Memories (5)...

When I was a boy, just after I turned 10 years old, we moved from Colorado to California.  Now, I was born in California and we'd moved away when I was just 5 years old.  I was excited to move back "home".

We moved to a house that was in the middle of an almond orchard.  The almond orchard was surrounded by grape vineyards and the grape vineyards were interspersed with tomato and corn fields, as well as apricot and pistachio orchards.

Grandpa noticed that there was a small section of almond orchard near our house that was not being worked.  He found out who the owner was and called him.  The man lived in Florida.  Grandpa wanted to know if the man would let us harvest the almonds that grew wild on the property, and the man said he would.

So Grandpa bought a heavy rubber hammer that looked like a cross between an axe and a club.  He also bought an almond scoop that looked like a heavy wire basket that had been turned into a shovel.  We got some long bamboo poles and our old utility trailer and we went to work.

Every day in September, after school, we came home and started harvesting almonds.  First we took that big mallet and hit the trees as hard as we could.  That would shake the branches and make most of the almonds fall into the sandy soil under the trees.  Then we would take the bamboo poles and reach high into the trees and knock the stubborn nuts out one at a time.

When all the nuts were on the ground we raked them into piles and scooped them into our utility trailer.  As we scooped them up, we made sure to shake the scoop so that the sand and grass and sticks fell through the wire basket, leaving only almonds.

Now, almonds don't look like the ones you buy in the store, or even the ones you get in your Christmas stocking when they come out of the tree.  They're covered in a fuzzy green hull that splits open when the nuts are ripe, exposing that hole-y, beautiful buff-colored woody shell.  So we loaded our trailer full of nuts with the hulls and shells still on them.

When the trailer was so full that almonds were piled above the edges and the springs were pushed almost flat, we hooked it to our Volkswagen bus and pulled it to the almond processing plant that was in the middle of one of the orchards near us.  We drove onto a giant scale and got weighed.  Then we emptied our almonds into a machine that spun them and knocked them around.  That machine knocked the hulls off and spat out golden-shelled nuts.  Then the nuts went into another machine that cracked the shells and separated the nut meat from the shells.

This process took some time, so we left the almond processing plant, got weighed on our way out, and went home.  We knew how much to pay the almond processing plant owner for his work because he subtracted our empty weight on the way out from our loaded weight on the way in and charged us a certain amount of money per pound to hull and shell the nuts.

Later in the week, the plant owner called and we went and picked up our shelled almonds.  They were in burlap sacks that weighed more than you do.  When we got them home we divided the nuts into smaller bags that weighed between 1 and 5 pounds.  And we sold those nuts to neighbors and friends.

We saved all the money we made from those nuts and in the middle of winter, after Christmas vacation was over and all the kids were back in school, we would rent a condominium at a ski resort near Lake Tahoe and ski for a whole week.  Uncle Eric, Uncle Dean and Uncle Paul and I would ski with Grandma and Grandpa.  And we would ski all day.  At night we would stay in the condo and do our homework we'd brought with us and the assignments our teachers had given us to work on during the week.

Every day of the week.  Until it was time to go home.

I remember the first time I tried to ski.  I was pretty sure I didn't like it.

It was a cold day with snow and rain mixing in the uniquely Sierra Nevada season of "springter".  The beginner slope didn't have a chair lift to sit on and ride up.  Instead it had what we called a "pommel lift".  The pommel lift was a cable that moved up the slope.  And attached to the cable was a rope with a disc-like seat on it.  The trick was to catch the rope, put it between your legs, let the disc catch you on the bottom, and stay on your skis as the cable pulled you up the hill.

I was already cold and wet and scared and discouraged before I had to face that contraption.  When it was my turn to ride up, the lift caught me off balance and I fell into the snow.  My skis tangled and I couldn't get up.  I was crying and mad.  And then a nice woman skied over to me and picked me up.  I must have been saying something about "stupid skis" and "hate this" and "don't want to" because she made me look at her and very calmly and confidently told me that I just needed to give it another try.  By the end of the day, she assured me, I would be loving it.

Sometimes it's good for a young boy to have a beautiful older woman be confident in his abilities.  When she was done with her pep talk, I would have done anything she told me to, because I believed she believed I could.

I mastered the pommel lift on my next try and only let it throw me once or twice more that day.  When I got to the top of the slope all I knew was that pointing my skis downhill would make me go fast and that pointing my toes together and pushing my heels out would slow me down.

And so I went down.  When I felt like I was going too fast I pointed my toes and pushed my heels.  When that didn't work, I bailed.  Down I went in an explosion of snow and skis.  Then I found my gear, put my skis back on, and started over again.

And by the end of the day I was LOVING it!

For the next 7 years we made it a tradition to have our ski week and we found every other excuse we could to get to the mountains to ski.

In January 1988 I was in the middle of my senior year of high school.  We rented a condo at Squaw Valley and on the first run of the first day Uncle Eric and I took on a short and fairly straightforward black diamond run for expert skiers.  Less than halfway down, I got stuck in the bottom of a mogul and when I made my hop-turn everything on my body turned.

Except my right leg below the knee.

For years I'd wondered how embarrassing it was for those skiers who had to be pulled off the mountain by the heroes in red jackets that worked for the Ski Patrol.

Now I was finding out.  Grandpa took me to the ski resort clinic where I got a brace to strap onto my swollen leg.

And that was the last time I skied with my brothers.  I spent the rest of the week in the condo with partially torn ligaments in my knee that would prevent me from doing much normal walking for most of my last semester of high school.

After I joined the Army I was stationed in Germany.  I bought a great pair of skis and boots and skied all over Europe.  It was fun, but it wasn't the same as skiing with my brothers.

This January I got to ski with my brother again.  Uncle Eric and I met in Park City, Utah with our kids.  They learned to ski and snowboard while he and I got to enjoy each other's company as we rode up and tore down the mountains.

Just like old times.

The Death of The Fourth and Sixth Amendments...

Late on Saturday, New Year's Eve, 2010 President Barack Obama signed into law a bill sent to him by John Boehner and Harry Reid.  It was innocuously called the "National Defense Appropriation Act" and, contrary to the title's tone, constitutes one of the most broad reaching and egregious abrogations of the Natural Rights of Americans protected until this year by the United States Constitution.

Section 1020 (c-1) of the act provides for the "detention under the law of war without trial until the end of hostilities" of any person, regardless of citizenship, accused (interestingly it is not "charged" or "convicted") of terrorism or supporting terrorism against the United States or any person who has "substantially supported" any "associated forces" of terrorist organizations.

The act further allows the military, at the discretion of the president, to detain Americans without arraignment or filing charges and without trial for the duration of hostilities.

Disturbingly, President George W. Bush outlined exactly how long that will be.  On 20 Sep 2001 he said, "Our 'war on terror' begins with Al-Qaeda, but it does not end there.  It will not end until every terrorist group of global reach has been found, stopped and defeated."

Now, I'll be the first to say that terrorism is evil and that there is no place on the face of the earth for a terrorist or someone who supports terrorism in any way.

And I'll also be the first to say that Americans are exceptional in part because we are protected in the exercise of our unalienable rights by the most remarkable document ever penned by man.  We call it the Constitution.

Our rights as citizens do not derive from the Constitution, as many think.  Rather, our rights - all Natural Rights, and not only those listed in the Bill of Rights - derive from "the God of Nature".  He grants them to all mankind, and they are guaranteed to Americans by the Constitution in that the Constitution prohibits the government of the United States, or any agent thereof, from abridging or restricting them.

And so we see a continuation of the unchecked infringement of our Natural Rights by a government - a "bi-partisan" government - in the "National Defense Appropriation Act" of 2011.

The Fourth Amendment secures all Americans in their persons, papers, property and effects from search or seizure without a duly sworn search warrant that is specific in defining the location and the nature of the items to be found and seized.

The Sixth Amendment ensures that the government will not hold a person without notifying them of the nature of the crime they are accused of, will allow them to confront their accusers, will allow them to present witnesses on their behalf, and will provide for a speedy and public trial by jury.

There is some contradiction between the wording of the act and the wording of the amendments.

I know some of you whose names start with "K" don't always read the articles I link to.  In this case, please take the time to visit:

http://www.addictinginfo.org/2012/01/03/the-ndaa-a-dangerous-precedent-even-with-the-signing-statement/

It's a short-ish article that does a great job of getting to the meat of the detention issue.  I will say that they gloss over the fact that there appears to be an out in that the act does not "require" the military to detain a US citizen indefinitely.

But "not requiring" and "forbidding" are not the same thing.

Call me a cynic, but my head wants to explode when I think that the act does not prohibit the indefinite detention of US citizens.  

Memories (4)...

Two years ago today my entire family was together, celebrating a new year.

Here's the story for my kids:

It was New Year's Day, 2010.  We'd rented a huge house on the beach in Dana Point, California and had spent a week there together.  My brothers were all there with their families.  My parents were there, too.  We'd planned that time with the distinct feeling that it would be our last time together as a family.

My dad had been struggling with his third round of cancer for more than 5 years.  He was losing weight and was in constant pain.

I was 18 years old when the Army sent me to Germany.  I was stationed with the 12th Engineer Battalion in the 8th Infantry Division at a remote site called "Anderson Barracks".  I'd been there only a couple of months when I got a letter from my mom telling me my dad had found a lump and had been diagnosed with breast cancer.

He beat that with chemotherapy and surgery, then when my second son was born in 1998 he was diagnosed with prostate cancer.

Again, he beat it with radiation and surgery.

My dad was always good-humored about things.  When he had his mastectomy we teased him that he was only "half a man" now.  When he had his prostate surgery we laughed that he was only "a third of a man."

When he came home from a backpacking trip and noticed persistent migratory pain in his lower back, he was diagnosed with cancer again.  This time, the breast cancer was back, but had metastasized in his lungs and on the bones of his pelvis, spine and rib cage.  The doctors in 2004 gave him a 50% chance of living another 6 months and declining odds every month after that.

When he called to tell me about the cancer's return he told me, "John, this time it's going to get me."  He wasn't sad or dramatic.  He wasn't overly brave or cavalier.  He was just telling me the truth.

But my dad had a great attitude and was a naturally happy person.  I believe that God's blessing rested on him and he lived more than 6 more years after his diagnosis.  By the end of 2009 we knew the end was close for him.

And so we all arranged to meet in Southern California for one last time.  It turned out to be the last time we were all together.


We played in the sand and in the water.  We played in the hot tub.  We even went to Disneyland.  It was a great vacation.


Paul was always a big hit with his fan club.  My kids, Eric's kids and Dean's kids all looked at this huge, adventurous, motorcycle-riding teddy bear like he was a cross between a mystic icon and a favorite play mate.  They loved, as only children can, the idea that Uncle Paul had one metal leg.  He was easily their favorite because they felt safe and welcome when they were around him.

Grandpa was still healthy enough to hold the grandkids on his lap.  He walked on the beach and watched them build sand castles.  Although he was getting weaker, he had a smile.

One evening, when the pain was overwhelming and the medication was fogging his mind, Grandpa decided that he wanted everyone to watch a short video that he had recently seen and that had impacted him greatly.  It was called "The Christmas Orange".  But the grandkids didn't want to pay attention to a movie.  They wanted to play with each other and talk with their aunts, uncles and grandparents.

We, Uncle Eric, Uncle Dean, Uncle Paul and I, tried to get Grandpa to forget about the movie and let the kids play.  But Grandpa wouldn't let go of the idea.  The pain, the medicine and the frustration worked together and Grandpa got really upset.  Some of the older kids realized this and tried to start the movie, but it was too late.  Grandpa was so upset he didn't want to show the movie then.

This is when I realized just how sick my dad was.  This is when I think I understood that my dad was going to die.  Really.

And we really enjoyed that time together.  Uncle Paul and I went swimming in the cold ocean water more than once a day.  We swam together, climbed on rocks together, then soaked in the hot tub or sat in the sauna to warm up together.

I think it was the best vacation I've ever been on.

I remember standing on the beach with your mom.  Standing very close.  And thinking to myself that this was perfect.  The fresh ocean air, the sinking winter sun, the love of family, and the most beautiful and wonderful woman in the world.

I never wanted to go home.  I never wanted that time to end.  I never wanted to be apart from my family again.

And now life has changed.  Before the next new year Uncle Paul had died.  Grandpa had died.  My job had changed and I was home only a few days each month.  The world as I knew it - as I had always imagined it - had changed forever.

Today, as I walked in the pleasantly cool winter air of Houston, Texas, I looked at the blue sky and the red leaves on the trees and whispered out loud, "I miss you, Paul.  I miss you, Dad."

And I thought I felt them close to me.

It didn't take away the missing.  But it did help ease the pain.  And I have hope along with the pain and the missing.  I have hope because I know we'll all be together as a family again, after this life is done.  And when we are, we won't have the sicknesses or the weaknesses or the demons that dog us here on earth.

We will be healthy and peaceful and happy.  Together.  Forever.