Hobos

When they say that a train whistle in the night is one of the loneliest sounds in the world, I know what they are talking about. We lived close to the railroad tracks, and not too far from Solon's train depot. As a little boy I used to lie awake at night, and when I would hear a train whistle I would wonder where the people were going, what they had seen, and what they were going to see next.

As a result of living where we did, we would often see hobos and tramps in the weedy area between the train tracks and the highway in front of our house. The hobos had dirty, worn clothes, smudged with soot and ashes from trains. They were always men, and they always seemed to have a week's beard growth. Their hair was dark, uncombed and dirty looking. Underneath the dirt and beard you could see that their faces were tanned and weather worn from outdoor living. Yet, in those days, their eyes were clear and friendly. They had a frank and honest way of looking at you, in a straightforward manner; and not at all shifty eyed. They looked tired, but not defeated. They seemed restless, always yearning to see the next town. They were wild in a way, undomesticated but not threatening. They rarely said anything, anxious to keep their privacy.

One hot summer day Alice Marie and I were playing in the front yard. Suddenly we noticed a hobo resting in the shade of our big cherry tree. "Hey boy!" he called to me, "Would you get me a glass of water?"

I was taken by surprised and was not sure I heard him correctly. I moved a little closer to him. "Whad'ya say?"

He looked at me carefully, and then repeated his question, but not so loudly as before. "Would you please bring me a glass of water?"

"Okay,” I said. Alice Marie and I went into the house. I found my mother in the kitchen. "Mom," I said, "there’s a man outside who wants a glass of water."

My mother looked at me funny. "Where is he?" she said, going to the dinning room window and looking out.

"He's by the cherry tree, near the road." She looked worried, but I did not understand why.

"I don't think you had better," she said.

I was surprised. "Why not?" I asked. "He looks thirsty. It won't cost us anything to give him some water, will it?” Money was always a concern in my house. “I told him that I would bring him some."

She thought for a minute or two, while I waited. Finally she said, "Since you said you would get him some water, I guess you had better. Just give him the glass of water and come back inside immediately. Tell him to just leave the glass by the tree, you'll get it later."

I thought that she was acting strange, but I didn't say anything. She took out an old, beat up aluminum glass that I knew she didn't care about. She filled it with cool water. Alice and I started to leave together.

"No Alice Marie, you stay here," my mother said.

So I went down to the highway by myself, feeling worried now because my mother had been afraid of something. I gave him the glass, a little fearfully, and started to back away.

"Wait a minute," he said, "and I'll give you the glass back."

"My¼my¼ mother said you can just¼just¼ leave the glass there," I stammered.

He drained the glass in a quick gulp. "No need for that," he said in a friendly way. He smiled, calmly and confidently. He seemed to find nothing unusual in my behavior. "Here's your glass back. And thank you very much. Tell your mother I thank her."

I cautiously came back to him and took the cup. He didn't look the least bit scary to me. "What was my mother worried about?" I asked myself. I turned around and walked back to the house. I gave my mother the glass and explained, "He drank the water and gave me back the glass before I could get away. He said to tell you thank you." Then I added, a little hesitantly, “I think he was a nice man.”

My mother looked uncertain about something, struggling within herself. Almost to herself she said, "I wonder if he is hungry?" She went to the window to look again. "He's gone!"

I looked out the window. I couldn't see him either. "Would you like me to go and look for him?" I asked.

My mother hesitated for a moment. "Oh, all right. Go look." I couldn't find him. He had disappeared. We never saw this particular hobo again. But on another day, and to a different hobo sitting on the ground near the highway, I did take a plate of food. I wasn't allowed to be near him while he ate, but I came back later to pick up the old plate and fork. He had done a good job of eating everything on his plate, as I expected he would.

Banned Books - Part 2

Comments made by Ambrosia and m. paul bailey in my last post on banned books has caused me to look into the website for the American Library Association (www.ala.org). I wanted to see if perhaps I had been unfair in my criticism of the ALA. If anything I found that I had been too kind.

On the ALA website the question is asked, “What’s the Difference between a Challenge and a Banning?”

“A challenge is an attempt to remove or restrict materials, based upon the objections of a person or group. A banning is the removal of those materials. Challenges do not simply involve a person expressing a point of view; rather, they are an attempt to remove material from the curriculum or library, thereby restricting the access of others. The positive message of Banned Books Week: Free People Read Freely is that due to the commitment of librarians, teachers, parents, students and other concerned citizens, most challenges are unsuccessful and most materials are retained in the school curriculum or library collection.”

We see that the ALA considers any attempt to remove material from the library OR the curriculum as a challenge to freedom. Just removing a book from the list of required reading is considered banning a book.

The ALA claims “Books usually are challenged with the best intentions – to protect others, frequently children, from difficult ideas and information.” However, further on in the same answer to “Why are Books Challenged” you read that the top three reasons books were challenged (in order of popularity) were because they are “sexually explicit,” contain “offensive language,” and are “unsuited to age group.” These three reasons account for all of the challenges of the top ten most challenged books. The real reason that books are challenged has nothing to do with the content of the “difficult ideas and information,” but the objectionable way the material is presented.

The ALA rhetoric goes on: “Throughout history, more and different kinds of people and groups of all persuasions than you might first suppose, who, for all sorts of reasons, have attempted – and continue to attempt – to suppress anything that conflicts with or anyone who disagrees with their own beliefs.” They say this despite all the evidence that it is the offensive way the beliefs are presented, and not the beliefs themselves. Unchallenged books contain the very same ideas and beliefs, but they are not sexually explicit, they do not use offensive language, and are age suitable.

It sounds nobler to defend your support of sexually explicit material on the grounds of protecting information and beliefs than simply to admit that you like the stuff.

Mother Goose
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I learned nursery rhymes from my brothers, primarily from James. I was an adult before I learned the correct version. I remember my mother reading to me only once, though she probably read to me many times. She read a lot more to my older brothers, but after they learned to read she stopped doing it. And she lumped me in with the older boys, thinking that if she had read to them, she had read to me. She seemed to forget that David started kindergarten before I was one year old. The story I remember my mother reading was about a pig that ate so much that he popped the buttons on his shirt. The thought of anyone that fat was funny to me, at that time.

So my mother never corrected my misunderstandings of the nursery rhymes. Here is the way I learned some of them:

Hickory, dickory, dock.
Two mice ran up the clock.
The clock struck one,
But the other one got away.

Little Miss Muffett
Sat on a tuffet
Eating her curls away.
Along came a spider
And sat down beside her
And said, "Pardon me Miss,
Is this seat taken?"

Mary, Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
"With silver bells
And cockle shells
And one lousy petunia!"

Little Jack Horner
Sat in a corner,
Eating his Christmas pie.
He stuck in his thumb,
And pulled out a plum,
And said, "Oh shucks,
I thought it was cherry."

Don't cut anymore!

I recently had an experience that I thought I would share here.

I need to explain that about 16 years ago I moved into my present house. The house is about 35 years old, so before I moved into the house some changes and repairs had been made to it. When I moved in there were a couple of sprinkler control boxes attached to the outside of the house, with wires running to some sprinkler valves. There were also some loose sprinkler wires sticking out of the end of a plastic tube that came up out of the ground. Evidently at some time in the past the owner had decided to put in a new system of sprinkler valves, wires, and control boxes, and had simply left the old dead wires in place.

Because I didn't have to do anything about it, I just left them there. Then a couple of months ago I needed to install a new control box, replacing the two old boxes. The old wires and pipe were now a little bit in the way of the new box. The old wires and pipe were kind of an eyesore anyway, so I decided to get out my hacksaw and cut them off near the ground.

What I didn't know until last weekend was that the previous owner had left in the pipe a live wire with household current and power. This wire was not visible at the top of the pipe where the sprinkler wires were sticking out.

As I proceeded to saw the pipe I made it shake back and forth, and suddenly "by chance" I noticed that there was a solid looking household type wire (12 gauge) coming out of the house into the pipe. The thought occurred to me, "I wonder if the previous owner never got around to disconnecting this wire from the power grid?" I quickly dismissed this thought. "He can't have been so stupid." And I really wanted to finish this job now that I had started it.

So, I continued to cut away with my all-metal hacksaw, until the impression came to me strongly, "Don't cut anymore!' I resisted this impression. I argued with it. I couldn't believe that the wire I saw coming out of the house actually went up the pipe where I was sawing. I certainly couldn't see it coming out the end with the other wires. I bent down to cut some more. Again the impression came to me, "Don't cut anymore!"

So, I decided to cut a notch in the pipe and look into it. When I did I found that there was indeed a hefty household current wire in there. In fact, I had cut through the insulation of part of the wire, and another stroke or two and I would have cut through both wires. So I stopped cutting.

This weekend I found that the wires were definitely live and hot. I hate to think what might have happened if I had disregarded the prompting to "Don't cut anymore!"

Banned Books Week


September 23 – 30 is Banned Books Week. What I find fascinating with Banned Books Week is the rhetoric used by the self-anointed champions of freedom to read.

“Throughout history there have always been a few people who don’t want information to be freely available,” says Leslie Burger, the American Library Association president. “The reason more books aren’t banned is because community residents – with librarians, teachers and journalists – stand up and speak out for their freedom to read.”

Wow, makes you feel that the forces of repression are intent on taking away your freedom to know what is going on. Leslie Burger sounds so heroic and noble. Our guardian, our protector against the evil censors and Nazi book-burners. The ALA reminds us “that we must remain vigilant.”

The problem I have with this rhetoric is that it is applied to situations it doesn’t belong. These quotes were given in a local newspaper report about some parents requesting that the John Steinbeck’s novel, “Of Mice and Men” be taken off the list of required reading material in the local school district. The book would remain available to all who wished to read it. It would remain in the libraries. So how is this banning a book? How is this interfering with our freedom to read? What information would not be freely available? It appears that the ALA has an over inflated sense of its own importance. Can we not disagree with whether “Of Mice and Men” is suitable as required reading without demonizing the opposition with words of banning, censorship, “don’t want information to be freely available,” and so forth?

Take as another example the article “Stacks of Discord,” by Nicole Miller, Daily Universe, 22 September 2006. The opening line reads, “The debate between first amendment rights and censorship spans all mediums of expression, including literature.” Is that really the issue? Why call it censorship when it is really making it so that children aren’t forced to read it? No one is challenging first amendment rights. Why can’t I be a strong proponent of free speech and the first amendment, and still hold that we shouldn’t be pushing some materials on our children? Not to mention constitutionally lawful restrictions on classified material and obscenity (which the Supreme Court has ruled is not a protected form of speech).

I have a question for all the champions of freedom to read. If the Bible were a part of a school curriculum and some parents objected, would you stand up and speak out to keep the Bible in the curriculum? Or would you be a party to “banning” the Bible? If removing “Of Mice and Men” from the curriculum would be banning the book, then the Bible has already been banned. Why isn’t the ALA making this an issue? Is a notion of separation of church and state more important than “freedom to read”?

Fiery Trials

“Beloved, think it not strange concerning the fiery trial which is to try you, as though some strange thing happened unto you:” (1 Peter 4:12).

I learned as a small child that one purpose of life was to be tried and tested -- to prove ourselves. I imagined in my youth that the test of life was like a test in school. I thought that in life the teacher (God) would through examination determine how much we knew, and how good we were. Later I began to wonder why it was that God needed to test us; didn’t God already know everything? Later I was told that God knew in advance the test results, but we needed to prove to ourselves whether or not we were worthy of celestial glory. That answer was not satisfying to me, as I thought we should be willing to accept God’s word for the test results, and just skip the trial of life altogether.

Later I came to have a new understanding of how the scriptures use the words “prove,” “test,” and “try.” Consider the way the word “try” is used in Zechariah 13:9. “And I will bring the third part through the fire, and will refine them as silver is refined, and will try them as gold is tried…” We might think of being “tried” as in a court of law to prove our guilt or innocence – our purity, if you will – but how do you “try” gold?

There is an interesting article in Wikipedia (on Cupellation) that explains how you try gold and test its purity. There is a very old method sometimes called “fire assaying.” You first melt the material in a crucible. When it is cooled the precious metals and lead will have solidified into a button, separating from the dross or slag. For typical ores the slag layer will be quite massive. The button is then placed in a special pot made of bone ash or clay called a cupel. When heated to a high temperature the lead turns to lead oxide and is absorbed by the cupel, or lost to the atmosphere. At the end of the process “a button of pure gold and silver remains at the bottom of the cupel.” A further step separates the gold from the silver. Note that in the process of trying gold and testing its purity you are also refining it by removing the impurities.

Now when I read in the scriptures about being proved, tested, or tried, I think of fire assaying. I think of the great heat or trials that must be given us in order to separate out all the dross and impurities or imperfections within us. If we endure our trials with patience and faith, as did Job then we can say, “But he knoweth the way that I take: when he hath tried me, I shall come forth as gold.” (Job 23:10)

I started this post with 1 Peter 4:12. I think this scripture must have had special significance to Elder Neal A. Maxwell. Elder Maxwell is the only speaker in the last sixty years to have referenced this scripture in a general conference talk, and he used in on four different occasions (http://scriptures.byu.edu). I especially like what he said the last time he made reference to it (April 1997):

“There are many who suffer so much more than the rest of us: some go agonizingly; some go quickly; some are healed; some are given more time; some seem to linger. There are variations in our trials but no immunities. Thus, the scriptures cite the fiery furnace and fiery trials (see Dan. 3:6–26; 1 Pet. 4:12). Those who emerge successfully from their varied and fiery furnaces have experienced the grace of the Lord, which He says is sufficient (see Ether 12:27). Even so, brothers and sisters, such emerging individuals do not rush to line up in front of another fiery furnace in order to get an extra turn! However, since the mortal school is of such short duration, our tutoring Lord can be the Schoolmaster of the compressed curriculum.”

Warranty

Ever have the feeling sometimes that you are being taken, but there is nothing you can do about it?

I have a 2001 Dodge Intrepid. It is under warranty for the next couple of years. That warranty is supposed to cover labor and parts for anything bad that happens to the drive train. A few days ago I noticed that the car was leaking transmission fluid. So, I took the car back to the dealer where I bought it. The dealer told me that the leak is caused by a problem with the silicon sealant. Now, they claim, that while my warranty covers seals and gaskets as manufacturer parts, it doesn’t cover a $7 tube of silicon RT sealant, even though that sealant is also listed as a manufacturer part. I will have to pay for the sealant. I don’t really mind that so much as the fact that since they don’t cover the sealant, which went bad or they improperly applied, I will also have to pay them $700 for labor to take apart the transmission and apply the sealant. And, since I brought to their attention the need for this service, failure to have the problem fixed immediately by the dealer will make my warranty null and void.

Here is another story from my childhood. As always, if you have a comment to make to improve the way I tell the story, please let me know.

Retelling the stories about my brother James always fills me with a sweet sadness. James died at the age of nineteen in a traffic accident near Provo, Utah.


Saturday Night Baths

The house in Solon Ohio had a toilet on the first floor, but there was only one bathtub, and that was in the upstairs bathroom. Each Saturday night there were eight of us that needed to take baths. We children had to take a bath once a week, whether we thought we needed it or not. Sometimes my mother would bathe the little ones in the laundry tubs on the back porch. The laundry tubs were really just big concrete sinks, one for washing, and the other for rinsing. The wash tub had a built-in scrubbing board to make it easier to wash clothes.

In order to expedite the Saturday night baths James and I would bathe together. We had a lot of fun doing this. Sometimes we would move together up and down in the tub to get the water to oscillate, creating a "tidal wave." This would always result in a lot of water splashing over the sides of the tub. My mother would come into the bathroom when it was time for us to get out and ask, "Where did all this water on the floor come from?" We would always look at her with puzzled, innocent expressions, as though it was a mystery to us.

Another fun thing we used to do was to let out all the water in the tub. We would then take a bar of soap and rub soap all over the tub and ourselves. When we were thoroughly soaped we would then take turns sliding in the tub. If you sat on the end of the tub and then picked up your feet, you could slide rapidly to the faucet. You had to be a little careful not to smash into the fixtures at that end of the tub.

When we washed our hair we would use the bar of soap and work up a thick lather. We would then look at each other and laugh at the old and wrinkled gray-hair men that we had become. It surely burned my eyes when I got soap in them. Sometimes, to get the soap out of his hair and eyes, James would put his head under the faucet and have me turn on the cold water. I could never remember which knob was for the cold water.

“James, which is the cold water?”

"The cold water is on the right," he said. I accidentally turned on the hot water. Boy, was he ever mad. "That was the hot water! On the left, you dummy! Don't you know the difference between your right and your left?" Actually I didn't, so we began a heated argument. I often got into arguments when I didn’t know what I was talking about. Just then my mother opened the bathroom door. She had a couple of ladies from the church with her. The three of them stood in the doorway looking into the room.

"And this is our bathroom," she was saying. The ladies looked bored, but politely looked around. Suddenly I stood up in the bathtub and faced my mother.

"Mom, is this my right hand, or my left hand?” I said holding up my right hand. The three of them gasped in unison. The other two ladies got big round eyes, and then turned to stampede out the door. My mother's eyes narrowed, liked they did when she was mad at us. "What's wrong with asking that?" I wondered.

"That's your right hand. And I told you never to stand up in the bathtub; it's dangerous. And," she added in a whisper, "especially not in front of other people."

I sat down somewhat confused. My mother quickly left. "See, I told you," said my brother.

Once James and I got out of the bathtub and dried ourselves off. My clothes were under the sink. As I bent down to pick up my clothes James decided to tickle my backside. I jerked my head up as I attempted to stand upright. Crack! I hit the bottom of the sink with my head. I saw stars. I fell to the floor holding my head. I was screaming in pain. My hands got wet with blood. James was saying something.

"Don't tell on me, Tink. I didn't mean to make you hit your head. I'm sorry." He looked really worried. In a minute my mother came rushing in to see what all the yelling was about.

"What happened? Oh, you've cracked your head open again. It looks like the crack is in the same place as the last time. Do you remember falling off the trash can in Windham?" I started to shake my head no, but it hurt too much. "You fell over backwards and hit the cement, landing on your head. Well, let's see. Lie down here and I'll get some ice to put on it. I wonder if we should call the doctor. How did this happen, anyway?"

I looked at James. James seemed to be holding his breath. He seemed really upset. He looked at me apprehensively. "I stood up under the sink and hit my head." James let out his breath.

"Well, next time you had better watch what you’re doing. I think you'll be all right, and we won't have to call the doctor."

After that James and I took separate baths. Once, while waiting for his turn for the bathtub, James became impatient and asked Mom if he could bathe in the laundry tub. He later told me that taking a bath in the laundry tub was not much fun. It was cold on the back porch, there was little privacy, the tubs were too small, and sliding down the scrubbing board was really rough.

Only Child


Now that Rosie is off at BYU, Rebecca is learning to adjust to being the only child home. She misses her brothers and sisters, and wishes they were home, but there are advantages to being the only child. She is forced to make decisions on her own. Forced to find her own rides. But she gets time to talk to Mom and Dad without interruption. She gets to choose what music to put on the stereo and listen to, without being told by an older sister or brother, "I'm tired of listening to the Monkeys. I'm putting something else on."

Psycho Roommates


Last Friday my daughter C and her roommate Nancy had an overnight guest, a girl on her way to BYU-Idaho. This BYU-Idaho bound girl had never lived with roommates before, so she was pretty concerned about it.

“What do you think?” she asked Nancy and C, “Dead hamster or dead mouse?”

C: “Say what?”

“For my roommate’s bed. You know - if she turns out to be psycho. Which do you think would be more effective?”

Nancy: “Um, you might want to give her some time before deciding that she’s psycho.”

“Of course. I’ll wait two weeks before I resort to using the hamster or mouse.”

My daughter and I are more concerned with what kind of a psycho roommate this girl is going to be than what kind of a psycho roommate she is going to get.

Bush Protesters

Recently my daughter C started work in Salt Lake City. She got a close up and personal view of some events surrounding President Bush's visit to that city. She emailed me a report of her experience. Here it is:

So, we got to see a lot of protesters on Wednesday. That was kind of fun. I decided that protesters are really just confused and misguided sports fans. I mean, you’ve got all the elements of a pre-game rally – megaphones, attention-getting signs, crowd-pleasing charts, frolicking in the fountain – but then there’s no football afterwards. It’s really quite a let-down. I think it’s no wonder protesters often become violent. After going to all that work and then not having a game to watch, they probably figure that they might as well just start tackling each other. I know that’s what I’d do.

My [co-worker] and I spent about an hour on Wednesday watching the protesters…. Pres. Bush was in town to give a speech, and Rocky Anderson had arranged this protest outside of the federal building.... Rocky and his minions kept calling for Orrin Hatch to come out and “speak to the people.” [Co-worker] pointed out that it would make more sense for them to call for Matheson, since he’s a pro-war Democrat, but I don’t think sense is usually a consideration in politics.

[T]here was a kid down there doing really good business selling anarchy t-shirts. But honestly, if I really believed in anarchy, I wouldn’t reward that capitalist pig for his attempts to “sell” his “private property” by giving him paper issued by a meaningless government entity. I’d just punch him in the face and take it. What’s wrong with anarchists these days?

My favorite protester sign was one that compared the Bush administration to the Taliban on one side and said, “Save Pluto” on the other side. I guess as long as you’ve got people’s attention, you might as well protest everything that bothers you.

Lots of the protesters – particularly the ones frolicking the fountains, for some reason – had signs that said things like “Love is the subtlest force in the universe” and “the answer is LOVE.” I find this amusing as a political statement. It’s not like Bush won the election on an anti-love platform. In fact, I think you’d be hard pressed to find many people who are really opposed to love. I’m quite in favor of love myself, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that I intend to join an anti-Bush protest any time soon.

Even less logical in terms of argumentative force was the Anti-Bush Dance Squad. “You know, I always used to think that Bush was a pretty decent president, but then I saw those girls doing a choreographed dance routine while wearing ‘Impeach Bush’ armbands. Now I don’t know what to think.”

I’m thinking of starting up a “Save Pluto” dance team myself. Let me know if you’d like to join.

The Radio

We had an old radio that was almost the size of a dresser. My parents had had it for a long time and were very attached to it. They thought so much of it that I assumed the pioneers carried it across the plains with them. A door on the top of the radio could be slid back to reveal some knobs and a glass plate over the channel indicator. We always left the door slid back, leaving the controls exposed. One day when we were living in Solon, Alice Marie stepped on the radio and broke it.

How did Alice manage to step on the radio? Well, I used to try to get around the house without stepping on the floor. It was a little game for me. Since we had a lot of old dressers and stuff this was not as hard as it might seem. When Alice saw me doing this she decided to follow the example of her favorite brother. So, once when no one else was in the house, Alice was following me around the room, stepping on the furniture. I stepped on the radio and then onto a chair. Alice wasn't supposed to step on the glass part of the radio, but she did and I heard a sharp crack! It broke. Alice and I could not get the radio to work again. This was not a big deal to us because we had television, but we knew it would be a big deal to our parents.

"Don't tell, Tink! Don't tell on me!"

"Mom and Dad are going to find out sooner or later, Alice Marie."

"But you don't have to tell them that I did it. Please! Please!"

"Oh, all right, I guess."

It wasn't long afterward that my mother noticed that the radio was broken. "How did the radio get broken?"

"Somebody stepped on it," I said.

"Was it you?"

What should I say? I had promised not to tell on my sister. My mother knew that I stepped on the furniture; at least once before she had yelled at me for doing it. She had no idea that Alice did the same thing, and probably would not have believe it if I had told her. Her special one-and-only sweet little girl do a thing like that? It was unthinkable for my mother. Besides, I thought, it sort of was my fault because Alice was only following the example of her older brother. My mother interrupted my thoughts.

"All right, Douglas Wayne _____, you are in big trouble now.” I always knew when I was in big trouble when she called me by my full name. “You just sit on that chair in the living room until your father gets home." When my father got home he punished me.

A couple of years later the still broken radio resided upstairs in the Solon house. In fact the radio was right next to my bed, perhaps just to remind me of what "I" had done. James and I shared that double bed; James had chosen the side with the radio. James’ bedroom rules were pretty clear. James drew an imaginary line down the middle of the bed. If I were to extend so much as a finger over the line, the finger would “rightfully” get pounded by James. If I were to roll over in my sleep and be partially on his side of the bed, I would repeatedly get a hard elbow in my ribs until I got back on my side of the bed. If he were to accidentally roll over to my side of the bed then I was free to try to gently push him back, if I could do it without waking him up. Bigger brothers, I learned, always make the rules to their own advantage.

As long as "we" obeyed the rules, we got along fine. And most of the time it was great. Sometimes we would just lie there and talk until Mom would yell, "Be quiet, and go to sleep."

One time I saw my older brother Richard playing with the vacuum cleaner hose. He was talking into it, and it sounded like the sound was coming from the end of the hose, instead of from his mouth. That gave me an idea. Before going to bed that night I took the hose and stretch it out under the pillows on our bed. As James was getting ready for bed I casually told him that I had been playing with the radio and it seemed to be working again. Actually I had played with the radio that day, just to make my plan "honest".

"Oh, really?" James began to fiddle with the dials. "That sure was a dumb thing you did when you stepped on the radio. Well, it doesn't seem to be working now."

"Well, that's the funny thing about it. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn't. Why don't you leave it on, and maybe it will come on by itself while we are in bed." He looked at me a little strangely, but left it on. We then said our prayers, "Father-in-Heaven, bless DavidRichardJamesDouglasAliceMarie and Donald..." We always went through the list of brothers and sisters as fast as we could, without thinking about it. It was a song we sang before we jumped into bed. A little while later I quietly reached under my pillow and pulled out one end of the vacuum cleaner hose. I put the end of the hose up to my lips. "Hello, this is your radio. We will now play ‘Give Said the Little Stream.’” I began to sing, “Give said the...."

"Hey, how did you that?"

How did he know? Maybe he was just guessing. I thought I'd try to fool him a little longer. "Did you hear that? It sounded like the radio was working again."

James got up and turned on the light. Returning to the bed he picked up his pillow and saw the hose. "So that's it!"

"Leave it there. We can talk and Mom won't even hear us." That sounded fun to James, so he turned off the light and got back into bed. "Hello James, this is Douglas talking."

"Hello Tink, this is James talking." We talked meaningless stuff for awhile. We must have sounded like a couple of ham radio operators, only I didn’t know about them until years later.

It didn't last long, however. In a day or two my mother started demanding to know who took the vacuum cleaner hose, and they better bring it back if they knew what was good for them. I went and got the hose from under our pillows.

For the next ten years we lugged that radio around with us in all our moves. And whenever someone would come to our house my mother would say, "See this radio? It hasn't worked since Douglas stepped on it. Yes, it is kinda funny now. Aren't children always doing the dumbest things?" Keeping silence on who really broke the radio was harder to take than the punishment. And my parents never found out for the next forty years.

Periodically the wife of a nephew sends email updates about what her three little children are saying. I thought I'd share some of what she wrote this week. It is always interesting to see the world through the eyes of a child.


Tyke 1: There's a problem...no, actually there's two.
Dad: What's the problem?
Tyke 1: We can't have babies because if we have babies there will be a whole flood of babies!
Dad: What's the other problem?
Tyke 1: Then there will be a whole flood of diapers!


Tyke 1: Look, Tyke 2! I have a popsicle and you don't.
Mom: Tyke 1, if you have something Tyke 2 doesn't, it's better to say nothing at all.
Tyke 1: No, it's not! It's better to eat it fast!


Tyke 1: My tummy is feeling sick and I know why. It's because I have no bump here! (pointing to his Adam's Apple) There's supposed to be a bump there and I only have a bump in the back!


Tyke 1: (thoughtfully) Mom, it takes a really long time to get big, doesn't it?


Tyke 2: (in typical low monotone) I'm a funny guy and so is Tyke 3.


Tyke 1: I want cheese and spices with my noodles. May I please have cheese and spices with my noodles? I want cheese and spices with my...
Mom: I heard you the first time, Tyke 1. You don't need to say it overand over again!
Tyke 1: I was just reminding you.


Tyke 1: We live in New Mexico. There's an old Mexico, but we live in the new one.


Tyke 3: Dog, Duck, Wow, Wook!


Tyke 1: Who threw dirt all over the table? Oh, yeah...I did. I tried to throwa dirt clod at Tyke 3 and it went over him and landed on the table.


Dad:(To Tyke 2, who was standing on the rim of the toilet bowl.) Tyke 2, you don't need to stand up there to go potty.
Tyke 2: (monotone) I won't get in there. If I get in there Mom won't know where to find me.


Tyke 1: Mom, why can't we get a dog?
Mom: Because I don't want to clean up its poop.
Tyke 1: (later that evening) Mom, which animals don't poop?

BYU Corruption?

Wednesday night my wife, Sister Nectar, sat in the lobby or common room of Rosie’s dorm. Earlier that day Sister Nectar had helped move in Rosie’s stuff, and now my wife sat finishing the dress she had been sewing for Rosie. There were some buttons to put on, and the hemline to do. Sister Nectar is very good at sewing, and takes a lot of care in doing it right.

As Sister Nectar sat sewing she had an opportunity to observe some of the other girls in Rosie’s dorm. Sister Nectar was not impressed. Yesterday when she called to talk to me she said, “I don’t think Rosie is going to fit in very well in her dorm.”

Alarmed at hearing this I asked, “Why not?”

“Well, Rosie is not like the other girls here. The other girls are so … giddy and giggly. They seem so superficial and immature. And the way they dress is so … worldly.”

“Hmmm,” I thought. “That doesn’t seem to say much for BYU nowadays. Maybe those other girls just come from worldly places, and after they have been at BYU for awhile they will improve.”

Rosie is still only 17, and the thought that her dorm mates looked immature by comparison was disturbing to me. Rosie is such a fun-loving, vivacious person – the life of the party - with a number of very close friends; yet in comparison to some, I suppose she does seem serious and mature. She is a straight A student. She has never been “boy crazy.” She loves classical music. She reads her scriptures faithfully and keeps a journal. She was a dedicated Laurel class president. She is strict in her observance of the Sabbath. She has always dressed in a very modest, conservative, and appropriate style, thanks in part to her mother.

“I’m just hoping that BYU doesn’t corrupt Rosie,” my wife replied.