I Try not to Post to my Blog During Church, But...

Hour three... EQ mtg. Folding metal chairs in the cultural hall. My butt knows these seats better than my mouth knows the taste of pizza, I think. They're not (grossly) uncomfortable, they're just so utterly familiar. I've been sitting in this same seat, basically, for about two hours a week for almost three decades. My butt aches the moment I plant it. At least in Japan they were some entirely different make and model. You people in wards with more cushy chairs, I curse you. I'm coming for your chairs.

Today in church a woman expressed how surprised she was to learn that Joseph Smith had bodyguards. Somewhere, Porter Rockwell is having a good laugh. Possibly over a beer.

The Fourth of July

Sitting in church yesterday I thought maybe I would put something up here today in honor of the Fourth. I have a book, published a few years ago, that describes the heroic acts of each of the Medal of Honor recipients that were alive at the time the book was researched and written. The first thing that came to mind yesterday as I thought about what to write today was to summarize a particularly moving "Medal of Honor" story. (I'm not sure why the observance of the Fourth of July this year, in my mind, is utterly intertwined with military feelings.)

I think that approach -- retelling someone's Medal of Honor story -- would ignore the sacrifices of my Dad, my Grandpas, my uncles, a great uncle who served in the military in various conflicts (WWII and Vietnam, as best I'm aware). I'd like to thank them.

And here's our current home. Note the general sardine-like feeling of this neighborhood, compared to the larger yards and pleasantness of the photo above. Oh well.
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By the way, here is where I grew up.
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Bring on the Dancing Horses

Wednesday night my wife and I took our daughter (age = not-quite-two) to the circus. I'm struggling to remember with clarity the time or circumstances of the last time I want to a circus before that; the memory is fairly vivid but unrooted to a particular time, growing up in suburban Philadelphia in the 1970's and 1980's. I clearly remember going to Ringling Bros. at least once, probably when I was 10 years old or younger. (I distinctly remember some red "ray gun" toys that made noise and lots of internal sparks when you pulled the trigger, and a handheld red-and-blue flashlight "siren" toy, both of which I hadn't thought about for maybe two decades until last Wednesday, but - despite not being part of the scene on Wednesday - both seem uncannily fresh in my memory.) The circus memories stand alongside happy (sometimes sleepy) memories of same-era ventures down to the Vet Stadium/ Spectrum/ JFK megaplex for all sorts of entertainment and family time, including the Harlem Globetrotters, Eagles, Phillies, Sixers and Flyers games, Olympic ice skaters, Frank Sinatra, and more. Throw in our trips to the Peking Chinese Opera, the Nutcracker, a rodeo here and there during summers in northern Utah, the Tall Ships, the Franklin Institute, the art museum, the Please Touch museum, Lancaster, PA and Sunday afternoons at Valley Forge National Park (I know there are more... what am I forgetting?) and you've captured a nice swath of the structured family recreational expeditions of my childhood.

At a little less than two years old, my daughter was just slightly too young this past week to fully engage with the circus experience, but she did watch significant portions of it attentively, and did a lot of pointing and chattering (which we couldn't really hear, since the circus was so noisy). We bought her a $15 plastic horse, to seize some of the spirit of my Mom's advice to snag souvenirs of some kind, purchased or not, to help kids later reconnect to the memory of the event. On the way out, my daughter protested, saying "more circus", "more circus", and she's been asking for it over the past few days, too, so I consider it a hit, and worth the (choke) $127 or so just for the tickets.

Before I Forget
On the theory that everyone googles their own name once in awhile, here's a stab at tagging the internet with some graffiti to help re-establish contact with some old friends... So, Charles Cease, Todd Bibbee and Art Johnson, if you are out there... ah, here's the catch... no one in their right mind would put their real e-mail address on their blog, for a variety of reasons.... I'll noodle on this...