“Teach your children well,” memorable lyrics by Graham Nash. Seems that kind of advice would go a long way to keep the court system a little more under control.

I finally finished my long tenure as a juror. It was a civil trial. That is, no real criminal laws were broken. It was a case of a business against a business, and more along the lines of poor judgment and iffy ethics. There was offense, to be sure. But a lot of it could have been avoided with some foundational principles established early, like in childhood.

During the early days of the trial I found myself musing on certain proverbs I came across in a book by the same name, like:

If a man digs a pit, he will fall into it. (26:27)

And:

There is a way that seems right to a man, but in the end it leads to death. (14:12)

I’m sure there wasn’t a person in that court, on either side, who didn’t feel justified in both thought and action.

I won’t go into details. In the end we jurors had to decide. I can say this: When it was finally over, not everyone was satisfied.

But I came away with the sense that, while the trial ended, it’s not over. The Lord has not necessarily had his say.

Here’s another from Proverbs:

A man’s ways are in full view of the Lord; he examines all his paths. (5:21)

We jurors will never learn of the ongoing fate of the parties involved. But we can know this:

The Lord condemns a crafty man, but a good man obtains favor from the Lord. (12:2)*

That will hold, whether we learned it in childhood or not.

_________________

*Quoted in reverse order

2 Comments

Here’s another from my mother, excerpted from an old letter that rambled on many things. I don’t remember if it was the same that covered “spankings,” but it could be. 

I have a vivid memory of being invited by a family to go out to dinner with them, something my parents NEVER did as they didn’t have the money to do it. Afterwards they wanted to take me to a movie but I refused because it was Sunday, so the hostess took me with her to visit her friend who was in the hospital. I can’t remember being taught that you shouldn’t go to a movie on Sunday but it just seemed right to believe that way.

Later on I found out that the woman told my mother about my refusal as she was impressed with my courage. I thought nothing of it . . .  just figured everyone felt that way.

But the knowledge that I was respected for my stand was a great encouragement for me as I didn’t have a lot of self-esteem.

I think in that generation children were not complimented much because it was thought they would become egotistical. We got plenty of blame for our mistakes but not much commendation for good things. After all, you were EXPECTED to be good.

I always WANTED to be good and your Dad says he grew up feeling the same way.

I can still remember the disappointment and shock I felt when I heard my very best friend say I JUST WANT TO SHOCK PEOPLE. After that I never felt so close to her and we drifted apart. Last time I saw her, which was several years ago on one of our cross country trips, we found her and her husband smoking heavily. The next I heard he had died of lung cancer because of it. Never heard more about her.

Both my brother Rolland and my nephew Sam died of lung cancer because of smoking since they were 18. So many people seem to think that will never really happen to them. I was with my brother when he died and I can tell you it is not a pretty death. As he sat in his recliner, the nasty tobacco juice from his lungs would run out of the corner of his mouth.

Shortly before he died I asked him what he would do differently if he could live his life over and he said I WOULD CHOOSE A DIFFERENT LIFE STYLE.

Haunting words.

_________

PS If you want further inspiration, check out daughter Allison’s very real perspective on life as husband Vernon’s coma continues. It’s here.

1 Comment

By the time I was growing up my mother was using the same principles she’d learned, but a more modern approach: a ping-pong paddle. (As the oldest child, I became quite familiar with it.)

Another installment excerpted from one of Mom’s letters:

A common method of punishment in my family was to be made to stand in a corner and face the wall. What probably was only minutes seemed like hours.

I remember one day my dad was talking to a visitor. I have no idea what I had done but I was told to go to the corner and face the wall. He apparently forgot about me. I knew better than to leave or make any sound. Daddy finally noticed me and with the man still there, ordered me into another room. SUCH HUMILIATION. I will never forget it.

In that era it really was true that CHILDREN WERE TO BE SEEN AND NOT HEARD.

Another form of punishment was to sit in a chair and NOT TALK for a required length of time. That was worse than standing in the corner.

I like to talk. But my mother would say BE STILL. It was never BE QUIET or DON’T TALK but BE STILL. If she was sewing, she said it with pins in her mouth. BEING STILL is still one of the hardest things for me to do!

Another form of punishment was to be switched on bare legs, especially when you had to cut your own switch!

Even though I knew my boundaries, one time I wandered too far from home. When my mother came looking for me she brought a knife. When she found me she told me to cut my own switch. I cut a very small one, but that wouldn’t do. I had to cut a much bigger one which my mother used to memorable effect. I went howling all the way home. You may be sure I never wandered beyond my boundaries again!

I guess these lessons have stood me in good stead, enabling me to learn early the consequences of disobedience. Better to have switched legs than undisciplined rebellion.

I remember a newspaper columnist a long time ago who often wrote: THE BULK OF THE UNSPANKED* GENERATION HAS STILL TO GROW UP AND GOD HELP US WHEN IT DOES.

I guess that is the reason I still firmly believe in the old adage: SPARE THE ROD AND SPOIL THE CHILD. However, if I had it to do over I would do a lot of parenting differently. Too bad we can’t get experience in that before we actually have to do it.

________________

* UNSPANKED is the word Mom used. My computer spell checker, however, didn’t recognize it. Too modern.

10 Comments

People have sometimes asked how I got my name. I can only say it’s a family name that started “somewhere.” I’m the third (of five). My mother wrote the following. It’s not a precise family tree, but an interesting commentary on a theme (or two). 

This Moore family still goes in for unusual names. When I got married your dad’s mother told me that their family was known in Rawlins as THE FAMILY WTH THE UNUSUAL NAMES.

Her name was Madge, a nickname for Marguerite Didama, that she pronounced MARGUE-RIGHT DIDAMEE. (I think she had a third name besides.) Of course, you know your grandfather’s name, Hyatt.

(That grandfather mentioned to me once when I was a child that he thought the name Hyatt came from a great uncle way back, and that, as a surname.)

The children in Dad’s family were Comer (Madge’s maiden name), Hyatt (Jr.), Sterling, Muriel, Burwin, Orrelle and Melva. Besides Hyatt, the names Sterling and Orrelle have been used in generations following.

It’s only coincidence this comes up on Independence Day weekend. But there’s John Morton’s name, perhaps with less flourish than John Handcock’s, but just as determined, and just as risky.

On my side, my Uncle Lute was two years younger than my mother, being the youngest of a family of 12 children, five boys and seven girls. There were two I never knew the names of who died in infancy. John, Ami and Lute were the boys. John was in the Spanish American War. Then the girls were Rose, Mattie, May, Bess, Eva, Nellie (my mother) and her twin, Nettie, who died as a toddler. Both John and Rose died of T.B, unheard of these days.

My Aunt Eva did a family history research and claimed we are descended from the John Morton who signed The Declaration of Independence. 

There was a John Morton in every generation since “the signer.”

She always said WE DIDN’T COME OVER ON THE MAYFLOWER – WE JUST WENT DOWN TO MEET IT !

I think it can be proved that our family on both my mother and father’s side have been in the USA since the 1600s. Others in my family have been doing family history and also claim this to be true.

Well, whether or not it is true, we are at least thankful that staunch Christians are in the line and that is what is important.

.

________________

Speaking of “deep genealogy” that will be something of my topic tomorrow. I’ll be at Heritage Christian Fellowship, San Clemente, both at 9:00 and 11:00. Not only speaking, I’ll be making a large painting at the same time. Also risky. Come and see. 

5 Comments

My jury duty experience continues. The judge has instilled all fear into us for ever saying anything about the trial. So, lest I end up on the other side of the court, I won’t.

But I did want to mention something about this temporary life sentence I’ve received.

We were told it would it a month-long trial. Given the flexibility of my life, I had no excuse to be let off. In it all I’ve found myself adapting to a life I’ve not known for some time.

Like showing up for work.

It’s not that I don’t work every day, I just usually don’t leave the house.

Nor do I worry about arriving on time. These days, very little in my life is dictated by the clock . . . except the one in my stomach.

I previously mentioned the “dress code.” It’s not just about presentable pants, but I’m sure they’d frown at pajamas . . . and expect shoes (both optional around the house).

Then there’s the commute. The courthouse is some 20 freeway miles away. Anymore I don’t do freeways during peak hours. But here I have no choice. And neither, apparently, do tens of thousands of others, half wanting my lane . . . all late.

Why, if I’m a volunteer, am I so stressed about punctuality?

But I’m reminded I’m not a volunteer; being on a jury is my civic duty.

And it’s all to be done in just a certain way, narrowly proscribed by protocol and the judge. Line up to enter. Be quiet. Keep your mind open. Discount having heard certain things even though they were just said, because it isn’t “evidence.” (Right!)

In time there will be group work. Getting things decided “in committee” is something I’ve been glad to be done with for a long time. I trust I’ll be up to it.

At least the nice thing about putting in a long day is “quitting time.” That, and “weekends.” (Both concepts from earlier life.)

All this has made me feel a little like I’m once again working a job.

It’s not bad really, I’m learning a lot, meeting some interesting people, and generally enjoying it.

And the pay is $15 a day.

It’s the first time I’ve had an income that’s regular in years.

I could get used to this.

.

____________

Anyone interested in my talk at Capo Beach Church referencing some personal reflections about life, Vernon’s, and all of ours, click here.

14 Comments

I always knew my grandfather on my mother’s side had been a pastor, but I just learned that his father was too. And he ran an orphanage.

At this point, it’s just a small matter of family lore, but you can be sure it mattered then. And who knows what influence for good he had on the people he touched?

And maybe whole family lines.

Speaking of family lines, a moment of reflection reveals an interesting coincidence of teachers and preachers in ours.

It was Anne who first recognized how mine seems to be a family of teachers. Among my four siblings all are teachers, or have been, both by education and occupation.

At mid-life, after a useful career teaching children, my brother Steve went back to school and became a pastor. Now retired, he still teaches music privately.

Then there’s my sister’s husband, Leonard. Though he held a PhD in music composition, at mid-life he also went back to seminary and became a pastor. He now leads an established Lutheran church in Chicago.

Our daughter Acacia’s very smart husband Mark left a fine writing career, moved to Chicago, and started a thriving church downtown.

I’m just now seeing this, how we have all these teachers and preachers in the mix. It’s not that I’m elevating these vocations above others. I’m equally pleased with the career choices of everyone in this wide family. And I believe God is as well, the giver of each of their gifts.

Still, I find it at least worth noting the abundance of this particular fruit on this tree, and how far back go the roots . . . not just to my mother’s father, but his.

Is it coincidence?

Maybe there should be a teaching on that.

_______________
PS I drafted this blog before knowing I’ll be speaking the next two Sundays, at different churches. This week, Capo Beach Church, the following, Heritage Christian Fellowship.
Another coincidence?

PPS Recent posts on Vernon’s progress are here.

3 Comments

My current work clothes. Just wait until Ralph Lauren discovers this look. I’ll be right in style.

Where we left off, my mother had exclaimed how she was never interested in fads or fashion. I don’t remember it as something she intentionally passed on, but there are some things we just pick up.

Today I went shopping. I’ve been selected for jury duty for a long trial and suddenly I’m aware that my wardrobe has become so limited in my years of not needing much. I’m sure my fellow jurors will be noticing.

But first I took a quick inventory of what I do have.

The foundation of my wardrobe is about six pairs of jeans, all the same color, in progressive states of deterioration. All but one (the pair I wear to jury) are frayed at the cuffs.

All are faded, worn, spotted, stained, and some have bits of paint.

These are my “dress jeans.” Eventually they progress to becoming “work clothes” and find themselves in ongoing service in the studio.

I’ve often said, “I have two kinds of clothes, those with paint on them, and those that don’t have paint on them yet!”

Eventually, even the painting pants have to go. They take on a definite “Jackson Pollock” look and some suggest that I could sell them as art.

Imagine my amusement when I went shopping and found jeans on sale uniformly frayed at the bottom. And worn at the thighs. (I won’t even mention the stylish holes, which were more in the women’s section.)

With this head start, I wonder how long it takes these clothes to wear out. And when are they too far gone to still be fashionable? And then would they come back into fashion again?

I confess I am a late adopter. I did buy a blue jean jacket back in the ’80s, just before I noticed nobody was wearing them anymore. But there they were, on sale at Macy’s. I’m glad I kept mine.

Today I was successful. I bought two new pairs of jeans (not frayed), two pairs of shorts and a shirt. While paying, I spotted a nice, plain work shirt, faded and blue. It reminded me of the kind my grandmother slaved over with a washboard and did her best to keep from losing color. On a whim I threw it on the pile.

Then I realized I’d just doubled the cost of my purchase. It was a Ralph Lauren.

Oh well, at least I won’t be thought out of style by my fellow jurors.

Long live late adopters. (Just live long enough.)

PS. Just got a stylish hole in my new Ralph Lauren getting the label off.

_____________

I’ll be speaking this weekend at Capo Beach Church, Saturday evening and three times Sunday. (Good thing I got new jeans.)

11 Comments

Excerpted from a letter to one of my sisters in response to wondering how it was in the “good old days.”

Only four years of my growing up was spent on the homestead but those are my most vivid memories. When we lived in town we usually had a bathroom, but not always. Never, of course, on the homestead.

One hard task that my brothers had to do, and sometimes me, was to carry water. In the winter we got it from the creek, 50 or so yards from our house. When it was really cold Daddy would chop a hole in the ice so we could dip a bucket into the water.

We used that water for everything; it was clean and pure and tasted good.

In the summer we did not use the creek water for drinking or cooking as it was fouled by the cows on the open range. Instead we got water from a spring up on the hill above the house. Dad scooped it out and built a wood box around it with a lid so animals could not get into it. It was wonderful spring water.

It was our job to carry buckets of water from that spring down a narrow steep path to the house–a LOT OF WORK.

Washing the clothes was an all day task.

When my mother washed, she put a galvanized boiler on the stove, covering two burners. My brothers had to keep that boiler refilled with water all day and keep the wood box filled so the fire could be kept going.

In the summer sometimes my mother would do her washing out on the “porch.” That was a landing off the kitchen with no railing. She used two galvanized tubs, a washboard, and P&G bar soap, although people with more money used Fels Naptha. Sometimes she made her own soap, using ashes and meat drippings.

After using the board that was set in one of the tubs, she threw the clothes into the other tub to be rinsed and then wrung out by hand. Or they were put into the boiler. Hence the expression “boiled shirt.”

The colored clothes were not boiled. The hot water and harsh soap, and their being rubbed on the washboard made them fade soon. But the white clothes could stand the boiling as they were pure cotton and heavy material.

It was my job to hang the clothes on a wire line outside. Sometimes in winter the clothes would freeze before I could get the clothespins fastened to the line. Between loads I would often have to go inside to warm my hands.

Clothes would be as stiff as a board but eventually they would defrost from the wind. At least not as much ironing was needed. My mother did not iron sheets and pillowcases, as some housewives did, but there were lots of shirts and dresses that required it.

We never heard of fads or name brands. We were just thankful to have ANYTHING to wear. I can remember my mother getting us ready to go to school or church, looking us over and saying, WELL, YOU’RE CLEAN AND YOUR NAKEDNESS IS COVERED AND I GUESS THAT IS ALL THAT MATTERS. Being clean was the main thing with her.

No wonder that to this day style is not important to me.

__________

Vernon is being gradually weaned from his coma. For updates go here.

6 Comments

The following is excerpted from a letter from Mom to her younger brother Jim, whose knowledge of their parents’ early story was even more sketchy than hers.

That’s my mother’s parents and two of her brothers, Rolland and Jim, along with my Dad about the time he was joining the family.

Our parents never said too much about the Allison side of the family. I do remember Daddy mentioning his time at the Elim Bible College in Rochester, New York. We had a picture of him and a few other young men in waiter’s outfits, standing in a row with large serving trays held high, in front of the college. I think that might have been in some pictures that were stolen.

That was when we lived in Pueblo, Colorado. We had to move and the folks arranged to rent a house not far from where we lived. They started taking some things to it. Later when they moved more over they found the first things had been removed. That’s how they lost all of Daddy’s early pictures, and a fine set of tools. Ironically they never did move into that house.

I don’t know how long Daddy went to that Bible College . . . it might have been only a year or so. Also I don’t know when our parents met. I think the two families knew each other for years. Sure wish I knew more.  My mother was not fond of the Allisons, so anything I heard was colored with her attitude. I remember her saying that Daddy was sent off to school TO STRAIGHTEN HIM OUT.

I do know he was pretty much self-taught.

At one time, much later, when the United Brethren denomination was establishing some rules for education of the pastors, Daddy got in under the grandfather clause. He was allowed to keep his position even though he had not gone to seminary.

I remember the system of filing sermons he developed when we lived in Yuma. One category was called “Sermons Preached at Yuma.” A second category was, “Sermons Preached at Yuma and Pleasant Valley.” That was the country church north of Yuma. Then the third category was named “Sermons Preached at Yuma, Pleasant Valley and [Another].”  I can’t remember the name of where he preached on Sunday afternoons. We kids were not required to go to that church as we went to the other two.

Many years later, during one of my parents’ extended visits from Wisconsin to our house in California, I got a telephone call from a man who said he knew Daddy WAY BACK WHEN. I have no idea how he knew the folks were with us or how he found out who we were. They were out so he talked with me, wanting to know about Daddy. When I told him he was a preacher, he just HOOTED,” John Allison a PREACHER?” His attitude gave me the idea that he had known Daddy when he was in his rebellious days and could not believe that he was any different from when he knew him.

When they got home I gave Daddy the name and phone number but did not mention the man’s crude remarks. Daddy seemed a little ill at ease and I don’t think he ever returned the call. I wish I had saved that number, but didn’t feel I had the right to follow through on that.

8 Comments

J.P.Allison, a pastor on Sundays, sometimes at more than one church, and during the week a builder, father and resourceful provider.

Picking up from where we left off . . . in her writings, Mom remarked more than once about the two-room log house that had been abandoned and how her dad got it for the asking. He disassembled it, numbering the logs so he could put it back together the same way, borrowed a wagon and a team of horses, and moved it to the homestead.

Her words:

My Dad was pretty clever. The living room of the original house had had three windows. Instead of putting one in each of three walls as they had been before, Dad placed them in one wall, along side each other. It was a nice long window looking out on the “lawn.” Of native grass. 

Of course, it was never mowed. We didn’t have a mower.

They moved house more than once (literally):

Another house we lived in was moved from a nearby city. I can remember watching as they brought it into town. The electrical wires had to be lifted to clear the house. My folks always remarked that the moving did not cause even one hairline crack in the plaster.

Before the house was moved, a basement was dug and a foundation built so the house was set down on that. For some time the foundation just sat unfinished.

We moved into the house before the plumbing was connected. My dad made arrangements with a neighbor down the alley who had an outside toilet to use his. He apparently he did not have a bathroom in his house. It was right on the alley.

Hy came to visit me while we were still using that toilet. I was so humiliated. But it didn’t bother him. 

Also, for a long time there was no staircase built from inside the house down to the basement. It amazes me still that no one forgot and opened the door in the kitchen that led to the basement to find there were no stairs. Someone could have fallen to their death.

After those steps were built the basement was finished off well enough to use as a bedroom for my brothers. The coal furnace was there too. It was not forced air but something called a “pipeless furnace.” 

Between the living room and dining room there was an archway with built in bookcases. Between the two rooms was a big floor register, probably about four feet square, where the furnace heat came up to heat the whole house.

My mother would put chairs around the register to hang clothes on to finish drying when they had not gotten dry enough either outside or in the basement where she sometimes hung them. She called it her “chinese laundry” and was always embarrassed when people would come to the house. I was more than embarrassed. 

I should write a book. 

It would tell things like Little House on the Prairie.

.

_____________

P.S. Vernon is still in a coma, just had pelvic surgery.
Updates here. 

4 Comments