Strength in Weakness

     For fun, I rented the Sean Connery James Bond movie Thunderball. I always thought of him as the best Bond—looks, accent, demeanor (grabs and eats a grape in the midst of a tense cat-and-mouse scene), playfulness (fools with dangerous gadgets and gets chided by Q; flirts with the secretary), and droll delivery of lines (“She's just dead”—as if from over-dancing instead of a gun shot wound).

     Over dinner that night I said: “One scene in this movie they'd never, ever do in a current Bond film is have him cry for help. Remember that scene?”

     “On the stretching machine?” Pene said, excited.

     “Yeah, he's calling, 'Help! Help!' They'd never do that now. Why?”

     “He'd have a gadget to get him out,” said Braden.

     “Maybe, but why?”

     They made some guesses and eventually Deanne said it makes him look weak.

     “Yeah, that's the thing,” I said. “Today, producers give short-shrift to audiences. They think if they see the hero calling for help that'll signify weakness. But is calling for help really weak?”

     “No,” the kids said, reading my mind.

     “Why?” I asked.

     There was a long pause. “Because he needs help?” Pene suggested.

     “Yes. So what is calling for help when you need help a sign of?”

     “That he's in trouble,” said Deanne.

     “But what does that say about his character?”

     “That he doesn't want to die?” said Jaren.

     “So calling for help when you could die—what does that say about him?”

     “That he's willing to ask for help to save his own life.”

     “Does it take a strong or weak person to do that?”

     “Strong.”

     “Right! It's a sign of strength, not weakness to ask for help when you need it. If you're feeling bad like you're going to pass out or something, it's strength to tell someone or go see a doctor. Same's true if you're feeling lonely or depressed. Everyone needs help once in awhile. What happens when someone needs help but doesn't ask for help?”

     “He could die.”

     “Is that strength? No, it's dumb and weak because nothing is weaker than death.”

     I mulled it over for awhile and came up with something else.  “Apostle Paul said, 'When I'm weak, I'm strong.' What did he mean?”

     “He asked for help?” said Pene.

     “Yes, but why?”

     There was a pause. “Because he was dying,” said Braden.

     “Yes, but why did almost dying make him strong?” There was no answer so I continued. “When I'm strong, I think, 'I'm tough. I can do anything. I can handle this. I don't need God.' But when I'm weak, I depend on God totally. And we all depend on God all the time. Sometimes it's only when we're weak that we realize it.

     “If we go to God with a humble heart, we can defeat anything. I think that's what Paul meant, that when he's weak, he gets all his strength from God. And nothing is stronger than God.”

     Pene seemed the least convinced of all so before bedtime I asked her, “Who are the three strongest people in the Bible?”

     A long pause ensued. “Jesus, David, and...Esther?” she said.

     I nodded after the first two but said, “I would have picked Samson, but I love Esther too. She's very strong. Now, did they ever ask for help?”

     “Yes?”

     “Who did they ask for help?”

     “God.”

     “Why?”

     “Because he's strong.”

     “Yes, but why would he help them just because he's strong?”

     “Because he loves them,” she said, voice catching in her throat.

     “That's right.”

     Later, I remembered that Esther asked others for help, too, namely, Mordecai and her husband-king. I couldn't remember all the details so I reread the relevant passages with Pene to rediscover that Esther had asked her Uncle Mordecai and the Jews to fast and pray for her when she went in unsummoned to king Xerxes and asked King Xerxes to save the Jews from Evil Haman's plot to have them exterminated. Pene even remembered that the Jewish festival Purim commemorates these events.
     It was an important lesson that I wanted my kids to always remember—there's no shame in asking for help—that came from an improbable James Bond source.

Braden

     Braden just got back from a one-week trip to the East Coast with our church's youth group to attend an international conference. He showed great maturity leading up to it, not acting up as he used to before big exciting events. And after returning home mid-afternoon, jet lagged by six hours and sleep-deprived, he didn't just eat, bathe, and sleep as I'd expected, but restfully unpacked and stuffed his laundry in the laundry machine without being told and spent time talking with us, catching us up with all the people, activities, impressions, food, and day-to-day happenings at the conference. Since we'd had zero contact with him during the week, this was a big deal for us. Had it been worth it? Had he learned anything or grown? What had been interesting or new? He then worked on finishing his five-minute presentation to be given at church the following morning.

     A week later he was up to his usual albeit occasional antics by acting demanding, belligerent, and petulant when we said, No, You can't join rifle squad, you have to focus on academics (always a struggle for him). If you can get straight As for two quarters, then we may reconsider. Of course he acted like we were unreasonable tyrants and of course we acted like he was an unappreciative, entitled spoiled brat.

     Yet in the month leading up to his trip, he thrice volunteered at the Humane Society and caught the bus to and fro—this in part as a requirement for his first merit badge ever. I had to force him to get to it though—see my prior Breaking Strongholds essay posted on 2/29/16 regarding (I'd been a boy scout myself—it's easy, you go through the pamphlet and do each requirement step-by-step) because he's had a mental block against it and couldn't explain why. He'd said everyone treats him well and there's no abuse, and he's “Just not interested,” which I know is a lie because he is completely vested with every ounce of his being to defy, delay, deny, and make lame excuses to not start, do, or complete each requirement and then talk with an adult leader to review and sign off that he's finished and this has been going on for years and I won't bail him out now by talking to a leader for him because it's very important that he learn to fight for or at least ask for or insist on what he wants or needs or deserves to get ahead in Boy Scouts and in life and that good things don't come easy or fall in one's lap “just because” and that his “I don't care; it's not important” attitude won't serve him well in the future—not in college, the military, or the real world once he leaves home, possibly at age eighteen if he doesn't get his act together by showing respect, appreciation, obedience to all our reasonable requests and diligence with his school, home, scouting, and other responsibilities.

     More recently, I noticed on my pay stub a recruitment notice for election precinct officials. I called the contact number listed and Hallelujah, Braden qualified. Training consisted of a mass lecture in a crowded school cafeteria. Then primary election day, he walked over to the polling station at his former elementary school at 5:20 a.m. and worked the sign-in book, cross-checking registered voters listed to ID's and passing out ballots, and he got home before 7:00 p.m.

     It'd been an excellent experience since he loves politics (and controversy, in general, same as me as a young adult) and will get mailed an $85 check in a few weeks.

     We have recently instituted a No Politics at the Dinner Table rule to curb spoiled meals due to hot, angry, unending debates—not good for family felicity or digestion. Yet the other night when it was his turn to share, Braden said, “I heard that Trump-.”

     “No politics at the dinner table,” I said in stern warning.

     “It's not, he owns a hotel in Hawaii.”

     “Okay, one week of doing all chores!” I said for his rank defiance.

     He gave me belligerent lip and attitude and earned himself another week. He knows that anything to do with Trump is political and we both know that he just wanted to rile things up inappropriately, as he has all too often in the past.

     I've told him, “Talk politics with friends. They love to,” but I doubt he has, because as far as we can tell, he doesn't have any, hasn't pursued any, or doesn't especially want any. And this has been true for years. I'd clued him in on how to spot potential friends (sitting alone at lunch, looking bored, etc.) or how to approach, and what to say, but he apparently hasn't tried as if he's, “Just not interested.” I'm very concerned about this and have prayed for a Godly friend in his life. Sometimes I think he's just too picky, as if no one is loyal, bright, intellectual, Godly, mature, or accepting enough for him (not that he scores high points on any of these marks) or perhaps he feels he has insufficient to contribute? In short, social interactions on a friendship level has not been his strong suit, a point he needs to work on. Yet try as I might to create opportunities for him, I don't see how I could possibly force it or help it any further. He's fine with his siblings so I don't think it's a matter of social skills set or technique. I can only conclude that for now he'd rather be alone. Even when people approach him, I'd bet he must eventually give them cold shoulders. Please help pray for him if you will and for me, too, as to what I should do. Mahalo.

Pene

     I'm concerned about Pene mainly because she's been sooo easy for us—a quick, attentive learner and a wonderful self-starter who is diligent, bright, obedient, and non-demanding. She takes the initiative to fold common laundry, put away dishes form the dish rack, and wipe counters without being told. She earns straight-As, possesses neat hand-writing, and got her first B (in History) last winter but brought it up to A the following semester, earning A for the year. I told her, Grades at this stage don't really matter—no one looks at them for college admissions, main thing is what's in your head. But a fellow student last year made her cry (only after she got home) when he teased her in class that “Pene's going to get her first B” over some minor mistake she made in class. I've told her more than once that she needs to toughen up about such things. Who cares what other people say as long as they don't physically assault or threaten you. Teasing's a part of growing up.

     She's emotional—cried when reading Marley and Me, Sadako and the Thousand Cranes, The Book Thief, and numerous others. Got weepy at my Aunt Bea's funeral (so Deanne claimed) even before it started and even though she barely knew her. I suppose it was just the somber mood, seeing everyone together, and anticipating what was coming that overwhelmed her. Tender or sharp words from Deanne or me makes her cry. She cried when Deanne shared the facts of life and also when she shared our values of saving oneself for marriage. She cried when I explained to her about family dysfunctions among relatives and compared those to happy family relations and laid out her choices for herself in the future. She cried when I told her to Keep your mouth shut when Mom and I are arguing/disagreeing about something; it's not your place to act as family referee.

     I'm glad Deanne and I brought her along to our anniversary dinner to a fancy-ish restaurant and left the boys, who'd been acting up way too often, at home. (At the anniversary dinner she was considerate and ordered the least expensive item on the menu.) She's had the least about of alone-time with us, especially at going-out meals, because she's the middle child. Braden had us to himself before Pene came along and Jaren the same when he was too young to have Braden babysit along with Pene. Jaren also got special outings when the two older ones had gone out to church activities together. It may not have been fair for Pene, though we've tried to make her feel special, too.

     She asked me to cut her hair (we donated eleven inches of it to Locks of Love) and layer it in back. I did so, but her hair stuck up in a duck's tail half way up her head, ear-level. I thought it was due to her wearing a ponytail or braid for so long, but even after showering and drying, it still stuck out ridiculous. She didn't cry or say it looked awful. “I'm fine,” she said, though she looked stormy-day glum.

     I knew it looked awful but realized we can't add hair back. Her hair had changed since six years ago when I'd last cut it. It'd become stiffer since. When the length was long, the weight held it down. Now that it was short, it stood up. I couldn't have known that. If we took her to a hair dresser to fix it, all they could do is cut more. I said, I'm not content, can I cut that smallish patch that is sticking out? It's same as Mom's was when I cut hers way shorter and she screamed at me to cut this off and I did and it came out one of the best cuts she's ever had.

     Pene said okay so I cut it out and it looked just fine. She even got compliments from classmates.

     Here's my concern: She's thirteen. She still hasn't received Christ as her Lord as far as we can tell. She's still not quite comfortable in her own skin. When it's time for her to start separating from us in a few short years. What will happen then?

     It's been said that boys are far easier than girls during the separation process. When she starts questioning and revolting from all that we are and she's been—that's what I'm concerned about. How far astray will she go and will she ever return?

     But I entrust to God that all be well.

     Confession: Pene is growing more and more into her womanhood and as she takes after Deanne, is growing ever more beautiful and sexy. I've told Deanne to speak with her of modesty around the house and Pene's been more or less discrete. Nonetheless, her blossoming is tough for me to behold—sweet, yet fraught with fears. Mainly, I fear for her safety from outsiders, but also from myself. I pray that if the Devil ever tempts me to do anything that will harm or ruin her to indulge some sick lustful desire in me unknown, that God would kill me first. I even prayed this decades ago before I got married, the notion repulses me so. This doesn't make me holy, it makes me human and in desperate need of God's help to prevent any such tragedy from ever happening. I think most guys, truth be told, feel this same way.

Church Visitations

     Over the past month we've been visiting nearby churches because I felt called to and not because we're looking for a new church. I've always known wherever you live, there are wonderful churches nearby and this was confirmed—a real comfort.

     We hadn't been able to travel much this past year so these visitations were like mini-trips/vacations for us, for when we travel I mainly like to see how other people live. Seeing how other people worship reveals a part of that...

     It's been a refreshing (and sometimes stressful) eye-opener. For the first times ever, I've attended Baptist, Episcopal, and Catholic Sunday, and a Jewish Shabbat services. They were all very modern (rockin' music with drums, ukulele, guitars, and choir in Catholic mass—who knew?) and welcoming. The Jewish service was difficult to follow because so much of what was sung was in Hebrew with unfamiliar lyrics and melodies and because it had no preached or explanatory messages at all. It even had a communion-like partaking of bread and wine, which we passed on because we had no idea what it meant. (Per Internet research, wine represents “joy” and bread “abundance/provision.” If we'd known that then, we probably would have participated.) I found the Catholic mass stressful because of the church's huge laden history (good and bad) but nothing weirded me out because everything seemed somewhat familiar. With the exception a Baptist church full of seniors (average age 72?), attendance at all the churches and synagogue had sadly fallen from their heydays judging by the largely empty pews and vast campuses.  Next to the Baptist church, the Catholic church was the most filled of all, mostly with young adults. I wondered if the popularity of Pope Francis had anything to do with that or his openness to change with its contemporary/informal style. (Deanne attended a Catholic school for awhile and said mass there was a lot more traditional and formal.)

     There is at least one more church we'd like to visit which has ties to our church. Another church with ties that we visited had a beautiful pipe organ and a guest musician that played with four mallets one of the biggest marimbas I've ever seen (about 8' long?).  Jaren loved the Sunday school and asked even before we left, “Can we come back again?” The people there were so welcoming and we felt so comfortable, blessed, and secure. Braden was on a church trip at the time, so he and Pene didn't get to meet youth their ages (Pene sat with us through service—she didn't feel comfortable venturing out to Sunday school, which was broken out by age groups, without Braden—she'll learn.)

     The institutions' websites were good in providing general backgrounds and a feel for what the church/synagogue might be like, but none prepared us for the big-hearted welcomes, generous and real, that we felt when we walked in through the doors and I said, “We're visiting, is it alright if we sit in?” At the sister church in particular, they treated us like family and even tried to lure us in by describing a youth mission trip next year to the U.S. Mainland (to either the East Coast or Midwest) that they hope to raise enough funds for to make it free for all participants.

     So if you're not a regular church-goer, I highly recommend visiting the half-dozen or so nearby religious institutions to sit-in their services—just to see. It's our first times ever and am I ever glad we did!

Photogenic Kids

     When I was a kid, not many of my classmates looked great in our low-tech middle school year book with card stock cover. Our awkward, uncomfortable, and insecure personalities somehow showed even in the low-definition photocopier-quality likenesses printed on plain paper pages secured with staples down the center spine.

     How times have changed!

     The most salient feature in my daughter's expensive, glossy, hard-cover year book overstuffed with too many pages of teeny-tiny color photos galore are the number of photogenic kids with bright eyes and smiles, and tons of confident show-case personalities—this despite their being not especially handsome or pretty by objective standards, even looking less mature than many of my peers looked at their ages, probably in part because we got a lot more sun than kids these days do.

     I marveled as I leafed through that there were dozens of great photos that featured a cute smile, laughing eyes, a suggestive smirk, a mysteriously averted gaze, or other flattering aspect. The camera must love these kids, I thought.

     Whereas our yearbook from the 1970s contained perhaps only five or so “nice” shots that featured a pasted-on smile, hair coiffed perfectly, an attractive and complementary shirt or blouse. Technology aside, why the huge change in the photographic subjects? I eventually realized that back in my time, the ones who looked great were either the outcasts or misfits or the overly self-absorbed who probably spent way too much time in front of a mirror, primping and experimenting with different poses and smiles. My mom made me do it one year in elementary school before picture-taking because she'd gotten fed-up with my awful likenesses from years past. After forty minutes of back-and-forth between her coaching and bathroom mirror practice with different smiles, I finally got one that satisfied her and she said, “Perfect. Memorize that and use it tomorrow.” It was slightly open-mouthed with raised brows, stretched back lips, upright posture, and slightly raised chin. Mom was so super-pleased with the school photo that year, I use the same basic smile to this day.

     Too many kids these days are armed with smart phones, so it stands to reason that many such kids would get way too much practice taking selfies, posting them on social media, and forwarding them to friends. No wonder they're so photogenic, they're practicing all the time with instant feedback technology. (Whereas back in my time, film cameras took days, weeks, or months to see how things turned out. Mirrors obviously gave instant feedback but weren't the same. Smiling before a camera could be daunting as film was expensive and you only had one shot, so it had to be good. The main thing was don't blink—even though you knew the flash was going to sting your eyes and you'd see sparkles on hazy black for the next minute or two. Today's super light-sensitive digital cameras by contrast require hardly a flash at all. No wonder we had such wooden smiles.)

     By the way, our family does not possess a smart phone and my kids and I aren't especially photogenic. They do alright, though, similar to most of their peers and we're satisfied. I feel I take way better photos of them than the school does and have never purchased school formal photos. We have purchased group class photos on occasion (mostly the younger years when they were soo cute.)

Mumbling

     Pene has been in the habit for years now of mumbling or addressing her comments at the dinner table to only one party so no one else can hear clearly what she says. I find these side conversations annoying so I ask her to speak up so everyone can hear. Even upon repeating, she'll sometimes speak at a voice barely audible, much less decipherable, so I'll say, “I still can't hear you,” at which point she shouts in irritation.

     In short, we're trying to teach her to be assertive and cheerful. The second part's easy for her as it's in her nature, but not combined with the first—it's one of her few glaring weaknesses in social skills and maturity.

     We've felt called to visit other churches this past month and at one of them, a girl but a year Pene's senior greeted us prior to Sunday service at the snack lanai and boy was she ever impressive! She spoke with clear, friendly, assertive confidence, calm and articulate. Her posture, eye contact, and body language were composed, age-appropriate, and sensible. There aren't too many peers to Pene that I'd like her to imitate, but she was one of them when it comes to speaking, at least.  When speaking with her, I spoke more smoothly and with far less stumbles and awkwardness than usual. (I tend to imitate those around me.)

     I later asked Pene if she was impressed by her and she smiled and said, Yes! So she can recognize what we're after.

     Pene's voice is naturally muted, but that can be overcome as whenever she's excited with her brothers, she speaks with ample authority. I think it's more a matter of wanting to appear coy, sophisticated, or unobtrusive, and not boorish, uncouth, or attention-seeking. Though she doesn't say any of this, her hesitant body language sometimes suggests it.

     I recently read a humorous nonfiction book in which the writer says that guys love bitches—strong, assertive, and self-contained types, with strong personalities—and flee from clingy, needy, pliant, wilty girls, indecisive and fearful, whose world revolves around the guy, and who are wholly dependent on him for all their self-image needs. The writer had been the latter—unsuccessful in love—until something clicked and she became the former—with guys flocking to her for attention.

     Well, obviously it's not either/or—there's a long, unclearly defined spectrum. I, too, was more so the latter type until I came to know and trust and surrender my all to God, at which point I became more so the former type—though you don't have to be a bitch or an ass to be confident, secure, and strong, or be totally spineless or codependent to lack adequate self-confidence or strength.

     Pene's got lots of time and it's understandable that an adolescent will often lack self-composure (I was a shaky leaf at her age with certain peers, though mumbling was never an issue for me). At home at least, she can do better. I suppose her strength, like mine, is in one-on-one interactions, not large, free-for-all groups.  And we love her just as well for that.

Klepper?

     About the only time I heard the term “klepper” was in the 1970s sitcom “All in the Family” when mother Edith—the most admirable character in the show—thought she might be an incorrigible thief because she left a store without paying for merchandise (until she much later recalled why it had happened accidentally).

     Not so Jaren. Thrice he's stolen and consumed more than his fair share of allotted treats. We keep a strict household when it comes to these—no 24 hours all-you-can-eat goodies buffet. We, as parents, dole out the goodies as we see fit.

     First time we found out about his thefts came when we discovered candy wrappers under the sofa some time after Halloween. Judging by the number of wrappers, it must have been going on for some time as it's not like him to binge. He lied about it (“I don't know where they came from”), then confessed and got a week's time out for it. (The older kids, we're certain, wouldn't lie about such a thing—and would certainly do a better job at disposing the evidence if they did lie.)

     Next time Deanne noticed the contents of a liter bottle of soda mysteriously disappearing, its level dropping lower and lower every so often. He lied about it then confessed (sooner than the last time) and got a few days time out for it.

     Then came the discovery of cherry pits beneath the sofa—too many to have been eaten all at one go or even just a few gos. He lied about it (“I forgot”), then confessed and got a week of time out for it.

     He's honest about money, so there's no theft-creep as far as we can tell. The other weekend at the market he wanted to play a grab-a-toy crane game for fifty cents. He didn't have money so I said I'd pay but he needed to reimburse me half. He said okay. Of course he didn't get the toy (a small cushion) and of course I forgot all about it. That afternoon, he approached me and gave me the quarter “For the game, remember?” So for him, it's mainly food impulse control when we're not present. It's, “I want I want I want...I take!” And lying about it when confronted. Or at potlucks if we're not watching, he'll take far too many sweets.

     All our kids' weights are at fifty percentile while their heights are fifty to seventy-five percentile so their builds are fine. We just feel it's important to establish healthy eating habits now—portion controls, limited snacks, etc.—that will hopefully continue throughout their lives. Braden and Pene are doing fine now after struggling in fits and starts. It's Jaren's turn to learn, too. In general, he's fine, seldom grousing when we tell him “No more” or “That's enough.” But sneaking around snitching food in his secret corner behind the couch and lying about it? No way! Which reminds me: I also prohibited him from sitting there as a hopefully preventive measure. (Good thing he hasn't started flushing evidence down the toilet or dumping them down the storm drain outside. He's been sneaky, but thankfully not wily. Perhaps a part of him wants to get caught to test if we care enough to act? If so, no problem, we'll act alright—no Homer or Marge Simpson laissez-faire when it comes to discipline for us. When they get caught acting out, they get strict, real consequences that make them suffer, not the rest of us. Once he realizes that he gets plenty (way more than me, say, a seldom snacker who only takes micro bite-size portions at that) and that cheatin' ain't worth it, he'll stop. Or suffer the unending consequences while still at home.)

     I realize that once they leave home, they could boomerang the other way and binge on junk food unending. So be it. It'll be their choice. But not on my watch, I tell Deanne. While we're responsible, we have to do our parts.

Waikiki Overnighter

     For the first time ever, Deanne and I left the kids alone at home overnight—this to celebrate our wedding anniversary alone in a room in Waikiki. Since Braden is age sixteen and quite responsible with the younger ones, we felt it would work out fine. And it did, praise God!

     As an adventure (and reenactment of prior family stays), we parked near our old apartment by Kapahulu, caught a bus, and checked into our hotel. It was an older walk-up along a quiet side street off Kuhio Avenue. The rustic room was nothing fancy, but the king size bed was comfortable with lots of pillows and cushions, everything was neat and clean, and we appreciated the fully stocked kitchenette that came with the free upgrade that the front desk clerk didn't even mention to us. We feel more comfortable anyway in humble and affordable accommodations, so it matched our needs and desires perfectly.

     After we unwinded a bit, we held hands and headed on foot to scope out a possible place for dinner. After that (it looked good), because it was early, we headed for the Moana Surf Rider Hotel for some music beneath the banyan tree. A talented guy sang and played guitar—a welcome relief from the traffic noise and incessant crowds. We took an unassuming perch upon a low wall like other locals 'cause we didn't want to order anything. The nearby beach was packed, so we passed hanging out there for the sunset. Instead, we headed back to the Aqua Hotel eatery we had earlier investigated and had yummy pizza and a shared beer pool-side in a very peaceful nook. Our table was sheltered beneath a large canvass umbrella which was a good thing 'cause toward the end of dinner it started to pour. It was kind-of fun, like an additional adventure, to lean forward to avoid the heavy streams of water cascading off the umbrella. Sans our own umbrella, we hung out in the hotel lobby and watched DVD previews on the kiosk dispenser. The movie “Boyhood” looked promising, so upon our return to our own hotel, we borrowed it from an identical kiosk.

     While Deanne busied herself in the restroom, I tried to set up the movie on the Play Station, but it wouldn't work. So I notified the front desk, who sent an ancient maintenance guy up, who finally got it going after fifteen minutes of fiddling. But he was very courteous and professional, so no problem.

     Next morning while Deanne slept, I went for a stroll and got some fresh made udon to go at a very popular cafeteria-style Japanese eatery. I didn't know what to order (due to unfamiliar Japanese terms), so I imitated a Japanese tourist who said, “Number seven” to the Caucasian guy in charge. It turned out to be very tasty and sensational for a very reasonable price, which we ate with cut fruits brought from home.

     We later went for a walk to check out the food trucks on Beach Walk Avenue (one has a #3 Yelp-rated ramen in the U.S.) just to see 'cause they opened much later and we weren't staying for lunch. Then we went back to our room, watched the remainder of the video (which took awhile for me to start up again—it was a good movie), checked out, caught the bus back to our car, and drove home.

     True, it was a simple outing, but sooo relaxing and downright strange to be away from the kids in town overnight, trying not to wonder too much how they were doing, but nice to be free from the figurative shackles and on a “real” (extended) date alone again. And share quiet, easy talk of whatever, no pressure, no need for extravagance or show 'cause that's not our taste, style, or preference anyway.

     That's what's nice about being in a loving, real relationship: we're free to be who we are. No need to impress. Just enjoy each other, which comes quite natural as long as we try to be considerate, concerned, attentive, and all that good-lovin' stuff.

     It's a pretty nice way to live and a pretty nice marriage—still fresh after eighteen years.

To Visit or Not to Visit

     A recent essay of mine (click here to view), published in Metro HNL described my eighty-six year old Aunt Julie who is suffering ill health and the recent loss of doting husband and family man Uncle Tani. She specified, “No visitors or phone calls”, because she needed quiet time to recover while she convalesced in a care home. In the essay I described some of my love and appreciation for her, what she'd done and shown me through the years, and my concern that she may have lost her will to live, and that I wished to say “Thank you” and Goodbye”—just in case.

     More recently, I felt called to visit her. I thought she might appreciate it and I didn't want to later regret not having gone and tried despite discomfort I'll feel for having disobeyed her instructions. I felt maybe she didn't want people to see her sick so I envisioned waving a white flag before her open doorway and calling to her and perhaps speaking to her solely hidden from view. And I felt our closeness—never a harsh word exchanged—would encourage a quick reconciliation if offense was taken.

     When I called the care home and asked regarding whether Auntie Julie specified visitor restrictions, the nurse said, “None at all.” The nurse at the sign-in visitor's station was happy to see Jaren and me there an hour or two later.

     A TV blared within. I waved in slow figure eights a white sheet of paper mounted to the end of a croquet mallet shaft in front of the door and called, “Auntie Julie? Auntie Julie?”

     There was no answer so I took a peak in and saw a privacy curtain that shielded her bed from view. I tried again from within with only the flag visible beyond the curtain's end.

     “Who's there?” she asked.

     I stepped forward and didn't recognize the frail elderly woman lying flat on her back in bed. “Auntie Julie?” I asked.

     “Yes,” she said. “Who are you?”
     “Tim. Do you mind a visit?” I then recognized something about her expressive eyes and raspy nasal voice that calmed me.

     It was a brief visit as she said she told my mom she didn't want visitors because she needed rest for her heart. She allowed us to leave small gifts—two scones made by Deanne and a wooden alphabet block wrapped by Jaren in his artwork scribbles that she didn't bother to open—even as she smiled and joked about us being Santa Claus and commented on Jaren being cute and having grown so much.

     She was appreciative—no scoldings—but firm and gentle when she said “bye” twice to prompt our departures.

     “Can I at least hug and kiss you?” I asked.

     In her biggest smile yet, she said, “You can shake my hand,” which Jaren and I did.

     It'd been far better than I'd feared, but far less than I'd hoped. I'd had fanciful notions of talking story for over an hour, sharing about our family, hearing about hers, and making visits with her a regular thing—perhaps twice a month or more. Then again I'd dreaded the shock and hurt of a sharp rebuke. I'd pictured me crying tears of joy for a heartfelt welcome. Regardless, I'm glad that we went and obeyed that simple God's prompting.

Vacation Bible School, Part II

     Braden this year served as a missionary at an outer-island vacation bible school. (Last year we went as a family; he stayed the entire week, the rest of us stayed two nights.) And boy did the experience mature him!

     Last year, he acted up prior to the trip—probably due to repressed anxiety.  This year, he was calm and prepared and it was mostly Deanne that got antsy over whether he had packed everything. (I love leaving him to do it all—that's how he'll learn, by forgetting something important. It's how I learned the importance of a toothbrush when I forgot mine for a Boy Scouts summer camp and got my first cavity as a result.)

     And upon returning, he spoke with calm clarity—very unusual for him! (I've for years mimicked his mumbling, hurried indecipherable gibberish in countless attempts to get him to slow down and speak clearly in sentences that make sense. He had the rushed habit of speaking before thinking—with garbled thoughts, ungrammatical sentences, and lazy pidgin (“gonna” for “going to”, “dah” for “the”, “dey” for “they”, “gotta” for “got to”, etc.) I emphasized the need to be able to switch pidgin on and off, that I don't care how he speaks with friends, but with us, he must speak coherently so that we don't have to strain to understand or constantly ask for clarification.

     Upon the group's return, our pastor told Braden to prepare a short speech for Sunday service describing his missionary experience. The speech's script—less than 600 words—was to be submitted for her perusal first. I didn't ask to examine his draft, which he finished the morning following his return. But I did advise to make it personal, not “I enjoyed myself with the kids”, but rather, “I got close to Jeremy, a shy boy or a naughty or active boy. He was having trouble fitting in...or whatever.” Or don't say, “I matured a lot” but rather, “I normally don't feel comfortable speaking in public, but during blah blah blah, I blah blah blah and realized...whatever. In other words, specific names and specific examples—those will make it real and alive.”

     He nodded and said, Yes, Dad.

     I didn't see him do any rewrites, so he either got it right or didn't care enough to change it, I concluded.

     On Sunday he shared first (of three missionaries), speaking slowly, clearly (enough), and confidently—even injecting some humor (about our pastor) that elicited spontaneous laughter—even as he laughed while joking. He also had three concrete examples of learning and growing experiences. Projected images (arranged by our Associate Pastor) of a child Braden played with appeared on the back wall as he spoke, enhancing his presentation. I was pleasantly surprised by Braden's performance, gratified for his opportunity, and hopeful for his future. (So often I've wondered, Will he ever get there? Will it be in time? Now, he seems on track. Physically, he's matured rapidly while his emotions and intellect slowly catch up in sudden spurts—same as me when I was a kid. In fact, he's probably ahead of where I was at his age in many respects, though expectations are far higher these days.)

     I later asked Braden if our pastor changed anything of his draft and he said, No. His writing, then, also improved. A lot! I chock it all up to the expanding experience and doing God's work for a needy population—mostly second generation Hawaii residents, kids whose parents are from the South Pacific, many of whom struggle to get by.

     Our pastor shared that in coming years, our church hopes to train the local older kids to conduct the vacation bible school themselves. (At which point, perhaps, our church could then start another vacation bible school elsewhere.)

God's Blessings

     God's blessings in all our lives are profound, untold. On a recent workout run, I noticed an open house sign, stopped by on my way home, and asked the realtor for a fact sheet that showed asking price, year built, square footage, etc. She mentioned that the downstairs unit had a tenant that paid XX hundred dollars per month. The asking price was a bit less than a million dollars.
     I was familiar with the house and had been in the downstairs unit before during a yard sale. The tenant's children have been highly visible in our neighborhood so I knew them too.
     Now the downstairs unit is nothing special, and neither is the house or lot. The interior of the unit couldn't be much larger than ours and the amenities are comparable (though our unit comes with a two-car carport and nice, level driveway; theirs has a single stall in a shared carport that opens street-side. Plus our unit is over twenty years younger than theirs.) What shocked me was the monthly rental figure she gave me which was over double ours!
     Our landlord has raised rent on us a bit over the past few years, well within our affordability range. If he doubled our rent, I told Deanne, we'd have to look for another place to stay. He does appreciate our stability and reliability (we are good, tidy, quiet tenants who help to keep the grounds clean) and doesn't want to lose us. More important, he's got more than enough money and knows we can use it far more (and better) than he can, since he receives a generous pension and has other rental properties that he draws rent from and all his adult kids are well set. I suspect our comparatively simple, humble lifestyle inspired him to downsize his, which must have given him more joy and satisfaction with the ample abundance that he already enjoyed. So our tenancy has been win-win, I suppose.

     I've been having health trials again, recently, though they now seem to be improving, so I'm hopeful and try to remain positive. I live day-to-day with good days and tougher days. One of the better days it dawned on me again (as it does every so often) the greatest blessing of all: existence—why there should even be anything at all. God created it all, obviously (to me), and for that we can and should be eternally grateful. Nothing can compare to the profound magnificence of existence, so reveling it it's mysterious glory, we can all take heart that what we at times stress most about—health, job, finances, kids, or relationships—are all blessings just for existing. For if none of these existed, would we?
     Only God knows all and can answer all the whats, whys, hows, and whos and regardless of the answers, he can be trusted for his generosity and goodness as Creator of all. Compared to all he gives us, then, what we give him and what he asks of us are small potatoes. For his yoke is easy to bear and his burden is light.

Ignorant Parenting

     When I was kid, I told myself I'd never make my kids do all the stupid things my parents made us do.

     For the most part, I think we've kind-of succeeded. And by “stupid stuff”, I'm not talking about doing chores, receiving discipline, studying hard, or using good table manners—which are all excellent things (even as a kid I recognized that)—I'm talking about nonsensical things that don't hold water: things not scientifically supported.

     My parents were enlightened and progressive, so they didn't have too many of these. The worst for me was “standing up straight”, mainly to look good. Braden and I stoop/slouch when we stand or walk. I let it go; Deanne gets on him to no noticeable lasting benefit. Perhaps it's genetic. It probably is healthier for posture and certainly looks better to stand erect, but it just feels so unnatural, so it's tough. Unless I consciously think “stand up straight”, it never happens. And even when I try, it's still far from back-against-the-wall erect.

     Another was my mom telling me how to walk because my locked-knees style caused my buttocks to “bounce around too much.” I did change this so to this day I never fully straighten my knees when walking. It's given me muscular thighs since the muscles thus carry so much of the load. But as an adult, when hiking, it tires me out too fast, causing twisted ankles far too often. So I have to consciously think “straight legs” when hiking downhill especially, so the bones carry more of the weight.

     The one area Deanne and I perhaps fail worst is in their reading: getting enough light and sitting up straight with book on lap. We are constantly reminding all three kids about this (as our parents did us). But most ophthalmologists insist it won't “ruin their eyes” to read in dim light or lying down. Rather, it may just give them temporary tension headache, eye strain, or other discomfort.

     Yet Pene's ophthalmologist recently recommended she read with her old pair of glasses and hold the book about 16” distant to help slow her worsening myopia (which has since stabilized over the past year), implying there's possibly some health benefit to appropriate reading posture.

     One of the dumbest things my mom tried on me was hyotan—using pieces of eggplant to get rid of a stubborn wart on my finger joint. I let her do it just to prove its stupidity: rub my wart with each piece, which I then hid in various places outside. Upon my forgetting one of the hiding places, the wart would supposedly disappear. I had an excellent memory back then. Regardless, it didn't work and she took me to a surgeon to have the wart burned off, which worked far better than hyotan.

     Here's one that some doctors still believe: gargle with salt water for a sore throat or excess phlegm caused by a cold virus. I suffered this foul treatment for decades until I saw a doctor explain on TV that phlegm is packed full of antibodies—the “good stuff” that helps kill off viruses. The last thing you want to do is spit or gargle it out or aggravate the throat unnecessarily. Following his advice, colds have healed far faster and less painfully. So I never tell my kids to use that treatment (unlike my mom who insisted I use it).  (Note:  A quick google search just confirmed that gargling does help, so maybe that doctor and I are both wrong...)

     But we have forced our kids to do tons of stuff our parents never made us do—mostly church-related, which they like fine—but which they may one day renounce as “dumb stuff” they were forced to do. I suppose all kids have such lists. As long as ours grow up to become decent people doing their best, I have no cause for complaint or much regret.

Sensitive Jaren, Part II

     After the kids' last day of school, I'm lying in bed exhausted and hear Jaren in the living room crying. It's not an angry or complaining cry—I don't hear Braden's or Pene's voice or movements accompanying his—he's just upset about something.

     “Jaren? Why are you crying?” I call.

     “I don't want to leave third grade,” he says.

     This is a surprise. He's never mentioned it before. “Come here.” He comes in, still crying more than a whimper, less than a bawl. “Stand here where I can see you.” His eyes aren't flooded with tears but he is upset. “Why don't you want to move on to fourth grade?”

     “I don't know. It's hard to explain.”

     “Did you look at your report card?” I saw the packet on the table, but hadn't yet examined its contents.

     “Yes.”

     “And you did all right?”

     “Yes.”

     “Did your teacher say anything?”

     “No.”

     “Are you afraid of fourth grade or the teachers for some reason?”

     No, he says. We talk a bit about the fourth grade teachers, both of whom had been at the school for years with steady-if-not-spectacular reputations. Our two older kids had liked them fine.

     “I just want to stay in third grade,” he says.

     I explain that last year, we tried to have him held back (because he's a late born and will always be the youngest in his school relative to his classmates and he could have benefited from the extra year to mature) but the principal wouldn't have it. “I know he won't allow it again this year and I don't want that for you anyway,” I say. “I'll discuss it with Mom, but you're ready to move on. You'll do fine in fourth grade.” I think a bit more and ask, “Is it because you like your teacher?”

     “All the teachers,” he says, which triggers more crying.

     So we talk about his teachers. “Do you want a hug?” He nods, climbs up, and puts his arm around me and head beside mine. I cradle him and stroke his head and back. He feels better and so do I. “Mom's home,” I say in response to loud knocks and he runs to open the door for her.

     He cries while explaining to Deanne, then plays his plastic recorder, stopping often in the middle of “Supercalifrajalisticexpialadotious” to cry. It's his way of coping—distraction.

     During dinner, when it's Jaren's turn to share, I ask him how his day went and he says he attended the fifth grade graduation and awards ceremony. I ask, “Is that where you earned your certificate" (that's taped to the living room wall)? He affirms and says it's for his involvement with a club at school. He describes the rest of his day and ends by saying, I noticed most of the boys cried, but not many girls.

     “The fifth grade boys or third grade boys?” I ask.

     “Third grade.”

     “When? At graduation?”

     “No, in class.”

     “When did they start crying?”

     “One of the boys started from the morning.”

     “Why?”

     “Because he didn't want to leave third grade.” Thus it became apparent that Jaren's crying was sympathetic—in response to the other(s) crying in his class. It didn't seem likely to me that he'd cry simply for the reason he stated had it not been imprinted in his head by someone else's example. He's quick on the uptake, and quick to imitate, sometimes for bad (inappropriate language or attitudes), sometimes for good. His ability to empathize is a good thing, I guess, at least for now. (Would that more people had such ability the world would be a better place. Jesus cried over Lazarus' death even though he knew he was going to raise him back to life. I'm not comparing Jaren to Jesus, but sympathetic crying sometimes indicates strength, not fault or weakness. And empathy is a virtue in too short supply these days.)

My Wife is Hot! (or Conjugal Relations, Part II)

     Deanne is sexy, gorgeous, beautiful, fun, alive, and loving. At least I think so.

     Not that I always think that way. Other times I think she acts lazy, sloppy, argumentative, irritating, and demanding. I try not to dwell on such thoughts.

     We've been married eighteen years and the passion I feel for her is still there alive and intense, so for a fifty-four year old, I'm better than okay, I think.

     (Through the years, I've talked to so many people who've confessed, complained about, or let be known their ongoing celibacies, so that I get the impression huge swaths of marriages go without or with very little or with much less than at least one of the pair would prefer. Although such celibacy may not be the main cause of the steep fifty percent divorce rate, it is certainly symptomatic of widespread marital discontent, for doubtless happy couples will tend to seek to express their loves through occasional to frequent acts of sexual intimacy up to and including “all the way”, age-, health-, and emotional-related and other such limitations notwithstanding.)

     Deanne, ever since she got a full-time office job late last year, has been more attentive to her appearances—the clothes she wears, make up (always tastefully minimalist; she's a natural beauty), meal portion control, and occasional exercise. She's blessed because when she makes even minor efforts, the positive results show huge: her curves become oh-so-righter in all the right places, her complexion improves, and she looks ten years younger than her already youthful-looking forty-five.

     Speaking of which, forty-five used to be (and still may be?) the cut-off age of a woman for me at which I will refuse to gaze at her with eager, searching eyes no matter how much she flirts, bends over, or whatever (Deanne excepted). This mental block (or whatever it is) dates back over a decade, though the cut-off age has risen over time. (When I was an early teen, anyone in their twenties was ancient—bleah! How times change...)

     We've mellowed some with age, so some of our fiery tempest drag-out fights have cooled and shortened some, which has helped with our marital felicity. Even more positive, due to our years together:

     We now trust each other better.

     Know each other better.

     Are less prone to beat up on each other.

     Do more kind-hearted things for each other because we want to.

     Not that we're perfect. We do petty, selfish, and hurtful things far too often. But these are largely offset by the small things that count most. We know what we are really like and the things that make us go “click” when we share them in good will. These include:

     Watching a sunset on a beach.

     Sharing a simple meal of home made comfort food.

     Going for a walk with pleasant conversation.

     Asking nicely by saying, “Please.”

     Being appreciative and saying, “Thank you.”

     Lavishing compliments freely.

     Holding hands, hugging, kissing, or whatever it is the other likes with a giving, generous heart.

     Saying, “I love you.”

     Praying aloud for each other for hurts that need mending; joy restored at work or church; family ties that need healing; God's peace, joy, and rest.

     Helping out around the house.

     Disciplining the kids.

     Playing with the kids.

     Discussing how the day went.

     Valuing the other more than anyone else.

     Are these things really so difficult? If yes, no wonder so many struggle with undesired celibacy, which really is a cry for greater intimacy. I suppose our marriage would be that way, too, if we didn't enjoy doing these few “minimums.”

     Really, we're not trying to build a Great Wall of China, discover Einstein's grand unification theory, or establish world peace—those would be difficult. All we're trying to do is live decent, respectful lives. And it's not like we're even that successful. When things are hitting one hundred percent—that's rare! It's more like we try. Sometimes we do better than others. Meanwhile, tiny victories add up to big rewards. Wash dishes? Bing! Hang laundry? Bing! Say, “Good Morning”? Bing! Before we know it, we're both starting to feel pretty good (and maybe even a little frisky. Not that this even happens that often. But ample enough at our ages. After all, it's the quality, not the quantity, that counts.)

Initiative

     Wow.

     Allow me to rephrase that: Wow! Braden, now sixteen, for the first time ever did something that needed to be done without being told.

     Granted, he did do things for himself on his own initiative before this but a few days ago while hanging out in the kitchen bored (a favorite visiting place for such times), he grabbed a box of Cheerios and refilled our plastic cereal dispenser! And it wasn't even empty with nothing but a half-inch layer of cereal dust left—it was still a quarter-full!

     I didn't say a word—not because I didn't want to jinx him but because often when I compliment him he acts up. (One child care “expert”—Dr. Spock or John Rosemund—said to compliment sparingly because it takes the bluster out of their sails or makes them uncomfortable so that they have to act up to feel comfortable again. When I was a kid I didn't like my parents taking credit for my positive deed—as if I did it for them—by complimenting me. I did it for myself because I wanted to, same as Braden, I suppose.)

     I wondered if his thoughtful act was a fluke or an unintentional oversight or perhaps something Deanne told him to do a day or two ago?, but then two days later it happened again.

     We have a hamper and laundry basket that we keep in a common area inside. These fill up fast and only empty fully on laundry weekends. The emptied hamper sits inside the emptied basket and only after the hamper fills does the basket sit atop the stuffed hamper. The thing is, the hamper keeps overflowing onto the floor until Deanne or I tells someone to “Fix the hamper.” This assignment goes to whomever is nearest when it happens to be noticed, or Jaren, who has the least chores.

     Well, Braden after bathing this red-letter night, dumped his clothes on the already overflowing hamper; picked up all the clothes, towels, and dish cloths on the floor nearby; stuffed them on top; shoved the contents down tight; then lifted the hamper out of the basket and placed the basket on top. It ended up all just the way we like it, nice and neat, with the hamper and basket backed against the wall. It was remarkable that he did the chore on his own initiative but even more so that he did a fine job of it—no laggard clothes left on the floor, no slanting basket on top, and no sleeves, plant legs, or towels dangling out from between the basket and hamper.

     And I didn't dare breathe a word or even smile or show that I noticed. (If it ain't broke, then don't fix it!—so said one bright dude who wasn't even a child care expert.)

     This was very assuring for me that Braden may be finally “getting it”—that life's not all about him. That living for others is important. That helping out voluntarily feels good. That looking for ways to help and doing them without first seeking approval or recognition is a very big deal. I believe it's why God says to tithe blindly and give without show—because he sees it all and that's enough.

     Praise God!

Perspective

     When I was a youth, my dad was a deliberate decision maker, especially when it came to investing or spending hard earned dollars. He'd stew and mull things over, plan, tentatively decide, change his mind, research, and plan some more until something triggered a decision which would then be final.

     For awhile, it was whether to buy a new VW Rabbit (this in the late 1970's), which would be his first brand new car, or a used low-mileage early 1970's VW, Toyota, or Datsun (i.e. Nissan)—which would be comparable to all his prior automobile purchases: reasonably priced, reliable, and an overall good value. The Rabbit would be over twice the price of a used car, but would it afford twice the value? Probably not. Twice the fun or joy from owning brand new for once? Perhaps. (He didn't say these things but his stressed looks and excitement as he read brochures and Consumer Reports Magazine said it all. He wanted the VW but with Joan in college and Grant and me headed there, could he justify its cost? Probably not.)

     We were watching the excellent Cosmos PBS TV series when astronomer Carl Saga narrated a video showing a child at play on the front lawn of a suburban home when the camera pulled away into the sky, revealing the child's house, then the neighborhood, the city, clouds, lakes, rivers, oceans, continents, the entire globe, the Moon, Mars, asteroids, Venus, all the planets, the Sun, interstellar space, galaxy clusters, more interstellar space, and on and on until the entire universe with its billions and billions of stars were revealed from billions of light years away. At the end of the show we all felt puny and insignificant, as well we might compared to the Universe's unimaginable vastness.

     Dad said with a jocular smile, “You know what? Let's get the Rabbit—can afford!”

     Mom said, “Good, that's the way to say it! You only live once!”

     I, a lifetime penny-pinching saver felt bemused that it took a wonder-inducing science show rather than careful pro/con financial analyses to tilt Dad's decision to what he truly wanted. It was after all an emotional decision.

     For me, I find over an over again that when stressors build, accumulating to almost unbearable levels, that it's usually because I'm too zeroed-in on the itty-bitty details without considering the big picture. Sure Braden may act rude and disrespectful at times, but overall he's a good, responsible, and reliable kid. Sure I may not agree with my boss's priorities and his bossy management style, but overall, I haven't found a better alternative workplace that I'd want to go to at this moment. Sure Deanne and the kids aren't perfect, but neither am I. Yet, we're overall still a loving, respectful, and supportive family. And God has been with us and kind to us with blessings countless and profound.

     The main thing, however, was something I got from writer Pearl Buck's memoir of her pastor father. Though she herself was not a Christian, she did see her father—especially as he approached death—as becoming more and more angelic, even more spirit than human-this as his body faded, ever weaker and more slight. At the end, she said, he was with God, something even she, a nonbeliever, could see.

     Must we wait for death to be with God? I don't think so. He's here always, it's only us who aren't with him. But once I remember, realize, and sense he is with me, and I can and do surrender even my life to him, then the itty-bitty things are less than dust by comparison to the entirety that he is (the “biggest picture”—eternity, existence, love, everything that matters—there is.)

     And he always finds solutions to all our itty-bitty problems—even if it means giving us a healthy dose of repentance, forgiveness, or humility. And that's the best perspective of all!

Aloha 'Aina

     The title of this essay means (loosely translated) to love and care for the environment.

     My friend Norm decades ago listed the three worst things a person can do to the environment: have kids, eat beef, and drive a car—this from a man who has two kids, eats gobs of meat (including beef), and has owned and driven only pick-up trucks and SUVs for decades. He wasn't being hypocritical or ironic, his point was that it's difficult living an environmentally friendly lifestyle. He tries to do his part (compensate?) by eating organic, recycling, reusing (especially cloth bags for purchased groceries as far back as the 1990s), donating stuff he no longer wants, growing some of his own produce, and even using cloth diapers for all his (now adult) kids.

     I liked his list and thought it credible. To clarify, having kids per se isn't so much a problem as living modern lifestyles is (which kids are wont to do). An animated cartoon on TV I saw decades ago illustrated this by showing a lifetime's worth of junk a typical American accumulates and discards: multiple cars, appliances, furniture, and equipment; oodles of clothes, bags, and hobby items; tons of paper and plastic, etc., etc., etc. and it created a mountainous heap, a veritable dump site in and of itself—an alarming eye opener to think I'd leave so much junk behind!

     What makes beef so bad is its huge demand on resources whereby one pound of it can require up to 2,000 gallons of water (mostly to water crops that are eventually fed to the steer over its lifetime). Cows also poop and pass gas prodigiously. One can add upwards of 36 tons of e-coli laden feces to streams and rivers and 360 pounds of methane to the atmosphere-comparable to daily use of a car for three years.

     The environmental costs of driving a petroleum-based car (the only ones available at the time of our discussion) are pretty well known so I won't elaborate further.

     I felt good for awhile about owning only one car, driving it only ~3,500 miles per year, and limiting my meat consumption (which has increased since marrying; Deanne's a “carnivore” as she puts it in jest and does all the cooking because she's so good at it), but we did end up having three kids and yes, we did use disposable diapers all the way (tsk! tsk!)

     Norm decades later changed his mind and said the number one personal environmental disaster is people living outsized lives in enormous mansions, owning multiple humongous SUVs, trading them in for new ones every other year, buying second homes to vacation in for a few weeks, and so forth—this from a single guy that for years lived in a sizable house (> 1000 square feet) and owned a grand piano (his deceased mom's, granted) that no one played (but that he felt compelled to keep). I felt good that we've always lived in modest-sized dwellings—enough to get by in and not filled with unused wasted space that attracts the accumulation of extra junk.

     Now that merchants in Hawaii no longer issue disposable plastic bags for purchases, we no longer bag our household trash in such bags—which helps in a minor way. And we're mostly conscientious about bringing our own reusable bags shopping so we won't feel tempted to accept the paper or heavy reusable plastic ones offered (which we already have too many of).

     Which makes me wonder, how many shoppers immediately discard those heavy reusable plastic bags after one use? One of them has got to be far worse for the environment than one of the old flimsy disposable ones from before. Has the law banning distribution of disposable plastic bags by businesses thereby worsened the environment?

     I told Norm unless we as a society revert to agrarianism, get off the power grid, and live off the land, we're bound to leave the environment far worse than before. (My mom always taught me to leave a place better off than when I arrived, but I confess I'm doing a horrible job of that in respect to the environment). “How much land does it take to be able to live that way?” I asked. He didn't know. Obviously it depends on where the land is and the viable crops/livestock it'll support. I give subsistence farmers/hunters/gatherers a world of credit where ever they are. I doubt I'd survive much more than a year (or two, if I were extra lucky or blessed.)