Please know that this is not about Iraq...it is about war.
My son-in-law, JR, posted a statement, well more than a statemen, on his blog, http://jarcaines.blogspot.com/, this week that really has caused me to revisit a difficult subject; Is war ever right? He had watched the movie "Gandhi" and it had prompted him to ask a few questions. Difficult ones I might add.
Following is my reply to his wondering about war, being a follower of Christ's teachings and our choosing violence over other alternatives. This is a REALLY BIG SUBJECT and it would take volumes and perhaps even a life time or two to really do the subject a fair hearing.
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If you do not stand up to the bully next door you end up loosing everything. Should we become like Chamberlin and appease the Hitler's of our time and risk loosing our nation in the process?
There is a distinct difference between how we, collectivly as a nation, and how we, as Christian brothers and sisters, should act and react. It takes a nation to stand up to the bully who imparts great injustice, even unto death, on his citizens.
Love is very powerful and the desire to avoid conflict is heightened all the more by Christ's love in us, and yet, love, even Christ's love, without backbone, isn't love at all. It all too quickly degenerates into cowardice.
Once lines are drawn in the sand, and that line is crossed, action is required to make the bully back off. I don't think that we can go very far before we must draw some lines in the sand whether it is a personal boundry or one with global multi-national implications.
Even Gandhi drew a line in the sand and when the time came and he had to act he chose a "war" of sorts. He did not choose to "war" with violence but he did choose to "go to war" non the less. He was incredibly successful in influencing change in India.
In the end it was the one thing he choose not to do the was his undoing, showing us just how confusing and difficult these decisions are.
No sane person likes or wants violence a part of their life, yet it all too often happens, even within our own families.
The conflict we are engaged in in Iraq is not a "War on Terror" as we hear daily, but a "War on Terrorist" (those who would commit indescriminate terror). These are people who find pleasure in beheading their foe and do not mind blowing themselves up o further their cause.
It is not a war against the Iraqi people but a war on those who would destroy the Iraqi people. This is a VERY BIG difference.
What outcome would you really expect to achieve by turning the other cheek?
JR, please know that I am not a proponent of war. However, there are times when it is necessary. Alas, all too often it seems to be implimented way too soon.
And as Brandon so aptly put it: "War Sucks."
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
My Finest Fish
Well, here it is ... the world record Artic Char from my 2001 trip to Alaska. Can't tell you where I caught it though. But it was certified by a weigh-master and by the State of Alaska Department of Fish and Game.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Face to Face with One of Wyomings Finest
We were fishing on my favorite stretch of water in Wyoming. A small creek that winds its way through a wonderful canyon filled with wild flowers and critters and then exits on to a flat plain. It winds like a slithering snake, back and forth through the valley below. You can fish what seems like miles of stream and actually only move along a few hundred yards.
I had just finished my turn catching a beautiful 15-inch brown trout on my third and last attempt. My first try ended with the fly stuck in the bushes somewhere behind me and my second was just a simple missed strike. But this one…the third attempt was right on. Wooshh…and a tight line. “Fish on,” I yelled. No one cared but me.
My fishing buddies had a bet going on whether I would be able to land the fish. Of course you have to know that they are going to do just about anything to make sure I won’t land it. Things like throw a net and try to break off the fish. Goose me while I intently try to reel it in or make loud noises that would make me jump out of my skin and make a big mistake causing the fish to go free.
These guys are supposed to be my friends…and yet this is how they behave. Well, you have to know…that…humm…yah, you need to know…I’m just as bad to them.
John had to slide down the overgrown bank and go knee deep in the soft, silt and muck to net my beautiful fish. Loren, on the other hand, had already started climbing up the bank on to the next bend.
“Oh Shit!” was all we heard. John jumped up out of the muck onto the bank in one leap. It normally would have taken a few minutes of tugging and pushing just to get his feet loose with the real possibility of having to go back down to retrieve a boot left behind in the mud. I, on the other hand, just needed to turn from my crouched down position to see what had spooked Loren so much.
There he was. Sliding back down the bank, running backwards across the water, with his rod going one way and hat another. He was moving so fast that his feet didn’t even leave marks on the stream bottom. His face said it all. FEAR. Terror. Intense concern for his own safety. He wasn’t thinking about us, just himself. Nice guy for a friend.
And there it was. Just a little fellow, oh, maybe 4 to 5 feet long. You would have thought it might have been those big, long teeth that causes all the commotion but it was the baby rattle he held in his tail that caused the most fear. It was here that Loren came face to face with a 5-foot Rocky Mountain Rattle Snake!
I had just finished my turn catching a beautiful 15-inch brown trout on my third and last attempt. My first try ended with the fly stuck in the bushes somewhere behind me and my second was just a simple missed strike. But this one…the third attempt was right on. Wooshh…and a tight line. “Fish on,” I yelled. No one cared but me.
My fishing buddies had a bet going on whether I would be able to land the fish. Of course you have to know that they are going to do just about anything to make sure I won’t land it. Things like throw a net and try to break off the fish. Goose me while I intently try to reel it in or make loud noises that would make me jump out of my skin and make a big mistake causing the fish to go free.
These guys are supposed to be my friends…and yet this is how they behave. Well, you have to know…that…humm…yah, you need to know…I’m just as bad to them.
John had to slide down the overgrown bank and go knee deep in the soft, silt and muck to net my beautiful fish. Loren, on the other hand, had already started climbing up the bank on to the next bend.
“Oh Shit!” was all we heard. John jumped up out of the muck onto the bank in one leap. It normally would have taken a few minutes of tugging and pushing just to get his feet loose with the real possibility of having to go back down to retrieve a boot left behind in the mud. I, on the other hand, just needed to turn from my crouched down position to see what had spooked Loren so much.
There he was. Sliding back down the bank, running backwards across the water, with his rod going one way and hat another. He was moving so fast that his feet didn’t even leave marks on the stream bottom. His face said it all. FEAR. Terror. Intense concern for his own safety. He wasn’t thinking about us, just himself. Nice guy for a friend.
And there it was. Just a little fellow, oh, maybe 4 to 5 feet long. You would have thought it might have been those big, long teeth that causes all the commotion but it was the baby rattle he held in his tail that caused the most fear. It was here that Loren came face to face with a 5-foot Rocky Mountain Rattle Snake!
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
A Moment on Mystery Creek
Loren, John and I had been fishing our favorite water – a little stream in central Wyoming just outside of Ten Sleep. I call it our favorite because every trip we take somewhere else we always say “why didn’t we go to …”
I’m not going to tell you much more in the way of a name other than to call it “Mystery Creek”. Mystery creek runs through a beautiful valley, slowly meandering along for a few miles. It runs through a golf course and then through a number of ranches. At one point it goes through a canyon that is truly gorgeous. Tall walls, rough ledges, holes and caves for fanged animals to hid in and brightly dressed, red striped, rainbow trout and black backed brown trout.
Before I tell you too much more you need to understand our concept of fishing. It’s called Tag Fishing: One person goes up front fishing while two guys lag behind offering encouragement and distractions along with a lot of friendly ridicule. You get three strikes and you’re out. Three attempts to catch a fish. That’s all. If you cast into the bushes or hang up in the weeds it counts against you. If that happens you grab one of your buddy’s rod and continue fishing. Once you catch a fish you go to the back of the line.
At some point in the early afternoon, Loren and I separated from John for a while. We went right along the inside of an island and he went left. We were fishing our way through some rough over grown banks, sliding down into the water to work our way up stream to a really nice flat above a log jam dam. From past years fishing here we knew that there were some 20” brown trout that resided in the back of the flat. Loren went across first.
He doesn’t know it yet but since he is almost a foot taller than me I let him go first so I know if it is safe for me to cross or if I should look for a shallower pathway. I usually need to find another way. If I just blindly follow I almost always fill my waders with that cold water. His waist is almost at my arm pits. Even with my hands held high above my head, walking on my tippy-toes I can’t cross at the same place. Maybe I should adopt jumping on to his back and riding across. Now there’s a thought.
Loren was on the north bank intently fishing some pocket water and I was slowly approaching behind when I saw a HUGE boil WHAT A FISH!
I heard even before I watched Loren’s chest fill with air. I knew a scream was about to be pressed out of his lungs even as he lunged back with his arms flailing the air around him. The only other time I ever saw him move so quickly was when he was confronted nose to nose with a western rattlesnake while climbing out of this very same creek.
Actually it was more like his lungs were FILLING with air. Gulping nonexistent air in an attempt to scream but nothing ever came. I could however, hear his heart pounding. Funny thing was, this is the wrong reaction for a truly huge fish!
A moment later it was my turn. That same heart stopping, thunderous, gasping for air was all mine. There it was directly in front of me – coming my way at break neck speed. All I could do was stand there paralyzed, gasping for air that would not fill my lungs. It swam right between my legs, bumping against my legs, almost knocking me over.
It took a full two minutes before I could talk a coherent sentence. It was another three minutes or so before my heart stopped pounding enough for me to be able to concentrate enough to get out of the water and check my pants.
Loren said, “Did you see that!” I slowly replied, “That was the largest beaver I have ever seen!”
I’m not going to tell you much more in the way of a name other than to call it “Mystery Creek”. Mystery creek runs through a beautiful valley, slowly meandering along for a few miles. It runs through a golf course and then through a number of ranches. At one point it goes through a canyon that is truly gorgeous. Tall walls, rough ledges, holes and caves for fanged animals to hid in and brightly dressed, red striped, rainbow trout and black backed brown trout.
Before I tell you too much more you need to understand our concept of fishing. It’s called Tag Fishing: One person goes up front fishing while two guys lag behind offering encouragement and distractions along with a lot of friendly ridicule. You get three strikes and you’re out. Three attempts to catch a fish. That’s all. If you cast into the bushes or hang up in the weeds it counts against you. If that happens you grab one of your buddy’s rod and continue fishing. Once you catch a fish you go to the back of the line.
At some point in the early afternoon, Loren and I separated from John for a while. We went right along the inside of an island and he went left. We were fishing our way through some rough over grown banks, sliding down into the water to work our way up stream to a really nice flat above a log jam dam. From past years fishing here we knew that there were some 20” brown trout that resided in the back of the flat. Loren went across first.
He doesn’t know it yet but since he is almost a foot taller than me I let him go first so I know if it is safe for me to cross or if I should look for a shallower pathway. I usually need to find another way. If I just blindly follow I almost always fill my waders with that cold water. His waist is almost at my arm pits. Even with my hands held high above my head, walking on my tippy-toes I can’t cross at the same place. Maybe I should adopt jumping on to his back and riding across. Now there’s a thought.
Loren was on the north bank intently fishing some pocket water and I was slowly approaching behind when I saw a HUGE boil WHAT A FISH!
I heard even before I watched Loren’s chest fill with air. I knew a scream was about to be pressed out of his lungs even as he lunged back with his arms flailing the air around him. The only other time I ever saw him move so quickly was when he was confronted nose to nose with a western rattlesnake while climbing out of this very same creek.
Actually it was more like his lungs were FILLING with air. Gulping nonexistent air in an attempt to scream but nothing ever came. I could however, hear his heart pounding. Funny thing was, this is the wrong reaction for a truly huge fish!
A moment later it was my turn. That same heart stopping, thunderous, gasping for air was all mine. There it was directly in front of me – coming my way at break neck speed. All I could do was stand there paralyzed, gasping for air that would not fill my lungs. It swam right between my legs, bumping against my legs, almost knocking me over.
It took a full two minutes before I could talk a coherent sentence. It was another three minutes or so before my heart stopped pounding enough for me to be able to concentrate enough to get out of the water and check my pants.
Loren said, “Did you see that!” I slowly replied, “That was the largest beaver I have ever seen!”
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
Dirty Sally’s Strawberry Rhubarb Pie
We drove all night changing drivers every three hours. With blood shot eyes peering into the rising morning sun we cruised down the hill into Ten Sleep. From the top of the hill you can view the entire settlement – all 23 buildings on Main Street, the High School and a number of old-time residences.
Ten Sleep has two restaurants that are open when the cook feels like cooking, three bars and one “Stop-N-Go” market. The only pay phone In town is at the Stop-N-Go and it has a 20 foot cord on the receiver so you can dial the number you want and then sit in your car, out of the weather, to talk. At times there are three cars lined up waiting their turn to use the phone.
Perhaps the best establishment in town is Dirty Sally’s Saloon. You enter through good, old-fashioned, swinging saloon doors. I don’t think I would be able to guess how many cowboys have passed through those doors.
At some point in time the saloon was purchased by the shapely Kitty Russell who played the operator of the Long Branch Saloon on Gunsmoke for so many years. Her TV name was Dirty Sally.
I mentioned that this was perhaps the “best” establishment in town for a number of reasons, not the least of which is the entrance. This is real western – swing doors and clapboard exterior. There are none of the Marlboro or Coors advertising signs plastered on the out side – you know – 6-packs for $6.99 stuff. This is a classy place.
As you enter there is a small general store that has an amazing amount of supplies in it. The kind of stuff you wish you could get at the local hardware store but they don’t know were to get it stuff. Off to the side, around the corner and through a doorway, is the gun/knife/brass knuckles/everything to get you in trouble stuff. There is an amazing collection of blow-em-up stuff in there. I know this because the gun room is where you have to go if you want to get a fishing license. Oh, yeah, they have some fishing supplies there too.
At the back of the main room is the bar with the local gossip page is posted on the wall – you know – the bounced check list – there for all who enter to see.
It is here, at the bar, that three city boys made there entrance into the folklore of Ten Sleep. You see, we started something new in this town that had not seen anything new since the introduction of the automobile.
Having purchased our fishing licenses we sundered up the bar and asked about getting a strawberry rhubarb pie for dinner. The young gal behind the counter told us that there was none available but she could get one for tomorrow if we ordered it today. We immediately placed our order. Her next comment caused each of us to get a little funny feeling in our stomachs. “Ya’ll know that our pies are made by the girls in the home economics class at the high school, don’t you?”
Gulp. Decision time – pie or no pie. We said, “well I guess we’ll just have to give it a try on one condition.” “What’s that,” she replied. “Double or nothing,” said John.
“What?” she questioned. “You know, we’ll flip you for it – double or nothing,” said John. She got a funny look on her face and said she’d be right back. A moment later she returned with the manager (her husband) and asked us to explain John’s proposition to him. He got a big belly laugh out of it and said “Sure, you’re on.”
We lost! The total price for the complete strawberry rhubarb pie, after doubling the original amount was $5! Loren chimed in, “No way! We’re not paying that much! It costs more than that for a single slice from where we come from.” I think that we settled on $7.50 for that first pie.
It was time to go fishing…and so we did.
Ten Sleep has two restaurants that are open when the cook feels like cooking, three bars and one “Stop-N-Go” market. The only pay phone In town is at the Stop-N-Go and it has a 20 foot cord on the receiver so you can dial the number you want and then sit in your car, out of the weather, to talk. At times there are three cars lined up waiting their turn to use the phone.
Perhaps the best establishment in town is Dirty Sally’s Saloon. You enter through good, old-fashioned, swinging saloon doors. I don’t think I would be able to guess how many cowboys have passed through those doors.
At some point in time the saloon was purchased by the shapely Kitty Russell who played the operator of the Long Branch Saloon on Gunsmoke for so many years. Her TV name was Dirty Sally.
I mentioned that this was perhaps the “best” establishment in town for a number of reasons, not the least of which is the entrance. This is real western – swing doors and clapboard exterior. There are none of the Marlboro or Coors advertising signs plastered on the out side – you know – 6-packs for $6.99 stuff. This is a classy place.
As you enter there is a small general store that has an amazing amount of supplies in it. The kind of stuff you wish you could get at the local hardware store but they don’t know were to get it stuff. Off to the side, around the corner and through a doorway, is the gun/knife/brass knuckles/everything to get you in trouble stuff. There is an amazing collection of blow-em-up stuff in there. I know this because the gun room is where you have to go if you want to get a fishing license. Oh, yeah, they have some fishing supplies there too.
At the back of the main room is the bar with the local gossip page is posted on the wall – you know – the bounced check list – there for all who enter to see.
It is here, at the bar, that three city boys made there entrance into the folklore of Ten Sleep. You see, we started something new in this town that had not seen anything new since the introduction of the automobile.
Having purchased our fishing licenses we sundered up the bar and asked about getting a strawberry rhubarb pie for dinner. The young gal behind the counter told us that there was none available but she could get one for tomorrow if we ordered it today. We immediately placed our order. Her next comment caused each of us to get a little funny feeling in our stomachs. “Ya’ll know that our pies are made by the girls in the home economics class at the high school, don’t you?”
Gulp. Decision time – pie or no pie. We said, “well I guess we’ll just have to give it a try on one condition.” “What’s that,” she replied. “Double or nothing,” said John.
“What?” she questioned. “You know, we’ll flip you for it – double or nothing,” said John. She got a funny look on her face and said she’d be right back. A moment later she returned with the manager (her husband) and asked us to explain John’s proposition to him. He got a big belly laugh out of it and said “Sure, you’re on.”
We lost! The total price for the complete strawberry rhubarb pie, after doubling the original amount was $5! Loren chimed in, “No way! We’re not paying that much! It costs more than that for a single slice from where we come from.” I think that we settled on $7.50 for that first pie.
It was time to go fishing…and so we did.
Thursday, December 29, 2005
We, You and Me, Are Thinking Creatures
I was reading my son-in-law’s blog (http://jarcaines.blogspot.com/) this morning and was really struck by the power that the written word can have in someone’s life. Yours, mine, anyone’s and everyone’s. JR’s blog is all about deep thinking in the realms of spiritual and social responsibility. Heavy stuff for this old man. And, yet, I am really drawn to it.
We, you and me, are thinking creatures and we very seldom have concurrent viewpoints on any issue, particularly spiritual and religious ones. What makes us such interesting individuals is that we ARE different and we DO think differently.
In my life time we have seen the great Socialist experiments in China, and the now defunct USSR, collapse. Experiments that were designed from the start to ensure that all under their influence would look, act and think as one, everyone the same, all the time. It did not work. It could not work.
Mankind was created in our Father’s (God's) image. We were not created as clones, each one looking or thinking the same. We were created as individuals who think, look and act independent of one another. We are wonderfully and gloriously made different from each other on purpose. It is God’s design that we be different, that we THINK different from each other. How special.
Psalms 139: 13-18 says it best:
You made all the delicate, inner parts of my body and knit me together in my mother's womb. Thank you for making me so wonderfully complex! Your workmanship is marvelous--and how well I know it.
You watched me as I was being formed in utter seclusion, as I was woven together in the dark of the womb. You saw me before I was born. Every day of my life was recorded in your book. Every moment was laid out before a single day had passed.
How precious are your thoughts about me, O God! They are innumerable! I can't even count them; they outnumber the grains of sand! And when I wake up in the morning, you are still with me!
My hope is that we all will fight intollerance of opposing viewpoints where ever we see it, that we will fight injustice at every opportunity and even more importantly, that we will support those who pick up the sword to lead us.
We, you and me, are thinking creatures and we very seldom have concurrent viewpoints on any issue, particularly spiritual and religious ones. What makes us such interesting individuals is that we ARE different and we DO think differently.
In my life time we have seen the great Socialist experiments in China, and the now defunct USSR, collapse. Experiments that were designed from the start to ensure that all under their influence would look, act and think as one, everyone the same, all the time. It did not work. It could not work.
Mankind was created in our Father’s (God's) image. We were not created as clones, each one looking or thinking the same. We were created as individuals who think, look and act independent of one another. We are wonderfully and gloriously made different from each other on purpose. It is God’s design that we be different, that we THINK different from each other. How special.
Psalms 139: 13-18 says it best:
You made all the delicate, inner parts of my body and knit me together in my mother's womb. Thank you for making me so wonderfully complex! Your workmanship is marvelous--and how well I know it.
You watched me as I was being formed in utter seclusion, as I was woven together in the dark of the womb. You saw me before I was born. Every day of my life was recorded in your book. Every moment was laid out before a single day had passed.
How precious are your thoughts about me, O God! They are innumerable! I can't even count them; they outnumber the grains of sand! And when I wake up in the morning, you are still with me!
My hope is that we all will fight intollerance of opposing viewpoints where ever we see it, that we will fight injustice at every opportunity and even more importantly, that we will support those who pick up the sword to lead us.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
A Love Story
A True Love Story
I will seek and find you . . .
I shall take you to bed and have my way with you.
I will make you ache, shake & sweat until you moan & groan.
I will make you beg for mercy, beg for me to stop.
I will exhaust you to the point that you will be relieved when I'm finished with you
And, when I am finished, you will be weak for days.
All my love,
The Flu
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