Summers by the Portenuf River →

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Summers by the Portneuf River

 

For much of my youth, I lived next to the Portneuf River in Pocatello, Idaho. Over the years, the value I place on that time has changed, and how I view those events has evolved.

 

I remember that the river water level was higher in the spring with all the runoff from the snow-topped mountains flowing into it and then running through the town on the West side. My Huckleberry Finn experience with this river included fishing from rafts built from logs and branches as we floated downstream. Our home was right on the bank of the river, in the middle of the town’s residential section. I could look out of my second-story bedroom window straight to the river. The banks were thick on both sides with bushes and trees, and when we floated down the river on rafts we built, it was like being in another world.

 

Fishing from the raft was achieved with a traditional pole, but fishing from the shore, mostly in my backyard, was different. There were lots of small minnows in the shallow water near the beach, so no poles or hooks were used; instead, a pint or quart glass bottle was our fishing tool.

Masson and Ball brand glass jars with threads on their outer perimeter, so they could accept a metal ring when it was screwed down, were our unique fishing tool for minnows. My mother and aunts all used these jars to bottle raspberries, peaches, cherries, and other items, by sealing them in them and putting them into a boiling kettle bath. Raspberries were my favorite.

An empty bottle, strong string, lid, knife, and some bread, were all needed. The string, usually six feet long, had one end tied and fasted around the top by putting it between the lid and bottle before screwing it down. Using the knife, a hole could be cut in the middle of the flat metal lid, creating a punctured X, then pressing the X to open so that four short sections of the cover are depressed into the bottle. At this point, a few bread pieces would be scattered in the bottom of the bottle before the lid was replaced. The bread pieces needed to be big enough so that, when the bottle was filled with water, they wouldn’t float up through the opening in the lid.

With the filled bottle secured by the string, doubled up if needed to support its weight and pressure, it was tossed offshore into the river under overhanging branches or close to a large rock.

This type of fishing was not complicated, and we would wait at least ten minutes, maybe even an hour, to see what treasures the river would yield. When the bottle was pulled back to shore, it almost always contained minnows that had swam in to get the bread but couldn’t figure out how to get out.

The small fish could be used for bait on a hook with a fishing pole, especially if a trip to the Snake River was coming up where bigger fish would bite on minnows, or they could be sold for bait, like worms. The minnows were also an option for more riverbank activity.

Mud and rocks could be used to make a little pond on the bank of the river to hold them. Of course, letting the fish go was the best option, which sometimes happened, too. When a pool was created and loaded up with the minnows, the next step was to back away, hide or even leave and come back in an hour or so. Sooner or later, a snake would find this little pool and slither in to eat the fish. With good timing, the snake could then be caught.

What to do with a live snake presented more of a challenge. Several attempts to keep the snake in a cardboard box under the front porch failed, as they just disappeared. I always hoped they wouldn’t find a way into the house.

Leaving the river behind when I was about fourteen, our family moved to a new house in a traditional neighborhood on the east side of the town. A few years after we moved, something terrible happened to the river. Spring runoff was higher than it had been in years, and all along the river, the neighborhoods were flooded as it ran through the town. The town brought the Army Corps of Engineers in to evaluate the situation, and they decided to make a cement ditch of the river for its entire length as it twisted and turned through the town. The project began in 1966 and was completed in 1968. The river was replanned by the Engineers, and 6.2 miles were changed. 1.5 miles of the changes were right through the West Side of the down, where our previous home sat almost in the middle.  A concrete channel was poured 40 feet wide and 10 to 16 feet tall. I don’t recall any protests or concerns that the engineers were wrong in their actions, and no one asked my opinion.

A river in a cement ditch is not a river! When they completed their plan, the banks had no trees or bushes. It was just an ugly, sterile ditch. Any path to revisiting my Huckleberry Finn days and my youth had been eliminated by bureaucrats and a town happy to receive some federal funding.

I had to wait a few years before returning to where I grew up, where this work was done. After that first trip back, I waited a long time before I ever went back again. For over 50 years, I have only visited the area I grew up in a few times. It is just a heartbreaking site

 

John Steinbeck said, “You can’t go home again because the home has ceased to exist in the mothballs of memory.” Maybe he was right, but my memory of home is much better than the reality today. It points to the fact that there is no sense in looking back. And so, we get up and press forward.

 

Maybe I can’t go home again, but I am glad I wrote down my thoughts about the river that was such an essential part of my childhood. That documented memory is a plot point in my life story that looks different each time I read it, demonstrating how my thoughts and conclusions about it have changed. For example, when I first wrote the story, I didn’t even consider the government’s role in deciding to reduce the river to an ugly cement ditch.

This is a chapter in my book, “Why Life Stories Change: As You Look At Your Own Life Story, You See Yourself Differently.” See “My Books Section” Or order the book at https://www.amazon.com/Brent---M.-Jones/e/B07WTRSLC1.

Much of what I recall from 1966 is pleasant but some things seem very different now →

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Much of what I recall from 1966 is pleasant. I was married that year, and it was my second year at Idaho State University.  I had spent my entire life in Idaho and had a little experience that would have helped me understand all that was happening in the world. The Vietnam war and civil rights protests were on TV every night. Guys I had gone to school with were going to war.  Some were coming back, reenlisting, and going back again: some didn't come back. The ugly view of the war was something that we got first-hand reports on when the guys we had gone to school with returned.

Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream “ speech occurred in August 1963, and things worsened. The issue of civil rights was one that, as far as first-hand experiences, for us in that part of the country, were not the same. It wasn’t clear to some of us why the blacks lived in one part of town; to some degree, it seemed like it was just where they wanted to be. The only prejudice we heard was primarily from our parents’ generation.

When I attended Pocatello High School, the Student Body President was Marvin Brown. He was an African American. He was very popular and well-liked, which is what you heard about him. You didn’t hear much from the students about race. In September 1962, Marvin was killed in a car accident.  He would have gone to Harvard in another few weeks with his scholarship.  We were all saddened by the event. Things were very different in Southeastern Idaho than you saw on the news the next few years.

Why were our lives then sheltered and not in the direct line of fire for all these problems?  Why didn’t we understand it more then? Does the fact that we didn’t understand it then mean we didn’t come to the same conclusions that many who were in the middle of it did, at least eventually? We thought we understood what the Civil Rights movement was at the time.  We knew about what was happening, but we didn't have experience. It seemed incredible that there even was such a difference in the treatment of people in our country.

Some may feel that it was "just the luck of the draw" for us in that part of the country?  By that, I mean that some people believe that we don't make many choices in our lives and we all just with the set of circumstances given. They feel that choices and how we think about things result from how we were "wired,” where we were born, or who our parents are. Our genetics and circumstances are felt to have programmed us and dictated how we choose?  Even today, a popular point of view is that free will is an illusion.  I’m afraid I have to disagree with this point of view. If I didn't have the experience back in 1966 to understand what was happening then, I have had more than enough time to ponder it since then, and I have—looking back and seeing my lack of experience has compelled me to look harder than others may have.

Experience, when added to knowledge, is better than either one alone in searching for wisdom.  The search also requires deciding how to connect the events in our life.   It can take some time for things to seem transparent.

One experience I did have surprised me. I am still trying to understand what it taught me, but I think part of the answer is to help me understand more about kindness.

About the same time as all the things that were so troubling were happening in the country; an unexpected thing happened to me. At the University, we would go to the student union between classes, meet with friends, and talk.  I made a new friend in one of my classes. He was an exchange student from a country in Africa. He was black, brilliant, and seemed to have a different take on things.  Sitting and talking with him was something I looked forward to each day.  I am not saying we were best friends, but several months went by, and our routine was solid.  One day while we sat together talking, he changed the subject and told me that he didn’t want to be my friend anymore and that he would get up and leave? I was shocked and asked why? He said that it was obvious to him that the only reason I wanted to be friends with him was that he was an exchange student from Africa and not just an American Black. (Even now, I wouldn't use the word that then was used for Blacks). He said that with how the American people felt about and treated the American Blacks, it was clear to him that I must be no different. He added that this was his conclusion, and he felt it was apparent. He said that all I had to do was watch the news to see if it was true.  He left, and the friendship ended?

There is no good ending to this story. I was shocked. I didn’t understand how I was to blame?  I felt offended. How could I be so naive?  Here is a case where I had experience before I knew. 

We need to find ways to let others know we care about them. I would somewhat be misjudged or criticized for caring for others than be guilty of not caring.

Knowledge tells me that we should care about people. Experience tells me that it can be one-sided at times. Wisdom tells me that caring and kindness matter.

Bottle Fishing on the Banks of the Portenuf River

By Brent M. Jones

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As a young boy, in the the1950s, I walked barefoot in the moss and mud on the banks of the Portneuf River, a tributary of the large, better-known Snake River, in Southeastern Idaho. The river was lined on both sides, with trees and bushes overhanging the banks. Big Oaks, Maple trees, Goldenraintee, Hawthorne Birchc,h and Dogwood trees. The trees stood with willows and bushes thick at their sides. Occasional lilac bushes brought their deep blue to the natural cover.

Our family’s home sat right on the bank of the river, and with the open window, my upstairs bedroom brought the sound of the flowing water, birds, and various river sounds. Large Oak trees rose from the bank below, and the leaves from the upper branches would brush the house and window with the movement of the wind.

Winter by the River

With the leaves gone and the water lowered, everything changed. The ice layered up the banks, and, in some places, only ice could be seen.  Often the branches of the willows and trees were covered with white crystal-like coverings.  Some would ice skate, but this was something I was fearful of doing.

Summers by the River

The water was higher than in the winter with all the runoff from the snow-topped mountains that feed the river. My Huckleberry Finn experience included rafts built from trees and fishing as we would float downstream. Our house was in the middle of a residential section near the town of Pocatello, but going downstream on a raft, with the tree and bush-lined banks, was like being in another world.

Fishing from the raft was done with a traditional fishing pole, but fishing from the shore, mostly in my back yard, was different. Instead of a pint or quart glass bottle, no bars or hooks were used. My mother used the same Kerr brand bottles, referred to as Mason Jars, to bottle raspberries, peaches, cherries, and other items, by sealing them in a boiling kettle bath.  Raspberries were my favorite.

An empty bottle, strong string, lid, knife and some bread was all that was needed. The string, usually six feet long, had one end tied and fasted around the lid.  Using the knife, a hole could be pressed in the middle of the flat metal lid creating a punctured X and then pressing the X to open so that 4 sharp sections of the lid depressed into the bottle.  At this point a few bread pieces would be put in the bottom of the bottle before the lid was added. The bread pieces needed to be big enough so when the bottle was filled with water that they wouldn’t float up through the opening in the lid.

With the bottle secured by the long string, doubled up strong enough to hold the bottle full of water with some pressure, the filled bottle was then just tossed off shore into the river under some overhanging branches or close to a large rock.  

This type of fishing was not complicated, and we would wait at least ten minutes, maybe even an hour, but when the bottle was pulled back to shore it almost always had some small minnows in it.

The small fish could be used for bait on a hook with a fishing pole, especially if a trip to the Snake River was coming up, or they could be sold for bait just like worms could. The small fish were also an option for more riverbank activity.  Mud and rocks could be used for making a little pond on the bank of the river to hold the small fish. Of course, just letting the fish go was the best option and that happened sometimes.

When a fish pool was created and loaded up with fish the next step was to move back away and hide or even leave and come back in an hour or so. Sooner or later a snake would find this little pool and go in and eat the fish. With good timing the snake could then be caught.

What to do with a live snake was a little more of a challenge. Several attempts to keep the snake in a cardboard box under the front porch failed when they just disappeared? I always hoped they wouldn’t find a way into the house if they got away.

Leaving the River behind

Our family eventually moved to a traditional neighborhood on the other side of town to live in a new house, but there was no river nearby.  A couple of years after we moved something terrible happened to the River.  Spring runoff was higher than it had been in years and all along the river, as it ran through the town, the neighborhoods were flooded.  The town brought the Army Core of Engineers in to evaluate the situation and they decided to make a cement ditch of the river its entire length as it twisted and turned through the town.

A river in a cement ditch is not a river! The bank had no trees or bushes. It was just a sterile ugly ditch. Any path to revisiting my Huckleberry Finn days and my youth were just eliminated by bureaucrats and a town happy to take some federal money.

I went back to where I had spent much of my youth after this happened. I waited a long time before I ever went back again.

John Steinbeck said: “You can’t go home again because home has ceased to exist in the mothballs of memory. Maybe he was right, but my memory is a lot better than the reality today of where home was. It just points to the fact that there is no sense looking back. We just get up and press forward.

Find your Path Forward by Looking Back →

By Brent M. Jones

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Stories of outstanding leaders, who look back at their own lives and tell of how their success came because of the trials and setbacks they had in life, are not uncommon. They didn't see the value of the problems when they occurred but only after years of rethinking the events. The self-acceptance of their challenges followed years later.

Previously I wrote an article titled “As You Look at Your Own Life Story You See Yourself Differently,” which included background research from Julie Beck's Atlantic Magazine’s 2015 article titled “Life’s Stories.” The subtitle of her article states: “How you arrange the plot points of your life into narrative shapes who you are and is a fundamental part of being human.” 

Beck quoted Monisha Pasupathi, a professor of developmental psychology at the University of Utah, saying: “To have relationships, we’ve all had to tell little pieces of our story.” This means we have to know our own story; as our perspective changes, we change, and the story changes.

If the essence of accepting yourself is to know your own life story, then the question is, what is the story? Author Bill George suggests building a timeline of your life that includes the highs and lows, reflecting on it daily. A summary of your life brings you to where you are today, and a timeline points out when things happened of significant influence, representing forks in the road. The more recent events in the story often help you see the prior ones differently.

Our narrative and perspective are choices, and how we look at the events and people in our lives changes as those memories are filtered against other events and all of our memories. A lesson we learn from an event today can help us see what happened before differently. Connecting events and concluding is weaving together our life stories and defining who we are. Who we think we are is related to who we become.

A daily journal captures the events of our lives, and a summary of the journal offers some opportunities for concluding. Reviewing a written life story yearly will show how we see our past changes because our perspective makes a great deal of difference in what we think our history was. Save your personal story, but rewrite it as you see it differently and save that too.

Think about your story each day and tell your story to your family and others, but listen to how you see things have changed and will change.

Is the Human Soul Eternal and is it transcendent of our material existence? →

If the human soul is eternal and lives on when the body dies, it must be made of different materials. If that substance is spiritual, then where does it reside within our living bodies?  Is it separate or part of our living flesh? Some have referred to the soul as the seat or location of our character and emotions, but is that just a metaphorical inference?

Some religions believe the soul comes back after death and reunites with a resurrected body in some future time, but then some are unclear as to whether the soul exists without being reunited with the body.

Existence, as a unique entity, should carry within it the substance of the life and experiences learned in the body o if the soul exists without the body, then there must be some substance that makes the separate soul up.

       Plato, Aristotle, and many others have written about the existence of the soul. A recent well-known historian, Will Durant*, wrote about the history of man, looking deeply into the living lives of all things. He pondered and wrote about the existence of a soul and said he had little doubt it existed as a part the human existence, a view shared by many intellectuals. Some, like Durant, are influenced by a belief that the universe brings about life by taking matter and evolving it into living forms and even suggesting that that is the universe’s purpose.

      This view says that all matter has a spiritual essence.  Durant was fond of his unique soul but said he did not expect it to survive the complete death of his body.  Durant summed up this conclusion in his last book, Fallen Leaves, saying that he felt the end of the body would likewise be the death of the soul. That conclusion seems to be at odds with his passion for life and the view that it exists within all things. We wonder what Durant may have felt if he had an idea of other dimensions.

     Durant said he wanted to bring the “future into focus,” and his method was to focus on the raw experience of history. This approach is reflected in his extensive work writing the 11 volumes of "The Story of Civilization.”

    Durant believed that life flowed from what he felt was a mysterious source that moved like a river from an unknown beginning to an abrupt end with the body’s death. The sudden end of the soul is often the intellectual conclusion that seems tied to determinism: the doctrine that all events, including human action, are ultimately determined by causes external to the will.

Durant is a valuable focus for discussions about the soul because he was not a determinist and placed great value on individual experiences.   He refused to accept the end was all predetermined by the beginning,

    I think Durant was on the right track, but with incomplete conclusions on the nature of the soul, partly because he needed to live longer to see all the options. He defended free will, that the soul was a unique, valued individual experience, saw a universe whose purpose was to create and advance life, and loved the personal experience. He lacked options for what could happen after death to the soul.                

    We live in a world clearly defined by three spatial dimensions, including one size of time.  Durant and others in the past concluded the soul was framed with this knowledge, but he did not have information about the 4th, 5th, and other dimensions.  In 1919, mathematician Theodor Kaluza presented new ideas about the 4th dimension. This idea states that in shared space, a position is specified by three numbers, known as dimensions, that could be labeled x, y, and z. A place in spacetime is called an event and requires four numbers to be specified: the three-dimensional location in space plus the position in time.

Today “string theorists” present more complicated thoughts, saying it's pretty easy to assume there are 10 or 11 dimensions and more. So maybe these other dimensions include or await our participation with our spiritual soul?  

Seeing life metaphorically, like a river of influences and forces, is a poetic approach that ties things together, but it ignores where the river starts and assumes that it ends.

I conclude that the soul continues after death, and the soul's life is eternal. I think the implications of Durant’s thoughts and what has been learned about string theory strongly influence this conclusion, but my religious teachings make a great deal of difference for me.

I am active in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. I believe that died Jesus Christ died on the cross, rose on the third day, and appeared again to his disciples. I think the soul leaves the body at death and, at some point, is resurrected again, gaining a physical body.

One of the previous church Prophets and President, Gordon B. Hinckley, said, “Let me say that we appreciate the truth in all churches and the good which they do. So we tell the people that you bring all the good you have, and then let us see if we can add to it.”

My beliefs and knowledge also suggest that truth exists in many churches and that the more knowledge we gain, the better off we will be. So much of what we become during this life resides in our spiritual essence. If inside, memory, skills learned, and even work ethic go with us through death, then understanding them is a worthy life goal.

*William James Durant was an American writer, historian, and philosopher. He became best known for his work The Story of Civilization, 11 volumes written in collaboration with his wife, Ariel Durant, and published between 1935 and 1975

What is Wisdom: Find it and gain Understanding →

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How do experience, knowledge, and sound judgment bring about wisdom?  Are there classes in school that explain how to apply expertise, assessment, and learning and results in having insight? Is it just the lifelong attempt to find the answers that result in wisdom: if that is true, when you finally get it, is it too late to matter? 

The answer to these questions requires us to think and ponder about what wisdom is. It is not the product of only schooling, just gaining knowledge, or the attempt to acquire it. The sincere attempt to reach it may be part of what wisdom is, but that effort is never completed.

Reading, classes, and study can bring about knowledge. Wisdom comes as we use what we have learned in gaining experience and trying to use what we have learned.  A well-known quote,

“Nobody cares how much you know until they knowhow much you care”

implies that sincerity, when added to knowledge, is of more value. Gravity requires that we believe that the knowledge desired is of importance.

Wisdom is likely not a constant because our conclusions about our experiences change over time. Understanding is added to with changes in point of view.

When examined years later, the events of our own life can lead us to change our point of view and even reinvent ourselves. What wisdom is now likely will be different when looked back on.

The book of Proverbs has a lot to say about wisdom and knowledge. It suggests that they both come from God. This quote seems to sum it up very well:

Wisdom is the principal thing: therefore, get wisdom, and with all thy getting, get understanding. (Proverbs 4:7)

An Experience at Bosque Del Apache with Expensive Cameras to Capture a Single Moment →

by Brent M. Jones

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 V

The Bosque del Apache National Wildlife Refuge is about two hours south of Albuquerque, New Mexico. You drive to Socorro and another 11 miles to San Antonio, where an 8-mile loop road follows the Rio Grande River and the refuge. 

"Woods of the Apache" means "The Bosque Del Apache.” "Bosque" is a word borrowed from Spanish, meaning the forest or woods, referring to the habitat found on both sides of the Rio Grande River.

Over 350 bird species have been observed in the Bosque del Apache, where vast flocks of wintering cranes and geese are the refuge's most exciting feature.

The Sand Hill Cranes are large tall birds with long legs and necks. They pair up for life and usually have one or two chicks. These birds migrate from Canada, Montana, and Utah in the winter, and they will fly a chick South for the winter to teach them the way and encourage the offspring to be independent.

November to late February is the best time to see large numbers of birds in the Bosque del Apache when typically over 10,000 Sandhill Cranes and 20,000 Ross's and Snow Geese can be seen. Sunrise and sunset is the best time to see the bird while they roost in the refuge before leaving in the morning to feed or after returning from the fields in the evening.

We spent a couple of days at this refuge a few years ago in the late fall. We had been told by a friend to watch the birds in the morning after sitting overnight roosting on the water and waiting for when the first ones take off. When the rest then all at once follow the sky fills and that is the time for the best pictures.

We were excited and hoped to see them all get up into the air at once, but it turned out that the birds flew in several groups, not just one.

The road edge near the roosting birds was lined with people holding big cameras with huge, expensive, telescopic lenses. Plenty of tripods topped with Nikon and Canon cameras where the lens alone can cost between $2500 and $12,000, and even more line the nearby road with professional bird watchers. Some had camouflage pants and jackets. 

Like birds, the people would move in groups up and down the road. One guy would break first from the group, and then it seemed like all the others would follow.  

We did see some people, amateurs, and first-timers, just watching, like we were doing, so we found our way into their little groups. We folks with the smaller lens, and even just with iPhones, just didn't fit in, and some walked around alone to not be embarrassed.

It was mostly the men that had the "big" lens with extensions and tripods. It also seemed like the women appeared much later and stood in their groups. 

We were one of the first on-site at "The Bosque Del Apache" that special fall day, arriving early morning before the sun rose. When the light broke, it was amazing to see how many birds were there. 

The birds, the professional photographers, and all those watching were a treat. 

 

It Just Wasn't My Time as it Turned Out →

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By Brent M. Jones

I had five trips to the hospital for a heart attack between 2009 and 2016. Two trips were false alarms, but I still made it to the operating table 4 times.

The first trip was a complete surprise. I got up and started getting ready for work. The week before, I had been in a group of volunteers that worked with older people, and we were given instructions on heart attack symptoms. I had acute pain in the middle of my chest, the inside of my arm hurt, I felt nausea, and just dizzy overall. I had made it downstairs and was sitting in the kitchen and just wasn’t sure what was happening, so I said a little prayer and asked if I had a heart attack and if perhaps I could recognize another symptom. I felt a cold sweat within a few minutes, so I went upstairs, told my wife, and got into bed.  

The surprise of all this started to sink in when 8 EMTs arrived in my bedroom, lifting me onto a stretcher and carrying me to the ambulance.  I couldn’t stop thinking about how surprising it was that I had had a heart attack.  Laying on the stretcher, I looked up at the lady EMT leaning over and taking care of me and said, “I just don’t understand why this is happening; I have run 13 marathons in my lifetime?” She looked down at me and said, “Maybe it is just your time.”  I didn’t laugh at the time.

Being wheeled into an operating room is frightening. They slide you onto a cold stainless-steel table where you lay, almost naked, in the middle of the table. The room has many people, all seeming to be doing something important. The staff was young, professional, and engaged in some good-natured banter.

On my last trip to the cold steel table, the first thing that caught my attention was that the music seemed to be a little loud. By this time, I had my heart doctor, but he was not on-site, and when I met the doctor, it seemed like he was so young he could have been my grandson. Everyone was very busy, and I just lay waiting for drip anesthesia to be set up. From the comments and the volume, it seemed clear that all those young folks walking around were enjoying the music in the background, but at least they weren’t staring at my naked and cold body. A young man came over and said he would get the anesthesia set up soon, a good thing I thought, but he wondered if I had some favorite music saying he would find it and play it. Well, I still had my thoughts in place, so I suggested Leonard Cohen, figuring it was a long shot. Not one person in the room had heard of him, nor could they find any of his music even though they made an effort to see him. I thought it was funny and might have chuckled, but I was out soon after that.

My last trip to the hospital was one where they again picked me up with the ambulance. The ambulance sat in our driveway in front of the house after I had been in for a while. A fire engine crew and a support car team were on-site with us, and several paramedics regularly checked the back of the ambulance; they would greet me and ask how I was doing.  One of these guys seemed to have paused for a few minutes, so I looked up at him and told him I still remembered getting help like this the first time I had a heart attack telling him about the question and the reply I got from the EMT nurse about it “being my time.” Neither of the two paramedics said a word or even changed facial expressions.  They just seemed like they had kicked into gear and were about some important business. I noticed that the one paramedic left the back door ajar as he left, I saw him go over to a group standing by the fire engine where they seemed to huddle and laugh, and then he went to a different group. I figure this was a good sign. The last heat attack event had a connection to the first. It still wasn’t my time.

Rust is a Passionate Color →

By Brent M. Jones

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Rust is a passionate color, rich with warm-orange, brick-red, mustard-yellow and the combinations seem to be endless as one’s emotions are stimulated when fond memories come front and center. Rust lets us know that an old and perhaps otherwise worthless car, has a history and a story to share if your willing to listen.

When a really great restored old car is found you may find yourself thinking, "Wow, that car is so cool, that era was so cool." As you caress the car with your eyes the remembering "back in the days" floods your memories and sends you back in time. When you see the same type of car all rusted out you still may think of the time and place, but your thoughts will be deeper and perhaps longing with nostalgia.

The car seems to be still be alive, if only in the remembering. Will a rusted 55 Chevy take you back in to that time any faster than a restored one? The restored one may take you back to a particular car and time but perhaps the rusted version leaves your mind open to looking deeper.

The rusted-out car doesn't smell new. The doors (if they work at all) sound different if they close. The surface of rust may break and crumble if you rub your hands over it. Is it really a car or is it a spirit of a car?

The spirit of the car brings back feelings, memories and emotions and allows for that moment in time to transfer to the "now."

Rust is beautiful. Rust is the color of timelessness.Rust is a passionate color, rich with warm-orange, brick-red, mustard-yellow and the combinations seem to be endless as ones emotions are stimulated when fond memories come front and center. Rust let's us know that an  old and perhaps otherwise worthless car, has a history and a story to share if your willing to listen. 

Why Arthur Miller Wrote The Crucible →

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See the Review of the book, The Crucible: by Arthur Miller in the Review Section.

Arthur Miller wrote The Crucible in 1952. World War II had just ended in 1945, and it was when the United States was becoming increasingly concerned about the rising power of the Soviet Union. Paranoia was growing inside the government. Worries that the Soviet Union's communist ways would infiltrate the United States led to paranoia within the American government, and Hollywood was becoming a target for Joe McCarthy. This article in The New Yorker appeared on October 21, 1996, P. 158. 

Arthur Miller was inspired to write a drama reflecting the mass cultural and political hysteria produced when the U.S. government sought to suppress Communism and radical leftist activity in America.

"LIFE AND LETTERS about the inspiration for and influence of Miller's play, "The Crucible," a reflection of the Communist witch-hunts of its time. Miller recalled the source of his creation while watching the filming of the new movie "The Crucible." When he wrote it, Senator Joseph McCarthy and the House Committee on Un-American Activities were prosecuting alleged Communists from the State Department to Hollywood; the Red hunt was becoming the dominant fixation of the American psyche. Miller did not know how to deal with the enormities of the situation in a play. "The Crucible" was an act of desperation; Miller was fearful of being identified as a covert Communist if he should protest too strongly. He could not find a point of moral reference in contemporary society. Miller found his subject while reading Charles W. Upham's 1867 two-volume study of the 1692 Salem witch trials, which shed light on the personal relationships behind the trials. Miller went to Salem in 1952 and read transcripts. He began reconstructing the relationship between John and Elizabeth Proctor and Abigail Williams, who would become the central characters in "The Crucible." He related to John Proctor, who was able to fight the madness around him despite an imperfect character. The Salem court had moved to admit "spectral evidence" as proof of guilt; as in 1952, the question was not the acts of an accused but his thoughts and intentions." 

The more information we have, the better it is to answer the question: Why did This Play at That Time?  

It is what we love that is open to new connections. (The Good Wolf) →

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What is it that you love? Which wolf do you feed? Are your heart and soul the actual residence of your passion? Does loving what you do or what you are working on attract creativity? Does it feed your soul? Something has to happen that adds to what you have for creativity to begin and whatever it is that feeds your soul opens the door to creativity becoming a "link in a chain' that the next artist will be able to build on.  

What is it that we love the key question? Another critical question is, why is it that we love it? What does that love feed within us?

The story of the good wolf and the bad wolf is an excellent beginning to find out. There are two wolves in this story, one good and one bad. The good wolf is patient, kind, unselfish, loving, loyal, honest, and all those good things we know are good.

The bad wolf is the opposite, not patient, hateful, jealous, dishonest, mean, and all those things we know are wrong.

Each of us goes through life influenced by one of these wolves. Whichever one we choose will live with us and affect all we do. So the critical question is, which one, and how is it that we are the one that makes a choice. The answer is that the wolf that stays with you is the one you feed.

The bad wolf wants hateful things, not good. This wolf isn't patient or kind. The bad wolf is not interested in new things and won't attract creativity, and doesn't want you to succeed. 

The good wolf wants to learn and is hungry for knowledge. He wants to see new things and read and learn new things. He loves books and likes reading your daily journal and to-do list.  The good wolf attracts more good, and new ideas are drawn to what you already know. 

The book "A Life You Love by Amy Tangerine” discusses how to “craft a life and soul that you love.”  Amy asks, “what is it that we love?”

A writer may love the characters in a story. A painter may love the object being painted. When something new is added, creativity happens. A nonfiction story can become fiction when even just one of the characters becomes a product of the writer’s imagination. Then when that new character interacts with the others, the writer will have to listen to find out what happens next in the plot, and creativity takes place.

Sometimes the writer's emotions and feelings about the current characters become the motivation to find a new character.  The bad wolf doesn't want to let you look inside your subconscious for ideas and teaches you to look instead for who to blame and hate. 

The artist who only sees things as not good enough will never listen close enough to have the art inform of what may not be seen at first.  The good wolf will teach you to look deeper than the surface and listen.

When we connect all that we have learned to our experiences and listen, the doors open. 

Click her to read prior post; Craft: A Life you Love (or on picture)

 

Thoughts about the Painting Nighthawks by Edward Hopper →

By Brent M. Jones

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"Nighthawks, a 1942 oil on canvas painting, was inspired by Hemingway's short story 'The Killers,' which Hopper read in Scribner's magazine. Edward Hopper is considered by some the most critical realist painter of the 20th century in America. Even so, is vision was selective and reflected his temperament

The painting, Nighthawks, tells its own story of loneliness. 

The diner is a stand-alone building with long front windows with rounded corners on the glass, giving the glass a thicker and more confining look. It is late at night, and the streets and other buildings look empty with their darkened windows, even more than just closed.

Silence seems to be part of the painting's message and is reflected inside and out of the diner.  The diner has no visible doors and thick glass which suggest that those inside are trapped. Unsettling are the yellow, faded and peeling walls.  The use of green outside on the reflected walk and around the window suggest unnatural light. Pale green fades to dark green near the buildings and confirms that the building is alone and that the people are isolated. The people inside the diner are not talking and they are not looking at each other. 

Most of Hoppers paintings are about how loneliness feels.  Loneliness connects to depression and anxiety, both things that Hopper suffered from.  Just being alone is not loneliness but having no connection with others is.  

Hopper, a tall lonely man, said that he declared himself in his paintings. In the diner tall men in suits bend over, but still look tall.

Being alone in a city is something we all can relate to. Those feelings are captured and used by the author of this book, "The Lonely City, Adventures in the Art of Being Alone, by Olivia Laing" (see review).  

The book starts out saying: "Imagine standing by a window at night, on the sixth or seventeenth or forty-third floor of a building". The book also mentions this painting and author to explain the feeling.

See the Review of Olivia Laing’s The Lonely City click here

I have experienced that feeling 30 floors up, at night in a hotel room. When I looked out the window I could see all the other tall buildings and the lights in their windows and could see people in the closer windows. You knew you were surrounded with people but you had no connection with any of them. You were alone.

Homeless are now part of the street art →

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Street art has become common, and buildings’ walls may be a new venue for modern art. Photographers who capture street art often include street people in their pictures. Street Art includes both the art and the people. Have the people become art because of their unnatural environment?

Art and photography can inform us and tell us what is being felt. If the homeless have blended into and become part of the art, have they lost their humanness? Did the photographer take it from them?

Colette Brooks wrote the book In the City: Random Acts of Awareness. She said, “A city person does not feel the need to finish a jigsaw puzzle, who relishes jagged edges and orphaned curves, stray bits of data, stories parsed from sentences half overheard on the streets.” She likely just meant those folks are walking the sidewalks, going and coming surrounded by people but with no real connections to anyone. 

Is the homeless man now part of the street art less important as a human because he has been captured as part of the painting above? Is he still real and an individual? Will the art outlive him? Will it have more connections? Was his existence just a way for the photographer to tell us what he saw?  Did we take his "humanness" away by making him part of the picture?

The question was left with: do we see the homeless or just the art? The answer is not easy, but the question is what is essential.

Our Life Story Creates our Identity →

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Whenever I think about my life story, I rethink what happened and draw new conclusions. The following story didn’t happen in a boxing ring. I wish it had because I might have done better, but the story has stuck with me throughout my life.

When I was about eleven years old, I had the unfortunate experience of being chased home each day after school by a kid called Allen, who was much bigger than me. One day my mother met me as I was running into the yard. She had probably noticed I was out of breath on my return each day. That day she asked why I was running so hard, and I told her Allen was chasing me. I could have said, “I was running to avoid getting pounded.” That would have been an honest answer.

We lived by a river, and crossing the bridge in front of our house meant I was home. The next day my mother was out front, waiting for my arrival as I crossed the bridge. She stopped me there, and when shortly Allen came thundering across, she called him over and announced to us both that the following day we would meet right there in the park across the street from my house and fight. The announcement surprised me. What surprised me even more, was my mother setting this fight up. Looking back, it also amazes me that I didn’t try to get out of it or worry about it. I just figured that was what I had to do. I had to fight him.

The next day at school, word got out. Some asked me the kids if I was going to fight him. I said yes, I was. After school, Allen arrived at the park with a crowd of kids from school, some even before I arrived. My mother was there, waiting. She had all the kids that had shown up from a big circle. Allen and I entered the ring with fists, ready to start swinging, and Mom was the referee. I still remember looking at Allen, who was much taller and heavier than I was, and not feeling afraid.

The fight began, and I danced around with my fists, trying to land some punches and trying harder to avoid getting punched. I hit him as hard as I could a few times. I had boxed with my dad in the evenings and understood a little about the process, but Allen didn’t look like he even felt my punches. He wasn’t very good at boxing and preferred to push and shove, several times jostljoltingo the ground before jumping on and pounding me. Even lying flat on my back, I would hit whatever part of his body I could connect with. Each time we landed on the ground, my mother had us get back up and continue boxing. It wasn’t a fight; I stood a chance of winning. Finally, my mother held Allen’s hand and said, “There you go, Allen, you won!”

What has always surprised me most then, and ever since, is that I wasn’t scared. I felt like I did my best and didn’t hurt too badly. I lost my fear of failing. Life went on. I did get into a fight or two in later years at school and did much better.

When I tell this part of my life story, it seems to be a meaningful connection and even explains many of the future challenges and changes I have had in my life. I have not been afraid of failures but have worked through them over the years. I learned that when you get knocked down, you get back up, you keep fighting, and when it is over, life goes on.

By the way, a side note. I have always loved boxing. Watching it, in particular. Muhammad Ali is my favorite boxer, and this quote of his has specific relevance for me:

“Only a man who knows what it is like to be defeated can reach down to the bottom of his soul and come up with the extra ounce of power it takes to win when the match is even.”

Entering the Universe on the Pipeline Trail →

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John Muir said, “The clearest way into the Universe is through a forest wilderness.”

The picture above is one I took a few years ago. The trail's name is the "Pipeline," which clarifies Muir's statement. It runs from the top of Grandeur Peak, where you can look West and see the Salt Lake Valley below, and then on the East, to near the top of the Millcreek Canyon, where you can see Park City if you know where to look. 

My preferred way to enter this trail is at Rattlesnake Gulch. I drive up the canyon, not too far past the entrance booth, to a parking area where the Rattlesnake Gulch trail begins. It goes up the side of the mountain, gains about 600 feet in elevation, and is about 0.8 miles up to when you can get on the Pipeline Trail. You can then head east to the left to Grandeur or west to the right to Church Fork.

I tried to run that trail for many years as often as possible. The trail is hardly a wilderness. It is, however, the first step out of our day-to-day world into a place where nature’s natural order surrounds you.

This trail was less than 4 miles from where I lived, and I was always in awe of how different I felt when I left the day-to-day world for this special place. 

I often saw snakes jumping over them as they stretched across the trail. I saw bobcats and deer and heard larger animals back in the brush.

I have read a book about wolves and their lives after being reintroduced into Yellowstone Park. It shows that the balance between the Elk and the Wolves is accurate, and changes in the balance have consequences.

The wilderness and its balance point the way to understanding much more. Even more about the universe itself, as Muir said. 

I loved my years running on the Pipeline Trail.  I have run it both winter and summer. I look forward to following and at least walking it again. 

A Thanksgiving Story →

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by Brent M. Jones

Each Thanksgiving, I get excited. Sometimes I think back to 1957 to a special Thanksgiving day and dinner. My sister was born that year on Tuesday the 26th of November, two days before the holiday.  My mother and new sister were, of course, still in the hospital, and my father, brother, and I had to figure out what to do for a meal on Thanksgiving Day, and I was worried.

This story of that day is one that I have told, over and over again, for the last 60+ years. Looking back at the event, this year seems different, and it occurs to me that I have been in a rut. For too long, the story has just been focused on our special Thanksgiving meal. I have been missing the bigger picture. I should have seen how repetitious my account had become.

Oral histories have been a common way families have passed on their life stories. My father gave his history and much of his extended family’s stories this way. He never could seem to remember that he had told us the stories before. Later in his life, I just reached a point where I felt it was important to listen to him, so I didn't say anything and just listened.

Looking back now, I realize that his repetition imprinted those stories into my memory. So why I have retold the Thanksgiving story of 1957 so many times to my sister is something I really can't explain? 

It was Thanksgiving that year, and after some concern, I learned that a neighbor had invited us guys over for dinner. Even then, I wondered why our Aunts, uncles, or even Grandparents didn't ask us?  Maybe they did, and maybe my dad thought it would be easier to go almost next door rather than across town. I remember worrying about the dinner. At 11 years old, I thought having a sister was fine, but I have always remembered how much I had looked forward to turkey day.

When the time for the big meal came, I remember that we were at the neighbors all sitting around the living room table. We waited at the table for what seemed like a long time.  The table didn't seem like the Thanksgiving day dinners I was used to. I figured that when the turkey arrived, it would make it all good.  Our neighbor, Mrs. Zelner, announced that it was ready and coming. She carried the main course on a large silver tray with a silver dome cover. I had never seen a large silver serving tray with a body like this, which seemed exciting. She had left the center of the table open with a place to put the special silver tray and carefully set it down.

She stood up, and I wondered if she would carve the turkey first, but she just reached for the silver dome lid. It seemed like she was building up to the big moment; I know I was, and then she lifted the dome. The tray was stacked high and full of hamburgers.

Yes, I was disappointed and a little shell-shocked. The rest of the dinner seems like a blur as I try to recall it. I know I was crushed. I was enough to repeat this story repeatedly, primarily to my sister Trudy over many years. I guess I figured I was passing on my oral tradition memories to her. I knew I had told her the story before, so I wasn't just retelling it because I couldn't remember. Maybe I have always been trying to get over it. 

Since then, every Thanksgiving dinner has been spent with family.  In the case of my wife's parents, those dinners were also finished with a day of football. 

One year we found ourselves alone in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Each of our now-grown children and their spouses had other plans. A member of our church who knew we would be alone invited us over for dinner. At that time, it seemed to hit me how nice it was to have someone do that.  Thinking of others is important; perhaps you notice it more when you’re on the receiving end.

I have realized that I had much to be thankful for so many years ago. A new sister, overlooked at the time, was a neighbor who wanted to help. 

Thanksgiving 

If it really was my life story why does it change each time I tell it? →

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There is no one whose story I am as familiar with as my own. The same is true for you. This seems obvious, but what surprises me is how I see my story differently almost every time I tell it.

Connections that seemed important when I told my story seemed less critical over time. Coincidences and perspectives have become more apparent over time. When I see those changes, the story changes as I retell it, and I find that it changes me. I become different because of how I see the story differently. We continually create who we are but use the same events to shape our conclusions.

  Author Pat Conroy said: “The most powerful words

in the English language tell me a story.”

I have witnessed others change their conclusions about themselves using the same facts from participating in an event at my local church.

Over about 35 years, a men's group I participated in met once a month, and each time one person would take about 45 minutes and tell the group their life story. 

The initial purpose of doing this was to help us get to know each other. We believed that men didn't get bonded quickly and were usually shy in this setting.  So we felt it was essential to show appreciation and love for each other.

People moved in and away over this time, but somehow we could keep this going. After a few years, it led to recycling some of us by repeating our stories, and we would hear the life stories again. I have some memory issues, but I can usually remember the details of these stories clearly. What was interesting is that sometimes the events of a story heard before were viewed differently by the presenter when retold. I had occasions retelling my life experiences that I felt were important, and it was clear that the same events looked different in the retelling. There were times when I wondered if a person who seemed to see the same event differently when retold was doing so because, having told the story, he then found new connections to the events. I also wondered if the changes and different emphasis were on purpose, just reshaping an image.

People come and go in our lives, and it takes some time to see the reasons. When a new person comes, we take the influence and unique perspective for granted as coincidence. When we look back and see the full impact of the people and recent events in our lives, we see our own experiences differently, and as a result, the past looks different, and our common destiny feels changed by the events.

MY STORY: AS LISTED UNDER AUTHOR

By Brent M. Jones

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I am a reader, writer, author, listener, and seeker of knowledge. I ponder books, art, authors, music, poetry, service, kindness, and most of all, "people." These influences help us form our identity, change it, or even reinvent it as we go through life.    

I have spent my career as an entrepreneur and a business executive, working with companies and employee groups of various sizes, some large ones. I successfully built my own company from an idea to a functioning business. For 22 years, it was a strong sales company covering 15 Western States and helping hundreds of companies grow their business. 

As an employed top manager, I helped build several independent and corporate companies and helped bring about significant progress in their growth.  The people always made a difference in results and made my efforts rewarding. Those years presented me with some excellent teaching and learning opportunities. They confirmed my belief that people can reshape themselves as they rethink their actions and lives. People want to learn. They are not just programmed to be what they always have been and will grow and rise according to their opportunities.

This website, “Connected Events Matter,” is an effort to explore the influences from our lifetime connections and how they change and impact our development and identity.  The impact is ongoing and is always life-altering.  

We have both a physical and spiritual self-image.  We have our intellectual growth. As we look at our experiences and grow with them, we give purpose to our lives.

Reading and the Arts have a significant influence on our growth. This blog will look closely at these influences and present relevant book reviews. The events in our lives connect us, and we are connected. 

Be passionate about improving. Be passionate about helping others. Listen to your feelings.