Memorial Day, a Motor Boat and Oops, it was just a Joke!

     For the past several years I’ve heard people state the opinion that our country is not great or unique. This is a fact: our country is the greatest for a multitude of reasons.

     We took the best ideologies of Greco-Roman scholars and teachers. We also took the teachings of Christ that everyone is equal and we need to forgive, and allow people freedom and new starts. Biblically that new start is called repentance. In the American tradition, it is the chance to begin a new life.

     For us to have freedom, we must have a government that is accountable. Our founders established NOT a king, but a president, with two extra branches of leadership: a congress of individuals that we choose to represent citizens and a supreme court to judge weighty issues facing "we the people". That way, one division of leadership would not become greater than the other.

     Sadly, in the two centuries that we’ve been a nation, career politicians, special interest groups and lawyers have taken over Washington and managed to corrupt the process. Also, despite dedicated teachers in each and every state, “education” failed a majority of students. Textbooks were written to state dry facts in the most boring way. I credit one teacher in particular for kindling within me the will to learn, not just parrot a few statements back. He taught for the Taylor School District and his name was Mr. Harrison Caswell. He made Michigan History come alive for me.

     Once I got out of the public school system and did my own independent studying, I learned more about United States and world history, actual HISTORY, going back more than just the last fifty years. I learned about Plato, Socrates, Thomas Payne, the Revolutionary War, Egypt, Rome, Greece and more. I wanted to know about my ancestors and what they faced on the other side of the world. I wondered what they thought when they journeyed from Europe. I discovered that some politicians (in Washington) displaced entire groups of people to the Indian Territories no matter what race they were, although most were a Cherokee mix. Many politicians and their supporters saw the beauty of the land and wanted the resources for themselves. Why? Because they felt they had the right, that they were above "we the people".  I learned that many Americans were against this displacement, but a corrupt President, one-time war hero Andrew Jackson, was the head of this forced move to what was then called the Indian Territory. I wanted to know more about how some settlers traded alongside the Native Americans yet others claimed the land for themselves as soon as their Cherokee neighbors were made to leave at gunpoint. I wanted to know why Native Americans were allowed by fellow Americans to be displaced from their homes.  I later thought about my ancestor Pherribba Talley and the separation from her sister Nancy who was forcibly moved west to present day Oklahoma on the Trail of Tears. I wanted to know the stories of WHY our many ancestors came here in the first place; beyond the Pilgrims’ reasons. Then I wanted to know more about the people who were called Pilgrims and why they moved from England, to the Netherlands and ultimately a new and intimidating land.  (Let me tell you, it was quite an adventure!) I wanted to know why slaves were taken from Africa, traded for goods, chained in cramped conditions on ships, sold at markets then held as prisoners and forced to work for a master. I found out that some Cherokees had slaves, some Native Americans enslaved people from other villages, and then I learned that even the Irish were traded around the world as slaves until the era of Saint Patrick when he implored English ship captains to put a stop to trading and selling his new Christian converts! I learned about political prisoners traded by the English and used as slaves here until our Revolutionary War. I learned that one of my ancestors was a widow and that after her husband was killed during the Civil War, her man-servant stayed on for a time. I learned about some settlements where the color of skin didn't matter; just a strong back and a will to make a living on the land.

     Each and every time, Americans held up the ideals of our Constitution and Bill of Rights to lawfully support the causes of people who were downtrodden and oppressed in our country. Any abuses were at some point put to a stop.

     We do not have a caste system that entire people are born into that they will never leave as do countries like India. Each of us has the opportunity to crawl out of poverty. We abolished slavery more than a century ago and despite that victory, politicians tried to enact Jim Crow laws to suppress voting. Elections were eventually opened to all people, even women who fought with all their might to be allowed the right to vote in all states. In some countries, women are still second-class citizens in each and every facet of that phrase. They are still chattel that are not allowed to make a decision apart from the man that is the patriarch of their family: a father, older brother, younger brother, husband.  Additionally, we do not have a state religion as do some nations. You can worship, or not. We do not shoot people in the street or throw them off rooftops for being gay. The basic laws of the United States, when followed, are now boiled down to the popular phrase, “You do you, I’ll do me.” I learned the words, “Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness,” which was allowed as long as it did not infringe upon the rights of others. For example, I can build a shed in my backyard, even if you hate that I painted it yellow – and it is decorated with big metal daisies all over its roof. Now if that shed is harboring rabid rats that invade your yard. . . well, I hope you are getting the idea.

     Since the early 20^th Century we’ve been putting celebrities and politicians in the place of true heroes. More recently I’ve noticed people worshiping not only individual politicians but their entire parties. They fall in line and goosestep to one extreme or another. Citizens have been abdicating their common sense and individualism, thinking the direction a celebrity or party urges voters to go must be the right way. Then they accuse the other side of having a narrow minded ideology as well, that if they voted for Suzy MacSmythe, they must also be for eliminating pennies from the banking system and eating possums on Fridays for lent - irregardless if they themselves would never eat opossums on any day of the week any time of the year.

     Although they’ve earned their positions in life by hard work, entrepreneurship, skills, inventions or otherwise, the rich and privileged do not have the right to pressure any business or company to put them above and beyond the common individual. Then they are no better than bullies or organized crime. If allowed to set themselves above "we the people" then we become, “those the oppressed”.

     We cannot look aside when politicians put themselves above those citizens that work hard for a living. When they do, it is called "Tyranny". Beware of anyone who supports actual tyranny. Open a few history books (not textbooks) that were printed before 1980. You can find them online. Most web pages have a bias one way or the other.

     You might ask why I’m blogging about freedom, history and tyranny. Aside from it being Memorial Day when we think about the servicemen and women who gave all and never returned alive to the country that they served and loved, it has also become a time for family. It’s more of a long weekend holiday – leading into the impetus for my post.

     Last week, in my home state of Michigan, after this long Covid lock-down, boaters were allowed to take their watercraft out again. A man called the marina and requested that his motor boat be prepared for use. An employee told the caller that due to recently being allowed to open, he’d get to the boat, but most likely not in time for Memorial Day as requested. The man on the other end of the line urged the marina employee to get the owner or manager, despite the fact that the small business owner was busy with other people ahead of him. The caller then asked if the fact that his wife is Governor Gretchen Whitmer would that get him moved up the line, ahead of everyone else, effectively like taking cuts in Kindergarten for the best cupcake at the kiddie-party – because mommy is the principal. At first, spokespeople for the governor denied that this had happened at all until employees proved that this was indeed the case and that it was Whitmer’s husband, not a prank caller. Ms. Gretchen Whitmer then held a press conference saying that her husband was the caller and he was merely joking around. He was just going to the family cottage to clean up a little, rake some leaves, on Memorial Day of all weekends. He did not take any family members, she said. So why then, did he need his boat? Why would he ask to be moved up the line ahead of other customers?

     The fact that our governor's husband would play the "My wife is the governor of Michigan" hand at all, let alone during this time that small businesses are concerned that they may lose their income completely and without mercy or recourse, concerns me and it should concern all of us. If that doesn't, if you still think this was a big joke, if this does not frighten you that your freedom might be in jeopardy one piece at a time, then the fact that our country might lose its position in the world is not the fault of Revolutionary Patriots nor our founding fathers. It is from people that do not hold these values in high enough esteem to actually get off their complaining backsides and vote. It is the fault of bullying mobs hiding behind podiums and their computers trying to overthrow one branch of the government, the presidency, instead of supporting viable candidates to try again at the next election. (Now before you get your little panties in a bunch, I did not vote for Donald Trump. I support the system as it was established.) That being said, if our country loses its place as the best nation in the world, it is not the fault of politicians. It is our fault for not being more involved beyond being keyboard warriors, by voting, running for office, learning history, teaching our children, listening to real sources of news. We are still the greatest nation in the world. Do not let this so-called "joke" be accepted, condoned and brushed aside. Freedom is not a joke.

     Tyranny is also, not a joke.

(Photo courtesy Adobe Free Stock photos. Contact blogger for proof of permissions granted.)

Corona Virus Reaches Mayberry

     Corona Virus has hit the timeless town of Mayberry, North Carolina, situated in the shadow of Mount Pilot. The townspeople all react to the situation in different ways.

     Sheriff Andy, in his wisdom, weighs out the situation. Truly caring for his citizens, he recommends the lock down. He strongly believes in the Constitution and realizes he cannot tell people what to do in their own yards. His responsibility is the town and its citizens. Reluctantly, he closes down every other non-essential business in Mayberry.

     His first line of defense is a medical team:  Pharmacist Ellie Walker,  and Dr. Thomas Peterson, who is fairly new to town. Not everyone trusts him, but Andy does. That means a lot to most townspeople, but not all. Suspicion abounds.

     Opie and his pals are pulled out of school. Mrs. Crump sends work home for the kids once a week. The teacher actually defies the order to stay home. She bravely decides to set out, throws off her heels, puts on some sturdy leather boots and hikes up the mountain to reach a few outlying farms where children need their lessons.

     Churches and quilting parties are suspended until further notice. With all this extra time on her hands, Aunt Bee, already a domestic goddess, sets out to learn how to cook Chinese and Mexican food. Andy was getting a little tired of pot roast and meatloaf anyway. Wanting to bake bread, Aunt Bee heads to the market to find that yeast and flour cannot be found. She gets in her car and heads out as far as fifty miles away, but each store has fewer and fewer supplies. Always prepared, she’s had extra toilet paper in the back of the pantry, but just for fun, she checks out the paper-goods aisle at every stop. No toilet tissue. Anywhere. One month later, strands of her hair are out of place and she misses her church services and social clubs. She doesn’t remember the last time she wore a bra.

     Andy ordered the closure of the barber shop as well. His hair is getting a little straggly but he learns to deal with it. Desperately needing funds, Floyd starts to sell pot out of the back of the shop, always managing to steer clear of Deputy Barney Fife who is diligently patrolling the streets.

     The jail is shut because only the most violent offenders will be put behind bars. Since everyone is essentially a prisoner in their homes, that means there is no violent crime and nobody's been arrested. Dust is gathering on the cots. The door hinges are rusty. Otis Campbell has nowhere to sleep it off. Bars are closed anyway, but Otis still manages to grab a bottle from the tiny liquor store just out of town. Barney finds him snoozing in a corner, tells him to move along, and being the sweet sot he is, Otis stumbles home. His budding ice-cream business is considered non-essential and there’s no money coming in at all. Nine months later he and Mrs. Campbell welcome twins, delivered at home. Thank goodness Ellie was dropping off Mrs. Campbell's anxiety medication. The lady-druggist assisted in the babies’ births.

     Gomer and Goober are considered essential, although nobody’s driving through town. The Blue Ridge Parkway is locked up tight, so no tourists. There’s an occasional vehicle that needs maintenance. Gomer, a former Marine, has been cleaning and greasing his gun, just to be prepared. His National Guard Unit is called up and he’s sent to California. Nobody knows why. Meanwhile, in neighboring Virginia, the governor wants to ban rifles.

     Pretty Ellen Brown, a talented nail technician is banned from doing manicures. Although out of work, she does her magic and finds creative ways to make a buck. With that money, she buys a ticket on the last bus out and moves to Harper Valley.

     The streets of Mayberry are almost empty. Barney Fife, devoted deputy, is beginning to show signs of psychosis. Like a sheepdog without sheep, a dog without a job, he’s quickly becoming a menace to society. Sheriff Taylor assigns him to the farms of the outlying areas within Mayberry’s jurisdiction. Andy tells his sidekick to make sure that the farmers are self-isolating. He knows they are, but is desperate to get Barney out of his hair (which is down to his collar by this point). He advises Barney to make his own policy and sets the officer to work.

     As Barney drives off, Andy watches a truck unloading at the pharmacy. Minutes later, Thelma Lou runs out with a box of masks.  Aunt Bee is laughing in hysterics as she leaves the shop. She’s scored a six pack of toilet paper. Opie wavers through the alley adjacent to Floyd’s Barber Shop. The young man’s brain is as cloudy as the smoke that surrounds his head.

    Andy decides to take Opie fishing, just like the old days. Walks to the fishing hole and catches a few, watching with interest as Barney tickets a lone man in a motor boat. His crime? Operating the motor boat during quarantine. The man’s family goes hungry that night.

    Farmers Flint and Pruitt start their seedlings early. Their greenhouses are full and they’re ready to sell what they have. They meet at their fence line, six feet apart of course. They talk about the weather, crazy people in town and feeding the families of Mayberry and beyond, in places like Mount Pilot and Charlottesville. They are expecting Helen Crump, Floyd, Ellie and Aunt Bee to buy some tomato plants that weekend for their small backyard gardens. Barney drives up the lane and demands the farmers, ALL farmers in the region, shut down. He locks up the greenhouses. He spouts that flowers are non-essential, even for Easter. The men get their overalls in a knot and argue that they’re mainly selling vegetable plants. These produce food, which is essential. Barney accuses them of being un-American racists. The farmers protest downtown, driving their tractors by the barbershop, pharmacy, the shuttered bank, town hall (where the mayor is hiding) and lastly the police station. Andy is out. There’s a matter at home that needs his attention.

     Aunt Bee has had a mental breakdown and Andy’s debating whether he should take her to the small, local clinic. Doc Peterson has tested positive for Covid 19. Conspiracists feel vindicated accusing him of bringing the virus into Mayberry, via smuggled vials. Nurse Oakley has run out of gloves and clean masks. Thelma Lou bought the last shipment - the entire case.  Local citizens are showing symptoms. Ten people came in sicker than dogs. Most were later sent home, but two are in the little country hospital’s ICU. The outbreak is tracked down to Jim Lindsey and his honky-tonk band, who’d just returned from a world tour. Jim later passes from complications and is mourned by the music industry, yet housewives and diabetes patients are succumbing one-by-one in the surrounding regions—and nobody mourns for them. Funerals are prohibited.

     The honorable and beloved Reverend Hobart Tucker wants to comply with the stay-at-home orders, but also wants to spiritually feed his little flock of believers. He urges people to come the following Sunday to receive the word via the church parking lot, to remain in their cars. He erects a podium and speaks to the people via a bullhorn. Medical personnel, towns people and farmers from all over Mayberry gather. The reverend hands out cases of food to hungry families. Barney arrives, hands out tickets and arrests Reverend Tucker. The jail is locked, and Barney is forced to let this hardened criminal loose on the streets.

     The farmers can’t sell their dairy and eggs. They can’t give them away at the church meetings.  Their products are dumped into a ravine and months later people in the surrounding small towns go hungry.

     Everyone agrees with Andy, quarantine is best. A few otherwise sensible citizens are hoarding. Most people agree what is and is not essential, but some things just aren’t adding up. As their stomachs ache, citizens grow distrustful.

     The streets are virtually empty, day and night, except for Ernest T. Bass who is running the streets, giggling like a mad-man, drooling, peering in windows. Month after month, night after night, one by one there are others lurking in the shadows. The townspeople, as well, are slowly losing their minds.

Almost an Asian

     When I was a small child, I had two daddies. I didn’t just walk up to people and tell them, but sometimes it came out in the conversations that I had with adults or my little friends. Usually that was after I’d come back from a trip to California to visit my sisters.

In my book “Lizzie’s Blue Ridge Memories” I portray life on my grandmother’s farm with my sisters, mother and father as idyllic; one big happy family which was unfortunately beset by injury and a father’s lack of employment. In actuality, my mother had been married before she met my father. I was his one and only biological living child.

     Dave Owen, my father, joined the Navy in his late teens and married by the age of nineteen, but was divorced soon after. His wife Gem was too young and had lied to him more than once. Gem really just wanted to “get out of the house” and after she married my father, she was confused by her new family’s lack of sympathy when she wanted to go to the malt shop or to a dance in search of a new boyfriend. Finally, my grandmother ran the poor girl off and my dad reenlisted in the Navy.

     My parents originally met in Hawaii. My mother Ann had moved from her native Germany to the US territory with her first husband. She got a job at a local bar serving drinks. If I remember the story, it was called the Dolphin Club. One day, Ann was at work when a baby-faced sailor came in for a beer and began to flirt with the pretty little German waitress that served him. My mother said right away, “I’m married to a soldier and have a child.” Over the course of a few months, my dad would persist and my mother would set him up on dates with young women she knew, but those dates went nowhere. Ann and Dave became friends and he was sent to Japan about the time my mother had another child.

     The two wrote to each other, my mother not thinking much about the sailor stationed far away in Japan. In fact, love blossomed between Dave and a Japanese woman named Mary. He moved in with the girl and wanted to marry her, but she was unwilling to give up her profession, one that her father basically sold her into because, when she was a teen, he’d caught her kissing a boy. He said she must be a whore and dragged her down to a brothel in another city. She never saw her family again. At least that was her story. Dave stayed with Mary nearly two years while he was stationed in Japan. When he returned to the states, Mary stayed behind. If not for that, maybe I would have been born to her.

     Then again, maybe I would have been born to Ann and her first husband Kiyoshi Takahara, a Japanese – American stationed in the Army. If not for the fact that by the time Dave returned to Hawaii, Ann’s marriage to Kiyoshi was on the rocks. He was much older than Ann and although he was very much in love with her, she was resentful of his substance abuse and gambling.

     In 1960, when Ann’s youngest child Maggie was three, Ann and Dave had a whirlwind romance and ran off to Mexico where they married in Mexicali. Jenny, my oldest sister, stayed with her father while Maggie got to go on the honeymoon to Palm Springs. I was born in Detroit a few years later.

    Koshi-Daddy as I called him, never once treated me with any resentment or malice. He very well could have. Instead, he was patient, kind and generous. Eventually both my sisters moved in with him and at least once a year, we’d visit his home in Stockton, California. It all sounds complicated, I know, but there was always a room for my mother and me when she missed her oldest children. One year, Koshi-Daddy was stationed in Vietnam and married a woman from that country. By that time, Jenny was married and we stayed at her house. It would have been very awkward if my mother and I continued to stay at Koshi-Daddy’s home in Stockton after his second marriage.

     I grew up in a very Asian home. Some people these days might call it culture appropriation. Others might call it culture appreciation. I called it reality – life. My dad and mom actually taught me “how to bow in two languages”. They taught me the Japanese way as well as the English way, you know, just in case I had the pleasure and privilege to meet and later marry Prince Charles, but that honor went to Princess Diana. (We’ll leave that story for another blog entry.) We had Asian furniture, bamboo chairs, tempera paint art of birds on bamboo branches and much more. Yes, my mother made American and German foods, but her specialty was cooked Japanese fried rice. My father cooked teriyaki marinated steak and the most delicious shrimp curry.  I wish I had that curry recipe.

     

     Long before the Karate Kid, there was a television show called Mr. T and Tina. Pat Morita portrayed the traditional Japanese Mr. Taro from Japan who hired Tina to be the nanny of his two children. My mother would ooh and ah, stating how much Taro looked like Kiyoshi, or “Tak” as she called her ex-husband. I didn’t see the resemblance at all. Incidentally neither Mr. Morita nor my Koshi-Daddy were from Japan. They were both American born and raised, through and through. My mother watched the sitcom without fail until after only five episodes, the show ended in a quiet death in 1976.

     

     Dave tried to teach me how to multiply on the abacus that he’d brought back from Japan. He taught me how to count in Japanese, too: ichi, ni, san, shi. We also took our shoes off whenever we entered our home and wore slippers. We didn’t have robes, we had kimonos up until the early 1980s. Although not Japanese, my mother would oft times put on Hawaiian music and dance the hula. The goal was for us to move to Hawaii when my dad retired, but instead my parents ended up in the desert southwest.

     

     As an adult, my biological father Dave and I rarely saw eye-to-eye on any subject. I never had an argument with Koshi-Daddy, but then I didn’t interact with him after both my sisters were married. Mother didn’t have to go to California to visit two little girls any longer. They were able to do their own traveling if they chose to. I suppose if I’d been raised by Kiyoshi, maybe he’d have found a reason to discipline me – maybe not. I will never know.

     We lost Koshi-Daddy in 1989, the same season that a big earthquake shook Candlestick Park during the World Series. Kiyoshi was in the hospital following a heart attack. I had a new baby and couldn’t travel, but my mother went to visit him. A month later, Kiyoshi perished from a major stroke. Ann died fifteen years later. My father died three years after Ann passed. Sometimes I miss them all and look in the faces of people, searching for my parents. Crazy, I know. I see my mother in Jenny. I sometimes see my dad in my features, and that scares me. I see Kiyoshi in my cousin Glen, but sometimes I see him in other smiling faces.

     I had two daddies in my childhood – and I was blessed. Why should I ask for more? As a grandmother, why should I seek a father figure now? Sometimes I just want a daddy to talk to, even more than a mother. Women are all around, so full of advice. They stand as the mommies we need when our own mothers are far and gone. To whom can I turn, to take the place of an earthly father?

     Sometimes I think too much. The pondering and contemplation make my mind go in circles. Sometimes I think that I was almost Asian, that if the cards had been dealt another way, I would have had pretty brown Asian eyes and straight hair instead of round green eyes and curls. I might have been shorter, since my mother was petite and Koshi-Daddy was short.

     Kiyoshi, if he was alive, would have been 99 years old today. Happy Birthday, Koshi-Daddy from the little girl who was not yours.

Kiyoshi Takahara January 21, 1921 – November 12, 1989

Thankful I'm Staying Home.

     A young woman in my community said that this would be her very first Black Friday. Other than the news footage of shopping forays gone horribly bad, Trina didn’t know what to expect at the many stores she planned to go to. She said she felt so dumb having to ask.  I told her with all honesty of heart, “You're not dumb.” (It is a fair question. Everyone needs to experience Black Friday at least one time; like the mumps or Swine Flu.) 

     I warned her that dealing with these crowds might cause her to detest human kind. This poor excuse for a neo-tradition is not designed for peace on earth, good will 'tward men. It's madness second only to rabid dingoes in a feeding frenzy. My new tradition is to have a hot cup of cocoa as I gently stroke the keys of my computer, ordering stuff from WayFair, or going to Small Business Saturday. 

     “Honey, if you must face Black Friday, teamwork is essential. Make a list. There are too many opportunities for impulse buys. One of you needs to push the cart. She needs to stand by that cart and watch the team members’ purses a short distance from the crowd. Send someone strong to get the larger items such as TVs. Take snacks and water. Plan to have lunch. Most important, don't stand too close to people in line.” I further explained that I was at a Cabela’s many years ago, waiting for a register, when a gargoyle in front of me turned around in a rage, eyes bulging and screamed, "GIVE ME SOME FN SPACE, LADY!" I had a bundle of jackets or something in my arms, about three feet from her. That was my last Black Friday.

Morlocks Walk Among Us (Abducted in Plain Sight)

     Recently I viewed a documentary on Netflix: Abducted in Plain Sight. It’s the true story of Jan Broberg who, as a tween, was kidnapped, not once but twice, by Robert Berchtold. The perpetrator was a close friend and neighbor to Jan’s parents, Mary Ann and Bob. Does that seem unbelievable to you? In today’s jaded view of the world, perverts are around every corner, candy store and church pew. Back in the early 1970s most citizens in small towns, and a majority of families attending The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (the Broberg Family’s religion), had never heard of pedophiles. Decades ago, perverts gravitated toward the Church and many quaint communities just to take advantage of "dumb" people. Those abusers knew what to say, how to say it, and when called to the carpet, would cry and plead their case, saying that they'd repented. They learned how to play the system.

     I did not know Jan Broberg as a child. She was brought up in Idaho. I was born in Detroit; raised to not trust anyone. Old West justice has nothing on us. Although we attended BYU at the same time, I met Jan Broberg long after both of us were moms and she was well into her career as an actress. Soon after we became acquainted, I found out that she’d been abducted as a child. In fact, one evening as I sat and watched the news, a report came in that the rat-bastard that had taken her far from Idaho to marry him in Mexico, was still stalking her! Wanting to know more, but hesitant to ask too many nosy questions, I bought Stolen Innocence, the book that her mother wrote about the kidnappings. I want to add that I never met Jan’s mother or for that matter, her father.

     Last winter, while discussing Abducted in Plain Sight, someone asked me if I believed anyone (referring to the Broberg parents) could be that clueless. Had I heard this tale before moving to Utah for the very first time in 1984, I would have disbelieved the narrative myself. As a youngster in the Detroit area, I learned to always watch out for my own back; partly because in my day, there was a serial murderer known as the Oakland County Child Killer, but I will leave that for another blog entry. While attending BYU in the 1980s, I met countless sweet, trusting individuals. Crazy as it sounds, this documentary, directed by Skye Borgman, is true, and is not an isolated event. Abducted in Plain Sight shows how over and over Jan’s parents let Berchtold back into their lives. He could have murdered Jan at any time. Instead he abused and raped her for years, slowly killing her spirit. While in our time, this tale is weird to viewers on many levels, back then families trusted their neighbors. Deals were made on handshakes. A man was as good as his word. Even today, Latter-day Saints (Mormons) are urged to do good for their fellow humans.  When there’s a flood, tornado or other natural disaster, you’ll find them nailing shingles on roof-tops, raking leaves, or handing out water bottles. These volunteers never ask if you are deserving or if you are a sinner. They just go and help. Mormons are taught to love one another and to forgive. That is good advice, but I still would not allow a snake into my home. (I’m talking about human vipers, not pets.)

     The thing is, I’ve met many parents in Latter-day Saint communities that were just as isolated and naïve as the Brobergs. I've talked to countless victims of similar abuse from Idaho and Utah. It was a lot like the 1960s movie version of H G Wells' The Time Machine. The kind and gentle creatures called Eloi, who lived on the planet's surface, could not fathom that the Morlocks, who dwelt below, would lead the Eloi into the caverns to devour them. It was beyond their comprehension. (Oh, that we could all be like that -innocently believing we are safe.) Sadly, “Morlocks” walk among us. Many Mormons, unaware of such devils, were childlike and easily led a generation ago.  Not only were the parents of victimized kids counseled to forgive, there were even cases of adults violated by community leaders. They, too, were urged to forgive, over and over. Rarely were their rapists ever brought to justice.

     This mindset was so thick, that beginning in the 1960s, a doctor in a heavily Latter-day Saint region of eastern Idaho sexually abused his ObGyn patients for three decades. Despite complaints to their bishops and stake presidents (spiritual leaders of a larger region) the women were told not to make a big deal of it; after all, forgiveness is good for the soul and besides, “The fine doctor is the only one in town that’s qualified to assist you in bringing your babies into the world.”

Where do you go when you are touched inappropriately, harmed, or shamed into silence and then your bishop asks you to forgive?  To whom do you turn when the police look the other way and then the people you most trust, even your parents, are asked to find the kindest place in their hearts for the monster that devoured your soul?

     This situation in the once-isolated west has improved. Decades before cable TV, people were happy just to get two stations. Now with the internet, families know all too well that there are evil maniacs who exist, ones that enjoy nothing better than to slowly destroy innocent children. There are also those that will murder a child quicker than the time it takes for a mother to say a prayer for her baby.

     Getting back to the documentary, when I was asked if Jan Broberg seemed normal to me, I had to respond, “What is normal?” To put it in context, I know many, many performers. She's actually pretty normal compared to some. She's strong and resilient and I want to stress this point: any “normal” person might want to sweep similar memories like a crushed rat under a rug. They’d stomp on it, choke it, then move along. Denial is problematic. Personally, I’d rather be aware of what’s actually happening: The rat under the rug might revive, slink along the floor and become a bigger beast later. Jan is not going to let that happen. She wants to get the word out that there are still monsters and manipulators amongst us. Jan’s family was nearly devoured by a monster manipulator. Don’t blame the victims. Instead, share Jan’s story. It may give someone out there just enough courage to come forward and find the right people to bring their perpetrator to justice. At the very least, the rat won’t be left under a rug to scurry out and bite again. A wound must be cleansed for healing to take place, not left to fester. Jan is beyond normal. I find her to be brave. She wants to heal and along the way, Ms. Broberg deserves the joy and happiness, the success and popularity, that her documentary gives her.

       Liesa Swejkoski (Author) & Jan Broberg (Actress and Kidnapping Survivor)

Best Laid Plans

     It was the revered Scottish Poet Robert Burns who said, “The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men Gang aft agley.” In simple English he meant that the best laid plans of mice and men don’t always go the way we want them to.

     He was right, you know. My husband’s dream is to build a log home. I’m not sure where his vision got its start, maybe one morning pouring Log Cabin brand syrup on his pancakes as a boy. I do know this: since marrying me, that city boy became a man that drove a pick-up truck. Add to that, more than ten years ago, he purchased a .30-06 (pronounced "thirty-ought-six") rifle and brings home the venison every other autumn. I’d like to think I rubbed off on him. Although I was born in Detroit, I spent a lot of time on Gramma’s farm growing up, and then later had a huge vegetable garden, horses, rabbits, ducks and chickens. Maybe our dream has intertwined like the roots of a willow and an oak. We might grow in different ways, but we are rooted together in our most important goals.

     I am fully on board to build our log home. However, David has his ideas and I have mine. I see our home realistically. For years now I’ve worked with the elderly. I see myself going in that direction; who of us will grow younger until the day we become infants again? Well, I suppose some of us do, in a way. Our mothers will not be there to tend to us in our frail, aging years, but someone has to – our children, or a nurse, or maybe someone from our church.

      David visualizes a house with an upper level. It has a bathroom upstairs. I see myself falling down those stairs. I see myself resentfully schlepping my backside up and down those steps to clean the restroom. On the other hand, I envision everything we need placed downstairs: a kitchen and laundry; extra wide showers with rails so we won’t have to go into assisted living. He sees no need for these things because he has no intention of growing old - that’s just out of the question. We’ve both agreed: this is out last home. I just want to stay in it as long as possible; and I want to make it “elder friendly” now, not retro-fit it down the road.

     We explained this to our first architect. We found that his grand plans were going to cost us three times more money than we have. We scaled down, about twice. Our architect is a genius in his craft so you can imagine how frustrated he became with us. He wanted to go larger. The limitations of our bank account made us go even smaller.

     During this time, David and I consulted with about a half dozen log home builders. We found out that they all have different ideas as to what kind of materials we could use for the exterior. We have basically three choices: Log siding (exterior) over a traditionally built home, hybrid where the logs are hollowed out and a foam is put in them on the pretext of energy efficiency, and last of all, traditional logs. David and I considered all options and agreed that we want real logs.

     We consulted more builders. Some were in the business a relatively short amount of time. Others had been crafting log homes successfully for decades. Many couldn’t be bothered to call us back, or text us, or email us, or send up smoke signals. One never even opened his office door. I stood outside calling. Nothing. Nada.

     We recently met with a wonderful builder. His company’s been featured in a documentary on PBS. He remained behind the scenes letting the builders, stars and designers shine in the light. He answered all of our questions. I like that his cabins have been standing firm and efficient for nearly forty years. I am impressed by his designs. I walked into his original cabin and what I noted, almost down to the last detail, was a picture from the back of my mind. The only difference is that the loft does have a toilet and shower. Everything else we need is downstairs. I guess if things get bad enough for me, since sometimes I already have the beginnings of balance issues, I’ll just have one of my kids clean that restroom. I could even hire someone just to clean the upstairs. Help is, realistically, less expensive than assisted living.

     I think of this house building experience like a young woman or a young man dreaming of their life partners. They might want to marry the clean-shaven muscular man, or the girl next door. Instead, they grow and mature and fall in love with someone that was in the back of their mind all the time, not who they thought they wanted, but what they truly needed. Together these people grow together, learning how to compromise. Maybe “Bobb” wanted a tall blonde Norwegian looking gal, but later meets a stout, little woman with short dark hair and sees eternity in her eyes. That’s just an example of course.

     The point is, I had plans for my log home. Those plans changed and morphed. Then I saw other ideas and incorporated them. David would make a point and I’d consider it. In my mind’s eye was a picture of the antique furniture I’d inherited, in various spots. Now I am not so sure it will look right in each room.

     Soon, we will finalize plans. There’s just details and paperwork. The best laid plans, of mice and men don’t always go as planned. Sometimes we just have to make new plans.

For a useful guide to translating the original poem, please, consult: https://simple.wikipedia.org/wiki/To_a_Mouse

One Man's Junk

                                    (The historical journey continues, my friends.) 

     

     Last spring when we closed on our property, I found that bags of trash were dumped in our woods, way back in a small ravine. I was disgusted and disappointed. I was angry. We put up a sign and the littering stopped. However, several weeks ago when I went back there to pick up more bags, although there was no new garbage, I noticed that the dumping had gone on, apparently, for a long time. So far the pit is about six feet down and it continues; how far I can only speculate. There are small saplings rooted into this mess and even a couple trees, as evidence to how long this assault on nature has been going on. There were glass bottles, metal, and some plastic. A few scrappers picked up the metal that was set aside. I joked that if they found an old car under it all, they could keep it. There was in fact, almost an entire vehicle. Not sure if they ever found the engine, but there was a rotted seat, a bumper and headlights. I joked that maybe Jimmy Hoffa was down there, too. Within ten minutes they found shoes and underwear, rotted, but recognizable.  At that point, the joking stopped. After that weekend, when I saw that there was broken glass in the ravine I said, “no more.” I didn’t want any of the men that were collecting scrap metal to wander in there and get hurt. We put up a no trespassing sign.

    
     That didn’t keep me out of the rubbish though. As I said before, I’m curious and blamed this bout on a need to feed the history monkey that’s been on my back as of late.

     Since that time, I’ve poked through the mucky artifacts with a shovel. It’s like some wicked geology dig. The first layer was fairly recent junk. I tentatively prodded a couple feet and saw cans from the 1980s, with so-called “collectable” logos. The next week, after a storm, I found a small foot sticking out of the debris. The toes were grimy, but recognizable. I cautiously reached out to them and found cold plastic. It was a doll. I dug through this stratum to find toys from the 1970s. There was a learning board - the kind parents used to put in play pens, Fischer-Price toys, and even a huge Hasbro inch-worm riding scooter. It was broken, or I would have tried to clean it up.  There was a ceramic panda, a cracked mixing bowl, too. Later, I found more dolls. They were intact, but their clothes were ragged and their hair was rotted.

    Yesterday, I got all the way to a layer that is from the 1960s or maybe even the 1950s. At that point I’d had enough. The sides of the ravine are taller than me and I don’t want the slop to fall in and suffocate the life from my lungs. I hope the demo crew will dig it out with a back hoe, and then they can haul it off. The men can keep whatever they find that they think might be of value.

    In that last band of refuse that I was brave enough to burrow into, there was a perfect little Anchor-Hocking milk glass flower vase with a lovely grape cluster pattern. I took that home and cleaned it up. Turns out it’s worth some dough! An exact artifact is on Etsy for a whopping $14.00. 

Pizza’s on me guys.

                                                                                        (Similar to vase that I found)