http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html I will post on a periodic basis, what I'm thinking, experiencing, and feeling. Mon, 16 Mar 2009 00:06:33 -0700 60 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc258873669
Maybe you've never heard of it.
Maybe you've never heard of him. St. Urho is the mythical patron saint of Finland. Today is his day.




(St. Urho with a grasshopper on his trident.)
Just as Patrick is credited with driving the snakes out of Ireland, (tomorrow is his day), Urho is credited with driving the grasshoppers out of Finland. In fact, St. Urho is Finnish America's answer to St. Patrick. Originally it was said that he drove the frogs out of Finland, but grasshoppers were more romantic.
Urho was invented in the 1950's. A Finn from Virginia, Minnesota named Richard Mattson was the primary "genius" behind St. Urho. The President of Finland in the 50's was Urho Kekkonen and may be the person from whom the name was contrived. St. Urho is known more among Finnish Americans than Finns who still live in Finland. In fact, the primary St. Urho's Day celebrations are in a few small towns in Minnesota, Michigan, Vermont, and Hood River, Oregon! In fact, the largest celebration anywhere is here in Hood River. It's a fun-filled day and I love it.
We have lots of Finns here. The Hakala's, the Hukari's, the Tomlinson's, etc. The towns in Minnesota and Michigan that celebrate St. Urho's are usually towns with no more than one paved street. So Hood River is the big metropolis of the merry-makers.
The Hood River parade forms at noon, two blocks from my house in the parking lot of NAPA auto parts. A middle school band marches, the Knights of St. Urho are present, dressed in purple and green. And the Iron Maidens are there, marching to accordion music. The Finnish women's drill team is quite stunning, dressed with braids and horned viking hats, while carrying Black & Deckers and spinning Finnish flags. Felix Tomlinson, my good friend, and the founder of the parade, is there in his 1970's vintage polyester green leisure suit. Purple and green are the approved colors. The St. Urho's Queen and her astonishing court are seated in lawn chairs on the back of a flatbed truck and are taken down the hill to downtown Hood River, where the joyous crowds witness the Changing of the Guards, signifying the season change from winter to spring. Founder Felix or the St. Urho's Queen then recite the Ode to Saint Urho.
Before I give you the ode, I need to tell you a bit about the Finnish language. Finnish has fewer consonants than English. Missing are B, C, D, and G. Consequently there are no sounds for those letters, and B becomes P, C becomes S or K, D becomes T, and G becomes K. To illustrate, when the Finnish race car drivers talk about transmission problems with their cars, they refer to it as a "kearpox." There are also no articles in Finnish sentence structure---the, a or an are not part of Finnish grammar.
ODE TO SAINT URHO
Ooksi kooksi coolama vee
Santia Urho is ta poy for me!
He sase out ta hoppers as pig as pirds.
Neffer peefor haff I hurd tose words!

He reely tolt tose pugs of kreen
Braffest Finn I effer seen
Some celebrate for St. Pat unt hiss nakes
Putt Urgo poyka kot what it takes.

He kot tall and trong from feelia sour
Unt ate kala moyakka effery hour.
Tat's why tat kuy could sase toes peetles
What krew as thick as chack bine neetles.

So let's give a cheer in hower pest vay
On Sixteenth of March, St. Urho's Tay.

In the ode, there is mention of mojakka (pronounced MOY-a-kah). That is a soup served in Finnish-American households on this day only. The principal ingredients are beef or fish and potatoes. Made with fish it is called kalamojakka (KAH-la-moy-a-kah), with beef it is Ilhamojakka (Lee-ha-moy-a-kah).

(Mojakka)

Tomorrow, everyone may be Irish.
But today, in Hood River, Oregon everyone is Finnish!
Ooksi kooksi coolama vee
Santia Urho is ta poy for me!

]]> Sun, 15 Mar 2009 22:21:09 -0700 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc258754098 Idus Martias) is the name of this date in the Roman calendar. The term ides was used for the 15th day of the months of March, May, July, and October, and the 13th day of the other eight months. In Roman times, the Ides of March was a festive day dedicated to the wargod, Mars, and a military parade was usually held. In modern times the term "Ides of March" is best known as the date that Julius Caesar was assassinated, in 44 BC. That event was famously dramatized in William Shakespeare's play, Julius Caesar.

(Julius Caesar)
Caesar was assassinated after declaring himself dictator of Rome for life. A soothsayer had warned him, saying "Beware the Ides of March!" Caesar was attacked and stabbed by a group of senators, including his friend Brutus. They called themselves the Liberatores ("Liberators"). They thought they were preserving the Republic from Caesar's monarchical ambitions. Ironically, they supported Octavian as Caesar's successor and he turned out to be even more ambitious. Octavian became the first emperor of Rome, Caesar Augustus. They could have benefitted from better planning, and so could Julius Caesar.
The Ides of March has become synonymous with forecasts of doom and gloom. You can see why when you look at history.
The French have invaded England on this date three or four times.
The Watts riots in Los Angeles began on March 15 in 1966 and Rodney King was beaten by four policemen on the same day in 1991.
The first Small Claims Court was started on March 15 in Cleveland in 1913. In 1964 Elizabeth Taylor got married for her fifth time, her first time to Richard Burton.
In '72 CBS cancelled the Ed Sullivan Show, all on March 15.
And perhaps the greatest tragedy of all, in 1971 chatrooms made their debut on the Internet. Horror of horrors!
Hopefully, in your neck of the woods, it has been a GOOD day. Perhaps even a GREAT day.
So I'll amend the old statement by saying, "ENJOY THE IDES OF MARCH!"
Especially if your name is something other than Julius.
]]> Sat, 14 Mar 2009 13:08:17 -0700 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc258050096
On this day in 1836, the chapel of San Antonio de Valero Mission, under siege for thirteen days by the Mexican army under General Antonio Lòpez de Santa Anna, was subjected to an early morning assault by thousands of Mexican troops. After a fierce battle, lasting for perhaps some 90 minutes, the defenses of the Alamo were overrun and all the defenders were killed. Numbers of those killed have been debated through the years but the traditional number cited is 189. Among those killed were the commander, Colonel William Barrett Travis and Davey Crockett.

(David Crockett)
The slogan, "Remember the Alamo!" subsequently became a rallying cry for the Texas Revolution, and the Alamo became a shrine to fallen Texas heroes.
Their sacrifice was not in vain.
]]> Fri, 06 Mar 2009 08:34:56 -0800 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc257698618 On this day in 1836, Texas became a republic. On March 1 delegates from the seventeen Mexican municipalities of Texas and the settlement of Pecan Point met at Washington-on-the-Brazos to consider independence from Mexico. George C. Childress presented a resolution calling for independence, and the chairman of the convention appointed Childress to head a committee of five to draft a declaration of independence. In the early morning hours of March 2, the convention voted unanimously to accept the resolution. After fifty-eight members signed the document, Texas became the Republic of Texas. The change remained to be demonstrated to Mexico.]]> Mon, 02 Mar 2009 06:56:57 -0800 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc257137378 Leonard's was a very unique department store in Ft. Worth, Texas and was a vital part of my childhood and anyone else who grew up in Ft. Worth in the 1940's and 50's.
Marvin and O. P. Leonard were from the farming community of Linden, in NE Texas. During the era of World War I Marvin worked hard and saved up $800. With that $800 he moved to Ft. Worth and opened a one room grocery store downtown, across the street from the court house. His business flourished and he hired his brother O. P. for $25 a week. O. P. put in 75 hour work weeks and within a year he was a full partner in the store.
Ironically, Leonard's Dept. Store was just getting its big start as the Great Depression gripped the U. S. The store built close relationships with its suppliers and its customers and continued to do well. Leonard's sold the cheapest bread in Ft. Worth, as much as 7,000 loaves a day. When President Roosevelt closed the nation's banks, Leonard's began issuing "Leonard's Script." It was accepted by most of the stores in downtown Fort Worth.
The store got bigger and bigger. It went up and it went out. I remember when they built a tunnel under the street so another block could be included. Then other blocks were added. At its height, Leonard's Dept. Store covered nine acres! During the days when people were moving to suburbia, Leonard's was bringing people by the tens of thousands to downtown Ft. Worth to shop. You could drive to a big parking lot on Henderson Street and they would bus you to the store on a free bus. The busses ran frequently and the lot was totally safe. In the sixties the busses were replaced by a subway! The M & O Railroad took you from the huge parking lot to the store. It was also free and you rode the subway if you were going anywhere in downtown Ft. Worth. Wherever you were going, you went through Leonard's.
Leonard's had food, furniture, automotive supplies, farm supplies, fashions, shoes, and housewares. At Christmastime their Toyland was the biggest toy store in the county. The beautiful oil painting of blue-bonnets that I've had in my home for over 50 years was bought at Leonard's.
Leonard's motto was "More Merchandise for Less Money." It was not just a statement. They followed through. I remember Saturday mornings were not complete if we didn't go to Leonard's. It was ten miles away, but gas was less than 20 cents per gallon and we got to ride the subway after we got downtown. We went first to the free popcorn machine. It was always fresh and inviting. At lunchtime we would buy delicious barbecue sandwiches (for $1) in Leonard's, and their candy section was like a bit of paradise. There wasn't anything like it anywhere, and it was right in the center of the store.
While my parents looked at housewares or car parts, I rode the escalator to the second floor. Leonard's had the first escalator in town. There was a little sign on it that recalled how that on the day it was dedicated 70,000 people rode it!
Even though I loved the escalator, I had another reason for riding it. The shoe department was on the second floor. I headed for the shoe department because I was fascinated by the X-Ray machine there. You walked up to it and stepped into it, and you could look down through the window and see the bones in your feet! What fun! No fears then about radiation. You could see the bones in your feet!
It's a wonder my feet didn't fall off a long time ago, as many times as I stuck them in the X-Ray machine.
The Leonard brothers themselves were remarkable men. "Mr. Marvin" and "Mr. Obie" were wonderful individuals. O. P.'s first name was actually "Obadiah", thus "Mr. Obie." Both of them did as much to build Ft. Worth as any men. Mr. Obie was quite a moving force for the Boy Scouts of America and was awarded both the Silver Antelope and the Silver Beaver awards, the highest in scouting. He got interested in growing pecans and bought huge pecan groves on the Brazos River near Granbury and on the Colorado River near Goldthwaite and the San Saba River near San Saba. He also had large pecan interests in New Mexico. He was the biggest pecan grower in Texas and would annually produce between four and five million pounds. My family got to know him well through the pecan business. We knew many people that worked for him. I even spent some time "budding pecans" on his place in Big Valley.
Mr. Marvin was interested in other kinds of building. He built the Colonial Country Club in Ft. Worth. I was president of the student body at Lake Worth High School in 1957 and Mr. Leonard graciously let us have our Junior-Senior banquet at Colonial. He was a close friend of Ben Hogan and Byron Nelson and meeting with him was like being in the presence of a legend. He treated me with the same grace that he would have treated Ben Hogan. He was still a humble farmer and grocer in his demeanor. After he built Colonial, he also built Shady Oaks Golf Course in West Ft. Worth. He was involved in all sorts of civic building projects.
The Leonard brothers eventually sold their store to the Tandy family, who sold it to the Dillard family. Dillard's stores are still sprinkled throughout the Southwest. But nothing has ever compared to the glory of the original "Leonard's." It was a cross between a modern superstore and a shopping mall.
Before ending this, I want to pay tribute to the Leonard brothers in one other area. Their store was the first to desegregate in Ft. Worth. They desegregated their store long before the Civil Rights Act of 1964. Blacks were always welcomed, even in the 20's and 30's. Everyone who came in was treated well and given the opportunity to buy "more merchandise for less money."
I remember the very day that Leonard's removed the "whites only" and "coloreds only" restrooms and water fountains. It was a momentous day. That wouldn't happen in other stores, public buildings, or bus stations for years afterwards. But Leonard's made the change because it was the right thing to do, not because the government insisted.
I am so grateful to have known the thrill of riding the subway, X-raying my feet, riding the escalator, buying candy corn, and personally knowing Mr. Marvin and Mr. Obie. They just don't make them like they used to.]]> Mon, 23 Feb 2009 19:02:58 -0800 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc255514933 I tried crawling on the floor, holding my breath, and screaming. Nothing helped.
When the stone was moving and the pain was intense, I couldn't meditate, certainly couldn't write, and my one word prayer was "HELP!" But in between times there were hours of relief. Still under the influence of drugs, I found it difficult to do much that was constructive, even in the "relief" times.
So how did I pass my time between pain times?
I tried to think of how to pronounce the names of towns in Texas that have Spanish names! I'm probably one of the few people in the world that would do that.
The conclusion was: Take a Spanish name, and however a Spanish speaking person would say it, it's not the way most Texans say it.
For instance, the county that San Antonio is in is spelled "Bexar." In Spanish it would be pronounced "BAY-HAR." But Texans call it "BARE." Just plain old "Bare County."
And so on. "Mexia" is pronounced "MA-HAY-AH." Llano is pronounced "LAN-O," not "Y-YAN-O."
Even "Colorado," as in Colorado River, is pronounced "COL-A-RAY-DA" by real Texans. (And if you want to mention the state, you call it "COL-A-RED-A.")
The only Texas town I could think of that may be pronounced the same way by Texans and Mexicans is "Del Rio." But even there, Texans wouldn't roll the "R."
And please don't write me. A ton of real Texans are of Mexican descent. And some of Texas' most famous early heroes were the likes of Sequin, and Zavala.
It's just interesting to me that a lot of noble Spanish names with colorful meanings have been reformed and reshaped by Texas tongues.
Here are some examples. I won't spell them out phonetically in either Texan or Spanish. If you're really a Texan you'll know how to say them:
Amarillo,
Lamesa,
Alvarado,
San Saba,
Santa Anna,
El Paso,
Cotulla,
Refugio,
Zapata,
Nueces,
Navasota,
De Soto,
Bandera,
Carrizo Springs,
Plano,
San Ygnacio,
Laredo,
Pecos,
Brazoria,
Sabine,
Brazos,
Port Lavaca,
San Jacinto,
San Marcos.
There are lots of others. But you get the point.
And I hope, if any of my readers have a kidney stone, that you have passed it while thinking for a few minutes about Texas towns with Spanish names.]]> Thu, 05 Feb 2009 00:22:12 -0800 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc254821192
I think it's time for me to feature my dog in my blog.
This is Winnie Roux Shotwell. We call her Roux (Roo). She is a registered English bulldog. On February 12 she will be two years old.
Roux was born in Hazzard, Kentucky, so she likes Bluegrass music and horse racing.
This was the way Roux looked when she first came to us. She was given to us by a man in Portland, our son Nathan's neighbor, who decided she needed more attention than he could give her. What a wonderful gift.

She immediately fell in love with her "sister" Meagan. Meagan is a good care-giver and pal. In fact, Roux thinks Meagan is also a puppy. They like to romp on the floor together.

Roux loves balls, other dogs, cats, and tug-of-war.

On New Year's Eve I snapped a picture on my iPhone as she had just told Meagan some of her doggie secrets and plans for the New Year.

Tonight she is relaxed, and not knowing how to handle her new fame on my blog. She is contemplating great things.
Her suggestion to her fans is this: "Don't write. Send dog biscuits."
]]> Tue, 27 Jan 2009 23:39:51 -0800 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc254131032
Today we witness the inauguration of the 44th President of the United States: Barack Obama.
For many it is the coming of the Messiah (as depicted in the picture above).

For others, it is the coming of the Anti-Christ. (As shown in the picture Hillary circulated about him during the campaign, emphasizing his Muslim roots.)
I haven't decided yet. I didn't vote for him, even though I am a Democrat. Anyone who says that the government is going to solve our problems is either naive or sinister. That is his stated belief, so I guess time will tell which he is (naive or sinister).
For my own uneasiness, it has nothing to do with race. I have longed to see the day when a Black person would be elected President. I just didn't anticipate this kind of Black man, who seems both elitist and leftist. I wouldn't have voted for him had he been white, a member of the Church of Christ, and from Ft. Worth, Texas. I just don't agree with his politics, his faith, or his attitude. And I am nauseated by the way the press and many celebrities are fawning over him. It's pretty obvious that the world is looking for a Savior and doesn't know we already have one.
Having said all that, I will support him, as I have all Presidents in my lifetime. I will pray for him fervently. He will not be my Messiah, nor necessarily my enemy. I will simply pray God's blessing on him in his high position. And I will wish him well.
And I will say, as I've said after other inaugurations of people I wasn't sure of: "This too shall pass." ]]> Mon, 19 Jan 2009 23:57:11 -0800 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc253736702
I'm isolated here in rural Oregon and I did not know about the death of my good friend Prentice Meador until last week. He actually died on November 21 in Nashville, Tennessee where he was a professor at David Lipscomb University. He was 70 and died after a sudden illness.
I guess I never even considered outliving Prentice. Even though we were the same age I never knew him to be sick, and he always took great care of himself. He was a runner, trim, and athletic. He was one of those rare characters that seemed "bigger than life" and I was awestruck in his presence.
I have no idea when I met Prentice. In the early seventies, when I moved to Los Angeles for the first time, Prentice was teaching at UCLA and preaching at San Fernando. He left the area about the same time I got there. And I ended up following him as the preacher at San Fernando. The church there loved him so dearly but he made sure they were gracious to me too. He went from Los Angeles to the University of Washington and we had many mutual friends there. So I knew his work in Seattle well. He later went to Springfield, Missouri where he preached at South National and also taught at SW Missouri State. By that time I was preaching in Stillwater, Oklahoma and we had Prentice come and speak for us on several occasions. Then he spent years at the Prestoncrest church in Dallas, where our paths crossed many times. Prentice stayed at all these places several years and did outstanding work in each of them.
It was on one of those trips to Stillwater that I gave Prentice a Bible. It was actually a rather unusual New Testament with thick paper that was easy to write on. I liked it so well that I had bought two of them. I kept one for myself and gave the other to Prentice. I still preach out of mine, 25 years later, and Prentice preached out of his until a week before he died. Any time and anywhere I would be in his audience he would comment on my being there, that we were longtime friends, and that he preached out of a Bible I had given him.
Prentice had a way of making people feel special. People were his life.
I teased him in recent years about looking and talking like Dr. Phil. Actually Dr. Phil looks and talks like Prentice. Same accent. Same haircut. Dr. Phil doesn't know what a compliment I'm paying him by saying he is like Prentice.
Prentice taught so many students, made so many disciples in so many trips to Europe, Asia, and Africa, and just left an indelible mark on all who knew him.
I have no hesitation in saying he was the best preacher I ever heard. Bob Douglas was second. But Prentice was definitely first.
Prentice was actually one of my professors when I was working on my D.Min at ACU during the late 80's. He gave me the only "B" I got in graduate school. That was fitting because I certainly didn't earn an "A" by his standards.
But what I'm remembering of Prentice this week is not his ability, or his academics, or even his accomplishments. Just personal stuff. The laughs. The tears. The encouragement. He was always "there" for me, and I haven't had a lot of people like that. I remember a picnic with his family and mine in the 80's in Springfield. I remember a joyous dinner with he, Barbara, Royce Money, Edna Mae and me at Lawry's in Los Angeles. We were having so much fun that I think some drunks asked the wait staff for us to "quiet down."
He shared my grief when Edna Mae died. He called me on various occasions to encourage me and I always felt afterwards as though I had been talking to God. He read my newsletters and often commented on them. Always making me feel good. Last year he put one of them in the 21st Century Christian magazine, which he served as editor.
He was just SO SPECIAL, and his greatest gift was in making others FEEL SPECIAL.



Though belated, I send my love and best wishes to Prentice's dear wife Barbara, his son Mark, and his two daughters Kimberly and Lori Ann. God bless you all.
And thanks dear brother for continuing to bless my life.

****Just six days before his death, Prentice preached a typically great sermon at the Otter Creek church in Nashville. It was on Jacob, and had to do with the problem of foreign gods. He mentioned that God often uses tragic events to wake us up. I'm certainly feeling more wide awake since Prentice's death. You can hear the sermon for yourself at the following address: (click on the hyperlink and then click on "play" when you get to the Otter Creek site. The sermon is 27 minutes long.) This sermon may change your life.
http://ottercreek.podOmatic.com/entry/eg/2008-11-16T09_33_53-08_00]]> Thu, 15 Jan 2009 10:25:02 -0800 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc252477516 As I look back, I think of so many important things. But I also think of trivia. I want to share a trivia story with you. The night I went to hear Merle Haggard sing.

I've been a Merle Haggard fan for years.
Before Edna Mae died, she bought me a ticket to a Merle Haggard concert. It was in Lincoln City at the Chinook Winds Casino. Edna Mae and I had lived in Lincoln City and she wanted to go back to Lincoln City often, even in her last days. The surf and salt air were like a tonic to her. So we had gone for a couple of days. And she announced to me that she had bought a ticket for me to the Merle Haggard concert in the concert hall at the casino. I said, "Why aren't you going with me?" She said it had been sold out for weeks and they only had single tickets. So she wanted me to go on alone. (After that we went together to concerts of Willie Nelson and Charlie Daniels. She loved all that.)
Anyhow, the Merle Haggard ticket was on the 3rd row.
There were to be two Haggard concerts that night: one at 7 and one at 10. My ticket was for the 7 p.m. show. So I got there about 6:30. When I got there, there was a crowd of angry people. It seems that earlier in the day Merle Haggard had decided he didn't want to do two shows, and that he would only do one. Both shows were sold out. So the Siletz tribe, that owns the Casino, was scrambling to come up with a workable solution. They had decided to combine both concerts and have only one at 8.
But how were they going to get everyone in?
In the original plan people were going to be seated around tables in groups of eight, as such shows would be done in Las Vegas. But now that they were going to have to combine the two concerts, they decided to move out the tables and simply put everyone in rows of folding chairs.
When I found out what had happened I went back to the motel where Edna Mae was waiting and told her that the concerts had been combined into one and that it would be at 8. So I stayed with her until almost 8 o'clock.
When I got back to the showroom of the casino, most of the crowd was already seated. I suspect about 3,000 people. So I was thrilled to have a reserved seat and that it was on the 3rd row. As I went down the aisle to the 3rd row I looked down the row and didn't see any empty seats. "Oh no," I thought, "Someone is in my seat!"
I guess my consternation was obvious and a couple of young ladies, already seated, motioned for me to come on down the row.
As I started moving down the row, the lights dimmed and it was time for the concert to begin. I moved closer and closer to where my seat was supposed to be.
The young ladies, probably in their late 20's or early 30's, pointed down to a spot between them and said my seat was there. I couldn't see a seat, and only an opening of 4 - 6 inches. I haven't told you that the young ladies were quite large. They were actually fat. Attractive, but definitely fat. They were each sitting on their own seat and mine was between them. They pointed to the slight space between them and urged me to sit!
The lights were dim, the band was playing, and I had little choice.
So, even though I didn't see a seat, I turned to face the stage, my back toward the row, and sat down, squeezing between the two girls!
Well, of course I'm fat too!
So I just wedged myself down between the two. Luckily they were both wearing silk-like dresses so that made it a bit easier to squeeze in. They were also quite soft, and they smelled good.
My seat was there, and I was now smashed between them. I actually couldn't move.
A representative of the tribe came out and apologized for the inconvenience of having only one show. But he said he had a special surprise. He said Merle Haggard's good friend, Johnny Paycheck, had come to the show and had decided to perform as an extra bonus.

I loved Johnny Paycheck too, so I was thrilled.
The fat girls (I say that with no disrespect) were not Paycheck fans. So they endured his songs as much as I enjoyed them.
But then it came time for Haggard to come out.
When Merle came out, the crowd went wild!
The fat girls stood up suddenly. . .And so did!
I didn't know I was going to stand up, but I was wedged so tightly between them that I had no choice.
For the next hour, I did what they did. I sat when they sat, and stood up when they stood up. When they waved their arms back and forth, so did I. We were literally "joined at the hip."
It was a very memorable evening.

Edna Mae was waiting for me to get back to the room to hear all about it.
And I told the story.
Johnny Paycheck.
Merle Haggard.
And the two attractive fat girls.
We laughed for an hour.
It was truly a night to remember.

May you have lots of good memories from 2008.
Happy New Year!]]> Wed, 31 Dec 2008 20:38:36 -0800 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc251837517 I'll show some snow pictures later in the blog. But I want to talk about a couple of other things also. Since I'm housebound the blog may be a little longer than usual. I'll try to conserve.

Allen and Lora Shotwell
I begin with the picture of my parents because they were married on December 24. They were married in a small private ceremony in Cherokee, Texas by Brother Silas Howell. His wife served as the witness.
I can't tell you the exact year. It was 1931 or 1932. I have their marriage license somewhere and it has the date, but the date is wrong. The preacher wrote down the wrong year. So if it says 1931 they were married in '32, and vice versa. No big deal really, I wasn't born until 1938 so there was no big rush to get married.
The date did come into play, however, when my parents neared their Golden Wedding anniversary. We were living in Stillwater, Oklahoma and the church there loved them and us. So a big celebration was planned. It was glorious. Hundreds of people present, flowers, huge cake, dozens of pictures with a professional photographer. It was the social event of the year.
But we couldn't find the marriage license then either, so we weren't really sure it was really the 50th year of their marriage or the 49th. We didn't realize the possible discrepancy until the planning was almost done. So we just went ahead and had it, right or wrong. No one cared.
They were so precious to me and I still miss them every day.
Today especially.


Last night was GREAT for TCU students, ex's, and fans! I went there three years as an undergrad and one year in seminary.
TCU came through again! I had my Horned Frog cap on, snacks everywhere, and watched one of the most exciting football games I've ever seen. It was the Poinsettia Bowl in San Diego, and the Horned Frogs were playing the Broncos of Boise State. They should have both been in BCS bowls rather than the lowly Poinsettia Bowl. But that whole mess is so confusing and I won't watch most of those games, especially the OU game. (Sorry Bobby)

Anyhow, the Poinsettia Bowl was fantastic. And TCU won! It was 17-16, with TCU's great defense overcoming Boise State's offense. Boise State was undefeated and was trying to have the 2nd 13-0 season in three years.

So it's a happy day for Horned Frogs everywhere!


But I'm not looking for any of the little lizards around here. Our orchards are under a beautiful white blanket of snow.

And our vineyards.


And the Shotwell house at 1778 6th in Hood River.
From the back.

At least I don't have to worry about mowing the front yard for awhile. They are saying we may have 2 more feet tonight.

Our bulldog Roux is toasty warm in her little igloo. She has a heated pad inside and heated water bowl outside. We let her in some but she gets too hot and starts panting.


In the meantime, our president-elect Obama is enjoying himself in this $9 million house in Hawaii. We wish him well.

He wanted a place to swim without cameras.

And golf without cameras.
But I guess if you're the president-elect you never can get away from cameras.

And I don't know how many vacations he'll get now as President. During his abbreviated term as Senator he took 400 vacation days. I believe more than any other person in congress. That will likely change now. So I'm glad he has the opportunity for the next couple of weeks to be where he wants to be.

Do you detect any envy or sarcasm here?
Probably a touch of both, mixed in with a touch of cabin fever. And winter is only 3 days old!
(And yes, I know it's much worse in Fargo and Buffalo.)


Anyhow, a "Very Merry Christmas" from our house to your house.
In the picture here Roux has just asked Santa for an early Spring!]]> Wed, 24 Dec 2008 10:51:56 -0800 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc251364184
If you're not a fan of the Texas Christian University Horned Frogs or the Washington Redskins, you might not have noticed the death of Sammy Baugh on Wednesday.
But as a very loyal alumnus of T.C.U. and a fan of the Redskins, I have spent a few hours of reflection and mourning for "Slingin' Sammy."
If you're a football fan, whether high school, college, or pro, you owe a lot to Sammy Baugh. With the encouragement of his college coach, Dutch Meyer, Sammy brought the forward pass into the game of football. Oh, it was already there in times of desperation. But early football depended on the run and defense primarily. It was "three yards and a cloud of dust." Baugh brought the pass into a major role. He helped to bring the excitement to the game.

Baugh was a Texan.(Of course) Born in Temple in 1914, and moving to Sweetwater as a boy, he lived most of his life and died in Rotan, SE of Lubbock. He was 94 when he died, the last living member of the original Pro Football Hall of Fame. In the year the Hall of Fame began, Baugh and Chicago Bear's coach George Halas were the only two who got every vote cast.
Baugh was a two-time All-American at T.C.U. In 1935 he led the Horned Frogs to the national championship. The 12-1 season was capped by a Sugar Bowl victory over LSU. In his final game for the Frogs, on New Year's Day 1937 he led T.C.U. to a victory over Marquette in the inaugural Cotton Bowl.

Baugh not only was the leading passer in the nation, he was a forceful runner, punter, and defensive back! In this picture he was demonstrating how to make a "cut" while running. He did it all! He would carry his multiple skills over into the National Football League.
There was probably never a more accurate passer than Baugh. And the football was thicker and shorter in his day and harder to throw. There were also no face-guards or rules to protect the quarterback. Defenders would not only tackle him but try openly to hurt him. Sometimes they would even slug him with their fists in the face, without penalty. But it didn't stop him.
When Baugh was drafted by the Washington Redskins after he left college, his coach in his rookie pro season was legendary Ray Flaherty. In one of Baugh's first pro games Flaherty gave specific instructions to Baugh on a certain play. He said, "When the end cuts way down here, Sam, I want you to hit him in the eye." Baugh replied, "Which eye coach?" He wasn't kidding.
Baugh set 13 NFL passing records during his 16-year career, two of which still stand. And besides leading the league in passes completed and passing percentage year after year, he was one of football's all-time great punters! In 1940 he had a 51.4 yard average, which is still an NFL record. As a defensive back, he was the first player ever to have four interceptions in a game and will undoubtedly remain the only man to ever lead the league in passing, punting, and defensive interceptions in the same season. Now that's a real TRIPLE CROWN!
Baugh signed with the Redskins for an "astounding" $8000 a year! Big money in the late 30's. He led them to an NFL title in his rookie season and four other times in his first ten seasons.
After retirement as a player He became the first coach of the AFL's New York Titans in 1960 and in '64 coached the Houston Oilers.


He also made some Western movies but contended that he was a farmer, not a cowboy. When he went to Hollywood for his screen-test his agent told him to wear a cowboy hat. "I don't have a cowboy hat," he protested. "Then go to town and buy one," said his agent. "I don't want one," he responded. This is spite of the fact that he had a 10,000 acre ranch in West Texas.
Thanks Sammy, for giving the lowly Horned Frogs a place of honor. Following you came Davey O'Brien, my class-mate Bob Lilly, and LaDainian Tomlinson. But you were the first!

Baugh in later years with his dog "Patty." (Patty was her middle name. "Cow" was her first name.)
Sammy, you were a crusty old guy in your later years. Your nephew Harvey was a good friend to me in high school. I won't forget you. Thanks for the memories.
(Oh yes. Sammy didn't get his nick-name "Slingin' Sammy" from his prowess as a football passer, but as a baseball infielder who could really "sling" the ball to first base to put out runners. I'm surprised Sammy didn't play Major League Baseball during the football off-season.)]]> Thu, 18 Dec 2008 23:23:04 -0800 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc251103354 I'm going to pass on a story that was told to me as a real life incident from legendary Country and Western singer Mel Tillis. Mel stuttered his way to stardom and recorded a number of songs that are still around, at least on classic country radio stations. My favorite Tillis song is "Coca Cola Cowboy."


Mel Tillis

A few years ago I had the pleasure of a conversation with Mel. We talked about many things, most of them humorous. He signed autographs for me and told me stories that I'll never forget. He is a truly delightful person.
Mel grew up in Florida and still lives there. The story I'm going to share with you was out of his childhood. His best friend was a boy named Charlie, about the same age as Mel. At the time of this story they were both around 9 or 10.
Charlie had recurring sore throats, so the doctor told Charlie's mother that he needed to have his tonsils removed. A date was set for the surgery.
With a big smile on his face, Mel told me that Charlie's mother was a unique woman and that she was quite frugal. In fact, he said, "She was ch-ch-ch-cheap."
The mother had an unusual question for the surgeon. She reportedly said, "Doctor, Charlie will be asleep during his surgery, right?" The doctor said, "Yes, of course." So then the mother said, "Doc, I have a favor to ask. You see, Charlie has never been circumcised, and he needs to be. So, while he's already under anesthesia, do you think you could just do a little 'snip, snip' and circumcise him at the same time?"
The doctor had never had such a request, but he said he didn't see why he couldn't do both surgeries at once.
The mother was happy. But she didn't tell Charlie he was going to have the additional surgery! She didn't want him to worry.
The surgery(ies) took place.
Mel related how he waited for Charlie at school the day after he was to have his tonsillectomy. But Charlie didn't show up.
He didn't come back the next day either.
Mel was getting a bit worried.
So on the third day he was at the school bus to see if Charlie was there that day.
Sure enough, Charlie came down the steps of the bus. Mel was quite relieved.
But Charlie was obviously sore, walked funny, and moved slowly.
"Charlie, are you OK?" asked Mel.
"Yep," said Charlie. "I'm OK, but I'm glad the surgery is over."
"Was it real bad?" asked Mel.
"Well, it really wasn't that bad Melvin. But I sure learned something" continued Charlie.
"What did you learn?" asked Mel.
"Well I found out that your tonsils are not where we thought they was!" ]]> Mon, 15 Dec 2008 22:55:53 -0800 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc249804239 Why do I eat there at all?
It's close, and I've learned the things on the menu that are the least offensive. I don't eat there often.
When I do go, it's almost always in the mornings. Anywhere between 7 a.m. and noon there are people gathered there that sit together in a big open corner. They are there primarily to drink coffee and to socialize. Mostly men, mostly older. They come and go. When a new person comes there is some traditional teasing and the same small talk day after day. The group is loud, raucus, and generally offensive. I sit as far away from the group as I can get.
I was there eleven days ago. The food was typical, and so was the crowd. They seemed unusually rambunctious that day, and three or four guys were speaking so loudly that you could understand all they said, even from the other end of the restaurant. Their speech was filled with profanity, especially sacrilegious on that particular day. I heard the Lord's Name taken in vain so much that I got tired of it and I got up and left without finishing my breakfast.
That was eleven days ago.
That night Meagan and I caught a plane in Portland and flew to Texas. The next day we rented a car and were driving through West Texas. The cotton crop looks good this year. The oil wells were pumping, and scores of new giant windmills cover the countryside. West Texas is as brown and dry at this time of year as Oregon is green and wet. I like the Oregon countryside much better.
It came time for us to stop and eat lunch. We were passing through the small town of Post, on the caprock, south of Lubbock. There aren't many places to eat in Post. I saw a McDonald's and I knew I didn't want to eat there. I looked for other restaurants, hoping to find something local. I spotted a place called "George's Cafe" but there was only one lone pickup in front and it was noon. I figured the food there couldn't be too good, or more people would be there to eat it. But hey, I had just been to "The Ranch" the day before in Hood River, and it couldn't be worse than that.
I parked beside the lone pickup and Meagan and I went inside.
Much to my amazement, the place was packed!
It seems the main parking lot is in the back, not the front.
Like The Ranch, most of the people in the restaurant were men.
But they were men that looked like they had just stepped out of an old Western movie. At least 50 men were wearing cowboy hats. The hats were all different, and dirty. Very dirty. Most of the men had bushy mustaches, were wearing bandanas around their necks, and some were wearing chaps. Almost all were wearing spurs. These were REAL cowboys. They were obviously working in the Fall roundup of local cattle. They were in bunches of two to ten.
They were eating their main meal of the day. The two waitresses were bringing out large dinners of chicken fried steak, barbecue, catfish, and chili. Corn bread and biscuits were in abundance and ice tea was the common drink. Everyone was having a good time.
But the group was more polite than raucus. If a woman came in everyone tipped their hats. There was some teasing and small talk, but it was controlled, and even subdued. I never heard one word of profanity.
But there was something else more noticeable.
Every time a person received their food, they would individually remove their hats, close their eyes, and say an obvious prayer of thanks. It happened again, and again, and again. I didn't see one cowboy that didn't "return thanks."
There was no embarrassment or hesitation. Praying before eating was a "given."
It was most impressive.
And I couldn't help but think of the contrast between that group and the profane men I'd seen and heard at "The Ranch" in Hood River just the day before. It was a glimpse of two cultures.
Oh I know there are non-religious cowboys and some religious people that go to The Ranch.
But here's one religious person that isn't going back to The Ranch for awhile.
And when I do, I plan to sit in the midst of the cursing men, and bow my head in prayer when the food comes.
I may even pray "out loud." ]]> Sun, 30 Nov 2008 22:03:58 -0800 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc248584753
I'm headed for Texas the end of this week. I need to get my passport renewed.
In order to get back into the spirit of Texas, I've been remembering some of the fascinating traits that only Texas has.
For instance, it was in Texas, in 1929, that the last jaguar was killed in the United States. That was a few years before my birth, but it was in the area where I would later call home: Mills County.
Mills County is in the center of the state. The county seat is Goldthwaite. It's a rural area and a lot of Texans don't even know where Mills County is.
It's sheep and goat country. It's brushy with lots of mesquite and prickly pear.
If you look to the Southwest from Goldthwaite, it's 400 miles to Mexico and there's very little civilization and almost no towns in between. It's still wild country with javalina, deer, and wild turkeys galore. The people in the area are colorful and unique. There are several ethnic groups that have stayed relatively in tact. Among them are Germans, Czechs, Mexicans, and Anglos. In Central Texas you can find German towns like Fredericksburg, Priddy, Mason, etc. There are Czech towns like West and Abbott. All have ethnic food and wonderful festivals.
And in Mills County, all the ethnic groups raised cattle, sheep, and goats.
In the Fall of 1929 lambs and calves started disappearing. People were finding large cat-like tracks that were too big to be wild-cats or even mountain lions. Mexicans who had migrated to Texas from Mexico were sure that the tracks were made by a jaguar.
As more livestock disappeared, the whole area became uneasy.
Then the ultimate tragedy happened. A young shepherd was killed and partially eaten. He was Czechoslovakian. The news spread quickly and the whole area was outraged.
So on a Saturday morning, at the Mills County Courthouse, about 200 farmers and ranchers showed up and were armed to the teeth. They wanted to spread out and find the jaguar, or whatever it was, and kill it.
The Sheriff of Mills County was C. F. (Stub) Stubblefield. He thought smaller groups could move more quickly and quietly. He picked out the 30 best trackers and riflemen and said they would go out in three groups of ten in three separate directions. Everyone else should go home, be on guard on their own ranches, and wait to hear what happened with the groups.
One group went East, toward Star and Center City. Another group went West, toward Rattler and Regency. The third group went South toward Big Valley and San Saba. The group that went South was actually the most capable group, because they really thought the cat was in that direction. That's where the Czech shepherd had been killed.
So in the "South" group, was Sheriff Stubblefield himself, a Mexican tracker named Saldonia, and the man who was the best rifleshot in the county, Ben McConal.
The three groups were all led in prayer by one of the local ministers, and they started out in search of their prey.
Sheriff Stubblefield's group had gone about fifteen miles out of town, getting close to the Colorado River. The Mexican tracker, Saldonia, was walking about a hundred yards ahead of the group. The wind was in their faces. That was good, because the cat would not smell their scent as it would had the wind been behind them.
The South group saw Saldonia come up to a little rise, and drop to his knees. He motioned for the group to come forward silently while he waited for them. When they got to him, he motioned for them all to take a peek over the rise.
What they saw astounded them all!
There was a huge jaguar at some distance, lying down. And there was not only one jaguar, but two!
One was a large male and the other a smaller female. No one had dreamed that there were two cats.
But the problem was, they were out of rifle range. The wind was still blowing toward the hunting party, so the cats didn't know they were there. But if the group moved over the rise, it was probable that the cats would see them and would run away before the riflemen got into range.
The secret weapon of the group was Ben McConal. He was not only an exceptional rifleman, he had a home-made long rifle that had an exceptionally long range. But it was single-shot. He whispered to Sheriff Stubblefield that he could definitely kill one cat, but not two. So which one should he shoot?
One of the ranchers said that female cats were the hunters and had probably killed the Czech shepherd. But Saldonia, the Mexican tracker, said that he had known jaguars in Mexico and that he had never heard of a female that had killed a person. He said that males had a mean streak and he was POSITIVE that the male was the culprit. So Sheriff Stubblefield took his advice and told Ben to shoot the male jaguar.
All the men held their breaths.
Ben lay down on the top of the rise, extended his long rifle out in front of him, with the tripod set in place near the end of the barrel. He aimed carefully and squeezed the trigger.
The rifle cracked with a tremendous noise!
The big, male jaguar fell dead!
The female ran away to the South and was never seen again.
The group was jubilant! They ran over the rise and headlong down the casual slope to the carcass of the dead jaguar.
When they got to the cat, it was absolutely huge. They were so happy that it was dead. In spite of its villainy, they were amazed at its beauty.
But they couldn't keep from wondering whether they had shot the right one?
How would they ever know?
Sheriff Stubblefield said he would find out for sure. He took his Bowie knife out of its sheath on his belt, and bent over the carcass of the cat. With one long and swift stroke, he slit the cat's stomach open, from one end to the other. The things the cat had eaten recently were readily observable.
There were a couple of hooves, some other lamb remains. . . . but nothing that could be human!
They had shot the wrong cat!
The female that got away had been the man-killer.
Everyone was stunned. Saldonia was especially sad, and embarrassed.
Why had he insisted that they shoot the male?


There is a moral to this story. . . .

The moral of the story is this:
Never believe a Mexican when he tells you that "the Czech is in the male!"


Well, friends, you have just been told a "Texas Tall Tale."

Perhaps I should apologize, especially to my Mexican friends.

Or just laugh with me.

If I got you. . .I'm happy.

I hope to see some of you in Texas. I'll be there for about a week.
I wish you all a Happy Thanksgiving! ]]> Sun, 16 Nov 2008 19:19:12 -0800 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc247453711 Some of the things you remember are curious. Today, for instance, I'm remembering my first visit to Dallas, Texas. I was in the 7th grade and about to turn 13 years old. Even though my parents and I lived only thirty miles away in Ft. Worth, there wasn't much contact between Dallas and Ft. Worth in those days. There was a friendly rivalry and it wasn't always friendly.
I went to Dallas, that first time, because I was in the high school band and it was time for the State Fair of Texas. Our school was small, all in one building from 1st grade through 12th. So I was in the high school band six years, from 7th grade through 12th.
Our band was invited to march in a parade at the State Fair and then we had the afternoon free to enjoy the fair. So that's what had taken me and forty other band members in a school bus to Dallas.
I remember how enormous and overwhelming the Fair was. The fairgrounds had been built in 1936 to commemorate the centennial of Texas' becoming a nation. Fair Park was and is enormous. The fair grounds are still in use. The Cotton Bowl, museums, countless display buildings, and a huge midway. And as a 12 year old, I was far more interested in the midway than the museums.
I remember walking down the midway and being amazed by the colors, the crowds, and the noises. And one noise was mesmerizing to me. It drew me closer and closer, like a moth to the flame.
It was the sound of tom-toms, with a particular beat. I can hear them now.
Boom/boom, boom/boom, boom/boomba boom/boom,
Boom/boom, boom/boom, boom/boomba boom/boom.
I moved closer and closer to the sound, and found myself standing right in front of a stage with several people standing on it.
There was the man playing the drums, perhaps a native from Borneo or some exotic place, another man with a bag over his head with holes for his eyes and mouth, a young woman wearing a pink silk robe, and a man with a top hat and striped coat who had a megaphone in his hand. He was the "barker."
This was my first encounter with a "sideshow."
As a crowd gathered the drums stopped and the barker began to shout. "Ladeez and gennn-tle-men....may I have your attention pleeeze!"
For only "2 bits, twenty-five cents, 1 quarter of a dollar," we could come into the sideshow and see some of the great wonders of the world.
The man with the bag on his head then took off the bag and the crowd gasped. He was a grotesque looking creature with appendages hanging from his face. One eyeball actually dangled on a stem.
The barker introduced him as "The Octopus Man." Then the young woman opened her robe to reveal that she was scantily clad underneath. She closed it again quickly and the barker said she was European royalty. He said, in fact, that she was a "Russian Princess" and would perform a death-defying feat before our very eyes if we came into the show.
At that time the man with the drums started to beat them again with the same intoxicating rhythm and the crowd moved hastily into the show. I was uncertain about going, but couldn't seem to resist.
Inside the sideshow there were colorful booths and stages. The barker moved from place to place to amaze us with the unusual people that were there.
From the first booth emerged two men with what looked like wool all over their heads. The barker introduced them as "Eego and Eygo, the Sheep-Headed men." He said they were from New Zealand and had been abandoned as babies at a police station with no explanation of their heritage or nature. But they looked like sheep, and they even sounded like sheep. They didn't speak words, only little bleating sounds that were somewhat pathetic. They looked frightened and eager to get back into their tent.
Next, we saw the Russian Princess again. Still in her robe. But again she gave a quick glimpse. Some men on the stage above us brought out a box that looked somewhat like a coffin and put it on saw horses on the stage. She walked up some small steps and stepped down into the box. She lay down in it where we couldn't see her at all. Then her hand came out, handing her robe to the barker. The barker looked down at her and leered.
Then a magician came out who was introduced as "Maurice the Magnificent." I think he was one of the guys who had carried out the box and now had put on a black cape and hat. He had a number of swords in his hands. With great flair he began to stick the swords into the top of the box with the Russian Princess inside. With one of the swords he removed a piece of her scanty clothing. Of course we couldn't see her, but the audience gasped. When he had stuck 8 or 10 swords into the box, the barker said that anyone who wanted to come up and see her could do so for another twenty-five cents. Most of the men complied, and some of the boys.
But not this 12 year old boy. I was not interested. I was a bit concerned about her with all those swords, but I'm sure she survived because I saw her again on the stage in her pink robe later that afternoon.
The next booth contained a little girl with brown skin that was introduced as "The Monkey Girl." The barker said that she also had uncertain heritage, but had both human and ape-like traits.
Her hair was short, and had been cut to give her a monkey appearance. She sat with legs drawn up in front of her, and smiled a wry smile.
The barker asked her a question. He said, "What do you like to eat?" She answered, "Abubba Pie."
He said, "You mean apple pie?" and she nodded "yes."
He then said, "What else do you like to eat little girl?" and she answered "More Abubba Pie."
I was getting a little tired and leery of the whole thing, and I didn't really want to see "The Octopus Man" again, so at that point I retraced my steps and left the sideshow. For a young Texas farmboy, my limit of toleration for new and bizarre things had been reached.
I went into a nearby restroom and almost fainted when I went to wash my hands and looked up and saw that my neighbor at the next sink was Eego, one of the sheep-headed men!
He saw my startled look, and in a perfectly normal, non-New Zealand voice said, "Hello young man. I like your shoes."
I was wearing suede shoes with black and white splotches. I was impressed that Eego could actually speak, that his voice sounded normal, and that a sheep-man would be impressed by shoes.
The whole thing must have made an impression on me, since I still remember the drums as though I heard them yesterday. I've wondered many times about the Sheep-Headed Men, the Monkey Girl, and even a time or two about the Russian Princess.
Funny what things we remember. I actually think I'm remembering all this now, not because it's my birthday, but because I've been revisiting the sideshow every day for the last several weeks.

Oh, we don't call them "sideshows" any more.

Now we call them "political campaigns"! ]]> Mon, 03 Nov 2008 17:08:30 -0800 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc247112853 So now we come to the last page, Page Five. It is, by far, the best page in The Little Book.
Page Five says, "Control Your Thinking."
Why is that the best page?
It is the best because it is the underlying basis for all the pages.
The Preface, "Be Light-Hearted and Happy" is simply a matter of controlling one's thinking. We can decide to be happy. It's not what happens to us as much as how we respond to what happens to us.
Page One, "Take Care of Your Physical Body" is something we can only do for ourselves as we control our own thinking. Others can't do it for us, we have to make our own decisions. When one conclusively decides to exercise, diet, get more rest, etc., the battle is half-won.
Page Two, "Fret Not," is a decision that we make. Controlled thinking again.
Page Three, "Do Not Magnify Your Problems" is the same.
Page Four, "Never Say Anything About Anyone Unless It is Good," is only possible when we control our thinking.
Page Five is based, as are the other pages, on scripture. In Philippians 4:8 the apostle Paul says, "Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is fair, whatever is pure, whatever is acceptable, whatever is commendable, if there is anything of excellence and if there is anything praiseworthy-keep thinking about these things." We are what we think.
I'm with people every day who feel either better or worse, depending on how their thinking changes.
A mother is not feeling well, but when her children have needs she focuses on them and does what she can do to help them. As she focuses on them and their needs, she feels better.
Or let me give a longer example, based on a true life story.
Imagine a teen-aged boy in very late summer. School has started. The school days are long and the school is not air-conditioned. When the day ends, he is exhausted. But he has more to do. He has football practice.
He goes through football practice, muscles ache, sweat pours, and when it's over he can hardly wait to get home.
At home he flops down on the couch and is about to take a nap.
About that time, his dad gets home from work and says, "Get up and mow the lawn. I told you you had to do that today. Why are you just lounging around? When I was your age. . ."
So the obedient son gets up and goes to the garage and tries to start the old mower. He pulls and pulls the rope and finally gets it to run. He's exhausted.
When he looks out at the lawn, it looks like forty acres. How is he ever going to get through? It's the hottest part of the day and he's had a long day.
But he dutifully starts around the yard.
About that time, something remarkable happens. Into his driveway pulls a little red car and in that car sits the most beautiful girl in the world! She yells to him: "I got off work. Let's go to the movies!"
He says, "Great! Let me finish the yard and then take a shower. It won't take long!"
He suddenly has energy. The rest of the day is now only a forgotten blur. He mows the yard, takes his shower, and goes out with his girl for a fabulous date.
What happened to him?
He read Page Five. He "controlled his thinking!
Get the point?
When difficulties come your way, and they will, make them easier to face by reading The Little Book. Keep it with you. Read it often. You'll be amazed at how the whole world changes before your very eyes. ]]> Thu, 30 Oct 2008 19:27:33 -0700 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc246394933 Page Four says: "Never say anything about anyone unless it is good."
Will Rogers reputedly said, "I never met a man I didn't like."
Well, I think I've met a few that would have tested him.
In fact, I've met lots of people I didn't like.
But that doesn't mean I have to spend my time putting them down. I still want to look for good, even when it's difficult to find. And if there are people I can't say anything good about, I'll just keep silent about them. (One is running for President!)
There's a significant statement concerning speech in Ephesians 4:29. It says: "Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs."
If you and I are in conversation and I criticize someone, who am I building up? Are you better because or it? Or me? Or the one I am criticizing?
The critical statement might be true, but does it build up?
In a world that seems more and more polarized between liberal and conservative, Christian and non-Christian, rich and poor, etc., there seems little need for derogatory speech that makes the chasm even greater. As James says, "Consider what a great forest is set on fire by a small spark." (James 3:5. Read all of James 3)
People do wrong, others tell about it, and the ones they tell it to keep telling it to others. The toothpaste is out of the tube and there is no way to put it back.
How many problems have been catastrophically expanded by people continuing to pass on bad things?
How much better would we all be if we "Never said anything about anyone unless it is good?"
Now, having said all this, I want to back-step slightly. I think there are instances where criticism can actually be a part of the "building up" process. That's when a negative statement might be made, not as an attempt to criticize, but as an attempt to correct a problem. As a church leader and counselor I am often confronted with people's mistakes. To simply ignore them or justify them might be harmful rather than helpful. So how does one practice "Page Four" when they are confronted with people's wrongs? I let a simple question tell me when it might be proper to speak of a person's wrongs to another. Let's say you and I both know the "perpetrator." Someone we both know has done something that is harmful and I am aware of it and considering whether to tell you? To help me decide whether it would be helpful to tell you, my question to myself would be: "Is this person a part of the solution or the problem?" If you are neither, then I won't tell you. I'll read Page Four.
But if you are part of the problem, then there may be need to tell you. And if you are part of the solution there may be even more reason to tell you.
But other than that specialized sort of situation, Page Four contains a valuable truth.
Gossip and character assassination are horrible sins. It has always been amazing to me that so many Christians would sin in this way while still seeing themselves as righteous people.
"But it's true" seems to make derogatory speech justifiable.
Not at all.
The "building up" test has value in other speech areas as well.
For instance, I grew up in a time and place when "teasing" was common and acceptable. I still see a lot of that, particularly among men. Making someone else the brunt of a joke is considered good humor. Unless. . . you are the one being put down! If you are the "victim" of the putdown you might laugh along with everyone else. But it hurts. And sometimes those hurts run quite deep.
If you're wanting to put someone down in order to get a laugh, make yourself the brunt of the joke rather than a friend, your mate, or your child. It's still funny, and no one else has to get hurt. And besides, we've all made enough mistakes ourselves that we don't have to look for someone else to joke about.
"Building Up" would also extend to discussions within the family. As parents, we may only speak to our kids when we are upset with them and trying to correct them. Real discipline should lovingly guide into a better direction, not criticize and assault.
And in our marriages we may justify our own actions while condemning the actions of our mates. When we speak with accusing tones, ask "why do you...", or use the words "never" and "always," we are hardly building up our loved ones. "Why" questions usually don't have answers and are better unasked. And "never" and "always" are exaggerations that tear down, rather than build up.
Page Four has lots of practical uses.
Try it for an hour.
A day.
A week.
"Never say anything about anyone unless it is good."
You may see your whole world change before your very eyes. ]]> Wed, 22 Oct 2008 12:02:13 -0700 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc245731927 Page Three of The Little Book says "Do Not Magnify Your Problems."
There are lots of problems in the world, and some of them are major. But most of them are relatively minor unless we magnify them.
You know the procedure:
If you have a headache you're sure it's a brain tumor.
If a loved one is late you're afraid they have had a car accident and are lying in a ditch somewhere.
If someone looks at you in public without acknowledging your presence, you are sure they hate you.
etc. etc.
Those examples may be a bit extreme, but not necessarily.
When a person is insecure and thinking negatively, even mole hills look like mountains. It's a matter of perspective.
When you have a problem, deal with it. Use your time and energy to bring resolution. Reading Page Three helps.
If you exaggerate a problem, you spawn another problem, in addition to whatever the first one was. That's how wars start.
Defensiveness is often offensive.
As a teen-age preacher in my first congregation I knew two wonderful older ladies that apparently couldn't stand each other. It was baffling to me. They were both so sweet. But they hated each other and attended the same small rural church. The husbands got along O.K. I talked to them about their wive's animosity and they both said it had been that way for years. They couldn't remember where it started. So I went to the ladies individually. I won't call them by their real names because a person or two on my list would remember them. I'll call one Edith and the other Mary. I went to Edith first. She was like my own grandmother. I asked her why she and Mary were at odds and she said, "It's all her fault, but I don't want to talk about it." She wouldn't budge. So I went to Mary. She was like my second grandmother. She was no more willing to talk than Edith. But she did give a hint as to the origin of the problem. She said it went back at least 30 years and had something to do with a quilt. She couldn't tell me exactly what the problem was.
It was perplexing to me. I prayed for both of them, and cried for them
After a month of praying and crying I tricked them into getting together. When they suddenly stood a few feet from each other they looked startled and peered angrily at me. They didn't want to look at each other. I told them how much I loved them both and how their animosity was hurting me. I told them I couldn't take it, and that I was going to decide between them. One would be my loving 2nd grandmother and the other would be my enemy. But I told them I couldn't decide which one to love and which one to hate, because I loved them both.
They both started crying. And then they moved quickly toward each other. They hugged and sobbed and asked forgiveness of the other. I was crying too. Reconciliation is a beautiful thing.
Edith and Mary became very good friends again. They had been friends years ago, but they allowed some little problem to become magnified. That magnification almost destroyed two wonderful ladies. Thankfully, magnification was replaced by forgiveness.
Just last week I saw hatred in a man's face. I hardly knew him. His hatred wasn't directed toward me, but toward a neighbor. They were having a squabble over a fence line. One had done a new survey and found that the neighbor's fence was 6 inches on the neighbor's property. They were going to court. They were looking for other reasons to hate each other. I convinced the man who had "lost" some property that it wasn't worth going to war over. He finally agreed and went to tell his neighbor that he would forget the new survey and close the whole issue. To my surprise, the neighbor wouldn't accept the jesture! He was determined to battle for his "rights."
Pretty childish.
We'll all have some battles to fight in life. But let's choose our battles. Some things simply aren't worth fighting for.
I saw a mother pushing her child in a grocery cart through our local grocery store. He reached out and took a can of something off the shelf. The mother exploded. She started yelling at the child, grabbed the can, and hurt the child's hand. She slammed the can back on the shelf with such force that she knocked down a whole lot of other cans. Now the child is screaming, the mother is embarrassed, everyone is looking. I helped her pick things up, and tried to speak with quiet, unaccusing tones. I gave the child a piece of candy and suggested to the mother that I was sympathetic to her reaction. With a smile I said, "I think you're having a bad day. Too bad the video cameras aren't going or this might be worth $10,000." She laughed and thanked me for my help.
The next time I overreact to a small problem, I hope there will be someone close by to put it back into perspective.
The problem we're facing may not be small. It may be a health issue, or a serious financial problem, or a relational problem. But it's still good to keep it in perspective and not magnify it into something even greater.
You'll probably have a problem or two this week. When you do, deal with it.
But whatever, "Do Not Magnify Your Problems." ]]> Tue, 14 Oct 2008 19:52:07 -0700 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc244954922 But Page Two is an actual quote from the Bible. It comes from Psalm 37:1 (KJV):
"Fret Not."
That's all Page Two says: "Fret Not."
But that's pretty significant.
This is a page we need to read when our daily routine gets overwhelmed by things that don't go as we had hoped or planned. "Fretting" is a common practice, and robs us of energy, composure, and joy.
There are major crises that come into our lives. But God has given the human spirit a wonderful ability to rise up and cope with the real tragedies. We face major illnesses, financial reverses, great disappointments, and even the death of loved ones. We hurt, we grieve, but we survive.
But "fretting" has to do with the little, nick-picky irritations that plague us on a daily basis. If we let these little frustrations get to us, we may crumble. They tend to accumulate and eventually overwhelm us.
Someone cuts us off as we're driving, or brings their full grocery cart in front of us in the "10 items or less" line at the grocery store, etc. Repairmen don't show up on the day they're supposed to, we can't find the car keys and we're already running late, people say and do stupid things. You know the problem.
There is enough imperfection in the world that if we "fret" every time there is reason to, we'll break under the strain. In those tense situations, it is so much better to keep composure, take out the Little Book, and read Page Two: "Fret Not."
In the New Testament, both Jesus and the apostle Paul tell us not to worry. They not only forbid it, they give us alternatives. Jesus tells us "Do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear." etc. (Matthew 6:25) Paul says, "In nothing be anxious." (Philippians 4:5)
Jesus' alternative is "take one day at a time." (Matthew 6:34). Paul's alternative is to "pray, with thanksgiving." (Philippians 4:4-5)
Fretting doesn't help.
We fret about what happened earlier, or what MIGHT happen later. Fretting is futile in both cases. As far as things that happened earlier, fretting doesn't make them disappear. As far as the future, most of the things we fret about in the future never happen. But even if they do, our fretting doesn't help. Both Jesus and Paul tell us to focus on the "now" and do what we can "now."
If there is a problem, deal with it. Do what you can. Correct past mistakes, make pre-emptive moves for the future. Use your energy for something constructive.
Fretting takes away energy. It robs us of sleep, hope, and positive thinking. If the thing we fear does happen, at least we are ready to meet it with whatever energy and resources we have. We haven't had those things dissipated by fretting.
An earlier era in U. S. history was dubbed "The Aspirin Age" by some historians. Well, I'm not sure the Aspirin Age has ended. People are anxious about so many things. If a loved one is late, they've probably been killed in a car wreck. If you have a headache, it's probably brain cancer. etc. etc. You know the idea.
But is that futile or what?
Don't let fretting rob you of joy and peace.
Live in confidence and hope.
Read Page Two!
"Fret Not."]]> Sun, 05 Oct 2008 20:02:02 -0700 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc244189506 Be Light Hearted and Happy."
Page One of the Little Book says: "Take Care of Your Physical Body."
I guess this is not a surprising page, since this Little Book came originally from a medical doctor.
It certainly is an important page. Just as the Preface emphasized that a person can DECIDE to be happy, Page One emphasizes that the decision to take care of one's physical health belongs to the individual. A wife can't decide for the husband. A friend can't decide for another friend.
Scripture does say that ". . .Your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your body," (1 Cor. 6:19-20).
That verse is normally quoted when a person is potentially damaging their body by smoking, the abuse of alcohol, or drugs. But it can certainly go much further.
The real ME is inside. You don't see or hear the real me. But the real ME is able to function and work because it has the use of the physical body. So, if I work so hard that I break my health, how am I then going to be able to do the things I want to do?
There was a time in my life when my health was failing. I went to a doctor and he examined me and ran several tests. He then called me to his office for a consultation. He began by saying, "Silas, you have some real health issues and I am going to need to refer you to others." He said, "In fact, I want you to see three different specialists. They can do things for you that I can't. And I want to urge you to see them or else you may die considerably quicker than you should!"
You can imagine my reaction!
I'm glad I didn't have a weak heart!
My physician scribbled on a prescription pad and handed the slip of paper to me. I folded it and put it in my pocket. I was stunned by what he was telling me.
It was after I got outside that I looked at the paper. The specialists he was sending me to were: "Dr. Diet, Dr. Rest, and Dr. Exercise!"
I was offended. I went back in and he was waiting for me. He assured me that he was not minimizing my condition. He told me that he didn't want me to think he was saying that "Nothing is wrong with you." "On the contrary," he said, "your condition is quite serious but there is no medicine or treatment that can do as much as the three things I've mentioned."
I haven't taken very good care of my health through the years. My life is too sedantary. I eat too much. I rest too little.
But that's when I read Page One. It brings me back to reality. As I write today, I am "back in training." I'm feeling better, and I'm doing better.
I'm blessed to be able to control my diabetes by weight-loss, exercise, and lowering stress levels.
Some years ago a physician who was a believer, Dr. S. I. McMillan, wrote a book called "None of These Diseases." He talked about the promise God made to the Israelites as they left Egyptian bondage. He told them they would not have the diseases of the Egyptians.
Anthropologists have studied the corpses of ancient Egyptians. They have found that ancient Egyptians died from heart disease, hypertension, strokes, and diabetes related illnesses.
So what did God do with the Israelites? He instituted kosher food laws that gave them a better diet, forced them into rather constant movement, and imposed a weekly day of rest. The people may not have realized the health benefits of these things but God did.
I have been blessed by some practical health suggestions from the 7th Day Adventists:
Eat only when you're hungry.
Eat smaller portions.
Eat a wide variety of well-prepared foods, served in a pleasing manner.
Don't eat at night (no later than 6 p.m.)
Take a walk of 10-15 minutes once a day.
Get at least 7 hours of sleep each night.
Find something to laugh about each day. Laugh out loud.
There are lots of other good things: less salt, less sugar, less fat, more fruits and veggies.
Find something that works for you and do it consistently.
Read Page One: "Take Care of Your Physical Body." ]]> Fri, 26 Sep 2008 23:25:06 -0700 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc242983956 The Little Book is so small that it only has a preface and five pages. In fact, it is invisible. You can carry it in a specific part of your brain and reach up and take it down when you need it. It is particularly helpful when you are being plagued by "the gray sickness." We live in a pressure-cooker world. When you have the "blahs," when you are worried, or when you are afraid, read The Little Book instead. You'll be amazed at how the world changes before your very eyes.
We'll begin The Little Book by reading the Preface. Reach up to your brain and take down The Little Book and open it to the Preface.
The Preface simply says: "Be Light-Hearted and Happy."
That's all it says, but that is a lot.
"Be Light-Hearted and Happy." That implies that happiness comes from within, not without. Most people think they can't be happy unless their circumstances are good. They feel like victims. But The Preface challenges that. It implies that we can DECIDE to be happy.
The Little Book says we can be victorious, no matter what negative things are in our lives.
The Preface is based on scripture. Philippians 4:4 says: "Rejoice in the Lord always. And again I will say, Rejoice!"
The Apostle Paul apparently believed you can decide to be happy, even in unpleasant circumstances. In fact, he wrote those words from prison! Paul and Silas had been in prison in Philippi for doing something that was not wrong. But in spite of the injustice, in spite of the condition of the Philippian jail, Paul and Silas were singing at midnight. (And I think they were singing a happy song like 'Victory in Jesus,' not a song like "Nobody Knows the Trouble I've Seen.")
And now Paul is in prison again in another city! And he still encourages his readers to "Rejoice!"
There's a lot of real pain in the world. I wouldn't question that.
But the Preface of The Little Book implies that it's not just what happens to us that matters, but how we respond to what happens to us.
I've been blessed in my life with good illustrations of the truth of The Preface. One of the first was my own father, Allen Shotwell. He was orphaned as a small child. His mother died in a flu epidemic and his father deserted he and his two sisters. Their grandmother took care of them until she died. Then they were raised by an aunt and uncle who had lots of children of their own. My father ran away from home as a teen. He didn't have much going for him. But somewhere along the line he decided to be happy. He found the Lord, he found a good wife, he got a good job. And even when things didn't go well, he smiled and looked for things that were positive. Edna Mae used to say that he was the kindest, most gentle man she ever knew. He decided to be happy.
In the 1960's I met another man who had decided to be happy. His name was J. D. Corder and he lived in Wenatchee, Washington. J. D. had been a pretty rough character in his early life. He was a construction worker and he fell off some scaffolding while working on the Rocky Reach Dam on the Columbia River. He never walked again. During the next several years he had over thirty major surgeries. He literally lived in the Central Washington Deaconess Hospital for the last years of his life. He was always in pain. He became addicted to demoral and perhaps some other pain medications.
His wife divorced him, and he was not able to hug his children. In those days, children were not allowed in hospitals unless they were patients.
But J. D. decided to be happy. When Edna Mae and I moved to Wenatchee I heard about J. D. Corder and that he had become a Christian. I knew of his physical condition. I put off meeting him because I thought I would see a broken man who lived in continual pain. He was that. But he was so much more. Even though he was paraplegic he would lift himself up by a bar over his bed and spend his days sitting up, rather than lying down. He always had a big smile. When I came into his room he would grasp my hand and ask how I was doing? When I asked him how he was doing he would always reply "I can't kick!" (Paraplegic humor.)
Once I met J. D., I visited him every day. It was not unusual to stay with him an hour, or two, or three, each time I visited him. I wanted to encourage him, but he encouraged me more.
He asked for a ground-floor room and he raised his children through the window that he could crank open. He taught them, disciplined them, loved them. When his oldest daughter got married she and her groom got married in the hospital. We rolled J.D.'s bed along so he could walk his daughter down the aisle (hall.) I never attended a happier wedding.
J. D. started a business from his hospital room. He started a mail-order business, buying and selling coins. He made a lot of money and left his children a good inheritance when he died. He wrote letters to missionaries to encourage them. He sent out Bible correspondence courses by the hundreds and brought people to Christ from around the world. He counseled doctors and nurses. And he counseled me. He didn't complain, though he would often grimace and call for a pain shot. He was a genuinely happy man. In the Lord.
I hated to leave J. D. when we left Wenatchee. We moved to Texas. After being in Texas a few months they called me and told me J. D. only had a few days left. So I flew immediately to his side. Of the hundreds of times I had visited him earlier I had never seen him lie down. And whenever I left he would always give a big smile and say, "See you tomorrow!"
So when I got to his bedside this time, he painfully pulled himself upright, gave a genuine smile, and told me once more that he "couldn't kick."
We prayed together, laughed together, shed some tears together. When I pulled myself away from him he said, "See you tomorrow." But it was different. He died in his sleep that night.
His memory still encourages me, especially when I begin to feel sorry for myself.
I smile, say "I can't kick" and rejoice in the same way J. D. did.
I don't know what all you're facing: health problems, financial problems, aging, relationship breakdowns. There's lots and lots of pain in the world. But, whatever pain you have, you can still DECIDE to be happy.
Read the Preface.
Be like the apostle Paul, like my dad, and like J. D. Corder. That decision is a blessing. It may not make the problems go away, but it will certainly make them more bearable. And it will be a blessing to others.
I've known lots of other people who LIVED the Preface: Ruth Forest, Ben McConal, Edna Mae. . . What a blessing!
Keep The Little Book at your fingertips this week. When you face stress, pain, difficulties, or conflict, take out The Little Book and read the Preface. "Be Light-Hearted and Happy."
You'll be surprised at how the whole world changes before your eyes. ]]> Sat, 13 Sep 2008 00:32:36 -0700 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc242710203 Occasionally I get down. It is usually brought on by a combination of fatigue, frustration, and criticism.
When feeling "blue" begins to turn into depression, God has a way of bringing me back into reality.
That's what He did again today.
He brings a person into my consciousness that tells me I helped them. They often go as far as saying that I said or did something that changed their life.
It's always a shock. It usually involves people that I knew twenty, thirty, or forty years ago. I didn't necessarily know them well. Sometimes I don't even remember their names. And yet, from out of the blue, they come forward and tell me I changed their lives.
It's very humbling. And it happened again today. A man I knew in Whittier, California about twenty years ago, found me on the Internet and said I changed his life.
It's obviously God who does the changing. But I'm happy to have had at least a small part.
The person who wrote me today singled out some some specific teaching that came from me. Two decades ago I shared with him a copy of "The Little Book."
Most of the people who read this blog are familiar with The Little Book. I've been giving it to people for forty years. It changed my life first. It has been changing the lives of others ever since.
I can't think of a better thing to do on my blog than give out copies of The Little Book. Even those who already have one will be glad to receive it again.
It was first given to me by a Christian physician, Dr. Carl Darby of Ogden, Utah. He told me that he had become a very good diagnostician and that he could often tell what was ailing a person when he first saw them. But his professionalism led him to ask questions, run tests, and do a thorough examination. In many instances, he found that whatever physical problem a person had, the condition was affected by negative thoughts and feelings. He dubbed that negativism "the grey sickness." He had composed The Little Book as a means of treating the grey sickness. He gave out a page with each office visit. I had the grey sickness when I met him, so he gave The Little Book to me.
I've been sharing it ever since.
With life-changing effects.
In my next blog, on September 13, I will begin sharing The Little Book. I'll give a page at a time for the next six weeks. I can't promise that it will change your life.
But it won't hurt.
Thank you Lord, for today, and the person who brightened it. ]]> Tue, 09 Sep 2008 20:30:02 -0700 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc242020368 There's no need to try to cheer me up.
But it is September, and I am always melancholy in September.
Both my parents were born in September and I think about them more than usual during this month.
I've had several relatives die in September.
And the song, September song, just adds to my melancholy spirit. I sing or hum it all month.

"Oh, its a long, long while from may to december
But the days grow short when you reach september
When the autumn weather turns the leaves to flame
One hasnt got time for the waiting game
Oh, the days dwindle down to a precious few
September, november
And these few precious days Ill spend with you
These precious days Ill spend with you"

The words are actually quite beautiful. Frank Sinatra crooned them many years ago and I've been repeating them ever since.
In September.

Edna Mae never liked my September melancholy. I'm convinced that she determined not to die in September. So she made it five hours farther, into October 1.
This year my September "sadness" is underscored by my weariness from moving. If I've ever been more tired I don't remember it. I am EXHAUSTED and SORE. On Saturday I made eight trips up the mountain from Hood River to Mt. Hood to fill my car. To complicate matters, I didn't see another person all day. Meagan was at Faith Quest, and the other people who had been helping me had left.
So in the Mt. Hood house I shed a lot of tears.
But it was cathartic.
And, as I said before, I am not depressed.
I am simply pensive.
And introspective.
It's September. ]]> Mon, 01 Sep 2008 20:52:48 -0700 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc241235452 My first glance this morning was at the calendar. August 23. It had finally arrived.
August 23 is a special day to me.
It's Kobe Bryant's birthday.
(Just kidding. It is his birthday but I didn't even know that until this week.)
Far more important to me, it is my daughter Suzanne's birthday. She was just here for a few days, along with Baylee and Zane, and it was a delight, as always. My firstborn child, my firstborn grandchild, and a grandson that is wonderfully sharp and handsome.
A lot is going on this year on August 23. I'm moving into town. The Olympics are winding down. Mr. Obama has selected a running mate that is in my age bracket and even more talkative than me.
Tropical storm Fay has hit Florida four times, and lots of records have fallen in Beijing.
But none of these things, including Suzanne's birthday, are the reason I looked at the calendar this morning.
At 69 I have experienced August 23's on 69 occasions. One of them stands out above all others.
August 23, 1959.
In 1959 Oregon was celebrating its Centennial as a state. I lived in Hood River in a small "pickers cabin" with a little wood stove for heat and no indoor plumbing. In 1959 August 23 was on a Sunday. My friend Wesley Reagan had come to visit me. We woke up on a chilly morning and began getting ready for the day. I was preaching that day at the Mt Hood Church of Christ. My sermon text was from Genesis and I had studied and practiced and studied some more. My audience that day was particularly attentive.
After church my friend and I drove to Vancouver, Washington. We had a 3 p.m. appointment that we couldn't be late for.
It was my wedding!
In a small, informal wedding, in Edna Mae's parents' living room, we said our "I do's," and were pronounced "man and wife." It was, up to that point, the happiest day of my life.
After the simple ceremony, with no reception, we got in my car and drove back to my little cabin in Hood River. Stopping only to pick up a suitcase, we then drove on to The Dalles, 20 miles East.
And what did we do on the night we married? We went to church again!
We attended the Sunday night service of the Church of Christ in The Dalles.
During the next 4 days, for our Honeymoon, we drove up into Northern Idaho and through Eastern Washington. We visited several church friends in various places. And on the last day of the Honeymoon, we had a severe car wreck in Toppenish, Washington. It was on almost the same site that my parents and I had had an accident five years earlier. I drive through there occasionally today and try to avoid that particular spot.
Surviving the accident, we came back to the community of Mt. Hood. As a couple, we never lived in the pickers cabin in Hood River. We moved into a one bedroom house in Mt. Hood. It was about 3 miles from where I live today. Thankfully, we had indoor plumbing in the new place, and $150 worth of used furniture. But the thing that mattered most was our love for each other. I was 20 and she was barely 17. She took her Senior year in High School after we married. She rode the school bus. I did the cooking and cleaning. Our marriage was heaven on earth for 44 years.
Then came another tough day. October 1, 2003
August 23 is my second hardest day of the year.
That's today.
Today was no exception.
But I've made it through. And I'm preaching again in the morning in Hood River.
I even went to a wedding today. Randy and Andrea. I wished them God's richest blessing, apologized that I was not staying for the reception, and told them I will never forget their anniversary.
And that's for sure.]]> Sat, 23 Aug 2008 18:50:52 -0700 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc240110989 I had job offers from a number of large churches. I was asked to be the president of a Christian college. I was asked to be the chief administrator of a health care organization that would have made me a millionaire.
But instead of all those opportunities, I chose to go to Pepperdine University as "Special Assistant to the President." Dr. Bill Banowsky was one of the most dynamic college presidents in the nation and he wanted me to be his "man." I thought I might eventually succeed him.
It wasn't too long after I took the job that Dr. Banowsky told me he wanted to publicize my position with the university. He told me that a part of that publicity required that I have a very professional photograph taken that would be used in many ways. Even though we were in the same California county as Hollywood, he didn't think there was a photographer good enough in Los Angeles to take the kind of publicity picture he wanted. In Dallas, Texas, in no less a place than Neiman-Marcus Department Store, there was perhaps the finest portrait photography studio in the world. Gittings Studio. So Dr. Banowsky had his secretary make an appointment for me at Gittings.
I bought the finest and most expensive suit I ever owned. I had my hair styled by Jay Sebring's assistant (Sebring was a phenomenal hair-stylist who had been killed by the Manson family.) And on the proper day I flew off to Dallas to have my photo-shoot.
When I got to Gittings Studio I felt like absolute royalty. The receptionist assured me that I wouldn't have to wait long. She said, "Mr. Hope is taking longer than we'd thought." She was talking about "the" Mr. Hope, Robert by name.
Yes, in a few moments Bob Hope came out of the studio. He had been having his Gittings photo made. He smiled at me and I smiled back. He knew I had to be someone important to be there, so he didn't embarrass himself by asking my identity. I already knew who he was.
So I went into the palatial studio, and was greeted by Mr. Gittings. He sat me on the same bench Bob Hope had just left. It was still warm!
The next hour was spent in posing. I don't know how many shots were taken but he said they were all marvelous. I thanked him, ate lunch in the fine dining part of Neiman-Marcus, and flew back to Los Angeles.
In a few days my proofs came, and Dr. Banowsky's "people" picked the one they thought was best. You can judge for yourself.


When the beautiful prints came, all 8 x 10's, I was eager to show them to people. I refrained from putting one up in my office, or even from putting one in my home. But I wanted to!
Not only was the picture impressive, the inscription on the back was impressive. It said: ""THIS PHOTOGRAPH IS THE LIKENESS OF SILAS SHOTWELL. IT WAS MADE AT GITTINGS STUDIO, NEIMAN-MARCUS, DALLAS, TEXAS. IT IS COPYRIGHTED. TO MAKE COPIES OF IT FOR PUBLICITY PURPOSES YOU MUST HAVE THE WRITTEN PERMISSION OF THE PHOTOGRAPHER OR THE SUBJECT, THE OWNERS OF THE PHOTOGRAPH."
I was flying high. Bob Hope had nothing on me.
I could hardly wait for opportunities to mail out the picture.
Within a day or two I got my first chance. The Church of Christ in Huntsville, Texas wanted me to come there and put on a gospel meeting. Their preacher, Ottis Hilburn, was an old friend that I had known in Oregon. And as we talked on the phone, he said, "Silas, send me a brief bio, and a picture, if you have one." I assured him that I had one.
I had three secretaries at Pepperdine and I had one of them send out a bio and the picture that very day. Registered mail I think.
About a week passed and Ottis sent me a note to tell me the things had arrived. And then he said the strangest thing. He said, "I got your picture. Ha. Ha."
Why had he said, "Ha. Ha."? It seemed curious to me. But I had too much important business to take care of to give much thought to what he meant.
In a matter of weeks it was time to go to Huntsville. I stepped off an airplane in Dallas to be met by Ottis. He was to drive me to Huntsville to conduct the meeting. He told me all the good things that he expected. He thought God was going to use this time as a time to save a number of souls, both in the community, and in the Texas State Prison. All the sermons were going to be broadcast on the radio and inmates could listen from behind stone walls. I was thankful for the opportunity also.
But I was curious.
Toward the end of the drive I asked, "Ottis, when you got my picture you told me you got it but you said, 'Ha,' 'Ha.' Why did you say 'Ha', 'Ha'?
He looked at me with surprise and said, "You don't know?'
I assured him that I didn't know what was funny.
He said, "You really don't know?"
A bit agitated, I said, "No!"
We were almost to Huntsville by that time. He didn't explain his actions any further. He said he'd show me.
When we got to his office he showed me the fliers they had printed, and the newspaper ads they had run. He even showed me the prison newspaper that had my picture proudly on the front page. l still didn't see anything funny. And I told Ottis so.
He said to me, "It's that thing on the back."
That was the thing that had impressed me. What was so funny about it?
He then took the picture I had sent him, and I turned it over. There was the inscription, exactly as I had first read it.
"THIS PHOTOGRAPH IS THE LIKENESS OF SILAS SHOTWELL. IT WAS MADE AT GITTINGS STUDIO, NEIMAN-MARCUS, DALLAS, TEXAS. IT IS COPYRIGHTED. TO MAKE COPIES OF IT FOR PUBLICITY PURPOSES YOU MUST HAVE THE WRITTEN PERMISSION OF THE PHOTOGRAPHER OR THE SUBJECT, THE OWNERS OF THE PHOTOGRAPH."
But then I noticed what I hadn't noticed the first time. My eye had done some editing the first time.
In reality, it didn't say "SHOTWELL."
It said, "SNOTWELL!"
I couldn't believe it. "SNOTWELL!"
I immediately called my secretary and had her check the other copies. She told me she had mailed out at least ten to other places I was supposed to appear. And sure enough, all the copies she had had the misspelling: "SNOTWELL."
After a few moments of sheer embarrassment, I began to laugh. Ottis laughed with me. We guffawed and we howled. "Snotwell."
That's what I was! Either Gittings, or God, or both, had taught me a lesson.

I didn't stay in the high-powered job but a few months. I went back to preaching, my true calling. And I started going to churches that needed me, not necessarily the ones that were big and famous.
And to any place that wanted me to come, I sent out the infamous photos as long as I had any left. "Snotwell" and all. No changes. I thought, "If the shoe fits. . ."
God has been humbling me ever since. I'm grateful for that. I want my only "bigness" to be my heart, not my ego.
You may never think of me as "Shotwell" again. And I don't mind that.
I'm just who I am. God forgive me for ever trying to be more.
]]> Sun, 10 Aug 2008 18:29:48 -0700 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc239137512 Mr. Cope was 100 and Mrs. Cope was 80. They both seemed much much younger. She was a free-spirited woman that moved like a person in her 30's. He had good health, a full head of beautiful white hair, and his own teeth. He did not wear glasses. She called him "Copey" and he called her "Dolly." They mowed their own yard with a push mower and kept the place in wonderful condition, inside and out. They had been married 50 years. They didn't marry until he was 50 and she was 30. Neither had been married before. They were devout members of the Methodist Church. Real "Wesleyans."
The reason we went to their home daily was to play "42." At least that was our excuse. Texans know all about that domino game. It is a tradition in Texas. As most Texans, I consider myself to be a "master" at 42. But few people in Oregon know how to play.
At the Copes, the men always played the women. We were equally matched.
When we went into the Cope's house, Mrs. Cope would always say, "Come in this house!" with great enthusiasm and joy.
The domino table was in place and ready for play. As we would sit down, Mr. Cope would always say, "Here's where friendship ceases." And the games would begin.
The games were challenging, loud, and wonderful fun. The same things would be said each day. Such as, "You study long, you study wrong." and "Don't renig. They hang renigers in Texas."
Mr. Cope was a Hoosier. He was born in "a vine-covered cottage on the banks of the Wabash River" in Crawfordsville, Indiana. He worked on railroads from the time he was a boy. He had done it all: engineer, brakeman, conductor. He worked for several railroads but he came to Texas fairly early and worked primarily for the Missouri/Kansas/Texas line, known as the M.K.T. or the "Katy." He proudly said that he never lacked work, was never fired, and never went on strike. He was a faithful member of the Railroad Trainman's Union, which he called the "Brotherhood."
Mrs. Cope was from Texas and he had been smitten by her when he first met her.
I remember the day when Mr. Cope turned 100. A reporter and photographer came out from the Fort Worth Press and did a big story on him. The reporter asked him, "Mr. Cope, if you had one wish today on your 100th birthday, what would it be?" Mr. Cope stared into space for a moment, rubbed his chin, and then said, "If I could have one wish today, I'd dearly love to be 80 again!"
That was Mr. Cope.
Mr. Cope was a story teller. I believed them all to be true. But they were entertaining, nonetheless. He had led a remarkable life. I want to share two of his stories with you.
Mr. Cope was born in the era of the Civil War. (Since he was from the North, I'll call the war that. As a Southerner, I think it is more accurate to call it the War Between the States or the War of Northern Aggression. smile.) When he was a young teen, the local war "hero" came back to Crawfordsville, General Lew Wallace. General Wallace was also a native of Crawfordsville. He had been in a number of Civil War battles and had risen to the rank of Major General. But through some miscalculation he brought his army too late to be of assistance at Shiloh. So he was "set on the shelf" for the end of the war. He had returned to Crawfordsville, and dabbled in government affairs and writing. He hired Mr. Cope, who was only about 15 at the time, to be his driver. He drove a one-horse buggy that was called a "hack." Mr. Cope was General Wallace's driver for several months and had countless stories from General Wallace.
Mr. Cope said that on the day he went for his interview he got there early. General Wallace chided him and said, "Young man, never be early or even on time. You'll spend your whole life waiting for people."
General Wallace later was appointed to be the Governor of the Territory of New Mexico and ultimately was selected as an ambassador to Turkey. But his real fame came as an author. Among other things, he wrote Ben Hur, a fascinating fictional account of Christ and His followers. It would become one of the most popular novels of the nineteenth century and the basis of a movie starring Charlton Heston in the twentieth. Mr. Cope heard most of the story from the lips of the General himself, as he drove him around the Indiana countryside. It was after leaving the employ of General Wallace that Albert Cope took his first job with the railroad. His first job there was as a porter in a Pullman car on the Wabash and Ohio line.

General Lew Wallace

It was some years later that Mr. Cope found himself working for the "Katy" in the little town of Cisco, Texas. The railroad was about the only thing going in that sleepy, dusty, little town between Ft. Worth and Abilene. Mr. Cope was the station agent, and could double as the telegrapher if needed.
Among Mr. Cope's friends in Cisco was a young New Mexico man who worked in the Mobley Hotel. The young man washed dishes, carried luggage, and cleaned rooms. When he had no work to do he would go down to the depot and pass time with Mr. Cope.
The young man had lots of complaints about his job. Mr. Cope told him he needed to stand up to the owner of the place. When the young man said he was afraid of losing his job if he did that, Mr. Cope asked him why he didn't just buy the place? Mr. Cope offered him a loan to assist him in the venture. The young man took him up on it. His name was Conrad Hilton. The hotel in Cisco was his first hotel. It went so well for him that in a very few years he was building his own first "high rise" hotel in downtown Dallas. The rest is history.

Conrad Hilton, Sr.

Mr. Cope lived to be 103 I think. He died peacefully in his sleep. Afterwards, Mrs. Cope moved to California and "started life over" with some of her family and friends. I never heard from her again. She may still be going for all I know. :)
I wish I had a picture to show you of Mr. Cope. He had a twinkle in his eye that was something to behold. Edna Mae and I spent many evenings through the years remembering Mr. and Mrs. Cope and their impact on us. I've often wondered whether General Wallace or Conrad Hilton had any idea that they were so close to true "greatness." ]]> Wed, 30 Jul 2008 12:05:11 -0700 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc237964158 I was always close to my grandfathers, and they had tremendous influence on me. I want to talk today about them. No two men could have been more different. But I loved them both, and they loved me.

My mother's father was James Edward Perkins. People knew him as "Ed." To me he was simply "Granddad." He was the first or second man I ever saw. On the chilly November night on which I was born, he drove my parents to the closest hospital, driving up to 100 miles an hour on country roads. The doctor told he and my dad that my mother was dying and he was sure I was already dead. He was wrong on both counts.
In my earliest years we lived on the farm and our house was only a few hundred feet from my grandparent's house.
Granddad was a farmer, a self-taught scholar, and the local lawman. He was an elder in the church. He was the image of respectability, but there was nothing "stodgy" about him. He was loving and kind, and when he wasn't whistling he was humming. As I grew up, he was my hero. My dad was gone away to work a lot of the time, but Granddad was always there. We worked together, hunted and fished together, read the Bible together.
Granddad was a native Kentuckian. He left there at an early age, but his eyes would tear up when he heard "Blue Moon of Kentucky" or "My Old Kentucky Home."

My father's father was Walter Douglas Shotwell. People knew him as "Doug." To me he was "Granddad Shotwell." He was anything BUT respectable.
Granddad Shotwell was notorious for his temper, his lack of responsibility, and his foul mouth. When his wife died in a flu epidemic he deserted my dad and his two sisters. He went away and started his own life over with a new wife and new children. Later in life he would desert them too. My father ran away from his foster home when he was in his teens, and found his dad and the two of them lived together in a small shack.
Even in his seventies Granddad Shotwell would pick fights with people on the courthouse square. Even on his deathbed he renounced religion. The local description of such people was "reprobate."
I don't know what made Granddad Shotwell the way he was. He'd had some hard knocks somewhere. I later met his brother and two sisters. They were nice people, and they loved him, but he didn't have much good to say about them. Or anyone.
Granddad Shotwell was a Tennesseean, who had also come to Texas at a young age. He was a "finish carpenter" and quite a craftsman. But he lived his last years in squalor and wore his clothes until they got so dirty that they would "stand alone." His shack was littered with "adult" magazines and it simply seemed impossible for him to speak without swearing.
But I loved both grandfathers.
And they both loved me.
I remember their hands. I remember what it felt like for them to take my hands in theirs. A farmer and a carpenter. Strong men, both. But both gentle to me.
Granddad Perkins took me everywhere with him and instilled in me my love for history. He had been in posses that looked for Texas' most famous outlaw, Sam Bass. He had hunted his area for Coronado's treasure. As a young man he had taken a train to Ft. Sill in Indian Territory to see Geronimo sitting in a cell and looking back at him. He saw Harry Houdini perform, and thought he had figured out his secrets. He told me all about the War Between the States and how his people in Kentucky had had to choose between North and South. He taught me to drive a tractor, and to avoid snakes, and to catch fish. He taught me the scriptures and his dying words to me were "Read First John." Everyone loved him.
No one loved Granddad Shotwell.
Except my dad, and me.
My mother couldn't stand him. He cussed more when she was around. Granddad Shotwell had a tremor and he smoked. He rolled his own cigarettes and spilled lots of loose tobacco on the floor, especially when he came to our house. He loved to incite my mother, and she loved to glare at him.
But in private, Granddad Shotwell and I were pals. He gave me Buffalo nickels and silver dollars. He told me how to sight things plumb without using a square. He was known in the area for his ability to "witch" for water but he told me never to mess with the "dark" stuff. His primary message to me was "Silas, don't be like me."
On many occasions Grandad Shotwell said to me, "Son, be like your Granddad Perkins. He's the way all men should be. Follow in his steps, and turn out to be like Ed."
The irony of this, was that my Granddad Perkins often said, "Son, your grandad Doug is not half as bad as people think. Inside his rough exterior there is a good heart. He loves you and would do anything for you. You love him in return. See him as Jesus would see him, with compassion and trust."
Yes, as different as they were, the two men had respect for each other! What a message that was for a boy to learn.
They had something else in common. They both cured hams. Granddad Perkins used the "Virginia" method. His cure had molasses and brown sugar and the hams that hung in his smokehouse were the very very best of that type.
Granddad Shotwell had a smoke house too. But he used a "dry" cure, the Tennessee method. Lots of salt, and lots of flavor. Red Eye gravy, grits, and eggs were perfect with his cured hams. Sawmill gravy, eggs, and sliced tomatoes went best with Granddad Perkin's ham. Biscuits went well with both.
I've spent a lifetime trying to figure out which kind of ham I like best. The jury is still out, but I'll take either of them on a daily basis. My, it makes me hungry to think about both.
And as for grandfathers, my Granddad Perkins was certainly my hero and my mentor. He died 50 years ago and I still think about him every day.
Seriously.
He's buried in a special plot in Star, Texas. I visit his grave whenever I'm in Texas and shed a lot of tears. He was something very special to me.
Granddad Shotwell died in obscurity, and is buried in a potter's field, in an unmarked grave, somewhere in Austin, Texas. I was one of the last people to see him alive. And the last thing he told me was that "The Shotwell name means nothing. Be as much as you can like Ed Perkins and people will know you for your deeds, not your name." He halted and stammered in that last conversation, but got through 30 minutes without even one cussword. I didn't know it was possible.
Thank you, both Granddads, for loving me.
I will always love you in return. ]]> Wed, 16 Jul 2008 22:09:17 -0700 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc237176655 At last year's American Idols concert we sat on the 2nd row through a quirk of "fate" and Sanjaya even waved at Meagan. At least we hoped he was waving at her and not at me.

The concert this week is the latest in a long long string of live performances. I've loved most of them, even though the music has ranged from Cajun to pop to bagpipes to country to classical. I like most music. I don't consider "rap" to be music so we've stayed away from those concerts. And we've stayed away from hard rock. But we've been to just about everything else.
The first concert Edna Mae and I went to was years ago in Ft. Worth. The performer was none other than Liberace. I still don't think I've seen a more dynamic performer. My speech gets nasal just thinking about it. It was a real hoot and the costumes were amazing.
< Also in Ft. Worth we saw Tanya Tucker when she was only about 13. "Delta Dawn" was a big hit and she's still going strong. I saw her again in Las Vegas a couple of years ago.
In Ft. Worth, in those early days, we also saw the live cast of "Gunsmoke." They even sang. Mr. Dillon, Doc, Miss Kitty, and Festus. Ken Curtis, who played Festus, was actually a very good singer. He had a deep baritone voice, sort of like that of Gomer Pile when he sang seriously.
When I met Edna Mae in Vancouver, Washington in 1959 there was a Texas guy working in a Vancouver radio station. He was an unknown. I liked him and listened to him at first because he was from Texas. He really grew on me. He had short hair and performed in a business suit. He was a writer and musician as well as singer. He announced happily one day that he had sold a song named "Family Bible." He got $50 for it. He later left Vancouver and moved to Nashville and then back to Texas. Willie Nelson. He was the last performer Edna Mae and I saw live, just a few weeks before her death. She loved it.

Among other Country singers we heard live were George Jones, Merle Haggard, Johnny Paycheck, Charlie Daniels, Mel Tillis, and Charlie Pride. You can tell that my preference is for "classic" country. Edna Mae's favorite was a Cajun, the Louisiana Man, Doug Kershaw. We saw him many times in concert. Earlier she had liked a Latino singer named Trini Lopez who sang "La Bamba" better than anyone. She liked him so much it even made me a little jealous. :)
Since Edna Mae's death Meagan and I have gone to see George Strait, Taylor Swift, Carrie Underwood, Ronnie Millsap, and others. We had virtually a private concert from Taylor Swift and spent several minutes with her taking pictures, etc. She's pretty famous and we were flattered by the time she spent with us.

Meagan's favorites are Christian singers and groups. Some of those we've seen are Casting Crowns, Stephen Curtis Chapman, and Chris Tomlin. We've seen, and met, many other Christian groups.
Edna Mae and I saw lots of "pop," We had season tickets at the Hollywood Bowl and saw everyone from Kate Smith to Frank Sinatra to Tony Bennett. We've seen the Beach Boys, Jan and Dean, Paul Revere and the Raiders, and I better stop with that because I'm really dating myself.
Our real favorites, however, were always classical. We liked the "pop" classical too, and loved Arthur Fiedler and Andre Rieu. Rieu is right in there with Liberace as a showman. I go to see him every year.

I think the best single performance we ever saw live was "Phantom of the Opera," actually starring Michael Crawford. I'll never forget that.



But how could I rule out the three tenors? Luciano Pavarotti, Jose Carreras, and Placido Domingo? Or Tennessee Ernie singing "Sixteen Tons" one day in his back yard when I was at his next-door neighbor's house (Pat Boone)

Edna Mae loved violinist Itzak Perlman and would shed tears when he would come on stage with his braces, sit down, and put his handkerchief on his violin. The tears were quickly replaced by smiles when he would begin to play divinely.
We also saw Isaac Stern on several occasions, and Alfred Brendel, and Yo Yo Ma, etc. etc.
We saw Galworthy play his gold flute, the Bolshoi Ballet doing Swan Lake, and Leonard Bernstein conducting Rhapsody in Blue.
Oh, how I've been blessed!
At Renewal this past week Milton Pullen told us about how all the world involves music. Our hearts beat, our ears vibrate, and there is melody all about us.
Thank God for music. I believe Handel was Divinely-inspired to write the Messiah. And perhaps Albert Brumley was also when he wrote "I'll Fly Away." There are lots of genres of music. I haven't met many songs, singers, or musicians I didn't like.
]]> Mon, 07 Jul 2008 19:24:15 -0700 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#psk242987063 Sat, 13 Sep 2008 01:24:22 -0700 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc236017938 I certainly should have been suspicious when my local phone company changed its name from “Sprint,” which means “to move forward with great speed,” to “Embarq,” a misspelled version of a word that means to get on a plane or boat with no mention of speed whatsoever.
I should have panicked when I first noticed that the Embarq symbol is a paper airplane like I used to make in the 3rd grade. Mine never flew well and Embarq’s don’t either.
About two months ago my Internet service (which is delivered by Embarq) began sputtering. It got slower and slower and almost three weeks ago it finally stopped altogether. It was then that I realized that with Embarq, DSL does not mean “Digital Subscriber’s Line,” as I thought, but “Darn Slow Labor,” (as with the time between the first contractions and birth).
As I called and called and went through a variety of recorded messages and musical selections that would have made Beethoven grateful that he was deaf, I truly wanted to “DISembark,” but was unable to do so in my area.
I began wondering why the company chose “Embarq” over “Embargo,” which means to “put a restriction or restraint on commerce.”
I moved from the desire to “disembark” to the desire to “disembowel.”
I definitely was “disenchanted.”
Finally, on the embarcadero, there was a human voice.
A highly accented, other-side-of-the-world voice, but nonetheless a voice.
I think his name was “Rajneesh,” but couldn’t tell for sure.
Our conversation went on for over an hour. Some things were embellished, some things embarrassing, and the tone became more an more embattled. I became embittered and even thought of emblazing e-mails to Embarq that would be emblematic.
I wondered how Rajneesh had embezzled his embassy into working for Embarq? I even wondered if he was actually the one who had misspelled it?
But then, alas, I lost the connection.
Having gained nothing.
Having spent countless minutes.
I had given Rajneesh my cell phone number, but he never called back.
So, I sought once again, to reunite with the Embarqadero.
After the same gauntlet of recordings and obnoxious “tunes,” I got a much more communicative tech. Her name was “Cassandra.” She said it with great eloquence, “CasSANdra.”
After a half-hour with her, she said that my problem was my modem. A modem is an electronic device that connects computers via a telephone line, allowing the exchange of information. Modem is not to be confused with “model” who is a person that is paid to wear clothes as a profession, or someone who poses for a painter or a sculptor.
Nor is modem to be confused with "modal," which describes verbs that express a certain grammatical mood, such as possibility or necessity.
Modems are moderately modernistic and have no relationship to "Moderne" which was a style of architecture and design popular in the 1920’s and 30s.
CasSANdra said she was somewhat appalled that Sprint had given me the 645 modem, when I should have had the 660-R modem. Such blunders may have been part of the reason that Sprint had turned into Embarq.
I readily agreed and asked where I might get the precious new modem?
She told me the quickest way was to go to an Embarq store in my area and exchange my 645 for a spanking new 660-R. I asked her where the nearest store is to my ZIP Code? She took five minutes or so and told me her computer screen showing store locations would not “come up.” But I told her I was going to be in Portland the next day and would look for a store there. She assured me that would work and gave a nice apology for all my inconvenience.
The next day, I went to Portland, as scheduled, and looked in a phone book for the nearest Embarq store.
None was listed. So I went to a library, got on a computer, and went to embarq.com. Under “store listings,” I found that the nearest Embarq store to me is in Las Vegas, Nevada!
So, when I got back to Mt. Hood two hours later, I had to call Embarq again.
The music had not changed.
The recordings had not changed.
But this time I got “Bob.”
Not Amir, or Jose, or Sophia.
Just plain old “Bob.”
Of course Bob had to go through all the routines again. He had me try to get online again and another precious half-hour passed. Convinced that the problem was my modem, he said he would order me one. He said it should take no longer than five to seven business days to get to my remote location!
So, if you are reading this, you know that I am online again. I have embarked once more with Embarq. My spell-checker is strongly questioning the company’s name. It’s telling me that dogs bark, and trees have bark, but telephone companies do neither.
They just emaciate e-mail.
And emasculate Embarqers.
(Footnote. Bob's modem never came. I had to go through it all again with "Christian" in Florida. So it took more days. Christian did explain it all, however. He said all the problems and delays were caused by President George Bush!)
(2nd Footnote. Christian's modem came but did not fix the problem. Went through it all again with Michael. He is sending out a repairman tomorrow.)
]]> Tue, 24 Jun 2008 09:32:18 -0700 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc234337713 He now has his own church. The members there are his converts and his disciples. They march to his tune and line up as he sees fit.
For years, Brother Bellicose's church was well-situated at the corner of First and Foremost. The First and Foremost Church of Christ was a bastion of truth and tradition.
But the membership was getting older and Brother Bellicose read a book or two, and decided to change his approach. He concluded that a certain amount of change could take place, if not done for "change sake."
So, the church has moved from First and Foremost and has rented a building in the industrial district that looks more like a warehouse than a church. The change of location and philosophy has forced a name change also. The church will now be known as Somewhat Liberal Christian Fellowship.
They no longer meet at 9:45, with Sunday School, followed by a worship service consisting of opening prayer, three songs, main prayer, another song and communion, followed by a sermon, invitation, offering (separate and apart from communion), announcements, and dismissal. No more mention of our "humble places of abode," or fear of what things might lead to, or even discrimination against women or denominations.
The church now has its meetings in the afternoons, except on Super Bowl Sunday or Academy Awards Sunday. The obstacle course that people had to get through in order to enter the First and Foremost church has now been replaced by a labyrinth.
No longer, in assemblies, is one required to know the passwords nor the unwritten rules about where to sit, when to stand, and when to sit down. There are no books or Bibles, only PowerPoint. And the pews have been replaced by moveable chairs that also recline and have cup holders.
In the reception area there is now a kiosk where the tract rack used to be, and a bar where scones and lattes are served. There is also information about the meditation classes, sign-up sheets for yoga and jazzercize, and even a place to sign petitions to prevent animal cruelty in circuses and rodeos. There is also a place to register to vote, manned, without charge, by local Democrats.
The whole thing just feels good. You know?
During the assemblies, the praise team is wonderful, women make the announcements and read scripture. The church is delighted to be the first in this region to feature a brief laser show preceding the mini-drama. And during June the church is experimenting with chardonnay and focacia bread in the communion. You may cast your vote by email, but be sure to vote only once. If you feel the need to discuss any of this, there are trained counselors available on Monday nights at 6 in the fireside room.
Guitars are now permitted in youth devos and on Sunday nights. Ecumenical Taize services are held on the first Sunday night of each month in the chapel.
But with all these changes, some things have not changed at Somewhat Liberal. Underlying all the change, the church is still essentially the church.
The old church had a "correction" theology. They focused on the church and there was a definite judgmentalism toward those who disagreed. They were concerned about practices and there was little leeway in variation.
Today's church is more mystical, focuses on Jesus more, but is still as unbending as ever. This should be encouraging to those who resist change. The church is still corrective. Only the particulars have changed. The new church still focuses on itself, its practices, and is as judgmental as ever.
The church has always prided itself on being the "best" and the "brightest." That has not changed. Somewhat Liberal has changed its name, but the church still sees itself as the standard that other true churches should follow. They say this humbly, of course. As before.
This lack of change is reflected in the following announcement, made last Sunday by Dr. Bellicose (he finished his D.Min and prefers not to be called "Brother" anymore.)
"I have a fabulous announcement to make this afternoon: At the upcoming convocation we have secured the services of a visiting Majarishi to share with us. He will connect with us on the topic: 'Leopards, Spots, and Other Mysteries.' This topic is taken from Jeremiah 13:23, which asks 'Can the Ethiopian change his skin or the leopard its spots'? It will be a wonderful experience. If you haven't experienced the new incense infuser you won't want to miss this Convocation."
Dr. Bellicose continued: "And the hospitality committee has asked me to announce that all dishes at the potluck afterward must be vegetarian, lactose free, and without m.s.g. Any other food will be discarded."
"Now, shall we all stand, as the youth band plays 'Faith of Our Fathers.'" ]]> Wed, 04 Jun 2008 22:48:33 -0700 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc233768076 It involves President Sam Houston, mentioned recently on the anniversary of the Battle of San Jacinto, and Commodore Edwin Ward Moore, who was the Fleet Commander of the Texas Navy from 1839 to 1843. It would be quite arguable as to which character was the biggest "character." They were both talented, adventurous, and had egos as big as all-outdoors. Needless to say, they clashed. Their differences of opinion were monumental in their time and place.

Edwin Ward Moore was from an aristocratic Virginia family, and joined the U. S. Navy as a midshipman at the age of 15. He was assigned to squadrons serving in the Mediterranean and Atlantic coastlines, and later in the West Indies. His squadron covered the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean Sea and that's where he was first exposed to warfare in the Gulf of Mexico. Moore was promoted to Lieutenant but there were enough older captains left over from the War of 1812 that Moore had little chance for further advancement in the U.S. Navy. When his ship anchored at Galveston, Texas in early 1838 he began thinking about possibilities in the naval service of Texas. Texas' President Mirabeau Lamar wanted to build up the Texas Navy. He heard of Moore and offered him the job of commanding it. He accepted, and began recruiting other U. S. Naval officers to join the Texas Navy. This got Moore arrested in Brooklyn, New York for violating U. S. neutrality laws. But he was released on bail and sailed back to Texas before he could be tried.
By June 1840 Moore had assembled a formidable navy for Texas, centered around the steamer Zavala, the six-gun-schooners San Bernard, San Antonio, and San Jacinto, and two sixteen gun brigs, the Archer and Wharton. The biggest of all was the 500-ton sloop-of-war, the Austin. Moore was one of those Texas leaders that anticipated Texas's continuing to be a sovereign nation.
But others wanted Texas to join the Union and become a state in the United States. Among them was Sam Houston, who succeeded Lamar as President of Texas in the Fall of 1841. As a state, Texas would not need a Navy. So Houston intended to disband it.
Before he left office, President Lamar rented out the Texas Navy to a maverick government in Mexico, the government of Yucatan. He ordered Moore out to sea in October of 1841 and made sure that all the ships were well away from Galveston when Sam Houston was sworn in on December 13, 1841. Houston tried to recall the fleet but it was too late.
Moore was disappointed to learn that Yucatan was regotiating to reunify with Mexico. So he had to return, with his fleet, to Galveston in March of 1842.
The political struggles between Houston and Moore were continuous during 1842 and early 1843. Houston was in the process of dismantling the Texas fleet. Texas was broke and he thought Texas needed money more than ships. Moore, and many Texan sympathizers, thought Texas needed defense against Mexico more. The Mexicans of Yucatan still did not like the Central government of Mexico. So they gave Moore money to further outfit the Texas Navy, rather than sell it. He contributed much of his own money as well. So in mid-April 1843 Moore sailed a two ship squadron to Mexico and attacked a Mexican warship named the Guadalupe. It had monstrous guns that fired 68-pound exploding shells. It was English-made and was the most advanced warship in the world. It was like the Bismarck of World War II. There were two horrendous confrontations, with great loss of life. But the Mexican fleet retreated. Commodore Moore's fleet had won the day. Mexico's plan to destroy the sea-port towns of Texas was completely thwarted.
When word reached Texas, the people along the coast were ecstatic and began the rallying cry to make Moore the next President of Texas. Sam Houston still wanted to get into the Union and avoid all-out war with Mexico. So Houston said the Texas Navy was a rogue group, and that Moore and his officers were pirates! He got the Texas Congress to issue a warrant for Moore's arrest!
Moore and his victors returned to Galveston anyhow. The crowds were enormous. Some were shouting for Moore to be President and others were shouting for him to be King! Moore, knowing about the warrant, went to the Sheriff's office to turn himself in. But the Sheriff refused to arrest him. The public support of Moore was almost unanimous. Houston heard that, and was enough of a politician that he knew the pirate charge wouldn't stick. As much as he wanted to punish Moore, and be rid of him, he knew the timing wasn't right. So he simply dismissed Moore and all of his officers from the Texas Navy, and resumed his plans to dissolve the Navy. Moore never commanded a ship again. And he was never repaid the $50,000 he had spent of his own money to keep the Texas Navy afloat. Eventually the public furor wore down, and Houston came through history as the more famous person.
On numerous occasions, however, Commodore Moore challenged Sam Houston to fight a duel. Houston carried a ledger book in his coat pocket that had many names listed of those who wanted to duel him. Once he said, in response to another challenge by Moore, "Yes, I'll fight him. But I've got seventeen challenges already on my list. These other insolent fellows must first be dispatched. Tell him he's number eighteen."
But the duel never came. Houston went off into history and Moore into relative oblivion. It's interesting that the State of Texas finally tried to honor Moore in 1876 by naming a county after him. But it is in the Panhandle, about as far from the sea as you can get.
But the story wouldn't be complete, from my perspective, without a brief incident in the winter of 1850. Texas was now a state, and the legislature of Texas was in session. Houston and Moore were both wanting to go to the session, and they were both in the city of Houston at the same time. They were waiting for a stage, in the same town, on the same night, with the same destination. There had been unusually heavy rains for days on end, and the roads were almost impassable. Many stage-horses had bogged down and drowned in the Brazos River bottom.
The stage always left Houston for Austin at midnight, and the custom was for the driver to drive around the city and blow a trumpet at the doors of the principal hotels. General Houston was staying at the Houston House and Commodore Moore was at the Capitol Hotel.
The night was dark and rainy and when the stage stopped in front of the Houston House, General Houston, muffled up to the eyes in his Mexican blanket, entered and took his eat in silence. He was the only passenger. At the Capitol Hotel, another passenger came, wrapped in a dark cloak. He took a seat opposite his unknown traveling companion. As each supposed the other to be a stranger, they kept silence, and slept as best they could.
But with daylight came the discovery.
It would be hard to say which one was more horrified.
At exactly the same time, they called to the driver to stop. The stage stopped and Houston frantically bolted out, and told the driver that he would ride with him upon the box. The General rode there until it was time to stop and change horses. At that time he got off and re-entered the coach, taking his original seat. At that time, it was the Commodore's turn to "bolt." He then began sitting beside the driver.
And thus they alternated, changing places whenever the stage stopped to change horses.
Just before they arrived at the final destination, General Houston confided to the driver: "Driver, are you aware that you are carrying in your stage only two passengers, but one of them is the most sinful rascal, full of guilt, infamy, and corruption, that you have ever carried over this road in your life?"
The driver replied: "Why, yes sir. That's just what the man inside told me a short time ago!"
Neither Houston or Moore said another word for the duration of the trip.
]]> Thu, 29 May 2008 08:34:36 -0700 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc233205465 First, I write a LOT of stuff that people never see. Much of it is satire. Satire gives me a chance to blow off steam, and is also a cure for boredom. I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night and run to my computer to dash off some lines of sarcasm. I usually delete them, and go peacefully back to sleep. Sometimes I keep what I've written and tuck it away in a hidden file somewhere.
Second, I love the Church of Christ. It brought me to Jesus. It has a human element also and I see lots of blemishes and wrinkles. But I still love it.
Third, one sarcastic night I got up and wrote "A Flight on Campbellite Airlines." A few months earlier I had read someone else's sarcasm describing "Episcopal Airlines." It was OK but I thought there would be more humor appropriate to we "Campbellites." I think I showed it to four people and swore them to secrecy. One of them, (I don't know who), shared it with others. I got some blistering phone calls from a school of preaching in Memphis. (I've written satires about them too.) So I lied and told my Memphis callers that I didn't know who would write such a dastardly thing.
But now I've got to "fess up."
"I WROTE IT! AND I'M GLAD!"
It does not negate my love affair with the church. And isn't satire supposed to be the ultimate compliment?
Well, anyhow, I'm going to share it with you. It may cook my goose. But cooked goose is pretty good.
If this doesn't lead to my assassination I may be brave enough to share some of my other satires sometime.
But if this is offensive to you, write a satire about me. It will do you good, and won't offend me in the least.

A FLIGHT ON CAMPBELLITE AIRLINES
On a recent trip from Nashville to Dallas I saved a few dollars by flying on Campbellite Airlines. They are financed by freewill offerings so the fares are much lower than LDS Airways or Faith Only Flyers.
We began experiencing some bumpy airspace as we passed over the A Cappella mountains. I asked a stewardess what the problem was and she told me that an announcement needed to be made over the P.A. but that being a woman, she couldn't speak. She said the pilot or co-pilot would come on soon.
About that time the oxygen masks fell from the little compartments in the ceiling and everyone panicked. People on Campbellite Airlines are not accustomed to anything falling from above. Nothing like that has happened since the Day of Pentecost.
We then heard the voice of the pilot telling us to remain calm. He said, "Brothers and sisters, Do thyselves no harm for we are all here. We are thankful for this plane, our humble place of abode. We believe it is sound and that it fitly represents what an airplane would have been like if built in the First Century. So be thou faithful unto death and thou shalt receive a crown of life."
At that point, the co-pilot came out of the cockpit and told us to take the hymnals out of the pockets in the seatbacks in front of us. He told us this was not one of those modern planes with PowerPoint and worship teams. Our singing would be congregational, and to make this more harmonious the basses and tenors should move to the back of the plane. It was somewhat easy for people to move throughout the cabin since all Campbellite flyers are of one class, none being first class.
As we began singing "Just as I Am" the plane lurched and someone took the Lord's name in vain. Shocked at first, we all soon understood, as we realized it was an Episcoplalian man who also seemed a bit feminine. He obviously didn't know where he was going. The pilot came back on the intercom and told us not to be alarmed by the oxygen masks. He said Campbellite never flew high enough to need oxygen anyway so there was no need to fear. He said he would be much more amazed if the flight were smooth. "On Campbellite," he said, "we don't know smooth, only bumpy." All the preachers and elders nodded in agreement, and were comforted.
Before "Just as I Am" was concluded, five precious souls had walked down the aisle. Two wanted to be baptized, one confessed sin, and two wanted to place membership. Those who wanted to be baptized were instructed that such would be afforded them if we reached ground safely. But they were also told that if we crashed, their good intentions would not be enough to save them. Since they, still being sinners, couldn't pray for a safe landing, the other passengers were asked to pray for them. All gladly obliged.
When we were only 30 minutes from Dallas it was discovered that Max Lucado was on the plane. He had been hiding in the back row while authoring a new book. When some of the other passengers heard he was there, they wanted to bail out of the plane. A few even wanted to push him out the cabin door. The wrangling and disputing got really heated when someone proposed that it might help our destiny and our unity if we took the Lord's Supper, using pretzels and Dr. Pepper (there is no alcohol on Campbellite Airlines). But the dissenters were outraged, since it definitely would not be scriptural to have communion since it was a Tuesday!
But thankfully, as luck would have it, the plane landed safely. After a brief closing prayer, everyone went to their own humble places of abode or to the nearest cafeteria, hoping we would beat the Baptists. For somehow, even if it was a Tuesday, the whole thing seemed a lot like church! ]]> Thu, 22 May 2008 20:17:44 -0700 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc232182631 With all my mother taught me, she never taught me to use my computer perfectly!
Sorry to make you work.
Silas]]> Sun, 11 May 2008 00:10:31 -0700 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc231568362
THE CARPENTER
I was in The Dalles, Oregon, right after I finished by Bachelor's degree and moved back to Oregon to preach.
It was not unusual to have transients coming through, wanting hand-outs. I tried to give them time, and food, and spiritual advice. I even brought one or two to Christ.
But one night a man called me and asked me to come meet him at an old hotel downtown. I was young and fearless and went down to meet him. When I got there he was in the small lobby alone. There was no desk clerk or anyone there but us.He told me his name was Finley Broberg and that he was a carpenter that had fallen on hard times.
He refused my offer to take him to get a meal. He wanted $20 cash and told me he would give me his tools and toolbox as collateral. But I told him I wasn't going to give him cash and that I didn't want his tools. He began to get agitated so I turned to leave.
When my back was turned he jumped on my back and slammed me to the floor. He put my arm into a hammerlock and began to pull it upward. He didn't know that I had a double-jointed elbow. So it didn't hurt. But I pretended that it did and he pushed it higher and higher. His alcohol breath was actually doing more harm than his wrestling hold.
I pretended to be in great pain and pleaded with him to let me up.
He finally let my arm go and told me to get up and give him the money he wanted.
I got up, but I ran out the door and down the block. He followed me a few feet but no more. I had gotten away.
Two weeks later I was driving through Roseburg, Oregon (250 miles from The Dalles) and stopped to eat breakfast in a cafe. The guy came in, dressed the same way, smelling the same way. He walked right past me, and looked me straight in the eye. But he didn't seem to recognize me and I had no desire to reconnect with him.
So if Finley Broberg reads this blog, I'll say, "I hope times are better for you!"

THE CONVICT
I was in Wenatchee, Washington in my second ministry there. I came into the office one morning. The church offices were downstairs. The church secretary told me there was a scary looking man upstairs wanting to see me. I went upstairs and found a man sitting in a pew near the front of the church. His head was shaved and there was a huge, open gash on his head. His head was bowed and when I called to him he looked up at me groggily. I asked him if I could help him?
He told me he had just gotten out of prison and that he was very angry about all the injustice that had been done to him. He started telling me how he hated the warden, hated the guards, hated the other prisoners, and that he hated the governor. I asked him again if there was anything I could do for him. He then told me that of all the people he hated, he hated preachers the most!
At that point he reached in his pocket and pulled out a silver-plated pistol, a .38, and pointed it straight at me! He said, "I'm going to kill me some preachers, and you're going to be the first!"
There was a meanness in his eyes and I didn't think he was kidding!
But for some reason, I laughed! I laughed a big, hearty, gusto of a laugh. And I said, "Oh, you wouldn't accomplish anything by killing me. There would just be a dozen others come along just like me."
And surprisingly, he laughed too! He said, "I guess you're right," and then he lowered the gun. I breathed a sigh of relief as he bowed his head and seemed to drift back into a sort of trance.
I slipped out quickly and quietly, went downstairs, and called the police. They told the secretary and me to stay in the office and lock the door. They got there quickly, but he was gone. I have no idea what happened to him. I never heard from him or about him again. But I'll surely never forget him.

THE ANGRY WIFE
I was in Thousand Oaks, California. I had been counseling a couple that was having marriage difficulties. I was trying to be as fair as possible, and had no desire to take sides in their disputes. I thought we were having some success for awhile. But in the third or fourth session things got out of hand. She started cursing him and hitting him and stormed out of the office. I thought I had never seen an angrier woman.
When she left, the man turned to me and said, "I hope she doesn't still have the gun in her car!"
He had hardly said that when she came bursting through the door, screaming and cursing more than ever. When I tried to calm her she turned on me. I kept watching for a gun. But thankfully, she didn't have one. She was angry that she didn't.
I somehow convinced them to leave, and come back later when they weren't so emotional. She was still yelling at him the last time I saw her. Things never did work out for them. But I truly believe she would have killed us both if she had had the gun that day.

THE ANGRY HUSBAND
This was in Hood River, where I now work. A wife had called and told me her husband was threatening her. She said she really didn't think he would harm her and she didn't want to call the police. But she asked for me to come over and I reluctantly did. They lived in a very remote area and I was a bit frightened. But I didn't think he would hurt her either. I asked Edna Mae to call me in half an hour.
When I got to the house, I saw that he was high on meth. He would rant and rave, out of his mind, and get up and pace around the room. When I could get him to sit down he would be calm for awhile. But then he would get up and start raving again.
He then went into a back room and was gone for five minutes or so. The wife panicked and said she thought he was getting a rifle!
About that time Edna Mae called and asked if I was O.K.?
At the same time she called, he came back into the room, and thankfully he didn't have a rifle!
I told her that if I didn't call back in five minutes to call the police.
I got him to sit down and he seemed to calm down a bit. He even calmed down enough that I called Edna Mae back and told him I thought we were O.K. During my call to Edna Mae the wife said she needed to go to the restroom. But instead, she went out the back door, got in her car and drove away.
When the angry husband heard her drive away he ran outside, got in his car, and started after her!
So I called the police and told them what was going on.
The wife succeeded in eluding him. He didn't find her, and was still looking for her when the police picked him up.
They divorced, moved away their separate ways, and I haven't seen either of them again.

THE VETERAN
My last "close encounter" was also in Hood River. It was on Easter Sunday a few years ago. We had had a nice morning worship and were having a pot-luck afterwards. Someone told me that there was a man in the auditorium, kneeling in front of the communion table. So I went in to see what he needed.
I asked if I could help and noticed that he was crying. He told me he had been a soldier in VietNam and that he had done things he was ashamed of. He wanted God's forgiveness, and hoped that he could find some relief in a church on Easter Sunday.
I sat down on the front pew, as he kneeled to my right. He kept crying, and I prayed for him.
All of a sudden, he looked upward, and started screaming in what I determined to be Vietnamese. It was chilling.
But what came next was the real shock.
He was wearing a long coat. He reached into his coat and pulled out a bayonet and pointed it right toward me! He had a faraway and frightening look in his eyes. He didn't say anything or move toward me. But he was only 3 or 4 feet away, and I knew there was no way I could get around him to get to the door.
And I didn't laugh that time!
I just said, "You're really in pain aren't you?"
He put down the bayonet and started crying again.
One of our members had come looking for me. He peeked through the hole in the door and saw the two of us. He didn't know about the bayonet and could only see me sitting beside a man who was kneeling in front of the communion table. But our member was an ex-policeman and he looked at the man's car in the drive-through and had the license plate checked. He found that it was a local man and didn't really think there would be any problem.
I talked with the man for awhile and then he left. I told him he had scared me and he apologized. He had gone to a couple of other churches and had knelt and prayed also. In those churches he had slammed down the bayonet on the table. That's probably what he intended to do in our church also. But I got a close-up view.
Well, enough of this.
The thought for the day is: Be kind to your preacher. You may not even like him very much, but he shouldn't have to fear for his life!
And, oh yes, if you meet Finley Broberg, or any of these others, don't tell them where I live!
]]> Sat, 03 May 2008 21:32:42 -0700 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc230491769
The San Jacinto monument

April 21st is not only the most important day of the year in Texas history, it is one of the most important in world history.
It was on this day in 1836 that an army of Texians under General Sam Houston attacked and decimated the Mexican force of General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna at San Jacinto. Santa Anna's army had dealt lethal blows to the Texian fortresses at the Alamo and at Goliad only weeks before. His policy of "no quarter" resulted in murdering those troops who had surrendered in those places.
In 18 minutes on April 21st Texian forces reaped revenge. It was 750 Texians battling against 1300 Mexicans. But the final result was 600 Mexicans killed, 700 captured, and 9 Texians killed. It WAS a battle of revenge. Even though the Mexican troops were far better trained and armed, the Texians surprised them after their afternoon siesta and it was a rout. Many Mexicans were pleading, "No Alamo," "No Bahia," but it didn't matter. The memories of the Alamo and Goliad were too fresh.

The next day General Santa Anna was captured as he tried to escape in a disguise. He was brought to General Houston who had sustained an ankle wound. Many of the Texians wanted Santa Anna executed but that didn't happen. Santa Anna called himself the "Napoleon of the West." He was instructed to write orders to all remaining Mexican troop units in Texas, to send them back to Mexico.
Nine years later Santa Anna would come back to fight Americans again and would be defeated again by United States troops in the Mexican War. Many historians think Santa Anna avoided death at San Jacinto because he was a member of the Masonic Lodge. So were many members of the Texian force.
You may wonder why I keep saying "Texian?" The Texas Revolution is often thought of as a war between Americans and Mexicans for slavery purposes and in order to gain Texas as a Southern state for the U.S. It may have been that for some. But for those at the Alamo and San Jacinto it was actually a battle over the dictatorship of Santa Anna. Santa Anna had seized Mexico and had revoked the Mexican Constitution of 1824. That had taken away rights of Texas and other Nothern Mexican provinces, and many residents opposed that. Those who resisted him included many Mexicans as well as Americans who had come to Texas. Among those fighting against Santa Anna were Lorenzo de Zavala, Juan Seguin, and Manuel Flores. Thus the term "Texian" which included both Anglos and Hispanics who opposed the dictatorship of Santa Anna. Lorenzo de Zavala became the first vice president of Texas during the years that Texas was a sovereign republic.
All this might seem like "much ado about nothing" as we view it over 180 years later.
But as a result of the Battle of San Jacinto, and the other events that followed in the next nine years, almost a third of what is now the United States changed ownership. Nearly a million square miles of territory. The freedom of Texas from Mexico not only gained Texas, but also New Mexico, Nevada, Arizona, California, Utah, and parts of Oklahoma, Kansas, Colorado, and Wyoming.
As for me, I'm thankful to be celebrating San Jacinto Day this week, rather than Cinco de Mayo in two weeks.


This was the flag actually flown by the Texians at the Battle of San Jacinto. The "Liberty" flag had been made by the ladies of Newport, Kentucky and given to Captain Sidney Sherman when he raised a company of Kentucky volunteers to go to Texas to assist in the Revolution.

General Sam Houston had been the Governor of Tennessee, would later be President of Texas, and then Senator from Texas and later Governor. The only person to be governor of two states.


Lorenzo de Zavala. First Vice President of Texas. The Battle of San Jacinto was actually fought near his home.
Captain Juan Seguin, later mayor of San Antonio, who led a Mexican force in the Battle of San Jacinto against General Santa Anna.

God bless Texas! ]]> Mon, 21 Apr 2008 10:29:29 -0700 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc229975222 I don't remember much about that first meeting with the couple. It was primarily small talk. I had the idea that they were "feeling me out."
They came to church once or twice after that and I met with them a few times. They both asked me to baptize them and I did. Details in my mind are rather vague about our meetings.
What I remember vividly is that afternoon when two "suits" came to my home and asked what my connection was with James Ford? I didn't like their appearance or their tone, even after I found out that they were police detectives.
I didn't tell them much because I didn't know much. They insisted that I follow them in my car to a downtown hospital where they said James was dying from some sort of stomach ailment.
I went to the hospital where there was a uniformed guard at Jame's door and another inside the room.
James was very weak but glad to see me. He actually seemed "relieved" to see me. I was shocked at his appearance and condition. He was pale and looked like he was truly dying.
James insisted that the officers leave the room, saying that I was his minister and that he needed to make personal confessions to me. The officers discussed it quietly among themselves and reluctantly left us alone.
James shocked me by saying that they police had put him in his condition. He told me that he was a member of a powerful drug cartel and that he had swallowed balloons of drugs in order to keep them from the police. He said the police had beaten him unmercifully and had apparently ruptured one or more of the bags. He was sure he was going to die. . .either from the drugs, the police, or the cartel. He wanted prayer from me for his sins, and he wanted me to tell his wife and mother that he loved them. I prayed with him and gave him my promise that I would speak to his wife and mother. I left the hospital without telling the police anything. They looked at me glaringly, but did not ask me any questions.
I was terrified, not knowing who might show up at my door next!
I was quite surprised a few days later when James came striding into my office at church. He had not only survived, but looked well. He didn't want to discuss anything that had happened at the hospital. He acted as though none of that had even taken place. He said he stopped by to thank me for everything, and to tell me that he was leaving town and was going to seek a new life. I never saw James again. I did have a phone call from him a couple of days afterward. He told me he was going to Kentucky or some other place that was rural.
I have never heard from him again.
But shortly after that last call from James, I got another call, this time from the manager of the Marriott Hotel near the airport in Charlotte. He said: "Mr. Shotwell, you've got to move your car. You need to move it immediately!" I didn't know how he got my name but I knew I didn't have a car at his hotel. So I asked, "What car?"
I almost fainted when he said, "Your Ferrari!"
I said, "You've definitely got the wrong man. I don't have a Ferrari." So the manager said, "Are you Silas Shotwell that lives in Matthews NC?" I said, "Yes." He said, I'm holding the pink slip for this car in my hand and it has your name and address on it. But you've GOT to come move it. It's parked by our front door and is obstructing foot traffic."
Sure enough, when I got to the hotel, the car was there. It was red, and looked just like the one on the TV show "Magnum PI." And the pink slip was there, in the hand of the hotel manager with my name on it. It had been signed over to me by James Ford.
I didn't know what to do. I was afraid of the cartel, and even afraid of the police. I certainly didn't want to be involved in criminal activity or the receiver of criminal possessions. And I didn't want drug lords coming after me to get their car either. I called one of my elders and he told me to walk away from it and have the police come get it. He said to ignore the pleadings of the hotel manager, forget pink slip, and go home. So that's what I did.
I think I was relieved that day.
But I've regretted it ever since!
My college-age son Nathan was doubly frustrated! He has reminded me through the years that we "never even got in it!"
James also gave three other cars, all luxury cars, to the church, along with some beautiful furniture and a big screen TV. The church didn't accept those gifts either. I don't know what ever happened to them.
I do know that I got fired from the church about a month or so after. It had nothing to do with the Ford association. The church was growing rapidly and it was a threat to some. A few people feared growth and so I was sent on my way. I've still got some emotional scars from that. I've wished through the years that I at least had the Ferrari to show for it! That might have salved the wounds just a little!
What I have wished most through the years is that I knew whatever happened to James and his wife? I hope they're still alive and doing well. They were good people at heart. I liked James a lot, and I wanted to grow closer to him.
Who knows?
Maybe he's still alive in Kentucky, or Costa Rica, or somewhere, and will even see this blog?
And who knows?
Maybe I'll wake up one day with a Ferrari in my driveway!
]]> Tue, 15 Apr 2008 11:00:22 -0700 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc229216508 Since Meagan had six days off from school during Spring Break, we decided to go South and look for sunshine and warmer temperatures. We had had such a good time in San Francisco last year that we decided to go back to California this year, but a little farther South. Rather than spending so much time driving it seemed good to fly this year, and rent a car when we got to our destination. Our real destination was Monterrey, Big Sur, and Pismo Beach. Edna Mae and I spent a lot of time in all three of those places when we lived in Sacramento, Whittier, and Thousand Oaks. Meagan didn't have history in that area so I wanted to show her some of my favorite spots. It was another great trip. I want to share a few pictures with you. You can double-click on any pictures in my blog and see them larger if you wish.

On Easter Sunday, after church, we drove to Portland and caught an Alaska flight to San Jose, California. Even as we got off the plane in San Jose it was warm and sunny. We had left rain and cold in Portland. We rented a little PT Cruiser at the airport. It was reasonably priced and offered good gas mileage.

We spent Sunday night in downtown San Jose in an old refurbished hotel called "Hotel Montgomery." There were so many friends in the San Jose area that I wanted to call, but had determined that this was going to be a vacation where we kept to ourselves. The old part of San Jose that has undergone considerable renovation was a very interesting place. We definitely knew we were in Silicon Valley. Even the panhandlers had iPhones!

The next day we headed toward Monterrey on Hwy 17 and it hadn't changed much since we used to go to Santa Cruz in the 1970's. We stopped at the Santa Cruz boardwalk and Meagan rode a few rides. I ate junk food on the boardwalk and enjoyed the people. It was sunny and cool, but most people were wearing shorts and looking for summer.


Meagan's favorite ride on the boardwalk was an old wooden roller coaster that was built in the 1920's. She put it right up there with ones she has ridden in Disneyland and Six Flags. I didn't even like thrill rides when I was a kid, so I continued eating junk food and watching people.

As we drove on in the afternoon toward Monterrey we went through Castroville, the artichoke capitol of the world. Artichoke harvest was in full swing and we had to take a picture.

In Monterrey we parked the PT Cruiser and registered at a quaint motel called "The Victorian Inn."


It was in the Cannery Row area of Monterrey. I recalled all the novels of John Steinbeck. We also got wonderful seafood at Bubba Gump's and another seafood place whose name I can't remember. But I remember the crab we got there and it was excellent. I think it was called "The Sea Harvest."



The next day we spent some time at The Monterrey Aquarium. It is a wonderful place. We especially enjoyed the sharks, the jellyfish, and the Sea Otters.

Wanting to get on to Pismo Beach, we didn't visit the butterflies at Pacific Grove nor take the 17-mile drive at Carmel-by-the-Sea. We didn't see Clint Eastwood either. We didn't have time to visit and he's quite a talker.

We proceeded down State Highway 1 through Big Sur. It's as beautiful as the Oregon Coast. We took our time, made lots of stops, and enjoyed the sunshine and beauty. We were also thankful that we didn't need gas. It was over $5 per gallon in the few gas stations we saw. $5.40 was the top.

We did see literally hundreds of elephant seals. We have sea lions that sun on the beaches in Oregon, but these elephant seals in California were much bigger.
They seemed to know how to relax. We didn't see one with ulcers or high blood pressure. (You can double-click on her picture to make it bigger. You'll then see her smile.)


We made it to Pismo Beach, and this picture shows you why I was eager to get there. This picture was made from our room.

There were lots of neat things to do at the motel. There was chess, badminton, ping pong, and a wonderful outdoor pool and hot tub.



We enjoyed the pier. People were fishing, and surfing, and everyone was in a good mood. We stayed in Pismo for three nights and four days.

As we were checking into the motel, a young girl named Sidney was also checking in with her grandparents. She and her grandparents were from San Jose. The next four days she and Meagan were almost inseparable.

I, on the other hand, continued to make good friends with wonderful food. I ate at a great local breakfast place, my old favorite steakhouse, McClintocks, and found the crab lover's dream in a place called "The Cracked Crab." They asked me how many in my party and I said, "One." (Meagan was with Sidney and her grandparents.) They sat me at a table, put a bib on me, and asked me if I wanted the "Special." I said "Of course."
They brought the "Special" in a few minutes in a stainless steel tub about the size of a basketball hoop. The tables were covered with oil cloth, then covered with butcher paper. They proceeded to pour out the contents of the "Special" on the paper. More crab than I had ever seen in one serving (Dungeness, king, snow, and another kind from Alaska that was thicker than the king crab). Besides the crab there were boiled potatoes, corn on the cob, and some very spicy and delicious sausage. It was all absolutely wonderful. And I actually got my fill of crab for the first time in my life.
I have actual pictures of the food on my table but I'm embarrassed to show them


Oh, OK. You see part of it here.


On Friday it was time to leave Pismo Beach. We actually made it ten or fifteen miles before stopping to eat. We stopped at The Madonna Inn in San Luis Obispo. It's such a good place. It was Meagan's favorite meal on the whole trip.


We were going back to San Jose to take our flight home on Saturday. But rather than taking Hwy 1 with all of its beauty and curves, we went up US 101. North of Atascadero we stopped at the San Miguel Mission.
It was built in the 1700's by Fray Junipero Serra. This was a special stop. Elementary students in California study California history in the 4th grade and many of them make models of one of the 30+ missions that were built up and down the El Camino Real during the 1700s by the Spanish. My daughter Sarah, when she was in the Fourth Grade in La Mirada, chose to make her model of the San Miguel Mission. So I've been there several times through the years.

I had to stop in Gilroy and buy garlic. It's the Garlic Capital of the World. And I also had to eat at an In-N-Out. There was one in Salinas so we stopped. That's a California tradition for me. I always eat at an In-N-Out (Double-Double with grilled onions and fries) when I'm in California, and while I'm there I always call my son Jeff in Texas and tell him where I'm eating. We have a good laugh and he tries to pretend that he isn't feeling envious.

The final night we stayed at a Holiday Inn at the airport in San Jose and caught an early morning flight back to Portland on Saturday. It was sunny when we left San Jose, and cold, windy, and snowy when we got back to Portland. The day before they had had snow, hail, sleet, and gail force winds. It snowed here in Parkdale every day we were gone. Our last half hour on the flight was perhaps the bumpiest I've ever experienced. The stewardesses were scared, and we were sitting on the back row of the plane, overhearing what the stewardesses were saying to each other in muffled voices. But we landed safely (obviously).



Now our memories of the Central California Coast are only pleasant memories.
But it's good to be home. It's even snowing a bit as I write (Sunday afternoon, April 6). But the grass is getting green, the fruit buds are swelling, and the frost fans and smudge pots are doing their work on cold nights.

This blog is way too long, but it was hard to know where to quit.
Speaking of quitting, the diet has been going pretty well for the week we've been home. But it's going to take a few days to get back where I was before we left. Why are sins like "gluttony" so much fun? ]]> Sun, 06 Apr 2008 16:15:07 -0700 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc228518374 I don't like to speak of her in the past tense because I know she is more alive than she has ever been. I've felt her presence all week as I revisited some of our favorite places. I felt her comforting hand today on a very bumpy plane ride from California. No one who ever knew her will ever forget her.
I want to simply pay tribute to her today with a brief photo journal of her last couple of years. Those years were typical of former years: church, family, friends, and smiles.
Everyone who knew her remembers her smile. I hope these pictures will jog pleasant memories. I'll keep my words to a minimum.



Edna Mae talking on the phone to Sarah

Enjoying Blake


With one of her namesakes: Kelsey Mae.


An avid reader, she especially liked to read to her kids and grand-kids.


You can see the pain and weariness here, but the smile still dominates.


And even here, she delighted in talking to those she loved.


Her smile overshadowed the bright shirt.


Just days before she died she was still celebrating life and encouraging us to go on.


And after she left us we still celebrated her smile in the Relay for Life.


So, the rest of us carry on. (Suzanne with another of the name-sakes, Chloe Mae, one of Kirk and Natalie's girls.)


There are plenty of reasons to go on, and plenty of reasons to keep smiling.

<
We all miss you sweetie!]]> Sat, 29 Mar 2008 14:19:34 -0700 http://homepage.mac.com/silasshotwell/blog/MyBlog.html#ilc227397516 Now, many blogs and over 5500 hits later, we come back to March 17. The blog has changed a bit and the readership has changed from week to week. With this one year "anniversary," I feel an urge to run the same blog that I ran last year. Hopefully my new readers will appreciate it, and those who don't will surely let me know. Years are passing quickly and I don't have any time or words to waste.
Happy St. Patrick's Day!


The traditional picture of Patricius.

(March 17, 2007)
"I’m beginning my blog on St Patrick’s Day. I personally think that Patrick was no more "Saint" than the rest of us who are Christians. But he was a great man, and is grossly misunderstood. He didn’t drive the snakes out of Ireland, and there’s no indication that he used shamrocks to explain the Trinity. He would have been shocked to know that his day is an excuse to drink excessively. In terms of being misunderstood, I guess most of us can relate somewhat to Patrick. Are any of us truly understood? Let me tell you a few things you may not know about Patrick. In days ahead, I’ll tell you about the Silas you may not know also.
Patrick's real name was Patricius, and he was English, not Irish. He lived in England in the 5th century, and was from a fairly wealthy family. In his early teens he was kidnapped by marauders and taken to Ireland. He lived there as a slave for several years, but eventually escaped his captors and returned to England. Some years later he voluntarily returned to Ireland. He came back because he had become convinced that he had been handpicked by God to bring the whole country of Ireland to Christianity. Ireland was a distant land outside the Roman Empire. It could be that Patrick was the first Christian missionary to go outside the Empire to take the gospel. Even the apostle Paul never did that. In taking the gospel to Irish people, Patrick learned more and more about the God he served. He was a man of great faith, and he served a God of great grace. Thus, a young Brit named Patricius died an Irishman named Patrick. He was a stranger in a strange land. But he knew God and he served him faithfully.
That’s my goal as well."
Silas ]]> Sun, 16 Mar 2008 14:58:35 -0700