Western Road Trip, Day 8: Tall Tales and Bear Squat Spring

Our focus today was the Canyon area, the Upper Falls and the Lower Falls. In the afternoon, after we had waited out a rainstorm, Jenny, Ellie, Jonah, Owen, my mom and I took a four-mile hike out to a place called Clear Lake.

The American trappers who first explored this area considered it far too civilized to merely tell folks what they had seen. They constructed long and wondrous "yarns" (tall tales) about their adventures and tell them around the fire on long, snow-bound winter nights. For example, one of my favorite tales, told by Jim Bridger, was about Eight-hour Canyon. Apparently you could wrap up to go to sleep, whisper, "Good mornin'," and eight hours later the echo would return to wake you up.

This is my best try.

There is a canyon down in Southwest Yallerstone called the Saw Saw. I been there once. It's the sunniest place in the park, with all kinds of pepper plants growin' along the sides of the canyon. I seen halapeeners, chillies, yellers and reds. I seen stalks of fresh cilantro just a wavin' in the wind. I seen onions that--when theys ripe--just pop outta the ground and burst into a thousand pieces before your eyes. And the whole canyon floor is tamaters--red and ripe.

Well about harvest time, these here peppers have nowheres to do, hain't nobody been to Saw Saw Canyon and seen what I seen--or et what I et. They just bulge right out in the sun, ready to split their skin. And then they do, come the new moon of July. Why that day they just break open. The juice and the pieces of tomato, cilantro, onion, halapeener and every thing else just float to the bottom of the canyon and drain into these wells, just a boilin' and a bubblin'--like nearly everythin' else in the Yellerstone.

The night I seen this miracle, I just had to try some. It smelled so good. But it was too hot to eat or drink straight. I needed something round and crispy to dip into the bubblin' well. I climbed out of the canyon, and guess what I seen right there? I seen the field littered with buffalo chips--perfectly round, crispy, and they broke with a nice crunch.

Right after Ellie nailed me with this snowball, I got her right back with the closest thing I could find--a dried buffalo chip. I smacked her right on the bottom with it. She was really ticked--and she sure didn't like all the jokes about toilet paper I made the rest of the hike either.

I filled up my bag with them thar buffalo chips and got back into the canyon. I reached down into the bubblin' well with one o' them chips, covered the whole thing with the peppery stuff, and took a big bite. Mmmm mmmm! I do believe that that was the first chip in Saw Saw anybody ever et.

Well not long after I took my first bite, I heard a growlin' up the canyon, and I know'd that Old Ephriam (this was the name the mountain men gave the grizzly bear) had found his way inside Saw Saw. Well he just scratched the ground and started a lickin' up the juice that had spilled there. Since he was a'blockin' the only way out, I hid in one of the wells to watch.

That b'ar sniffed up a pepper plant, and then he started eatin'. He must've thought them thar halapeeners was huckleberries to see him swaller them down one after t'other. He et and et fer three days, not stoppin' to drink or sleep, just a poppin' them peppers down.

Now I know a little 'bout peppers--and I know ever'thin' about chips in Saw Saw--and I know that the pain doesn't hit ya until ya stop eatin'. But when it does--especially after them halapeeners--you better watch out! Well the bear stopped eatin' them peppers, and it was bound to happen. I heard a squeal, and then I saw his tongue fall out of his mouth and roll all the way past his toes. He started pantin' and he ran up to one of the wells and stuck his head down inside, swallowin' gallons of the stuff for the chips. Then he squealed even louder and ran on all fours back up the canyon, his tongue still lollin' and draggin' behind his back legs.

This pretty little gravel arm of land in Yellowstone Lake got even prettier when Jenny claimed it and checked out the view. We called it Jenny's Spit, and it made it into my story!

I followed that b'ar. I just had to see what would happen. He ran past Old Faithful and didn't slow down. I don't think he even noticed Jenny's Spit, the cutest little piece o' land in Yellerstone Lake.

I followed him until we reached Clear Lake, and then I watched him stick his head in that there lake and drink it dry.

Well that b'ar just a sat on the shore there, his belly pokin' out halfway to the Great Salty, his tongue still lollin' out his mouth and twitchin' around his toes, and I thought that he finally looked happy--the way he had felt the first time he tasted them peppers in the Saw Saw.

Jonah "Bear" Dittes pauses to take in the view of Clear Lake during our hike.

All a sudden I seen that b'ar's eyes just start to bulge and water. He reached his big ol' paws around his back as if somethin' was a fixin' to come outta his back side! Oh, I know'd I should a give him some privacy and leff him alone, but I just a had to watch.

Sho nuff, that b'ar started a diggin'. He dug a way down into that hillside there next to Clear Lake. And when the rumblin' sounded like one o' them earthquakes of the Yellerstone, I saw him turn and a squat right over that there hole.

Three days of pepper-eatin' and one day of lake-drankin' came outta that there b'ar in 90 seconds. The geyser that ripped down outta that there b'ar lifted him clear off the ground, near as high as the pine tops. It melted the snow in the whole a Yellerstone, and it stank so bad that I saw the Upper Falls run back'ards just to get away from the stench.

I don't know how I survived, quite frankly, save I was meant to tell you the story. When it was all over, that b'ar just a trotted off like how d'ya do. But that spring remained, just a bubblin' and a gurglin' away. In fact, should you bravely follow the Clear Lake Trail in the Yellerstone, you'll see the spring thar--all brown and still a bubblin' to this day.

My mom inspects Bear Squat Spring before anyone had named it or written a silly tale about it.

Evangelism 409: Knowing WHAT to Farm

A few months ago I picked up the book, The Omnivore's Dilemma.  It's a fascinating look at where our food comes from, how it's made/processed, and what the real consequences of 99-cent hamburgers might be for cows, for nature, as well as for us.

I'll admit, I got halfway through it, and I put it down to move on to other stuff.  I'm not an "Aggie," and I have a thimble-sized knowledge of agriculture.  Not being much of a meat-eater either, I wanted to move on to reading other stuff.

Last week at church, though, it all came back to me.  On Wednesday I posted a link on Facebook to an article entitled "The Coming Evangelical Collapse."  It stayed with me the rest of the week--the writer, Michael Spencer, points out some glaring weaknesses in Moral-Majority-Era evangelicalism that are coming to a head, and he sees a huge collapse in the future, building on alarming drops in membership that are going on now.

But I shouldn't focus solely on collapse, should I?  Does that build anyone's faith?  Does it offer hope (my duty as a believer)?

That's when I came back to The Omnivore's Dilemma.  I was trying to explain it to my friend, David, last week at church.  The author, Michael Pollian, visits a sustainable, organic farm in Virginia, whose owner, Joel Salatin, focused on the wholesale development of food from the roots of the grass to the cow to the plate.

Salatin introduces Pollian to a method of sustainable farming that rotates his livestock through a series of pens.  A day or two after his cattle consume the grass in a pen (and defacate), he brings in chickens in a mobile chicken coop.  This procession of cows followed by chickens makes its way around his 200-acre farm every five to seven days.  Every week or so, the pen is ready for the cattle again.

Why does he do it this way?  I have always assumed that cows just grazed one or two fields all spring, summer and fall.  Why the chickens?

"I'm a grass farmer," Salatin explains.  All energy originates in the Sun.  Grass converts that energy to sugar; cows convert the grass to meat.  Logically, good grass builds good cattle--and good cattle manure and regulated grazing also develops great grass!

(For egg lovers out there, Salatin's hens follow two days later, eating the maggots crawling in the feces of the cattle and depositing fertile droppings of their own.  This actually cuts down on the pests around the farm as well as yielding delicious eggs.)

So what does this have to do with evangelism--or evangelicalism, for that matter?  I think it's a call to be better farmers...or fishermen...or whatever it is that God has called us to be.

I always thought the farmer was about the cow, not the grass.  The more cows, the richer the farmer.  It didn't matter what the cows ate--as long as they were fat (and cows get fatter on "unnatural" cow food like corn flakes).  I think that pastors and denominational administrators have fallen into the trap of seeing believers in this traditional way:  they see the cows in their pasture--or sheep in their fold--and they compare this with the other pens and take pride (or feel desperate as the case may be).

But it's the grass that needs to be watered and tended.  That's the foundation of the pasture, it's where the "meat" comes from.  When I look at a lot of churches--when I think of what it was like for me in the church in which I worshipped before I went to Bethpage--I see a lot of famished, parched cattle.  You can see their bones.  Sure, there are bells and whistles, but they lie around in their corner of the pasture or stumble around the pen.  

Why?  The same patch of grass has been grazed again and again until it is worn to the nub.  The fences of the pasture have been heightened and closed in so the cattle aren't tempted to leave--"the grass is always greener" and all that.  The filth and the manure just sticks around, and the flies are thick.

The church's leaders have Ph.D's in cow farming.  They have lost the ability to grow grass.

How might one grow grass?  The rain of the Holy Spirit is a great place to begin.  The fertile soil of scripture is needed.  Rotation--new pasture, new experiences, mission--helps the grass to grow for a latter day of grazing.  Faith isn't about me--the cow, the Christian.  It is about God growing in me:  the meat, the mission we produce to give to others.

The Grazing Chapter of the Bible is Ezekiel 34 (my Bible study theme for church):  "For this is what the Sovereign Lord says:  'I myself will search for my sheep.... I will bring them out from the nations and gather them from the countries, and I will bring them into their own land.... I will tend them in a good pasture, and the mountain heights of Israel will be their grazing land'" (verses 11, 13-14).

It is interesting the agricultural methods God uses with these sheep.  He promises the basics:  fertility and security.  Honestly, is there anything more important for a church to provide its flock than fertility (growth in Faith) and security (acceptance and fellowship)?

"I will make a covenant of peace with them and rid the land of wild beasts.... I will bless them and the places surrounding my hill.  I will send down showers in season; there will be showers of blessing" (verses 25-26).  This sounds like a great development.  I can feel the safety--the grass growing under my feet.  

And it gets better.  Well-fed sheep become thankful sheep.  "I will provide for them a land renowned for its crops, and they will no longer be victims of famine in the land.... Then they will know that I, the Lord their God, am with them and that they, the house of Israel, are my people, declares the Sovereign Lord."

See, this prophecy is revealed to a prophet among the believers in Babylon--a much different "pasture" than the one God promised Abraham generations earlier.  The exile is coming to and end, and--God emphasizes--this time it will be different.

A different kind of farm will need a different kind of farmer:  a grass farmer, so to speak.  God is ready develop a sustainable faith in a renewed people.  It's the kind of renewed focus that would greatly benefit evangelicals in this time of soul-searching and self-examination.

"You, my sheep, the sheep of my pasture, are people, and I am your God" (verse 31).

How Stimulus Worked for the Dittes Family

I'm just so proud of the job that President Obama is doing, and I appreciated his handling of the stimulus debate. Seeing right-wingers (the very ones who drove our nation to the verge of bankruptcy with eight years of mismanagement) get completely unhinged at the idea of spending was quite fun indeed.

Why am I not terrified at the thought of "spending"? Why am I not tearing my hair out and screaming "socialist, socialist!" at the thought of doing something to help my own country?

It's probably because I've been through an economic crisis in my time, and I have seen for myself how stimulus works.

It was 2003. Jonah had just been born. Jenny tried to return to work after maternity leave, only to learn that she had been replaced. Shortly thereafter, I was fired from my job. Oh yeah, at six weeks of age, Jonah ended up at Vanderbilt Medical Center. I sold my pickup truck to pay for three months of family health insurance. Thank God we had that.

The first job Jenny took was with a new doctor at an inferior rate of pay. Once I lost my job, we knew that she needed something new. She signed on with a new doc, who paid better, but whose practicing philosophy was a polar opposite to what Jenny wanted to do.

One year later, Jenny was ready to quit. I had found a part-time job teaching, but we still weren't out of a financial rut. Jenny had a dream of starting up her own clinic--a non-profit clinic that could treat patients the way she wanted them to be treated, and could provide care for those who couldn't find it elsewhere.

Where was the money coming from? We certainly didn't have the savings to start up a new business. The only option was debt--quite a bit of it.

Fortunately we had equity in our home. I didn't question it when the idea came out. I have complete faith in Jenny, and I knew that she would be successful, even if many of her prospective patients wouldn't be paying lots of cash. We took out a 2nd mortgage of $30,000. It was all or nothing.

Four years later, Jenny's clinic provides her with a good salary and employs 12 other people as well. Last March the clinic paid off the remainder of the debt it owed us, and it is free and clear. It was stimulus, plain and simple. It worked.

As I think about my country, I see a similar scenario. The USA is already in terrible financial shape, and $789 billion seemed tough to add to our debt in that situation, but we need new direction, we need something daring, and President Obama's plan could do that.

But this is more than about President Obama, who won 53% of the vote and whose approval ratings approach 70%. It is more about America. If we believe in her, we know that this crisis could be the beginning of greatness, just as the Great Depression launched the USA on the track toward superpower status.

If there is no stimulus in 2004 for the Dittes family, where would we be now? Who would have cared for the thousands of patients who have patronized Hope Family Health Services in the last 4 years? It's amazing, when you think about it.

Slumdog Millionaire: Will the Easter Story sweep the Oscars next Sunday? Will anyone notice?

It's mid-February, and I already have Easter on the mind.

Maybe it's a subconscious yearning for spring--although 60-degree temperatures here in Tennessee the past week haven't exactly been wintry. Maybe it's that my German class is preparing our first-ever celebration of Fastnacht/Karneval on Fat Tuesday, a week from tomorrow. It may be that I'm still preparing myself for Lent.

Hopefully it means that Christ's re-birth in me during our church's fantastic Advent season has carried through.

Valentine's Day swept by in a rush this year. My nephew's birthday is on Valentine's Day, and my sister's family came up from Georgia to celebrate. On Sunday afternoon, however, Jenny and I hired a baby-sitter and went to the movies--something we hadn't done since we saw U23D together over a year ago. We chose Slumdog Millionaire.

Now glowing reviews have been posted everywhere, so it would seem reduntant to note how touching, triumphant or thrilling it is.  Driving home after the film, Jenny and I were amazed at how Christian it all was:  the story of Christ's Passion played out across the slums of Mumbai on a Calvary that looks an awful lot like the set of Who Wants to be a Millionaire?

Really?  This is stretching it, perhaps.  No doubt the production was made by secular Britons and Hindu Indians.  How can an Easter story come from such a source?

Because it is a story that is that great, that's why.

The story begins with torture.  Jamal Malik, a tea-server at an Indian call center, has finished the evening's show one question away from 20 million rupees.  He never finished the 2nd grade, lived in the slums all his life, yet he has managed to answer nine questions correctly.

Immediately after the taping, he is grabbed by police under suspicion of fraud.  Jamal is silent before his accusers, and the silence is broken in a remarkable scene.  Thinking he is unconscious, the two inspectors confer:

Police Inspector 1: Doctors... Lawyers... never get past 60 thousand rupees. He's won 10 million. [pause] 
Police Inspector 2: What can a slumdog possibly know? 
Jamal Malik: [awake, quietly] The answers

Jamal and the inspector go through the previous evening's show, question by question.  Jamal's answers are explained by flashbacks.  I don't want to get too bogged down in detail, but I want to point out a few striking similarities.

Jamal grows up with his brother Salim in a Muslim slum.  Orphaned by a rioting Hindu mob, Jamal and Salim flee, followed tentatively by another orphan girl, Latika.  Salim, the eldest, at first refuses to let Latika join them, but Jamal persists, displaying a loyalty to her that matches his loyalty to his own brother.

Salim is Adam, Christ's brother.  Tempted by a cold Coca-Cola, he, Jamal and Latika leave their shelters in the dump to live with gangsters who use children to beg on the streets of Mumbai.  When Salim witnesses the gangsters' brutality to another child, he becomes Moses, leading Jamal and Latika out of the "orphanage," but only the boys get away.  Latika is left behind as the brothers sojourn throughout India.

Five years later they return on Jamal's volition.  He has to find Latika.  They find her in the red light district, a young twelve-year-old virgin being prepped by the gangster for a big payoff.  Selim becomes David versus The Gangster, and--after a night of drinking and violence--he becomes Nebuchadnezzar:  holding Latika captive in their hotel room, he points his revolver between his brother's eyes:  "Now get out!"  Jamal will stay--he's that determined--but Latika intervenes, closing the door and leaving Jamal alone.

The Jamal of the quiz show is five years older.  His job in the call center led him to reunite with Selim and find Latika, but they are out of his reach.  Latika is the consort of Mumbai's toughest gangster, and Selim is now Judas, the gangster's right-hand man.

When they meet, Jamal fantasizes about throwing his brother off the top of a building:

Salim: [Trying to explain why he never contacted Jamal after forcing him out of the hotel room.]  Left a message for you at work. 
Jamal Malik: There was no message. 
Salim: I definitely left a mess... 
Jamal Malik: There was no message! There was no message! *There was no message*! 
Jamal Malik: [Looks down at Salim starting to cry a little] 
Jamal Malik: I will never forgive you! 
Salim: I know. 

Jamal won't harm him.  Adam/Salim is his brother.  Besides, it isn't Salim he's returned for, it's Latika.  In the ultimate act of betrayal, Salim learns of Latika's plans to run away with Jamal.  In an intense scene, he grabs her at the railway platform--just as she has caught the attention of Jamal--forces her into a car, and gives her a long scar along the side of her jawbone.

That leads directly to Calvary/Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?  The pharisaical show host, Prem Kumar, is contemptuous.  "This is my show," he screams in private.  To Jamal he gloats, "A few hours ago, you were giving chai for the phone walahs. And now you're richer than they will ever be. What a player!"  Jamal avoids the traps the host lays and outwits him at every turn.  

This exchange is particularly revealing in light of the Passion link.  The quiz show exchanges are fascinating in this new, calvary-centered paradigm.

Prem Kumar: Its getting hot in here. 
Jamal Malik: Are you nervous? 
Prem Kumar: [audience laughs] What? Am I nervous ? Its you who's in the hot seat, my friend! 
Jamal Malik: Yes, sorry.

The gospels don't show Jesus ever saying this to Annas (the Prem Kumar character), but history shows that  Annas indeed had more at stake than the man whose life was on the line.  It is important to point out that Jamal wasn't on the show to win twenty million rupees; he wanted to find Latika.  Why would he worry about a multiple-choice question in that scenario?

The final question opens the next evening's show.  All of India is watching.  Salim is Judas (you will see a 30-pieces-of-silver allusion).  He is also Peter, freeing Latika from the gangster's lair, giving her the keys to an SUV (ahem, another huge connection) and his cell phone.

Here's the how the final question plays out:

Prem Kumar: So are you ready for the final question for 20 million rupees? 
Jamal Malik: No, but maybe it is written, no? 

I was grinning at this point of the movie, Easter-lover that I am.  The faith that allowed Christ to conquer Calvary, uttered so simply, by a chai-wallah on an Indian game show.

Prem Kumar: Final question for twenty million rupees, and he's smiling. I guess you know the answer. 
Jamal Malik: Do you believe it, I don't! 
Prem Kumar: You don't? So you take the ten million and walk? 
Jamal Malik: No. I'll play. 

Which of the lifelines will Jamal use?  Millionaire fans know which lifeline is the last to be used:  phone a friend.  Salim's number rings...and rings...and rings...and rings..."Hello?"  

It isn't Salim; it is Mary Magdalene--no, it's me--OK, actually it's Latika.  She doesn't know the answer either.  But the answer doesn't matter to Jamal, neither do the twenty million rupees.  Latika answered.  All he has to do is climb down out of the Hot Seat (ahem) and reclaim his destined Bride.

The theater is full of Easter, and every eye is full of tears, but Jamal isn't done.  They meet in a garden that isn't Eden but an abandoned train platform.  I hear Resurrection whisper out of Latika's amazement:

Jamal Malik: I knew you'd be watching 
Latika: I thought we would meet only in death. 
Jamal Malik: This is our destiny 
Latika: Kiss me 

And for the final, perfect touch, Jamal bends down and kisses...Latika's scar!  It's a transcendant moment, full of redemption.  I wanted to stand up and cheer.  To a Christian, this symbolism is most wonderful--as wonderful as Easter.

In Slumdog Millionaire, the greatest story ever told has been told again--brilliantly, wonderfully.

A few more notes.  

• Malik, the last name of Jamal/Jesus and Salim/Adam, is the Arab word for "king."  
  
• The movie has a few scenes set in "heaven" before young Jamal's return to Mumbai to rescue Latika--I'll leave it to viewers to figure out which famous Indian place this is.
  
• A month ago, Jenny and I watched Danny Boyle's breakthrough film, Trainspotting, on cable.  This really helped us to appreciate Boyle's work in Slumdog.  Both films are beautiful stories of redemption (Trainspotting chronicles a Scottish man's escape from heroin).  They are very, very gritty and dirty, too.  Both have a scene with a dirty toilet, which seems like a strange hallmark for Boyle.
  
• If you're wondering, I got the quotes from the IMDB site for Slumdog Millionaire

Mytherable: The Prettiest Golden Apple

Ellie and I were at contretemps: drama, misunderstanding, struggling for a way to communicate. Then she needed me. She came home with a social studies assignment: write a myth.

With every suggestion, she would complain, "No, no it will never work." Then she would burst into tears and say, "I can't do it, I can't do it!"

I decided to write a myth of my own. Experienced readers will recognized a little of the Judgment of Paris and Atalanta, but it got the point across. I'll share it here with you.

A couple of notes: yes, "Prettiest" is the nickname I have called Ellie ever since she could walk; also, feel free to read the details and pick out your own interpretations of Dittes family dynamics.

The gods were gathered, sipping nectar and laughing at the stories of Homer, when the door flung open and a package rolled down the colonnade to the base of Zeus’s throne.
As it came to a rest, the paper bundle magically unfolded to reveal a golden apple. Attached to the apple was a tag which read, “Prettiest.”

Zeus read the note and smacked his forehead. “Not again!” he groaned, thinking of the terrible war his daughter, Helen of Troy, had begun soon after the last golden apple had rolled through the halls of Mount Olympos.

“Who is it for?” asked Hermes. Without waiting, he leaned over and read the tag. “Prettiest!” he exclaimed. He looked at Zeus. “Who is that?”

“I think I know.” A lovely goddess got up from her bench and glided toward Zeus’s throne, smiling prettily and reaching out for the apple.

“Don’t even think about it Aphrodite,” said the goddess, Artemis. She had just gotten back from chasing deer through the Elysian Fields, and she hadn’t yet changed out of her jogging outfit. Even so, she seemed as fresh as a spring morning, and her golden braids were sprinkled with flower petals.

“I think it is mine.” Athena strode forward, her clear grey eyes glaring at the other two goddesses. Her fingers tapped ominously on the shaft of her spear.

The three goddesses glared at each other. Then they looked at Zeus. “You decide,” they demanded, almost as one.

Zeus laughed. “Oh no I won’t,” he said. “I won’t have any part of this. Do you think I want everyone on Olympos angry with me? Never!”

“Just give it to me,” Aphridite said. “No me!” Artemis replied.

“God of Thunder, if I may.” A short satyr approached the throne. “There is a dancing place in Tennessee. Huge slabs of concrete overlooking a spring, a burial place for the giant, Thorsys. A girl lives there. I have seen her. I hear that she is called, ‘Prettiest.’”

Athena glared at him with her grey eyes, fires glowed in the dark starburst around her pupils. “Well…is she…the Prettiest—I mean, this apple could be for her.”

The satyr stuttered. “No, your highness, she is nothing like you…except,” he paused reverently, “for her eyes. They are of your color—and passion.”

Artemis ran over to him. “You said she was the prettiest, didn’t you?” she growled, sounding almost like a hungry wolf.

“Compared to you, she is not,” the satyr continued, “But you should see her run—she is so fast, I dare say she could keep up with you.”

Artemis smiled. “Prettiest, prettiest, prettiest,” Aphrodite said, pursing her lips into a sweet smile. “Can she do this?” She stared at the satyr and blinked her eyelashes. The satyr felt his knees weakening and his pulse quicken.

“I dare say she comes close,” he said. He turned to Zeus. “I only mentioned this because I thought that she might serve as judge.”

Zeus pounded the arm rest of his throne. “Wonderful idea!” he said. He handed the golden apple to the satyr. “You shall be the keeper of this. Lead these goddesses to the dancing circle you spoke of, and the competition will begin. This girl, uh, Prettiest, sounds like the very judge we have been looking for.”

The satyr and the three goddesses were caught up in a cloud and taken far away to Tennessee. At that very moment, Ellie Dittes sat curled up on a couch reading a book. Her phone buzzed to life. Text message.

There on her screen was a golden apple avatar. She couldn’t take her eyes off of it. It was so beautiful.

The phone buzzed again. “Want it?” the message read.

“Sure!”

“Back yard. Past the fire pit.”

Back yard? Ellie looked out the window. Leaves were blowing around the yard. A storm must have picked up. She put her book down and walked to the family room, looking out past the dogwood tree at the fire pit. Just beyond, she could see a cloud that seemed to glow with pink, purple and green lights.

Buzz. She looked down. The golden apple. Buzz. “RUCumin?”

Ellie opened the door and walked into the back yard. The cloud seemed to race toward her. Suddenly it enveloped her.

Ellie blinked and tried to shake some sense into her head. This was her back yard, all right, but the people were unlike anything she had ever seen. A satyr grinned up at her, perched on his fawn-like legs. Three beautiful women—one in a flowing dress, one in Greek battle armor, and one in a jogging suit—smiled sweetly at her.

“You are the one called, ‘Prettiest?’” the satyr asked her.

Ellie wrinkled her eyebrows. “That’s just a silly name my Daddy calls me,” she said. “I don’t really believe it. No one else calls me that.”

“I believe it,” said one of the women, whose grey eyes warmed her. “That Daddy of yours is a smart one.”

“Oh, it’s true,” said another. “I just love what you have done with your hair—and those clothes look so great on you. I bet all the boys are sweet on you.”

Not to be outdone, the woman in the jogging suit spoke up. “Prettiest in looks and deeds—I hear that you’re quite the athlete.”

“Thanks,” Ellie said. Under her breath she muttered, “I guess.”

The satyr looked at the women and then back at Ellie. “You will probably want to get right back to whatever it was that you were doing.” He paused.

“A book,” Ellie said. “I was reading a book, and I still have some homework to do.”

“Your book,” the satyr continued. “I just need a quick favor. It has to do with this.” He reached into a bag and pulled out the golden apple.

Ellie’s eyes grew wide, and she gasped in amazement. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen—nothing she had seen in the Louvre Atlanta or Boston Museum of Fine Arts could compare with its brilliance or craftsmanship! She read the tag, “Prettiest.”

“It’s not for you,” the satyr said, putting it back into his bag. “It’s for one of them. You get to decide who it belongs to. You could say it’s a contest. You’re the judge, Prettiest.”

Ellie looked at the women. They were all beautiful. “I don’t think I can make a decision like that,” she said.

Athena strode towards Ellie, put her arm around her shoulders, and turned her away from the others. “Let me make this easy for you,” she said. “I’m the Goddess of Wisdom. If you pick me, everything gets a lot easier. You will get the top grade in every class for the rest of your life—even math. You get a full scholarship to the university of your choice, whether it’s in Paris or New York or London, and you are guaranteed your dream job right after you graduate—valedictorian, of course. Just give me the golden apple.”

Ellie grinned. “Nice,” she said. “You said New York, right?”

Athena winked at her. “Nice eyes,” she whispered.

“Oh Ellie, let Auntie Artemis talk with you.” Ellie spun around and faced the goddess in the jogging suit. “Ellie, I can tell that you’re a winner, just by the look of you.”

Ellie nodded.

“I’m the Goddess of Girlhood,” Artemis continued. “Did you like the Olympics last summer? If you like winning, you like the Olympics, and I can help you get a gold medal…or three…or ten if you want. You will run and run, leaving everyone in your dust. And since I’m the Goddess of Girlhood, you’ll always be the BFF, you will never run out of friends.”

“Sweet,” Ellie explained.

“Sure it is,” Artemis giggled. “All you have to do is give me the golden apple. Let’s get together for lunch sometime. Where is your table at lunch?”

“Now Artemis run along.” Aphrodite strode up to Ellie. “It’s time for a woman-to-woman chat.”
Ellie’s lips lifted into a smile.

“Your lips are just beautiful,” Aphrodite said. “I would suggest a light pink lipstick—nothing too strong.”

“O….K….” Ellie said, expectantly.

“I already know what those two ninnies were talking to you about, so let’s just cut to the chase, shall we? Do you like any boys?”

Ellie grinned. “Sort of.”

“I’ll give you beauty that will knock their eyeballs out of their sockets. The boys won’t be able to resist you, my dear. You will never have a bad hair day, your body will be the perfect proportions at all times. Oh, and this….” Aphrodite pulled out a credit card. “Unlimited balance, but it can only be spent on clothes and accessories.”

Ellie reached out as if in a trance. “Give me….”

Aphrodite snatched it away. “Only if I get that golden apple.”

“That’s enough you three,” the satyr said. “You have all had your say. Now give Prettiest a chance to make up her mind.”

Ellie backed up until she was sitting on the steps outside the family room. The three goddesses stood under the dogwood tree. Ellie could hear them whisper.

“Think what your daddy is going to say when he sees your grades,” Athena said.
“Your name in lights,” Artemis whispered, “Ellie Dittes, USA!!!”

“I bet that boy is a cutie,” Aphrodite said, “He’s going to love the way you look.”
“Pick your Mama, she’s prettier than all of them combined.” Was that Daddy? What was he doing on the other side of the family room doors?

Ellie looked down at the golden apple. She tossed it in the air and caught it, admiring its brilliance. She had to decide, she just didn’t know which one….


Ellie, I think that this myth describes where you are in your life at this very moment. The golden apple you are holding is your life. It’s your future. You have so many demands, so many dreams, so many aspirations, and they are all calling to you, beckoning you, begging your allegiance. This is a stressful choice—very stressful, especially for someone with your natural talents and abilities.

Myths are wonderful tools to look at the things that might be causing you trouble. Giving these stressors a name and a face helps you to understand them better. Perhaps you could write an ending to this story yourself—or add gods and goddesses (religion, family, music, etc.) that I didn’t have time to include.

The greatest story that I know of is the one your life has written so far. It has travelled to the ends of the earth; it has experienced true loyalty and great turmoil. I am so proud of you—very, very, very proud of everything about you. I hope that we can keep writing together—that you will continue to inspire me—for many, many, many more years.

--Daddy, 11 January 2009

Some Cool Quotes

"To be truly radical is to make hope possible, not despair convincing." Raymond Williams

"Everything works out right in the end. If things are not working right, it's not the end yet. Just relax and keep working." Michael C. Muhammad.

"Only puny secrets need protection. Big discoveries are protected by public incredulity." Marshall McEwen

And if you have a chance, watch the video linked in the title. It's an awesome assessment of how close we actually

One of the Dots

The video below is a fascinating look at immigration into the United States between 1820 and 2000.

Each dot represents 100 immigrants from a given country.  I keep watching this over and over again, thinking about my ancestors who came over in the 1690s, 1890s, 1900s and 1920s.

It's also cool to see how things fluctuate from Europe and Africa to Latin America and Asia--where most immigrants originate today.

Immigration to the US, 1820-2007 v2 from Ian Stevenson on Vimeo.

George W. Bush: A Success Story

I submitted this is a letter to the editor of my local, daily newspaper.  Since I doubt it has much of a chance to get in, I though I would post here here for your enjoyment.

Personally, I don't like to be judged by criteria that I don't choose to be judged by.  Consider my merits and my goals when you are calling me a screw-up or a disaster.  If I judged George W. Bush in the same way, a success story emerges.

------------------------------------

As we come to the end of the Bush Administration, many writers are trying to get a jump on history by proclaiming him a miserable failure (the prevailing view) or lauding his goals, if not his achievements as president.

Another way to judge the Bush Presidency is on what it intended to do from day one.  Judged in this way, it is easy to find many successes.  Cheney's energy task force was wildly successful when one looks at the wild profitability of the coal and oil companies who helped to forge it.  The tens of billions of dollars of profit of companies like Exxon/Mobil, and the vast numbers of Americans tricked into denying climate change or believing in the existence of "clean coal" technologies are testaments to Bush's successful energy leadership.

The tax cuts of 2001 were also successfully implemented, and Americans with incomes in the top 2%--and those who stood to gain lucrative inheritances--cannot complain.  Moreover, with no tax increases to pay for increased spending on the War on Terror or Homeland Security, Bush successfully delayed the economic impact of these policies until the last year of his administration, albeit two years earlier than when the bubble was designed to burst back in 2001.

The Iraq War was also a goal of the administration from day one.  Former treasury secretary, Paul O'Neill revealed in his book The Price of Loyalty, that rationale for an invasion of that country was presented at one of the first meetings of the National Security Council.  Bush wanted that war.  Mission accomplished.  When he ran for re-election, Bush promised to keep troops in Iraq, and he has delivered on that promise, too, even if it took two more years go find a strategy that would finally reduce sectarian violence in that war-ravaged land.

If we consider his terms, then, Bush succeeded at achieving the goals he had from the beginning of his first campaign for President.  In hindsight, these "successes" may seem short-sighted or disastrous to our country's prosperity.  If that is the case, however, the blame should not lie with George W. Bush and his administration but with the American voters who embraced these priorities in Bush's two election victories.

Star of Wonder

There was a wise man once, a wise man who had spent his fortune building observatories and charting the location of the stars.

One night, as he looked at the constellation, Cassiopeia, a strange sight appeared.  Glimmering at the top of the constellation, near the top of the throne, bright as Venus, shone a star that hadn't been there before.

The wise man consulted his charts, believed to be the most accurate in the world at the time.  Not only was he a keen observer of the stars, he was inventor of the parallax, a device used to measure the movement of the planets--and the fixedness of the stars.  Corresponding with fellow astronomers, the wise man came to a revolutionary conclusion.  Next to the star's place in his records, he wrote the words, "Nova stella"--new star.

Over the next week the nova stella  appeared even in the daytime sky.  Gradually, however, the star began to fade.  Sixteen months later, it disappeared.

This wise man was Tycho Brahe, the richest man in Denmark.  And the date he saw nova stella  was November 11, 1572.  The star shone brilliantly for the first two weeks of that month, visible even during the day.  Then, over the next 16 months, it gradually faded from white to yellow, yellow to orange, orange to red, and red to black.

Tycho's nova stella was not a welcome sight in Europe in 1572.  Its existence was, in fact, heretical.  The Bible taught that the heavens had been made by God.  They were fixed.  Unchanging.  Perfect, untouched by sin.  And they hung in the heavens to--like the sun and moon--revolve around the earth!  

That passed for orthodoxy in the Europe of Tycho's Star as the nova is now known.  Thirty years prior to nova stella, Copernicus had published his conclusions that the earth and the planets revolved around the sun.  It would be another 40 years before Galileo, using the newly invented telescope, would confirm these theories definitively.  In fact, Tycho's carefully calibrated charting of the planets and stars had hoped to synthesize Copernicus's calculations with church orthodoxy.

That was before nova stella, a name that would be shortened to "nova" for stars that appeared and died out in this way.

In 1604, another nova appeared in the heavens.  Johannes Kepler, a protege of Tycho and the mathematician who described the revolutions of the planets, confirmed a second nova stella, erasing all doubt that stars are born and that stars die out in the wide, wide universe.

What is a nova?  It is better to begin with a simpler question:  what is a star?

Despite the way our own star, the Sun, looks in the sky, a star is not a ball.  There is no surface, no skin, no place where one might land on or walk upon a star.  A star is actually a delicate balance of the most powerful forces in nature:  gravity and fusion.  The gravity of our star is a tremendous force, capable of holding huge planets like Earth, Saturn and Jupiter suspended in orbit from millions of miles away and able to sling comets like Halley on 75-year round-trip journeys to the edge of the solar system and reel them back.

Within the star, the tremendous gravity draws hydrogen molecules into its core.  As they hurtle toward the center, the molecules collide and heat to such extreme temperatures that nuclear reactions take place, turning the hydrogen into helium and expelling force with this fusion.  As the hydrogen is used up, helium makes carbon, which makes oxygen, which makes neon, as it moves up the Periodic Table to the heavier elements.  The "skin" or "circle" in which we see the sun is simply the place at which the exploding energy and the in-drawing seem to be in balance.

A nova occurs when the balance that forms the star is upset--usually when the hydrogen runs out or when the creation of iron (Fe) brings the whole process to a jolting stop.  Less energy is expelled, so the star implodes, sometimes creating a black hole, other times creating a blinding-bright nova.

In star terms, our Sun isn't quite capable of creating a massive nova.  It's a pick-up truck, if you will:  reliable, slow, small (in star terms).  Scientists predict it will run out of fuel in 5 billion years or so, at which point it will bulge with a giant burp and then sleep eternally as a dwarf star.

The stars that create novas are white giants--Lamborghinis, if you will.  They live fast and die hard, using up huge amounts of fuel in their lifespans.  As the hydrogen gets used up, you can imagine a Lamborghini going from 101 octane fuel to 97 to 93 to 87 to beer to rubbing alcohol and then to water, at which point it would lock up (or explode, I guess).  

When the delicate balance is upset, what happens?

Boom.

Light streams across the universe, coupled with x-rays and gamma rays.  Years pass, decades, centuries.  Then we might, if we're lucky, see what happened in our night sky.  Indeed, the explosion that lit the sky above Denmark in 1572 was 7,500 years old!

What about Christmas?

You probably saw the title, "Star of Wonder," but now you're growing frustrated that a mediocre English teacher proves to be such a terrible astronomy teacher.

The fact is that theories about as to the star that guided the wise men to Jerusalem:  planetary convergence, comets, shining bands of angels, etc.  All that we do know is that wise men claimed to have known about Christ's birth because of a star (Matthew 2).

This is compounded by the fact that the exact year of Christ's birth is uncertain.  The Gregorian Calendar, which separated history into Before Christ and Anno Domine appears inaccurate when one considers the established fact that Herod the Great, ruler at the time of Christ's birth, died in 4 BC.  Most scholars actually put Christ's birth somewhere in the years 6 to 4 BC.

But there are obvious parallels with novas in the Christmas story.  A new star, stella nova, appeared in the heavens.  It burned bright--possibly bright enough to see during the daytime--and expired a few months later.  In fact, Chinese astronomers recorded a kho-hsing or "guest star" in the constellation Capricorn in 5 BC (Tycho's Star would be the first nova recorded by a European).  It appeared sometime between March 10 and April 7 of that year, lasting for 70 days.

The appearance of this "guest star" would signalled revolution for the astronomers learned enough to notice it.  Persia, where presumably the magi originated, was closely tied with Judea--its king, Cyrus, had been named "Messiah" by the writer of Isaiah, and one of the most famous Jews to prophesy about Messiah, Daniel, had ended his life in Persia.

Another revolution appears in the worldview of the Jewish world in which this star appeared.  As the world of Tycho was geo-centric or Earth-centered, the religion of Judea was temple-centric.  Salvation came through the temple, and its gates were barred by the corrupt practices of the Temple elite and Sanhedrin.  When John proclaims that the "light has come into the world," it truly is nova stella:  a temple destroyed and resurrected in three days to become Emmanuel, God within every person (not within the temple).

The nova says even more about God and the marvelous ways that He works.

Try this with me.  Imagine going back in time to about 5 BC.  Look over the shoulders of the magi as they scan the heavens and remark upon the bright new star in Capricorn.  

Now go back centuries, thousands of years to the moment the star actually exploded.  If Tycho's Star is any comparison, this spectacular moment of death took place anywhere between 7,500 and 10,000 years before it burst into the view of the magi.

If this is true, then God is here.  To me, this means that the destiny of the human race was set before humanity as we know it existed--before Daniel, before David, before Abraham, before Noah, before anybody, the light that bore news of nova stella was on its way toward Earth.

That thought makes me rethink nearly every story of the Old Testament.  I think of Sarah, giggling with doubt at the thought of a son, much less one who would father a great nation.  Yet in the 10 seconds or so of her laughter, the light of nova stella had advanced 2 million miles through space!  I imagine Elijah, fearing for his life and the loss of God's work in Israel.  Does he realize that nova stella is on its way?

This is the God that I believe in:  the One who created the Universe and set it in motion.  He sealed the destiny of my world and countless others thousands upon thousands of years ago.  He is the minder of the gaps that connect worlds upon worlds.

To me, that means that a New Heaven and a New Earth are already made, streaming through space for my arrival.  The fulfillment of Christ's promise, "I go to prepare a place for you--" hurtles toward me at the speed of light.

Where God can be found, there is also faith:  my hopes made manifest, my fears dispersed before I knew to ask.  The resolution of all matters was set in motion before I existed.  That's why the prophet does not say, "Those who pray to the Lord shall renew their strength," he says, "Those who wait upon the Lord...."  The Answer is coming at light speed--and well worth the wait.

Lord, give me eyes to see nova stella.  Give me a heart of faith that waits upon You.

What Reverend Abner Stood For

This is a short story I wrote back in college.  At the time, the country was transitioning from Bush the Better to President Clinton, and there was a lot of fear in the air (my college wasn't what one would call "progressive" by any measure).  I like to revisit it whenever my country is recovering from an election and moving into an uncertain future.  My prayer is that it helps to put politics into perspective, in light of our Christian calling.

15 December 1992

Few Christmases in our nation’s history have been as desperate as the Christmas of 1777.  George Washington and the Continental Army were bottled up in Valley Forge.  The British held Philadelphia and New York City.  All sings pointed to defeat for the struggling colonies.

Nowhere was the disappointment felt more severely in than in the town of Fredrick, Maryland; nowhere was the patriotism more intense.  The leader of the revolutionary struggle in Frederick was none other than the Anglican minister, Douglas Abner.  Since before the revolution—before the Declaration of Independence—Abner had railed against the injustices of the British monarchy from his pulpit every Sunday.  “We have no king but Christ on high,” he often said, “no government but that which every free man chooses for himself within these 13 colonies.”

By Christmas of 1777, the patriotic fervor had grown into anti-British mayhem.  Loyalist houses and businesses were looted and burned.  Tea was boycotted to show solidarity with the residents of Boston.  Even in little ways, the colonists showed their contempt for the British.  Playing cards which had once included four sets of kings and queens were now printed with likenesses of George Washington and Betsey Ross instead.

Despite the bitterness, Christmas crept ever closer.  Townspeople readied themselves for the holiday season, and looked forward to Frederick’s Christmas tradition—the community symphony’s annual rendition of Handel’s “Messiah.”  Thirty-five years earlier, at the oratorio’s debut, the majestic strains of the Hallelujah Chorus had brought King George I to his feet.  At the sight of this standing king, the other concert-goers had followed suit.  Since that time, standing during the Hallelujah Chorus brought to mind the King of England as well as King of the Jews.

The Sunday before the performance, Reverend Abner condemned the English for being slaves to a tradition set by despotic rulers—a tradition that refused to let the colonies have their freedom.

The members left the church bewildered in spite of their patriotism.  What about “Messiah”?  Would this Christmas tradition continue?  Would anybody stand?

The community orchestra practiced pensively that week for the Friday performance.  The church choir seemed distracted as they went over the songs they had sung every year since 1760.  No one talked about the final chorus.  No one thought of standing.  No one mentioned the word, Hallelujah.

The night before Christmas finally arrived.  Colonists came from Frederick and several nearby villages to hear the oratorio—more than had ever come before.  But Christmas joy was nowhere to be found.  Every jaw was set.  Every eye looked unwaveringly forward.

Reverend Abner set a somber tone for the evening when he began the program with a special prayer for the American soldiers on the front lines.  He included a moment of silence for five of Frederick’s sons who had died in battle that year.

After Abner’s prologue, the concert progressed horribly.  The orchestra had to stop four times to retune.  The soloists sang without any hint of emotion or praise as Christ’s story unfolded.  Every eye in the hall was on Reverend Abner.  Every hand moved in applause with his hands.  Every head nodded in approval with his.

At last the moment came.  The strings sang the joyous entrance to the Hallelujah Chorus; the choir began to sing.  Everyone watched Reverend Abner’s jaw become suddenly tense.  He clutched his hands together.  He crossed his legs.  He stayed seated.

Back in the tenth row sat Francis Weaver, the 8-year-old son of a Frederick carpenter.  He couldn’t see Reverend Abner over the heads of the other concertgoers.  He could only see the choir and listen to the words as the choir sang distractedly:  “For the Lord God omnipotent reigneth, Hallelujah.”

Francis didn’t know what omnipotent meant.  He didn’t even know where England was.  But somehow he knew exactly what the music had called him to do.  Francis stood up.

No one noticed at first—that is, until Francis stood up on the chair to get a better look at the orchestra.  Then a murmur arose.  Reverend Abner turned to quell the talking, only to look with horror at little Francis standing in the tradition of King George.

Next others stood in acclamation as the choir sang—a little more boisterously now—“And He shall reign for ever and ever, Hallelujah.”  The strings seemed to pick up the tempo, and soon that hall in Frederick, Maryland, barely a hundred and fifty miles from Valley Forge, was ringing with the music of angels.  Abner sat still, a lone dimple in the rejoicing, standing mass of Marylanders.

He lowered his head and squeezed his eyes shut.  “King George, King George,” he muttered, “That’s all that it is.  I am a patriot.  I will not honor such a king.”

But the choir continued, building to the song’s climax: “And His name shall be called, Wonderful, Counselor, the Mighty God, the Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace.”

Abner looked up at the words, “Prince of Peace.”  Like Paul before the gates of Damascus, he opened his eyes to see something he had never expected.  Instead of a haughty, white-wigged King George of England, the King of Kings reached out to him.  Calling him.  Electing him.

“Hallelujah,” the choir sang.  “Hallelujah!”

Abner looked around at the festive citizens of Frederick.  With a loud sigh he looked forward at the choir and stood—a testament to the fact that no revolution nor war nor evil empire could stay seated before the King of Kings.

When the Chorus ended, the applause filled the church.  Francis’s father hoisted him up on his shoulders as the mass of patriots clamored for more.  The choir obliged and sang the Chorus again, this time even livelier and more joyously than before.  Next the orchestra played Christmas carols.  The throng joined the choir, and that tiny hall in colonial Frederick, Maryland, literally glowed with the joy of the Christmas season until midnight.

As the gathering dispersed, a Christmas star shone in the heavens.  The colonists went happily to their homes, festive and merry.  No one watched Reverend Abner slip away into the cool night.  No one noticed the tears flowing down his cheeks or his shaking hands.  No one saw him gaze up into heaven, nor did they hear him whisper the word, “Hallelujah.”

Are You Smarter than a Sixth Grader?

Several years ago, when I was getting back into teaching from my embarrassing foray into grant administration, my first job was teaching five Language Arts classes to sixth graders at Shafer Middle School in Gallatin.

The regular teacher had gone on maternity leave, and I began the job eager to get back into teaching and show what I could do. Sure, they were 6th-graders and I had only taught high school before, but I wasn't awed. "Bring 'em on!" I thought, in a misguided-ignorant-George-W-Bush sort of way.

I was several weeks into teaching there before I got a solid understanding of what had hit me. The creatures in my classes--were they children? teens? tweenies? how do you categorize 12-year-olds (you don't)--did bizarre and inexplicable things.

There were the two boys who took turns making animal sounds whenever I turned to write on the board. There was the girl who alternated between helplessness and contempt in her interactions with me and other students. There was the boy who couldn't stop moving, either in the room or in the hall, until he ended up in ISS for the final two weeks of school and made up all his work. And then there was the day all the staff spent in the cafeteria, ready to prevent a food fight that we successfully headed off.

I learned something about 6th-graders that year--and a lot more about myself. I gained a new respect for that age level--and the teachers, pastors and parents who are needed to guide them through this important time.

But what I learned the most was about the intelligence of 6th-graders, something I had underestimated, or at least misunderstood. They are a wickedly crafty species of homo sapien, and one not to be taken lightly. Now that Ellie has moved into 6th grade, I am revisiting many of those lessons learned long ago. Am I smarter than a 6th-grader? I certainly hope so. Otherwise my life is about to be a lot worse.

Here are a few observations about 6th-graders. I'm composing them now, so that I can revisit them over the course of this year. Perhaps you will appreciate them, too, if you have parented one of these creatures, or you can file this away from when your time comes.

6th-graders divide and conquer. I used to think that the quest for independence begins in 9th grade, when kids are fully fledged teenagers. I was wrong. The battle for command begins in 6th grade. It's a bizarre kind of warfare, based on animal instinct and exploding hormones. I couldn't even call it generalship--because that would take planning and an overall goal.

No, 6th-graders are more Pancho Villa than Patton in their approach to warfare. Their goals are immature--give me what I want, don't hold me responsible--but their tactics are often brilliant. I watched my own parents grow divided and angry in response to attacks from a 6th-grader when I was growing up. The combination of teddy-bear looks and devious tactics can run roughshod over the institutions that are meant to direct them: schools and marriages are the first line of assault.

I remember how completely the administration of my middle school were divided from the teachers as a result of these tactics. I would write a kid up, only to hear later from the incompetent vice principal that I was the one who had been in the wrong. I had two girls complain that I had kept them from going to the restroom during their menstrual periods in the six weeks I taught there--double the number of high school girls who had pulled this trick in six years of teaching high school. The kids ran the school, and within a year both the vice principal and principal had been replaced (the new principal is awesome, by the way, and my mother-in-law teaches there now, which is cool).

6th-graders are not responsible. There are many frustrating tasks that I have had to complete in my lifetime, none more frustrating than having to argue with a 6th-grader about something they blatantly did. A preferred tactic of the 6th-graders I taught was to deny (this continues through the first two years of high school, I might add). I was always so shocked to hear this, that sometimes it worked. I backed down due to temporary brain lock!

A more common trick was to talk back through blame. "You didn't say anything when X did it!" This is a terribly effective strike because it's even more confusing than the first one. But the argument at it's base, "I don't have to be good until everyone is good," is devastating. If 6th-graders can win this argument, then no rules can be effectively enforced. It's amazing how 6th-graders study everything in their environment--stuff I wouldn't normally pick up on--just to get out of responsibility.

Of course there are magical, wonderful moments when 6th-graders become aware of their responsibility and accept it. These usually coincide with unity--the school and parents being on the same page, or both parents being together rather than divided. The kids' faces light up. They actually grin (because they know in there primitive animal minds that they need an Alpha figure) and move on to plan the next ambush.

6th-graders are victims of runaway hormones. Again, I had thought before that 9th grade was when the hormone thing started. Was I ever wrong. Sixth grade is the point where boys stop talking to girls and get embarrassed by them. It's the point at which girls divide up the boys and "go out" with them--yet at the same time seldom talk to or associate with the boys who are their "boyfriend."

When I was twelve, my friends in Ohio started "dating." They were girl-crazy. My friend, Eric, had a girlfriend, so did Kevin. I helped Kevin get his girlfriend. He told me to go and tell her she was a "fox." Apparently this was all it took.

I found this really confusing. My idea of a girlfriend, at the time, was someone you spent a lot of time with and held hands with (kissing was out of the question, of course). They tried to set me up with a girlfriend of my own--an unknowing, innocent girl named Tabitha. I was too scared. I didn't have a "real" girlfriend until I was 15 or 16.

It is only now that I look back on those "relationships" and understand them a little better. Kevin and Eric and I ended up spending most of our time together, not with girls. We played more than our share of softball and football. We had a great time together. But for a few moments each week, Kevin and Eric were boyfriends, and I was merely confused.

Ellie had a similar romance a few weeks ago. Her friend, Tristin, lured her to a car, where a 6th-grade boy was sitting in the back seat.

"You like her, don't you?" Tristin asked her cousin, the object of Ellie's affections.

"Yeah."

"You like him, don't you?" Tristin asked Ellie.

"Yes!"

Thirty seconds later, Ellie was giggling with her girlfriends, and the boy was hanging out with his buddies again.

No harm done.

Am I smarter than a 6th-grader? It's a question that I cannot answer. It's a challenge that I face every day, and will continue to do until my 6th-grader(s) until they are mature young adults.

(An aside: does anyone recognize how the traits of 6th-graders (more Pancho Villa than Patton, never responsible for their actions, head-hunting tactics meant to divide opponents) also apply to the Bush Administration? Were these folks smarter than 6th-graders, or were they 6th-graders?)

I do think that it's a question that helps me to anticipate the next ambush, appreciate all the changes that are going in my favorite 6th-grader's life, and prepare to parent even the most difficult of stages of development.