EVOLUTION
Piety
Obedience
Generations of cultural conformity
My actions motivated by the premise of some life after death
My choices informed by religious doctrines
My thoughts filtered through scriptural lens
Heeding counsel from men speaking for some god
Cracks
Disillusioned
The biases of men revealed to me
I discover incongruities in dogma
My faith falters before the truths of science
I acknowledge that history does not support the fables
I grieve for the sandstone temple crumbling to ruble
Hope
Growth
I build a new foundation with authenticity
From stone quarried out of my heart and soul
Gleaning values from the field within me
These are our tools to sculpt
Chipping away at human weakness
Death
Dust to dust
From primordial soup to earth’s grand diversity
Thumbs, fire, wheel, language, reasoning: my heritage
Art, music, dance, poetry: my legacy
Homo sapiens, a sculpture in progress
I smooth out my rough edge, then step aside.
September, 2022
TO WHAT END
Thick, stone walls, impenetrable.
Capped, overhanging buttresses slotted for a skilled archer’s arrow.
Moat encircled. Single bridge to be drawn against an enemy.
Inner courts. More walls. Towers. Keeps. Wells. Granaries.
To what end?
Domed sanctuaries. Spires dwarfing subservient neighbors.
Transepts, cruciformed, stone symbols of death.
Pillared nave, dimly lit from arched windows of colored glass.
Candles, alters, incense, pomp.
To what end?
Muscled statuary paying homage to gods and myths.
Luminescent paintings, biased chronicles of both truth and fable.
Grand buildings, magnificent architecture, marvels of engineering.
Ancient scrolls, curious artifacts, archeological pursuits.
To what end?
Are we not to observe and learn?
Fortifications meant to alienate.
To protect from or to further advance usurped power?
Religious beliefs carried to extreme.
To encourage pious living or to control the susceptible mind?
Art as shrine, credence to the indefensible.
To uplift aesthetically or to legitimize superstition?
Are we not to observe and learn?
Usurped power is evident, not in fortifications but in governments.
Controlling minds is manifest, not in ornate temples but in cultures and classes.
Superstitions are legitimized, not in carvings but in skewed information.
Fortify the weak.
Worship equality.
Create to lift and edify.
MY DOG, SAM
My dog's named Sam. But is she really mine?
Adopting her or giving her a name
Defines no ownership or right to claim,
But only that our lives are now entwined.
I chose to take upon myself her care,
To feed her, walk her, train her to be good.
I take her to the vet like owners should,
All signs of caring for ones property.
But she is bound to me without a voice,
Which causes me to wonder what she feels.
Accepting me as just her source of meals?
Resenting all the times she is restrained?
Though in the morning seeing me awake
She's quick to nuzzle deep into my arms
And offer me her belly without qualms,
Exchanging rubs and pleasant low-pitched moans.
She follows me from room to room and lays
Down close to me to doze or spy one-eyed.
A sign of love, devotion? Does she find
Some purpose shadowing this grey-haired man?
Her silent staring totally unnerves,
Especially when she pairs it with her chin
Placed stealthily on my bare thigh or shin,
Then adding little high-pitched pleading whines.
Unleashed she ventures far and wide, and runs
With puppy pleasure fetching far flung balls.
Returning, she is slow to hear my calls,
Distracted by each sound and scent and sight.
But when she sees me moving down the hill,
She grabs the ball and sprints to where I walk.
If panting, dripping tongue and eyes could talk,
"A treat is what I’ve earned for my good work!"
When finally I succumb to drooping eyes,
Turn out the light and make my way to bed,
She watches, waits for me to pat the spread,
Leaps up and circles, settles at my feet.
She is not mine to own, nor am I hers,
A symbiotic bond of dog and man.
I nurture life, and love her as I can,
And in return I have a friend, my Sam.
THE BRIDGE
The Bridge. It spanned the rapidly flowing river, arched, solid, and wide; wide enough for many people to walk across at one time, but, as I think back now, I had rarely observed anyone actually traversing the river using that overpass of cobblestones. I had grown up well away from the river, deep in the city of old, traditional homes. My parents never spoke openly of the river, but I was aware that my father worked with some of the other township prefects to guard the bridge and caution those who might venture to leave the city. Occasionally, as I lay in my bed, I would hear the hushed voices of my parents somberly sharing the news of a friend or acquaintance who had been lost to . . . The Bridge.
I am a little disappointed with myself, that as a youth I had no curiosity about it or about the town that could be seen so clearly on the other side of the river. I was a precocious child in other areas, excelling in most school subjects, and I particularly became quite knowledgeable about the architecture and history of my own town. I remember feeling quite a swelling of pride within me that I lived there. Everyone said it was the best town, and the more I explored and read, I came to truly believe that for myself. I couldn’t fathom anyone actually wanting to live anywhere else. Why had it even been built, . . . The Bridge?
Being a zealous young man and recently come of age, I volunteered to be one of the township criers. It was a job earning no small amount of respect from the townsfolk. Criers were stationed at intervals along the river calling to passersby on the opposite bank, motioning for them to come and join us in our idyllic life. It was an education for me to be so close to the river. I had never conversed with an Other-sider before, yet here on the riverbank, despite the expanse of water between us, we seemed to be able to speak with ease, unhindered by the roar of the river. I found each Other-sider to have interesting ideas and new perspectives, especially about our town and the river. Most even showed some curiosity about our life and the strange old buildings we lived and worked in. For a couple of years I worked there on the bank, spending my day pleading with them to cross. Only a few Other-siders responded to my enticement, and they were cheered on by all of us as they made their way easily over . . . The Bridge.
With my duties as a crier fulfilled, I returned my attentions to life in the center of town and moved into a solid, traditional home to enjoy my secluded life. But a storm was brewing. Clouds formed on the horizon and moved slowly but surely into the town. It seemed to hover directly over my roof, pelting the widows relentlessly. The wind increased, bombarding the house. Walls creaked. A window pane shattered on the floor. The door banged open and was ripped from its hinges, almost striking me down. I ran out into the street. How could this be? Other houses seemed untouched by the storm. My neighbors were going about their normal affairs, oblivious to the lightning and thunder that now drove me through the winding lanes of town. I ran, driven by that unrelenting tumult. It seemed to be herding me like an animal to slaughter, unable to turn away from a predestined path to . . . The Bridge.
Seeing it as my only escape, I stumbled across. I found that I had left the storm on the other bank. Sunshine? Clear sky? A few Other-siders noticed I was drenched to the bone, quivering from fear and exhaustion. I was surprised as they quickly gathered me in, wrapped me in a warm blanket, and offered something hot to drink. I was quickly revived, and began to take in my new surroundings. I had seen the unusual buildings from the other side of the river, but now I was awed by their diversity. Some were ornate and multi-colored, others stark, with the sun glistening off the angled, asymetrical surfaces. Metal, brick, glass, tall, rambling, or expansive, they all revealed aesthetic and creative elements new to my eye. Overwhelmed by this visual feast and intent on trying to take it all in, I was slow to register the shouts coming from the other side of . . . The Bridge.
Crowded along the banks of the river were my family, friends, and colleagues who had witnessed my wild sprint across the river. They looked concerned, puzzled that I had, for no apparent reason, dashed away from the security of their beloved community. “Come back. You belong here. What can be gained over there? We love you and will care for you over here.” The worst of the storm had subsided, and in many ways they were right. I knew what life was like over there. It was predictable, comfortable. Turning away from the Other-siders, I started back across. But the cobblestones now seemed to be impeding my way, sharp edges cutting into the leather of my shoes. The arching path began to undulate under my feet, like some unseen force had flipped the other end. A groundswell lifted me up and tossed me into the water raging beneath . . . The Bridge.
“Swim! You must brave the river as your punishment for doubting,” came the barely discernible admonitions from the far side, from my friends who now seemed to give little support or encouragement to me in my plight. The water was frigid, swirling in white angry waves around me. I had always prided myself on my swimming, but this? Never had I felt such fear. Submerged in the roiling rapids, I battled with each stroke, gasping for breath. Now pulled deep into the darkness, then suddenly tossed up on a breaking crest, then twisted and dashed down again. Hours, it seemed like hours that I struggled toward the opposite bank all the while being inextricably pulled downriver, far from . . . The Bridge.
Finally able to grasp hold on the opposite side, I clawed my way up onto the muddy bank and collapsed, exhausted from the strenuous ordeal. It was the hardest thing I had ever endured. I lay there, sputtering, shivering, and barely conscious. Slowly I became aware that it was dusk. Gathering up what little energy I had left, I got to my knees and crawled away from the river, which now seemed to be flowing peacefully. I could see in the distance a figure moving toward me. As he drew closer, I recognized one of the township prefects. “Come, I’ve been assigned to reintegrate you into the community.” Offering no hand or kind word, he turned, and I stumbled along behind him through the growing darkness toward the town and . . . The Bridge.
My former home was in shambles. I was sequestered in a small dormer and required to spend my days in the town library, reading and journaling about the advantages of living in the community. My activities, my writing, even my words were monitored to assess my readiness to return to full citizenship again. At first it was quite therapeutic, and my former enthusiasm for our town began to return. Yet, that glimpse of life over the river still haunted me. Other-siders looked happy, in fact they seemed to be thriving. How could that be? Such traitorous thoughts seemed to overpower my resolve. To my surprise I found that the library did have obscure materials about life over there. The books were well hidden and dust-covered, and I felt guilty sneaking each one in turn off the shelf and stealthily smuggling it back to my carrel. Reading those forbidden words was life-changing. They seemed to unloose shackles that I did not realize had been binding me, to lift blinders from my eyes allowing me to see how myopic my view of life had been. The duplicity was no longer tenable for me. In a burst of passion and resolve, I ran from the library, starling people on the street and upsetting carts of produce. On to the river I ran. Life as it could be was within my sight. With a final burst of energy I pushed my way through the stunned prefects on guard, and jubilantly, with arms raised in victory, loped across . . . The Bridge.
Home for me is now a quiet apartment in a very pleasant neighborhood. I take great joy in the diversity of my new friends and the enlightening conversations we have. I am ashamed that I had ever been so bigoted to have called them Other-siders. I am a better person for being here, more complete, more authentic, and growing in ways I had never imagined possible. I am at peace, content, and fulfilled in this life beyond . . . The Bridge.
November, 2021
SEASONS
“Be nice,” the prudent playground mothers cry,
And teachers, halt the fights with “get along!”
We learned that love and kindness unify
And how it’s worth the work to right a wrong.
Adults lose focus on that basic truth,
Content to move through life with no grand plan.
“Get rich. Forget the values of your youth.
“Advance! Don’t bother with your fellow man.”
The bigger house. The boat. The better life
Begin to lack the luster dreams should have.
We yearn for value past the daily strife,
And seek for worth beyond the Golden Calf.
In years and wisdom richer now we know
That life’s true wealth in faithful friends is found.
We serve, embrace; our love for them we show,
And in the end with joy and peace are crowned.
September, 2021
JOY IN THE JOURNEY
I recall the origin of my journey.
Generations of faith-filled forefathers
Handcarts pushed past prairie graves
Temples, tithes, tests, trials
Repentance or retribution
Celestial sale of souls
Pews, prayers, piety
Pounded pulpits
Silent shame, guilt
Masterful masquerade
Live the letter of the Law
I cherish the inn along the road.
Cast out by kith and kin who should have cared
Succored by the scarred and scorned
Shedding tears on a proffered shoulder
Grieving for the loss of what was
Fearful of the unknown to come
Learning to see reality
Held, heard, hugged
Hope, healing
Breathing free
Embracing grace
I find joy in the adventure.
Tied no longer to Tradition’s tethers
Clear skies and storms enlighten equally
Hard ground beneath my feet
Discovering the essence of my being
Free to fly, flower, or fail
Gathering with other travelers
Sharing, supporting, serving
Grow, give, guard
Peace, passion, joy
Loving life
MY ROSE
I’d watched that rose for weeks out on the vine.
A bud, the hint of red upon her tip
First caught my eye, with tender petals fine
And blushing pink. The morning dew she’d sip.
Each day I’d pause to measure as she bloomed,
And marvel at the gift of wondrous life,
The petals slowly opening, perfumed,
And with the vibrant reds of color rife.
Such glory had that humble vine ne’r seen
As for that week my rose was at her prime.
Enthralled, enriched, I lingered by my queen
Enthroned upon that trellis, halting time.
But petals fade and fall by grand design,
And ‘round my heart the rose’s vines entwine.
BEAUTY OBSCURED
We are enriched by Nature’s grand displays,
A wealth not measured by what money buys.
Her beauty summons us to lift our gaze
And claim the great endowment with our eyes.
Gliss’ning snow weighs down the needled boughs,
Eternal in their green against the blue.
And purple crocuses from sleep arouse,
Beginning Spring’s display of every hue.
But do we search for greater wealth, beyond
The radiant setting sun or twinkling star?
She’s hidden gems in weeds and dying frond
Inviting us to where her loyalists are.
Diverse, unique, and free from culture’s ways,
Those, blessed by Her, and worthy of our praise.
THE HAT STORE
The bell on the door gave a welcoming jingle as I walked into the shop. I’d been aimlessly wandering the streets of my hometown, really not knowing where I was or even how long I’d been gone. All I knew was that I had needed to get out of that house. I had been uncomfortable through the memorial service, and back at the farm the tension in the air had been smothering. But then to be so verbally attacked by my siblings had been too much. Who were they anyway, to think they could judge the depth of my love for Dad?
“You don’t even care about family anymore,” Beth had accused. “If you did, you wouldn’t be in that den of wickedness in California doing who knows what with whomever you fancy that week.”
“Mom is rolling over in her grave, I’m sure, and now Dad . . . ” chimed in my oh-so-pious brother, as if he were the apple of their eye despite being a 20-something still living at home without a job.
Truth was, maybe Mom and Dad were up in heaven looking down disdainfully on me, their wayward son. Though neither of them had ever expressed anything but love for me, now, who knows what they were seeing from that Great Unknown beyond.
Coming back to reality I found myself absentmindedly browsing hats. Hats? I must have wandered into a hat store, and what a hat store! Everything you could imagine and more—hats of every color, size, style, and material. It was like the wardrobe room of a theater—hats of every culture, occupation, time, and character. I’ve always loved hats, but never worn them much. I am, however intrigued by them. Wearing a hat is like taking on a different personality, putting on someone else’s story for a few minutes. And that’s exactly what I needed right now—to escape the present, off to sometime, someplace where I didn’t have to listen to the self-righteous judgment from them . . . or from myself.
I fingered the tassel on an Ottoman soldier’s fez, caressed the fir of a Russian ushanka, and shook the bells on a jester’s floppy Mardi Gras crown. Then I saw it, an old-fashioned engineer’s hat. I was drawn to it like a magnet. It felt good in my hand--sturdy, blue and grey, hickory-striped denim. The crown was gathered at the hatband, allowing for a flat top. It had a large bill to shade the engineer from the sun as he looked at the track ahead. Without even thinking, I put it on . . .
The sound was deafening—metal screeching on metal, steam hissing, men shouting instructions, and clunking boxes on boards. The air was heavy with smoke and humidity, like a huge campfire suddenly extinguished by gallons of water. I’d been wearing a suit and tie for the funeral but now I seemed to be choking. I reached up to my neck and felt a stiffly starched collar. What the heck! As the smoke cleared I had to rub my eyes before I could believe that I was standing just yards away from a huge steam locomotive coming to a lumbering stop.
Where was I? When was I!? Men, women, and children were bustling all around me, some getting out of the passenger cars, others boarding. Husky, sweaty men were shifting cargo or shoveling coal into the hopper behind the engine. With a rusty squeak, a long spout had been swung around over the train. Coming from a huge wooden barrel high in the air, it was now filling the engine’s tank.
I could hardly take it all in.
And then my total concentration was drawn to the engineer. He was cranking wheels and pulling levers, all with the confidence of a man experienced with riding the gargantuan beast.
“Don’t let ‘em short us on the coal this time” he shouted to the fireman, “and don’t ya let that water overflow onto the boiler!” Even though his words seemed harsh, there was a twinkle in his eye and I could sense the loyalty that the fireman had for his boss as he shot back with a grin, “Sure thing, Sam.”
Coincidence? My great-grandfather was an engineer, Samuel Lawrence Gardner.
The broad-chested man climbed down from his high perch in the engine, inspected a coupling on one of the cars, and then turned toward me. With a hearty laugh, he pressed through the crowd like a tank, his eyes right on mine and calling, “There ya are, and wearin’ the hat I gave ya. Ya look just like one o’ my crew ‘cept for the school-boy shirt.”
He put his strong arm around me, pulled me in close to him, and he swept me along as we moved into the station. “What’s Mother sent me for lunch today?” he chided as he grabbed the tin lunch pail that I hadn’t even realized I was carrying. “Yur mom’s bread is worth waitin’ for. I been hankerin’ for it all the way here from Cache Junction. And look it here,” as he unwrapped the paper, “a bit o’ left-over breakfast bacon along with some garden tomaters. What a sandwich! Fit for a king.”
He kept eating and talking about the morning’s run, but it was all in the background of my perception. Here I was, with a legend. As kids, we heard the stories over the dinner table, at reunions, and around campfires--Great-grandpa Samuel, the railroad engineer. We’d even visited his home in Utah and decorated his grave.
His grave. Right. He’s one more ancestor probably turning over in his. What are they all doing up there with their white robes and golden harps, or were they trumpets? What are they thinking? What are they thinking about me?
His, “Well, best be gettin’ back to that big metal baby of mine,” brought me back to the present, or whenever. “The run on into Ogden is goin’ to be a scorcher this afternoon.” Then, turning to me, “I really do look forward to your bringin’ me my lunch every day.” He handed me back the pail, and started toward the tracks. But then he stopped and it seemed like the moment was frozen in time. There was no sound from the jostling crowd, no smoky air, no blazing sun. He turned back, and with more love than I have ever seen in anyone’s eyes, he looked deep into mine, took my face into his two big hands, and in a voice that penetrated to the very heart of me, said, “I love you. There is nothin’ that you could ever do to keep me from lovin’ you. And when I get to that big railroad in the sky, I’m a savin’ you a spot on my crew. I’ll be drivin’ that engine for eternity with you at my side, come hell or high water.”
With that he kissed me on the cheek, gave me the biggest bear hug, and turned to go, catching the brim of my hat with his arm. I bent over to pick it up . . .
My head was spinning. I had to catch myself on the display rack, knocking a cowboy hat and derby to the floor beside the striped engineer’s cap. Picking them all up and returning them to their proper pegs, I had to catch a couple of deep, shuddering breaths. Tears were streaming down my cheeks, and I could almost feel his hands still there, and sensed the lingering warmth of his kiss.
The bell jingled again as I left the store. The sky was a bright blue. I heard birds chirping, smelled burgers frying at the diner. I was alive, loved.
I knew where I was. I knew who I was.
I knew where I was going.
TO ROBERT
Your eyes, they caught my gaze across the room
The way they twinkled through your impish squint.
And what a smile! Sent waves of light, a boom
Vibrating deep, that momentary glint.
I had not sought to find a love that day
But only pass congenial time with friends.
Yet fate or luck or gods came into play
Their plan for us our simple goals transcends
The twinkling eyes, the smile, the handsome face
Are still a thrill, but now enriched through time
I see the inner man of kindness, grace,
Humanity in you revealed, sublime.
We strive to grow together, finding peace
And calm and joy and love. May this increase.
A sonnet on his birthday, Feb. 2026
IN MEMORIAM
We are changed.
We felt their (his/her) warmth.
We're not the same
For we heard their (his/her) song,
Their (his/her) song of love.
They (He/She) were (was) light, as stars, bright above us.
Aiding, guiding us, inspir'ing our paths.
But now there’s darkness,
And such a chill!
They’re (He's/She's) gone.
They (He/She) shared (his/her) life, shared smiles and tears.
Is that all lost now?
How can we cope, trying to fathom
Grief. Death?
Love and kindness were (was) their (his/her) virtues.
And empathy, their (his/her) empathy and mercy constant traits.
Will we never feel their (his/her) love, their (his/her) joy, their (his/her) selfless caring again?
No! No! We’re changed.
We're not the same because of them (him/her).
Our smiles are theirs (his/hers).
Our gentle mercy, theirs (his/hers).
The mirth and joy we feel,
And patience through our tears.
And we still shine with their (his/her) star’s light.
Their (his/her) light.
Their (his/her) song can still be sung by us,
Their (his/her) song of love.
Lyrics for Adagio, Piano Concerto #4 by Beethoven
Memorial Day, January, 2026
JOY
I find
JOY
in following a path
dictated by conscience
rather than tradition,
by inner yearning
rather than
outward conformity.
I am of more value
to society
as I live true
to my
UNIQUE SELF.
June, 2025
HARD TIMES, COME AGAIN NO MORE!
Let us pause in life's pleasures and count its many tears
While we ponder the consequence of war.
Sing a durge that will linger forever in our ears;
Oh! Hard times, come again no more.
'Tis the song, the sigh of the weary;
Hard times, hard times, come again no more.
On those foreign fields now bloodied to keep strife from our door
Oh! Hard times, come again no more.
While we seek mirth and beauty and music, all the day;
There is conflict on a distant shore.
Though the voices seem silent, their pleading looks would say;
Oh! Hard times, come again no more.
There are pale weary soldiers in trenches far away
With souls so tired of the strife;
Thoughts of home bring them comfort and hope on darker days;
Aren’t good times still a part of life?
Let us lift our hearts from darkness, from heaviness and fears.
Standing here at the graves of heroes past.
Let this song ever linger as solace thru the years;
Valiant service brought us peace. Hold fast!
‘Tis our song, our gift to our warrior;
Good times, bright times you brought us will remain.
Feel the sun, it invites you, This peace that will endure.
Yes! Good times have come to us again.
Original Lyrics for Stephen Foster's "Hard Times"
written for a Veteran's Day Observance, 2025
QUALITY OF LIFE
I have an intrinsic worth, independent of others. I am a sentient being. I think. I feel. Deep within the observable bodily shell exists my core self. I like what is there. I like being me.
The quality of my life begins there. That inner self is unaffected by life and all of its buffetings. I am at peace, despite experiencing the winds and waves that torment humanity, wreaking damage physically, mentally, financially, or socially. My real self remains grounded and unchanged despite what happens to me.
Being able to enrich this existence becomes, then, a gift. I can experience my environment. The kaleidoscope of perceptions coming to me through my senses is often overwhelming. Even losing some or most of those interactions would not diminish the wonder of what remains. For me, life’s quality is enhanced because of my ability to perceive and elevate the world around me, even in the smallest way. The most valuable part of that world is the people in my life. The joy of a laugh, a meal, a story, or a quiet moment is compounded as I am able to share it with friends.
The greatest measure of life’s quality, however, is the extent to which I can brighten the lives of others. However meager my ways may be, if I am able to lift, inspire, serve, support, and love others, then life continues to have quality and I am of value to humanity.
Quality of Life = Being, Becoming, Belonging
2024
SPRING SONNET
New blades of grass reach out in search of light,
To start anew the cycle of their life.
A crocus lifts from bed its head, bright white
Content to bloom, to please, no fear of strife.
It’s grand! The green, the growth, the guarantees
That bleak brown ground will always keep its vow
To shield the dormant seeds through winter’s freeze,
Then force them forth to live. Their time is now.
My time is past. My youth is not renewed
By Spring. And yet I still find hope in Her.
I see that pure white bud with gratitude
That once such change within my soul did stir.
So in this spring of green, though I decrease,
I live, I love, I serve. I am at peace.
April 2022
PERSPECTIVE
Seven years. That’s how long it takes for every cell in the human body to be replaced. So, literally, I am a different person now than I was seven years ago. Seven years ago I was a bodybuilder—trim, fit, dark hair, running 3 or 4 miles every day. It’s too bad my cells have not done a perfect replication. Hair follicles have either stopped working, or they’ve gotten tired of adding pigment. Fat cells have decided to multiply, seeking help storing all the ice cream I’m sending their way. Nerve cells are a little slower to fire, and muscle cells have lost some endurance. Yes, I’m a different guy, physically. But I’m not bothered. It could give me a complex if body image were an issue.
Looking back is usually not a productive exercise. Hindsight may be 20/20, but it can be the source of a lot of guilt, shame, and regrets. I try not to fall into “what-if” thinking. I make myself remember that every decision I made and every action I took in the past was done with the confidence that it was the best I could do at the time, knowing what I knew, and given my capabilities and mindset. What a quagmire I’d be in if I spent hours mulling over past decisions, or regretting my actions!
A few weeks ago I was searching through old computer files and ran across a 3-page paper I had called “My Credo.” It was lengthy paragraphs about every topic—politics, religion, abortion, homosexuality, social drinking, evolution, divorce. My jaw dropped. On every subject I have done a “one-eighty”—being now diametrically opposed to where I had been just a few years ago. It was hard to believe I had written it. How could I have been so myopic! So bigoted and pious! If I let myself, I could be bemoaning the years I spent proselytizing as a young man, or preaching from a pulpit, or indoctrinating my children. But that would be of no use to anyone, let alone to me.
Perspective is good. Realizing where I’ve come from helps, in that it teaches me tolerance for others and for my younger self. One thinks of getting perspective from a mountain top, but that connotes an arrival at some pinnacle, the culmination of a journey. Seeing how I’ve changed forces me to realize that I will continue changing. Just as every cell rejuvenates, so does my foundation of beliefs and values.
There has always been the proverbial search for the Fountain of Youth, but it has never proven a blessing to the fictional discoverers. Change is inevitable whether for good or ill. I see it as a privilege to have some control over that change. I have loved reinventing myself, learning new skills, shifting priorities, replacing crumbling stones in the foundation of my life.
What an adventure it is—interacting with the world around me, making decisions, identifying the sources of my joy, fulfillment, and peace, and supporting others in their unique paths. I’m eager to see who I’ll become in the next seven years and beyond.
March 2022
SKIING
It’s never easy to get up earlier than usual, but I had chosen to make this an obligation. Even though the forecast was for a bluebird day, I asked myself why. Sure, I could use the exercise, but it would be a lot less hassle to swim a few laps in the pool.
I started some coffee brewing and dressed, pulling on the thermal underwear, thick ski socks, padded ski pants, and long-sleeved undershirt. No need to shower just to spend the morning sweating.
A full breakfast just didn’t sound good, and besides, it never settled well, so I just poured the coffee in a thermos and headed out. All the rest of my gear had its winter home in the trunk of my car, so that made the prep a lot easier.
The hour’s drive flew by listening to a mystery I had on my phone. The last few miles of winding road gave me my first glimpse of snow-covered peaks crisp against the intense blue. I was quick to get boots on and head with poles and skis to the lift.
I rode up the 3000 feet to the top of the resort, scoping out the various runs I would soon be traversing. Exiting the lift I was awed by the vista below us. Ogden, Antelope Island, Salt Lake were all visible on one side, and Pineview Reservoir and Huntsville on the other.
Clicking into my skies and inching down the first drop, I could feel the adrenaline rush. Muscle memory took over and I let go of stress and care. I became one with the mountain, with the expanse of snow and timber.
Yes, it was worth it to be here, at this moment, in this place, alive and invigorated.
March 2022
A BUMP IN THE ROAD
Just when you think life is rolling along on a steady course, there always seems to be a bump to shake you up a bit. Well, I got bumped.
A couple of months ago I went to the doctor for a routine checkup. You know how we old guys have to keep an eye on those major problems of colon, prostate, cholesterol, etc. I’ve got the thyroid deficiency that showed up a couple of years ago that needs annual blood tests. And then there’s the sleep apnea and receding gums (boy, I really am falling apart!).
Everything looked fine, although as he did his poking he said, “Your liver seems to be a little enlarged. We’d better check that. It might be caused by a tumor.” So he added yet another blood test. The lab tech could hardly handle all the little vials she needed to fill.
When the nurse called with the results, all of them looked fine except the liver test. “The doctor wants you to go in for an ultrasound to see if there’s some reason for the elevated liver function, and I’m to schedule you to see a specialist.”
In to Humana Quack to have goo smeared on my tummy and a massage by what looked like a computer mouse. The screen was a jumble of grey images, but the tech seemed to know what she was seeing.
The results came back in time for the specialist’s visit—Dr. Poole, the same man who did my colonoscopy a few years ago (not that I’d remembered him!). “Your ultrasound shows everything to be just fine. Your liver is normal. Dr. Julien maybe just isn’t used to examining patients as fit as you are. There’s just not much fat there, so I can feel it pretty well. There’s something causing the elevated function, though, so let’s do some more tests to try and pinpoint it. In the meantime go off ALL your supplements and all over-the-counter meds—all except your thyroid pill.” MORE vials of blood—even Dracula would have been challenged to match it.
What a change from popping all kinds of vitamins and minerals three times a day! He did okay the whey powder for my shakes and one other pill that I take.
“Dr. Poole would like to schedule you for an EGD,” came the call a week later from his nurse. “Your blood work came back positive for Celiac Sprue.”
“Would you mind repeating that, and tell me what it is and how to spell it?”
EGD is an endoscopy, a procedure with a tube down my throat to look around and to take a biopsy of my small intestine. Celiac is a disease that damages the small intestine.
“Dr. Poole wants to confirm the diagnosis and see how extensive the damage is.” She scheduled a return trip to Humana Quack two days after Christmas (last Thursday). I went down to the computer to do a little research.
There was plenty of information, but nothing I wanted to hear—Celiac Sprue, caused by eating gluten! Why, I’d just posted my great whole-wheat bread recipe and even urged using the EXTRA gluten the recipe called for. Over the next couple of days, I tapered off the wheat a little, but I avoided the real decision to go cold turkey. Maybe it’s good enough to just use LESS. I fixed homemade noodles for spaghetti on the 26th thinking it might be my last time.
Roger drove me to the hospital. They took me right in, had me strip to the waist and put on a hospital gown, and asked me lots of questions to get them off any legal hooks. “I just need to start an IV,” she said, jabbing a needle into the back of my hand. It took all my effort to keep the hand still as she fished around, like she was stirring a pot. “Hmm, I can’t seem to get that into the right place.”
“You’re telling me!” I mentally groaned as she almost got kicked. And I’m the one with the veins popping out of this thin, low-body-fat skin! She called in another nurse who inserted it just fine higher up my arm. She wheeled me out and down the hall to another room with the gadgets.
Dr. Poole came in. “Got any questions?”
“Lots. So do I really need to stop eating wheat?” “Yes.”
“Not even a little?” “No.”
“What about a ‘free day’ once a month or so?” “Nope. Any gluten at all will trigger the immune system to produce the T-cells that will destroy the filia in your small intestine. No wheat, rye, barley or even oats because of the chance of contamination.”
“Will I get better?” “No. It’s permanent. But if you don’t eat gluten you won’t have any of the negative symptoms like malnutrition, stomach cramps, or increased chances of cancer.”
“So what’s the connection between my liver and this?” “Celiac could have caused the elevated liver functions, but you were back to normal on this most recent blood work.”
“Did I do something to get this? To trigger it?” “Trigger? Research is not really clear on that. We know it’s a gene that you inherited and one that you will pass on to your children, but not everybody with the gene will develop the disease. Sometimes stress or pregnancy or some other shock to the system brings it on. But most of the time it just starts.”
Sensing my overload, he turned to the nurse by my IV. “Let’s start with 80.”
And that’s the last I remember. I woke up back in the first room. “So is it over?” I mumbled to the nurse. “Yes. We just wheeled you back. The doctor will come see you in a few minutes. He’s doing another procedure right now. We’ll keep you here for a half hour or so to be sure you are okay.”
I was fine and feeling pretty bored when Dr. Poole came in. “Here are the pictures of what I saw.” He gave me a paper with a half dozen digital prints of reddish orange pink shapes. “There’s some inflammation, as you can see here.” He pointed. “The little snips I took will tell us more. The lab will be done with them in a couple of weeks. You’re lucky that we caught it so early. Usually people are in pretty bad shape before they get it diagnosed.”
“You’re sure I have it?” “No question—the antibodies that showed up in the blood prove that. You’re already scheduled for another set of blood tests next week to confirm that the liver is fine. I’m thinking one of your supplements might have been irritating it. Once we see that you are fine, you can start adding them back in one at a time and we’ll monitor it every couple of months. But from now on, it’s gluten-free eating.”
Roger came and picked me up. I hadn’t eaten anything since the night before, so I was starving. The half-loaf of whole wheat bread beckoned to me, but “no big deal,” I thought. “I’ve got lots of carb options.”
But it turned out not to be so simple. Oh, the meal planning was no problem, but I ached inside. For a two or three days I couldn’t make myself do anything. All I wanted to do was lay around, watch TV, eat Christmas candy, mope. And every time I’d go in to fix a meal I had to force myself to cook. It was like I was depressed. Like someone had died. A friend was missing. I couldn’t shake it.
We got up Saturday with no particular plans. I didn’t want to go run. I didn’t want to exercise or go to the gym. Nothing. Then it dawned on me. End of the month and we hadn’t been to the temple. “So you want to go into the temple?”
We ate a quick breakfast and got ready. In all my moping, I had done some more reading—GF (gluten-free) recipes. Lots of strange new words—garfava, sorghum, quinoa, buckwheat, arrowroot, amaranth, teff, spelt, triticale, kamut, tapioca starch, xanthan gum. We’d be in Ogden. I bet the lady at Kitchen Kneads could tell me more.
And so she could. “That’s an ancient grain. That’s for a binder. That’s a flour that will give a lighter texture. That’s another binder. That’s an old kind of wheat that hasn’t been genetically manipulated so much. That’s another grain—really small kernels,” and on it went through my whole list. “We’ve got a whole section over here for our GF customers. We’re even getting information and recipes together for a baking class for you all soon.”
We walked out with a trunk load of stuff to try—beans of all kinds to mill, new flours and powders to mix in. Ideas. And a little hope.
The temple session gave me even more of a lift. I even put my own name on the prayer roll—not because of the disease, that’s just “one of those things.” But the ache in my heart—that’s what I needed to have healed.
Later that night I drove back into Ogden to meet Roger at Nathan and Sarah’s. Roger had borrowed their car for the holiday, and I went in to bring him home. They listened to my story. It was therapeutic to get it off my chest. They mourned with me and offered condolences. I came home and started baking—I needed something to eat for the sacrament. Angela Scothern takes her own little piece of rice cake. She has to even drink her own water. Now, that makes my problem seem smaller right there.
Grind up some brown rice, some buckwheat. Look up several recipes. None seem right. Just start tossing stuff into a mixing bowl. Rice flour, buckwheat flour, potato starch, gelatin, powdered milk Splenda baking powder, soda, egg, water, milk, olive oil, apricot puree, homemade yogurt. Stir. Spoon into greased muffin cups. Bake.
I went down stairs to practice for Music and the Spoken Word until the buzzer rang.
“Hey, these look great.” And they tasted fine—light, not too crumbly, a nutty flavor. Mom and Roger both liked them, too. No sense of deprivation. No having to be satisfied with something yucky. Just some good, healthful muffins.
Okay. We’re on our way. I can do this. It’s just a bump in the road. It shook me for a bit, but we’re still going. The path ahead is clear again. I have a great traveling companion and plenty of people on the road to keep me company. We’re good.
December 30, 2007