Danger on the Trail

The Iditarod winners have arrived, tended their dogs, greeted their families, gotten some sleep and still  mushers are crossing the finish line.  The race, while it has been won, is not over until the last musher crosses the finish line and collects the red lantern.

Before I move on to other things, I have one story that caught my attention from the race.  I think it illustrates the rugged individuals that take on the challenge as well as the unpredictableness of racing through a winter wilderness.

Scott Janssen is  a very successful mortician with a chain of funeral homes in the Anchorage area.  He had been a sponsor and friend of Paul Gebhardt for years and decided in 2007 to try mushing himself.  He is an ardent outdoorsman with a wry sense of humor.  You can learn more about him on his Facebook page, the Mushing Mortician. 

This year is Scott's third Iditarod and although the conditions were far from ideal he was enjoying his experience.  The going was rough, over ground that was just sparsely covered with snow.  The dogs were strung out in front and going at a good clip, which means the sled is banging along behind like the end of "crack the whip" when Scott looked up and saw a tree stump directly in the path.  Sleds don't come equipped with steering wheels so he lurched to one side of the sled in an attempt to by-pass the stump.  Unfortunately, he hit a tussock of grass that caused the sled to turn over and slammed him into the stump.  In Scott's words, he then went "night-night".  He awoke to find his dogs had returned and were huddled around him sleeping.  He thought that was odd, especially when he noticed a light covering of snow on them.  Instead of being out for a minute, like he had thought, he actually had been unconscious for about 2 hours. 

In true mushing tradition, he checked himself out, decided he was o.k. and proceeded to repair his sled.  He admits it probably took him a little longer than it normally would but he eventually got his dogs and sled back on the trail.  He's getting along down the trail and thinking he's got everything under control when one of his dogs runs on the opposite side of a tree from the gang-line.  (On this part of the trail they are literally running through the woods.)  Fortunately the harness is designed for just such an event and breaks away, freeing the dog.  The dog runs ahead of the team and down the trail.  Scott, fearing that the dog would get lost, calls to him and begins to run after him.  In by-passing the team (which has stopped) he hits a thin spot in the stream he must cross and breaks through the ice.  The dog meanwhile has returned to the team, so Scott climbs out of the shallow water to run to the sled to reattach the dog.  The water on his boots turns to ice and he slips, falling and breaking his right leg. 

Now he is lying down hill from his sled and unable to drag himself to it.  He does manage to get out of the water, but he is wet and doesn't have his gloves on.  It doesn't take long before he begins to fear hypothermia and frostbite.  He knows that there are mushers behind him on the trail, but he doesn't know when they will come.  He can only hope it is in time.  Just when he is beginning to wonder if he'll turn into an ice cube he hears the approach of a team.  Soon he is looking into the concerned face of Newton Marshall, the Jamaican musher who has run in three previous Iditarods.  "Hey, Mon.  What can I do to help?"  Newton locates Scott's sleeping bag and ground cloth and is able to begin getting him warm.  He then retrieves the GPS tracker device that is mandatory for each musher and is attached to the sled.  This device also has a SOS button which they activate.  Newton, then stays with Scott until help arrives in the form of some of the snowmobile riders that travel up and down the trail doing some of the thousands of jobs needed to keep the trail clear and the race running.  Rescues, being one of the jobs.  Assured that his fellow musher will be taken care of, he continues with his race.  (Note:  During a race only another musher may help a musher.  Accepting assistance from anyone else is an automatic scratch.  In this case, a moot point, since Scott is out of the race anyway.)

Because of the inaccessibility of the location the only way to get Scott out and to a hospital is by air.  The Army sends a Black Hawk helicopter to swoop down and retrieve the injured musher.  The snowmobilers will gather up his gear and dogs and take them to the closest check-point for them to be returned to Anchorage.

Scott was checked for head injuries - not serious- and had his leg set and in 24 hrs. was ready to head for Nome to welcome in the winning mushers. 

Comments from Scott:  "Maybe helmets should be required equipment."  "The coolest thing was refueling the helicopter in mid-air on the way to Anchorage.  They propped me up so I could watch.  Neat!"  On a serious note, he does think that the GPS trackers should be worn by the mushers at all times instead of on the sled.  Because he couldn't reach his tracker to signal for help, he very well could have died. 

Iditarod Upset

When I went to bed last night I thought the story of the Iditarod was all sewed up.  Jeff King had established about an hour lead over Ally Zirkle and all he had to do was just keep on to Nome for the win.  However, Mother Nature took a hand and it wasn't that simple.

Coming down from the mountains onto the shore they began to experience extreme winds, gusting up to 55 mph and creating a ground blizzard of blowing snow.  King, with a comfortable 1 hr. lead over Zirkle is struck by a severe gust of wind and blown off the trail and into a pile of drift wood.  There he would spend the next 1 1/2 hours untangling his dogs and sled and getting them settled and back on the trail.  The dogs were unhappy with the wind conditions and King decided that he just couldn't push them to finish and scratched.  Ally, not knowing that this had occurred, persevered down the trail and into the next check-point, not realizing that she had passed King on the way.  Once there she took stock of her dogs reluctance to run head-on into such a gale and decided to rest and hope the wind died down.  (This is not just a breeze but hurricane force winds, at below freezing temperatures with ground snow blowing in sheets parallel to the ground. The winds are flipping snowmobiles over and tearing off windshields.   All along the trail mushers are pulling off and seeking protection for themselves and their dogs.)

Now it gets weird.  While she is resting in the check-point, Dallas Seavy, who was in third place behind her, charges into the check-point and out again without stopping for a rest, thinking he has to catch the leaders, who he thinks are a couple of hours ahead.  Ally, realizing she has just lost the lead, hurries out after him.  They tear off down the trail in the wind and snow, on the final 22 miles into Nome.  The funny part is that Dallas thinks the light he sees dogging his trail is his father, Mitch Seavy, who was running in fourth place behind him.  Remember, he still thinks he is in third behind the leaders.  Now, he knows that if he lets his 54 year old father run him down and pass him his family will never let him live it down.  With that thought he goes all out on his drive for Nome, running beside the sled or ski-poling to help push them along.

With that determined light behind him he charges down the street toward the finish line, running beside the sled.  Reaching the finish he collapses onto the seat and drops his head in exhaustion.  An official drapes his arm over his shoulders and says, "Do you realize you just won the Iditarod?"  He looks up in amazement and just two minutes later, Ally Zirkle comes rushing down the street to her third, second place finish in the last three years. (Dallas' dad, Mitch didn't finish for third place  until about 2 1/2 hrs. later. 

The time---8 days, 14 hours, 9 minutes.  A new record.

Maybe there is something to youth and strong legs after all.

2014 Iditarod--The End is in Sight

Those of you who have followed me know that I am an avid follower of the Iditarod sled dog race in Alaska.  I have been enthralled for the past week following the various mushers and their dogs across 1000 miles of frozen trails.  Thanks to the Internet, I can follow from my kitchen table with instant GPS tracking, video interviews at the rest stops, streams of written articles, and more statistical information than I can possibly interpret.  I feel like I am cheering on old friends as the familiar names march across my screen.


This year's leaders are fast approaching the end of the race as they close in on the finish in Nome.  With only about 80 miles left to cover, the world is waiting to see which team will cross the finish line first.  Unlike most sports the competitors are not all under the age of 30.  In fact, age has it's definite advantages in this sport, for it is a race demanding knowledge and wisdom as well as fitness and strength.  Each racer (called mushers) will face 1000 miles of Alaskan terrain with only his abilities and his dogs.  Speeding along for hours on end without seeing another human they will have only themselves to rely on as they deal with whatever the wilderness will throw at them. 


This year the weird weather we have been experiencing has taken a toll on the Alaskan weather, too.  The beginning of the race was over trails that were often rock and dirt rather than packed snow.  This meant the sleds were being thrown from rut, to rock, to tree, to dip, to rut instead of gliding on a cushion of snow.  The sleds survived but the mushers were a mass of bruises, sprains, and bangs.  Several scratched due to the conditions.  Later they faced snow that had melted and refrozen into sheets of ice, that made the hills and mountains into torturous toboggan runs.  Rivers that normally would be frozen into flat roadways, had thawed and refrozen, creating piles of ice blocks that made for hazardous travel.  Add to this temperatures that reached -40 degrees and fierce winds and you have a race to remember--if you survive.


The leaders at this point illustrate the value of experience as well as training and endurance.  The lead is virtually tied at mile 891 where the three top competitors are checking in and resting at White Mountain, 77 miles from Nome.  Ally Zirkle, 44 years old, is the only woman in the leaders, although far from the only woman in the race.  Ally has come in second the last two years and has been a strong leader during the last part of the race.  Virtually tied with her is Jeff King, who is 58, and is striving to win his fifth Iditarod.  Coming on strong right behind them is Dallas Seavy, who at 26, is the youngest of the leaders.  Dallas is hoping for a repeat of his 2012 win, when he became the youngest winner in the Iditarod history.  Following him is his father, Mitch Seavy, aged 54, who won the race last year.  Next is Martin Buser, 56, a four time winner,  and Sonny Linder, 64, who finished 2nd in 1981.  It fascinates me that in a world that worships youth and considers athletes to be "over-the-hill" by 40, this race that is a grueling physical and mental challenge should be dominated by those with some age and wisdom. 


Just to clarify, this is the top six of 53 racers that are spread out over the course of the race, with 14 more that have already scratched.  Men and women, young and old, all competing equally.  The test being in their knowledge as a musher, the athletic abilities of their dogs,  their fitness and strength, and their strategy for the race. 


Another point to know, although Ally Zirkle is the only women in the leaders, should she win, she will not be the first.  Libby Riddles won in 1985 and claims that honor.  While Susan Butcher won a total of four times in 1986, 1987, 1988, and 1990.


The next few hours and 77 miles will see some real excitement as the leaders jockey for position and race for Nome.

Grandsons

I always thought I would be the sweet, cuddly type of grandmother that was adored by her grandchildren.  After all I loved to cook (especially cookies), raised two kids that became delightful adults, and had a bunch of fun doing it.  I had visions of happy children, enjoying quiet games in a house that smelled of homemade goodies, while hubby and I enjoyed the peaceful scene. 


Reality isn't quite the same.


Last week I gleefully made homemade chocolate chip cookies knowing that the boys would be out after school.  They were fresh out of the oven and cooling on the counter when the kitchen erupted with coats, boots, gloves and boys.  The littlest one immediately announced that he didn't like that kind of cookies.  "You haven't even tried them!"  I exclaimed.  The middle one started rooting in the pantry looking for a box of Little Debbies.  "They're fresh out of the oven!  Still warm!  Try one!" I begged.  Looking put upon, they dutifully munched a cookie.  "See, I told you I didn't like them."  The little one announced, digging into the store bought cookies. 


About that time the teen-aged grandson wandered in and finished off the homemade cookies.   Teenagers can be so rewarding--especially when it comes to cleaning up food.


Life just doesn't seem to turn out quite like you dream.


In fact, having three boys and a little girl descend on our house is more an exercise in chaos than tranquility.  I spend most of my time grabbing flying toys, rescuing the dog, settling squabbles, and handing out food.  Instead of soft mummers of love I'm more likely to be shouting commands like a drill sergeant. 


The other day, I had just cleaned up after lunch and the kids were all off playing.  The little girl, who is two, was having a tea party in the sunroom, the teenager was deep into a video game, the middle boy was playing a game on my iPhone and the youngest was playing with a small car in the kitchen.  Suddenly there was the sound of a crash in the kitchen.  I rounded the corner to find him standing, barefoot, in a sea of broken glass from the coffee carafe he had managed to knock to the floor.    "DON'T MOVE!"  I screamed.  For once in his life he actually obeyed a command, probably more from shock than actual obedience.  Leaping across the floor, I yelled for the seven year old to grab the baby and keep her in the den and out of the kitchen.  I grabbed up the little boy and threw him onto the bed in the bedroom and told him not to move. 


I frantically swept up the glass praying none of the others would run into the kitchen and step on a stray splinter of glass.  After sweeping the floor three times I finally decided it was safe and returned to the bedroom to check on the little boy.  I was confronted by a tear streaked, hic-upping bundle of misery.  In all the confusion and shouting he had decided his days were numbered.  "I-I-mm s-sorry." he sobbed. 


I wrapped my arms around him and assured him that I wasn't going to strangle him--this time anyway. 


Sometimes a hug is better than a lecture. 

Robert

I was lucky enough to grow up in a very close-knit family.  My father and his brother were only 11 months apart in age and had been raised, virtually, as twins.  They were incredibly close.  When I was young they lived on the same street in town and were in business together.  Naturally, we were in and out of our Uncle's house about as much as we were ours.  They had two boys and a girl, daddy had two girls.  Our ages stair stepped down with a year or two between.  I fell between the two boys. 

I grew up following the older brother everywhere I could and plotting mischief with the younger brother, Robert.  He was the baby of the clan.  A sweet, chubby child who, as my aunt proclaimed, was her one experiment with the rhythm method of birth control.  (It took me about 20 years to figure out what that meant!) 

Robert took after his father's father, in that he grew and grew.  Pawpaw was 6'6"  in an age when a tall man was 6'.  Robert passed him up and achieved 6'9" in his prime.  Unfortunately, a mild case of polio as a child left him unable to comfortably support his large size.  While he could walk very well, any type of extreme exercise left him in pain.  The basketball coach almost wept.

He could have been a brat.  Bigger than all his school mates, teased and ridiculed as only kids can, he nevertheless remained a sweet tempered, gentle natured child.  Over the years he developed a penetrating intellect and a wicked sense of humor.  He loved people and people loved him back.  That didn't keep him from poking fun and taking more than a few down from their high horse. 

Robert loved trying new things and following new ideas.  This took him down some strange roads but also produced some beautiful things.  He became interested in art and painted some exquisite figurines, paintings, and other objects.  A pair of lovely, Thai dancers are the pride of my dining room right now.  He sang beautifully and played several instruments.  Always a good cook and a gourmand, he decided to become a chef.  He attended school and educated us all on the finer points of eating well.  His inquiring mind took him down the path of alternative medicines.  He became a well-known expert on herbal medicines.  He was always willing to think outside of the box and explore new possibilities.

His adulthood took him far from home but he never forgot about his home town.  He delighted in coming "home" and seeing what everyone was doing.  A considerate, caring man he donated countless hours to the less fortunate--something he never spoke about.  However, almost any other subject was fair game.  His quick wit and penetrating intellect kept us all on our toes.

I always thought of myself as a pretty sharp conversationalist.  Robert, however, could reduce me to
giggles and stutters.   I can see him now, leaning down and peering into my eyes, while his danced and twinkled.  "Now, Jo.  Are you sure you want to stand by your statement?" he would ask about whatever we were deep in discussion about.  "Yes, indeed."  I would proclaim, sure that this time I was right.  He would then puncture my argument with a well placed barb that would leave us laughing and me deflated!

Robert, the world is a better place for your being in it.  You did "your own thing" regardless of what others thought, but you were always true to yourself.  We'll miss you.

The Drunk's Cure

For years, all of our vacations and most of our socializing took place at cattle shows.  We would spend a week at the State Fair, a week at the National Jr. Angus Show, a few days at the North American Livestock Exposition, and then a day here and there at other shows.  Usually the same group of parents and kids would show up.  The kids would visit and care for the cattle while the dads supervised and talked shop.  The moms doled out food, watched for accidents (moms always expect the worst), and caught up on each other's lives.  Some of my dearest friends were found in those cattle barns.

We were sitting in the barns one day when one of the wives entertained us with a tale  of how she broke her husband from coming home with too many beers under his belt.

It seems, in his younger days, he loved to go out with the guys and drink a few beers.  He would then stumble home in the wee hours and fall into bed.  His bride wasn't too taken by his activities or his buddies.  She tried pouting prettily.  Didn't work.  She tried pleading earnestly.  Didn't work.  She tried reasoning.  Didn't work.  She resorted to shrewish nagging.  Didn't work.

Finally the night came when he stumbled home, after a night of whooping it up with the boys, to discover his bride waiting up for him.  Smiling sloppily, as only a drunk can, he peered at her.  "Aw honey.  I just had a few with the boys.  It's ok." he mumbled.  She simply pointed at the couch and he promptly fell down and was soon snoring peacefully. 

Now this was a seriously pissed woman. 

She wanted revenge.  She wanted retribution.

She turned and marched into the bedroom and gathered up all the bedclothes she could find.  With arms loaded she marched into the living room and piled them on top of her sleeping husband.  Not satisfied with that, she gathered up the afghan and a couple of jackets laying around and piled them on too.  With an evil smile, she gathered up her coat and headed for the door.  On the way out, she turned the thermostat up as high as it would go and went home to sleep at mamas.

He reported later that he woke up in the night, burning up, and thought he had died......and gone to hell!!!!  

He became a "one beer" man overnight.

The Old Farm House

When we bought our farm 30 years ago my Hubby was excited beyond words.  For years he had searched for the perfect farm in the perfect location, now he had it.  Before this we had been farming a steep, hillside farm about 20 minutes from our house in town.  Commuting there every night after work was time consuming to say the least.  The thing about buying a farm is that you are buying a farm.  You just "make do" with whatever house comes with it.  The quality of the barns will be discussed and taken into the equation, but the house is incidental.  To the farmer--not the wife. 

The first I knew that this farm was even under consideration was when Hubby came in one afternoon and wanted to know if I would like to check out the house.  Being in the real estate business it wasn't uncommon for Hubby to  go to auctions with the idea that he might buy "if the price was low enough".  Since we were pretty much on a very tight budget, the price was never low enough, so I never got too excited over his ideas.  After spending the past week cooped up in the house with a sick child, an excursion sounded great to me. 

After touring the farm house I was actually pretty impressed.  The owner had fixed it up cute and it was very homey.  It did have some problems, like a wall caving in in the basement and semi-finished sub-flooring for the kitchen floor, but wasn't as bad as some he had looked at.  When he left the next morning for the auction, I encouraged him to go ahead and bid if he thought it had potential.  I was thinking of a quick resale profit--he was thinking something else.  He arrived home that afternoon and announced he had bought the farm and we could have possession in 60 days.  I made him produce the papers before I really believed him!

Taking in the disbelief on my face, he put his arms around me and murmured into my ear, "I know it's not the house of your dreams, but if you'll just live there for five years I'll build you a new one."

Well, it's been 30 years and he actually has kept his promise--I do have a new house.  We have literally rebuilt the old farmhouse one project at a time!  You see, the problem with an old house is that it is old. 

After spending a week at home during Christmas, our daughter hugged us tightly as they prepared to leave the old homeplace.   "I don't want to be rude, but I figure you probably don't spend a lot of time in the upstairs.  So-o-o, you might want to consider doing some updating.  There are cracks in the bathroom wall, the window doesn't close tight, the hallway needs to have the paper stripped and painted and you need a new mattress on the bed."  I'm sure my mouth was gaping like a hooked bass. 

Hubby and I waved them out of the driveway and turned to each other in disbelief.  "I thought I taught her better manners!" I sputtered.  With a sigh, we went upstairs to take in the situation.  She was right, we did need to start the rebuilding process once again.  The front foundation of our old house is just stacked rocks, which are continually shifting ever so slightly.  Consequently, we have problems with doors that decide not to close, windows that get out of square and won't shut, and walls that develop cracks.  The hallway is the last of the old plaster and lath construction and will have to be drywalled to cover the lumps, bumps, and cracks in it.  The bed she will have to live with--the only way to get a queen sized mattress in the upstairs, due to the low clearance in the stairwell, was to take it in through the roof when we added the bathroom.  I'm not sure how we would do it now. 

So I guess this spring Hubby and I will tackle the last remnants of the old farmhouse and replace and repair.  Then I really will have a new house.  I'll bet it would have been cheaper to have built a new one to begin with. 

And lose all that farmhouse charm.....never.

A Farmer's Weather Lament

It's a well known fact that people are never satisfied with the weather.  Some want it warmer--some cooler--some wetter--some dryer.  It's just human nature I guess.  However, few people are as adamant about their weather wishes as a farmer.  I sometimes wonder if God doesn't get confused listening to all the farmers and their weather demands.

In the spring, they want enough moisture to germinate their seeds but not so much that they can't get in the fields to plant.  Then they want sunshine to make them grow but not so much that they dry up.  Rain enough to nourish but not enough to wash out the little plants.  Add to that the fact that every farmer is on a different schedule and need and I  can see why God would throw up his hands in exasperation!!

In their defense, farmers have to do their chores no matter what the weather is.  Cows must be fed and watered, fences repaired, and crops tended without regard to the desires of the farmer to just "stay in the house and snuggle with a good book --or ballgame".   

Living with a farmer is a challenge.

This time of year is especially a challenge.  Yesterday it was 50 degrees and beautiful.  Knowing that there was a change coming Hubby launched into a rare day off work that coincided with the pretty weather.  A rational person would have noticed that his list of chores was a lot longer than a day.  However, with the optimism that only a farmer knows, he eagerly attacked the list.  First off was delivering a piece of equipment to the shop to be repaired.  Then after, a brief (?) visit with the owner,  he returned to the farm to help get some cattle up to be moved.  This is more of a job than it seems since with the warm weather came thawing of the mud surrounding every feed trough, waterer, fence line, gate, or anywhere else that humans or cattle move.  Boots protect the feet but soon become encased in inches of heavy mud so that it is like hiking in concrete blocks.

After getting the cattle settled into their new location, it was time to put out some hay for them.  Sounds easy--fire up the tractor and spear a bale of hay and dump it in the waiting ring.  Except for the mud.  Every gate has to be opened, and closed, involving a slog through the mud to open then a trudge back to the tractor.  Now repeat on the other side of the gate.  Even the tractor tires will slip and slide in the mud.

Even little chores, like re-hanging a gate or replacing a plank in the fence become a game of slip and slide.  Don't even think about trying to head off the frisky calf that decided to take advantage of the gate being open to make a dash for freedom! 

Days end came with a spectacular sunset, that Hubby was almost too tired to notice.

Today we awoke to snow and falling temperatures.  It is forecast to fall into the low single digits, which means all that mud will freeze to holes, ridges, spikes and dips.  Today's chores will be done in the Arctic cold, in fading light, after work.  Waterers will freeze and have to be broken loose, ponds will freeze and have to have holes chopped for the cows to drink and extra feed will have to be delivered to the mama cows. 

At least the mud is frozen.

Now, God, about this snow.......

Those Pesky Numbers

My brain just doesn't do numbers.  I love words. I love how they sound, what they mean, and what you can do with them.  I just love words.  Numbers are another story.  They never seem to do what I want them to.  That's why I keep the farm accounts on Quicken.  All I have to do is make sure I enter the numbers right and the computer makes them do their thing. It's genetic.  My dad wasn't a number person either.  My mother, on the other hand, could make a spreadsheet balance to the penny while carrying on a conversation with a customer. Both my husband and daughter tend to think in numbers.  I don't and unfortunately, my son inherited my genes on that one.

When I was in college I had a chemistry teacher that looked a lot like a cheery Santa, but that's where the resemblance ended.  I lived in terror of his lightning attacks on hapless students who didn't meet up to his expectations.  Although, as he constantly informed us, his expectations were low because he knew we weren't very capable. While returning a quiz we had taken the day before, he roared out to me.  "I don't understand it!  You should have gotten a A!  You worked everything correctly, you used the correct formulas and the proper equations but you still managed to GET THE WRONG ANSWERS!!!!  TELL ME THE REASON!"  Without pausing, he continued to the amusement of the entire class. "I'll tell you why!  You can't add 2 plus 2 without getting 5!!!"  Cowering in my seat, I could only nod in agreement.  In those days before calculators, I was constantly making silly, careless errors.  Numbers just didn't like me.  I understood the methods, the reactions, the formulas, I just couldn't make all those numbers behave.

It didn't take me long to decide my career choices probably wouldn't include being an accountant or chemist.

Fortunately, the career I chose let me play with words to my hearts content.

My son, who as I mentioned was the unfortunate recipient of my "no-numbers" gene, was having a rough time with an Algebra assignment while in high school.  At the time I was working as a substitute teacher whenever they needed me.  It was a standing joke in the teacher's lounge that I was willing and able (especially in English, geography, history and even in Ag)  but I was hopeless in teaching a math class unless it was VERY basic!!  Still I felt obligated to attempt to help out my struggling son.  We managed to wade through most of the problems with some success (as verified by the answers thoughtfully given in the back of the book) but one had just plain stumped us.  After trying it several different ways, my son was all for just giving up and leaving it unanswered.  I just kept insisting we try one more thing (did I mention that I am also stubborn?)  We worked and worked and finally achieved a solution that arrived at the correct answer. I was jubilant.  He was just relieved that I would finally let him go to bed.

The next day I was subbing in one of the classes at school.  As I made my way down the hall after lunch,  the algebra teacher flagged me down from his room.  "You helped Mike with is homework didn't you?' he inquired with a laugh.  "Why?  Weren't the answers correct?'  I replied with a little hesitation.  "Oh, yes.  They were correct.  Every one of them.  Even that hard one at the end."  he answered with a little laugh.  "Well, then.  What makes you so sure I helped with them?"  I asked, a little more sharply.  "Because," he said laughing heartily, "In 20 years of teaching algebra I have never seen anyone use that method or logic to get an answer and get it right.  I have spent all day trying to duplicate it on the board with my classes.  With only limited success, mind you.  You are the only person I know that could have created that solution!!"  Still laughing he waved me down the hall.

As I hurried on to my own classroom I couldn't decide if I had been complemented or insulted. 

Like I said my brain just doesn't do numbers like everyone else.

Pearl Harbor Day: A Day of Remembrance

Today is December 7.  It's a day that always stands out in my mind as Pearl Harbor Day.  I wasn't even born then but I was raised by the generation that lived through it.  In one day their safe, secure world was turned upside down.  I don't think any of them ever took their freedoms and secure lives for granted again.  They lived their lives in quiet thankfulness that the time of world war and endless battles was over.  Although American troops would fight again, (and still do) it never reached the global magnitude of "their" war again.  They instilled in us, as children, a deep respect for our military and the men and women that served and continue to serve our country.

A book I just finished reading provided me with thoughts on another side of that fateful war.  The book followed the plight of the thousands of Japanese-Americans who were interred in what were basically prisoner of war camps in America.  These immigrants had arrived in America for various reasons  from being forced labor during the late 1800's to looking for a new life in a free world.  Many were first generation Americans, speaking English with a strong accent, but also many were second and third generation Americans who had never seen Japan, spoken Japanese, or known anything but their American lives. 

In the aftermath of the vicious bombing of Pearl Harbor, Americans were afraid.  They no longer felt that their shores were safe from invasion.  They were afraid of being "attacked" from within.  How did they separate the "good" Japanese-Americans from those with subversive ties to Imperialist Japan?  The answer was, they didn't.  They treated them all as the enemy and gathered them up and put them in camps.  Horrible?  Yes.  Understandable?  Some.  We were at war, something most of us really can't comprehend now.  For these Americans (and they were as American as my Swiss immigrant relatives) the war was an entirely different time for them.  They spent the war not fighting for their country as many earnestly wished, but waiting behind fences for it to be over.

Things were no different for the thousands of German-Americans who suffered the same incarceration.  I wonder how my mother-in-law's parents felt when they read about the round-up of these German-Americans?  After all even though they were from Switzerland (the side bordering Germany), they still spoke the language of their youth, German.  Would their neighbors turn on them and demand that they be locked up?  I'm sure there were some anxious moments. 

What happened when the war was over?  The detainees went home.  No, not to the country of their ethnicity but the country of their hearts--their USA homes.  They returned to their old neighborhoods, regained their old professions and started their lives again.  Even with the hardships, they were and remained Americans. 

We are a multi-cultural and ethnic country.  Let us never forget that we are the greater for the total of our parts.