THANKSGIVING BOXED DINNER

    OUR HOTEL NEAR TABA ON THE RED SEA

It was the eve before Thanksgiving, 2005. As we boarded the bus at our hotel near Taba, set on the shores of the Red Sea, and pulled into the black ink night, my thoughts swam through the surrounding darkness to my children at home in Idaho. I thought how they would be preparing for the next day’s feast. Sadly, I envied them just a little. Under my seat, a small box was tightly tucked that held my dinner for the next day. At the time, I did not consider it would be my Thanksgiving Dinner. I had forgotten in the excitement of the next adventure of our Holy Land trip. Our bus was taking us into the blackness of the Sinai desert, blackness akin to the khimar the Muslim woman wear as they quietly and mysteriously glide through the streets of Cairo, Jerusalem, and Amman. Our destination was Mt. Sinai and the climb to its summit for a view of the desert sunrise. 

As our bus hummed through the thickness of the night, the lights from Aqaba and small towns along the coastline of Saudi Arabia sparkled like amber jewels. Gradually they disappeared. Only the stars and their consequent constellations remained. They seemed to suck us up into an eternal black hole. Gradually, we succumbed to the lateness of the night and fell asleep with the gentle rocking motion of the bus.

Our slumber was short-lived. We had arrived at St. Catherine’s Monastery at the base of what traditionally is Mt. Sinai. It was 2 am and we sleepily stumbled our way to what was humorously referred to as “Camelot,” as it was the station where we were to mount our camels for half of the assent to the mountain’s top, truly an unforgettable experience. I did not say pleasant. I just said “unforgettable.” We were assigned a camel with its accompanying “camel boy.”  We mounted the camel with some difficulty and were maneuvered out into the heaviness of the moonless night. The camels lumbered up the rather steep trail passing Bedouins attempting to collect a dollar or two for anything they could sell, from the resident rocks to American candy and sodas. I pondered the scriptural exodus story of the Israelites and where their encampment might have been in the valleys below us, as well as how Lehi’s family probably felt as they left Jerusalem, never to return to their homes. The feelings were intense and moving as the camels made their way along a well-worn rocky trail. 

    CLIMBING MT. SINAI

Finally, after two and a half hours of an excruciating rocking on a saddle far too small, between two saddle horns, one stabbing sharply in the spine, and the other in the front, of which I will not describe or discuss, we arrived at the camel-dismounting station. It was the end of one of those “life sucks” moments. There was no death, however. The air was filled with what I referred to as “camel dung dust.” The assent, I quickly learned had only begun. The remainder was mandated to our feet that oddly enough had been stricken with numbness from the camel ride. With flashlights in hand, we began the grueling two-hour climb for what seemed like miles of switchbacks. We helped each other along the steep and demanding trail, climbing over boulders while attempting to keep our equilibrium in the darkness. Finally, we arrived at the peak of Mt. Sinai, along with 500 other curious tourists, and pilgrimage-seeking people of all nationalities. Oddly enough, we were the only Americans, and all were pushing to the edge of the rocky face vying for the prime photographer’s position. We waited. Gradually the luminescence of the dawn slowly chased the blackness of the night away to expose the low-lying fog softly blanketing layers of violet, blue and purple mountain ranges before us. Finally, the sun pierced the dawn sending a needle-like sliver of yellow across the horizon. 

 

     SUNRISE AT THE TOP OF MT. SINAI

At that point, the orange sun moved quickly upward splitting the single yellow sliver into multiple orange-red spikes of brilliant light. Breathtaking! It played a game of tag with the shadows among the desolate mountain peaks and crevices, chasing them and recreating our view from moment to moment. It was the reward for the extremely arduous and exhausting trek up what now was exposed as a rocky desolation that still held a breathless beauty in its grip. At that moment, it seemed like the pinnacle of events we had already experienced on our journey through the Holy Lands of Israel, Jordon and Egypt.

 

     MT. SINAI AS SUN MOVES SLOWLY DOWN THE RUGGED CANYONS

  

Our descent down the mountain was much faster, even though we were dependent only on our feet to do so.  We arrived at St. Catherine’s in good time, made our way through the various booths of vendors to our awaiting bus. It felt good to sit…on something other than a camel. Others in the bus were pulling out their boxed lunch and making comments on the dryness of the bread and cheese sandwiches. Someone noticed a young Arab boy standing outside of the bus longingly eyeing the Americans.  One of the men on board stepped outside and offered this young boy what was left of the boxed lunch we had all be complaining about. Eagerly, he grabbed it. Immediately, all of us in the bus began gathering up what we had thought was unacceptable food, and delivered it to this, what appeared as a starving little Arab. We watched as he hid his treasure, hording over it so that others boys would not find it. In our minds, we all wrote the ending to this experience. We had hoped that the little one had taken his treasure home to others who were hungry. I thought to myself that it was much like Thanksgivings across my country where people share with others the bounties of the earth. Perhaps this Arab boy was living a very real “life sucks and then you die” life, while I had plenty, even without my boxed lunch. Now, it became a very memorable Thanksgiving Dinner for someone else.

                                                                                                                                                         

      ARAB BOY RECEIVING BOXED LUNCHES FROM ONE OF OUR GROUP

                                                                          

                                                                                                                               

SILENCING THE LAMBS

 

My grandfather was a government trapper for the State of California. He interlaced my childhood years with his colorful stories of trapping coyotes in the sheep country of Northern California. I would listen, mesmerized hour after hour, usually gathered around a dining table after one of my grandmother’s amazing meals made from whatever she could discover in the cupboards. That is how meals were invented then, with what ingredients were available. Grandpa had an amazing meter to his words, not as an educated poet, but as a spellbinding storyteller. As he sat with the smoke from his cigarette encircling his bald head, he spun his tales of nature from his own firsthand experiences. I would visualize the ruthless coyotes’ vicious teeth exhibited through their snarling curled lips as they circled the herds of sheep. They would swiftly pull down a lamb or a ewe defending her young, and tear at its nose until the sheep would lie defenseless and dying in the dirt. Once the nasty task was accomplished, the wolf-like wild dog would walk away, not even touching the meat of its dying prey. In essence, the sheep were invisible to the dogs. It was merely a game wild dogs would play, a silencing of the lambs, a game not worthy of an animal playing its part in the natural food chain. And, that is why my grandfather was a government-employed trapper. Sheep ranchers could have their herds decimated by these ruthless coyotes. For the sheep, it was very much a “life sucks” terror, and they did always end up dying.  Tough being a sheep.

Humans, too, are interesting creatures. Sometimes it would seem that they play the part of the coyote. Individuals with whom I am familiar do not tear the noses off of other human beings, nevertheless, they rip and tear at their victim’s self-esteem, destroying the person’s spirit, dissolving and changing who they are, until they lie crushed, and often dead in spirit. Another memory, a few years following the vivid stories of my grandfather, pounds in my ears like the constant beating of my pulsating tinnitus.  It is of a young boy attending seventh grade. One would imagine him to be like any other boy his age with two arms, legs, hair, two eyes, you know, the general appearance of normalcy. Yet, other coyote kids his age saw him as a weakened lamb. They would circle. They would taunt and tear at his self-esteem, calling him a sissy, making cutting remarks about his clothes, his actions; destroying with words. Like the sharp teeth of the wild dogs of the prairie, words, too, can slash and tear.

 Amazingly, some adolescent children seemingly carry the genes of wild dogs. They will go so far as to physically push, pull and strike another young human until their nose bleeds, and their coat is torn. These injuries heal. The torn spirit does not heal as easily. It most definitely is a life defining moment. It is a life sucks and then you want to die horrendous moment. Haunted by a ravaged spirit, often these sheep stagger through life with the terror of past secrets. No one wants to ever admit that they were youthful victims of insensitive and unfeeling packs of coyotes. They just want to belong. In defense, they either dissolve into the shadows of the past, becoming invisible, or they become obnoxious in order to defend their shredded spirits. Some have the spirit of survival, while others do eventually give up, shrinking into invisibility. It is though Harry Potter’s Invisibility Cloak was permanently thrown over them. They just disappear for all intents and purposes. The stronger coyotes survive to tear at yet another victim. Not all coyotes are adolescent. Perhaps, it would be easier to be a sheep than a human.

It is never easy to rid a soul of sharp words once shot into one’s heart and mind like piercing arrows. That pain echoes inside as a forever reminder of the person’s uselessness. There is one, however, who would tend the sheep and protect them from ravenous wolves. He who heals all wounds will eventually encircle the sheep, much like the wild dogs, but with a different result in mind. Life’s experiences happen, and they can suck, and we will all die, but perhaps being aware of others can aid in the mending of ravaged souls. Perhaps then, the Cloak of Invisibility can be lifted to reveal the potential that was always there, totally unaware to the coldblooded coyotes.

BOTTOMS UP!

Time for a colonoscopy, old man!

You hit sixty-plus years old and it seems that your body senses that you should no longer be able to do what you have previously done. Prior to that morphing intrusion of the body due to an unwelcomed aging factor, that non-magical time in your life, everything seemed to be in order. However, the body starts playing games with you. The game involves parts of your body that did work at one time without thought, and then parts that suddenly do not work. Before you know it, you are on a constant diet of doctors. Doctor Numero Uno assigns you to take a “spit and pooh” test to check how your digestive track is surviving the attack of the “golden years.” Frankly, it is just another “life sucks and then you die” slap in the face. Actually, the result is not quite a slap in the face, if you don’t count the double chin, and the bags under your eyes that appear to be packed for a vacation to an exotic foreign country. It is more like “time for another colonoscopy,” my favorite medical pastime, and a result of the “spit and pooh” test. Do these tests all work together to humiliate you as much as is emotionally possible?

A diagram of my colon. "X" locates the polyp.

So, I report for hospital duty early in the morning. Does no one work in the afternoon at these places? This is following a harrowing day of drinking what seems like 42 gallons of a fluid that makes you want to puke, even though, it does not have a recognizable flavor. However, regurgitating is NOT part of the planned result. You just have to plan the previous day around the little white stool that has a permanent location in your bathroom. Do not dare to venture farther than about 15 feet from it, or…well, just make certain that you have a washer and dryer handy if you do manage to pass the point of no return. Back to the hospital. I report, and I am led down a hall like a dumb sheep. “Take off all of your clothes and put on this gown,” someone commands who should be taking off whatever they are wearing, considering that the blue uniform is in no way flattering…on anyone! By the way, I do not think that anyone connected with the fashion industry has ever been in a hospital, or they would have noticed that those blue sagging uniforms and the sheer cotton “gowns” make everyone look like something from a horror movie. But, that is beside the point, although, it is a good point.

Pumpkin polyps hiding in your colon!

So, I put on the gown, which I might add, is nothing close to what I would be caught wearing to bed. And, why are the ties to these “handsome print wraps” always in the back where one cannot reach them? A person appears to be a contortionist walking around in a circle, like a cat deciding where and when it will flop in a comfortable position. Attempting to catch the strings and tie them, thus controlling how much ventilation one will receive through the back of this amazing garment is nothing short of a test in agility. Is it not enough to realize that my derriere will be where “X marks the spot,” that it will be transmitted on a screen where several individuals in saggy blue uniforms will be following the play by play action, and that never once will I really know what jokes are being conjured during this event? Still, I would feel more comfortable if I knew it were covered for the time I am still in consciousness.

Eventually, you climb aboard the bed that is going to take you on that trip down so many hallways to the “port of authority.” The doctor follows shortly and he is Mr. Happy-go-Lucky Man. Of course he is. Nothing is happening to him. It is HE who is going to climb inside of ME. Terrific! Laugh it up fuzz ball. Then I notice that the men in the blue baggy “scrubs” commense attaching tubes into the needles that took them three or four attempts to insert in the veins at the top of my hands. I notice that the anesthesiologist ever so slightly nods his head to the doctor. It suddenly becomes apparent that there is a secret code being passed from one individual to another. I realize that I am being taken out of the world of consciousness before I can protest or make another snide remark to anyone.

Suddenly, I am awake and my stomach feels like a truck just drove through me, which may be close to the truth. I was just awake, and now I am awake again, but in a different room. The nice nurse is telling me that everything went well, the doctor found a polyp that he removed, and now it is time to leave. When did this all happen and where was I? Man! Where does the time go? So I slither out of the afore mentioned “printed wonder gown,” manage to get my clothes back on while still in a stupor, everything in the right direction, and the nice nurse plants me in a wheelchair and trolleys me out to the curb into cool, crip autumn air. “So long, thanks for coming, and we will see you again soon.” "Not if I can help it," I think. Something about the whole affair makes me feel slightly violated and uncomfortable.

A week later I return to the doctor where I learn about polyps, diverticulitis, not eating berries with those tiny seeds from my favorite raspberry bushes along the north side of my house, and a whole new way of eating that does not include some of my favorite junk food like popcorn. I learn about fiber, fiber, and more fiber. It all sounds so boring. Two days later, the lab calls me while I am walking down the hall at work and informs me that my polyp was cancerous, a rather cold and shocking bit of unexpected information about my body. However, they inform me that it was removed during the colonoscopy and they are sure they got it all. I am supposed to feel relief. Suddenly, my life takes on a different meaning, and I wonder what other secrets my body is harboring. Thanks to the “life sucks and then you die” encounter with the men in the saggy blue costumes, I learn that life could come to an ugly end without the miracle of modern medical technology. And, I have not even mentioned the carpal tunnel and trigger thumb surgery yet. Another story for another blog. Remember...bottoms up!

Meat...not the best fiber-filled food.

A great fiber-filled summer salad.

Tomato, motzerella, and basil salad, sprinkled with olive oil. Healthy.

BRING IT ON MOTHER NATURE!

Summer roses in our garden

Preparing my yard for autumn and a long cold winter, a detestable end of the summer ritual, proceeded forth today without notice. The world kept rotating. I always considerate it a “life sucks” adventure. Behind me rests summer memories of travel, warm pleasant times, grilled food outdoors and pleasant gatherings with family members. Ahead winter positions itself like a monstrous Sasquatch threatening with cold, icy days, dreary gray, bleak skies, and bone-chilling temperatures. For me, winter is a “life sucks and then you die” trauma. Once, before making Idaho my home, I longed for the crispness of autumn, colored brilliantly with trees toasting the advent of rainy winter days, and the smell of burning wood from homey fireplaces, smoke wafting through the rain-fresh air. That was then in California, and now is now in Rexburg, Idaho. The “now” finds me scurrying to clip and cut back the overgrowth of summer, stashing away yard ornaments, delicate hybrid roses, and pots that quite possibly could succumb to the brutality of Sasquatch. I worry about my ornamental Koi hibernating beneath miniature granite-boulder caves in the pond soon to be camouflaged by ice and snow.

Koi enjoying summer

Yet, those mentioned memories of traveling to London melt the frozen mind-snows as I review my photos, and fill my mind with adventure among the Brits. I love the British Isles. Scotland, my ancestral heritage, especially surfaces as a favorite destination. However, spending a few days in London this summer, taking side trips to Brighton, a seaside resort on the south coast, and York, a medieval city with a magnificent cathedral at its core, contributed to a forgetfulness of that which was left behind in the U.S.

London's Big Ben

Royal Pavilion at Brighton, George IV's "playhouse"

London Tower - "off with their heads"

A grotesque at Westminster Cathedral

Escape, defined as breaking free from confinement and control, perfectly describes travel. An opportunity to empty, and refill with new energy is necessary for survival of the human. One’s mind and spirit becomes confined and smothered, yearning, even demanding to be set free to sponge up others’ creative juices in magnificent architecture, and the historic leftovers exhibited in museums. Art stimulates and encourages the spirit to soar, and to breathe new life into the mind and soul. Eyes are opened to new possibilities. Rejuvenation!

Independence Hall in Philadelphia, Megan & Ryan

Frank Lloyd Wright's Fallingwater

So, allow autumn her privilege of whispering what is yet to come. Mother Nature may be cruel and harsh this winter, but as autumn’s warning of the impending arrival of winter is confident, and beyond any doubt winter will kill what autumn has not, so is my confidence that life, for me, might suck were it not for those flashbacks of summer travel, family gatherings, and food grilling on the barbeque. Bring it on, Mother Nature.

Eating a Philly Steak Sandwich

S'mores around the fire in McCall

Amy celebrating her birthday in McCall with a giant cinnamon roll

Sympathy or a nap...

Mucha stained-glass window, St. Vitus Cathedral, Czech Republic

It was 7:00 PM. I finally had my “teacher homework” gathered in my bag, laptop safely stowed, and other paraphernalia stuffed in the pockets of my old black, aging briefcase. I turned off my office lights, slung the bag over my shoulder and carefully descended the stairs out into the crisp evening walking slowly to my car. A young girl stepped in front of my intended path talking intently on her phone. “ Yes,” she said, “ I had a class this morning, and a 3½-hour nap.” I nearly sunk to my knees and cried. I could barely get to my car following a day of classes, helping students solve design problems, dealing with various computer issues, and a myriad of other daily activities. My lawn has not been mowed in two weeks. Frost has killed all my potted flowers, and they hang in a comatose tangle of limpness. No time to clean up fall’s destructive attack. So, how is it that a student attending a university can have a 3½-hour nap? Obviously, “life does suck,” at least for me. I cannot even remember when the last time was that I had a nap at all! (I am not counting church meetings, or presentations in class in that tabulation.)

But, allow me to progress to the point of this blog. The title was conceptualized as a result of my personality. I have been accused of being negative throughout my life. I personally refer to it as being realistic. In addition, I interlaced my perceived negativity with good doses of sarcasm. Voilà…the birthing of a skeptical, negative, sarcastic person! And, I was such a sweet little boy. Anyway, when the title erupted from my sarcastic mouth, my daughter, Megan, laughed and indicated that she and my other daughter, Heather, had discussed, behind my back, mind you, my lack of sympathy. They agreed that the title was perfect for one such as I. Even my son, Logan, when asked on the phone the other night, if I was a “non-sympathetic,” he, too, cast his lot into the affirmative barrel of believers. It seems that when life has smacked them along side of the head, and they wanted to download on me, I just uttered those infamous words, “life sucks and then you die”. Actually, it is not that there is a lack of sympathy on my part; it is just that at my mature age, I have dealt with some of life’s little surprises, challenges, trials (like not having a nap)…whatever you want to call them. They are just part of this life, and its numerous disappoints. Like the squirrel that runs back and forth across the road, there may come the time when a car hits the varmint dead center. (Excuse the pun.) Welcome to life, or death.

The dictionary defines sympathy as being “feelings of pity and sorrow for someone’s misfortune,” or “ a formal expression of such feelings”. When I read this definition, I was surprised that my family perceived me as the grumpy old man that could quite possibly drive over the above said squirrel and feel no sympathy for the loss of it’s life. Funny, this is the same person that, after killing his first deer, looked into its eyes and vowed never to take the life of an animal without need or cause again. This is the same person that cries taking out the garbage – usually because tender feelings have been touched by the needs of someone else, or the sorrows of my children, or the brutality of life itself. I know…you think I need medication. Got that covered. Apparently, my persona is quite different than who I thought I was all of this time. That just might be one of life’s little surprises I mentioned above. Yes, now and then “life sucks”

Me at about two years old. This kid is filled with sympathy.

The issue with sympathy is this. If we sit around whining about what has happened to us, how life is unfair, expecting people to pour out sympathy and solve our discomforts, whether a result of being a victim, or of our own poor decision making, we never climb out of our pity-pile. Therefore, we are a victim paralyzed by our need for sympathy and coddling. We do not accomplish, achieve, love, or attain our greatest potential. There is a sense of entitlement to having someone lollygag over us. Waste of time. Don’t get me wrong. Everyone loves to have someone appreciate and care about them. Even Mr. Grumpy Old Man appreciates a comforting smile or attention. Call it sympathy. Call it what you may. Just allow me a 3 ½ hour nap once in awhile!

Cambodia,12th Century Angkor Wat water lilies

THOUGHTS ON LIFE

The McRae Homeland

A comment on the title of this first blog...

The noted naturalist, John Muir, a Scotsman whose philosophies influenced the formation of the modern environmental movement, once stated,

Nature is ever at work building and pulling down, creating and destroying, keeping everything whirling and flowing, allowing no rest but in rhythmical motion. Chasing everything in endless song out of one beautiful form into another.

It is probably fact that Muir was not a respecter of organized religion, or of a God, per se. However, there was within his study an appreciation of nature, an understanding of the interconnection of that nature and a soul. Well, his definition of a soul. Frankly, I am not interested in what his philosophy was on those matters – God, soul and such. I will be honest. I just liked his quote. There is within it a connection between life and how it reacts with the natural man – “the building, and pulling down, creating and destroying, keeping everything whirling and flowing” aspect. Is that not what life is like? Definitely, it is NOT that dreamy, fantasy-like, magical, romantic place where lovers reside in seclusion making us all ill with their twitterpated wooing and drooling on each other. It is not the cutting and pasting of scrapbook cuteness. In contrast, it sucks most of the time. Only youth are still star-struck with the magic of mortal life. The rest of mankind is being pulled about, whirling and flowing in the hurricane winds of sickness, depression, poverty, stress, death, starvation, divorce, pornography, and aging - among a few of the challenges of our existence on this planet. And do not think for a moment that aging is a joyride on the merry-go-round of life. Far from it.

I could enumerate dozens of acquaint- ances who struggle with the above everyday. I have a friend that lies awake at night worrying about her son that appears to indicate a learning disorder. His teachers tell the parents he will never graduate from seventh grade. There is the student whose husband battles cancer. They are just on the precipice of life. There is my daughter, her children and thousands like them. They have been abandoned by self-indulgent husbands and fathers that are chained to, and smothered by one of the world's most insidious sins, that of pornography. I do not think anyone wants to wear the shoes of any of these individuals, but so many have no choice in the matter. Life is agency, and agency is choice, and millions around the world make choices that destroy the lives of others. Many just suffer as victims of life. The process, as Muir described, of "creating and destroying" is carried forth.

Tell me that life does not suck, and that after a lifetime of wrestling with these stimulating tests of abilities, we do not end up six feet under. So be it. However, the trick is not allowing the “struggles” to diminish our abilities. We will all die, and, by the way, it will still cost you an unbelievable amount of money to do that! My daughter who has been left with three children has risen like the Phoenix to higher levels of ability. Pioneer spirit and blood truly runs through her veins. She soars higher, and more often than not, tires from the soaring. There will be an answer to my friend and her son’s dilemma. Cancer will be smothered one way or another. None of the examples mentioned above have “died.” They have chosen to fight the good fight, and as a consequence, will “chase everything in endless song out of one beautiful form into another.”

True, life sucks, but we do not have to die as a result of living it.

Sand Cherry in the spring.