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Show Thursday, December 23, 2004 Page A6 Idle Thoughts from Mt. Waas Many Trails by Ollie Harris by Adrien F. Taylor WAITING For our friend, neighbor, former classmate, and sometime philosopher columnist Ollie. Harris, I have the following information regarding the "old saying" he refers to in paragraph three of this week's Idle Thoughts from ML Waas. Most likely the reference is from John Milton's Sonnet On His Blindness. The final sentence reads: "Thousands at His bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait." It's interesting to note that the entire sonnet is comprised of just four sentences. And, thanks, Ollie, for the beautiful photograph of the red Columbine. It is utter elegance! long-soug- We apologized, of course, but there's no way to get something into the paper after the paper is out. And being the resourceful group that they are, chorus members had the concert announced at Sunday services of every church in town possible, and since there were also posters up, there was a very nice crowd in attendance. Our hats are off to Virginia Allen for undertaking to revive this lovely community tradition, and to Tina Cannon for directing it. There were several new soloists, with really magnificent voices. Particularly outstanding, at least in my mind, was the trio of Kathryn Jackson, Patty Smith and Tina Cannon singing "He shall Feed His Flock." found the piano accompaniment charming, and the shell over the chorus enhanced its sound greatly. Thanks also go to the several pianists who accompanied the work. Some did double duty, on both piano and as singers. A professional video was made by Joe Slansky, and those who would like one can make arrangements by calling Arches Realty at ht , -a- ft- than the I 259-569- foreboding of dread. There is sera sera, waiting, and turbulent, patient, que waiting. I wonder if waiting, in the fullest sense, is a uniquely human trait. Sure, Ive heard of the loyal dog that waits year in and year out beside a beloved companions grave. The whole idea breaks down, though, when I begin to wonder what is going through the dogs mind as he waits. What is he thinking about? Is he building an elaborate fantasy of a much anticipated reunion? Does he play it out with various changes in his dreams? Does he consider just what hell say when the great moment comes? I or some or woof-womean, will it be combination of bows and woofs? Does he mentally rehearse the wiggle, jump, wag, and gotta-have-it-no- bow-wo- 3. ftour writers' During meeting here at the T- a of weeks ago, we thought that an overcouple in of view Santas Moab would mako a very nice addition to this edition. Jeff Richards undertook the assignment, and his story, with accompanying photos, is really a heart warmer. Ann Day Carter's letter about her father, Max Day, and his Santa career, came in after the letters page was closed, but I think it is more appropriately placed where it is, on page A 2, next to the Santa story. Thank you, Ann, for sharing what have to be some very precious ft- We attended the performance of The Messiah Sunday night at the high school and it was truly wonderful. Due to the existance of Murphy's Law, the news story for last week's paper did not make it into the paper. of w piddle? There is a saying that goes something like this: He also serves who waits." I can see where waiting could be an act of service. I dont have the patience to really dig into it and figure it out, though. Ill just have to wait for someone to explain it to me. Ill wait patiently. Waiting can require the keenest Say, for example, youre unwrapping the greatest gift imaginable. The caveat is that you cannot destroy the packaging. And, the packaging is too complicated. You fumble and mutter. Your hands shake as you carefully try to concentrate, making the whole process more trying. All the while, youd much rather just rip the wrapping into unrecognizable pieces and get right to the gift. I know whereof I speak. I have lived that entire, frustrating scene. There is exquisite agony in waiting for something good. The anticipation of a much -l apart. heart-poundin- g, n, lump-in-the-stoma- -a- (1-- eyes-wide-ope- visceral, thrill of anticipation. Theres nothing worse than the heavy, cold, I We thank Carla Wacker for her letter, again pointing out the renumbering of the exits on I may have had my lights on dim for years, because it wasn't until recently that realized the exits are numbered according to the nearest mile marker. With various construction projects on the freeway, the mileages have actually changed by a couple of miles, hence the need to renumber the exits. But it does make for a headache where brochures with directions including exit numbers (mile markers) are used. Now, there's an "Aha!" moment. All of the immediate above explains the need for exits A and B at such points as the belt route to in Salt Lake, where the exits are less than a mile -a- Theres good waiting and bad waiting, anticipation and dread. Theres nothing better self-contro- l. -- memories. The way Sam Remembers it . ' awaited experience is sometimes the best part of all. I am one who gets things all built up in his mind, so much so that reality usually cant compete. Sadly, anticipation too often overshadows realizatipn. On the side of foreboding is the waiting room. Most waiting rooms that I know of are associated with some sort of medical procedure. There is bound to be probing or peering, sticking or squeezing, or worse. You know its going to cost money that youd much rather spend somewhere else. There may be magazines to take your mind off your worries, or you may run into a friend. But, neither magazines or friends can fully take away the foreboding. I can think of a couple of waiting experiences that were just fine. One was when I took a lawn chair out into a canyon before daylight. d There was a cactus in bloom next to the to wall. I wanted of rocks an Anasazi photograph the scene in perfect light which I anticipated would be just as the sun cleared the rim to the east. As I sat comfortably in my chair, a hummingbird came to visit the flowers in the early light. Another pleasant experience was waiting for the plane beside the dirt airstrip at Navajo Mountain. There was not a soul around. I listened to pinyon squawkers and ravens. I watched ants. The restroom was however far out into the brush I felt comfortable to go. I am becoming more patient at waiting. Or, maybe Im just becoming more resigned to it. Im getting better at shopping waiting, and I dont really mind waiting in highway construction. Having become an old guy, and feeling more and more peripheral to life, there isnt much impetuosity anymore. Sitting and waiting (except for waiting room waiting) is no big deal. I like waiting for the full moon to rise, or for the light to be just right for a photograph, or for a sunrise. And, fishing waiting beats waiting room waiting anytime. lichen-covere- , . by Sam Taylor must admit that spent more time by the fire than on the ice. Hot dogs and marshmallows toasted on the fire served for lunch. The trip back to the little sloughs where the vehicles were parked at the end of the afternoon wasnt so fun. As the day proceeded, the warm winter Moab weather heated up. You could hear the loud cracking of the ice all around. A couple of players even broke through and had to be pulled out of the cold water by friends. As we followed the trail back to the parking area, we had to cross some of the smaller ponds. You could even see the surface of the ice swaying as the group skated across. When it was my turn to cross the thin and crumbling ice, t jacked up my courage and headed out as fast as could, knowing that I was not going to make it without crashing through into the cold water. Fortunately, that didnt happen, and made it back to the vehicles completely dry, almost. Sally went off to college about the time I entered junior high school. There she became an accomplished, concert-qualitpianist. She lived the rest of her life in Southern California where she taught music in the school systems there, and raised three fine children along with her husband, Bill. But she never lost her love of Moab, and returned frequently on visits. We had a lot of fun talking about the days when she had to put up with me tagging along with her and her teenage friends. Shes been gone a long time now, and I still miss her desperately. Her last visit to Moab, not long after Bills death, the two of us packed a lunch and went to Grand View Point. We recalled many of those early days as we sat and spent the afternoon feeding small pieces of tuna fish sandwich to the chipmunks. Growing up in Moab is something you never get over. Some say kids never get the red sand out of their shoes when they move away to face the big outside world. Fortunately for me, I stayed. I decided while serving in the military in Japan for an extended time, that Moab was the only place in the world where I would be happy. And sure have been. Sally was the youngest of my four sisters, and was six years older than me. Hence, she was the only one around when I was growing up, and as such had to suffer having a younger brother hanging around when she was doing her thing in Grand County High School. We had a lovincf, but guarded, relationship during that time. My three older sisters were away in college, and they were more like mothers than sisters when they made their frequent trips home. I followed Sally and her girlfriends wherever went. one evening when they took a recall they full of hot pinto beans and lard bucket covered hamhock to the top of the red hill north of town for an evening supper. I naturally had to go along, even though it was obvious Sally didnt much want me around, especially when they had to lead me down off the steep sandstone cliffs when it got dark. Another trip was down to the sloughs for an ice skating venture on a cold January day. The skating was perfect, almost. It had been cold enough to freeze the big and little sloughs and high schoolers flocked there for hockey games among the reeds and willows. It was the first time had ever been to the big sloughs a fairly large body of water on the north side of the big swamp. There was an ice trail from the little sloughs to its bigger arid deeper brother to the north. The trail went from pond to pond through the reeds and swamp grass before ending at that large and frightful lake. had to try out the new pair of iceskates had gotten for Christmas, complete with shoes athad merely tached. My old of bottom street on shoes and the my clamped of weren't very fashionable. Sally, course, had a new pair of figure skates with notches in the toes in front of the rest of the blades, so she could tiptoe through maneuvers. The older teenagers put up with me because my Mother had insisted that Sally take me along. The outing was delightful, and the high school hockey game was fast and furious, with players dropping out occasionally to warm up by the bonfire they had going among the swamp willow trees. I tag-alon- I I g . y I - I I hand-me-dow- ns High Country News I I I Writers on the Range Give a child the gift of a strenuous by Mike Beagle It was late fall, and my daughter and I stood at the bottom of a brushy, 306-focliff and talus slope ovet looking Blue Lake , ot in southern Oregolis Sky Lake's Wilderness. For me, it was a short climb. For a little girl much smaller than me, the hill looked downright colossal. But I knew something about my daughter that she is only beginning to learn: her potential. As a high school teacher and coach over the last 15 years, I've made some disheartening observations regarding the health and welfare of 'our society's children. Kids are perhaps the best reflection of America's culture. I've seen too many kids influenced by too much television. I've seen too many kids hooked by commercials advertising extra value meals and flashy technological advancements to make our lives easier. I've seen too many kids too eager for motorized equipment that can get us there faster. You've probably seen the statistics. Obesity is rampant among American youngsters. Once they've learned bad eating and exercise habits as children, they will likely carry those habits into adulthood. ' I don't need the statistics. I've seen it on the faces and bodies of too many kids. C'mon, I told my little girl. You can do all-terra- in it!. . She looked dubious. We both remembered all too well a similar day when she was 4 years old, spent fr shwhacking around a nearby wilderness lake. This is the worst day of my life! she protested that day. I remember holding my laughter and thinking to myself, if only you could be so fortunate. So we began scrambling up the hill, pulling ourselves using the thick brush as handholds. I kept her safely right in front of me. Step here, I guided her. Grab that branch there. There you go! It is no coincidence that the more is better message that saturates kids lives, correlates with their poor health. The easy way has caused a disconnection with the natural world, while shortening the potential of their lives. I don't think its any coincidence that while hand-over-han- tmes nirepen&ent ISSN 1538-183- 8 (UPS) Entered as Second class Matter at the Post Office at Moab, Utah under the Act of March 3, 1897. Second class postage paid at Moab, Utah 84532. Official City and County Newspaper. Published each Thursday at: 35 East Center Street, Moab, Grand County, Utah 84532 6309-200- 0) address: editormoabtimes.com e-m-ail Postmaster: Send changes of address to: The 435-259-75- RO. Box 1 29, Moab, UT 84532 Times-lndepende- or FAX 435-259-77- Marjorie Miller Jeannine V Wait . . -- . UTAH Circulation Manager, T--l Maps Press, Production Manager Staff Writer Contributing Writer Contributing Writer Contributing Writer Contributing Writer Dorothy Anderson Jose Santana, Jed Taylor Ron Drake Ron Georg Oliver Harris A.J. Long The Times-lndepende- nt, your community newspaper Mail Room Supervisor - Backshop Castle Valley Columnist Columnist Columnist Distribution J published weekly, with breaking news updated on the web at www.moabtimes.com V . i , ., . desk-boun- Get the scoop from a reliable source PRESS ASSOCIATION Samuel J. and Adrien F. Taylor, Publishers Adrien F. Taylor, Editor Sadie Warner, Assistant Editor . Zane Taylor Carrie Switzer Lisa Church Jeff Richards our kids become less in control of their own in touch 'with less health, they aret becoming . , . I. nature. For my family, getting away from the bustle of life and commercialism has meant traveling to land that has changed little over the last few centuries: wilderness. Whether backpacking into the Sky Lake's Wilderness nearby, tossing a fly into a stream or lake in the Rockies, or pursuing blue grouse with a shotgun, getting back to the natural world has been a challenge for my two young children but a confidence booster as well. Though at times it comes under protest, they know that their comfort zones can always be extended. American families deserve no, American families need places where they can get away and work hard in healthy exercise. We need wilderness. We need rivers and lakes, clean and d free. It pains me when politicians label people who advocate for wild country and a clean and healthy environment as extremists. To me, theres nothing more traditional, wholesome and American than a vigorous backcountry adventure, no matter how small. I am grateful my father instilled in me at a very young age an appreciation of natural settings, overcoming obstacles and spirited adventure. Former President Theodore Roosevelt termed that lifestyle the strenuous life. My daughter and I were getting a good taste of the strenuous life as we clawed our way up the hillside. She paused to catch her breath, and I thought she might balk at climbing further. But when she got her wind back, she pressed on. As we reached the top of the cliff to peer down at Blue Lake, my daughter's expression said it qll. She radiated confidence, vigor and pure joy. It was an experience that matured her beyond her years. Daddy, that was a lot easier than it looked, she said. Can we do it again? What a difference four years can make. Now, it looks like I'll be sweating in my future, following her lead. We should all be so lucky. Mike Beagle is a contributor to Writers on the Range, a service of High Country News (hcn.org). A former U.S. Army artillery officer, he is a teacher in Oregon's Rogue River Basin and serves as chairman of the nonprofit Backcountry Hunters and Anglers. NATIONAL NEWSPAPER ASSOCIATION Member Tom Taylor d, life . . . |