 Wicker in Waikaloa, and you never know what you might find inside. |
 Waterfalls and suspension bridges can’t compete with a garbage can and close-by dirt to throw in it. |
 Crystal-blue ocean and white sand perfect for disposal. |
 Rough utilitarianism with a chain that keeps these drums at the top of the cliff. |
 A parting push before saying “aloha” to the Big Island. |
Photo Album
We’ll Let Elmo Drive for a While
August, 1998
They Have Slides in Hawaii!
August 1, 1998
He’s Not Going to Hit Me with That Is He?
July 30, 1998
Kanaloa at Kona from the Dive Boat
July 30, 1998
Ethan, Obviously Impressed with the Statue of King Kamehameha
July 29, 1998
Shannon Snorkeling at Kahaluu Beach Park
July 28, 1998
Another Exciting Ride
July 4, 1998
Copyright � Eric Smith, 1989-1998, All rights reserved.
Issue 14
| July 4, 1998 | Issue 14 | Orem, Utah |
In this issue:
Casamento
I saw a statistic a couple of months ago that Salt Lake City had accumulated twice the precipitation of Seattle this year. I actually have mushrooms growing in one part of my lawn, and half the corn I planted must have rotted in the ground, too wet and cold to sprout. It seemed like a good time to visit Portland’s pleasant mildness and enjoy the sunshine missing from the desert.
A week after returning from there, while working in my office, Kerry and Melissa Smith came in. Melissa asked how the trip had been, saying she’d heard I’d gone to a wedding while there. Indeed I had. Hers in fact.
There was a large contingency from both families on hand for the wedding, but I’m afraid I missed a lot of the Pratt family introductions while chasing Ethan through Richard and Debra’s house. I was pleased to see some of my own aunts and uncles in town for the wedding, in addition to siblings and parents.
Accomodations
Shannon, Ethan and I stayed with Dad, Evie and Boo-Boo up in Vancouver when we first got there. Ethan had a great time throwing pine cones and exploring the woods. A highlight for me was that Boo-Boo actually liked me.
Boo-Boo is a cockatoo that Dad & Evie have had for years and years. Her normal reaction to me in the past was to hiss and flare her plumage if the thought of moving close to her even started to form in my head. It’s a pretty effective defense mechanism. It leaves you with no doubt that you could require an eye patch if it came right down to it. But she actually walked from the kitchen counter up onto my shoulder, and Dad was as shocked as I was. I was thinking I might just be the shortest route to her perch, so I quickly made my arms a road to there. Later, she even bent over in request to have her head scratched.
Of course, Ethan always finds something to obsess about, and at Dad’s house it was throwing pine cones into a wheelbarrow. He also thought running down a little hill was pretty fun until he ended up with a mouthful of bark dust, but for the most part nothing else in the world existed beyond that wheelbarrow.
We stayed with Mom and Dean for the rest of our trip. Even though there were lots of visitors around, we managed to get Ethan his own room, which is always nice. It’s hard to get him to go back to sleep if he happens to wake at night and sees mama and daddy. Unfortunately, we discovered that the groom didn’t have a place to sleep on the night before his wedding. “Even Ethan has his own room!?” he exclaimed, feeling like a second-class family member.
OK, it wasn’t an unreasonable demand on Kerry’s part, so we agreed to bring Ethan in with us. The only problem was that Ethan was already asleep in his room, and Shannon was already asleep in our room when we figured this out. So Mom and I sneaked into Ethan’s room — or at least sneaked as much as one can when opening a door with a nice haunted house squeak. Somehow Ethan didn’t wake up.
We picked up his portable crib and carried it to the door, but it didn’t fit. There were some video cassette shelves keeping the door from opening all the way, so we had to back up, set the crib down, and move a precarious pile of videos. Finally we got the door open all the way, picked up the crib and headed out. But the crib still didn’t fit. But it was so close, so we just shoved, and it went jerking through, sounding like well, like someone pushing a portable crib through a doorway smaller than the crib. Again, Ethan didn’t flinch.
The next doorway seemed like it was even narrower than the first, but we again jerked and shoved it through. Shannon woke up this time, but Ethan was still oblivious. After Mom left, I closed the door as quietly as I could — not in any mood for an ironic end to this story.
The Ceremony
The wedding ceremony itself took place the next morning in the Portland Temple. There was some controversy about the appropriate attire for the wedding, but it ended up a mix of white and non-white.
President L. Edward Perry performed the ceremony. He gave me my patriarchal blessing many years ago, and probably did the same for most of my siblings. He started off by quoting Bruce R. McConkie expressing the fact that creating eternal families is the most noble cause that two people can undertake. He also talked about the formidable titles taken in marriage of king and queen. He also encouraged Kerry & Melissa to attend the temple once a year with the specific intent to plan their lives together. He also advised them to always remember the things that brought them together in order to keep their marriage strong.
After the ceremony, and all the pictures, we gathered at the church for lunch. We had turned a part of the cultural hall into a garden the night before, and it had more landscaping than my whole yard. We had plenty of time to admire the decorations before lunch, because the newlyweds showed up so late that we finally just ate without them.
Groom & Birthday Girl
June 5, 1998
Shannon and Ethan, along with the Wrathall kids, camped out in the nursery for a lot of the time. After all, there’re toys in there, not to mention a small potty that Ethan thought was neat to sit on.
The reception was later that evening in the same place. Due to some poor planning, it had to compete with an NBA playoff game, but it was still nice. I got to see a lot of people that I vaguely remember. People would say, “Yeah, Eric and I were home teaching companions,” and I would have to say, “Who are you?” I guess I’m pretty horrible about that.
Coincidentally, our neighbors from Utah, the Remers, who we trade babysitting with were also in Portland for a wedding, and they volunteered to baby-sit Ethan during the reception. It seemed strange the way that worked out, but Shannon and I enjoyed being free for a little while.
Ethan’s first visit to the zoo
Also while in Portland, we took the chance to go to the zoo. Ethan had never been to a zoo before, but he’s always really liked animals, so it seemed like a natural thing to do. We went with Phyllis and some of Ethan’s cousins.
Honestly, the zoo could have been completely devoid of animals and Ethan would have enjoyed it almost as much. There were so many places to run around, and interesting things to climb on. He probably spent ten minutes playing with a swinging caf� sign on the sidewalk, pushing his way under the sign and letting it swing back behind him.
I thought he would be impressed with the animals, like the sheer size of the elephants, which he has seen in books and on TV. The elephants were all inside, so when we went into the building, Ethan ran up and said, “Ephant!” then ran right back outside where there were fewer obstacles. Actually, I think he did like the monkeys, and getting to touch some goats was fun.
One interesting thing to me was a sign near the insect zoo: “No smoking. Nicotine is an insecticide.” That reminded me of a billboard I had seen in Aloha, where a man says, “Mind if I smoke?” and a woman responds, “Mind if I die?”
Sometimes as Mormons in Utah, we feel vaguely guilty about this second-hand smoke stuff. It seems like a way to further our religious principles disguised by science. But having worked a summer in an office of smokers, I’m pleased to see people get fed up with it without a religious angle. But I’m straying from the topic a bit here.
It was a really hot day for Portland, and the zoo was packed with people, so we were all exhausted when we finally made it out.
Non-Independence Day
(Written on July 4, 1998)
We went to Orem’s Summerfest last month, which is an annual community event at the big city park. Shannon takes Ethan to that park a lot since it is between my work and our home. We thought Ethan might have fun seeing all the things going on.
There were tents set up with displays, performing groups singing and dancing, rides, and lots of people. Ethan didn’t even notice. He just headed right for his favorite part of the park, the swings.
After swinging for a while, we finally persuaded him to see if there might be something else interesting. He was ready to enter the three-point shooting contest, but we figured we’d let the bigger kids go ahead. Then he saw a ride with little cars that went around in a circle, and he thought that was pretty neat.
In fact, he was ready to pick out his car to ride in, but we didn’t have any tickets yet. So I held him for probably ten minutes while Shannon waited in line for tickets. It seemed more like an hour since Ethan was struggling, wiggling and crying. I almost said to the attendant as the ride was about to start again, “Look, my wife is over in line right there, and I’ll give you my wallet and my car keys as collateral if you’ll just let my son get on now.” But Shannon was so close to the front of the line by that time, I just figured I’d wait until the next ride. Shannon made it over with the tickets and we were all ready to go, when the attendant said, “We’re going to have to shut down for a few minutes. One of the cars is broken.”
I was about ready to have my own tantrum, but we figured we’d try to find something else Ethan might like. There was also a little train ride, so we thought he might settle for that. We waited for the ride to stop, paid our ticket and put Ethan on board. He sat there quietly for a moment while other kids got on, and then panicked. I don’t know if he was realizing that we weren’t going to ride with him, or what, but he was getting out of that train. We timidly asked for our ticket back. He wanted so badly to ride those rides, but couldn’t quite break free of baby-hood.
In desperation, we went to a big inflated trampoline thing, to see if he would finally enjoy something. He loves to jump around on our bed, and even does seat-drops and other little stunts. The sign said he had to be two years old, but oh well. We paid our ticket again, and set him loose. He laughed for about three milliseconds, then was crying again and climbing off. We didn’t even bother asking for that ticket back.
Our next stop was the balloon animal clowns. There wasn’t much of line waiting, so we gave it a shot. Then the clowns announced, “We’re going to have to take a break, because we’re out of balloons.”
Enough. Home was sounding pretty good, so while Shannon went to see if anyone wanted some free ride tickets, Ethan and I headed back toward the swings on the way to the car. He was finally happy — swinging again.
Love,
Copyright � Eric Smith, 1989-1998, All rights reserved.
Photo Album
February – June 1998
Uncle Alan
June 7, 1998
Allison & Emily
June 6, 1998
Daddy, Ethan, Grandpa & Evie
June 4, 1998
Hang on, baby!
May 25, 1998
An Interesting Sensation
May 15, 1998
Mmmm, Sauce!
May 3, 1998
There’s Definitely Something Wrong with This Phone!
April 27, 1998
How About Pancakes This Morning?
April 25, 1998
No Animals Were Harmed in This Production
April 10, 1998
So Many Binkies, So Few Mouths
April 14, 1998
In Toy Heaven at the Wrathalls
March 21, 1998
Off to Work
February 13, 1998
Copyright � Eric Smith, 1989-1998, All rights reserved.
Issue 13
| April 17, 1998 | Issue 13 | Orem, Utah |
In this issue:
How to Alienate Your Readers
In an amazing feat of stupidity, I decided to redo the graphic design of the website. It’s kind of fun when you’re just starting, though. Every font is another possibility – and I happen to have a lot of fonts. Then there is color – color for the logo, color for links in various states of activation, background colors and images, and on and on. And what graphics and gizmos can I add? At least I know that I like drop-shadows, so that part was pretty easy, unless you start to worry about drop-shadow opacity, blur and distance from the shadowed object. So it is fun to start, but usually ends up being a lot of tedious work.
Shannon said that it isn’t good to change layout very much, because it alienates your readers. Probably what alienates them more is not publishing anything new for a few months. I guess I’m going for it all.
Anyway, we’re back to life with plenty of new content to hopefully make it all worthwhile. After all, most people don’t care as much about the layout anyway.
I do want to mention a couple of things, though. First, I’ve used a “frameset” to create the menu to the left now. Notice that it doesn’t scroll with the stuff over here in this part of the screen. Frames can be nice, but they can also be annoying when you want to scroll using the keyboard. In short, if you’re trying to scroll and nothing happens, you probably need to click the mouse over on this part of the screen to get things working.
Also, a cool new feature I’ve added is the automatic e-mail notification when the site changes. This is provided by a third-party, so registering your e-mail address actually sends it to another site. The people that run that other site have a program that checks my site for changes, and sends e-mails to everyone registered when it detects any. I don’t have to do anything other than put the little entry field on my page. I thought it was neat, anyway.
So, do you like the new site better than the old? Don’t worry if you don’t, I’ll probably change it again in a couple of months anyway.
Shoot Ball!
I’m not sure how a seventeen-month-old gains a love of basketball. It certainly didn’t come from the first game he attended, even though it was an exciting over-time contest. He was just a few months old, and it was everything we could do to keep him from screaming in response to the loud noises.
His interest could have come from watching his dad play a couple of times. Probably, though, it really came on a relatively warm winter afternoon after I came home from work. I put on my ball cap, and we went outside to shoot some baskets on the hoop that Shannon had gotten me for Valentine’s Day a few weeks before. Even holding Ethan up as high as I could, he couldn’t come close to dropping the ball through the full-height rim. But fortunately, we had a couple of plastic planting pots that would support a basketball’s circumference, and he was happy to drop the ball into them. Provided, that is, that I took at least a couple of shots on the big rim while holding him under one arm.
The next few evenings, Ethan seemed very determined that I put on my ball cap when I got home from work. It was his way of saying that it was time to go out and shoot some baskets.
Those experiences were cemented by a day when we went across the street to the neighbor’s house. A couple of boys were playing “Around the World” on a lowered rim, and between their shots I would hold Ethan up so he could dunk a mini-basketball. After that, if we were ever in the front yard when someone was shooting over there, he would point at the player with not just the single-handed point of interest, but the double-handed point of idolization and awe. It was very hard to get him back in the house after that.
He also was hard to deter when the weather was bad, and even managed to enjoy “shooting” in spite of being pegged with a full-sized ball on an awkward rebound from a missed shot by dad, and a direct pelting from an air-ball by mom.
Ethan, by this time, had started saying, “shoot” a lot, and occasionally, “shoot ball”. Sometimes his pronunciation wasn’t too good, and a little vowel variation sounded like a stream of profanity coming from the back seat as we would drive down the road.
I finally decided that he needed his own hoop – not only to keep him on our side of the street, but to let him play when his parents didn’t feel like going outside. But I didn’t want one of those plastic toy hoops fit for cartoon character players, I wanted something that looked like a real standard – only smaller.
We found just the thing at a sporting goods store, and Ethan was throwing the ball through the hoop as soon as it was out of the box. That did make it somewhat difficult to assemble with him constantly shooting, but I eventually got the thing set up with a two-foot rim that’s just perfect for Ethan’s favorite dunk shot.
He was in heaven. He kept throwing the ball through the undersized rim, and I was pleased that my chosen set-up rewarded him with a completely authentic net swish on each shot.
It was hard to hold him down when he needed his pants changed, but when we were finished, I thought I would test him. As you might have read before, Ethan loves to throw things in the garbage. Especially the big garbage can out in the garage. So I offered him his dirty diaper and asked him if he wanted to throw it in the garbage.
I have to admit I was a tiny bit disappointed when he immediately came to get the diaper. Maybe he really was a garbage man at heart. But then he ran with the diaper back to the hoop and slam-dunked it.
Public Performances
I’ve been taking piano lessons for about a year and a half now. My teacher is a guy in our ward, Robert, who teaches in the evenings. A few months ago, Shannon asked him when there was going to be a recital. Shortly thereafter, Robert was assigning all his students a piece to perform, and the recital was scheduled.
We had it just a couple of weeks ago, and I was so tempted to announce to all the other students they could thank my wife for having to play in public.
It really wasn’t too big of a deal, though. There were only about six of us playing, and the audience was almost entirely parents. Shannon was my mom, complete with the video camera. Oh, and she pinned a daisy to my lapel as a boutonniere that everyone thought would squirt water when they saw it – it was April Fool’s Day after all.
I was at least twice the age of all the other performers, but at least I wasn’t old and outclassed. I played Reverie, by Peter Tchaikovsky. I found a MIDI version of it that you can listen to, but I like my interpretation better. If I could arrange to get my piano and computer closer together, I’d do my own recording.
I was nervous that playing the song had become so subconscious that I would get up there and blank out right in the middle, but I managed to play the whole song with only one mistake that I was aware of. There was a frightening time near the end where I couldn’t remember if I had already played a certain part, or if I was supposed to play it then. It is kind of like leading a hymn in church that has a chorus, and getting to the end of a verse, not remembering which verse you just sang. But I think I played it right. I’ll have to look at the video tape someday to be sure.
Easter at Ethan’s
It is the day after Easter. We had a very nice holiday. Our bishop postponed all pre-church meetings, which normally begin around 10 a.m., until 12:10. So we had plenty of time to hunt for baskets and even had a family breakfast.
I hid baskets for Ethan and Eric and they seemed to enjoy both the basket and the hunt. Ethan found his basket hidden under the piano and seemed to enjoy the jelly beans. He was a bit surprised that we were actually letting him eat candy along with breakfast.
After Ethan found his basket we said, “Help Daddy find his basket.” Ethan took Eric’s hand, like he knew exactly where he should look, and led him upstairs. We assumed Ethan planned to search upstairs for the Easter basket. Instead, Ethan led Eric directly to the basket ball hoop (already mentioned in this edition) in his room. Ethan gave up the search for Easter baskets and began shooting baskets.
Eventually we got both of the basketball lovers back downstairs and resumed the Easter basket hunt. In years past, Eric has often found his basket amazingly quickly. I sometimes think that when Eric appears to be having some deep philosophical thought, he’s really pondering good hiding places for Easter baskets. After not too much searching, he found his basket hidden in the kitchen.
Square Pizza
My boss asked me if I wanted to go to a conference about XML last month. I normally don’t get too excited about conferences, but this one was in Seattle, so I said I would go with an ulterior motive.
I took the chance to bring Shannon and Ethan with me so we could visit Kent and Phyllis and the kids. So while I spent the days in fascinating technical lectures, Shannon and Ethan had fun with the Wrathalls.
The last day of our stay was a highlight for me, because I didn’t have any meetings, and we got to go visit Kayla and Jared’s school. We had lunch with Kayla, and the cafeteria brought back memories of earlier years. I don’t remember it being quite so noisy though.
We picked a good day — the menu included pizza. Seeing the kids get their lunch, I noticed that the pizza looked like real pizza — you know, cooked on a round pan and everything, not like the square slabs of pizza-like stuff I was used to in school. But, as it turned out, it really was cooked on a square pan. The cook just had a clever cutting technique that made it look real. It tasted alright, too. It was also popcorn day, so I really did well.
I noticed that not many of the kids got the green beans or other side dishes. Come to think of it, those frivolous extras cut into recess time. So we were the last ones in the cafeteria after everyone else had run out to play.
Kayla took us on a tour of the school after lunch, and Ethan was a bundle of imminent destruction. There were just too many little crafts lying around.
Love,
Copyright � Eric Smith, 1989-1998, All rights reserved.
Issue 12
| February 5, 1998 | Issue 12 | Orem, Utah |
Mom called last Sunday to say that Grandpa Norman had passed away. It wasn’t much of a surprise since she had told me during the previous week that his health was quickly failing. I was a little sad, but knowing that ninety-seven years was a long life, and that he was reunited with his wife, made his passing far from tragic.
The Trip
A bunch of us from Utah piled into a couple of vans to make the trip to California for Grandpa’s memorial (it was not a funeral, as Mom says). It has been quite a while since I’ve been on a car trip that long – it took about ten hours – but I actually enjoyed it. Anita and Lenore did all the driving on the way down, so it was a time for me to relax, read a novel and munch on Doritos.
We arrived at Uncle David’s house in Chino Friday evening, and I started an oft-repeated process of re-introducing myself to relatives I haven’t seen in a lot of years. We had some pizza, and watched the last half of Escape from LA. The movie was pretty lame, but there was some novelty in the fact that we had just arrived in the area it is set in. Linda was away at a Sweet Adelines retreat, so Cheryl acted as hostess and found us all places to sleep. My cousins have a higher tolerance for lack of sleep, so I was one of the first to snuggle under some blankets on the couch.
Saturday morning, we got spiffed up and headed for Long Beach. I wore my charcoal, banker stripe suit, which seemed appropriate even though I’m beginning to really dislike it. I think the last time I wore it was for the Mount Timpanogos Temple dedication in 1996. I could have sworn that I stopped growing on my mission, but this suit seems to fit a slightly shorter person.
The Service
The memorial service was held at the Long Beach Fourth Ward Chapel, which is where Grandpa served as bishop for several years. There was a viewing in the Relief Society room, and we were there early enough that I could spend a little time alone with Grandpa’s so, so still body. Even so, I expected him to give me some advice at some point.
Mom, Dean, Phyllis and Jeff showed up after a little while, so it was nice to see some immediate family in addition to all the cousins, aunts and uncles.
After a standing room only family prayer, the service started with a rendition of Families Can Be Together Forever by all the grandkids present.
The services had a nice feeling to it – there were some fun stories about grandpa, like a time he and Uncle Dick went to Home Depot a couple of years ago. Grandpa paid with a check, so the clerk wanted to see his driver license. After looking at it, the clerk said, “Hey, they forgot to put your birth date on here. It just says ’00’.” Uncle Dick explained, “No that’s correct – he was born in 1900.” The clerk was shocked and proclaimed to the rest of the people waiting in line, “This man is 96 years old!” Grandpa then turned and waved like a celebrity.
There was also a fair amount said about Grandpa’s role in overseeing much of the construction of the chapel we were in. When it was remodeled a few years back, a demolition crew started working on knocking down the steeple. They thought it would just take a couple of shots with the wrecking ball, but ended up taking a couple of days of pounding before it finally relented.
Toward the end, my cousin Dan sang a nice solo of How Great Thou Art, and I was kind of wishing I could get up there and add some tenor. He did wonderfully, but it would have been fun to join in.
I was one of the pallbearers, so I helped carry the casket to the hearse. There was a heavy rain falling.
The drive to the cemetery was though the side streets of Long Beach with police motorcycles giving escort and blocking traffic. They had a small tent set up graveside, but the rain had pretty much stopped by then. The proceedings there were short and sweet, with cousin Dalan doing the dedication.
We headed back to the church for a luncheon after that, and I was thinking the whole way that it was going to be sandwiches. I was so pleased that it was potluck.
The Nostalgia Tour
After the suits gave way to jeans, we drove over to Grandma and Grandpa’s old house. It looked like it always did when we used to come down in visit in the summers when I was young. I remember loading up in the car for the 1000 mile trip from Portland, finally getting to look at the books and activities that Mom had gotten us to pass the time.
We were supposed to pick up a cedar chest to bring back to Aunt Jean, which we found back in Grandpa’s workshop. Grandpa’s normally neat garden was a tangle of grass, and the path was strewn with branches. The older cousins found that the smell of the workshop brought back a lot of memories. It just smelled musty to me, but I guess the workshop had always been off-limits when I was there.
We drove around the block and saw that there are still some horses around, and took a peek at the catwalk. The catwalk, which goes over a busy road and under the freeway, was always an adventure. As Kerry said, it’s like a whole new world on the other end of the catwalk. I remember a dusty field with “grasshopper” oil wells pumping. I also remember cutting my foot on some glass in the catwalk once. I think our idea of first aid at the time was to catch the blood in a fast food box so it wouldn’t get on the cement.
When we used to visit in the summers, we would frequently spend time at Grandma and Grandpa’s house, but we looked forward to staying with the Taylors as well. They liked it when we came, too, because we were their Disneyland Cousins. They lived just down the road from the Magic Kingdom, but didn’t get to go unless we were there visiting.
We drove to their old house in Garden Grove, and where Grandma and Grandpa’s house was instantly recognizable, the old Taylor house looked totally different. I remember it being green, but it is blue now, and the landmark tree in front was gone. We used to climb the tree a lot, and at night watch the Disneyland fireworks from there. We didn’t go around back to see if the clubhouse is still there. The new owners probably thought it was weird enough to have two van loads of people stopping in front and taking pictures.
The last stop in Garden Grove was In-n-Out Burger, and from there we drove out to Dick and Barbara’s house.
There we had all the cousins assembled, and we all got reacquainted. At the end of the night I could name everyone and their relationships.
After another night on Uncle David’s sofa, I was ready to head home again. The trip home was uneventful, but I had to drive for a while, so I didn’t quite finish my book.
All in all, I was happy that I went. I missed Shannon and Ethan, but it was great to see family again.
One final, fond memory of Grandpa is having him seal Shannon and I in the Jordan River Temple. We were so glad that he could do that for us.
Grandma & Grandpa Norman
August 8, 1986
Love,
Eric James Smith, Ed.
Copyright (c) Eric Smith, 1989-1998, All rights reserved.
Issue 11
| December 25, 1997 | Issue 11 | Orem, Utah |
In this issue:
Dear Santa…
Boss’ Note: Ethan was wandering around with a pen and paper on the day we were going to see Santa, so I thought he must want to write him a letter.
Dear Santa,
I’ve been very good this year.
I would like a new binkie, friends for Bear, fewer naps, more candy, my own TV, access to electrical outlets.
Respectfully Yours,
Ethan J. Smith
Faith, Intellect and Christmas
Editor’s Note: This was my hometeaching message for the month, but hey, if I’m going to spend a lot of time writing something, it’ll probably find its way into the Smithy.
We live daily by faith that our deepest convictions are true. But as we know from the scriptures, “Faith is not to have a perfect knowledge,” and because of that there is always an opening for the wedging penetration of doubt.
For some people, the uncertainty is unacceptable. The lack of tangible evidence in a society that exalts logic and reason makes religion “unreasonable”. To agnostic and atheistic intellectuals, so talented in the world’s wisdom, religion is a crutch for the less analytically gifted. But faith is also a talent.
Do you think there are people in the world without the mental facilities to understand calculus? Such a person might berate himself for being slow. Yet some people lack the spiritual talent to have faith in Jesus Christ, and instead of saying, “I am faithless” they say, “Faith is folly”.
That faith and intelligence can co-exist is clear – we’ve met and listened to many people who have successfully combined them. But there does seem to be a societal pressure to ennoble intellect at the expense of faith. While thinking is heavily exercised, faith is ignored as subordinate at best.
This year, or last year, marks the 2000th anniversary of an event that turned the conflict between believers and unbelievers into a matter of life and death. In Zarahemla, here in the Americas, the prophet Samuel foretold the birth of Christ, along with unmistakable signs to accompany it. He even gave a five-year time frame for the fulfillment of his prophecy. But unbelief was the dominant attitude then, whether because of unbalanced rationalism, or some other regression to the natural man. This unbelief also wasn’t a passive unbelief, but an aggressive intolerance: the believing minority was sentenced to death if the prophecy wasn’t fulfilled.
The spiritual strength to believe under those circumstances is impressive. To surrender your life is the ultimate sign of conviction. Wouldn’t it be easier to say, “I believe that Christ will come, but I’m not willing to risk my life on that belief”?
As the allotted five years came close to expiration, the unbelievers’ confidence grew:
“…There were some who began to say that the time was past for the words to be fulfilled, which were spoken by Samuel, the Lamanite. And they began to rejoice over their brethren, saying: Behold the time is past, and the words of Samuel are not fulfilled; therefore, your joy and your faith concerning this thing hath been vain. And it came to pass that they did make a great uproar throughout the land….”
To the believers, it seemed that all of society was against them, and doubt probed their hearts. But they still had an unmistakable sign to focus on: “…They did watch steadfastly for that day and that night and that day which should be as one day as if there were no night, that they might know that their faith had not been vain.”
When the night of Christ’s birth finally came, the sign was given. “…There was no darkness all that night, but it was as light as though it was mid-day. And … the sun did rise in the morning again, … and they knew that it was the day that the Lord should be born….”
With the coming of the sign, the unbelievers’ plans for the destruction of the believers were frustrated. Christ’s birth was then a type of the salvation he would later bring to all mankind.
Imagine the joy as faith was validated. They were happy to be right, but I don’t think the faithful heralded their victory over the unbelievers – being right meant that the plan of salvation is true. The messiah, so long prophesied had finally entered the world.
I believe that we can build and exercise our faith as the Nephites did. It is a talent and a skill that, after trials will lead us to joy and knowledge.
Trash Talk
Ethan is really growing up. He walks pretty well and says a surprising number of words. Our current favorite is “gar” as in garbage.
Ethan has a real fascination with the garbage can. We can’t go into the garage without a short visit to the garbage can. Even if he has fallen asleep in the car, as I lift him out of his seat, he groggily points and says “gar”, as if it were part of his happy dreams.
After dinner, Ethan cheerfully carries our used napkins to the “gar”, and anything else he happens to pick up. He will even submit to having his diaper changed if we tell him he can take the used one to the garbage — that is actually pretty handy.
I have to really listen to his babbling because he usually announces his intention to throw something (anything — not trash — which will elicit a quick response) in the “gar” long before he reaches his destination.
I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised by Ethan’s fixation on garbage. For months we’ve been spending our Monday mornings waiting for the garbage man to come by in his big truck. We watch as the truck picks up our garbage and dumps it. Sometimes Ethan is even brave enough to wave to our garbage man.
Love,
Eric James Smith, Ed.
Shannon F. Smith, Boss
Copyright � Eric Smith, 1989-1998, All rights reserved.
Photo Album
1997
Child-Resistant Christmas
(Notice the height of the tree base)
December 25, 1997
Gotta brush after all those sweets.
December 25, 1997
New clothes from Grandpa Smith & Evie
December 25, 1997
“One of these up here has got to be for me…”
December 24, 1997
108 cubic feet of new storage space.
Special thanks to Mark Nielsen for hauling the supplies, Sterling Nelson for help with the construction, and Alan Smith for design advice.
December 24, 1997
Family picture
November 12, 1997
“Does this count as wearing the hat?”
Halloween, 1997
“You mean you’re letting me touch this?”
Ethan’s first birthday
October 19, 1997
Copyright � Eric Smith, 1989-1998, All rights reserved.
Issue 10
| November 27, 1997 | Issue 10 | Orem, Utah |
Another Medium, Another Issue
It’s a good thing that new, technically exciting ways of conveying information come along every so often — they inspire me to communicate when more mundane means are less appealing. The first issue of Sparks from the Smithy came about mostly because Dad gave me a desktop publishing package for Christmas. That kept me going for quite a while, but I honestly can’t imagine how I ground that thing out on a computer without a hard drive. I actually had to swap floppies to do different tasks, and even back in those more patient days, it was agonizingly slow. These days, I can’t stand to wait. Not for computers anyway.
So what would lure me to the World Wide Wait for my next publishing medium? Well, for one thing, it’s kind of cool. The other, slightly more persuasive factor is that I don’t have to consume my own work over the web. Before I leave this subject, an upcoming release of a major operating system (non-disclosure-ly vague) touts during installation, “Navigate your computer faster and easier — just like the Internet!” I… I just can’t quite find the words.
In any case, here’s the new technically hip publication, with even sexier layout than a floppy-based DTP can muster. I also hope to improve things by naming Shannon the Supreme Chief Editor and Master of the Universe. Maybe some flattery will persuade her to contribute to such a lowly, pitiful publication. Oh, and Ethan has been named Chief Keyboard Stomper. It’s not enough to just pound the keys, it’s his duty to climb up on the desk and march around on them. And put his grimy fingers on the monitor. And throw the mousemat on the floor. And the mouse. Maybe we’ll have to promote him to a position where he can have his own office.
Let us know what you think.
Nine Pound Turkey
It’s Thanksgiving, we’ve had our feast and cleaned it up too. It was an intimate holiday this year, with just our little triumvirate. Had any family of four dropped by, we probably could have managed to feed them too. But it was definitely the scaled-back version, and it was delectably refreshing to feast on only a half-day’s labor. Sure, we had “real” mashed potatoes and nearly-from-scratch rolls and lemon meringue pie, but we didn’t bother to dig out the china, or make enough food to feed China.
We all still managed to stay friends, too. Of course, there was a little of the surliness that has made us swear that we’ll be eating at Denny’s next year, but we made it through OK.
And here, just to harrass any 14.4 people out there, are a couple of shots of our forthwith to be eaten feast.
I’ll wrap up here so I can get this thing posted, and beat the competition to press (whoever that might be).
Love,
Eric James Smith, Ed.
Copyright � Eric Smith, 1989-1998, All rights reserved.
Issue 9
| January 20, 1992 | Issue 9 | Provo, Utah |
In this issue:
It’s Back!
After a rather long break, The Smithy is back in publication. At least while the school load hasn’t hit full force, I thought I would get an issue out. Especially since As the Wrathall World Turns is all the way up to issue XXIV and I’m embarrassed that The Smithy is not anywhere near that. Of course, I can always say that I only have 50% of the staff that they do.
Wilberg Wannabe
I’m in my second semester in the (immensely popular) BYU Men’s Chorus now. We’re getting ready for our concert in February with a slew of new music, including Bread’s If wherein we lucky first tenors get to sing soprano. And I don’t mean the soprano part transposed down an octave. We really sing soprano Sometimes it seems like our director, Mac Wilberg, pushes us too far.
But Dr. Wilberg is fantastic. In addition to being our director, he is also a concert pianist and a nationally recognized composer. Many of the pieces the BYU choirs performed for our Christmas concert were composed or arranged by him–including full orchestral scoring for several pieces. That concert, by the way, was professionally video taped and will be broadcast nationally on PBS for Christmas 1992.
We’re also excited to be performing with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir for a live broadcast of Music and the Spoken Word on March 1st this year.
I’m finding that Dr. Wllberg has been an especially practical example for me because I have been called to direct our ward choir. Apparently someone had leaked to the bishopric the fact that I had done this before in another ward, so I’m at it again. I have a recording of Men’s Chorus in concert, so if you would be interested in having a copy of it (and wouldn’t mind contributing a little to the cost of a blank tape and postage) let me know and I’ll send you a copy.
High Power Decoder Rings
In December your tax dollars flew me to Maryland for a couple of days of interviews with the National Security Agency. The NSA is the intelligence department over signals intelligence (including codes and ciphers) and computer security. They explained to me that they have all kinds of wonderful job opportunities for brilliant young computer scientists, all of which, unfortunately, are classified so they couldn’t tell me what they are.
The first thing we did (once we managed to get inside the building) was take some tests. One of these was a psychological evaluation wherein they used clever and subtly worded questions to determine if we were suffering from some psychotic disorder, like “True or False: People are out to get me” and “True or False: I think Nixon was a good president.”
Another test was sort of an intelligence-type test that covered vocabulary, number sequences (“Which number comes next 1, 3, 9, 11, _?”), and word problems obviously created by people who had failed the psychological exam.
We later caught the secret bus that takes you to the actual Fort Meade installation of the NSA. And you know what? Remember the officer in Dances With Wolves that sent Kevin Costner out to a deserted outpost then shot himself? Well I’m happy to inform you that he survived his suicide attempt and now works as a receptionist at the NSA. And he wasn’t the only interesting personality. There was a lady that worked in the cafeteria that had a seemingly natural talent for ventriloquism, because when she spoke her lips almost didn’t move at all. The words were completely unintelligible, but she has a good start. Only from watching the person in line ahead of me did I understand that “duhuhenikwiat” meant “do you want a pickle with that?” And of course, what would a secret agency be without a midget? The one we met took our pictures for our employment files-and she had to stand on an inverted trash can to reach the tripod. The best part was when she was behind the desk, because you’d swear she was sitting down until she came walking out.
For one of my interviews I was taken back into the secret part of one of the buildings. They had flashing red lights on the ceiling and my escort loudly announced my presence wherever we went so no one would say something classified. Talk about getting attention! Of course people had a tendency to break off in the middle of conversations and expeditiously flee the area. It was sort of like walking into a room and saying, “Hey, I’ve got the plague!”
Another highlight of the trip was when I had to get from the back to the front of a building to catch the secret bus back to the employment building. I didn’t have authorization to walk through the building so I had to walk about a half mile through parking lots and around fences to get there.
The polygraph test was perhaps the most interesting event. They asked me if I was really a criminal, a spy, or anybody other than Eric James Smith.
I’m not sure if I’ll get my summer job with the NSA, but I think that the experiences of filling out the applications (writing a life history, basically) and going through the testing / interviewing make the whole thing worthwhile.
Boring School Stuff
This semester I am very computer science intensive. I’m studying about computers and society, computer architecture, operating system design, and software engineering. If you know what those are/entail, then I guess you’ll get a warm Fuzzy feeling (in the back of your throat), but otherwise I won’t go into details. I also have a seminar type class of computer science related subjects, and to round off my technical semester, I have an archery class. You gotta have some fun sometimes, right?
Until next time, Love,
Eric James Smith, Ed.
Copyright � Eric Smith, 1989-1998, All rights reserved.