Almost immediately, Isaac called. All business, needing someone to get to his phone so he could re-establish contact with us now that he's in the mission, not the MTC.
Hit a few bumps, but did get contact re-established. This is excellent news.
Now I jut need someone to tell me where Elder Pixton is serving . . .
At the time I didn't understand why I wasn't allowed, while most of my older siblings were.
This weekend we visited the area and I actually read the signs rather than complain about the stink, and I learned that further up the trail at the Churning Cauldron Pool underground activity changed a "cool" pool into, well, a churning cauldron after a series of earthquakes in 1978 and 1979, leading to a lot of changes in the area.
So not quite as violent as the recent activity at the Black Diamond Pool, but notable in the fact it occurred fairly close to when we visited.
So maybe Mom was being protective of her younger children by saying we could go no further, but figured the older kids had had their run.
#FavoriteChild #PureSpeculation
The more I visit Yellowstone, the more joy I find in the little, unnamed features the park has.
This little bloop-bloop is in the same general area as the Mud Volcano and is highly likely connected to it. It attracted me because of the odd noises it makes.
I'm pretty sure the only way to record this noise without the accompanying human chatter would be to go there either very early in the morning or late at night. And even then . . .
An email exchange on Isaac's second MTC P-Day:
Isaac:
I was fortunately not picked as the DL. I prayed about it right before the meeting and basically told Heavenly Father that even tho I want to be a leader, I really felt like I shouldn't be the DL because I've already got so much leadership practice. Our DL is a good kid, and he's growing a lot, but he is pretty bad about being to bed at a good time. I will say I probably deserve the blame for that because I stay up studying pretty late every night.
From Dad:
Well, leadership comes and goes. It's good to get that experience to a wide variety of people.
I hope things are going well for you there. Staying busy is the thing.
We finally got the Red Herring back from Kevin, but it's still on the wounded list. He replaced both front and rear brakes and flushed the transmission. He also replaced some bushings in the front end. Now I need to take it in for an alignment, and then take it back to him. Both shocks in the rear are shot, and there's more work to be done on the front end but it needs an alignment first. Then he's going to replace the water pump and do a timing belt kit. I guess as it's older, it needs timing belt replacements more often. And it needs new tires. Still cheaper than buying another car. So *maybe* it'll still be around when you get home.
That's about as exciting as things get here.
I have been pooped on twice by Dottie this week, which is fun. This morning she did a Peter Pan off the bed and took a dump on the floor as I was trying to put my pants on and catch up to her. See what you're missing?
His response:
I miss all the excitement clearly. Glad the red herring is keeping it pushing. I think it's definitely worth getting the work done on it.
Glad Dottie is still trucking along.
No photos, alas. . .
I knew with it having 264,000 miles on it that it was likely there was some work that needed doing, but what I got was a list not unlike what Ray Stantz delivered as he drove the proto-Ecto 1 up to the fire station.
Here's what's been done:
Front and rear brakes replaced.
Some front bearings and bushings replaced.
Transmission flushed.
What needs to be done:
Wheel alignment.
Likely four new tires.
Then returned to the mechanic for the following:
Timing belt kit, including water pump.
More front end bushings and bearings.
Rear shocks.
So far, only about $1,300, which seems a lot for a car that old, but I've been watching the used car market and that seems like a bargain if we can squeeze another 50,000 or so miles out of the thing.
Still, I should probably get my tools and cigarettes out to see if I can do some of the work myself.
I heard tell that this film, at the end, is kind of a tear-jerker. And I was PERFECTLY FINE until I looked at Michelle, crying as she watched Hoke feed Miss Daisy her Thanksgiving pie. Then I fell apart.
Thinking of her Mom, of course, and those last few months as she dealt with her own dementia. Damn, I didn't need to see that look on Michelle's face again.
But the movie is good. Interestingly light on overt displays of prejudice, but we knew it was sewn into every bit of the story so it didn't need to be overt; it was just how things were done.
I'd like to say we've come a long way since the '40s and '50s into the 2020s, but I'd be a rotten liar. The racism is still there, perhaps more overt now as we're not at all as inured to it as the nation once was. It's ugly.
Good Morning,
I have officially arrived at the Provo MTC! Yesterday was drop off day and day one of my in person MTC experience. It was a good full day to say the least.
Day one was really closer to day 1/2, as my district's arrival time wasn't until 1:00pm. Upon arrival I was given all of the MTC swag, shown my room, and then promptly left to my own devices. I am pretty much settled in, but the beds here do make me miss the scout camp mattresses...and the same goes for the showers. All in all, however, this first small taste of the MTC has been a positive and spiritual experience.
Unfortunately, there isn't much to report, seeing as we are only in day two and today is P-Day, but I would like to leave you all with this:
While our natural instincts are to focus on our own doubts, fears, and insecurities, I've found that as I redirect my attention to the needs of others, those same doubts and fears are diminished. We need to lose ourselves in our service to others, and let the Lord take care of the rest.
I love you all and miss you all dearly,
Elder Davidson
District 12-D (minus Elders Adam's, Monahan, and Ware)
And he's gone. Plopped into a parking garage at the MTC, a hug for Mom, a few photos snapped by a missionary practicing Japanese, and we were off.
Almost home now. Happy for him but feeling like the car is a little empty.
We're lazing about in a hotel in Ogden, getting ready to drop Isaac off at the MTC. He has to be there to meet his district (and Elder Palmer, his companion, with whom he has merrily klonked heads for the week of home MTC). It's odd to think the time has come, and I think this morning the import of the moment is hitting Isaac a little hard. He's been subdued and quiet.
Or maybe just tired from the day before. We did a session at the Logan Temple, then had a $170 dinner at Maddox in Perry before we stopped in Ogden for the night.
Side note: The Logan Temple was much more modern inside than I was anticipating for a Pioneer-era temple. I don't know exactly what I was expecting, but I certainly know the Idaho Falls Temple has survived remodeling efforts with much more of its 1940s Art Deco intact.
More to come . . .
Michelle painted the stairwell and the stair rail last year. Just got the rail back up today. And I did *not* use drywall screws to fasten it to the wall, thankyouverymuch.
I did this scientifically, since she puttied over the holes in the drywall as she painted. I measured the basement rail height, figured out which end of the rail went where, and then with the assistance of Isaac, busily preparing to depart for the MTC today, got the rail put up and back into the actual studs.
That's one of those things you do when you're taking a much-needed day off work for a trip to Utah but need to burn off some nervous energy before the trip begins.
It's the automated rush to mediocrity that bugs me. I mean, I can be a mediocre writer on my own; I don't need technological help to be so.
The worst part: Most AI acolytes don't care. Writing is a chore to be taken off a checklist, not anything to be done to help increase one's abilities or make their brains work.
I get it -- writing is hard. I've been working on a novel for years. Reading is one thing, writing is completely different. It's like saying "Hey, I like cars. I can drive them. I'm going to build one myself." Two completely different worlds.
But this AI writing for us isn't us writing, it's us going to the used car lot and buying the blandest piece of machinery on the lot. . .
Hello Isaac,
Thought you’d enjoy having a bit of mail in the mailbox when you got to the MTC. That is if this letter beats us there. We’ll see.
I imagine you’ll find your time at the MTC going fast. It went fast for me, as I recall, and I was there for 2 ½ months. You’re going to be busy there – and that’s a good thing.
If I can offer any advice, it would be this: Take what they teach you there seriously. I know you’re going into the mission full-bore; I expect nothing less from you. I’ve always admired your dedication and enthusiasm. Keep it up. There may be times, even in the two weeks you’re there, that you’ll feel discouraged. That’s normal. Just remember you’ve got a huge support group there, and we’re all rooting for you at home. More importantly, God called you to serve, and He’ll do everything he can to help you succeed as long as you’re doing your part. That you’ll do that I have no doubt.
Your personality and charisma will be tremendous assets to you in the mission field. God expects you’ll channel that into good. I saw charismatic missionaries accomplish great things. I also saw them lead other missionaries into things they shouldn’t be doing. Don’t do that.
I’ll get off the soapbox. You know what you’re facing, and you’ll hear plenty of advice from all sorts of people in the MTC and in the mission field. Just remember to listen to the spirit and you’ll do wonderfully.
As you serve your mission, you’ve inspired me to re-read my mission journals and letters. Maybe I’ll send you a bit of stuff here and there and you might relate (or not) to experiences the old man had on his mission. I won’t promise you any Naked Ninja moments, but as I recall my folks did build a new house and move while I was on my mission, so the opportunity was always there. Dad wanted to keep the new house a secret, but Mom was always bursting to send any news she could. Roles would be reversed for your Mom and I, as I’m the one who likes to blab.
Journal writing (soapbox comes back out): Do it. You’ll see the value in it as you go. I don’t know that you need to do it daily, but certainly record things that happen to you. Record promptings from the Lord. Record the good stuff and the bad stuff. I know when I re-read the entries from the days when I was feeling low and lousy it helps me keep perspective on how I dealt with the bad, and how I could certainly have dealt with it better. The more we record, the more we’re able to recall and ponder on. The Book of Mormon in many parts (I’m thinking particularly of Enos and Mormon/Moroni) are dudes like us recording their ups and downs. There’s a lot of value in what they wrote, and while what we record won’t necessarily become scripture, it can still hold a lot of value for us. And remember that the incidental things you write – emails, letters, etc., can double as journal entries. I haven’t journaled on paper in years but put a lot of stuff on my blog. If I have something significant I want to keep, I save the file on my computer. We’ll do what we can to preserve the emails and letters you send, so they can supplement your own journal writing. Just find a way to record your memories and thoughts (backs off the soapbox again).
I just really hope you enjoy your time, have fun with your companions, and can look back on your mission years with fondness. Missions are a lot of work, but as with life, they can be a lot of fun as well. I know you know how to find fun and how to make things fun, so as long as you’re doing things in a way that keep you and your companion safe and keep the spirit with you, you’re going to do great things.
I’ve babbled long enough. I’ll end this letter and let you get back to the MTC thing.
Love, Dad
I offer a few updates after a busy week.
Update 1: Isaac sold his truck, thus the pile in this photo.
It's good.
So I am upset.
But in a good way. Though the book was a bit predictable in parts, the story is entertaining, and the last 30 or so pages I had to finish in a gulp because the tension built nicely and the bad guys get their comeuppance and it doesn't really matter all that much if there were so many characters, many of whom blended together, I kinda forgot who some of the bad guys were even at the end. That might be this novel's biggest fault, and something I should learn for my own writing. We don't need to make all of our characters zany and Gentry Lee-esque, but we should certainly strive to help them be memorable enough when their names are mentioned again long after they're introduced we remember who they are. And maybe that's my fault; sometimes I'm not the most observant reader. But this book is no Dickens character fest, either.
It's not the best spy spoof or whatever that I've read, but it was a fun read nonetheless.
I can't recommend it to my wife, to whom I pass many a book, because there's plenty of swearing in the story. I don't mind an occasional cuss, but this kind of went beyond the pale. True-to-life dialogue it might be, but it certainly makes the characters a lot less memorable when all they can do is drop an f-bomb rather than say something clever.
[Grumbles through parking lot to work.]
Well, not quite vacant, because this map is old, and at the corner of 25th East and Iona is a business: Idaho Monument Company, the gravestone marketer that's relocating from the corner of 25th East and the highway, a few lots out of shot.
Why are the lots vacant? The county and state are working on a road project to widen 25th East and fix the intersection at the US highway, and the houses and business there had to go.
Progress, you say. We have serious need to improve the road infrastructure in this town because of the increased population and the traffic that population brought with it.
I agree.
I also happen to have grown up in a house built by my Dad on the lot outlined in red.
There's a fair contingent of folks around here who want better roads, but don't want those better roads built near where they live.
Guess what?
For better roads, some sacrifices have to be made. Maybe it's part of the family farm, or a beloved tree, or what have you. Or maybe it's the brick rambler your Dad built a bit at a time for his family of eight kids, who really have a lot of fond memories of that house.
It was no longer in the family. Mom and Dad have passed on, and for a while one of their sons owned the house, but they eventually moved on and the house was sold, as houses often are.
When we learned the house had been sold and was going to be torn down, we were sad.
But I got to thinking about the house. It actually talked to me in a dream, of all things. It said it was tired. It served us well, but that it was time to move on. It reminded me that the memories of the people who lived in that house are much more important than any structure ever could be.
We do have a few material souvenirs. As the house was demolished, our oldest brother got permission to go onto the property and salvage enough bricks that all of the siblings could have one. The brick sits on my desk as I write this.
And it's okay.
Of the three houses my wife and I have owned, one is no more, It survived the Teton Dam flood in 1976; when we remodeled the basement we found dried flood mud atop the foundation. It had been built in the 1920s. But it too was tired, and was demolished to make way for student housing for nearby BYU-Idaho. And again, that's okay. That house served us well, gave us comfortable shelter, and convinced us we weren't cut out to be landlords as we rented the basement out.
Progress.
I know everyone doesn't see it that way. It's just how I see it. It's okay. We move on. And preserve the memories we have.
A little sneak preview of the lesson y'all are gonna get from me on Sunday as once again we discuss the Israelites rapidly going through the good/bad cycle as they try to stay close to God and as they fail.
Their prophets, and some of the people, see it coming, they can see the cycle slowly turning toward the bad, and though they warn and pray and try to act as they should. They knew the signs, but always fell for the trigger.
So what is our Niagara Falls?
The magic has left summer.
Let me explain: For the past billion summers, the family -- meaning all but me -- have gone to camp, whether it was Island Park Scout Camp or Treasure Mountain Scout Camp. Leaving me at home, of course, with the joke that I was the one earning the real money so they could go play all summer.
I reveled in the restored bachelorhood and found time to get chores done.
Then this summer.
I don't know what made the difference, but I've felt more lonely, more blah, and not all that motivated at all to get things done.
I've tried to get things done. I built a rail on the back steps. Twice. I've split some wood and worked on cleaning up the spot where the pine tree was. But it all feels mechanical. Part of it might be the heat. But I think traditional summer is coming to an end for me.
Part of me needs a vacation. But part of me wants that vacation to be me working on things around the house without having to fret over budgets and whatnot. I guess I'd better keep working so someday we can do that.
I'm trying not to be gloomy. But this year has been hard. Maybe next year, the Summer of George!
There is a point at which the law becomes immoral and unethical. That point is reached when it becomes a cloak for the cowardice that dares not stand up against blatant violations of justice. A state that suppresses all freedom of speech and which, by imposing the most terrible punishment, treats each and every attempt at criticism, however morally justified, and every suggestion for improvement as "plotting to high treason," is a state that breaks an unwritten law.
I have not interacted with this one as I don't want to feed the algorithm.
That is the goal, of course. AI offers a refined way to produce ragebait for engagement.
Burn in hell, Dr. Marvin. (She never says that.)
We're to the point in our lives where we owe less than $40,000 on our home mortgage.
I still have a lot of work to do to make this area more presentable, clearly. But getting the firewood out of the way is a big step and should make the rest of the work easier to accomplish.
There’s a part in Groundhog Day where Bill Murray’s Phil Connors is talking with two Punxatawney derelicts in a bar, who knows how long into his confinement in the town, where one of the derelicts says Phil strikes him as a “glass half empty” kind of person.
Phil, lost in the neverending small-town hell, replies: “What would you do if you were stuck in one place and every day was exactly the same, and nothing that you did mattered?”
The other derelict, soppy in his beer, responds “That pretty much sums it up for me.”
Phil, of course, escapes his exile in small-town hell as he gives up the self-pity and self-loathing and loses himself in service to what he discovers are the delightful characters of this small hamlet in western Pennsylvania that make the town pleasant, appealing, and definitely worth living in.
At the end of his film, having won the heart of his long-long-ed-for Rita, he says, “Let’s live here. We’ll rent to start.”
I’ve just finished reading Shaun Prescott’s “The Town,” set mostly in a dusty kinda central Australian town gradually being lost, footpaths, fibro houses, and listless, useless inhabitants and all, to a mysterious shimmer never really explained.
At first I saw Phil and the two derelicts in the town, in the story, and thought, “Well, maybe there’s redemption somewhere along the way.” I had my doubts – Prescott’s story was compared to Kafta, famous for no redemption whatsoever.
And I went with that feeling – but not with allusions to Kafka, but more with allusions to Jean-Paul Sartre, who famously wrote “Hell is other people.”
The concluding idea to Prescott’s story is similar, but perhaps even more gloomy: Apocalypse, it seems, is other people.
Because Prescott’s town suffers a nameless, formless apocalypse wrapped in the metaphor of holes appearing and causing blocks of the town and its inhabitants to disappear, but the story is really an apocalyptic tale without the apocalypse, as the people his characters encounter are a far worse fate than any mysterious shimmer could ever be.
There’s a lot about belonging to this tale, and at the end, well, nobody really finds it. There’s no surcease from the hell of the small town in the city.
Early on in the novel, we get this:
“People might be wiser to cower in towns. Maybe they wouldn’t be so devastated when the sea water rose. Maybe when everything became desperate, a small town would finally live up to the qualities that everyone believed them to have: Namely, that everyone would help one another out. Maybe the town would have tea parties during the apocalypse, while people in the city tore each other to shreds.”
Of course, people in the town tore each other to shreds, whether through a grudge, a fistfight, or general disdain. When the apocalyptic shimmer arrived and claimed victims, no one seemed too bothered, as it wasn’t them being lost forever.
The protagonist and Ciara, another small-town denizen, flee to the city, and quickly discover this:
“[Ciara] told me that everyone in the city speaks about the city in the same way that people in the town spoke about the town. They say the city is not what it used to be. If she asks what it used to be, they simply reply that it used to be more like a city.”
The apocalypse of people find them in the city, though the shimmer is long left behind. And it not needed, as the apocalypse is there all along.
So this isn't good.
Or maybe it's not all *that* bad, but it might be.
Ignore the airbag light. That's a sensor we should replace, but they're hard to find. More worrying are the check engine and VTM-4 lights. Who knows how much that's going to cost to get fixed.
We'll find out. We've got 264,000 miles on this thing so it has fought the good fight, but if we could squeeze another 50,000 or 75,000 miles out of it' I'd be happy. But it's all going to depend on what's wrong with the thing. It's been very reliable up to this point, so I hate to see it go.
It does have a few other problems: Leaking power steering, and maybe a tie rod that's causing some unusual wear on the front passenger tire. We did get it to our mechanic today, so at least that part is over.
Don't want to break the bank. But Isaac says he wants to use this car when he gets back from his mission in 2028. We'll have to see if that happens.
And for this Honda Pilot, 2005, I do mean reliable. Aside from tires and regular maintenance, we've replaced the starter. Everything else has just been hanging on.
Here we are in the West, where hyrdropower abounds -- the city next door generates more than half of the electricity it needs through hydropower -- yet Rocky Mountain Power generates on. 4.8% of its electricity from hydro. That coal number is a bit unnerving.
Interesting that 10.7% of the energy it uses is unspecified. The legend on the other side of the chart says that the unspecified electric generation comes from renewable resources that the company itself doesn't own. I wonder if that's where customers like us, who have solar on the roof, fit in?
I'd be curious as well to see a breakdown on the sources of the market purchased electricity.
They are toying with nuclear at a spot near Brigham City, Utah, but that's only in the talking stages. While next door in Idaho Falls, they're a little bit beyond talk as they've got a memorandum of understanding for a number of small modular reactors to be built near the city's gas-fired peaking plant.
So this morning I rebuilt it, raised it a foot, and it's a lot better now.
I might add a third rail at the bottom, but I'm not sure if I'm going to do that yet.
Daisy tested it out and, like the first iteration, is completely indifferent to it.
From Butt-Head's "I'm not sure but I think this sucks" department:
A year ago, we had a pine tree in this spot, but we had it cut down because it was huge and dropping sap everywhere and covering a third of the neighbors' driveway (let this be a lesson to not only recycle more frequently but also to plant new trees further from the property line).
Many years before I placed an attractive array of river rock neath the tree, spreading out in fanciful swirly patterns.
Nature, favoring entropy, used the pine tree to cover said swirls with inch upon inch of pine tree debris, which I am now sorting through to rediscover the rocks so they can be cleaned and reclaim their former glory around the stump of she who covered them o'er.
I've done two hours of this today and only reclaimed two buckets of rocks
This is going to take forever.
Since I have to redo everything anyway, I'm thinking of changing things. But it's going to take a lot of work. Once I've got the rocks cleared out, I have to finish chopping up the rest of the logs and removing some roots that were interfering with the original project more than a decade ago.
I'm reading "The Town," by Australian author Shaun Prescott.
It's got echoes of Kafka, but in the small-town setting where nothing really happens and nothing that anyone there does matters, I'm getting more of a Groundhog Day vibe. But without the humor.
Not to say I'm giving up on it. I'll keep going. But it really is falling hard for the "small town people are either tragic losers or losers in that they don't realize how much of a bunch of losers they are" trope, and it's not all that entertaining.
Maybe it'll get better.
News item:
The US House of representatives has passed a bill to make Daylight Saving time permanent in the United States.
Nevermind that their decision, if approved by the Senate, will make for sunrise times as late as 9:05 am in the depth of winter locally. They believe, bless their hearts, that they're doing the right thing.
From a guy who already suffers from seasonal depression, let me say thank you. I don't know what we'd do without them in charge.
