Back in the Mountains of Ephraim

Parley and Me

I will be spending a year in Utah. I am here now... and it feels good to be back. I have returned to these mountains for a Master's program at the University of Utah. But that's not all; I have come back to be closer to my family, one more time. I realize my career path may not allow me to stay in this arid country, but being young and mobile, I can at least spend one more year with them as I invest in my education and plan for the future.

What will this next year hold? Where will I be next summer? I don't know. But I trust in God and have a feeling that all will work out. So with Parley tagging along, I start off on another adventure. I will no doubt make many new friends and may even find a girl. For certain I will spend many days and nights with the family that I love, with my sisters and brothers and their children. I also am certain that I will learn a great deal. I have faith that I have been led here, as this move has been the subject of much prayer. So although I am unsure, I am still very happy and excited for what may come. I've learned a valuable lesson in Iowa, and I carry it with me here to Utah, and wherever I may end up after this: life is what you make it--and if you are grateful, it will always be beautiful!

Parley at the Point of the Mountain between Utah County and Salt Lake County

The Illinois Reports: Explanation

The following reports were written last month while I was on assignment for work. They are posted in reverse order so if you want to start from the beginning find Report 1 and read up. I tried to send this to most of the family and many friends but just in case I missed anyone--here it is again.


It was an interesting and rewarding experience. I hope you enjoy the read.

Illinois Report IV: 4th Week of July 2008

To my supervisor and a few other interested parties,

This is my fourth and final report from rural Illinois. Yesterday was my last day in the fields and with my work here concluded I eagerly anticipate my return home. This has been thirty days of hard work—but labor much enjoyed. With plenty of hot days spent traversing colossal landscapes, a collection of cuts from corn leaves, and lacrimal-fluid-inducing humor shared over rowdy lunches with untamed farmers--this business has gotten it all from me: BLOOD, SWEAT, and TEARS. Thursday morning I'll be back in the office, but before I part I wish to leave y'all with one final thought: my appreciation for the way Pioneer does business.

I have always been fascinated with the development of an organization. It excites me to discover where certain behaviors--now well established and almost fully habitual--have their origin. For Pioneer Hi-Bred International it has become standard to strive for excellence in quality as well as fairness in all transactions. But where did this culture of good behavior come from?

While working in the fields this last month I have had the opportunity to explore the answer to that question. No where is this culture more evident than in the actual production of our product--on the soil where we grow our seed. Being able to see us in action right alongside our competitors I can more fully appreciate the extra effort Pioneer makes to insure quality. We have the highest standards regarding isolation--requiring more land to raise a bushel of hybrid corn than most anyone. We hire the most hands to keep a watchful eye on the mating of our inbred lines. We use the best equipment and technology to insure everything is done as correctly as possible. In addition, the company goes to great pains to maintain a relationship of trust with its employees, its contracted farmers, and its customers. As one example, our hiring of seasonal laborers illustrates this point profoundly.

Remember how I mentioned the process of "neutering" female inbreds to insure a near perfect mixture with male inbreds. This means that each female tassel must be cut and then pulled upon reaching maturity. This is first done mechanically with large, huge-wheeled devices. These machines are never perfect and subsequently a field is required to be cleaned by hand. Every row of corn must be individually eyed and any remaining female tassels must be removed by hourly laborers. It is often discussed among management how crews of migrant workers are more effective at this job. They work longer hours, work faster and usually do a better job. Thus, the detasseling work can get done within a shorter period of time--ultimately saving money by decreasing the window of opportunity for quality concerns. However, despite the apparent advantages of migrant labor, a concerted effort is made hire labor from local pools--a significant portion of which tend to be high school age individuals. "Why," I asked, "do we do this?" The reply: "Not only do many of the locals depend on this extra summer income, but for many it has become a rite of passage, a tradition among family members. We have out in these fields third generation detasselers. If we decided to no longer higher these kids, many would be disappointed and upset--and that's a cost savings we can't afford."

All of this means that we spend more dough than most of our competitors to grow an equal amount of seed. Resultingly, the price tag for our product reflects the added investment and a premium is charged for each bag of seed. Some would argue that this is simply part of our marketing strategy--a ploy to be recognized as the quality leaders within the industry and thus capture market share. While I admit our marketing department wastes no time in capitalizing on our position I am unabashedly confident that the way we do business has less to do with stratagem and more to do with a cultivated culture of ethics. Many reasons explain why this is so but I point to one I feel is paramount: the intentions of our founder. I shy at giving one man so much credit but I also love the idea that one man can make such a difference.

Henry Agard Wallace was the founder of Pioneer Hi-bred and also the thirty-third Vice President of the United States. For the sake of brevity I'll only introduce him as a man of vision--but implore you to read a little more about him when you get the chance. He did much to advance the productivity of agriculture during this last century, as a scientist and breeder but also as a statesman. He cared immensely for the plight of the common man and made their cause his cause. He adamantly believed that if men were to become free throughout the world then they must first be free from hunger and malnutrition. He started and ran Pioneer with that mission in mind. Though operating as competitively and efficiently as any other business, Pioneer was different in its culture from the very beginning--placing profits second to service. Indeed, for years during the great depression Pioneer operated at a loss to continue offering its much needed seed to struggling farmers.

Fast forward to today--a time when corporate corruption on the scale of Enron is dismissed as commonplace--and you wonder if any of Wallace's legacy has survived. Well--honestly--the very nature of corporations (which Pioneer has since become) requires that the final direction come from shareholders whose ultimate goal is profit. So open altruism has become obsolete. But I can say that Pioneer has definitely retained a culture that truly does give more than lip service to quality and trust. In my short experience with the company it seems evident that the bottom line is not punctuated with dollar signs but annotated with an awareness of our role and responsibility within the larger community. That brings me pride to belong to such an organization.

And that concludes my fourth and final report. To the dedicated few who've endured these seemingly sempiternal logs--know that I am grateful for your readership. To be in the mud with a friend--even one in company by correspondence--turns the rainiest days into a sunny Sunday morning. Thanks again and stay in touch. Farewell from the farms.

Illinois Report III: 3rd Week of July 2008

To my Supervisor and a few other interested parties,

Hello again from rural Illinois. The dog days of summer are upon us and--in spite of the extra chores that long days bring--I hope everyone's been finding time to have some fun. Amidst the hustle and bustle of soccer games and pool trips, BBQ's and crawfish boils—I hope y'all find a few minutes to enjoy my third report from the fields. For those that braved the verbosity of my previous entries, our reward: yet another long recount--though hopefully worth the read.

Last time I wrote I gave an in-depth look into the science of hybrid seed production. This time I wish to elaborate on a few details involving the physiology of corn which will help to further elucidate my current duties. Also, I hope to share some insight I've gleaned while spectating on the job our managers do with the copious amounts of additional labor hired for this critical period.

If you remember from my last report I mentioned how a mature corn plant contained both male and female organs. The male organ is called the tassel. It sits at the top of the corn plant and disperses pollen. The female organ is the ear. This is the part we are most familiar with. Before your shuck an ear of corn you find it wrapped in several modified leaves and with lots of hairs pouring out of the top. Those hairs are known as "silks." Follow those silks down and you will find each one connected to an individual kernel. What does the silk do? It serves as a canal for the pollen to reach the kernel. You see, each kernel is in reality an unfertilized egg and must be carefully protected. That is why the ear is wrapped up so tightly. But being so encased, the corn plant has to find a way for the pollen--or sperm—to reach the kernel--or egg. Millions of years of evolution has provided the solution: the kernels can stay safely wrapped up while silks grow out of each one--waiting en masse at the top of the ear like a thousand impatient recepticles. Once a grain of pollen lands on a silk it grows down and fertilizes a kernel. Repeated enough, the result will be an ear of corn jam-packed with fertilized kernels.

For the successful cultivation of hybrid corn, this process of fertilization must be closely managed. This requires several "managers" and generous numbers of temporary workers. As part of my duties I am encouraged to meet with the managers of my area daily. We typically sit down around lunch time and exchange vital information concerning the de-tasseling of female inbreds, silk dates and shed counts--as well as any special concerns.

Despite the sometimes intense conditions the mood is usually blithe and always jocular. Being the new guy I'm often at the center of the jest. For those familiar with my daily regimen, it should come as no surprise that lunch time for me consists of a mountain of steamed vegetables: potatoes, carrots, broccoli and green beans. Though I pride myself on the health of this habit the old farm boys that daily surround me are not impressed. I often feel like I wore a Speedo to the church picnic. "Where's the meat?!" I regularly hear. Shamefully I reply--amidst hisses and jeers--"Just veggies today." Well, to appease the assembly I put my lunch aside one day last week and joined the gentlemen in town for a "proper" meal at the local eatery. Going for the safe bet I selected the grilled chicken sandwich. Encouraged to be more manly by my fellow Pioneer peers, I decided to live wild and make it a grilled chicken "melt." And live wild I did! Not only was the grilled chicken FRIED (I'm guessing as a way to re-heat it) but the bread was fried as well. Topped with a Valdez spill of processed cheese and oily mayonnaise, this meal literally contained more fat that I consume in an entire week. But all in a valiant effort for fraternity.

Watching these men up close I've had the opportunity to examine several different styles of leadership. The subject has been on my mind since visiting a local homeless shelter and having a very interesting conversation. Eager to be involved in some of the same activities that occupy my time in Des Moines, after I arrived in Peoria I walked downtown and inquired about any open shelters. I found one in service and offered what little free time I could as a volunteer. I'm not sure that I've made much of a difference with my visits but I have been able to lend a little encouragement to a few new friends. One such is a mother about my age. She isn't currently homeless but being at risk she stops by regularly and maintains her connection with the counselors who work there. She had her boy when she was fifteen. Now he's eleven and according to her "a little devil." She of course loves her son but complains about how difficult it is becoming to get him to do anything. Her orders are often ignored until voices are raised and threats are issued. After visiting with her on several occasions I felt impressed to share a little advice. I humbly admitted my naivety as a parent but offered my experience as a boy.

The greatest control you can have over a young man is not the kind of control that derives its power from caveats of retribution. Though certainly necessary at some stages of youth, threats of punishment only work as long as a parent is feared. All too often single parents are unable to maintain that fear and children--boys especially—are lost to a world of unbridled pursuits. But, I explained, there is hope. There is a kind of power which so permeates a boy's being that it can rein him well into manhood. What is that power? Admiration. Respect. Love! All fill a boy with an immense desire to please. And that desire can keep a boy in line better and longer than the meanest commination. I told her about my father who for a stretch raised ten children on his own! It was his lightest touch that concretely steered me. I admitted to my new friend that this isn't easy. Not yelling and never punishing in anger while continually offering encouragement and support is no easy task. It takes a lot of patience and conscientious action. But it really is worth it.

The next day at work I reflected on that conversation and took special notice of the way my fellow Pioneer employees managed those around them. It seemed very clear to me that what applies to parents and children equally applies to managers and the managed. I observed how when things got tense the most effective managers were those who had the admiration of their subordinates. It was a valuable lesson to learn.

And that concludes my third report. My fourth and final report will be delivered in a week or less--as my work here is winding down. Until then, continue to enjoy the summer and thanks for all the replies.

Illinois Report II: 2nd Week of July 2008

To my Supervisor and a few other interested parties,

Greetings again from Obama-land. This is the second report of my current assignment in NW Illinois and I hope it finds y'all healthy and happy. I must confess that this report is lengthier than the last, but I promise it to be educational and entertaining.

I left off last time explaining the rationale behind isolation and my work in reviewing the outlay of our fields. Currently, my time is consumed with the additional task of taking "counts." All this work plays an essential part in the main objective of Pioneer's business--producing hybrid seed. Before I continue I think it would be prudent to explain more about the process of creating a hybrid.

Simply put, to produce a hybrid, two inbreds must be crossed. What's an inbred? Well, we're not talking about my Texas cousins from Waxahatchie--although you got the right idea. This may be more intuitive to understand if we use an example from dog breeding. Where canines are concerned, an inbred is usually referred to as a "purebred." A purebred (inbred) is a breed so fixed in the display of its physical characteristics that if you mate two purebreds from the same breed the offspring will be identical to the parents. For instance, if you take a purebred chihuahua and mate it with a purebred chihuahua, then you will get... a chihuahua. How do you create a purebred? It requires some natural or artificial barrier which separates a portion of the species' population. For chihuahuas, that barrier was their human owners who isolated certain dogs that were small (and annoying!) and selectively mated them over successive generations until the offspring were identical (in the way the breeder wanted) to their parents.

Unfortunately--when inbreeding--you also crowd a breed with a disproportionate amount of genetic disorders. This happens not only in dogs but also with humans. The plight of several Amish communities have recently received much attention for this very reason; after centuries of intermarriage their populations are experiencing a noticeably high rate of genetic disorders.

The same is true for corn. Farmers in this country use to save a portion of their harvest and replant the same crop the following year. Repeated for several generations this practice naturally selected for corn plants which were best adapted to the famers' land--but also depressed yields by shrinking the gene pool of the population and displaying recessive genetic disorders. However, it was discovered that if two inbred varieties of corn could be mixed with each other, then the usual result was a HYBRID with a substantial increase in yield! This phenomenon is known as heterosis--or hybrid vigor. The hypothesis generally used to explain this effect argues that when two inbreds are mixed the genetic disorders are covered up and the result is an offspring with superior adaptive ability.

Interestingly enough, hybrid vigor can also be demonstrated in canines--as well as most other sexually reproducing organisms. With dogs it is widely understood that most mixed-breed pups tend to be stronger, healthier and live as much as 50% longer than their purebred (inbred) parents! And what about humans? Well, although we sometimes like to think of ourselves as different we are all really too mixed to find any purebreds. Cat Stevens was right.

Now, the challenge of creating hybrid corn is that, unlike dogs, corn plants contain both the male and the female organs. To mix dogs is rather simple: put a stud with a bitch, blare some Barry Manelow over the boom box and presto--pregnancy. Unfortunately, because corn has both male and female organs, if you plant two different inbreds right next to each other they will not only pollinate each other but they will also pollinate themselves. The result, each ear of corn will contain some kernels that are a hybrid and some kernels that are an inbred. While this is progress, it is certainly not a product for which farmers would pay good money. The solution, designate one inbred to be the female and another to be the male. The female inbred will be neutered (removing its male organ) and the male inbred will only be used for its pollen (or sperm) and then soon thereafter destroyed. Thus, self-pollination will have been inhibited and the resulting seed crop will be 100% hybrid corn. Now that's marketable. In fact, it’s a multi-billion dollar industry in the U.S. alone!

Of course, managing this process sounds much simpler via email. In reality it requires intense physical labor and scrutinious supervision to ensure the correct mix of inbreds. As one of the Goldhats, I am currently being used to take numerical surveys--or "counts." I sample a thousand plants in each field over a representative area and tally four main observations: female shed, female silk, male shed and pull. The data I collect not only helps in the current management of the crop but will also be utilized by regulatory organizations and our production team at headquarters to review the resultant harvest. With an introduction to seed production out of the way, I hope in my next report to elaborate on these observations.

Before I go, a short story from the country. The other day while driving home after a long day's work, I was winding down to an NPR broadcast on conserving energy. Feeling rather green by driving my 40 MPG Honda Civic, I decided to go one step further and choose windows over the AC. I rolled down the glass and invited nature's breath to lick my skin cool. Being a little overzealous with my new "power" controls I discovered that with slight manipulations I could adjust the wind's vector and maximize its cooling potential. Down in back, the wind moves to the right. Up in front, it moves to left. Down in the back just a little more and... WHZZZZZZZZZZ, A HUMONGOUS BEE FLEW IN AND SLID RIGHT DOWN MY SHIRT! I screamed like a school girl on fire, lost control and donutted off that country road like Lindsay Lohan on her way to rehab. Alive but still under attack I jumped out of my vehicle and loudly flung myself about like... well, like someone with a bee down their shirt. I tore off my clothes in a wild frenzy of yelps. It wasn't until I was half-naked and several hundred feet from my vehicle that I noticed the old local sheriff had pulled up right next to my car and was standing watch--with one hand on his door and the other on his holster. I walked back slowly, my heart racing, trying not to look like the crack fiend I just impostered. Extremely nervous and still breathless from the bee bout, I called out to the sheriff in broken English, "I... (gulp) swerved... bee down... (gulp) shirt... I, uh... (gulp)." Immediately realizing how ridiculous I sounded, and having arrived at my car, I stopped talking and just panted heavily--shirt in hand and sweat on face. Those couple seconds of awkward silence had me prepared for the worse. The sheriff finally responded in full country twang, "Son, that's jest 'bout the funniest thang I've ever seen." He full-heartily laughed and I cautiously joined in, still not sure if I would be required to "spread 'em." He made a friendly approach over my car and asked me if I was alright. "Yes," I said, "except for this big bite on my..." and I desperately began to explain myself. His laughter caught me mid-excuse, and I was soon relieved as he admitted I didn't do anything wrong. He said he saw me lose control and then run out of my car, and just wanted to make sure I was alright. We looked my car over and luckily found no damage. Then under the shade of a nearby tree we had one of those intimate conversations you can only have with a stranger. He leaned against a signpost and I against the trunk and we exchanged biographies. His was naturally much longer and filled with some great advice. Except for his service in Vietnam he has always lived in rural Illinois. I asked him how he could do it--live a life some would say was so simple. He smiled at my ill-phrased query but responded without guile: "A lot of folks are always reaching up--but I've always tried to reach out. Life, son, ain't about who y'are or what y'are or even where y'are. It's about the people around you. Remember that, boy." I did. We talked a bit longer and then he received a call and had to leave. We shook hands and then parted. As I got back into my car and continued my drive home (with my windows up) I thought about all the people I've met here in the mid-west... and thought about how right the sheriff was.

Well, as the library is fixin' to close--so must I. From the crossroads of the heartland and the cornbelt, I send my regards. Until next report…

Illinois Report I:1st week of July 2008

To my Supervisor and a few other interested parties,

Salutations from the "Land of Lincoln." It's been a week since my arrival in Illinois and at the behest of my supervisor I make the first of what will be four weekly reports. I've included a few other individuals in this mailing whom I thought would also appreciate the update. No reply in necessary, just enjoy the sneak peak into my current assignment. But if it looks too long, don't feel pressured to read it all--my boss has to... but you don't. Last week I joined the ranks of Pioneer's "Goldhat" army--a sizable band of seasonal, temporary employees who are so named because of the yellow caps they've traditionally donned. The Goldhats have been an elemental force in Pioneer's quality check for many decades, hired year after year to physically inspect almost every acre of the company's seed crop--a yearly product totaling billions of dollars in sales. Old timer's talk of a time when this group was at odds with the local production team--being hired by HQ to find errors and problems and subsequently create more work for the plants. However, today's Goldhat gang seems to be sincerely appreciated by our local production team--assisting the production plants in meeting Pioneer's ever increasing quality standards.

I've been assigned to the Good Hope production operation, located in Northwest Illinois about an hour and a half east of the Mississippi river. Although stationed out of this plant, I've only been to the actual facility once. The growing area I have been charged to inspect is called Green Valley--a very fertile, mostly irrigated flatland almost two hours east of Good Hope. The considerable distance from the production plant to the Green Valley growing area prohibits frequent visits to the plant, but daily meetings with production leaders take place not far from my assigned fields. Those fields are situated amidst miles of gently rolling plains--once partially flooded and bare but now drained and put to work. But for the crops and an occasional tree or house the land is still mostly empty--though towering clouds and ever changing weather break the monotony and paint a canvass that often makes me drop everything I'm doing and just look.
Upon arrival, the first duty of the Goldhats is to double check the isolation of all assigned fields. Corn is an open-pollinated crop, allowing outside forces to operate as the mechanism for fertilization--the union of male pollen to female gametes. For corn, wind is the predominate actor. This can present a problem if the desired crop is planted too close to contaminants. These contaminants--as we refer to them--are nothing more than other corn crops planted by nearby farmers. These contaminants introduce foriegn pollen which have the potential to adversely affect the fertilization of our crop. To minimize this scenario, Pioneer requires specific standards for the amount of distance--or isolation--which our crop must maintain from contaminants.

Though certainly not brain surgery, the process of isolation can be much more complicated than it sounds. A myriad of field shapes and sizes colliding in numberless combinations can create some interesting topographical possibilities. Add to this sometimes abstruse geography the additional complication of planting errors (when our planters make a mistake in the layout of our fields), and you can occasionally get some some rather challenging isolation issues. However, the bulk of this review process simply requires the stamina to walk several miles daily and visibly check the entire perimeter of every field. With a modest assignment of two thousand acres I've been kept busy this last week--and can only imagine the plight of fellow inspectors who have more acreage and less time.

Additionally, after having witnessed the layout first hand I have developed a much better understanding of the challenge of obtaining desired genetic purity for our product. Many markets where we would like to ship American seed prohibit our exports if they contain even a hint of GMO (genetically modified organisms) DNA. Europe, in particular, is especially picky. But with so many American farmers planting GMO corn it is virtually impossible to grow seed in the United States without some contamination. Looking towards the future I can see that if those markets continue to demand GMO free seed, our company may be forced to find somewhere else to supply their demand.

On a lighter note, having walked multiple marathons in the last eight days I've seen some interesting things--despite the sometimes prosaic landscape of rural Illinois. At the top of that list would have to be the three-legged mutt that followed me for three miles around field 7487. I've seen canines a lot prettier but not half so loyal and entertaining. His front right leg seemed to be amputated flush with his chest so that that it appeared as if no leg was intended to be there at all. Every time I stopped to make field notes he would sit up on his hind legs like an alerted ground hog and wave his one free appendage in the air. The sandwich in my shoulder bag did not have a prayer--this mongrel earned his reward and received a feast of roast beef and muenster. The show was worth my extended hunger.

After a hard day's work of walking several miles past fields of corn, soybeans, wheat, and other crops, I make my way to my temporary home in Peoria. The city is a regional hub with just over 100,000 inhabitants, with a long history as a depot--being strategically located on the always navigable Illinois river. Although it is Pioneer's policy to house relocated Goldhat inspectors in hotels I was graciously allowed to make other arrangements--no doubt because of my unique status as a full-time employee. With some intense searching while still in Iowa I was able to find a respectable accommodation with everything I needed. Though living in a hotel for a month would've had its advantages, it also would've excluded me from cooking and the companionship of my dog. The thought of subsisting thirty days on fast food while Parley (my dog) was contracting some unpronounceable, communicable disease in a kennel in Des Moines seemed a little less than appealing. I thank my superiors for allowing this exception. For their reward I will save Pioneer over two thousand dollars in expenses related to the cost of renting a private room versus of a hotel. But I deserve no praise--I will always choose the practical over the opulent without any external incentive.

Well, I hope all is well in Iowa or wherever this correspondence finds you. This concludes my first report. Tune in next time to read more about the following step in this inspection process--"Counts." Additionally, if space permits I hope to include more details about the science of seed production and life in Illinois farm country.

Papa George

Father,

Do you know you've always been a hero of mine. And you might ask, why? What did I do that was so special? Well, nothing too extraordinary, I guess. You were just there for me. Some of my favorite memories of you were after church while you were cooking in the kitchen, I would come in and watch and ask you questions. I felt like your sidekick then, as a little boy. That's a great feeling.

I remember lying to you once about something I did. After asking a few more questions you figured me out, and it was obvious to both of us that I had been caught. I felt very ashamed. You could have capitalized on that guilt and made me pay for trying to fool you. But you didn't. Instead you told me something that I've never forgotten:

"James, lot's of men make excuses, but great men make mistakes."

You lived that creed, Father. And I love you for it. You have your failings, as we all do, but for sure you have humility, and you are a man of your word. Although I have not always followed you--I have always wanted to. You have given me a model for my life and with God's help I believe I am becoming the the man you want me to be. In that act I believe we both give each other the best gift a father and son could ask for.

I love you, Dad. Happy Father's Day.

Des Moines Deluge

The State of Iowa is currently battling flood waters of biblical proportions. The Des Moines river, which I run along with Parley (my dog) almost every day, is due to crest at 31.8 feet, more than 10 feet higher than the most recent records set in 1993. During that year spring rains swelled to unprecedented levels, affecting several Midwest cities and resulting in damages totalling over fifteen billion dollars. This time around the water is higher but the rivers are being managed by a series of strengthened levees which officials are hopeful will hold. Still, much activity around the city has been disrupted by isolated flooding, including the homeless camps I've visited as an outreach volunteer with IHYC. All of the homeless have been forced to relocate and many are setting up camp right on top of the levees. Perilous, indeed.

Well, in case the levees don't hold a co-worker and I registered with United Way this morning--joining a network of on-call volunteers ready to start sand-bagging, evacuating, and doing whatever else might be helpful. Over lunch this co-worker and I got our tetanus shots as a precautionary measure against the possible contaminants of the flood water.

At this point we are all just waiting and watching... and hoping to stay dry.

Iowa

Its just been since the new year that Iowa has really begun to blossom for me. As it has, my journey to this place has been repeatedly retraced in my mind. I often think not just about where I am but how I got here--hoping always to identify the principles that yield more substantive happiness. I hope this conscious effort will help me develop into a the kind of man that is worthy of his family's love.


I recall a warm spring day in Manti early last year. I had taken a Sunday drive down to Sanpete county with a friend. The sky was clear and all around the winter mountains were wearing the beginnings of green. My friend and I spent the afternoon talking about our greatest college moments--sharing stories that brought laughter and a few tears. We both anticipated our upcoming graduation with youthful enthusiasm as well as a little sorrow for what we were leaving behind. As we drove home--watching the sun fall over the Sanpitch Mountains--I remember wondering where I might be in a year.

Around that same time, after a spring and early summer of ardent job searching I had secured six different offers in four states; California, Idaho, Iowa and Utah. After discussing my options with my Father he asked me if I was planning to make prayer a part of the decision. I answered that I was not--explaining that I believed God cared more about who we are instead of where we are. He concurred but still insisted that I consult a higher source, not to find a path but to seek approval for the route I chose. He encouraged me to make it a matter of humility. I promised him I would.

Out of honor for my father I did make a real and sincere effort to seek inspiration from above. Although, no orison was offered until after I had weighed out all the factors myself; comparing benefits, opportunities, salaries and even dating pools. As a side note, I was leaving a college town where I had been taking one or two girls out a week and love (as it always has been) was also on my mind. Considering these details I made what I felt was a very wise decision: I selected the offer in California--in the Oakland/San Fransisco Bay Area. It had the most of what I wanted. The job would be exciting and challenging and the area would be beautiful and socially conducive. After arriving upon this decision I knelt down and asked God for help to know that I was right. I felt nothing extraordinary--good or bad--and so I arose and went ahead with my plans.

Upon arriving in what I was sure was going to be my new home in the Bay Area I quickly found a room to rent and familiarized myself with the surrounding neighborhood. The air was easy to breathe as I strolled down new streets; with weather that was beautiful and a setting, dynamic. There were market stands and ocean views around every corner. The city was flooded with life. My excitement for the possibilities ahead were peaked. And yet, at that very moment I started to feel somewhat uneasy. Initially I tried to toss those feelings aside. What, I thought, could possibly be wrong with such a perfect setting? Despite my efforts to ignore anything contrary to what I thought I wanted, within a week those feelings of trepidation had become more intense.

It didn't make sense to me. Everything seemed to be so right about my new home and job. Why the doubts? Why the fears? The situation became critical as I knew if anything were to change it had to change soon. In desperation I felt the need for input from an outside source. I returned to prayer; this time needing an answer for myself. Again I knelt down and asked God for help.

Following that supplication I reconsidered my options. I drew up plans and measured out all the possible maneuverings. I tried to get a sense for where I really wanted to be--not just for the next few years but for life. That focus led me down uncharted paths. For the first time I felt inspired to seriously consider coming to Iowa. It had previously been my least likely option, an almost laughable one, for Iowa was so far away from family and friends (and dense populations of girls) that I never fully weighed it. Until then. After giving it a thoughtful consideration I felt something which is difficult to explain. Perhaps comfort is the best description. Yes, I felt comfort... and peace. Still, it didn't make total sense to my mind but it just felt... right.

Before going ahead with this new decision I spent the next several hours wrestling with my own heart. Was what I felt real or was it a product of my imagination? Wasn't I being extremely irrational?!

I decided I was in fact being irrational!... but it was OK. Ultimately I concluded that if I really did believe in God, if I really believe that He is there and that there is a purpose and plan for life--why then could I not believe that He can and would want to help shape my own path.

Still doubting, I finally concluded that even if it were not true yet this is how I wanted to live my life. I desire to be led by my heart. I desire to be a man of faith. I desire to believe in something more than only what makes sense to the mind. I desire to have dreams and hopes, to find true love and to follow God. Tell me those are the stuff of fiction--prove to me their nihility--and yet I would still roam the earth in search of them.

With that conclusion I repacked my belongings, paid my roommates handsomely for my brief stay, explained my situation to my would-be employers in Oakland (who consequently were very understanding and invited me to come back if I reconsidered) and contacted my future employer in Iowa to accept their offer. Before night fall I was back on Interstate 80, recrossing the Rocky Mountains and headed to the Great Plains--wondering in my mind if I had just made one of the biggest mistakes of my life. Nevertheless, in my heart I still felt peace. While driving through the star-filled deserts of Nevada that night I thought about how that feeling of comfort--which I believe comes to your heart from God--trumps all others.

Well, this story could end there but that would only be half the tale.

A couple days after departing California I arrived in the State of Iowa. The humidity and heat were oppressive and the land was flat and vacuous; a vivid contrast from the Bay Area. However my heart was still hopeful. I started my new job with enthusiasm and found all the new nomenclature and processes stirring. Additionally, though hardly comparable to the cultural urban centers of the coasts, I was finding Iowa had a beauty of its own. Its Capitol and the surrounding towns had a quaintness and simplicity that reminded me of Texas, my old home. With everything so new and yet somewhat familiar it was easy to be happy and excited.

Unfortunately that initial titillation wore. And with it, many of the good feelings. Despite all the benefits of a secure well paid position, the corporate environment was not fulfilling. I began to find myself unchallenged and un-invigorated. I do not wish to deride this lifestyle. It certainly has its benefits. And for those who can wait patiently in a low gear (perhaps condoling themselves with inflating bank accounts) the right promotion will probably shift their talents into use. But I am not that patient--fearing my personal capitulation to mammon over dreams. Within a few months after taking this job in Iowa I was seriously considering leaving.

It wasn't the job alone. I found myself really missing my family. They might doubt that claim since I probably took them for granted while in college but with that part of my life behind me I was discovering a real desire to be close to my kin again. I missed being a part of all that was going on and dreaded the thought of voting with an absentee ballot for years to come.

To top it off my social life was all but dead, barely limping along with buzzards circling above. I thought I had prepared myself adequately for this, knowing Iowa would be different than many places I had lived before. However the reality of the situation hit harder than I anticipated. The wind was knocked out of me. I was about as confused as a cow on AstroTurf. That's an apt metaphor because girls were present but the places and situations I met them in--and the type of girls I seemed to meet--were the antithesis of what I had been familiar with.

For the reasons above I felt generally displeased with my state of existence in Iowa. I started to doubt the decision I had made to come here and regretted that I had not been more cognitive in arriving at my conclusion. My low point was just before the new year. I felt down and lost, distanced from God, my family and friends. I recognized even then that I had so much to be grateful for, but my zeal for those blessings was absent. I felt directionless. I think for the first time in my life I was really facing the reality of what I was becoming. And I wasn't sure I was heading in the right direction.

Instead of returning home for Christmas I stayed in Iowa--retreating in her grayness. I spent several days alone, pondering and pining; trying to find myself. It was on Christmas day that I did.

It was a bright day in what had been a difficult winter; an unusually sunny day, spared from the relentless snow and ice that had marred the previous weeks. I woke up that morning with various invitations to spend the holiday in company, but preferred my own silence. About mid-day after a simple meal, I drove my truck downtown. I found the streets as empty as I felt inside. I parked near the Capitol building and embarked on a small journey, traversing the city center and pondering life. After several miles of deep reflection, a verse I had once committed to memory returned to my mind:

"For whosoever will save his life shall lose it: and whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it. For what is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?"

I had an epiphany right then! For a long time I have known that truth in my mind but especially recently I had forgotten it in my heart. In the middle of Downtown Des Moines I dropped to my knees and promised God that I would lose my life for others. All that I begged for in return was to not feel lost anymore.

From that day to this, as I have re-applied that principle in my life I have again become a witness to the beauty of living for others. When you define your life so narrowly by the outcome of a few selfish plans you trade peace for the gamble of momentary pleasure. When those events don't transpire the way you figured it can leave you purposeless. In that vacuum of meaning you can easily become complacent and resign yourself to wastefully wait for the next big possible achievement or event. However I have learned that life is what is happening while you are planning your next move; while you are waiting. I have realized that the man I want to be will not be constructed tomorrow, but is being built today! What will really define who I am will not be my greatest hours but instead my everyday, ordinary minutes. And finally, I have come to understand that a man can fill all his time and still be empty if he doesn't learn that meaning comes from other people.

I am grateful to God for leading me here. While in Iowa He has put people in my path that have inspired me with a vision of my personal possibilities. I'm thinking of three very special people in particular! They have shown me what I really want to be. I long to be a loving husband and father; to dance with my wife in the kitchen when she's feeling down and to always make time for my children's dreams. With their help I now know that the biggest difference I can make in life will not be by doing something important, but by being important--in the lives of those who surround me. And being so surrounded I will always know who I am and never be lost again.

Life's Journey will bring you home,
When in your heart
No more you roam.

I suppose I could've learned all this anywhere in the world... but maybe not. Perhaps Iowa was the only place with what--and who--I needed. Regardless, I have learned a great lesson here and my life has been changed. For this I will always believe it wasn't just chance, but that I was led to Iowa.

Spring Break

A couple weeks ago an old roommate and I embarked on a Spring break. I flew out to Albuquerque, New Mexico where he lives and then we drove down to Padre Island in South Texas.

The trip took several hours. It was a long drive. However, I can honestly say this vehicular journey was my favorite part of the trip. Steve, my roommate, and I are both philosphers of an old order. We see so much beauty in life and are constantly knocking on the doors of understanding. For us, the glory of God is intelligence, indeed. We humbly acknowledge our failings but eagerly consider the possibilities ahead.

Beyond the ride we had a great week in South Texas and in New Mexico. Beaches is Texas are notoriously un-governed, and although we didn't seek out any mischief, we couldn't help but make a little. I ran around the whole time in my underwear, and the sun had no mercy on me. Two weeks later and I am still peeling.

We met many people and saw many sights along the way. One of the most vivid in my mind is the image of a very distraught Mexican cat. I offered a little food, but in fright he fled (though not before I captured his photograph). He must have been on his last life--a symbol not only of his own mistreatment but of the mistreatment of the part of town we found him on. That we let some of our cities--and even our cats--suffer this way is disheartening. Every long road trip I take always gives me similar thoughts. Traveling so many miles in so few days always reminds me of the great disparity between rich and poor. We passed mansions and ranches worth millions, and shanty homes barely worth the land they lay on. For some, its easy to ignore the poverty and save some guilt. For me, I hope I never lose any of my sight--and always remain an advocate for the underpriveleged--feline and all.

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We finished out our trip with an entertaining tour of dancing. We found a collection of honkey tonks and latin clubs and busted out a few grooves. I have to say, there were more than a few "dang perty" rednecks and "muy caliente" latina girls who danced extremely well! But funny enough, I found myself missing Des Moines and the good ol' farm girls of Iowa... and a special one in particular.

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It was a great trip, and now I'm back... home.

Wreckless Consumption or Intelligent Investment

Sometimes when I see someone with a totally non-essential luxury item--like a 70 inch plasma TV or a pair of juiced up jet-ski's, I am prone to judge. "What a high-rollin' snob," I think to myself. Well, rollin' down the street in my shiny Kawasaki Vulcan I feel a bit like a hypocrite. But don't judge the judger just yet... its really an investment (at least that's what I'm telling myself).

For the last three summers I have followed the same pattern. I bought a motorcycle early in the season when the demand was low, then towards the middle of the summer--right when demand peaked--I sold. Buy low, sale high. Its economics 101. Motorcycle purchases are strongly correlated with the weather and most motorcyclists know this--and understand that an early sale will require a significant decrease in the listed price. Buyers just aren't out yet. It creates a buyers market. A flooded supply creates downward price pressures.

Though this is common knowledge there are still those who are desperate--for what ever reason--to find a buyer. Such was the case with my latest transaction. The bike is a 2003 but only has 3000 miles on it (about the amount the average rider puts on in a season). The previous owner was the sole owner and kept the vehicle garaged. The bike is in an immaculate shape. Additionally, it has some add-ons that would put it a few hundred dollars over blue book. Despite this perceived value it was obvious that there had been little interest in the bike from potential purchasers. Knowing this put me at an advantage. Upon negotiation a price was reached which was several hundred dollars below blue book. I felt I could have brought the price lower, but I'm not out to gouge. All parties left the table happy, and one of them a little cooler... at least I think I look it.

A Man's Best Friend?

I've been meaning to put up a shot of Parley. He's a loyal bum-sniffing friend. This last weekend we had some good masculine fun. I volunteer with a Boy Scout troop here in Iowa and Friday evening I took him with me on a campout we had planned. He loved running around without a collar and hanging out with all the boys--chasing raccoons and staying warm by the fire. In an attempt at further training I whistled loudly every 10 minutes and dispensed a treat when he returned and sat at attention.

Having a dog is no mild venture. It takes a lot of work and love. I wondered if I had it in me. This picture of Grandpa reminded me that the Snidemans are dog people... and was an inspiration to the procurement of my canine companion. I, like Herman, really do love dogs. They're great friends.




Parley is now about nine months old and still very much a puppy. He's a Brittany Spaniel, a type of dog that has been bred to assist on bird hunts. Eventually I would like him to be a fully trained gun dog. Starting soon I'll be taking him target shooting out on the acreage I'm renting--to get him exposed to the noise of gunfire.

He has a docile nature and is very eager to please. At home he follows me around like a bad smell. And then, when I find a seat, he lays down at my feet. That is sometimes a little annoying, but when I think about how he simply wants to demonstrate his loyalty and submission, I appreciate the behavior.



I try to keep Parley active and encourage his canine exuberance. He runs with me regularly and I take him around in my truck whenever its appropriate. Soon I'll start bringing him on Thursday evenings to the homeless youth shelter where I volunteer. I'm there from about 5:30pm to 10:30pm. The counselors said it would be good "animal therapy" for some of the young patrons. I'm not sure if I believe that... but I know Parley will benefit extremely from the regular exposure to crowds.

Also this summer I'll be farming a few acres on the weekends to sale at the farmers' market. I plan on bringing Parley with me to both the farm and the markets. Maybe he can scare off any rabbits who are planning on destroying my carrot crop. And one day, when I finally get up the gumption to walk the Mormon Trail--as has always been a dream of mine--Parley will be with me... the second Parley P. Pratt to make the trip.

Winter in The Monks

A few verses I recently scribbled:



A look, a smile--like a balefire--
Calls home the sailor lost.
The gallant gob needs not Pharos,
But faint the beam on tempest tossed.


Commands the Captain:
"Right the rudder,
And for the heart make aim;
Believe the berth in our beholding
Is worth the Siren's shame."


"Ahoy!" bellows the Boatswain--
Off the starboard doth he cry.
. . .
Alas, no reply.
Commands the Captain:
"Trim the sails! Once more to sea we fly!"


But Mutiny murmers: "Halt the dream,
And let us join with Davey Jones, failed."
--No.
One squally winter loved and lost,
More, than a thousand sunlit summers un-sailed.


And so the open billows meet the keel again
In search of harbor's bliss;
With hope still--
Though hope a little less.



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Winter Quarters

This last weekend my roommate and I traveled to the Omaha Temple. This temple has been built adjacent to the Winter Quarter's cemetery. Most of the dead were too poor to be buried with headstones, and consequently the majority of the ground is bare grass.

Winter Quarters was the staging ground for many of the Mormon pioneers who were fleeing the persecution of Missouri and Illinois--headed on their way to the Great Salt Lake Valley. During the 1840's and 1850's they left the hostility in the east and were permitted to walk peacefully through Iowa--but barred from stopping. The only refuge they were permitted to make was this settlement in the Nebraska territory--Winter Quarters. Today, all that's left of that once bustling town is a quiet stretch of green and a few old stones with faded inscriptions. The rest has been all but forgotten under the pavement of modern residential sprawl.

I took a few minutes to stop and remember--how great many sacrifices were made, not for fortune or fame, but for hope and faith. These pioneers lived and died for a great cause. I hope I can say the same, someday.

The weather here has been almost unbearable. We have received several feet of snow throughout the season and on multiple occasions the mercury has failed to rise positive. On those days my truck starts on a prayer. However, despite the frigid conditions, my heart has kept me warm. I will always be amazed by how a good time with a girl can bring sunshine to the cloudiest day! I would like to not believe this--being of the persuasion that one's own determination is the the most important factor to finding joy. But, I must admit that a whole day spent trying to convince myself of happiness is not a tenth as potent as just hearing the voice of a... friend.

The painting below is an acrylic on canvas of William Gould Shaw. He was a Colonel in the Civil War. Based on all reports he died while leading--in the front of the column--his men on a charge. Those men were the all-black 54th Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry. They were composed of both free men from the North and freed slaves from the South. All were fighting for a cause they believed in, including Colonel Shaw. He is a hero of mine. And, I would like to hope that--had I lived during this struggle--I would have been a volunteer at his side, fighting for liberty, equality, and the fraternity of all men.

I find it much easier to paint a subject that inspires me. I feel like this is my best work yet. Let me know what you think.

Snideman Family Photo

I know most all y'all have this photo, I just thought it would be nice to put it up for any one who didn't. I love and miss y'all.

Artisimo!

Since I graduated BYU I've been wondering about the direction of my life. Nothing is written with a Sharpie right now but so far I've had some dreams and some thoughts.

One of the things I've been thinking about has been the possibility of returning to school.

There are three main possibilities I am considering. I could either 1) stay in Iowa and get my master's degree in agronomy at Iowa State University (which my employer would pay for), 2) enroll at the University of Utah and pursue a planning degree with an emphasis in land use, or 3) attend Utah State University and enter the landscape architecture program. Although all of three options seem tenable I'm particulary intrigued about the third option--even though it is the least likely option.

Since working a desk job I've learned something important about myself: I have a real passion to be creative. I'm not sure how that will affect my ultimate life's work but I know I want it to be a part of what I do every day. On top of that, I would love to have the elements of teaching and public service incorporated into my job. But, we'll see. One thing I do know... if mammon is not your master than you are more than free to pursue your passions. I've heard it said that if you're willing to take a pay cut you can almost always live your dreams. Is it true? I hope.

An Artist?

Well, as part of the application process to MLA (master of landscape architecture) program I have been encouraged to assemble a portfolio of creative works. Since I don't really have a ready collection I have been creating some new pieces to put together and send off. Here's a few examples of what I have been working on lately:

Most of my experience in artwork is just simple sketching. However, the way I learned to sketch wasn't very systematic. Skilled artists use more lines and less scribbling. I'm trying to develop a more disciplined approach. The first sketch is from a picture I took up Provo Canyon looking down on Utah Valley. The second sketch is from a photo I took at the San Diego Zoo.

I'm new to painting... but I love it. I've tried both oil and acrylics and the latter is much easier to work with. The reason has to do with the drying times. The oil painting I worked on took almost a week to dry entirely. Acrylic paint however dries in a matter of minutes. That ultimately means I can build layers of paint faster with minimal time in between layers.




Marie was the inspiration of the painting below. But as you can see, it doesn't really look like her. I'm not at the skill level yet where I can duplicate what I see. Instead I use what I am looking at for inspiration. With painting I pay less attention to lines and give a greater emphasis to tones, such as light and dark.






The painting below is yet to be finished. The first layer turned out right (the greenery on the right) but the overlay of the flowers has been difficult to manage. The color of the flowers are a lot sharper and brighter than the greenery--which makes them more challenging to paint.





I hope y'all enjoyed the sneak peak into my latest thoughts and work.

How long?

I know Robert's birthday was a while ago, but he's still in my system... I miss my brother Robert.

Anyone know how long Robert's been doing this pose?

By the way... nice undies Rob!

Strongest Man... IN THE WORLD!

Its my brother Robert's birthday today!

Does anyone know why we often refer to Robert by the title, "The Strongest Man in The World" ? I'll tell you how it all got started. When I was about Zach's age (8 or 9) Robert, who was then in his teens, took a sudden interest in physically tormenting me. A few of the most effective methods included wrapping me up in a white sheet and swinging me around like a wrecking ball, tickling me 'till I couldn't breath, spraying mace in the bathroom and waiting for me to walk in, and sitting on my chest and head while ejecting hot volumes of hydrogen sulfide and varying amounts of methane (flatus). While these sessions of dolor were meted out by Robert, he always made it very clear that it could all end with my submission. And how was I to submit? Simple, just let the world know that Robert was either the smartest, the best looking, or (his personal favorite) the strongest man alive... depending on the day. If I shouted the prefered phrase at the top of my lungs I was usually released and permitted to continue reading my choose-your-adventure books, playing the nintendo, or what ever it was I was doing before being ambushed.

Now all this might sound harsh, but you must know that from the perspective of a little brother there are few things more excruciatingly pleasant as being picked on. In fact, I felt kind of special that Robert seemed to take this special interest in me.

And since that time I have always loved and looked up to my brother Robert. But trust me, there's a lot more to admire about Robert than his Guantanamo Bay skills. As we've both grown up I've seen his rough edges come off. He was always a big softie inside... now its just easier to tell. He's kind and forgiving and he loves to make people laugh. He has all the qualities that really mean anything in this world. I have always looked up to my older brother Robert and I will 'till the day I die.

Our Next President

The citizens of Iowa have the opportunity (some say the burden) of being on the front lines of American politics. Since 1972 this State has been among the first to cast primary votes for presidential candidates. For me it has been exciting to watch the candidates come through Des Moines and the surrounding areas giving speeches, making promises and sharing their visions of the future. Some play on the fears of Americans and try to divide the crowds into red and blue. Most infamous among these has been Mitt Romney and his pocketful of dirty adds.

Others have made it their stated purpose to run a clean campaign and want to unite America with an optimistic hope for the future. The candidate who best demonstrates this is Barrack Obama. If I didn't know otherwise and someone told me there was a Mormon running for President I would have guessed it was him.

He has real character. He didn't come from a background of prominence and wealthy family status, but he still has class. He's mixed with people from all walks of life. He worked hard and opened doors with sweat and not sway. He achieved high aims and graduated with a law degree from Harvard, but instead of cashing in on it he traveled to Chicago and made a difference with non-profit community organizations.

I support Obama because he says what he believes. He doesn't take money from big interest groups. He doesn't tell people only what they want to hear. He has Democrat supporters, he has Independent supporters and he has Republican supporters; or--as he would say it--he just has American supporters. He doesn't believe in giving handouts to anyone, but he he believes we all should be given a hand when we really need it.

When the time comes--wherever I am--I will cast my vote for the man I believe has the strength, vision and faith needed to lead this country!

Turkey Thanksgiving in the Jello State

Onur and I drove out to Utah for Thanksgiving. It's about a 1200 mile trip one way. It took about 18 hours each time. En route to Utah we stopped in York, Nebraska for dinner. We found a chinese buffet and thought... why the heck not. All you could eat crab was on the menu. It was good going down but Ladies and Gentlemen, I defintely don't recommend it as a good road trip muckamuck. I think the Billboard says it all.

Onur and I have been friends since we were missionaries in London, and now we work at the same company in Des Moines. As we get older each year I think our interests and paths are diverging wider--but our love for God and for life lived deliberately always seems to bring us back to the same park bench. I look forward to the day when we sit down there as old men and share great stories about all our adventures.

I spent most of the week with family. And I want to make mention of one member in particular. I'm not usually a jealous person. There's very little in the world that I want--and guess what... Nancy has it all. I hope I can have a home as full and warm as hers.

She invited me over for Family Home Evening last Monday. I could tell she was a little embarrassed that her home wasn't in perfect condition--but I want her to know how little that mattered. I've seen homes a little cleaner but a lot less loving. I thought later about what makes Nancy is such an amazing mother... and later that night--when Zach woke me up in the middle, and I couldn't get back to sleep--I thought about why. I first thought about all the things that make her extra special or extra talented. But, while I don't doubt her amazing abilities, I realized it wasn't because she was "better" than anyone else. What really makes her a super-mom has nothing to do with the comparison game. No, what makes her great is that she has love. Real love. And lots of it! All the honors the world can offer fade away when compared to a mother that welcomes you home, hugs you, and tells you she loves you. Its been a while for me, but I'll never forget that feeling.

And that's what I'm thankful for... friendship and a mother's love. Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

p.s. I kicked Doug's trash on the Wii

Missin' Utah...

Watching General Conference has reminded me of how much I love Utah. I miss those majestic mountains! Often, just looking at them gave me a sense of peace. Despite all that may be quirky about Deseret, I treasure that land above all others I have seen. When I think that those mountains were seen in vision and realize that what first brought people to that place was a dedication to God and to the cause of Zion... I can't think of a more special place.

I do miss Utah, indeed. I'm pretty sure I'll be back to visit often. To walk in old paths and remember the days when I became a man.

My Sisters' Hair

I've been thinking about my sister Julie lately. She died 12 years ago. She was at the prime of her teenage life! It get's harder every year to remember the details about who she was.

I found this email Susan sent me and felt inspired:

Susan:

"I died my hair to go with my new haircut, but it looks red in one picture..."

"DON'T HATE ME BECAUSE I'M BEAUTIFUL"

"WOW, SO this is what Julie felt like, whatcha think pappa..."




Well, I thought I'd give my receding hair a little touch of red, too. I think its a fun way to remember that sister of mine who could laugh like no other... and loved to color her hair!

I remember once I stole five dollars from her. When she told everyone she was missing that money, I felt guilty and returned it to her--telling her I had "found it in the front yard." She knew I wasn't telling the truth... but she had compassion on me. She didn't get mad, in fact, she gave me the five dollars back and told me I could keep it. She wanted me to spend the money on something fun.

I love Julie. And, I miss her.

If you remember any stories about our sister, post them on your blog or write them in the comment box. Thanks.

Picturama

Here are some old photos and new photos I thought everyone would enjoy seeing.

Not far from the old Smith homestead in Palmyra, lies this Temple. A walk through the nearby forest is still in the front of my memories. On that cool summer day, finding myself alone, I sat down on an old log and wondered what those woods had seen.

As some readers were slighty offended at my words, I have changed them to reflect a more accurate statement. I apologise for any offense:

Several of us BYU Democrats and many professors respectfully protested Dick Cheney's recent visit--with approval from the University leadership, of course. I was interviewed by a few reporters, including one from NPR. They were curious. What would cause the ultra-conservative, Mormon campus to be a stage to such a scence? I shared my opinion: Times are changing. For a long time the Republican party has had a supposed monopoly on the religious. But not any more. A growing minority of Latter-Day Saints have less and less in common with the evangelical, religious right--a group who are generally very jugdemental of anyone who does not share their same beliefs (especially Mormons). Latter-Day Saints, I told the reporter, were becoming more aware and interested in international causes--a change directly related to the growing world membership. This is no longer and American church, I said, and a growing number of its members are realizing that American interests are not supreme. Dick Cheney--whether accurate or not--has come to represent just the opposite of that, not only in our eyes but especially the eyes of our international membership. I explained how I had talked to a friend in England, whom I had met as a missionary, and he wondered how the campus could ever invite a figure like Cheney to BYU. I told the reporter I didn't have the anwer... but that I would certainly join my fellow students in offering a respectful dissenting opinion. I always welcome any speaker--whatever their views--to come and share their viewpoint. However, I--along with many fellow BYU students (a few hundred of which stood and protested during the three hour, approved event)--felt commencement was an innapropriate venue for such a cleary divisive figure. As my sign said, we should have respect but not endorsement of such figures.

See where you stand.

On the left: Me and the Old Man at BYU's April Graduation. Thanks for coming Dad; it meant a lot to have you there! And on the right: Me and Dr. Jolley, one of my plant science professors and a personal mentor. He employed me as a research assistant and was a great friend throughout my college career.

This degree wasn't just for me, but for all those who have helped me get there. I guess its not really that much of an achievement these days--since almost a quarter of the population receives a degree--but I'm still very grateful for my education! There were many people who have inspired me a long the way, and I'll ever be thankful.

Proud BYU Alumni; Nick, Onur and myself. We are the three most recent recruits to the company I work for. We were all in the same program at BYU and felt very prepared coming into the field. Our co-workers and supervisors agree, so much so that they may continually look to BYU for future recruits. GO COUGARS!

I'm currently working in the management training program at one of the largest agribusiness companies in the U.S. and in the world. The company specializes in seed production--with literally thousands of crop varieties available from locations in dozens of countries... from corn and soybean to alfalfa, sunflower, sorghum, canola and wheat. There are lots of opportunities to learn, travel, tour production sites, and network. It really is the job I was looking for—since it has allowed me to start applying exactly what I've been studying the last few years at BYU—both plant science and business. So far I've had the opportunity to travel through Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, Michigan, and Minnesota--touring production sites and laboratories to learn more about the business.

Most recently I've been stationed in our main lab just north of the city. We receive samples that are shipped in from production sites all over North America. We run quality tests on those samples and insure that standards are kept high. This year's harvest is expected to be record breaking. With all the increased planting due to demand for Ethanol production, the harvest brings a lot of hard work. The last few weeks have found me away from my cubicle in headquarters and out sweating at the Lab. Its tough, but its helpling me to learn from the ground up. And on a personal note, I've developed a considerable amount of benignancy for those who earn their bread by the sweat of their brow, literally. I view upper management with less and less awe and reserve my respect for the people "below" me--the ones who really make this world turn. I hope I always greet the proletariat with that same amount of obeisance.

One of my current supervisors is pictured with me above, on the right. He reminds me a lot of Uncle Richard. He works hard and leads by example. He's been in the company for 30 years, working mostly in this same position. I marvel at that. How could he stay in one place that long. He said that after serving a couple years in Vietnam he was happy to return home to Iowa--feeling content that he's seen enough of the world. He's a great guy.

My First Blog

For a while I wasn't sure what exactly a Blog was. It sounded like a descriptive name for throw up... kind of like "Barf." Well, now that my sisters are Blogging (no they're not sick) I decided it was time to figure this whole thing out... and join the cyber-party.


I've recently moved to Des Moines. The picture to the right is me floating on the Des Moines river. I've pretty much settled down here for the time being, although I'm still kind of in transition. Maybe it'll always feel that way--maybe that's what being a big kid is all about.

When I was a boy the only world I new was about the world I could ride to... on my bike. That was pretty much all over Kingwood and Humble, Texas, on the San Jacinto River. My world felt pretty solid back then, like it was never going to change. Now, all I know is change. The other day I counted it up--I've moved 23 times in the last seven years. I'll have to write more about those places some time... like Ketchikan, Alaska-----Elmira, New York-----Lowestoft, England-----and many more.

Sometimes I forget how many places I've seen. It all makes me wonder where I will end up... which nowadays is the preoccupation of my thoughts.

More to come...