Who Knew She Was Missing?

NOTE: Third draft of Doleful Creatures, and I found another character. Who knew she was missing?

Chapter Fifteen: Leaps from the Twigs

Don’t think we take our duty lightly, by the frivolity of our conversation.

We love Jarrod, no matter what the marmots say. Love him like a brother. Love him like a son. Love him like the weak fledgling who shouldn’t be leaving the nest but leaps from the twigs with his siblings to show them he’s no weakling.

But Jarrod is weak. Weak in body. It’s a rarity to see him eat. I know birds are renowned for their skimpy appetites, for their lithe bodies, for their skin and feather and bone. But Jarrod is thin, even for a bird. Thin as if he’d seen nothing but winter, naught of summer.

They pick at him so. Aloysius, to be sure. But it seems anyone crawling or flying to or through this part of the world knows he is weak. Not a week ago, a small flock of starlings chased him from his home in the barn, acting as if it had been their home for centuries.

He picks at himself as well. No idea that comes to his head isn’t bright enough that he can immediately see its flaws and half-convince himself not to go ahead with it. “I muck things up,” he says. “It’s these black feathers. They bring me bad luck.”

That, of course, is a laugh. May as well ask the sun to bring you luck, or the moon to bring you bad, if you believe such things. My Chylus points out all the time that we have black feathers too, and we have as much good luck as bad.

“But you don’t have a past,” he says. And usually flies off when he says it.

He lets what happened with the beavers hang over him like a dead branch creaking in the wind. I’m certain we don’t know even an eighth of the truth of what happened back then in that canyon, and maybe we never will, with Aloysius telling the story to every new bird or vole who wanders into the wood and with Jarrod not telling much of anything beyond the gloomy statements we’ve all heard a thousand times.

I don’t believe either of them, and I’ve told them so. Jarrod, told gently, while watching for bits of dandelion or cottonwood fluff of truth or lie that injure him if they hit too powerfully. Aloysius, with more venom than I probably should.

It’s painful to watch anyone in such torment. Chylus says it’s worse for the intelligent, but I don’t care if you’re wise or simple, tearing yourself up over something in your past that you may or may not have had control over is not the way to go through life and remain sane.

We hear him, nights, when he chooses to nest close by. He talks and gibbers in his sleep. He talks of the blood, “The blood on my wingtips,” he wails. And on the nights when she visits him with nightmares, he flees to the radio tower, there to perch and watch the stars or whatever else he can conjure to help him forget, or at least survive until sunrise. On those nights, Chylus and I fly with him. Giving him fair distance, of course, because the poor thing hates to think he’s putting anyone at an inconvenience. He’ll perch on his tatty nest in the tower and stare off into the black. We give him a few minutes, then we land nearby. Can’t land next to him, or he startles and falls out of the nest like a fledgling. A few times we’ve had to catch him, else he would have broken his skull on the ground. No, we land a distance away and edge towards him, one on each side, until we’re close enough we can feel him shivering. We don’t say a word. We just gaze off into the black with him. Eventually she shivers stop and he may nod off to sleep – a light doze, from which he startles as if the sun were rising. We take turns napping, the other watching.

If the morning dawns sunny, it’s as if nothing had happened. He’s chatty, ready to fly, to eat even a tiny bit, to share a joke. But if it dawns cloudy and grey, it’s as if the sun had never risen. We stay with him, through the wind and rain.

Sometimes we work to fix the nest. It was theirs, he said, long ago, before he knew of the beavers far off in the box canyon. She’s the one who showed him. She loved flying, and not just the teasing flights most magpies do. But long distances. “I’ll catch the horizon with these wings,” she said often to him. And he often believed it, and laughed as they raced to that distant line.

Once he found a bit of string, a faded bit of orange farmyard twine. He pulled at one end of it, poking out of the dirt at the edge of a field of potatoes, until its full length flew form the ground. She grabbed the other end and off they flew, one tugging at the twine one way to pull the other off course, then switching, Jarrod flying low in the trees and her above, doing their best to dodge the branches.

They laughed and the wood and all creatures in it were younger and happier to hear it.

Then one morning, Jarrod atop the barn, alone.

We flew to him, Chylus and I.

“Where is she? Where is Rebekah?”

He stared off at the sunrise.

“Jarrod?”

Silence.

The sun rose and reddened the low-hanging clouds.

“She came,” Jarrod said. “She came to claim her, and she left. Oh,” he choked, “oh how she did not want to go. But she had no choice. The Lady came and she had to go. I don’t know why, except that the Lady said it was her time.”

Matter-of-factly. Without empathy or remorse, he said. Just her time to go.

They touched wingtips as she faded into the moonlight, he said. “Her eyes were the stars.”

Then gone.

It was she who put the schemes into Jarrod’s head. To help the family of moles find their lost child. To watch the fledglings while the widowed left to find food. She planted ideas in his head, his Rebekah, and they couldn’t go anywhere in the wood or in the canyon or in the fields and mountains beyond without being hailed as a friend by bird or beast.

Even to the beavers, their grandest idea of all.

Then gone, the beavers and his Rebekah.

And he suffers.

And is mocked for his rare failures, where he does not see that one consequence she would have seen.

He mourns, and is bitter. But still he tries.

It doesn’t matter the tally is mostly in Jarrod’s favor. He’s the one who talked that lazy farm dog into chasing away that pair of feral cats who’d moved in to an old haystack and were taking more than their fair share of young ones and old ones. He’s also the one morose enough to stay up that night of the fierce thunderstorms, when the creek rose suddenly and would have drowned anyone underground had he not sounded the alarm.

“She would have seen,” he says. “She would have seen.”

Often, at sunrise, we see him atop the barn.

We know he is waiting.

He knows she will not return.

This Image . . .

More about this image later. If I live to tell the tale.

. . . Evangelists . . .

It's been an odd week, one that has led to a lot of thinking about evangelical religion, of all things. Part of me is of the opinion that we just might need more of it.

Start it off with this; a speech delivered by Dallin H. Oaks this Tuesday at BYU-Idaho in Rexburg:



But actually, it starts with this: Jeffrey R. Holland's cracking testimony of the Book of Mormon, one of the most animated speeches I've heard delivered at conference in a very long time. (Sorry, no direct link or embed; go to the Sunday morning session and click on Holland's speech).

So, am I babbling? No, because there's this third thing: The book God's Smuggler, by "Brother Andrew," John Sherrill and Elizabeth Sherrill. Brother Andrew is an evangelical member of the Protestant Church in Holland, born in 1928 (same year as my father, by the way), who spent his life carrying Bibles and the Gospel behind the Iron Curtain, no matter where he found it.

Part of what made reading this book fascinating ties in with current debates about the separation of church and state. Here in this country, we tend to get all riled up about this bit from the Constitution when it comes to replicas of the Ten Commandments on the property of a federal court, or a cross used as a memorial on public property. One side argues that there ought not to be any displays of religion in public. The other side argues -- I believe correctly -- that the Constitution forbids governmental interference in the religious life of its citizens. Reading Brother Andrew's book, you get a glimpse of what state control of religion was like under Communist rule, and shows both sides of the argument here in the US that maybe they ought to be a little more understanding one of the other.

A few excerpts:

As time passed, I came to feel this fear myself. There were police everywhere. They stood at the bridges, at factory entrances, at public buildings -- stopping people at random, searching briefcases, shopping bags, pocketbooks. And no one complained at this arbitrary treatment. No one protested. The lack of protest was part of the dreadful silence that hung over the city [Berlin] like a poison-filled smog.

In sharp contrast to the silence of the people was the loud voice of the government. It was everywhere. On the radio, on loudspeakers, on billboards. Slogans were painted on walls, rooftops, telephone poles; there were posters in the kiosks, in stores, hotels, railway stations. Propaganda everywhere.

I was astonished at the baldness of the line. East Germany was just then going through a devsatating food shortage. The enterprising German farmer had not taken at all kindly to the collective idea' he had quit the land in such large numbers that that fall there had been no one to harvest the crops. The government had pressed production on mechanical harvesters, accompanied by a massive propaganda campaign. There was going to be plenty of bread because socialism was superior to the enterprise of individual farmers.

There was only one trouble. To be harvested by machine, the wheat had to be dry; a coupe of days more sunshine were required than for hand reaping. And of course that year it rained. It rained every day, right at the time of the harvest.

And then suddenly all over the country, posters appeared carrying this little verse:

Gohne Gott and Sonnes schein
Hole Wir Die Ernte ein

Without God and without sun
We will get the harvest done

I could see that this slogan had really shaken the people. It was a brazen duel between the new regime and God himself. The rains continued, and the harvest did not get in. Overnight as suddenly as they had appeared, the posters vanished -- all except for the sodden few that you could still see clinging to lampposts.

Sure, we can look at this both ways. Maybe those who don't believe feel they're having religion thrust in their faces if they have to see a cross on public property. But it's hardly to the point that the state is officially denying God's existence, or that there are sanctioned battle lines drawn by the state in ther pro- or anti-religious stances. People put up a cross in the Mojave Desert, for instance, to honor those who died during World War I. Only later was that property declared public. That the cross remains is hardly state sponsorship of religion -- but that some want it removed isn't evidence that the state ought to sponsor atheism, either.

This brings me to the subject of this post: Evangelism. We've seen a lot of it all of a sudden, in a religion that says it believes in evangelists but typically leaves it to the missionary corps. So it's good to hear the testimonies of Elders Oaks and Holland, because if we don't speak out, this happens (again from God's Smuggler:

The churches' defense against this clever attack (substituting rites such as baptism, marriage, et cetera) with state-sponsored ceremonies) had been to retreat and withdraw, Wilhelm told me. Instead of going out on the aggressive, they were pulling further and further into an attitude of private piety and isolation.

That is something we simply cannot do.

Populism and Mass Social Networks

We all know social networks on the Internet are the big thing these days. From Twitter to Facebook, from Flickr to even the oddballs like digg and fark.com, mass audiences are finding places to explore, have fun, comment, criticize, vent, rant, praise, rave and otherwise hobnob with their fellow wizards.

But at what point do the wizards have to hobnob with the commoners, pull back that curtain and, perhaps, reveal that they might just possibly be a humbug?

I've spent a lot of time over the past year thinking about social networks and social networking. I'm on facebook. I'm nearing my thousandth tweet on Twitter. I've got two blogs, and am a contributor to a third. I've got ideas for at least a half a dozen other blogs which, for the most part, appeal to tiny little niches on the Web and elsewhere, because that's the kind of thing I have the time and energy to focus on as an individual.

For the broader market, the mass social networks, the Facebooks and Twitters, you need company. But I come back to that same question: When do the wizards hobnob with the simple folk?

To be sure, there is room on the Internet for social networks that appeal to niche markets, the professionals, the fetishists, the hobbyists. I'm sure, somewhere out there, thanks to services like Ning.com, there are Twilight-based social networks. There are Harry Potter-based social networks. I'm part of a social network set up for 1990 graduates of Bonneville High School, of all things. I get regular updates. I visit occasionally. They're gearing up for our 20th reunion, and it all looks to be wonderfully social and organized.

But the Facebooks, the Twitters, can't do that, at least on the surface. Subgroups might develop -- and sertainly have -- inthose networks, but the networks themselves, on the whole, are established for mass appeal, not limited to a single, or even a small collection, of audiences.

Enter the populist view. Populism, in the paradigm of social networking, means opening the ubiquity and inexpensiveness of the Internet to anybody with a computer and a reasonably fast Internet connection. This is no startling revelation, I know. The likes of Clay Shirky and others have long opined that the advent of the Internet is akin to the invention of the printing press in freeing expression from the gatekeepers who beforehand kept things under control or at least among the hobnobbing class.

What is the appeal of social networks? To me, it's the ability that such networks afford anyone to upload a photo, write a story or a post, and have it read and perhaps enjoyed by someone else. The photographer and poster may indeed recognize that there are others out there much more capable of producing better photograpsh and batter-written posts, but that is of no consequence. What matters is that the poster is able to share what he or she has created with those who might be interested. And for friends and family, there is interest. Maybe outside that circle, there is interest. There is competiton, of course. It's fairly easy to get onto the Internet and say, "Eew. I can do better than that." And the beauty is they can go ahead and do better than that, post their own, share it with their friends, and the one who has an inferior product need not be bothered. Or even jealous. Or even aware.

Maybe Anne Elk can explain this better than I can:



Yes, it's a stupid, poorly developed theory. But it is hers. She is proud of it. And she doesn't really care if someone out there has a better theory. It is her right to share her theory with the world, and social networking can help her do that.

This is the populist theory of social networking. Maybe it's not what the niche markets want. Maybe it doesn't have professional appeal. But it allows everyone out there to participate, contribute, share and explore.

Does this mean I don't find professionalism appealing? No. But it does mean that I object to the thought that professionalism is the only lens through which one may observe the world. Let me illustrate by example:

How many times have you asked an English teacher “Can I go to the bathroom,” only to have the teacher respond, “I don’t know. Can you? I think you mean ‘May I go to the bathroom.’” The implication here is that the word “can” implies ability – Am I able to go to the bathroom – and the “may” implies asking permission – “I need to go to the bathroom. I am asking your permission to leave the room to do so.” Technically, maybe there is a difference between can and may. But isn’t the overarching message from the teacher to the student that he or she needs to use the bathroom and is asking permission to leave?

Here’s the point: Do we let the English language drive us, or do we drive the English language? Those who can get past the fiddle-faddle of an overreliance on precise language agree that we shape the language, it does not shape us.

It's the same with professionalism being the sole driver of a social network -- or anything else for that matter. The Internet allows us to remove the gatekeepers, to pull back the curtain on that wizard.

A Case of the Afters

I realized last night as I was struggling to put a bunkbed together while taking part in a telephone conference call that I might be considered a busy person - something, temperamentally, I'm not used to being. I may be suffering from a case of the afters -- contantly thinking that after this, or after that, my life will get a little less complicated. The two biggest afters I'm working on right now include getting the house pulled back together after a major remodeling project and thriving -- not just surviving -- in an online class I'm taking on building online classes. This is the last class I need to pass to earn a masters degree, so the pressure is on to perform well, as we think after tuition payemtns are over (hey! There's another after!) we'll be able to channel that money elsewhere.

Of course, anyone who has ever suffered a case of the Afters knows that after the afters are over, new afters arrive like buffalo trampling over the horizon, demanding your immediate attention and promising greener pastures once they're gone and have pooped all over the landscape.

Add to the excitement of a case of the Afters the concept of the Peter Principle, in which I wholeheartedly believe, and you see how some afters may never be reached. The Peter Principle states, of course, that in a heirarchy, individuals rise until their own incompetence eliminates the chance of further advancement. I met my own level of incompetence in jouranlism in 2000 and managed to live with it for five years. Now I'm in a job that pays better and has not yet advanced me to the point my incompetencies show. I aim to keep it that way. Not that I shouldn't be learning, that's why I'm working on a masters degree, but after five eyars spent at a level of incompetency, I figure it's time I had a little less stress on the job front. That's good, since other activities (more afters) have come in and are presenting additional stresses and are close to pushing me to my aforementioned incompetence level.

I permit myself this navel-gazing in a public forum, by the way, because it's catharcic. Or however you spell that.

Inadequacies

Back in 2005, I came face-to-face with the Peter Principle, popularized by the book of the same name by Dr. Laurence J. Peter. Basically, the Peter Principle says that in hierarchies, individuals rise to the level of their own incompetence and then rise no more.

I was, kindly said, an incompetent editor at the Post Register. Planning has never been my long suit, and a newspaper editor's job entails a lot of planning. I recognized that I was incompetent at it then, and still recognize it now. Incompetence isn't a pleasant thing to recognize in yourself, but I believe that it's better recognized by yourself quickly so that you can do something about it. Back in 2005, my idea of doing something about it was changing careers. That was a frightening experience, as at the time I had no idea what career I wanted to go into. That year I did bricklaying, early-morning retail and telemarketing. I could have gotten better at the first. The second didn't pay nearly enough. The third quickly reassured me that it was not only newspaper editing that I was incompetent at.

So now I'm a technical writer. I'm happy. I feel competent. Feeling competent is a great feeling. I now know, however, that if the opportunity arises to become the technical writing lead that I will not be taking it. I've evolved into one of those characters Dr. Peter says understand where their level of incompetence is and do what they can never to reach that level again.

Does that mean I'm lazy, or unwilling to stretch my abilities and comfort zones? To the first, no. To the second, yes and no. An unwillingness to stretch may in part be an unwillingness to learn, but it may be at the same time the recognition that stretching often leads to breaking. I've felt what it's like to be broken, and it's not a lot of fun, folks.

So now I'm facing a similar situation -- thankfully not at the day job where I can demonstrate my competence. I have to decide if I want to continue stretching, or if I want to avoid breaking. It's going to be a tough decision.

DOWN WITH PROTESTS!

The, well, I’m not sure what to call them. The anti-tax people. The anti-government bailout people. The conservative protesters who are going to see their protests dovetail with activists hoping to legalize marijuana so the drug can be taxed and fix everybody’s economic problems. Those guys. They picked a very snowy, rainy day to have their protest in Idaho Falls.

It’s not that I don’t mind activism, or object to free speech. I just think the picketing demonstration is so clichéd now as to be utterly useless as a form of change. The civil rights movement was able to enact social change though protests because of the time in which they were held and with the novelty of their approach. We now practically have million-man-marches every year on everything from gay marriage rights to anti-tax. We’re bored by protests and pickets. The only way they get on the news is if local media does some one-minute blurb or if, as with the G-20 summits, the picketers are anarchists who wear bandannas over their faces and assault police vehicles and storefront windows.

I feel the same way about lobbying. Hey, look at me, I’m a lobbyist. I have money. You have votes. Let us meet and make this A Better World ® for everyone! Everyone? Really. Not really.

I also feel the same way about blogging. Who reads this crap anyway?

Anyway. I wish the picketers luck today. They’ll get on the news tonight, in the paper tomorrow. And nothing will come of it.

Now, if I were to protest something, these would be my Top 5:

5) People who insist on calling children “crotchfruit.”
4) Silver-white winters that instead of melting into spring cling to power like some depraved dowager empress with her wig askew and makeup all over her bloated face.
3) The John Tesh Radio Show.
2) Warts.
1) Furniture stores that are perpetually “Going Out of Business.”

That Third Thing

Remember my laments about the microwave and the van? Today, it was the water heater's turn. Water wasnt' exactly gushing out of the temperature/pressure valve, but it wasn't just a drip, either. So we call the plumber who installed the thing, we thought about five or six years ago. They come. They have no record of us in their system. But every indication the guy sees convinces him they did the work. They're reluctant to do warranty work without proof, but decide to do it anyway, to be nice. Then Michelle finds their name in a check register from 2004, and talks again with the gal at the plumbing office. Turns out we were in the system, just under my name, not Michelle's. They fix the water heater. It's still under warranty. I'm pleased with thatl. Then give a schpeil on how we can "save" money through installing a $4,000 soft water system. Guess they have to try to pay for those warranty repairs somehow.