:

Eternal mounts, you have founts

Rolling down your rock-ribbed sides,

Like one weeping in the keeping

Of a watch that e'er abides.

Above the poem was etched the profile of the surrounding peaks.

I may never see that spot for myself, but whenever I gaze at one of our mountain waterfalls, I think of that unknown miner with a poet’s soul. I imagine him pecking away at the rock, leaving his words for someone to find, many years in the future.

My reality and his are starkly different, but streams continue to cascade down the sides of mountains. People still desire to leave behind something of themselves after they are gone. I feel connected.

Hidden Things

2010-09-07T13:20:00.000-07:00

I almost stepped on this little treasure.

"And I will give you the treasures of darkness and hidden riches of secret places, that you may know that I, the Lord, which call you by your name, am the God of Israel" (Isaiah 45:3 NKJV).

In this verse of Scripture, Isaiah foretells what God plans to do through Cyrus, a future king of Persia, who would rescue the nation of Israel from her enemies. To me, this verse has an additional meaning: God wants us to be aware of the treasures, the hidden riches, he has scattered all around us. He has given them as another way of teaching us who he is. He knows that learning to notice and ponder things that most people bypass can add richness to our lives.

In one of my recent Sun Breaks posts, I told about hiking to Boardman Lake in the Cascade Mountains with Hank and daughter Lenora. To reach the trailhead, we drove on a former logging road for about five miles up a mountainside. In dry weather, the narrow road is dusty and potholed. Trees arch thickly overhead. Not much grows beneath them, except in ravines where light filters through. In some places, branches sweep close to the edge of the road, hiding whatever lurks behind.

As we jounced along, we focused mostly on dodging the next pothole. Then, on the uphill side, I caught a glint of water reflecting through a screen of evergreen branches.

"Hank, stop!" I said. "There's something interesting there. Can you back up?"

He did as I asked, stopping at a wide spot in the road. Grabbing my camera, I leaped out of the van and bent down to peer under the branches. "Oh, wow! Look at this!" I called.

While Hank stayed with the van, Lenora followed me over the edge of the graveled road. Although the footing was precarious, I slid down to stand on one of two squared off logs the early road builders had laid several feet apart in a narrow ravine as foundation for the logging road. They had placed thick timbers crosswise on that foundation, and built the roadbed on top of this crude but effective culvert.

One of the foundation timbers and the hidden glade

The waterfall and pool

When our eyes adjusted to the shadows, we gazed across a placid pool where a little waterfall trickled over moss-covered cliffs before its water funneled through the culvert and dashed down the mountainside. The glade was a picture-perfect Pacific Northwest version of one of those postcard spots in Hawaii, and a lovely example of the delights that await those who take the time to seek out and appreciate God's hidden treasures, wherever He has stashed them for us.

Are you Fiercely Frugal?

2010-09-02T17:27:00.000-07:00

**********************************************************************
I'm posting this note from my friend Diana Savage, whose Fiercely Frugal blog is not only full of great money-saving ideas but is also fun to read. Hope you'll follow her links to see what it's all about and to possibly glean a few creative ideas to adapt to your own projects.

Dear Frugal Friends,

My friend Joan helped me get back to posting ideas on the Fiercely Frugal blog. (It’s been a hectic spring and summer.) She supplied information and a photo for a clever way to make painting more enjoyable. See her suggestion for a “No Cost Paint Container” at http://savagesisters.wordpress.com/category/resourceful-recycling. (If you prefer to visit www.SavageSisters.net, you’ll find the post in the Resourceful Recycling category.) You’ll also find a link to Joan’s own blog with her delightfully descriptive writing about the Pacific Northwest, travel, and more.

Yours for frugal solutions,

Diana
***********************************************************************

Cooling off at Boardman Lake

2010-09-02T16:52:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, daughter Lenora took a late summer break from Arizona’s heat to luxuriate in northwest Washington’s green coolness. We decided to drive to the Robe valley, where as a little girl she’d spent many happy days at her grandparents' former home. While there, we hiked to Boardman Lake, off the Mountain Loop Highway, to see if the huckleberries were ripe. We stopped first at little Evans Lake to picnic. Here’s Lenora enjoying the scenery.

The mile-long trail to Boardman Lake is well-used. The footing is tricky, and steeper than we remembered. (Of course, Hank and I are not as young as the first time we hiked the trail.)

Here is a denizen of the woods enjoying a beam of sunlight.

Lenora reached the lake long before we did, but we made it.

We met people who’d camped at primitive sites on the far side of the outlet, on the hill behind Lenora. To get there they scrambled across a jumble of logs. We saw some plunge into the lake’s cold waters to swim.

The berries were scarce this year, but as we headed back to the trail, we each picked a handful of blue huckleberries and carried them home in a plastic bag. Mmm! Huckleberry hotcakes next morning to remind us of a special afternoon in the mountains!

How We Have Changed!

2010-08-23T17:39:00.000-07:00


Some members of the Granite Falls High School class of 1954: l. to. r., Clyde (Squeak) Scofield, Darlene Jones Johnson, Harriet Olson Duncan, Mabel Murphy Bennett, Walt Burrus, Nancy ScherrerTellesbo, Morrie Running, Mickie Giroux Erickson, Greta Bryan Running, Joan Rawlins Husby, Leslie Scherrer, Dave Bogart (Photo by Mabel Bennett)

Here we are at age six, with our teacher Miss Anderson. When we graduated from Granite Falls High School in 1954, there were 24 of us, of whom 22 are still living. Twelve of us met at our last bi-monthly classmates' luncheon. Match the photos to see what a difference fifty-six years makes!


Mabel Murphy, l.; Harriet Olsen, r.

Dave Bogart

Les Scherrer

Nancy Scherrer

Joan Rawlins, Greta Bryan

Mickie Giroux, Darlene Jones

Squeak Scofield


Morris Running

Another Fishing Trip...

2010-08-22T17:36:00.000-07:00


A typical Alaskan lake (Photo by Don Biggar) My recent blogs about our July pike-fishing trip in Canada reminded me of another fishing trip, when my late husband, Bob Biggar, introduced me to Alaska during our honeymoon summer of 1962. Since he had already worked in Alaska for a number of years, he hoped to convince me that the state would be a good place to make our home. I was convinced enough to live there for seventeen years, while we raised two little Alaskans. That summer Bob was a project engineer on a road-construction job near Fairbanks, where giant Euclid scrapers hauled mine tailings as fill material for the new roadbed. One day one of the scrapers’ huge tires went flat. Bob asked if he could have the worn-out inner tube. He patched the holes and blew it up. As I remember, that tube was about seven feet across—large enough for a whole group of people to play on. Bob’s friend, Andy Hall, owned his own pontoon plane. He offered, in exchange for the inner tube, to take us on a spur- of-the-moment wilderness fishing trip. I was so excited that I completely forgot the next day’s luncheon invitation to the home of Virginia Leih, one of my new friends. I scurried around frying chicken and collecting camping equipment. When Bob came home early that Wednesday afternoon, we headed for the float pond at the International Airport. The plane had dual controls, and since Bob was licensed to fly float planes, Andy let him do most of the flying. Bob was thrilled, and so was I. I’d never flown in a plane like that before. We headed south, following the Alaska Highway. Then we crossed the Tanana and Little Delta rivers that braided and twisted across the tundra. They ran silty with glacial flour—rock that glaciers had ground to powder. All across the valley we saw zigzagging lines of trees and brush marking where rivers once flowed. Beneath the dark clouds and rain squalls to our right we glimpsed the shining peaks of the Alaskan Range. There were no signs of civilization below us...we were deep into the wilderness. My watch read six o’clock when Andy pointed ahead. “That’s Groffin’s Lake.” Bob brought our bird in for a landing. Spray flew past the windows as we coasted to the foot of a promontory topped with tall spruce and birch. Andy tied the plane to a tree. We stepped off the pontoon onto shore and hauled our equipment up the hill. In a clearing stood a sturdy sod-roofed log cabin. Traps hung on an outside wall. Door and windows were boarded shut, with dozens of sharp-pointed nails meant to discourage marauding bears protruding from the boards. We erected our tents on a carpet of moss deep enough to nearly hide the wild cranberry plants that grew up through it. The moss appeared to be studded with garnet-colored jewels. I set out cold fried chicken and potato salad for our dinner and while we ate, Andy entertained us with bear stories. Afterward, he offered to show me how to fish. I followed him to the shore. He cast out a line and handed me the pole. Immediately I felt a tug and the line snapped straight. Seconds later a big pike lay flopping on the moss. A few minutes later I caught another one. Although Bob had said he didn’t care for fishing, he suddenly wanted a turn. For a guy who didn’t like to fish, he seemed to enjoy himself hugely. Andy went to bed. While Bob fished, I built a campfire. Then we lay on the hill beside the fire, watching the moon rise before we too called it a day. I was too excited to sleep, and the blanket wouldn’t stay put. Although it was mid-August, autumn already had come to Alaska and the night was chilly. It didn’t help that Andy had pointed out grizzly-bear scat not far from where we pitched the tents, nor could I forget his dinnertime bear tales. Through the mosquito netting I watched the moon travel across the sky. Loons filled the night with their weird, lonely cries. By 3:00 a.m. the sky lightened. Bob got up to brew coffee. He brought me a cupful with a couple of cookies. Then I, too, got up. We walked to the brow of the hill to watch a pair of moose feeding off shore. They’d plunge their spreading antlers below the surface for long minutes, then raise their heads to munch mouthfuls of water lilies while water poured off the shovel-like blades. A flock of wild geese flew south, honking, and the loons still called. We’d kept our fish fresh in the lake overnight, but the back half of one was gone. Andy told us another pike had probably eaten it. While Bob cleaned the others, I practiced casting but got no bites. Then the line seemed to catch on the bottom. I jerked and jerked. Finally it came free, dragging a big hunk of water plant which seemed strangely resistant. When I finally reeled it in, another big pike was on the line. Not by its mouth, but hooked through its back. Andy said they sometimes strike at the bait and miss, bumping the hook on the way past. So we had one more fish to put in the cooler. By 5:00 a.m., we’d struck camp and were skimming over the tundra, where we counted seven or eight moose within a short distance of each other. We flew closer to the mountains this time, through rain squalls and bumpy weather. We flew over a radar site which Bob had helped to build, then turned toward Fairbanks. We landed on the float pond at 6:30, ate breakfast at a pancake house, and then the men went off to work. I went home to take care of our fish and get ready for our temporary return to Washington. The day got so busy and I was so tired from the sleepless night I forgot all about the luncheon I was supposed to attend. Only later did I find out there'd been a surprise in store—I was to have been the guest of honor. Virginia, the gracious and forgiving hostess, continued as a cherished friend when we returned to Alaska the next spring.

Mother moose (with head underwater) teaching her babies to browse a stream bottom.
(Photo by Don Biggar)

Become a "Sun Breaks" Follower!

2010-08-02T13:11:00.000-07:00

Thanks for checking in at Sun Breaks! This is post #71 since I ventured into the world of blogging a little more than a year and a half ago, and I'm still learning how it works. I just enabled something called site feed, as well as a setting for e-mailing the posts to your friends. (See the little envelope at the end of this post?)

Every writer likes to imagine their readers...not simply as people categorized by age or interest, but who they are as individuals. If you read my blog, even occasionally, please click on the followers button on this page. Leave your photo if you wish. Then I can think of you as I write my posts. I'd love to hear your comments, as well.

Bugs, Birds, and Lac la Biche

2010-07-23T17:15:00.000-07:00

A midge resting on my knee

Dead midges border the shores of Lac la Biche

   Even way up north at Lac la Biche, where we were camping with our Canadian cousins, there are fishing restrictions. The northern pike have to be at least 30 inches long, and each licensed fisherman could take only one home, although we could catch and eat some as well during our stay. On his first trip out, Hank was thrilled to catch a 36-inch pike, as I mentioned in the last post.

    That day, there’d been a hatch of billions of midges–half-inch soft-bodied insects that cruise through the air hunchbacked with tails tucked up in front of them. At first, Hank was horrified to find himself surrounded. He didn’t know this kind didn’t bite. They were as thick over the water as brown smoke. The fishermen had to keep their mouths shut to keep from swallowing them.

    I learned from Wikipedia that there are several kinds of midges, from the small no-see-ums with outsized bites to large crane flies whose larvae feed on grass roots in lawns. You can tell midges from mosquitoes by their habit of resting flat on a surface rather than standing up on the tips of their legs. Their legs are so brittle that they break off easily.

    The females of the midges we saw lay egg masses over open water or attach the eggs to vegetation. The larvae drop to the bottom, where they scavenge on organic debris. Some overwinter in the larval stage. Then they pupate for about 48 hours before they emerge from the pupal skin and rise to the water’s surface. The adults do not eat. Their life span is only five to ten days. However, midges in populated areas can cause havoc just by their sheer numbers. They swarm around lights and on screen doors. They stain outside surfaces of buildings and find their way into houses.

    But they are also an important item of food for many freshwater fish and other aquatic animals. As we saw firsthand, they provide a banquet for the birds that live around Lac la Biche as well.

     By the time I went out in the boat next morning, the life cycle was over for many of them. They were falling into the lake where they floated, matted together with other dead midges. They washed up in thick windrows along the shore.

Franklin's gulls feeding above the Owl River

In the evening Cousin Allen Shaw took his nineteen-year-old daughter Katrina, her boyfriend Aaron, and me down the river to the lake to try for sunset photographs. We were almost too late, though pinks and mauves lingered in the water. Alan turned off the engine and told us to listen. We heard a high-pitched humming from the direction of the cattail marshes along the river–the love-songs of billions of midges. Clouds of birds whirled above the cattails.

    Then small, black-headed Franklin’s gulls began to swoop near the surface where we rocked in our boat. Soon we were in the middle of a veritable ballet...hundreds of birds diving and looping through the quiet air, so intent on their feeding they were almost completely silent. The dance of the gulls followed us all the way up the river to camp, even though the light had nearly gone. By the next morning, few of the midges remained. Those who’d escaped the birds had mated and laid eggs for the next generation. Now they’d die and sink to the bottom of the lake and the river to provide nutrition for other creatures.

    Those billions of insects that to some seem annoying and useless sustained not only the birds and
the lake creatures, but also helped sustain us humans
who ate the pike who fed on the lake creatures. What a good example of God’s abundant provision!

           Top of the food chain: Cousin Vicki with northern pike

A Different Kind of Vacation

2010-07-23T12:19:00.000-07:00

At Owl Hoot Camp near Lac la Biche

l. to r. Adam (family friend); Troy & Clarissa Austin, Allen Shaw, Katrina Shaw and Aaron, William Shaw, Hank Husby, Vicki Shaw, Joan Husby

    For years my Canadian cousins, the Shaw family, have told us about their annual camping trips to Lac la Biche (Lake of the Fawn). This year Vickie e-mailed, saying “I know it’s short notice, but we have room for two more. Would you like to go along?”

    Would we? Yes, indeed! We dropped everything and drove 750 miles north to Innisfail, Alberta. There we joined Vickie and Allen, their young-adult children, Clarissa, William, and Katrina, plus Clarissa’s husband Troy, and Aaron, Katrina’s boy friend. They’re a lively crew who really enjoy having fun together.

    Among her many other talents, Vickie is a gifted organizer. She and the kids had prepared and packed five days’ worth of meals. We all helped load utensils, towels, games, fishing equipment, cameras, lifejackets, tools–well, everything needed to sustain the group for five days. Allan towed a boat, also loaded to the gunnels with supplies.

    We drove five hours north and east to reach our destination, an old fishing resort on the placid Owl River. The Shaws discovered the place years ago, when my Uncle Bill, Vickie’s father, visited them and expressed a desire to go fishing. It’s a beloved spot for all of them. The owner of the camp passed away last year, and his family is trying to keep it operating. Official rules no longer allow fishermen to catch walleyed pike in the Owl River. On the lake, only one northern pike per day is allowed. So fewer people come now. We were the only guests until the weekend.

    One of the red-painted log buildings is over one hundred years old. Campers boil the river water for non-drinking needs, and each cabin has an outhouse. Only the trailer cabin, where Hank and I slept, has a bathroom. We all took turns using that shower. Aaron and William each set up his own tent, and we congregated in the largest cabin to eat and play games.

    Our boat held four fishermen at a time for the mile-long ride down the Owl River to Lac la Biche, one of Alberta’s larger lakes. Occasional farms dot the tree-lined shores. The shallow water, murky with algae and weed patches, is ideal pike habitat. Hank came back from his first expedition one happy man. He’d caught a 36-inch pike. Allan fried fish steaks for the next morning’s breakfast. Delicious, not fishy at all.

A peaceful moment on one of our walks

    Our days were long and lazy. That far north in mid-July the sun didn’t set until 10:30. Hank and I started each day with a leisurely walk. Sometimes we sauntered along the road where cattle congregated within sight of the bridge over the Owl River, sometimes on lanes that led through birch and spruce woods. Once a doe and fawn bounded away through a clearing. Another time we held our breaths while a buck and doe picked their way along the edge of the woods to cross the lane ahead of us. Mornings were enchanted times, with no human-made sounds, just the music of warblers and rose-breasted grosbeaks and mourning doves, punctuated by the drum-knockings of woodpeckers. Sometimes, when the rustling cottonwoods stilled, we heard a distant cow bawling for her calf.     When we weren’t fishing, we piled into vehicles to revisit the Shaws’ favorite spots, like a nearby lake where cormorants and pelicans had built their nests in condos one above the other in every tree on one small island. All that activity eventually killed the trees, and when we stood on the shore, we could see that not even one tree remained standing. Only a few of the birds circled the former rookery.

    Always before, our vacations have been “on-the-go” affairs, leaving us feeling as if we’ve covered too many miles, tried to see too many people and tried to do too many things. This camping trip was a leisurely adventure we never expected.

    The best part was having time to appreciate the other members of our party for the special people they are. I’ll tell more in future blogposts, but for now, I’m convinced: it’s never too late to try a different way of doing things.

Allen checking out the boat at the Owl River launching site

Hank with the first two pike caught

About Nest Eggs

2010-07-04T20:27:00.000-07:00

A Hen With a Secret

Photo courtesy of Tom Curtis
http://www.freedigitalphotos.net/images

“What’s a nest egg?” Ask some young people that question and chances are they can’t say for sure. They may think it has something to do with saving for the future, but unless they’ve raised chickens, they may not make the connection between nests, eggs, and money.

    In the days when most households kept chickens for eggs and meat, chickens often were “free range.” If the lady of the house wanted her hens to nest in the hen house, she had to have a strategy. Otherwise her hens would hide their eggs outdoors, where the eggs or newly-hatched chicks were easy marks for predators.

    Most keepers of chickens owned a few porcelain or painted wood facsimiles of hen’s eggs. To entice a hen to begin laying in the nesting box prepared for her, the farm wife placed one of the “nest eggs” in the straw. The broody hen, being easily fooled, would assume she’d already laid an egg there. So she’d lay another, and the next day another, until she had enough for a clutch of chicks. Then she began the job of sitting on the eggs to keep them warm, turning them frequently, until the babies developed and hatched.

    Humans need persuasive strategies to do the wise thing too. Hence the “nest egg,” a little money in the bank that can be added to until the savings grow big enough for the desired purpose.

Foundations

2010-06-30T14:51:00.000-07:00

1940--the Rawlins family and the little house on its cedar slab foundations, just before David was born.



   During the Great Depression, my father built a little house in the Robe Valley for his family. His total cash outlay? Less than $50 for the house and $100 for two-and-a- half acres of land.

    He salvaged timber from an abandoned lumber mill for the stringers and other timbers used in the house. Since he had no cement blocks, he cut slabs from a cedar log to make the foundation for the 18 by 24 foot house. He placed four slabs on each side and one in the center, then nailed cedar uprights to those. He laid stringers (timbers) across the uprights and a shiplap floor across the stringers. He built the floor several feet off the ground so the house would stay dry. The walls were shiplap covered with tarpaper, then with shakes that Dad split himself. He used salvaged windows and doors.

    That snug little house eventually became home to other families. Thirty-three years later, youngest brother David bought the house and remodeled it. One of the first things he did was to replace the cedar slabs with a cement block foundation. He was surprised that the wood had lasted as long as it had.

    About the same time Dad built our house, a neighbor just up the road built a house on a wooden foundation. I don’t know if he used cedar or not, but a creek ran through the swamp next to the house, and that plus our rainy climate quickly rotted his foundation. All during our growing-up years, the neighbors often heard him comment on how he needed to fix that foundation. But he never did, and the house sagged and rocked on its unsteady underpinnings while his wife and six children suffered frequent illness due to the damp conditions.

    A good, solid foundation is the first essential for any quality building project. The St. Vincent islanders in the Caribbean understand this. My husband Hank and some friends spent two weeks on the island helping a group who wanted to build a church. The Caribbeans had very little of this world’s goods, but they understood the basic principles of building. The Americans brought tools and cement. The islanders had already laid out the shape of their church and collected piles of rock for the foundation.

    Americans and islanders worked together digging trenches along the lines marked on the ground. They passed buckets of water hand-to-hand from the water source to the cement mixer, where men mixed water and cement. Then they passed the buckets of mortar hand-to-hand to the person down in the trench who fit stones and mortar together until the foundation rose above ground level, after which they skillfully leveled the top with more mortar.

    In this painstaking manner, the foundation took two weeks to build. Hank didn’t get to see the church rise atop it, but he knew, that though it was simple, it would be sturdy and last through the storms and torrential downpours that often sweep across the island.

    Jesus once told a story about two builders. One was wise and built his house on a rock foundation. But the foolish builder set his on sand. When the storms came, they washed the sand from beneath the foolish man’s house, and it fell with a crash. The wise man’s house withstood the storms and sheltered those within it.

    Jesus’ story is just as appropriate now as it was two thousand years ago. We still need strong moral and spiritual foundations. All around us, we see lives wrecked by bad decisions and do-it-your-own-way building methods. God gave us His Book of wisdom and the gift of common sense to establish a basis for living. We can be thankful indeed for parents or other mentors who pass on values gleaned from God’s Word and the wisdom of history.

    Does your foundation need a little work? It’s never too late to rebuild.

A Special Toy

2010-06-18T19:14:00.000-07:00

For our 10th wedding anniversary, Hank and I spent a week wandering to some of our favorite places. We included a visit to the museum at Washougal, Washington state, on the Columbia River. Hank is working on a legacy of family history stories for his children, and that little museum contains files of information on the early families of Washougal (where he grew up) as well as items donated by those families. We found one of Hank’s childhood toys on display there. It brought back good memories to him. Here’s his story:

As a young boy, I loved to follow my Grandpa Huckins and his son, my Uncle Joe, around. I liked to imagine myself doing whatever they were doing.

This McCormick-Deering tractor with a Russell

boiler powered the sawmill.

Grandpa and Uncle Joe supplemented the income from their small herd of milk cows by sawing lumber from logs on the home place. Originally, a large steam tractor powered the Huckins’ sawmill. It turned a line shaft which powered two four-foot circular saws and also caused the log carriage to move forward and backward, slicing logs into rough lumber.

In about 1945 they replaced the tractor with a steam boiler and built a brick furnace beneath it to burn slabs of wood from the mill. The fire boiled the water and produced steam to power a stationary single-cylinder steam engine. As a ten-year-old boy, I was fascinated as Grandpa and Uncle Joe heated heavy steel rods in the forge and used an anvil to shape them into hooks. The hooks suspended the huge boiler from the roof timbers of the sawmill.

The Huckins' sawmill, with my dad in his Sunday clothes standing on a log in the log pond.

Eager to help build the furnace, I put too much creek water in the mortar mix and Uncle Joe had to add more sand and cement to correct my mistake. For awhile, Uncle Joe’s smiling countenance clouded over, but as work progressed he returned to his usual jovial self. Imagine the smile that lit my face when Uncle Joe showed me a miniature steam engine like the one in the sawmill. It had been his toy when he was my age, and now he was giving it to me. The boiler held a pint of water. Three little burner cups fit in a drawer beneath it. He soaked cotton balls with wood alcohol and put them in the cups, then set the alcohol ablaze with a match. As it burned, it heated the water in the boiler. With the steam valve open, the steam made a whistling sound. With the valve closed, the steam drove a single cylinder which turned a large wheel, just like Grandpa and Uncle Joe’s big steam engine.

What fun! A side benefit of owning my own steam engine was a lesson in economics. Wood alcohol could only be obtained at a local drugstore at the whopping big price (in 1945) of ninety cents a pint plus three cents tax. That left barely enough of a dollar bill to buy a nickel candy bar. Since money was in short supply my steam engine seldom got fired up. Perhaps that was why it was still in working condition years later when my mother passed it on to the Washougal museum.

The toy steam engine

Old Friends

2010-06-15T20:17:00.000-07:00

Miss Anderson's first graders, 1941

One September morning when I was five years old, my mother pinned my name to my sweater and sent me down the long driveway with neighbor and “big sister” Marcella to wait for the school bus. I was so excited I couldn’t stop trembling.

What a day of firsts! My first bus ride. My first day in the big brick building that would be my second home for the next seven years. My first time to sit still for long periods of time until given permission to move. My first teacher. My first time to face more than forty little people my own age, some of whom, though I didn’t yet know it, would become lifelong friends.

Kids who lived in town shared not only school experiences but also out-of-school life as well. They grew up knowing everybody in town and all their stories. Bus kids like me missed out on small-town life, but after-school activities and sleep-overs with friends helped to fill in the gaps.

Because our school was small, our class moved in lockstep through the academic offerings until high school gave us a few electives. Boys and girls took separate physical education classes. Most boys took wood shop. Most girls signed up for home economics, although the good smells of cooking brought the boys clustering around the home ec door in hopes of handouts. We all went to the after-school ball games to cheer for our team, the Tigers.

Our twelve years as classmates flew by. Of the forty or so children who began first grade together, some moved away or dropped out. Others joined us later. Twenty-four of us made it to graduation together.

Then we scattered to follow different paths...some to jobs, some to marry and start families, some to military service, some to college. Many continued the friendships forged in school, although some of us reconnected only at high school reunions.

Now we are all in our seventies. Seven or eight years ago, Nancy retired from her paying job and decided it was time to do what she’d thought about for years. She began calling classmates, suggesting that those who lived nearby get together for lunch. Since then we have met on the 2nd Thursday of every other month for lunch. Spouses come too, as well as a few friends from other classes.

Death has claimed a few of us. At classmate Dick’s funeral last year, we came as a group to say goodbye. We’ve encouraged each other through illness and loss of family members. We ask after each other’s children. We tell stories of our lives. Of course we reminisce about our shared memories.

Some classmates travel elsewhere in the winter but come back to join us in the summer. Others live far away, but occasionally return to touch base. At our last luncheon, seventeen people came. Of those, eleven of us had started first grade together back in 1941. Sixty-nine years, and we’re still enjoying each other’s company.

Sarri Gilman was talking about Baby Boomers on Facebook in a recent column in The Herald, but what she said is worth remembering, no matter what our age: “...if you do open yourself, you will find that restoring some of these very old friends from the past can be enriching. By the time you get to 50, life has leveled the field. Everyone has had enough reality to realize we are all tender beings, and life is short.”

There’s a lot of truth in the adage, “Old friends are the best friends.”

Classmates at 55th reunion, 2009

A Sonnet to Sunny

2010-05-28T16:50:00.000-07:00

As Memorial Day draws near, we remember dear ones who have gone before. There's sadness at the separation, but memories of their unique qualities and their love bring great joy, as well.

Our friend Dr. Jerry Rusher wrote this lovely poem for his wife Wanda, who went home to heaven two years ago. He and Wanda loved to hike, and the inspiration for the poem came one morning as they watched the sun birth a rainbow in the mist of a mountain waterfall.

A Sonnet to Sunny

Dewdrops forming on the grass

Lie hidden to the watching eye,

Yet how they gleam like beads of glass,

When the sun climbs in the sky.
**

A cascade falls in shadows dim,

While a mist obscures the air

'Til rays of light come bursting in,

And lo! There shines a rainbow fair.
**

My sunny one, you're like the dew,

Or the misty waterfall,

As the Son comes shining through.

This quivering heart becomes enthralled,

To see reflected in your eyes

The tender love of Jesus Christ.

by Jerry Rusher

Memorial Day...A Vet Remembers Buchenwald

2010-05-26T01:29:00.000-07:00

P-38 Lightning like that flown by Joe Moser

On August 13, 1944, Joseph F. Moser, a 20-year-old farm boy from the little town of Lynden, Washington, found himself far from home. The battle for Europe was raging in the skies over occupied France. Joe was the new flight leader for his squadron of four P-38 Lightning fighter planes, each of which carried two 500-pound containers of high explosives beneath their wings. He had already flown nearly 40 missions, but this day Joe’s fight for survival would really begin. His story, as told by Gerald R. Baron, is found in his book, A Fighter Pilot in Buchenwald.

The Allies were working hard to cut the Nazi supply lines across France, so when Joe saw German trucks stopped on the road below, he led his squadron in a dive to wipe them out. As flak erupted all around them, he realized they’d been lured into a trap. His twin boom fighter shuddered as the left engine took a direct hit and burst into flames just 200 feet above the ground. Joe pulled the plane into a sharp climb, released his load of bombs where they’d not hurt any French citizens on the ground, and headed for his base in England. Fire crept up the wing as his crippled plane limped for home. When the cockpit glass exploded and he felt himself burning, he flipped the plane over and dropped out. But mysteriously, he didn’t seem to be falling away from the plane. He realized the toe of his boot was caught in the cockpit and the ground was coming up fast. At the last minute, the leather tore, releasing him to fall free. At 400 miles per hour, he pulled the rip cord and his parachute billowed, jerking him to a sudden stop moments before he hit the ground. His plane plunged into the ground next to a house nearby and exploded.

He found himself surrounded by French farmers who’d seen what happened. They cut off his parachute and hid it, his helmet, and other pilot’s equipment under shocks of grain and motioned for him to join them in picking up the harvested grain. Within minutes the field swarmed with German soldiers looking for the pilot of the crashed plane. When the soldiers left, two young French men motioned him to follow them across the fields toward some trees. They were running as fast as they could when they heard the German motorcycles coming back. Joe was captured, along with the young men, and tossed into a windowless stone building. After a while, the men were taken out and Joe heard shots.

Shortly thereafter, he was thrown into a prison in Fresnes, France. Within days, the French resistance forces (considered terrorists by the Germans) had begun to openly fight against the occupiers. On August 25, the Allies entered Paris, and the Germans were frantic to get their prisoners deep into German territory. They crammed them into cattle cars, 95 people in a space meant for eight cattle. For five nightmarish days and nights they rode, starving, sick, with only a bucket for a toilet, until they reached a German prison camp. It wasn't a Prisoner of War camp, where, according to conventions of war they should have been held, but Buchenwald, one of Germany’s dread concentration camps where prisoners were worked and starved to death. Until he landed there, Joe didn't know about these places and the Nazi's plan to exterminate the world’s Jews and all others they hated. Neither did the rest of the world until Buchenwald and other camps were liberated eight months later.

Joe spent two months in Buchenwald, one of 168 captured Allied airmen among some 80,000 other prisoners. These 168 were marked for execution by the German SS, who considered them terrorists because the French resistance had helped them. Just days before their scheduled execution, they received a visit by high-ranking Luftwaffe officers, who made no secret of their disgust at the treatment their fellow pilots had received at the hands of the SS. Again the Allied pilots were loaded onto cattle cars, less crowded this time, and taken to the first of several POW camps. Although conditions were still miserable, they were given enough food to ward off starvation and their families finally received word of their whereabouts.

When the men at last were liberated, Joe couldn’t stop eating. He put on 60 pounds in a month, and when he got home, people couldn’t believe he’d been in Buchenwald. In fact, two weeks after returning home, he was asked to speak to a local Lion’s club and did his best to tell about his experiences. Walking out of the room afterward, he overheard one man tell another, “I didn’t believe a word of it.” That was the last time Joe spoke about his experiences, except for his debriefing by a young officer when his 60-day leave was up. This officer flatly denied there’d been any Americans held at Buchenwald, and Joe says that to this day, no American flag flies among those of the other nations whose citizens were held prisoner there.

Not only was Joe unable to share about his experiences with anyone, for over forty years, he had nightmares about what he thought had happened to the Frenchmen who tried to help him and also to the family he imagined had burned to death in the house where his plane had crashed. Then one day in 1988 he learned the truth. Everyone had miraculously escaped.

Joe says he’s proud to have served his country. “If there is one thing to leave you with, it is that common ordinary people just like you and just like me can once in a while be called upon to show extraordinary courage and strength...Never, ever forget the price that many have paid to protect our precious freedom.”

This Memorial Day we’ll take flowers to where my parents rest in our home town cemetery. We’ll note, as always, the small flags fluttering on the numerous graves of those who fought for America. Some of those veterans laid down their lives as far back as World War I, some only recently. I will lift up my heart in thanksgiving for Joe Moser and each military person, dead or still alive, who gave or is giving so much for my freedom.

May God make us, and our nation, worthy of their sacrifices.

A Pacific Northwest Best-Kept-Secret

2010-05-21T20:36:00.000-07:00

When granddaughter Annie, a budding artist, said she’d like to spend part of her spring break with us, we had the excuse we’d been waiting for to visit Tacoma’s Museum of Glass. It is located in the Tacoma Museum District, one of the Northwest’s most fascinating destinations.

Besides the glass museum, three other attractions stand in a row between an arm of Commencement Bay and the brick buildings of old Tacoma. The Washington State History Museum brackets the glass museum on one side; on the other stands the beautiful old Union Station which is now a courthouse. Beyond the former rail station is the Tacoma Art Museum.

In 1968, when many of Tacoma’s anchor retail stores abandoned the downtown to relocate to a big new mall, the area went into an economic tailspin. The city began revitalization in 1990 by renovating Union Station. Then it offered tax exemptions for new residential units in multifamily dwellings and added the three museums already mentioned. Now the once-shabby surroundings provide a feast for the senses and an educational smorgasbord to thousands of visitors, including busloads of school children.

Bridge of Glass leading to the glass museum

Since we’d visited the History Museum a couple of years previously, we started with the Museum of Glass. We entered by way of the Dale Chihuly Bridge of Glass, a pedestrian overpass designed in collaboration with the world-renowned artist.

On the bridge, a seascape of glass floats overhead

The exterior of the museum is a work of art in itself, with plazas featuring glass installations in reflecting ponds. A conical structure of glass looms over the museum. It houses the hot shop where visitors can watch teams of artists at work shaping blobs of molten glass into beautiful sculptured forms.

Annie admiring one of the outdoor installations;
a newly renovated apartment complex in back.

Within the museum we marveled at the variety of imaginative works possible in this media. We especially enjoyed the interpretations of Tlingit themes in an exhibit by Native American artist Preston Singletary.
(See http://www.museumofglass.org/ for more information.)

Glass installations inside the former Union Station

Annie and I wandered through the door of Union Station, expecting to see the usual offices and business-suited professionals one might find in a court house. Instead, we saw the high, arched rotunda and massive lobby of the original railway depot. The breathtaking architecture formed the setting for massive, jewel-like glass designs by Dale Chihuly. A lone guard sitting at the entrance asked for ID and told us that we could come into the lobby and take photos. I was glad we did, because no picture-taking was allowed in the Tacoma Art Museum next door. But we enjoyed the exhibit on the development of Northwest art, as well as the other displays. And this museum had its own Dale Chihuly glass pieces.

Tacoma’s Museum District is a secret no more to us. We’ll be back, and we’re happy to share this cultural resource with anyone who’ll listen.

Annie and friend outside Union Station

Skagit Valley Sky Scenes

2010-05-08T21:19:00.000-07:00

One of the things I love about the Skagit Valley (besides the river, the communities with personality plus and the variety of farming activities we see while driving through its flat and fertile fields) is the sky. It’s Big Sky, like they say in Montana...a wide, overarching screen upon which every kind of weather drama plays out.

Today storms were building over the Cascades to the east. Clouds also billowed up from the western horizon, echoing the shapes of the rocky knobs that jut out of Puget Sound at the edge of the delta. They almost obscured the snowy Olympics. Walking the dikes in warm sunshine, we felt very much dwarfed by the changing sky-scenes in every direction. Come enjoy the clouds:

Ps. 97:1, 2 The Lord reigns, let the earth be glad; let the distant shores rejoice. Clouds and thick darkness surround him; righteousness and justice are the foundation of his throne.

Clouds over Mt. Three Fingers

Ps. 36:5,6, 7 Your love, O LORD, reaches to the heavens, your faithfulness to the skies. Your righteousness is like the mighty mountains, your justice like the great deep. How priceless is your unfailing love! Both high and low among men find refuge in the shadow of your wings.

Tidelands from a Skagit delta dike, looking across Puget Sound toward the Olympic Mountains

Psalm 29:3 The voice of the Lord is over the waters: the God of glory thunders, the Lord thunders over the mighty waters.

Isaiah 44:22,24 I have swept away your offenses like a cloud, your sins like the morning mist. Return to me, for I have redeemed you.
This is what the Lord says—your Redeemer, who formed you in the womb: I am the Lord, who has made all things, who alone stretched out the heavens, who spread out the earth by myself…

A great blue heron lifts off from a dike near the mouth of the Skagit River

Arizona Ghost Town

2010-04-20T21:39:00.000-07:00

Swansea, AZ from a miner's window

Ghost towns have fascinated me since childhood. Several such places were located near our home in Washington’s Cascade Mountains. The neighborhood kids often walked to old Robe, the location of a former mill town at the mouth of the Stillaguamish River canyon. Silverton and Monte Cristo, farther up the valley, had been mining towns. All three communities sprang into being in the late 1800s. When residents left, our burgeoning plant life and rainy weather rapidly returned the communities’ remnants to the forest. Reminders of Robe and Monte Cristo are hard to find now, but summer residents and others who live there year-round have kept Silverton from disappearing.

So this spring, when we visited cousins Darlene and Vernon Edinger in Bouse, Arizona and they asked if we’d like to visit the ghost town of Swansea, we said an enthusiastic “yes.”

Early builders in the desert often used dried adobe mud bricks for their homes. Though only cactus and spiky desert shrubs flourish in that land of little rain, doing little to hide evidence of civilization, infrequent downpours eventually dissolve the adobe buildings. Only stubs of mud walls are left. As in ghost towns everywhere, vandalism also hastens the disappearance of remains.

Desert roads and rainstorm

Even so, we were eager to explore the site. We packed a lunch, grabbed our wide-brimmed hats and set out in the Edinger’s four-wheel-drive pickup. We were scarcely out of town before the paving turned to dirt. Desert roads in Arizona are easy to build. Scrape away the sparse vegetation to a depth of six or eight inches, following the lay of the land. Presto! That’s about all there is to it.

Where the road dips into low spots, signs read “Do not enter when flooded.” Often someone ignores a sign and suffers the consequences. The Edingers, who spend two months of every winter in an RV park in Bouse, saw for themselves how quickly trouble can strike this winter. News reports had told of heavy rain far to the north. That night, Darlene woke to a strange rushing sound. No wind or rain beat against their RV. She got up to peer out the window. The deep, usually dry wash behind them was running bank full of roiling water. By morning the wild stream had drained away into the Colorado River. Fortunately no one was in the channel when the flash flood came crashing through.

As we headed northeast out of Bouse, a few cloud puffs sailed across the sky. We crossed a strait-jacketed river flowing direct as an arrow in its concrete channel. A sign credited the canal’s existence to the Central Arizona Project, which brings water from the dammed-up Salt River to the thirsty conglomerate of cities making up the greater Phoenix area.

Ruins of the smelter from a slag heap

We had the gravel road to ourselves. After 25 to 30 miles, we reached the mountains cupping the once-busy townsite of Swansea (swanzee). As we wound up, then down, the road became narrower and more jarring. Finally, we glimpsed the town’s ruins ahead.

Remains of a shaft

The Bureau of Land Management is attempting to protect the remnants. It has built an area with parking for a few cars, an interpretive sign, and restrooms. It has established an interpretive trail and installed protective roofs over a double row of crumbling miners’ quarters. Metal fences keep visitors away from vertical shafts, one of them 1,200 feet deep.

When mining began in this area in 1862, copper ore was shipped via San Francisco to smelters at Swansea, Wales. Later, George Mitchell, an entrepreneur from Swansea, invested in rejuvenating the mines and named the site after his hometown. He built his own furnace to reduce the ore, installed hoists for five mine shafts, and constructed a pipeline to carry river water to the townsite. He built a smelter in 1908. An electric plant, water works, restaurants, movie houses, saloons, a railroad, even a newspaper served the 500 or so people who lived there. Until the 1920s, the town hosted a general store, a hospital, and a post office.

However, Mitchell spent too much money on building the plant and not enough on working the mines. His company went bankrupt. Swansea as a community lasted only twenty-nine years.

Miners' quarters undergoing renovation

Today, all that remains of the town is the double row of miners’ quarters, the foundations of the reverberatory furnace, the crumbling bricks of the smelter, and a few remnants of adobe walls. And, oh yes, the heaps of waste rock brought up from inside the mountain and the slag piles left from smelting the ore.

We sheltered from the wind against the side of the Edinger’s truck while eating our picnic lunch, then we wandered around the ruins. I tried to imagine living and working there in the broiling summer heat; the noise of the machinery, the squeal of the hoists, the belching furnace. A few other tourists poked around in the distance. Otherwise, the only living creatures were a few well-camouflaged lizards that darted from underfoot, startling us and reminding us to keep an eye out for snakes. The wind brought a growing armada of clouds to cast shadows across the hills below us.

As we turned back to Bouse, curtains of rain swept the faraway mountains. Eventually, the storm might reach our part of the desert and fill some of those sandy washes with rushing water, but for now the sun shone brightly. As we descended to flatter land, we peered hard into the rocky defiles. We almost expected to see ghosts of prospectors with their faithful donkeys, still searching for the next strikes.

Even in springtime, the desert mountains are rugged.

2010-04-14T19:56:00.000-07:00

Warning! If snakes give you shivers, look no farther.

But, if you enjoy God's little surprises in nature, you may get a smile out of what I found in a sunny corner of our garden this afternoon:

These harmless garter snakes discovered a warm spot off the cold, damp ground atop this lavender plant.

I had just thrust a trowel into the ground next to them, not seeing them, and I must admit I stifled a shriek when one of the three (count them) heads lifted and flicked a little red tongue at me. But I didn't bother them and they didn't bother me, even though I hope they move over to the neighbor's side of the fence before I come back to work in that part of the garden.

Moving Mountains in Arizona

2010-03-29T15:20:00.000-07:00

The Abandoned Lavender Pit

When we visited the old Arizona copper mining city of Bisbee recently, we marveled at a vast hole in the ground called Lavender Pit. It was named not for the color of the rocks but for Harrison Lavender, the man responsible for the mine’s development in the mid-‘50s. Terraces spiraled downward to rust-colored waste water nine hundred feet below. Where had all the missing rock gone? A whimsical thought struck. Did the miners know about Jesus’ comment that if his followers had faith, they could remove mountains?

We’d toured Bisbee’s underground Copper Queen Mine on a previous trip, but hadn’t seen this example of Arizona’s open pit copper mines. When we stared into the pit, which covers an area of some 300 acres, we noticed that its sides were much steeper than others we’d seen in the Southwest. That’s because the rock was less crumbly than in other mines. Then we drove past remnants of structures where the ore was recovered and past oddly smooth hills of broken, barren rock. In the distance we saw the town of Douglas, where trains had taken the ore for final smelting.

We returned to explore the part of old Bisbee that clings to the walls of Tombstone Canyon. A deep concrete ditch runs along the canyon to contain the frequent flash floods that used to wash away buildings every year. Some of the channel is hidden beneath the paving. Where the channel is open, narrow bridges connect picturesque small dwellings to the street.
The Writing Room
A sign pointed up a steep driveway: Schoolhouse B & B. We investigated and found a red-brick schoolhouse perched on a ledge just big enough for the building and a few cars. What a serendipity! It was built in 1913 as a four-classroom elementary school. Its rooms had been divided and turned into charming, high-ceilinged bedrooms with schoolhouse themes. When we saw the one labeled “The Writing Room,” we couldn’t resist and decided that’s where we’d spend the night. Besides the usual amenities, our room had antique books and typewriter, toys, and framed samples of a long-ago student’s penmanship. High-ceilinged windows and old-fashioned transom over the door were curtained in lace. We also had comfortable armchairs where we sat to read from some of the old books and where I wrote this blog.

While waiting for breakfast the next morning, we found a compilation of stories from an old Bisbee newspaper, the Brewery Gulch Gazette, accompanied by early-day photos.

One picture, taken in the early 1900s, showed Sacramento Hill--a huge pile of low-grade copper ore--looming above the town and mine buildings. In 1917, Phelps Dodge began to develop the first pit, Sacramento, atop the peak. William C. Epler, the newspaper’s editor, wrote: “Many tons of explosives were placed in hundreds of drill holes in the top of the mountain and set off with a bang that shook old Bisbee from one end to the other. The entire top of the mountain rose into the air with a mighty heave, then settled back into place--broken into millions of tons of mineable ore. In later years the Lavender Pit and then the extension to that pit took away much more of the hill. Today there’s only a nubbin left.”

So, a mountain had once stood where the pit now gaped.

The arrival of our gourmet french toast interrupted my reading. Two other couples invited us to join them at their table, another serendipity. One man told us he’d grown up in Bisbee. Like boys everywhere in those years, he and his friends made the whole community their playground. They hung around the mines and knew all about the mine operations.

He told us that at 3:05 every school day, all students had to be in their classroom seats because that was when the blast of dynamite went off in the mine, shaking the whole town and loosening ore for the next day’s digging.

Until mining ended in the Lavender pit in 1974, shovels loaded ore onto massive trucks. The trucks carried the ore to a crusher building on the lip of the crater. After the initial crushing, the ore passed by conveyor belt up and over the highway to the concentrator.

There, according to our new friend, the ore was dumped into tanks and mixed with a solution of acid, which caused the copper to float to the top. We’d seen the remains of the tanks still perched beside the highway. Huge wipers skimmed the liquid copper. The concentrate, containing about 13 percent copper, was loaded into railroad cars and hauled to the smelter in Douglas where gold, silver, and other metals were separated from the concentrate. The gold paid for the operation of the mine. Workers also found some of the world’s finest turquoise in the broken rock.

Hill on the right is composed of waste rock from the mine.

The waste rock was conveyed to the mountain-like dumps we’d seen looming against the sky. Now we knew where the insides of Sacramento Hill had gone.

As I photographed one massive pile of waste rock, and again stared into the crater of Lavender Pit Mine, I could hardly imagine the creativity and hard work needed to conceive such a project. I’m not sure this was exactly what Jesus had in mind, but it seemed to me it took a lot of faith to move that mountain from one place to another.

Compose Edit HTML Preview

Arizona, a Dream Deferred

2010-03-22T20:24:00.000-07:00

Desert Dunes near Bouse, Arizona

   It seems a lifetime ago when I dreamed of moving to Arizona. Somewhere I’d come across the magazine, Arizona Highways. Full-page photographs showed glorious blue skies, vast untrammeled vistas of mountains and wildflowers and Indian ruins, cacti and wild animals and beautiful Southwest art.

     After teaching for three years in rainy Washington State, I thought the time had come to follow my heart to Arizona. So I handed in my resignation and applied to teach in several Arizona towns. When school let out for the summer, my sister and I set out on a road trip. I planned to interview for teaching positions while we explored California and Arizona.

     But at my first interview, I was told, “We cannot hire you. You are still employed at your old school.” It turned out that my resignation had never reached the right officials. Without even seeing Arizona, we turned around and headed back to Washington.

    That September, I met Bob, a young engineer from Alaska. We married in March and went to Alaska, about as far away from Arizona as we could have gone and still be in the USA. We raised our family in Alaska and I came to love the state. I continued to drool over the photos in Arizona Highways, but God had given me many of the desires of my heart and I was happy.

   Our children grew up. When my husband got sick, we returned to Washington. Before he died, we spent a winter traveling in Arizona. I even wrote a mystery-adventure book for young people and set the story in the state. By then there were elderly parents to care for and lots of friends and loved ones I didn’t want to leave behind.

    Hank and I found each other and married. Then my daughter married a young man from Arizona. He loved Arizona as much as she loved Washington. They moved to Tucson. Some of Hank’s relatives lived in Arizona and we both had friends there. We began to spend several weeks each early spring visiting loved ones and exploring the state. We've been doing it for ten years now.

    It’s true that Arizona’s skies are a glorious blue...usually. You can still find untrammeled vistas, in some places. There are cacti, everywhere. There are artists and Indian ruins and lots and lots of mountains, completely unlike their counterparts in Washington. We come to Arizona at the choicest time of year, between winter’s chill and summer’s unbearable heat. In between, we read stories by J.A. Jance, Tony Hillerman, and other Arizona-based authors and experience vicariously what we are missing in person.

   It’s the best of many worlds, and a dream fulfilled. I’m not complaining at how long it took to see it realized!

Vacationing by Rail

2010-03-17T21:47:00.000-07:00

    When we wanted to visit friends and relatives in Arizona and California this spring, we decided to try Amtrak’s Coast Starliner. I bought our tickets on-line. Daughter-in-law Lydia drove us to King Street Station in Seattle. We checked our largest bags at the gate, waited a few minutes, then walked down the platform to board our sleeping car. Our compartment was up the stairs and to the left. The aroma of fresh coffee greeted us at the top of the stairs. We stashed our carry-ons next to our facing seats, helped ourselves to free coffee at the juice-and-coffee   kiosk, and settled in to our home away from home for the next two days.

    Our tiny compartment, about the size of our dining table at home, had privacy curtains on the door and windows. Facing cushioned seats made into a bunk for sleeping. A narrower bunk folded down from the ceiling. We had a folding table, reading lights, temperature controls, and pillows. We could move about the train and ride in the lounge cars if we wished. Meals came with our sleeping car fare. Conductors took reservations for when we wanted to eat. Each meal had a choice of two delicious entrees and a selection of deserts. There was also a snack car. If we’d wanted to save money, we could have chosen to ride in the coach cars and sleep in reclining seats.

    I’d planned to catch up on letter writing but unless the train went very slowly or stopped on a siding to wait for another train to pass, the ride wasn’t smooth enough for that. However, we could read. And the lady in the compartment across the aisle had no trouble making her knitting needles fly.

    The scenery kept us glued to the windows anyway. Much of it was new to us, since the train mostly follows a different route than the highways. Sitting high above the passing countryside gives one an expanded viewpoint. We saw some of the best of America from the train (as well as some of its seamier side in the larger cities.)

    After leaving Seattle, we followed the shores of beautiful Puget Sound. Near Tacoma, we passed beneath the twin Tacoma Narrows bridges and marveled at that feat of engineering. Later we went by huge heaps of silt, once part of volcanic Mt. St. Helens, that had been dredged from the Toutle and Columbia Rivers. We saw freighters loading in the Columbia and people fishing from small boats on Oregon’s Willamette River. We spied on houseboats anchored along sloughs and looked into the backyards of families in residential areas. Sometimes we saw homeless people huddling outside makeshift shelters.

    Now and then the train stopped to take on passengers. Then we could get off to stretch our legs and shake some kinks out. Walking the aisles is always an option for exercise...but keeping one’s balance while the train hurtles along at top speed is a little hazardous for senior citizens.

    Darkness fell while we enjoyed a leisurely gourmet dinner in the parlor car, with white linen and fresh flowers on the tables. Afterward we visited with fellow passengers in comfortable armchairs in the adjacent lounge. When we returned to our Pullman car, a conductor had made up our beds for us. Some cars have their own little sinks, but we used one of the nearby bathrooms for washing and brushing teeth. Getting ready for bed in a 14” x 36” strip of floor space was an interesting experience, as was getting into my narrow upper bunk. I told Hank it felt like going to bed on an ironing board, but a safety net clipped to the ceiling assured me I wouldn’t fall out. The motion of the train rocked us to sleep.

    One time when the motion stopped, I leaned over to look out the window and saw snow on the ground. We were somewhere in the Cascade Mountains between Oregon and California.

    Daylight found us passing through a wide, wet area of farmland and marshes. (Later on Wikipedia I discovered that this was Suisun Marsh north of Suisun Bay, at the confluence of the Sacramento and San Joaquin Rivers...the largest marsh in California.) Incredulous, I said to Hank, “There’s a warship sitting in that field out there.” Another ship appeared, then a whole group of them lined up along the horizon. We saw water glimmering behind them and realized they were anchored along the shore of a bay...the U.S. Navy’s ghost fleet of mothballed ships in San Pablo Bay, CA. A while later we saw the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance.

This year’s El Nino, which brought us Washingtonians an unusually warm and dry winter, delivered rain in deluges to the Southwest. California’s valleys were still drenched, but burgeoning with new crops. Sleek cattle grazed on hills as emerald as any in Ireland. We glimpsed the ocean between distant mountain ridges. The train chugged through tunnels beneath the cattle on the hilltops and eventually descended to the Pacific coast. For many miles we watched the wind blowing white manes from curling breakers. Picture-perfect beaches were mostly deserted.

    As the sun went down, we made out the silhouettes of drilling platforms far out in the Santa Barbara channel. As we ate our last meal on the train, darkness fell, turning the platforms into a line of lighted Christmas trees. We pulled into the Los Angeles Union Station around 10 pm and disembarked, along with the staff who’d been on duty for four straight days. The lady in charge of the dining car told us she works 70 hours in those four days. She looked very ready for her three-day rest. And we were ready to find our rental car and motel room, both of which we’d arranged for on-line, and then to continue our vacation.

    But that’s another story.

    Are you tired of airline hassles and freeway traffic? Maybe America’s rail lines are the way to go for your next trip.


Then, one after the other, the birds took to the air crying alarm.


Each time we boated down the Owl River to Lac la Biche, a female lesser scaup would rise from the cattails edging the water and fly ahead as if trying to get us to follow. One evening we found the eggs she protected. We didn’t disturb them, knowing she’d come back and lay the rest of her clutch if we left them alone.