Moral Madness

From the Farm:

MORAL MADNESS

Published in the Casper Journal June 14, 2011

I’m sick of immorality. I don’t care if you’re rich, or famous, or even (especially!) if you’re a politician. Cheating on your spouse is dishonest and wrong, and it hurts others.
Recent newscasts (which I sometimes have to turn off if my children are listening) have shared stories of political leaders on each side of the aisle who act immorally and then spend money to cover it up. Incredible! How can we trust people to be true to their country if they can’t even be true to their spouse? If you’ve made a commitment, then keep it! No matter what your societal status is, if you can’t control yourself, you have no right to lead others. Did you never study Shakespeare? “This above all: to thine own self be true ...”
What is it about our society today that makes morality so old-fashioned? Why do we think we can break timeless laws without consequences? This nonchalant attitude, blatantly displayed by those in political power, is filtering down through the ranks until every part of our culture is affected. Henry David Thoreau said, “As if you could kill time without injury eternity.” I say, “As if you could kill chastity without injuring society.”
My husband and I have been married for 15 years. (I know, I know. That’s just the blink of an eye for some of you old-timers out there.) Despite the fact that our current lives allow less time alone then when we first courted (eight children constantly vie for our attention now), we’re happier today than when we were married. Somehow the passage of time deepens love, understanding and respect. I can only imagine that our next 15 years, and the 15 after that, and the 15 after that, will continue to improve our relationship.
A one-night fling can never afford the same satisfaction that long-term love brings. It’s the difference of opening packages on Christmas morning compared to the joy of giving a gift to one you love. It’s eating ice cream, compared to holding a newborn child. It’s the thrill of a Ferris wheel ride compared to an exhausting yet exhilarating mountain climb. Pleasure and joy are sisters, but one is much younger than the other.
As election rhetoric, debating and mud-slinging get underway, I care only about one thing: Are you a moral candidate? Really? Truly? Will your spouse second that? Can we trust you with your family, and with your most important relationships? Then no matter what side of the aisle you sit on, perhaps we can trust you with our country.
However, if you think immorality is in style then don’t even try to set a toenail on my ballot. You don’t deserve to be anywhere near the leadership of this nation. Despite worldly trends, we’re still “one nation under God,” and morality is at the top of His list. If you think double standards outside of marriage are “no big deal,” then go home to your private life and your dishonest ways. Stay out of the White House and off Capitol Hill. As a country that trusts in God, we need leaders we can trust. And that trust begins at home.

Traveling With 10

 From the Farm:

TRAVELING WITH 10

Published in the Casper Journal May 25, 2011

We found it at last ... the vehicle which five car salesmen said “didn’t exist,” an 11-passenger, all-wheel-drive van with doors on both sides. I saw it on the internet and called the dealership, in Indianapolis.
“Does that eight-passenger van have a third bench option ... to seat 11 people?”
“No ma’am,” the salesman responded. “Those vans don’t exist.”
“Well, if there’s any way to add a bench, call me back.” I hung up. Ten minutes later my phone rang.
“I just went out to look at the van and it already has 11 seats.” The salesman sounded a bit surprised.
“What about a passenger door on the driver’s side?”
“No ma’am.”
“Well, I’d still like to see some pictures,” I told him. Within a few minutes I had several photos in my inbox. I pulled up the first photo: three benches, 11 seats. I pulled up the second photo: AWD, printed on the back door. I pulled up the third photo and called the salesman back. “It looks like it does have an additional door.”
“Yes ma’am. It does.”
“DO NOT SELL THAT VAN TO ANYONE!” I nearly yelled into the phone.
“Where are you calling from?” he asked.
“Wyoming.”
There was a stunned silence before he asked, “And you want to purchase a vehicle in Indianapolis?”
“Have you ever tried buying an 11-passenger, all-wheel-drive van in Wyoming?” I questioned.
“Well, ma’am we can only hold it for 24 hours with a deposit.”
“It will take us 24 hours just to pack our family,” I said. “I’ll give you a deposit every day next week, but you can’t sell that van.” He transferred me to a manager, and the deal was made.
“It’s very red,” the kids said when they saw the pictures that night. “It’s an apple van,” my daughter piped up. “Remember, it’s from Indian-APPLE-is.”
“What should we say when people make fun of how big it is?” one son asked.
“Tell them people made fun of Noah’s ark, too, but it sure kept his family safe,” joked my husband.
And so, we planned our trip to the Midwest to pick up the van. Have you ever taken a long trip with 10 people? Clothes for 10, food for 10, backpacks for 10, entertainment for 10 ... what might any of these people need at any time during the next week? Coats for the cold, swimsuits for the sun, shoes or sandals, pajamas, underwear, socks, and a change of each, just in case.
We’ve traveled to the Midwest before, but this time we tried something new and took the train. Driving to Denver was the most stressful part ... almost as stressful as boarding the train. Each child had a coat, a backpack, a small bag and a blanket. In addition we had three car seats, a double stroller and a huge food cooler. A friendly conductor seated us near the front of the train, with lots of space.
Once the ride started, it was heavenly. No red lights, no traffic, no seatbelt signs, both parents free to help with kids. In addition, everyone had their own comfy seat. It reclined, it had a light, and the bathroom was available whenever anyone needed it. (No, Amtrak isn’t paying me to write this.) In addition, there were pillows for sleeping, foot rests and an observation car with huge windows.
The scenery was incredible. As we stared out the window at the green fields of Iowa my preschooler commented, “How about in Wyoming we stop planting yellow grass, and start planting green grass?!”
The travel seemed to take a fraction of the time, and we arrived rested and cheerful to pick up our van. There it was: big, red and all ours. We all climbed inside. All-wheel-drive? Check. Fifth door? Check. Eleven seatbelts? Wait ... there were actually twelve, an unexpected bonus! The van had other surprises as well, including a cool DVD player.
The ride home was as enjoyable as the train trip there. Everyone had their own comfy seat, plenty of foot space and big windows to watch the green fields go by. We left on the Amtrak and returned in the apple van. Traveling with 10? There’s nothing like it.

A Mother's Day

From the Farm:

A MOTHER'S DAY

Published in the Casper Journal May 10, 2011

Happy Mother’s Day! As a mother myself, I’m quite convinced that Mother’s Day wasn’t created by a mother. I’m equally as sure that the day can only truly be appreciated by mothers.
As the mother of eight children, my Mother’s Day begins early. “Clink, clank, crash ...” I hear sounds from the kitchen. Pretending I’m asleep, I listen to my children (and husband) whispering and scurrying around making breakfast. The slight aroma of burned toast reaches my nose, and I hear the kitchen window opened quickly for some fresh air.
Soon, their voices “wake” me up. “Happy Mother’s Day,” they sing. I pretend to sit up groggily and act completely surprised by their efforts. “Breakfast in bed? How nice! Wow! All of my favorite foods!” I do like lying in bed, and I do like eating breakfast, but combining the two can be a bit tricky, especially with eight little people sitting around me. They watch my every bite. “Is it good?” “Is this really your favorite breakfast?” And eventually, “Can I try some?” Soon, we’re sharing spoonfuls of the special meal all around, spilling a bit of juice, toast crumbs, and granola on the bedspread. Happy Mother’s Day.
“Guess what, Mama? Today you won’t need to do any work!” pipes my six-year-old. I smile as they clear the breakfast away. Yes, a lazy shower is enjoyable, but just as I get out I hear a wail from the baby room. No one can decide what the twins should wear, or quite how to tackle and dress them, and so I help. I go in to the kitchen and quietly wipe up counters and sweep the floor and then ... we’re late! (Only mothers ever look at the clock.) It’s into the car to leave for church.
On the way, everyone reassures me that the Mother’s Day program will be wonderful. “I can’t wait!” I smile. It’s nice to go to church on Mother’s Day, but somehow the program always turns out a bit differently than planned. My four-year-old refuses to sing, my eight-year-old is hidden on the stand behind a tall boy, and the twins are fussy during the music. Still, who can resist a group of children singing sweetly to their mothers? Happy Mother’s Day.
At home, everyone begs me to “put my feet up” in the living room while they make a special dinner. And so I lounge on the couch. As I turn the first page of my magazine, the fire alarm goes off. My husband, apron on, assures me that all is well and I hear more kitchen windows opened. Lots of discussion and busy noises come from the kitchen as the sound of shattering glass makes me jump. Never mind. I’m putting my feet up. But wait ... a diaper must be changed and everyone else is busy ... and so I fill in.
Soon I’m escorted into the kitchen. Gourmet food? Well, in the minds of eight children and one devoted dad, yes. Perfectly gourmet, despite the idiosyncrasies. And besides, I didn’t have to cook it. Happy Mother’s Day.
After dinner, it’s back into the living room for a special party. Starting with the youngest, I’m presented with an assortment of gifts wrapped in a variety of paper. Construction paper cards, homemade necklaces, photos in hand-painted frames, and lots and lots of coupons. “I’ll sweep the floor every day for a month!” “This coupon is good for a week of breakfast in bed!” (Oh goody!) “This coupon may be exchanged for as many hugs as you’d like.” “I’ll do all of my jobs without being asked.” Piecrust promises? Perhaps. But solid gold in a mother’s scrapbook. Happy Mother’s Day.
Speaking of pie, we gather on the lawn for pie and ice cream. Yes, it’s my favorite. Yes, I’m going to eat two pieces. Yes, Sara Lee or Marie Callender (whoever she was) made it to perfection.
Who invented Mother’s Day? It wasn’t a mother. We’re too busy cooking food, herding children and changing diapers to stop and celebrate. And it’s hard to commemorate a role we all feel so imperfect in. However, despite our perceived motherhood weaknesses, it’s certainly nice to be celebrated. And, we don’t require much. Singing, pie, children ... a perfect Mother’s Day.

Happy Holidays!

 From the Farm:

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

Published in the Casper Journal April 26, 2011

Happy New Year! Happy Valentine’s Day! Happy St. Patrick’s Day! Happy Easter! At our house, we love holidays and celebrate them to the fullest. From green pancakes on St. Patrick’s Day, to egg hunts at Easter, we do it all.
Holidays in Wyoming are a bit different than in Las Vegas. Be it Halloween, Christmas, Valentine’s Day or Easter, Vegas celebrates holidays with a bit of a twist.
The first clue I had that Vegas wasn’t “holiday happy” was when my son was in kindergarten. As my first school child, I was excited to celebrate the holidays in his classroom. A week before Halloween, we received a note from the teacher explaining the school would celebrate “Nevada Day” on Oct. 31 in memory of Nevada’s statehood. (Yes, Nevada became a state on Halloween.) Only western costumes were allowed. I swallowed my disappointment that he would have to save his official costume for trick-or-treating and helped him pick out a pair of chaps, western vest and a cowboy hat to wear to school. When we arrived, I expected to see cowboys and cowgirls milling around everywhere. Instead, all of the other boys were wearing sombreros! My son was the odd man out.
The next holiday was Thanksgiving. I recalled my own “Thanksgiving Feast” as a first-grader and anticipated helping out in the classroom with a festive meal. However, when the note from the teacher came home, the holiday was called a “harvest feast.” Yes, fall is definitely harvest time, so the teacher was politically correct. “What about the Thanksgiving feast of the pilgrims?” I wondered.
In December, I began to grow wary of school holidays. Sure enough, a note came home about a “Winter Concert.” At the concert we heard the children sing about Santa Claus and Rudolph, dreidels and Kwanzaa. At the end of the evening, the music director stood and invited us to sing “Silent Night,” as a standard American tradition. I breathed a sigh of relief. There was a touch of Christmas in the concert.
When February rolled around, we learned all about Black History Month, with barely a mention of Presidents Lincoln or Washington. On Feb. 14, the children were invited to exchange “friendship cards.” No, I’m not Catholic. I don’t know much about St. Valentine, but our family certainly celebrates Valentine’s Day. At home that night we decorated our sugar cookies and exchanged pink hearts.
In April, another note invited the children to bring filled, plastic eggs for the “Dinosaur Hunt.” I must admit, I’ve never seen a real, live Easter Bunny. But then again, aside from bones in a museum, I’ve never seen a dinosaur either.
Yes, I’m glad to be in Wyoming. Our family celebrates Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, President’s Day, Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day and Easter. We do all of them whole-heartedly. We dress up. We cook special food. We hang decorations. All of the holidays didn’t stem from our personal religious beliefs, but they’re American, and we are, too.
When I lived in Japan, I wore a yukata in August and enjoyed the Obon parades. I watched families set lights on the water in memory of their dead. Over New Year’s I ate mochi and gathered with friends at the temples to observe. I’m not Buddhist, but I enjoyed the celebration. It was Japan!
This is America, and some celebrations are just American. I don’t mind adding holidays to represent a variety of nationalities, but let’s not forget some of our original customs. Besides, traditions provide comfort and stability to children. I don’t want that comfort watered down.
So, if you see me on the street some time, I may just say, “Happy President’s Day!”, “Happy St. Patrick’s Day!”, “Happy Easter.” No political correctness here. We celebrate as often as we can. Can I say it again? Glad to be in Wyoming, proud to be an American.

Money Matters

From the Farm:

MONEY MATTERS

Published in the Casper Journal April 12, 2011

I had an argument with my husband last week. It was about our family budget. He wanted to cut spending. I wanted to expand it. He thought we should spend less on oatmeal. I wanted to spend more on paper plates. He threatened to shut down our family. I threatened to stop making meals. We held a conference behind closed doors. The kids waited outside, breathlessly. Finally, we exited the room with an agreement in hand.
“Well,” my husband began, “instead of cutting out oatmeal, we’re just reducing to once a week.”
“And,” I added, “we’ll now be using paper plates every weekend.” The kids cheered. The compromise was accepted and signed into law.
Really? No. Although I do fix more oatmeal than my husband cares for, and we all wish we could use paper plates every day, I doubt that either issue would shut down our family. Besides, how do you shut down a family? No matter what disagreements are had, people need to eat, sleep and be clothed. I’d suggest that the government act a little more like family.
Does money matter? Of course it does. However, money may not matter as much as some people think. I remember when we were expecting our sixth child, one well-meaning friend asked, “But how will you afford another baby?” Others questioned, “What does your husband do for a living?” For some people, “children” is synonymous with “money.”
I’ll be the first to admit, children do cost money. It takes resources to keep 10 people going. We often subsist on hand-me-down clothes, second hand furniture and large doses of homemade bread. However, I don’t believe we’re any worse for the wear. Daily entertainment involves playing outside or with siblings, while the X-Box doesn’t exist in our house. All of our babies have slept comfortably in the same wooden cradle (the one I slept in) and shared many of the same blankets and sleepers. Birthdays are simple, with lots of cake and singing, and a few memorable gifts. Weekends are rarely spent at the roller rink, but at the nearby park or building a fort in the back yard.
Yet, despite our lack of “worldly goods,” we’re all rather happy. In fact, I’d say that our happiness comes in large part from our simple lifestyle. Singing together while washing a stack of dishes, a good family swim and a side-splitting game of charades are memories likely to last a long time.
As you can imagine, anyone with eight children qualifies for every government program under the sun (unless, of course, you’re a millionaire.) Still, I was raised old-fashioned and taught to do without government handouts. Our family chooses liberty over dependence. We don’t mind eating beans for a few meals at the end of a month.
I also appreciate the work ethic my children are learning. When my son went to the National Scout Jamboree, he sold popcorn and did odd jobs for nearly two years to pay his way. My daughter bakes homemade bread to finance her violin lessons.
I’m certainly not opposed to money. I love quoting Mark Twain who said, “I despise people who have money, but it would be dangerous to offer me the position.” I wouldn’t mind a little extra cash to take a trip to Disneyland or go out to eat on nights I don’t feel like cooking. Sometimes I’d rather purchase name-brand clothes at the store, instead of saving hand-me-downs. These things would be nice, but would we be any happier? I doubt it.
Money can buy convenience, but it doesn’t buy happiness. Wasn’t that what the Revolutionary War was all about? Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness? Those opportunities are priceless and cost little.
Then listen up, folks in Washington. We depend on you to ensure our rights. Leave the other details up to us. We can choose our own financial compromises along our pursuit to happiness. It’s time to get in, get out and get on with it. I’m sure most people would agree. Our family would.

Wyoming Wildlife

From the Farm:

WYOMING WILDLIFE

Published in the Casper Journal March 22, 2011

We recently moved to Wyoming from Las Vegas. For that reason, I’m not totally “up” on my Wyoming wildlife. In fact, it took me a while before I could differentiate between an antelope and a deer. (Don’t worry ... I’ve got it down now.)
Still, in Las Vegas we generally saw roadrunners and tortoises in our neighborhood. Now we have a plethora of deer, antelope, Canada geese and rabbits.
Although I’m a bit slow at figuring out the wildlife, I was still surprised when I was awakened early one morning last week. It was dark, about 4:30 a.m., and I heard a loud barking outside my window. It was one of those freezing “negative teen” nights, and I wondered why a dog would be out and about the neighborhood. My husband was gone, and I lay in bed listening to the barking for another minute before I sensed that something was wrong.
Hurrying to the back door, I flipped on the light and saw a pack (well, several) animals just outside the window. One of them, his hindquarters covered in blood, was barking a loud, odd bark at two others who were circling him.
I woke up my two oldest boys. “There’s a pack of wolves outside of our house,” I said. The boys were awake immediately and followed me to the back door.
“Those aren’t wolves, those are coyotes,” my son corrected, a bit exasperated at my lack of intelligence. “My mistake,” I murmured, wondering what the difference was.
My daughter joined us then. “We just watched a movie about coyotes in school yesterday,” she said excitedly.
“How timely,” I replied. “Now we’ve got our very own pack at our house.” More of the children gathered, their noses pressed to the glass door.
“What about the chickens?” exclaimed my son. We ran upstairs and peered out at the chicken coop. Although coyote tracks were all around our house in the fresh snow, there weren’t any tracks heading towards the coop. I was grateful for my diligent son who’d closed the hen house late the night before in his pajamas and boots.
Back downstairs, we watched the fierce animals barking and circling. They didn’t seem at all interested in the faces pressed up against the glass behind them.
“What are we going to do?” asked my son. We had been so enthralled in watching the coyotes that we hadn’t felt any fear.
After a few more minutes of watching, I decided that the coyotes were indeed fierce and dangerous, and I should act.Casper Journal
I called Metro Animal Control, and told the nice operator lady what we were witnessing.
“Are you sure they aren’t dogs?” she asked, kindly. “No. I’m sure.” I responded. Give me some credit.
“Then I’ll have to call Game and Fish,” she said. “We only deal with domesticated animals.” We waited a few more minutes, cameras in hand, watching the coyotes, until they backed off of the injured one and drifted off into the field next to us. Just then, two trucks pulled up at the house.
The wardens at the front door had guns and were ready for adventure. “The coyotes just left,” I explained. Still, the men took their spotlights and weapons and went up and down the road, peering into the dark fields.
When they came to the door again, they told us that coyote tracks were everywhere, but the animals were gone.
“Next time, just shoot them,” one officer told me. “You don’t need a license to kill predators.”
“Yeah, sure,” I said, not wanting to admit that I was a city girl. Shooting coyotes was mentally added to my “can do” list.
The trucks left and we all tried to sleep for the last few minutes of the night, but our eyes were wide open. When the kids left for school, no animals were in sight, and the children all walked safely to the bus stop.
When my husband came home that night there were no coyotes to shoot, and unfortunately the excitement was over. But, we can report that we’ve had another experience with Wyoming wildlife, a good Casper tale to send back to Las Vegas.
Don’t worry. Next time I’ll correctly differentiate between a wolf and a coyote. And if I adjust to Wyoming wildlife a bit more, I may even have a gun ready.

Prayers for Japan

From the Farm:

PRAYERS FOR JAPAN

Published in the Casper Journal March 16, 2011

I’m Japanese.  I know, I know, my hair is brown and my eyes are green.  And, my ancestors come from Germany and France.  Still, I like to consider myself Japanese. I lived in Japan as a college student for a year and a half.  I ate their food.  I lived with Japanese people.  I spoke their language.  And, I came to love the people. 

My heart stopped when I turned on the news Friday morning and heard about the massive earthquake and tsunami there.  I could picture it all:  the manicured rice fields; the ornate homes; the small cars; the organized cities.  I could picture school children walking to school, their crisp uniforms worn to perfection.  I could picture the mailmen on their green motorbikes, delivering mail quickly and efficiently.  I could picture the shopkeepers personally welcoming each guest into their stores.  I could picture mothers, with a child on the front and the back of their bikes, pedaling the narrow streets to take a child to preschool.  And I could picture the devastation of an earthquake.

When I first received my assignment to Japan, the land seemed foreign and strange.  Friends assured us that Japan is one of the safest countries in the world.  They were right.  During my time there, I was never afraid.  Even when I was out after dark, or sprained my ankle, or was alone on a train, I knew I was in good company.  I did experience one, large earthquake, but was unharmed.  There is something very dignified and kind about the Japanese people.  The friends I made and the culture I learned have shaped my life since then.

It was difficult to return to America after living there.  When our plane landed in San Francisco, everyone around me looked big, boisterous, pushy, and a bit rude.  Americans tend to gobble their food down, instead of enjoying it bite by bite.  Americans barge into homes, muddy shoes on their feet, as if carpet will last forever.  Americans want everything big, and bigger, instead of being grateful for what we have. 

The Japanese culture I learned there now permeates my home and my family.  We leave our shoes in the “genkan” (entryway).  We often eat with chopsticks.  My children are all relatively talented at Origami.  And, we eat rice daily.  Our large rice cooker has a permanent spot on the kitchen counter.

Once, when our favorite Botan Rice was on sale at the grocery store, I stocked up.  When I arrived at the cash register, the cashier eyed my shopping cart full of rice.  “Do you own a restaurant?” She asked with raised eyebrows.  “Oh, no,” I responded.  “I’m Japanese.”  “Oh,” she said, glancing at my eyes, my hair, and my skin.  She silently checked me through the register.  

Seven years ago, my husband and I returned to Japan to attend the International Rotary Convention.  Although it had been ten years since I had stayed there, the people were still as gracious and polite as I remembered them.  And, the food was just as delicious.  We took the country train back through the small towns where I had lived.  The terraced rice fields were just as green and neat as ever.  It seemed that the same, old grandmas, their heads covered in scarves, were bending to plant the seedlings.  Bikes still crowded the train stations and the roads, although most people now had a cell phone to their ear. 

We took a day and toured the Hiroshima Peace Memorial.  After several hours inside of the museum, my heart was ready to burst for the terrible tragedies caused by the atomic bomb.  As we exited the museum, a choir of school children—dressed in uniform—was singing a beautiful song on the patio.  Their voices were clear and unified.  It seemed they were singing victory; the victory of a broken people who had risen from the ashes. 

It’s been several days since the quake.  Thankfully, I’ve made contact with friends and family members in Japan, and have found that they are safe.  There are still others that I worry about.  However, I have no doubt about the resilience of the Japanese people.  They came back strong after the devastating Second World War.  They will come back again—organized, polite and grateful for what they have.  Their culture teaches them patience, hard work, and service.  It will bring them through this tragedy.  That’s the Japanese way.  A way Americans might take note of.  Until they recover, my prayers are with them; prayers for my beloved people of Japan.