Sleeping Giant

It was on a beautiful Sunday morning just like today sixty-seven years ago that the bombing of Pearl Harbor took place. This event that marked American history had been in the planning for many months. The element of surprise was essential for the successful completion of this mission by the Japanese Navy. It also required the pre arranged ultimate personal sacrifice of many pilots of the Japanese Air Force. As reports of the success of the mission were radioed back to the aircraft carriers where the fighter planes and bombers had been launched, there was great celebration and elation over what had been accomplished. The American fleet had been destroyed and the threat of American forces playing a vital role in the war was significantly diminished.

In sealed documents later made public, there were officers of the Japanese military who expressed concern that the bombing of the Hawaiian Islands would only serve to “awaken a sleeping giant.” And that was a prophecy that was fulfilled over the following months and years of the war. No other single event in American history since the war for independence had galvanized the American people more than this unprovoked attack.

By the end of the war many soldiers and civilians had lost their lives. Most of those who died had been ordered into combat by their governments and commanding officers. They were ordinary people leading ordinary lives with hopes and dreams. They were husbands, fathers and boyfriends with great anticipations of living long happy lives.

As the war waged on year after year, a callousness settled over the people. When the weekly news reports were released giving the estimated total dead of the enemy, great jubilation took place and when the numbers of allied deaths were reported, great mourning occurred. Whether mourning occurred or rejoicing took place was solely based on which side of the war someone drew their allegiance. Their perceptions were based on personal experiences, family dynamics and exposure to information regardless of whether that information was true or false.

As I have grown older, I have become more aware of the fallibility of my own perceptions and have endeavored to examine them more closely before arriving at a conclusion. “Are my perceptions defensible?” I ask myself. Notice I used the term “defensible” and not “defendable.” Defensible means capable of being defended, well founded: whereas, defendable means to maintain an unbending position under hostile criticism. It is human nature to want to be right and some will go to any lengths to defend a decision or idea long after common sense has suggested otherwise.

Being willing to actively listen to different viewpoints broadens understanding. And with a broader understanding comes the ability to better examine what occurred in the past, learn from it and hopefully make better decisions about pending challenges today. I’m grateful that I do not rely on the perceptions I had as a child to make decisions today. I am equally thankful that my perceptions I had as a teenager do not govern the decisions I make today. As I reflect on this topic I am reminded of a quote from the movie “First Knight” when King Arthur of Camelot said, “God grant us the wisdom to discover the right, the will to choose it, and the strength to make it endure.” I know of no better formula for evaluating a situation and making a defensible decision that will stand the test of time.

Just like Pearl Harbor awakened a “sleeping giant” in the American population, just being aware of and willing to examine our own perceptions will awaken a sleeping giant within each of us. We will be better husbands and wives, better mothers and fathers, better neighbors, whether that neighbor lives next door or across the border or even the broad expanse of the ocean.

Wiser Than Me

My heart is full as I anticipate gathering as a family for another day of Thanksgiving. My eyes become moist with tears when I realize that each and every day should be a day of thanksgiving in my life.

Reflecting on my blessings helps me better understand how easy it is to get wrapped up in the blanket of ingratitude. One thing that has helped me peel off that blanket is the study of the tragic and sad parts of the history of the world where men have treaded upon the rights of their fellow men with impunity. I am humbled as I think about the pain, heartache, and suffering that millions have endured because of the greed, pride, and selfishness of a few. While there is sadness in my heart for all these atrocities of society there isn’t anything I can do to change the past. But there are things that I can do today to help make someone’s life less pained and less difficult.

I recently attended a cousin’s reunion back in the area where I grew up. There on those dusty country roads of East Texas years ago, I ran barefoot, played in the woods, found ancient Indian arrowheads and dammed up the creek to swim in the cool water that washed away the heat of a summer afternoon. As I washed away that heat I didn’t realize that at the same time I was bathing myself with memories that would remain with me all my life.

In those carefree days we ran shoeless and shirtless except when coming to the supper table. We felt safe and loved under the watchful eyes of parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles. Within their care we weren’t able to stray too far from the course that those “wiser than we” had planned for us.

As youth we were full of energy and enthusiasm. There weren’t enough daylight hours to do all the things we wanted to do. As we ran through the house headed for the front door that opened the world to us, often the last words I’d hear were “Don’t slam the screen door.” We’d be gone until hunger drew us back to Granny’s house for hot rolls or pound cake and cold milk.

As an adult I gradually began to realize that not everyone had such an innocent childhood. “Why me?” I’d ask. Why was I so blessed? Then I realized I had very little to do with it. It was the people around me that made such a safe, watched-over childhood possible for me. Today, many of those adults who kept a close check on me are gone from this life. They may be physically gone but their memory is very much alive inside of me. I’m reminded of a saying I once saw on a grave marker, “A life well lived, lives on.” The lives of my deceased family members live on in my memory. And every good deed I have done in life is in part a result of their good example and love shown to me.

How grateful I am for my heritage. I owe so much to those who went before me; more than I can ever repay. What small repayment I can make is to help someone, lift someone, encourage someone, or compliment someone. There is a familiar saying, “I can’t do everything but I can do something. What I can do, I will do” with a feeling of gratitude for those who nurtured me in my youth and who were “Wiser than me.”

Each day of our lives can be a Day of Thanksgiving. Though we may not eat turkey, dressing and cranberries each day, we can certainly create a day of thanksgiving in our own lives and in the lives of others as we reach out and touch them in gentle ways. May Heavenly Father’s blessings rain down upon you and bathe you in the soft memories of those in your life who had a positive influence on you and at the time were “Wiser than you.”

Butterflies on the Wind

It didn’t make sense but I decided it didn’t have to make sense to anyone but me. The cold water sliding over my bare feet sent a November chill up my body as I stepped out into the water and shoved my canoe down stream and jumped in. I had floated the Green River the previous six years and vowed that I’d do it again this year. Summer slipped into fall and other responsibilities crowded out my scheduled trip down the river.

The desire to experience the solitude and beauty of the river wasn’t dampened by the turning of the weather. True, slipping out of the canoe in the middle of the river and cooling off from the hot summer sun wouldn’t be my experience with this trip. But that didn’t discourage me from thinking of and looking for the blue herons, the turtles, and the occasional cougar footprints often seen down near the edge of the water. Dipping my paddle in the water using a modified “j” stroke that works best for maneuvering a canoe all alone, I set up a rhythm and the ripples that ran off my paddle and splashed back into the river with each stroke became music to my ears.

That music in my mind recalled another trip down the river when two of my daughters were paddling and singing, their voices drifting down the river like soft butterflies on the wind. Each time I thought of that day a lump rose in my throat and my eyes became wet with tears of tenderness. I was filled with gratitude as I reflected on the love that my children have shown me all my life.

All day long I paddled and enjoyed the wonders of the river. As darkness chased the winter sun close to the horizon and I began to see my breath on the calm air, I knew it was time to find a sandbar and camp for the evening. I took the wood from my dry pack and started a small fire. An Indian saying came to my mind as I sat and watched moths dance around the small flames. “An Indian builds a small fire and is warmed through and through while the white man builds a large fire and is too hot on one side and too cold on the back side.”

As I sat there in the darkening evening I was warmed by the memories of past river trips as much as I was warmed by the fire. I looked up and once more witnessed the multitude of stars in a moonless night and felt so much gratitude for all my blessings and opportunities in life: family, friends, freedoms fought for by others, and my health. Looking up at the night sky brought to my heart again and again that although I sat alone on a wintry riverbank I did not feel lonely in this vast universe. Appearing small and insignificant in comparison to the expanse of the huge star filled sky, I didn’t feel small when I thought of the love I feel from those I hold dear. They have treated my feelings as though they were soft butterflies on the wind just like the music my daughters created with their voices on this river one summer day in my life.

Two for One?

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

A friend recently asked me a question. My answer to her question was, “Two for one.” When I said those words a memory of years ago came flooding across me and washed me up on the sands of my youth.

The Memory:

“I’ll trade you two cat-eyes for one of your steelies,” she said. “No, I wouldn’t trade you one of my steelies for a hundred cat-eyed marbles,” I said. “I don’t have a hundred cat-eyes,” she said with a look of forlorn disappointment. “I said I wouldn’t trade for a hundred cat-eyes so it doesn’t matter whether you have that many or not,” I said.

Playing marbles-for-keeps was the first form of gambling I was exposed to in my youth. It took place on the playground in the first grade at Gilmer Elementary. We played at recess, during lunch break and while waiting for the bus to take us home after school. I once got so engrossed in the game that I missed the bus and had to walk the seven miles home. I burst through the door of our home about the same time the family got worried enough to come looking for me. I was so excited. I had just won my second steelie.

I’ll explain the rules of the game for those of you who have never played marbles-for-keeps. First you draw a circle in the dirt. Each player tosses three marbles into the circle. Then the players take turns as they kneel down, curl the index finger around a marble called a “shooter” and position the thumb behind the marble in preparation of flipping the “shooter” marble toward its intended target. Any marble knocked out of the circle by the “shooter” marble becomes the property of the one who made the shot. If, by chance, the shooter marble fails to knock another marble out of the circle and it does not pass out of the circle either, then the shooter marble must remain in the circle and became free game for the other players to try to knock it out of the circle.

Playing marbles-for-keeps with someone who was using a steelie as his shooter was dangerous business. A steelie could easily knock other marbles out of the circle because of its additional weight. You could drop a steelie in the circle at the start of a game but you couldn’t use a steelie as your shooter marble unless you had previously won it fair-and-square in a marbles-for-keeps game.

When William (we called him Will) dropped a steelie into the circle I couldn’t believe my luck. It is almost impossible to knock a steelie out of the circle unless it was done by another steelie. Fortune was smiling on me that day. I had won my first steelie just two weeks earlier by sheer luck when other boys trying to win it had knocked it right next to the edge of the circle. I smacked it as hard as I could from across the ring drawn in the dirt. The steelie barely passed outside the circle. I immediately pocketed it and had no intention of gambling with it in the future. When Will dropped his steelie in the circle he had forgotten that I had a steelie buried deep in my pocket.

When the game was over I was the owner of two steelies. With two steelies I could afford to gamble a little more recklessly. Over the course of the next few weeks I had assembled a sack of fifty-four marbles. I had cat-eyes, swirls, blues, greens, whites, grays and even two crystal clear marbles. I never gambled my two crystal clear marbles. I considered them my good luck marbles. The two steelies and the two crystal clear marbles were not ever carried in my marble sack. I kept them in my pocket separate from everything else.

Once I forgot to take my special marbles out of my pant’s pocket. When mother was washing my clothes, as she fed the pants through the ringer to squeeze out the water and soap, the ringer rollers jerked, hesitated then bounced over something hard in the pant’s pocket. Fishing into the pocket mother found one of my steelies. When she told me she found one of my marbles I was gripped with fear. If she only found one then three others were missing because I kept them together. I ran to the old tub style washer and sloshed my hand through the dirty wash water. To my relief, I found the other three marbles and made a promise to myself to be more careful with them in the future.

My treasure sack of fifty-four marbles was due mainly to my tactic of placing one steelie in the circle where it would be hard to knock out and using the other steelie as my shooter. Now you know why I was unwilling to trade a steelie for two measly cat-eyes. Some things are too precious to trade away. “If you won’t trade for one of your steelies, will you trade one of your crystal clear marbles?” she asked. “Never,” I said without a moment’s hesitation. How could I trade one of them? They were my good luck.

Fast forward to 2003. I had those two crystal clear marbles with me when I was hiking with family and friends in the Black Box of the San Rafael Swell. As I sat in the shallow water at the take-out point of the hike I reached into my pocket and discovered that one of my marbles was missing. I hurriedly looked around the immediate area where I sat and cleaned the small pebbly gravel out of my tennis shoes but my crystal marble was not to be found. I was saddened by the loss of that marble but I had a group of family and friends who were relying on me to lead them back to the safety and comfort of our campsite.

Later I obtained another crystal clear marble to replace my lost one. When asked which one was the original marble I said, “I don’t know. It’s more about what the marble represents than whether it is an original.” Besides, I still had two steelies that were originals and they were safely tucked away with a few other boyhood artifacts. Their true value isn’t of a monetary nature but the value is in the memories that are wrapped around them. Too often we hold on too tightly to the marble instead of what it represents. No, I wouldn’t trade two for one, twenty for one or even a hundred for one. But I’m now speaking of the memories, not the marbles. Each and every memory is precious to me. Family and friends are wrapped up in the memories that make up the sum total of who I am. My memories are not for sale, nor for trade, but only for sharing. As I share them they are still retained. Only a few of you have seen my crystal clear and steelie marbles but many of you have been a part of my memories. For that I am most grateful. For that I am richly blessed.

I originally called this article, “Marbles & Memories” but later decided to just call it “Two for One?” As I move into the fall or winter of my life (depending on what you prefer to call it) my memories have become more precious than my marbles. However, I can still hold those marbles in my hand and when I do, the memories come flooding back. Today I would gladly trade two marbles to entice you to share just one of your precious memories with me. But don’t ask me to give up one of the steelies or crystal clear marbles of my youth for I will never travel that road again except in the memories of my mind.

Precious Memories: Today & Tomorrow

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

There is a row of willow trees along the west boundary of the park near my home. I noticed today that their woody brown branches of winter are beginning to give way to a yellow-green hue. My brother said that was a sign that the trees were preparing to burst forth with the new buds of spring.

Although the trees are of the same relative height, one in particular stands out to me. Regardless of the season, in my mind I see that tree radiant with the dark green leaves of summer. I also see my first remote control motorized sailplane wedged between two of its branches. As far as planes go it was a sad sight. The propeller was broken and a severed wing was resting comfortably in the grass beneath the tree. I gathered up the damaged pieces of my plane and headed home to make the necessary repairs.

The amount of time I was spending repairing my plane in comparison to the time I was spending flying was disproportional. There was a root cause behind this situation. My son, who has flown remote control planes for years and was struggling to teach me the sport, had repeatedly cautioned me that I wasn’t ready to fly solo yet. But once alone, I began to rationalize my ability: not my skill, but my ability to save a bad situation, somehow to pull it out at the last moment when I got into trouble. Soon I’d be back at the park with my repaired plane ready to give it another try. I had been flying real planes for thirty-three years. Just how difficult could this be? After the total destruction of three motorized sailplanes, I finally got the message.

At the suggestion of my son, my next plane was an awkward looking set of wings and motor that barely resembled an aircraft. Gone were the sleek lines of the sailplanes. Gone was the ability to soar to heights where it was hard to see the tiny dot of a plane high in the sky. I named my new plane Slow Poke because I could almost outrun it. It was so slow it could actually fly backwards in a seven mile per hour wind. But this little plane was exactly what I needed: slow to react to wrong control input, gentle in inexperienced hands and forgiving in outright crashes. Even with all these attributes I have still crashed Slow Poke more times than I can keep track of. I’m not an expert remote control pilot yet but I have become expert at quick field repairs so I can fix the damage and get back to doing what I enjoy . . . flying.

So, as I pass the row of trees along the west border of our neighborhood park, my thoughts and memories of the broken sailplane wedged between two branches isn’t a sad memory. It is a memory of a progression of events. Without those heartbreak experiences of crashing my sailplanes I would have never met Slow Poke and come to love and appreciate things that move at a slower pace but get the job done.

My life is crammed full of precious memories that become the sum total of who I am today. With rare exception, the places I go and the things I do remind me of special occasions and unique happenings that take me back in time and caress my heart with a tender squeeze. I believe it was Mark Twain who said, “I am a part of all I have met.” Mother Teresa said, “I desire to share a part of me with all I meet.” While one quote is focused on receiving the other is focused on giving. I have received much more than I have given in return.

Whether it is a memory of a model plane wedged between the branches of a tree, reflecting on a special hike with family and friends, or simply a phone call to check up on someone, I feel like my memories make me one of the richest men alive. Isn’t that what Easter is about . . . remembering what others have done for us, especially the One who gave us eternal life. It was Eleanor Roosevelt who said, “When managing yourself, use your brain. When managing your relationships with others, use your heart.” Isn’t that basically what the Savior has asked of us? When the woody brown branches of winter give way to the yellow-green hue of spring, my mind doesn’t just dwell on my earthly experiences and the special people in my life but also on the great saving sacrifice made for you and me by the Son of God. The new buds of spring remind me of the precious renewal of life freely given to each of us.

A Few Minutes

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Pulling into the airport area that was designated “Park & Wait,” I searched the electronic information board for Delta Flight #1826. The green lights on the board next to Honolulu flight #1826 flashed “En Route.” I eased the car into park and read the large billboard sign to my right. It said, “Do not leave car engine running.” I reached up and turned the ignition key to the off position. I glanced at my watch. It was 7:41 AM. A friend was scheduled to arrive at 7:53 AM after spending nine days on the Island of Kauai in Hawaii. I was looking forward to hearing first hand the highlights of her vacation, seeing her pictures and sharing in her excitement that had filtered down to me through her e-mails.

When the electronic sign that announces flight arrivals changed from “en route” to “pick-up” I cranked the engine and moved out of the parking area. The street curb area designated for picking up arriving passengers from the Delta flights was crowded except at the far end. I pulled in next to the curb down beyond all the other cars and backed up to get as close to the pedestrian crosswalk as possible where my friend would be exiting the terminal. My cell phone rang. “I’m here at the baggage area. Where are you?” she asked. “Right out side,” I said. “I would come in and help with your luggage but I can’t leave the car unattended.” “That’s okay,” she said. “I’ll be out in just a few minutes.”

A lot can happen in a few minutes. I left the engine running and stepped around the back of the car and on to the curb so I would have a better view of the crosswalk where she would be coming out of the terminal. “You’re a half-aborted excuse for a human,” said a man standing on the sidewalk about four feet away. “Excuse me,” I said. “Shut your face before I shut it for you,” came his reply. “Sir, I don’t know what I’ve done to upset you but whatever it is, I apologize,” I said. “I said shut your yap before I shut it for you,” he said in a raised tone. “Would you at least tell me what I did? I honestly don’t know what I did to offend you,” I said. “You took my parking place you son-of-a-beach." Before I could comment, he corrected his words although I already knew what he meant to say. "Now get back in your car before I kick the hell out of you,” he said. “I hope there isn’t a lot of hell left in me,” I said, trying to defuse the situation. I was puzzled because he was waiting to be picked up by someone who hadn’t arrived yet. There were no cars parked in front of me so I said, “If you would like, I will move forward and let you have your space back.” “Go to hell you moron,” he said as his face grew beet red almost matching the color of his sweatshirt. “I’m going to move forward and let you settle down before you have a coronary,” I said. “You move that car one inch and I’ll kick both you and the car across the street,” came his reply. “Sir, I apologize for upsetting you, it was not intentional,” I said. “Shut your face you abortion mistake,” were his final words to me. I turned and walked away in search of my friend. Looking back I saw that he had taken the eight or nine steps down the sidewalk past the front of my car and once more resumed his wait for his ride that still hadn't arrived.

When I saw her coming across the street her smile washed away the sadness I felt inside for the man in the red sweatshirt. On the front of the sweatshirt were written the words, “Just you and me Babe.” I felt sorry for him but I found myself feeling more sorry for whoever his babe might be. She is the one who lives with his explosive personality day in and day out. He and I only had a brief encounter, an encounter that was easy to deal with because I could go home and not have to be exposed to his ugliness and temper on a regular basis. I felt sorry for all the babes in the world who are connected to men with foul mouths, ill tempers and uncontrolled emotions.

As we drove away from the airport and began talking of her vacation to Hawaii, I soon forgot the red face, the caustic words, and even the references to my unfortunate birth. A nice tan on a smiling face coupled with soft words can wash away a lot of unpleasantness. On the surface I had acted pleasant to the angry man in the red sweatshirt but not all my feelings on the inside mirrored my outward actions. I wish that I could say they did but in truth they didn’t.

I had some unpleasant thoughts about the man. I reflected on my own life and what my reaction to him would have been at different stages of my maturity. I was actually reviewing those very thoughts while we were having our little conversation. I thought about how I would have responded as a teenager, as a young adult, and all the way up to who I am now. I think I prefer the person I am today. I don’t feel a need to prove my manhood or try to change someone else’s opinion of me. There are certainly advantages to a softer approach. I didn’t end up with a broken nose as I have on occasion. I didn’t do something that I would later regret. But most important, my choice of behavior didn’t place the man in the red sweatshirt between the Savior and me because the Savior knows the intent of my heart. It is much easier to be forgiven of poor thoughts than poor actions. Bad thoughts only hurt and diminish me while poor behavior impacts others as well. I have a long way to go but at least I am making better choices than I did when I was younger. I believe that is called progress. What a difference a few minutes can make. It only takes a few minutes of stress or unexpected confrontation to help us see how far we have come and how far we still have to go. Just yesterday my brother shared a quote with me: “If you aren’t nice, nothing else matters.”

Chasing Memories

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

As each January fades into February I find time to push the plane out of the hangar, blow the winter cobwebs out of the exhaust pipes and fly over to Fremont Island for a rendezvous with the old memories that remind me of my visit to that island in 2004. At the time I didn’t know I was going to be invited to spend the night so I didn’t take along my pajamas and toothbrush. It proved to be the longest, coldest night of my life and one I do not wish to repeat. However, it is also a night that taught me a lot about myself. Just thinking about that night reminds me of a statement that Neal A. Maxwell made after a bout with cancer. Paraphrasing his words, “It humbled me and softened me for which I am eternally grateful but I don’t kneel by my bed at night and pray to relive the experience.”

The topic of that cold February night came up as I sat in the living room this week and visited with my son. He and a close friend were the ones who came looking for me in the dark of night as they flew over a windswept Great Salt Lake. Because of the winter conditions, snow covered landing strip and moonless night, they were not able to rescue me but they provided me with all that I had asked for. I did not want the ones I love to spend the night with no knowledge of my condition or whereabouts. I breathed a huge sigh of relief as the plane circling overhead flew away carrying information that I was uninjured and at least acting rational.

The following day I shoveled snow until I only had thirty minutes of daylight left to attempt a takeoff. During the day my sons along with two dear friends made several trips to the island and air dropped supplies, snow shovel, and whatever else they thought I might need. At a prearranged time they returned and were circling overhead just incase I crashed on takeoff and needed a rescue team sent in by helicopter.

Now, four years later, I still have a small shutter pass through me as I reflect on the events that followed. I have often wished that each and every person on this earth could have a similar experience occur in their individual lives. Coming from my radio headphones, I heard the words, “We just witnessed a miracle.” My sons and friends in the plane circling overhead saw and expressed into the radio microphone what I was experiencing first hand. The miracle wasn’t born on the wings of my flying skill but on wind that came from seemingly nowhere to lift my little plane out of the icy grasp of the winter snow. The plane didn’t have enough forward motion to be flying but it was flying. Even before I had time to scan the aircraft instruments and assure myself I wasn’t hallucinating, I was thinking of the song by Bette Midler called, “Wind Beneath My Wings.”

Once in a while we are blessed to view a miracle or at least witness an event that seems to defy our understanding. But in reality there are miracles occurring each and every day of our lives. Life itself is a miracle. The recuperative powers of the physical body are miracles. The ability our minds have of capturing and storing events of the past into memory is a miracle. Today I am thankful for the miracle that I can close my eyes and be transported back to that time and place, hear the music in my head and feel the wind beneath my wings once more.

I am grateful that my miracle on Fremont Island came on the one year anniversary of my father-in-law’s passing. I have often wondered if he had anything to do with the wind beneath my wings that cold February day in 2004. It was a great blessing to have him in our home during the last years of his life. It was a cold wintry day in February when we stood by his open grave and said our last earthly goodbyes. And it was a cold windy day just one year later when someone stirred the wind beneath my wings. Regardless of what people say about miracles, the five pilots on and circling above Fremont Island that day witnessed one. I haven’t tried to understand why or how but I am very grateful. Isn’t that what miracles are all about . . . helping us learn to have a grateful heart?

Becoming Great

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

I’m propped up with several pillows behind my head trying to breathe this morning. I have rejected my wife’s miracle cures for the common chest cold so she has left me to my own devices. It is hard to take advice from the one who exposed you in the first place. It actually reminds me of the snake that was caught on a high mountain ridge in an early winter storm. With the wind whipping and blowing snow, the snake could hardly move. A young man passed by the snake on his way out of the wintry country. “Please take me along with you; I’m freezing to death,” said the snake. “You are a snake and will bite me if I pick you up,” replied the boy. “I won’t bite you. I will be forever grateful to you for saving my life,” said the snake. Reluctantly the boy picked up the snake and carried him down off the high mountain to the safety of the warmer air below. Just as the boy set the snake down, the snake bit him. In alarm the boy exclaimed, “You said you wouldn’t bite me if I saved your life.” As the snake slithered away he casually glances back and stated, “You knew what I was when you picked me up.” Well, I knew my wife had a chest cold when I chose to sit by her on a long airplane ride last week.

But today’s clicking of the computer key board isn’t about chest colds and miracle cures. My wife and I discuss my health choices “ad nauseam” when I’m not hidden away in the family sanctuary. I know that she means well but it is like being followed to the street to make sure I will look both ways before crossing. I’m sixty-one and haven’t been hit by a passing motorist yet. Just incase I might predispose myself to some hypnotic suggestion I will be very careful on my morning walks for the next few days.

Through the hacking and coughing from the chest cold some of my thoughts are still on the beauties that surround me and on those who have helped make those pleasant images possible. Hanging in our hall is an enlarged photograph taken of a granite mountain called Half Dome located in Yosemite National Park. Ansel Adams is the photographer. He brought nature to life although his pictures were taken in black and white. Ansel was able to capture the light in such a way that his pictures absorb you into them even if you have never visited the subjects of his photographs. He once made a statement that a photograph hasn’t done its job if its image doesn’t stay with you long after it has been removed from your physical sight.

Ansel Adams had another love besides photography. It was music and more precisely the piano. He longed to be a concert pianist and often practiced six hours a day during the most bitter winter months when he couldn’t be out capturing nature through the lenses of his camera. Eventually Ansel chose photography over being a concert pianist because he concluded that he couldn’t be the greatest at both professions. These two great loves that Ansel Adams possessed reminded me of another person who shared his enthusiasm for photography and music. I guess I could call him the Ansel Adams of our family.

Our Ansel Adams’ was my brother Bill. I called him Billy Boy and in time he came to understand that my nickname for him was out of affection. I could have called him William Edward Grubbs, Jr. or even just Junior but for some reason he became known to me as Billy Boy. Bill was and continues to this day to be fascinated with photography. He has shared with me many of his best works. The difference between Bill and Ansel Adams is that my brother Bill’s pictures were often taken of places that I had visited and developed cherished memories from.

It could be a picture of a darkening sky sweeping across the Lake Powell area. Bill rushed out in the storm wind that was whipping up the sand in front of the coming rain. I can look at that picture and it brings back all the sights and sounds of that family reunion on the lake in the old houseboat called the Sand Cabin. The fact that Bill had to take his camera in to be completely disassembled to remove all the tiny particles of sand didn’t stop him from capturing that moment in time.

Or the hike in the Subway of Zion National Park when Bill stepped off in deeper water than he anticipated. The only thing visible momentarily was his tripod and camera sticking out of the water above his head as he tried desperately to save camera and film. It was to no avail. Eventually the camera disappeared below the surface but before that took place Bill captured many beautiful pictures of the scenery of the canyon. One of those prints hangs in my room and often reminds me of the times we have spent in that beautiful part of nature. The picture also calls back to mind the family and friends who I have shared those special occasions with. Once again Bill’s camera had to be taken to the professionals for thorough disassembly and cleaning.

Bill has thousands of negatives and prints that have become part of his mark on our lives. His sunset picture with the LDS Bountiful Temple in the foreground shortly after its completion was chosen to be placed in every chapel in the temple district. That same picture appeared on the wallet sized cards that explained the schedule and times that the temple was open. My brother Bill has had a few moments in the spot light as he has worked to capture the light and imagery of still-print photography. Much of what you see in his photographs stays with you long after the physical picture has been removed from your view.

Bill has had his winter mountain adventures and has been bitten by a few emotional snakes along the way like sand and water in his camera. But he has continued to take his camera and capture for each of us the energy and excitement of times past. Ansel Adams has captured in print images that have become world famous. My brother Bill has captured in print the emotion of much of my life. Along with Ansel Adams, my brother also worked in black and white. He soon learned how to develop his own prints and catalogued them by the thousands. Just like Ansel Adams, Bill’s black and white work also included the keyboard of the family piano. He loved music and would play those black and white keys for hours without being prompted. He took joy in the journey of his musical pursuits. I would rather eat two jalapeño peppers than practice the mandatory thirty minutes per day. For me, those thirty minutes seemed like three hours. What became my torture chamber was my brother’s afternoon delight. Same piano: different experience. That’s the difference between becoming great at something and just getting by. Thank you Ansel Adams and thank you Billy Boy.

If Only

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

I love the ocean and have never stepped onto a beach without it being a peaceful experience even when the wind is blowing and the waves appear angry. There is just something magical about it that makes me feel all warm inside. I’m not particular. It can be the Pacific Ocean, Atlantic, the Gulf of Mexico or even The Sea of Cortez. They each hold a special place in my heart and in my memory.

I enjoy slipping off my shoes and walking in the wet sand where the waves can gently wash over my feet and bathe them in the story of time. I often wonder where those water droplets have been as they are swept up from the sea by hot temperatures to be carried aloft for miles and miles only to be condensed back into water droplets and splashed on the ground to nourish the earth. Then gradually those droplets find their way to the streams and rivers that carry them ultimately back to the ocean to once more churn and bubble in the waves that wash over my feet once more.

As I walk along the beach I look for things that catch my interest. Years ago I would find shells that still contained their living creatures and regardless of the fate of the little ocean dwellers, I would haul them home. After a week or so the smell of dead and dying sea creatures would outweigh the beauty of the shells and I would throw them away in hopes of ridding myself of the putrid odor. Today I toss the living ones back into the surf and limit my treasure hunting to the shells and other artifacts that wash up at my feet.

On those days that I find nothing to take home, I still enjoy the sights and sounds of the ocean. Many of my dreams incorporate the sand, the sun, the breeze, and the waves of the ocean. I’m not sure if that is because we often went to the beach on our family vacations or because I am enthralled with distant horizons. A good friend once suggested that it might be because those horizons don’t block my imagination. I reminded her that there isn’t much that impedes my imagination. She agreed.

Today as I walked on the beach, most of the shells were trampled and broken from other beach combers looking for that perfect specimen to hold up in the air and say, “Look what I found.” As I strolled down the beach my wife ran ahead of me to make sure she would be the first to spot a trophy shell. “You see them before I get a chance to look,” she said as she sprinted twenty yards or so ahead. Walking in the wet sand or beach combing for treasures has never been a race for me. I casually moved out into the water so that I was walking in four inches of standing tide. The foam of the waves coming in momentarily blocked my view of the sandy bottom but after each wave passed the water would clear once more and I could see what was being tumbled and washed ashore.

During the course of my walk I found a sand dollar about the size of a silver dollar. I carefully cupped it in my hand to protect its fragile edges. A little further down the beach I came across a hand-woven necklace half buried in the sand. It had been broken or came untied because one end was moving around in the waves. Part of the necklace was buried in the sand. I gave it a gentle tug but it didn’t want to slide out of its wet sandy tomb. Bending over, I began to gently dig around the necklace. To my surprise the necklace contained a small gold ring. If I had been able to pull the necklace from the sand without having to do any digging, I would never have known that it contained the small gold ring. The ring would have slid off the necklace and remained buried in the sand for someone else to find or possible never be found.

Washing the wet sand off the ring I examined it for any inscription that might be on the inside. The only words I found were “14 K” embossed in tiny letters. My wife said, “You lucky duck.” “It wasn’t luck at all; you passed by it before I did,” I said. “You just chose to look in different places than I was looking.” Anyway, I didn’t feel lucky. I felt special that I had the opportunity to touch something that was probably very precious to someone else. I would tell the story of the ring “If Only” I knew its history. I would return the ring to its owner “If Only” I knew who she was. I would toss the ring back into the ocean “If Only” I knew that would be her desire. Until I do know, I will keep it and remember that I found it on January 25th. So, as I thought all along, there can be Christmas in January. I can hardly wait for February 25th. My daughter called to tell me that my eleventh grandchild is due on May 25th. Who was it that said, “If only we could have Christmas every month?” We can. It is only limited by our imagination.

One for You, More for Me

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

With Mitt Romney, a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, seeking the Republican nomination for president of the United States, there has been much talk in the news about Mormons and their beliefs. One of those beliefs and early practices targeted by the media is the subject of polygamy. Although polygamy was routinely practiced in the mid 1800’s and only a small minority of members of the church practiced polygamy, the subject continues to be a topic of discussion when the word Mormon is mentioned.

In a recent discussion a good friend asked my opinion about Mitt Romney and my attitude about polygamy. When I responded that I wasn’t a good candidate to answer such a question, it pricked her curiosity. “Why not?” she asked. “Let’s get something to eat and I’ll explain it to you over lunch,” I said. We drove to the sandwich shop in virtual silence. I’m sure she was wondering what my response would be and I was contemplating how I would explain myself in such a way that she would understand not only my words but my heart. It was just past one o’clock so the crowd had dissipated at Crown Burger. I ordered a bacon cheese burger and onion rings. Don’t tell my wife, she already thinks I have a death wish. With my friend munching her health conscious salad I began my story.

When I was twelve years old I had a dream in which a girl came to visit me in my tree house. Over the years this same girl regularly appeared in my dreams and I became convinced that one day I would find her and we would get married. Somehow I thought that I would just see her and recognize her for who she was. And oh by the way, I naturally assumed that she would have a similar experience and recognize me also. At age twenty-two I decided that I must be mistaken and stopped searching for the girl in my dreams. I went to work to find a “wise choice” to be my companion and mother of our children.

When I found her I didn’t think it would be too difficult to convince her to marry me. She couldn’t be too picky. She was dating an old geezer in graduate school. He knew exactly what he wanted to be when he grew up and his name was Frankenberger. With a name like that it would be a piece of cake to convince her to switch to Grubbs. I told her on our first date that I was going to marry her. A note of clarification . . . I didn’t ask her to marry me on our first date; I just told her that I was going to marry her. I wasn’t in love with her yet, I barely knew her. I had only been in love three times if I didn’t count my fourth grade school teacher. But something inside of me said that this girl would be a “wise choice”. She didn’t buy into that “wise choice” business too easily. Getting her in that wedding dress was like rowing my boat out on the lake and trying to convince a fish to jump into my net.

I finally learned a few words in “the fish language” and we were married on September 5th, 1969. After a brief honeymoon on the north rim of the Grand Canyon we returned to our schooling. I don’t know why it was such a surprise to me but I discovered I had married a studyholic. It shouldn’t have been a surprise because every time I tried to get a date with her we ended up in the campus library until it closed. In case you are wondering what a studyholic is . . . convince an alcoholic that there are answers to his problems in books instead of booze and he’ll consume the library. Because the race was over and the trophy was sharing my living space, I stopped going to the library with her. Not spending my evenings at the library coupled with the fact that I had a cake of a job working for the university, I had more free time on my hands. With all this free time between work and class, my eyes began to wander. What would you expect when you have a wife who is too busy studying to watch a movie or even go for a drive?

Pretty soon I was noticing what lived next door. I didn’t see her much because she stayed inside most of the time but when she came out she could sure turn a head. She was usually dressed to be noticed if you know what I mean. It didn’t matter what she wore because by now I was hooked. I thought about her all the time. I fantasized about her. I know that I should have felt guilty about what was going on inside my head but I justified my behavior. Hadn’t other men learned how to have multiple loves? What about the guy who left his adoring family back east to earn his fortune trapping furs in the northwest territory of the 1800’s? I don’t think he was writing home and telling his wife about the Indian squaw snuggled up next to him at night to help drive out the cold wind sneaking through the cracks of his log cabin. Or what about the early pioneer who helped bury a fallen friend then married the widow in a wagon train ceremony taking in her and her children along with his own? Was she loved less because she wasn’t the first? Was the first loved less because part of his heart was burning from a different flame? Yes, I know these are weak arguments hurtled against a stone wall of tradition. But remember, I said that the one next door only turned my head. I was watching her from the window, not chasing after her or even trying to make conversation.

I know what you are thinking; the old Bible verse . . . “as a man thinketh, so is he.” Well I have some news for you. I never saw a man slapped for what he was thinking. I never saw a man in trouble for what he was dreaming, unless he was naive enough to share his dreams. I think that verse of scripture is telling us that if you think it long and hard enough, you will eventually figure out a way to get it or become it. Well, that’s what happened to me. Eventually just watching her from the safety of my living room window wasn’t enough. My fanaticizes grew to the point I thought I had to have her. As her door opened one day and she was maneuvering through the opening, and I think you can imagine what I mean when I say maneuvering, I raced over and met her just as she reached the curb of her drive. I didn’t know the guy who was with her but I blurted out, “Where can I find her twin sister?” “At the Kawasaki Dealership on Main Street,” he said. “There are two more just like her on the showroom floor.”

After a fitful two days, my wife finally consented to let me take out a student loan in her name and use the money to bring home my other love. And what a love affair it was. I would race home from school or work and head up into the mountains above our apartment and spend a glorious couple of hours revving her engine and shifting her gears until it was almost too dark to see the trail. My wife didn’t say too much at first. She was concerned about the amount of time I was spending away from home and not studying. She became more alarmed when I wanted to bring my other love into the living room at night because I didn’t want her left out in the cold.

Well, like I said in the beginning, I’m not the right man to ask about polygamy. I have been living polygamy most my life. When you allow a significant part of your heart, interest and desire to be focused on something or someone other than your spouse, isn’t that a mild form of Polygamy? I had a girl who came to me in my dreams before I met my wife. She still occupies a portion of my heart along with motorcycles, airplanes, boats and my latest love, writing. It drives my wife crazy thinking of all the things that I could be accomplishing around the house if I didn’t spend so much time pounding away at the keys of my computer or scribbling in one of my notebooks. It amazes me how, after thirty-eight years of being together, she thinks that if I put away all these other loves, I will magically become interested in whittling down that long list of honey-dos under the magnet on the fridge. Just thinking about that list causes my eye to start wandering once more but not in search of another wife. Two wives would mean two fridges. Two fridges would mean two separate honey-do lists reminding me of all the things I should be doing instead of what I am doing; pounding away on my laptop thinking of a clever way to say something that has already been said many times before. But at least I haven’t been completely deceitful; I wear two rings on my left hand; one for her and one for the other love(s) of my life.

Polygamy, the practice of having more than one wife was banned by the U.S. Supreme Court in 1879. A few daring, yet foolish men, have defied the laws set forth by this great country and have married more than one woman. As their deeds are discovered they are brought to justice. What about all the rest of us who aren’t breaking the law of the land but often do immeasurable damage by spending excessive time and energy where no growth occurs in ourselves or the ones around us. On a recent work project with my son-in-law, he stated that he didn’t have time for many of the things that interest the other men in his neighborhood. “I have three little boys who need a dad to wrestle with them and chase them around the yard,” he said. There is nothing wrong with a hobby or a special interest so long as it doesn’t compete with what is truly important. But in truth, how many of you women out there have been living my definition of polygamy for most of your married life? Have your children grown up being told to be quiet or stay in the other room so your husband won’t miss that critical play as his favorite team scores another basket or touchdown? Or when he slips out the door early Saturday morning with his golf clubs or fishing pole and says he’ll be back in a couple of hours knowing all along that you won’t see him until dark? Is it only when he wants to buy a king-sized bed so there will be ample room for three does the hair stand up on your neck and you shout, “That’s polygamy!”

I once had a dream that I was in bed snuggled down between two women (names not important to the story). They talked for what seemed like hours. As I laid there in the dark I realized they were talking about me as though I wasn’t even there. They discussed my shortcomings and all the changes they thought I should make. Note . . . I didn’t disagree with the shortcomings; I just didn’t enjoy hearing about them. One wife gave the other counsel about how she should handle me. I tried to get to sleep but it was no use. In my dream I concluded that any man who thought polygamy would be a pleasant feast of milk and honey should be required to spend a night in my dream (and these two women “liked” each other). When I wrote about my dream I titled it “Polygamy, Fact or Fantasy.” Now I ask the question, “Where is your heart, where is your interest, where do you focus your time, and where does your spouse fit into that picture?” Has your wife deceived herself by saying, “You know boys, their oversize toys come first.” That all seems to be okay in our society until that toy isn’t a motorcycle, isn’t an airplane, isn’t a favorite ball team, but another wife: then and only then is he breaking the law.

Well, enough said about polygamy. Now back to my opinion of Mitt Romney who, by the way, had a great grandfather who was a polygamist. That is why the news agencies have made such an issued of this subject. I don’t know if Mitt Romney or any other candidate currently running for that high office is the best qualified to lead this nation. I just finished reading books on the life of Abraham Lincoln and George Washington. These men weren’t perfect but their values were clear. They didn’t engage in doubletalk. I’m not convinced that we have a Lincoln or Washington running on either party’s ticket. I don’t think that someone should vote for a candidate just because he is a member of their church. But on the other hand, a candidate shouldn’t be ruled out as a viable choice on the basis that he belongs to an organization that once condoned the practice of polygamy prior to it being banned by the Supreme Court. If you go back far enough in your ancestry most will encounter polygamy or some other “now illegal” practice unless you are descended directly from the Pope (no pun on the Catholic Church intended). In the Bible, the Savior stated to the men about to stone the woman caught in adultery . . . “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.”

The puppeteers of the media determine what we as mainstream Americans see in the form of news. If they can get our attention away from the real issues and swallow us up in rhetoric of the past, they have accomplished their purpose of bringing negative publicity to any candidate who is not of their choice. I believe that we should vote our conscience after an examination of the values each candidate professes if those values are substantiated by his or her past behavior. If a presidential candidate’s words and actions do not mirror one another, believe their actions. If you trust their actions you will rarely be mistaken about who the person truly is. And you won’t have to try to determine what the definition of “is” is (if you catch my pun).

Scratched, Not Broken

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

He was clutching the chain-link fence trying to maintain his balance as he shuffled along the icy sidewalk. As I came to a stop and rolled down my car window I asked, “Would you like a ride?” He didn’t respond. It appeared he was sorting through my words trying to decide what his answer should be. Because he appeared to be in trouble I stepped out of the car and walked over to see if I could help him in some way. I assumed he was coming from the grocery store just down the block because he was carrying a plastic sack containing a loaf of bread and two fruit drinks. “Hold on to me and I will help you into the car and I will take you home,” I said.

“I can’t, I can’t go, I can’t go home yet. I have, I have to, I have to go to work,” he stammered. He wasn’t stuttering. It appeared that his mental thought processes were getting stuck then starting over before he finished his thought. It reminded me of a CD that had been scratched and jumped back a track. The way this guy was hobbling and struggling just to walk made me curious as to what type of work he did. “Where do you work?” I asked. “I work, I work at, I work at Cesar’s Pizza,” he said.

My mind immediately began to dance through the possible jobs that this man might do for a pizza shop. He must work in the kitchen washing dishes, or making dough for the pizzas. Maybe he just mops floors. “What do you do for Cesar’s Pizza?” I asked. “I am, I am the, I am the sign man,” he said. “Oh, you stand out on the sidewalk and wear a sign encouraging people to come into Cesar’s Pizza?” I asked. “I wear, I wear a, I wear a pizza costume.”

As my rider pointed out the direction to Cesar’s Pizza he told me that his name was James. He rides the city bus to Smith’s Food Market were he waits for two hours before walking the six blocks to Cesar’s Pizza. He waits inside the grocery store to stay warm until he reports to work at 11:00 to begin wearing his pizza sign. James holds his grocery bag under the pizza costume and eats from the loaf of bread and drinks his juice. “Is that what you eat every day?” I asked. He answered yes. “Do you work every day?” I asked. He said that he worked every day except Sunday. “But I, but I am, but I am lucky to have a job,” he explained.

As we pulled into the Cesar’s Pizza parking lot James started to open the door to get out. I asked him if he had a few more minutes that we could talk. From what I had already learned from our conversation I knew that he would have to stand outside the pizza shop in the cold until just before 11:00. What good would I have accomplished if I transported him to work so he could get there early and then have to stand out in the cold until time to go in and put on his pizza suit? We sat in the warmth of the car for the next few minutes and talked about his life.

James’s speech reminded me of my favorite CD that is scratched and jumps tracks until I nudge it along beyond the damaged portion. I continue to listen to it because I love the music. Because it was difficult for James to express himself I will paraphrase what he had to say next. “I fell on the ice and hurt myself getting off the bus today. That is why I am having so much trouble walking. Three people got off the bus after me and no one stopped to help. I think it was because no one wanted to touch me. I was embarrassed as I struggled to my feet and the bus finally pulled away. My hip and elbow hurt and I felt sorry for myself. My mother taught me that when you feel sorry for yourself you become miserable for other people to be around. I heard her words in my mind but I still wondered if anyone in the world cared about me.”

I didn’t try to solve James’s problems. A twenty dollar bill pushed into his hand wouldn’t change his life. But he changed my life. After saying goodbye to James I drove away feeling more thankful for my own life and for the opportunities I have been blessed with. I reflected upon the special care I have received throughout my life. I never remember once feeling as though no one in the world cared about me. I only wish that James, along with everyone else, could have been helped as much as I have been throughout my life.

Later in the day, as I drove over to my brother’s office to wish him a happy birthday, I passed Cesar’s Pizza and there stood James in his pizza costume waving at the passing cars. Well, I assume it was James. I couldn’t see his face but I did recognize the yellow sleeves of his oversized frayed coat protruding from the pepperoni pizza costume. He may have already forgotten me but I hadn’t forgotten him. I smiled as I passed but I wasn’t just smiling at James. I was thinking about how fortunate I am. I had spent the day in a warm office while James limped along an icy sidewalk in front of Cesar’s Pizza thankful to have a job. James had helped me remember that a grateful attitude encourages a cheerful countenance. And a cheerful countenance . . . well, I think you get the idea. James may be scratched but he isn’t broken. I’ll bet I see him standing out in front of Cesar’s Pizza tomorrow regardless of whether it is blowing snow or bright sunshine.

Thank you, James.

The Samaritan

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Jesus of Nazareth told the parable of the Good Samaritan in the New Testament. I recently discovered that not all attempts to be a Good Samaritan are appreciated by those you are trying to help. As I traveled along Interstate 80 headed to Wamsutter, Wyoming, I reflected on an experience I had in the Atlanta, Georgia airport four years ago today. A man in the restroom was concerned about a tick’s head that had broken off and remained burrowed into his groin when he tried to remove the tick. The head of the tick was tucked up beyond the man’s vision and he needed someone to help extract it. His urgency and fear were based on the fact that his best friend was currently recovering from Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever that he had contracted from a tick. As I chuckled to myself about the experience of helping this man I passed a lady in distress on the side of the road. She was just beyond mile marker 123, fifty miles west of Wamsutter.

The Story . . .

The lady was all alone, standing by what appeared to be a demolished Yakima car top carrier. Her car was parked fifty yards further down the highway. I pulled to the side of the road and walked back to see what I could do to help. She was hyperventilating and I thought she might pass out. I placed my hands on her shoulders and said, “I will stay with you until we get you on your way.” She thanked me for offering to help and asked if I would get her car and back it up near the car carrier. I asked if the keys were in the ignition and she said, “Yes.” As I began to walk back to where her car was parked I realized she was following me. She stayed about eight feet behind me. When I was almost to her car she said, “Oh never mind, I’ll drive the car myself.”

As she got into her car I decided to back my car up and position it so it would block us from oncoming traffic on the freeway as we gathered up the shattered remains of the Yakima car top carrier and her belongings. The lady backed her car up like she was going to a race. As I came around the rear of my car she popped out of her car and hurried to position herself between me and the damaged Yakima carrier. Once again she appeared very nervous. Holding up both hands she said, “Please stay back. All these items are very personal to me. I want to load them myself.” I was somewhat shocked but did as she requested. That was the first I noticed that there weren’t any contents of the car carrier scattered around the ground. Turning her back to me she pulled a large black bag from under the carrier. It was stuffed full of something. It was so heavy she was half carrying and half dragging the bag. “Are you sure you don’t want some help?” I asked. She didn’t respond or look back at me. When she tried to lift the bag into the rear of her silver SUV, five clear plastic bags toppled out of the black bag.

Like being hit in the head with a dirt clod the woman’s behavior began to make sense. She was transporting a large quantity of what I suspected was marijuana. A mountain of questions piled up in my brain but I knew the answer that would come out on top. Before I took time to second guess my decision, I stepped back to my car and pulled out my hand gun and pointed it directly at her. “Move away from the car. Put your hands behind your head and get down on your knees,” I shouted. For a long moment she just stood there in shock and stared at me. “Do it now!” I demanded. Slowly she moved back away from the car and knelt on the ground. Her eyes narrowed in on me like dark daggers. I took out my cell phone to call 911. “You can have anything you want if you will let me go.” She must have thought I was considering my choices. “You can have anything,” she said in a pleading voice as she emphasized the word anything. I could have said something clever but I didn’t feel clever at the moment. I had never pointed a loaded gun at someone. Well except for the time I shot another boy in the butt with a twelve gauge shotgun. I did remove the lead shot from the shell first. I thought it would just make a loud bang but the packing wad I unknowingly left in the shell smacked him in the right buttocks. We both thought he was dead. Today I didn’t want anyone dying over bags of marijuana.

This was serious business and I was more nervous than I first realized. I didn’t want to accidentally squeeze the trigger as I kept the gun pointed at her while I held the phone and dialed emergency. My hand was shaking as I pressed the buttons. “Give me the Highway Patrol,” I said when the operator came on the line. “I am at mile marker 123 on Interstate 80 about fifty miles from Wamsutter. I’m almost certain that a lady I stopped to help on the side of the road is transporting marijuana,” I said with a voice that probably sounded like I had been relieved of the crown jewels. If looks could kill, my new lady friend would be a murderess. Fearing that she might have a concealed weapon, I told her to lie face down in the dirt with her arms spread out away from her body. She acted like she was going to ignore me but then she gradually repositioned herself facedown. I felt sorry for her. Her black hair covered part of her face and her head was turned to the side. I could see that resignation and tears had taken the place of anger in her expression. I wanted to ask her about her life but I left her alone. The wind was blowing so I put my coat over her until the highway patrol officers arrived.

The officers came out of their vehicles with guns drawn and pointed at me. “Put down your weapon,” shouted one of the officers. I wasn’t about to put my gun in the dirt so I laid it on the hood of my vehicle. “Step away from the car,” commanded the officer. It took better than an hour to get everything sorted out. There was two hundred and fifty- five pounds of high grade marijuana in the car. There was also a loaded semi-automatic hand gun and a quantity of cash. The woman’s car was towed and she took a ride in the rear of the Highway Patrol vehicle. When it was all over I was left there alone on the side of the freeway with the busted up Yakima car top carrier and roof rack. I disassembled the roof rack, loaded it in the back of my suburban and drove the last fifty miles to Wamsutter as I thought about the events of the last hour and a half. I was sure that the lady in the back of the police vehicle was wondering just what kind of Samaritan stopped to help her. Would I do it differently if I could relive that experience? Most of us would change something if we could act with the knowledge of hindsight. But I wouldn’t change turning her in. There are no victimless crimes. She and I were both victims . . . victims of coincidence. But then, Neal A. Maxwell said that there are no coincidences in life.

The Truth . . .

Like being hit in the head with a dirt clod the woman’s behavior began to make sense. She was transporting a large quantity of what I suspected was marijuana. A mountain of questions piled up in my brain but I knew the answer that would come out on top. I was considering several options all at once. My gun was lying on the front seat of my suburban. I could hold her at gunpoint until the Highway Patrol arrived but I quickly dismissed that idea. I made the decision when I first obtained my concealed weapon permit that I would never point a loaded gun at someone unless I was prepared to shoot them. In other words I would not use a gun to intimidate someone into doing what I wanted them to do. I wasn’t about to shoot this woman over marijuana no matter how I personally felt about the havoc that drugs cause in peoples lives.

As she struggled to get all the bags of marijuana back into the rear of the SUV, I began memorizing everything I could about her. The SUV was silver and the license plate was Nevada 08120. Her hair was died jet black and cut straight just above her shoulders. She wore hip-hugger jeans that were bulging from squeezing into a size too small. Her top was a white blouse with the top two buttons unfastened. She wore an unbuttoned blue denim long sleeve shirt over the blouse with the shirttail out. On her feet were white sneakers with no socks. Her ears were pierced and adorned with small delicate gold loops. She wore black eyeliner and her eyes were grey blue. She had fake fingernails painted to match the color of her lipstick which was a soft red. Her hands were older looking than her face which led me to believe she'd had cosmetic surgery. Guessing her age would be more difficult than describing what she looked like. I targeted her to be at least forty years old. She was about 5’6” and weighed 140.

Closing the hatchback door to the SUV she turned to me and said, “What will your silence cost me?” I just stood there without responding. “You can have anything you want,” she said. “Let me help you get your roof rack off the busted car carrier. I can disassemble it in three or four minutes and it will fit inside your car,” I said. “I don’t have time to wait. I have to go right now. You can have the roof rack for your trouble,” she said. “It was no trouble,” I responded. She came over to me, reached out her hand and said, “What is your name?” Shaking her hand I said, “Jerry Grubbs.” “Is Grubbs spelled with one “b” or two?” she asked. “With two,” I said. “I’ll remember that,” she said as she turned, ran to her car and drove away.

At 4:09 P.M. I opened my cell phone and dialed 911. “Please connect me with the Highway Patrol.” “What is your emergency?” the operator asked. “I am at mile marker 123 on Interstate 80 about fifty miles west of Wamsutter. I just helped a lady who is transporting what I believe to be marijuana,” I reported. I gave the officer all the pertinent information and went to disassemble the roof rack that the lady had left behind. If she had said she would give me the roof rack for my silence, I would have left it there. A few minutes later a Highway Patrol vehicle pulled up next to my vehicle and questioned me to verify that I was the one who made the 911 call. After repeating the information and providing a description of the car and woman the officer hit his lights and departed at a high rate of speed.

Traveling on down the road toward Wamsutter, I recognized the same silver SUV heading the opposite direction. At 4:34 I called 911 again and reported her location at mile marker 137 traveling west. At 6:45 P.M. the officer called to give me an update on her arrest and what was found in her vehicle. “Would you be able to identify her in a lineup?” the officer asked. “Yes,” I replied. “It would have made our job easier if you had followed her at a distance and continued to report her location,” the highway patrolman suggested. “If I ever stop to help a lady in distress on the side of the road and she turns out to be transporting an illegal substance, I’ll do just that."

Epilogue . . .

Our lives are sometimes filled with wouda, couda, shudas but in the heat of the moment we make decisions that with hindsight we would do differently. I was sure that the lady was wondering just what kind of Samaritan stopped to help her. Would I do it differently if I could relive that experience? I have no regrets about the way I treated her. I do wish that I had followed her to ensure that she was apprehended. But it all worked out okay. Well, I guess that depends on your point of reference. I’m sure that the lady doesn’t share my comment about things working out okay. But if I had it to do all over again I would still call the Highway Patrol. There are no victimless crimes. She and I were both victims . . . victims of coincidence. But then, Neal A. Maxwell said that there are no coincidences in life.

Our behavior can be driven by a desire to appear more or better than we actually are. When I examined the option of using a loaded gun to force the lady into compliance, my motive would not have been her apprehension but glory seeking. There are enough glory seekers without me joining the lineup. In a brief moment I saw how using my gun would most likely play out in the apprehension of the lady. I saw every detail of that situation in the story shared above. But the thought that came to my mind was one that a good friend shared with me seven years ago: “just because you can doesn’t mean you should.” I thought of that very saying as I contemplated my choices. Just because I had a gun, just because I had the element of surprise, just because I had her at a disadvantage, just because she was breaking the law didn’t mean I should become her enforcer. Although I called 911 and reported her, if I saw her on the street tomorrow, I would not feel inclined to cross over to the other side to avoid her. In fact, I would ask her if she would like to have her Yakima roof rack back.

Good & Bad

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Good isn’t always readily distinguishable from bad. Is it good to want life to be easier for our children than what we experienced when we grew up? Is it bad to want those punished who do us harm? Too much of a good thing no matter how good it is can sometimes end up being bad for us. So, is it correct to say that good and bad are relative; that they change with the circumstance before us? I do not believe that good and bad are relative terms that change depending on the situation. I believe that good and bad are constants but by our individual choices we can warp something good into something detrimental to our wellbeing.

Good and bad are often camouflaged to our biased eyes. I use the term biased to describe how we see things. The eye records the object or event. The optic nerve sends the recorded image to the brain where it is identified. After the object or experience is identified the brain goes through a series of processes that ultimately open the door to our emotions based on our knowledge and experience.

Two people can look at the same object or have a similar experience and come away with a totally different feeling or interpretation. On my walk this morning I passed a black Malibu LS Chevrolet sedan parked on the side of the street. In the back window of the car was a sticker/picture of two females in silhouette. The images reminded me of the type of chrome female silhouettes that adorn the mud flaps of eighteen-wheelers: long legs, super thin waists, and ample youthful busts. These two silhouettes were identical with the exception that one was portrayed as an angel and the other as a devil. The angel silhouette had wings and a halo while the devil silhouette had horns and a tail. Remove these items just described from the silhouettes and you wouldn’t be able to tell the two figures apart. Which one was the angel and which was the devil? It would all be left up to how you saw them or imagined them to be.

That’s what we discover in life much of the time . . . good and bad packaged in the same wrapping paper. I have decided to not share the rest of the this story in hopes that you think about it and come up with your own ending.

Smoke In My Eyes

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Confessing someone else’s sins is easy. Confessing my own sins is more difficult. As I grow older and take opportunity to reflect on my youth certain events come to mind that although serious at the time, today are almost comical.

In the fifth grade attending Valley View Elementary, I occasionally visited the corner market and purchased Lucky Strike candy cigarettes. Walking home from school I would hang one of those candy cigarettes out the corner of my mouth and on cue reach up, pinch the cigarette between my index and middle fingers, remove the cigarette and exhale as though it was a blessed moment.

As I approached home the pack of Lucky Strikes would find a secure hiding place because mother would take them away from me. “Avoid the very appearance of evil,” she said so many times. I knew smoking was against the rules I had been taught but dad was saying, “Do as I say, not as I do.” Even with dad’s example before me every day I do not hold him responsible for my behavior. I didn’t even use him as my excuse for what would follow.

A plan began to formulate in my mind. If I saved my lunch milk money for a week I would soon have enough to purchase a real pack of cigarettes. With money in hand and having rehearsed what I would say, I took a deep breath, opened the screen door and stepped to the counter. “I want to buy a package of Camels,” I said. “You’re too young to buy cigarettes,” said the store clerk. “Oh, they’re for my dad,” I replied. Looking at me with a questioning expression he said, “Does your dad smoke filtered or unfiltered?” With all my rehearsing what I would say, it never occurred to me whether dad smoked filtered or unfiltered cigarettes. Stumbling over my words I said, “He doesn’t care.” “Are you sure you are buying cigarettes for your dad?” he asked. Seeing that my plan was beginning to unravel, I had to act quickly. I almost turned and ran out the door but something inside me said this situation was still winnable. With as much emotion as I could muster and with manufactured tears welling up in my eyes I blurted out, “Dad is going to be so mad if I don’t come home with his cigarettes.” Without saying another word the store clerk slipped a pack of unfiltered Camels from the rack on the wall, laid them on the counter and gathered up my change. Grabbing the cigarettes I quickly left the store.

Step one of the plan was complete. I was so proud of myself. I had duped that old man. Walking home I didn’t realize that I had become less of a person. That realization would come much later. Nothing had changed in the store clerk. He was just the same as before I entered the store

To my delight no one was home when I arrived. Dropping my books in the kitchen and finding some matches I headed for the back yard. Standing behind the storage shed, I lit up my first Camel. Drawing in the smoke I immediately wondered, “Where is the pleasure?” Finishing one cigarette I immediately lit up another thinking I must have overlooked something. Those were the only two cigarettes I have ever smoked. I buried the rest of the pack in the backyard flowerbed. That wasn’t very smart because mother dug them up a few weeks later. There was hell to pay. What mom didn’t realize was that I had already decided that smoking wasn’t going to be part of my life. She didn’t believe me so she proceeded to reinforce my decision. Before you start feeling sorry for me you need to understand . . . I don’t remember ever getting a lickin’ I didn’t deserve.

Perception

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

On several occasions I have had a dream repeat itself. These repeated dreams have the same storyline but with different outcomes. These dreams have given me an opportunity to look at life from different viewpoints.

The Dream...

Although I had not opened my eyes, I gradually became aware of my surroundings. I was a little warm even though my only covering was a sheet. What was producing the heat was her body snuggled up next to mine with her arm across my chest. I don’t know if it was the heat from her body that had awakened me or the unique way that she always breathed as she slept. Her breath came in little puffs. She didn’t snore as she accused me of doing but the sounds she made were just as irritating as any sound I might make. If she would just turn over on her back she could breathe easier and the oppressive heat of her body crowded up next to me would diminish. You would think we were sleeping on a single bed instead of the queen-size bed that consumed a large portion of our bedroom. It would do no good to ease out from under her arm and move over because within a few minutes she would find me again even in her sleep.

A Repeat…

Although I had not opened my eyes, I gradually became aware of my surroundings. I was a little warm even though my only covering was a sheet. What was producing the heat was her body snuggled up next to mine with her arm across my chest. I don’t know if it was the heat from her body that had awakened me or the unique way that she always breathed as she slept. Her breath came in little puffs. Realizing the source of the external heat warmed my heart. Even with the queen-size bed that occupied our bedroom, her most comfortable spot was snuggled up next to me. The little puffs of air escaping from her lips gave me assurance in the darkness of who was lying next to me. How fortunate I felt that someone cared enough about me to snuggle up next to me even in the heat of a summer night. How comfortable it felt to know someone so well that you could even recognize the pattern of her breathing. I pulled her tighter against me and wished that the moment would never end. I was glad that she found me even in her sleep.

How often do we look for the negative and overlook the positive? Our attitudes can lead to self fulfilling prophecies. Do I need an attitude adjustment? Could each of us use an attitude adjustment? These two dreams had everything in common: the heat, the closeness, and the little puffs of air escaping from her lips. The only difference was my attitude. I wrote about another dream I had in February 2004 where the scene replays and I get a chance to do things differently. It is titled “The Dirty Windshield” and you can read it by clicking on the link below.

www.grubbsfamily.org/ponder/item?item_id=19405

Time to Fish

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Have you ever awakened and briefly wondered where you were or what day it was? As I raised my head and looked around, I began brushing the sand from my face as though it was something I routinely did every morning. The sound of waves crashing on the beach drew my attention away from myself for a moment. The ocean looked angry and the skies were dark and threatening. It was only a matter of time before rain would be pelting me if I didn’t find some type of shelter.

My clothes were in disarray. I was missing a shoe. I had an ache in my stomach that resembled hunger but I wasn’t sure if it was hunger or anxiety. When had I last eaten? I couldn’t remember. How long had I been here? I didn’t know. How did I get here? I wasn’t certain but there was a nagging thought that I had fallen overboard from a ship of some kind. I had this sense of falling and then the darkness and the cold. Now here I was lying on this beach, chilled, hungry and about to get drenched by a storm that filled all the visible sky.

The wind howled and the tree limbs leading into the dense vegetation whipped against my face as I pushed my way through looking for a place that would shield me from the elements. As the rain came I could hear it pounding on the canopy of trees above me. It reminded me of the big bad wolf growling and trying to blow my house of trees down. The trees were so thick they blocked the sky as the rain pounded against this little island. The ground was thick with vegetation and fallen timber. I found a large log about three feet in diameter. I stacked limbs and clump-grass against the log making a lean-to to shield me from the rain. After I crawled inside I drew my knees up against my chest to block out the chill of the coming night air.

When I dozed off and was startled awake by a large clap of thunder it was dark. I couldn’t see anything. The sounds around me were adding to my already heightened sense of concern and anxiety. As I laid there huddled against the forces of nature, I became aware of a sound that was different from the rest of the forest noises. It was a crying sound that was human or near human. I wasn’t alone. But what was out there in the dark of this wet, cold night? Not being able to see because of the darkness I laid there for the rest of the night listening to that muffled cry. With all the other noises I couldn’t determine how close or far away the sound was coming from.

At daybreak I eased out of my resting place behind the log and looked around. As far as I could see it was just trees, trees and more trees. The vegetation was choked with fallen timber from trees that had finished their lives and collapsed, rotting at the feet of newer, healthier trees. The sound of crying was fainter now and it was hard to distinguish the direction it was coming from. I made my way toward what I thought was the origin of the sound.

I didn’t know what to expect. What if it was someone injured or sick? It had never occurred to me that I wouldn’t be able to figure out a way to survive, but to have to care for someone else may be more than I could handle. My mind was alert and I had always been taught that the mind is the most valuable weapon we have against the unknown. The sound of crying gradually became clearer as I moved deeper into the dense growth of trees. I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. It startled me and my breath locked in my throat yet I was excited to finally know the source of the crying sound. I wasn’t prepared for what I discovered.

It was a woman holding a small child cradled in her arms. The girl looked to be about three years old. They were both drenched and shivering from the rain of last night. Fear streaked across the woman’s face as she clutched the child to her chest and struggled to get on her feet for what I thought would be a flight deeper into the jungle. She collapsed back against the tree trunk she had been leaning against before I startled her. Then the lady began to weep in deep gasping sobs which caused the little girl to cry even louder. They just sat there clutching each other like I was their executioner.

I dropped to my knees in front of them and asked how I could help. As the woman’s sobs turned to whimpers I reached out and rubbed the side of her face. She gradually eased her grasp of the little girl and allowed me to take her in my arms. I took the woman by the arm and helped her to her feet. She was like a wobbly newborn calf as she stood and tried to walk. Gradually we began to move in the direction from which I came. My footprints were easy to follow in the damp earth. Looking down it was almost comical as I remembered that I only had one shoe. As I held her arm and carried the child we did not speak. The little girl had stopped crying and was leaning against my chest. I could feel her warm breath on my neck. It was such a contrast to the chilled skin of the woman’s arm as I continued to steady her as we walked.

Somehow I needed to get these two people warm. The rain had stopped but due to the dense canopy of trees overhead, I didn’t know if the clouds had blown away to reveal a sunny day or not. They needed warmth, water and something to eat. My mind began to race as I thought about trying to get a fire started after such a downpour. What was I thinking? I didn’t even have a single match: no Bic lighter, no flint and steel, no nine- volt battery and steel wool. A feeling of calm came over me as I remembered that if Heavenly Father wanted this woman and child warm he would help me accomplish the task. He had helped me find them, hadn’t he? I thought about that saying: “There are no coincidences in life.”

After an hour of frustration I still didn’t have that miracle fire started. I gave the woman my dry shirt and told her to remove all her wet clothes and let them dry in the sun. I took the toddler’s clothes off and put my tee shirt on her. As we sat in the sand she explained that they hadn’t eaten for three days. That is how long it had been since they were left on this island by the father of her child. When she told him she was pregnant he became angry and tried to persuade her to get an abortion but she refused. After their daughter was born, their relationship deteriorated until he took them on a sailboat cruise to this remote island and deserted them, leaving them nothing but two bottles of water. They watched him sail toward the horizon certain that he would come back. Since the birth of their daughter he had played other cruel jokes on her but this time he didn’t return.

All of a sudden the responsibility of caring for this woman and her daughter began to overwhelm me. Getting a fire started using old Indian methods I had studied in a book wasn’t going to be easy. That was just one of the many challenges that would be required of me if I was going to keep them alive until help arrived. I began preparing to go into the forest to see if I could catch some small game for us to eat. The woman didn’t want me to leave them but I couldn’t accomplish what I needed to do with them along. With my pocket knife I sharpened several long stakes to use as spears and headed back into the dense vegetation to look for food. After several hours of hunting with no success I returned to fine both of them sound to sleep. Something pricked my heart to think that they had laid their troubles in the sand and were sleeping contented. They wouldn’t be sleeping so peacefully if they knew how ill prepared I was to keep them alive.

The woman was lying on her left side with her head resting on her outstretched arm. Her hand was open, palm up with no ring on her finger. Her mouth was slightly parted and her breathing came in short little puffs. She had small laugh lines at the crease of her mouth. Her hair was blonde with the slightest presence of darker roots at the scalp. Her daughter was tucked in a fetal position against her stomach with the woman’s right arm holding the child snugly to her. It was like I was seeing them before she gave birth to her daughter. I wanted to brush the sand from her cheek but I was afraid I would awaken her. There was something familiar about this woman and her child. I realized I was studying her like someone preparing for an examination and I became embarrassed for invading her privacy as she slept. Rising to my feet, I unbuckled and removed my jeans and took one of my sharpened sticks and started toward the breaking surf to try my luck at fishing. They were hungry when I found them and they would be even hungrier when they awoke. As I approached the water I saw a white plastic trash bag half buried in the sand. Then I saw another, and another. One of them was ripped open spilling out debris in the surf. There were milk containers, tin cans, rotting vegetables, soggy wet paper goods . . .

Then I remembered. I had been standing on the deck near the back of our cruise ship watching the moon and stars paint the sky with a beautiful array of twinkling lights. I heard a clanking sound like a heavy steel door being opened somewhere far down below me. I leaned over the rail to examine where the sound was coming from. I was startled to see gigantic amounts of garbage being belched into the ocean from the ship. It was sickening to watch. Hundreds of garbage sacks and food along with the smell of human waste spiked the air. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. If every cruise ship practiced ocean dumping at this magnitude, what would eventually happen to all the marine life in the water? As I watched the tons of waste being dumped it began to stream out behind the ship like a highway of refuse. I looked at my watch. It was 2:38 A.M. “No wonder they do this in the middle of the night,” I thought. Startled from a noise from behind, I began to turn around and at that moment I was shoved over the ship’s railing and began to fall. I grabbed for the rail but it was too late. If this was a dream I would awaken before I hit the water. With arms and legs flailing in the air I was certain I was going to die from the impact but unwilling to give up I tried to arrest the tumbling motion and keep my feet pointed down. Wham! I landed in a sea of plastic garbage bags, rotting food and worse. Crashing through the bags of garbage I tore through some of them and drug them down below the surface with me. Fighting the water and the plastic bags of garbage I worked my way to the surface and gasp for air. I guess it wasn’t a dream. I didn’t wake up before I hit the water and I hadn’t died. I was wrong on both counts. I felt something strike my leg and fearing it to be a shark I scrambled to stay on top of the floating garbage.

Fear shut down my brain or I actually passed out, I don’t know which. I was pulling garbage sacks around me trying to hold them together when a voice in my mind said, “Give up, it will be okay.” I shouted out loud, “I will never give up.” The next thing I remembered I was waking up on shore and brushing the sand from my face. Now here I was, on a remote island with a woman and the daughter she refused to give up. They were looking for me to be an answer to prayer. Standing at the edge of the surf with my spear in hand, I looked back at the woman and child sleeping in the sand. Then she rose up on one arm and calling after me said, “Will you take care of my daughter like she was your own if something happens to me?” I didn’t answer her. I just turned back toward the ocean. It was time to fish. She would ask the question again and we both already knew the answer. As I stepped into the water, I awoke.

Lady Justice

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

She stood eleven feet eleven inches tall and held a set of scales in her left hand. Why justice is always portrayed as a woman wearing a blindfold makes sense but why she is draped in a robe with her right breast exposed is a mystery to me.

This bronze statue of a lady stood atop the dome and oversaw the affairs of justice at the Lincoln County Courthouse in Kemmerer, Wyoming until the building was remodeled in 2003. She was placed there when the courthouse was constructed in 1925 and looked down on the court proceedings of those presumed innocent until proven guilty by that court of law.

Having served faithfully for seventy-eight years, Lincoln County couldn’t let her go to the scrap yard and be melted down once she was replaced by a shiny new lady of justice. The bronze statue was tucked into a corner of the remodeled courthouse just inside the front door where she could be honored for her years of service. Looking atop the building the new Lady Justice was draped in a bronze robe with her right breast exposed just like the former Lady Justice. Now the accused shoplifters, thieves, drunk drivers, rapists, and murderers pass under the non-seeing, all sensing new lady as they experience their day in court.

“What is the significance of Lady Justice being eleven feet and eleven inches tall?” I asked. Most court decisions are arrived at without all the facts. Lady Justice isn’t built to full height because she must often balance the scales of justice with less than a full measure of truth. How challenging that assignment must be. She is blindfolded as a symbol of impartiality. I still haven’t figured out why she has her right breast exposed.

Stepping up to examine the former Lady Justice a little closer, I noticed she had sustained three bullet holes. One bullet passed through her neck, one through her right breast just below the nipple and a third bullet penetrated near a depression in the robe covering her female fold. Stepping around to the rear of the statue I saw where the bullets passed completely through the statue leaving jagged protruding tares in the bronze metal. “What is the story behind Lady Justice being shot?” I asked the clerk at the desk. “I have no idea,” she replied. The young blond with her sparkling blue eyes and hair pulled back under a gold clip made me feel younger just looking in her eyes. She probably wasn’t even born when Lady Justice was assaulted. Striving to be helpful she said, “Vera, the oldest member of our staff may know something about the bullet holes. She works up on the second floor in the court clerk’s office if you would like to check with her.”

I took the stairs two at a time to the second floor and opened the door to the balcony that overlooked the foyer below. From where I stood I couldn’t see Lady Justice tucked away in the alcove but just knowing she was there was a reminder to me that truth will always tip the scales toward the right decision. “Clerk of the Court” said the sign over the door that lead to the office where I was looking for Vera. An older woman with her eyes and hands busy with a stack of papers looked up as I entered the room. “Are you Vera?” I asked. She nodded an affirmative gesture and her eyebrows raised but didn’t speak. “I was told that you might know why Lady Justice down in the foyer has three bullet holes in her,” I said. “What makes you think I know anything about that?” she said almost expressionless and returning her attention to her paper work. I wanted to say that the young lady in the tight sweater downstairs said that she was the oldest hen in the house and if anyone knew something it would be her, but I didn’t. I said, “The lady downstairs said that you had worked here the longest and you might know more than she did.” Vera looked up at me and asked in a cold impersonal voice, “Why do you want to know?” I was caught off guard by her question and my mind went back to many years ago.

As a small boy I sat in the window seal of my grandmother’s kitchen and asked her a thousand “Why” questions. Years later, as I returned to visit my grandmother she would tell me the story over again how I was the little boy so full of questions. Here I was like that little boy again, I didn’t have a real reason, I just wanted to know. “I guess you might say it is just curiosity,” I said. “Curiosity killed the cat,” replied Vera. I smiled and said, “I’m not a cat.” Her countenance softened and she invited me to sit down. What had started out as a stern expression that said, “Don’t bother me; I’m busy and I have important things to do,” melted into a warm friendly expression of, “Okay.”

It all happened in 1957, Vera began. I won’t give you their names because who they were isn’t the important part of the story. He was eighteen and she was seventeen and ten months old when it all started. No, not when it started but when they appeared before what you call Lady Justice. They had just graduated from high school. He was leaving for college in the fall and she was working at the J.C.Penny store in town. They planned to marry as soon as he graduated. He was accused of statutory rape. The charges were brought before this court by her father. She was in love and refused to testify against the only guy she had ever seriously cared about. They had dated all through high school and it was only by accident that the depth of their relationship was discovered. I think I understood what Vera meant when she used the term depth of their relationship. I had heard sex described in many ways but this one was a new one on me.

Her father was furious and placed all the blame for the violation of his daughter on the young man. The young man didn’t hire an attorney and one was appointed by the court. The day of his trial arrived and he took the witness chair, raised one hand to the square and placed the other on the bible and swore to tell the truth and nothing but the truth. He testified that they were both minors when their relationship first deepened and that he was guilty of such activity with her after his eighteenth birthday. When asked questions about the young woman’s participation and willingness in the activity, he declined to comment. He never spoke a word that would shed a negative light on her regardless of the humiliation and embarrassment they both were being exposed to in open court.

He was sentenced to five years in the state penitentiary and was removed from the courtroom in handcuffs. Before exiting the courtroom the judge asked if he had anything to say. He turned and faced his accuser, the father of the only girl he had ever loved, and said, “I’m so sorry. I would have gladly accepted a sentence twice as long if it would have saved your family this embarrassment. I will always love your daughter. I hope that someday your family will be able to heal from my selfish acts.” From that moment on he looked straight ahead and left the courtroom without uttering another word. The following morning he was transported to the Wyoming State Penitentiary where he began serving his sentence.

Early the next day three shots broke the still morning air over the town. When business as usual began at the courthouse, a note was found beneath a rock on the front step. It said, “I shot her three times, I hope I killed her.” No one understood the note. They thought it was a prank or someone confessing to a murder that would soon be discovered. Then a second note appeared one week later. It said, “Justice is indeed blind in this town. Look up you fools. I shot her in the neck as a symbol that her head and her heart weren’t connected in last week’s court decision. I shot her in her breast as a symbol that the beauty of justice was destroyed last week. I shot her in the appropriate spot, not in an attempt to violate her, but in hopes that she will never again reproduce the kind of justice that was delivered on a young man last week. If you find me, don’t expect me to do as he did, to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I will lie, I will deceive, I will hire the best attorney my money can afford and I will beat your system that you call justice. I want your bronze statue, Lady Justice to stand as a witness of the two lives that were destroyed last week by an insensitive father and an insensitive justice system.”

The court tried to keep the notes that were found on the steps secret but eventually the public became aware of what had happened to the bronze statue and why. The unknown shooter became a local hero of sorts. He was talked about in the restaurants and bars around town and members of the community expressed the sentiment that they hoped he was never caught. An all-out effort to find the shooter and bring him to justice was mounted. The angles of firing line were studied and eventually the hillside knoll was discovered where the shots had been fired. Three empty 30-30 rifle cartridges were still lying on the ground. Next to the brass cartridges were two small white crosses, each had a ribbon and bow attached to it, one pink and one blue.

Vera rose from her chair signaling that our visit was over. As I stood to leave, she came around her desk and gave me a hug. With a smile that could have melted my heart she said, “Thanks for asking.” As I turned to leave she said, “What’s your name?” “Why do you want to know?” I asked. “Remember, curiosity killed the cat.” “But you aren’t cat,” she said. “You are the only person I have ever told my story. I was that seventeen year old girl.” I stepped back toward her and we held one another once more, this time with more understanding. I felt her body trembling against my chest. She was struggling to hold back tears the way some people do when they feel like if they let one tear fall, a floodgate will open and they will not be able to stop. I said goodbye and stepped through the door and out of her life.