Lately, I have been interested to note that there are numerous angsty posts circulating on various social media websites regarding my chosen profession. Most of them are rather gloomy and strive desperately to convince the reader that the life of an everyday veterinarian or veterinary technician/assistant/receptionist is HARD! They go on about the various difficulties we face, including the owner who blames you for their pet's illness, those who accuse you of being a money-grubbing heartless wonder, unexpected anesthetic death situations, heart-rending illnesses, etc. I am of the impression that the writers tend to be relatively new to this profession, and are suffering the disillusionment that can come with almost any career after one has been at it for a few years.
A common thread that I sense throughout most of these posts is the "you don't know how hard my job is" thread. I read the posts and nod knowingly, having experienced virtually ALL of the disastrous scenarios presented. I feel the pain and distress of the writers, and can empathize with each and every one of them. It is all true- there is no denying that sometimes this is a pretty tough profession to feel like you are making a difference. However, what I keep coming back to is that in spite of all that, I still enjoy my profession. I felt like I should really post a counterpoint to the other posts that are out there, pointing out that in every day that I work, something heartwarming, affirming, magical, comforting, sobering, strengthening, or otherwise amazing occurs. The key is to be looking for it.
Let me point out a few examples from the past few days here at our hospital- I have changed the names of pet and owner, but the situations are real.
As I think back, the first thing that comes to mind is the situation of "Noah" and "Pam", a dog and owner combination that forever strengthened my belief in the amazing thing we call the human-animal bond. Noah was (yes, he's passed-on now) perhaps the OLDEST yellow lab I have ever encountered in practice. He wasn't just chronologically old, either; he EXUDED old. Each time he came to the clinic, which was frequently, the first hint that he was there was the sound of the nails of his hind legs dragging across the tile floor, occasionally punctuated by the THUMP of him losing his balance and dropping to his side for a moment before gamely scrambling back up and soldiering on. The first thing you noticed when you came in the room with Noah, however, was his RADIANCE. To look at him, he was just an old, thin, muscle-wasted yellow lab, but you almost wouldn't see these things because of the feeling you got from him. His wise old eyes would look up at you, his thin old tail would wag madly back and forth, and he'd sashay right across the room to my stool, pausing to avidly sniff both of my pant legs. If he turned too quickly, he'd unceremoniously collapse in his hindquarters, but the light in his eyes never dimmed. No matter how badly my day had gone, Noah could make up in 30 seconds for ten or fifteen of the distressing situations explained so touchingly in other blog posts.
For the last year of his life, Noah had profound weakness and neurologic deficit in his hindquarters. He often had accidents in the house, and occasionally fell down the stairs when the owner let up her vigilance. Nevertheless, in true Noah form, his smile never dimmed. When Noah's time came, it was, of course, on a weekend after hours. He came in to the clinic recumbent in cardiovascular collapse. Every parameter we could measure was abnormal, and he could barely hold his head up, but his tail continued to wag with any mention of his name or any attention paid to him. Pam knew this was the end, and together we helped him slip away. As I withdrew the euthanasia solution syringe from his IV catheter, and saw the sweet old tail finally lie still, I thought, "It could take me a lifetime to quantify the lessons I learned from one sweet old dog", and that has proven to be true.
Another situation presented itself today that reminded me of the joy of this job. "Jane" and her cat "Sampson" came for a visit. Sampson has become a huge, fluffy, shiny picture of health- a far cry from nearly 3 years ago when he was suffering from uncontrolled diabetes, profound allergic skin disease, and a lingering upper-respiratory infection acquired as a kitten. At that time he had lost a significant amount of weight, his hair was coming out in patches, his blood glucose was over 600 (a person would be in a coma at that level) and his eyes were dull and uncaring. All he could think of was to get off my exam table in the most expedient way possible. Now, after thousands of dollars, and millions of prayers, hugs, and sleepless nights, he is the picture of health. He sat smugly on my exam table, confident in the fact that his owner would do anything in her power to assure his comfort. As the reigning authority figure in the room, he allowed my exam, and even appeared to appreciate the head scruffles and belly rubs he got as a reward.
Jane and Sampson have taught me so much about dedication and devotion, as well as reminding me to really THINK about each patient. I remember many an evening spent musing about Sampson's condition, oftentimes without coming to any real conclusion as to how best to proceed. As is the case so often in medicine, it was one of the last options tried that was the key to his recovery. Numerous literature searches since have yet to reveal a similar case to his, and yet it is clear that his improvement appears to be permanent. THAT, my friends, is the reason I love this profession.
Perhaps another thing that is often overlooked in the course of everyday veterinary work is the human connections we make with our clients. Virtually all of my close friends were first good clients. We have laughed, cried, grieved, and rejoiced together. Our relationships have changed, grown, evolved, and sometimes faded with each passing pet. I think that some of the most gratifying moments for me are the thank you cards from those who have lost a pet companion of so many years, expressing their gratitude for all we did. This feeling is surpassed by the next time I see them, typically with a new, squirming, completely untrained, wild-eyed, tail wagging bundle of fur that will become our next great mutual adventure. I've been in this profession long enough now that I commonly am seeing the third or fourth iteration of pet companion for my friends. I am seeing the pets of their GRANDCHILDREN, and I am commonly giving one long last hug and pat on the head to the old dog or cat that I first saw as that squirming bundle of fur on my exam table fourteen or fifteen years ago. It is a solemn responsibility, and yet such a privilege. I so appreciate that opportunity; to see an entire life well-lived, and to be there at the conclusion. For me, the parting really is such sweet sorrow- I picture all those years, all those exams, (all those rectal thermometers!) and the conversations had with the owner. I see the adult child there, holding the hand of a grieving parent, and remember them as the six-year-old they were when the pet was young. Our pets provide such a microcosm of our own lives...lives lived in fast-forward, so to speak. Sometimes when I come home, I see my own children, playing with my own pets, doing homework, practicing music, putting away dishes, and the poignancy of the moment just brings back my experiences of the day. Hopefully it is at that time that they get an extra hug, a pat on the back, or simply a tickle on my way by.
Is there a lesson in this message? I certainly hope so. For me, it is that my profession gives me 15-20 opportunities every day to experience LIFE. Sometimes it isn't pretty, oftentimes it is smelly, depressing, and a bit sad, but the thrilling thing is that each time that exam room door opens, it will be DIFFERENT. I try to remind myself that there is no such thing as "just another vaccine appointment", and that these amazing patients and owners are each a brilliant star in the cosmos of life, all at different stages. The lessons I learn when I take the time to see them in that way are endless. Life is good!
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Almost there...
Andrew and Danielle have entered the home stretch for school...they are both pretty excited about it. Danielle has passed off her last poem for the year (they are required to memorize a poem for every grading period...they have the option to choose from several their teacher has selected.) Her last one was "Pussywillows" by Aileen Fisher, and goes,
Close your eyes and do not peek
And I'll rub spring across your cheek
Smooth as satin, soft and sleek
Close your eyes and do not peek.
She has really enjoyed her poetry, and I think it is so cool that they have this assignment. I wish there had been some similar requirement when I was in school. My poetry memorizer is definitely not as good as my kids, that's for sure.
Andrew is halfway through memorizing his last poem...being for a fourth-grader, it is significantly longer and more difficult. His current poem is "Daffodils" by William Wordsworth
I wandered lonely as a cloud
that float on high o'er hills and vales
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee
A poet could not but be gay
In such jocund company
I gazed---and gazed---but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
The flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude
And then my heart with pleasure fills
And dances with the daffodils.
Andrew really reminds me of his Grandmother Israelsen;
he is constantly choosing poetry that speaks of the loveliness of nature, and its effects on us.
I remember as a child how often she would stop and show me something small and intricate in nature that I would have otherwise missed. My wife now makes fun of me for doing the same thing...I guess I was taught well.
It's exciting to see my kids progress like this, but it is tough at the same time. I'm not ready for them to be a year older, much less teenagers or twenty-somethings...I hear it comes too quickly. It won't be long before I'm sitting up by the kitchen table at night waiting for one of them to come back from a first date, or hoping I've taught them well enough when they venture off to college to keep them from making painful mistakes. I guess I'd better enjoy every single moment now, while they're small and I still know everything, huh?
Reminds me of the Alabama song, "Thank God for Kids"... or the song "Tough Little Boys" by Gary Allan, or best of all, "Butterfly Kisses" by Bob Carlisle. Man, I'm a sap for country music tearjerkers, I guess!
Watch more Religious music videos at EZ-Tracks
Long story short, I LOVE my kids! Can't imagine life without them or their mother. They are my reason for living, the wind beneath my wings...whatever corny catchphrase you can come up with, they are it! What a blessing it is to be a Daddy!
Close your eyes and do not peek
And I'll rub spring across your cheek
Smooth as satin, soft and sleek
Close your eyes and do not peek.
She has really enjoyed her poetry, and I think it is so cool that they have this assignment. I wish there had been some similar requirement when I was in school. My poetry memorizer is definitely not as good as my kids, that's for sure.
Andrew is halfway through memorizing his last poem...being for a fourth-grader, it is significantly longer and more difficult. His current poem is "Daffodils" by William Wordsworth
I wandered lonely as a cloud
that float on high o'er hills and vales
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee
A poet could not but be gay
In such jocund company
I gazed---and gazed---but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
The flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude
And then my heart with pleasure fills
And dances with the daffodils.
Andrew really reminds me of his Grandmother Israelsen;
he is constantly choosing poetry that speaks of the loveliness of nature, and its effects on us.
I remember as a child how often she would stop and show me something small and intricate in nature that I would have otherwise missed. My wife now makes fun of me for doing the same thing...I guess I was taught well.
It's exciting to see my kids progress like this, but it is tough at the same time. I'm not ready for them to be a year older, much less teenagers or twenty-somethings...I hear it comes too quickly. It won't be long before I'm sitting up by the kitchen table at night waiting for one of them to come back from a first date, or hoping I've taught them well enough when they venture off to college to keep them from making painful mistakes. I guess I'd better enjoy every single moment now, while they're small and I still know everything, huh?
Reminds me of the Alabama song, "Thank God for Kids"... or the song "Tough Little Boys" by Gary Allan, or best of all, "Butterfly Kisses" by Bob Carlisle. Man, I'm a sap for country music tearjerkers, I guess!
Watch more Religious music videos at EZ-Tracks
Long story short, I LOVE my kids! Can't imagine life without them or their mother. They are my reason for living, the wind beneath my wings...whatever corny catchphrase you can come up with, they are it! What a blessing it is to be a Daddy!
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Springtime...
The crocus pokes its tiny head up through the ice and snow
It dares to reach toward warmth above, though wreathed in cold below.
The buds on trees all slowly swell as sap begins to flow,
through branches bare the frigid air whistles loud and low.
Yet still the birds, long gone from view
come hopping to and fro
their sharp bright eyes espying tufts
of grass both old and new.
The long-dead grass upon the fields begins to stir and rise
to meet the gaze of mice and voles, whose beds their bodies 'prise.
The storms roll in, with fits and spurts- old Winter's slow to go
and yet each day brings brighter light and softer sunny glow.
The spring is here, with all it's sights and smells and sounds and joy
as life anew begins again, I remember as a boy
the magic golden, stirring air,
the smells of mud and must,
the sounds of birds, the nippy air,
Spring's loving gift of trust.
No longer young, but still amazed at Nature's golden gift
I love the spring, I love the soil, the chance to give a lift
to dormant souls, to hands hung down, to lives long overlooked,
My heart it thrills, the air, though chill, returns what once it took.
This spring my heart is softer, deeper, wounded, hardened, broke.
The sense of wonder still remains, as strong as any oak.
How do you feel when spring returns, are you as stirred as I?
Do longer days and warmer times engender a reply?
A sense of need, to love, to lead, to start anew today?
And if such sense be found in you, to what use can it be put?
Is there some long-forgotten friend, some stranger at the river bend,
a chance encounter on a street, a lonely child, a kitten (wild) among a tangled root?
From this day on, as spring does dawn, my heart's repurpose strains
to build my soul, to turn a dull and rusty sense of self
into a strong, and brilliant song of love, of peace, of health.
If there are those, whose brilliant rose of promise has been chilled
by my wintry days, my sullen gaze, my friendship's depth unfilled-
I beg you please allow this spring to once again renew
my chance to love, to praise, support, and be a friend to you.
It dares to reach toward warmth above, though wreathed in cold below.
The buds on trees all slowly swell as sap begins to flow,
through branches bare the frigid air whistles loud and low.
Yet still the birds, long gone from view
come hopping to and fro
their sharp bright eyes espying tufts
of grass both old and new.
The long-dead grass upon the fields begins to stir and rise
to meet the gaze of mice and voles, whose beds their bodies 'prise.
The storms roll in, with fits and spurts- old Winter's slow to go
and yet each day brings brighter light and softer sunny glow.
The spring is here, with all it's sights and smells and sounds and joy
as life anew begins again, I remember as a boy
the magic golden, stirring air,
the smells of mud and must,
the sounds of birds, the nippy air,
Spring's loving gift of trust.
No longer young, but still amazed at Nature's golden gift
I love the spring, I love the soil, the chance to give a lift
to dormant souls, to hands hung down, to lives long overlooked,
My heart it thrills, the air, though chill, returns what once it took.
This spring my heart is softer, deeper, wounded, hardened, broke.
The sense of wonder still remains, as strong as any oak.
How do you feel when spring returns, are you as stirred as I?
Do longer days and warmer times engender a reply?
A sense of need, to love, to lead, to start anew today?
And if such sense be found in you, to what use can it be put?
Is there some long-forgotten friend, some stranger at the river bend,
a chance encounter on a street, a lonely child, a kitten (wild) among a tangled root?
From this day on, as spring does dawn, my heart's repurpose strains
to build my soul, to turn a dull and rusty sense of self
into a strong, and brilliant song of love, of peace, of health.
If there are those, whose brilliant rose of promise has been chilled
by my wintry days, my sullen gaze, my friendship's depth unfilled-
I beg you please allow this spring to once again renew
my chance to love, to praise, support, and be a friend to you.
Intimations on Mortality
Once again, having suffered from a lack of sleep every single night this week, I find myself in front of the computer, feeling the need to free-associate. Not sure what will come of this, but sometimes it is cathartic for me, anyway.
Lately, I have been having ongoing feelings of the transient nature of our lives on earth, and of this mortal existence. (Losing your father will bring that to the forefront, I guess). Do you ever find yourself thinking about your current situation and just wondering how it all came to be? Does the first gray hair in the mirroror the first wrinkle around your eyes make you think twice about your life's direction? Do you ever feel a sense of dread, despair, hopelessness, anxiety, or unease regarding life in general? I think I've had that sense ever since I turned 30 or so.
How much of a difference have we made in our lives? If we were to be gone tomorrow, would the world be any different for our having lived? Have you made a difference to those around you? If not, why not? Ralph Waldo Emerson is purported to have said this,
" To laugh often and much; To win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; To earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; To appreciate beauty, to find the best in others; To leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition; To know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded. "
Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803 - 1882) American Essayist & Poet
Why then, if what Mr. Emerson says is true, do we constantly compare OUR lives to those of others around us, and feel somehow less? I suppose it is human nature to feel that others have been more successful, better contributors to society, or have simply led more INTERESTING lives. If we are living supposedly boring lives, what could we possibly contribute? It is the rare one among us who will invent a new technology that will change the world, and few of us will have the chance to do something heroic that will be long-remembered. Heroic acts, in and of themselves, are actually quite commonly forgotten within the lifetime of the hero. What really constitutes heroism?
I was reading the other day about Vu Pham, an Ontario Provincial Police officer who was killed after stopping a pickup truck on a rural road. The reason for his shooting remains unclear, as the 70 year-old suspect died of wounds sustained later in the day in another gun battle. Pham was eulogized and honored by thousands of fellow officers who filled a hockey arena for his funeral on March 17, 2010. His three young sons were in attendance, and their tribute to him reflected what may be our best opportunity to be heroes. Pham's adoptive brother Mike Thompson perhaps summed it up the best when he said, "He may have died a hero to you, but he lived a hero to me."
The speakers at the funeral certainly mentioned Pham's devotion to his country and career, but what they really dwelt on was his devotion to family and friends. Is it possible that this was what truly qualified him as a hero? If so, do we not all have the same opportunity? If you were to be gone tomorrow, who will have "breathed easier" for your having lived? This, I think, is the question I need to ask myself daily.
For those of you who knew my father, you can appreciate the huge impact he had on the lives of those around him. He was born into a large Mormon family, and grew up in an agricultural background. He served honorably in the U.S. Naval Air Corp during WWII. He married his childhood sweetheart, and together they had 12 ( yes 12!!) children. He had several careers, none of which made him rich. He and his wife Nancy lived in the same home they built as a young married couple for their entire married life. He served as mayor in his town, he was a member of the Lion's club, and an active member of his church. He was active in the scouting program his whole life, and served as scoutmaster for more than 20 years. He never graduated from college. It is highly unlikely that his name was well known outside of the confines of Cache Valley. As the world would judge success, he was just average. How would you judge him? At some future date I will post the tribute of him which I wrote several years before his death. Perhaps that will more adequately explain the true nature of his heroism, for unless you KNEW him, it may not have been evident. Does this, then, make him any less of a hero? Does it make him any less of a "success?".
What about yourself? Does it really matter what we earn, or what size home we have? When was the last time you smiled BECAUSE you had a job? When was the last time you smiled at the cashier at the fast food restaurant? When was the last time you were appreciative of your server at a restaurant? They would have helped you whether you were appreciative or not- it is their job, right? Have we "won the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children?" Have we kept our word? Have we hauled our sorry butts off the couch and away from the TV to play on the trampoline with our kids? Have we committed a "random act of kindness"? I'd like to think that maybe this is something we can consider tomorrow morning, and the next day, and the day after that. Life continues at the same pace regardless of our action or inaction.
Since Dad's passing, I've spoken to countless friends and acquaintances about it... I suppose it is therapeutic for me to do so. This week I was on a farm call to the home of a woman whose husband died in his sleep at 57 years old last week. Dad died suddenly at 87 1/2 years old. Nearly every week I see an obituary for someone who is younger than me. My point is, you never know when you are going to go. I know that intellectually we all understand that, but, if so, why don't we LIVE it? I think the biggest comfort to me in Dad's passing is the surety that he had NO unfinished business. He didn't have to call up a long-alienated acquaintance to try to patch things up, he didn't have to have an urgent conversation with his clergyman. If you were told you had 2-3 days to live, could you say the same?
I think the thing that bothers me about this is, if we KNOW truths, why don't we allow that knowledge to affect the way we live our lives? There might NOT be another opportunity to jump on that trampoline! I believe that in the end, our success should be measured by HOW we spent our time, not WHAT we acquired. Nadine Stair said, "If I had my life to live over I would pick more daisies". Would you?
Lately, I have been having ongoing feelings of the transient nature of our lives on earth, and of this mortal existence. (Losing your father will bring that to the forefront, I guess). Do you ever find yourself thinking about your current situation and just wondering how it all came to be? Does the first gray hair in the mirroror the first wrinkle around your eyes make you think twice about your life's direction? Do you ever feel a sense of dread, despair, hopelessness, anxiety, or unease regarding life in general? I think I've had that sense ever since I turned 30 or so.
How much of a difference have we made in our lives? If we were to be gone tomorrow, would the world be any different for our having lived? Have you made a difference to those around you? If not, why not? Ralph Waldo Emerson is purported to have said this,
" To laugh often and much; To win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; To earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; To appreciate beauty, to find the best in others; To leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition; To know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded. "
Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803 - 1882) American Essayist & Poet
Why then, if what Mr. Emerson says is true, do we constantly compare OUR lives to those of others around us, and feel somehow less? I suppose it is human nature to feel that others have been more successful, better contributors to society, or have simply led more INTERESTING lives. If we are living supposedly boring lives, what could we possibly contribute? It is the rare one among us who will invent a new technology that will change the world, and few of us will have the chance to do something heroic that will be long-remembered. Heroic acts, in and of themselves, are actually quite commonly forgotten within the lifetime of the hero. What really constitutes heroism?
I was reading the other day about Vu Pham, an Ontario Provincial Police officer who was killed after stopping a pickup truck on a rural road. The reason for his shooting remains unclear, as the 70 year-old suspect died of wounds sustained later in the day in another gun battle. Pham was eulogized and honored by thousands of fellow officers who filled a hockey arena for his funeral on March 17, 2010. His three young sons were in attendance, and their tribute to him reflected what may be our best opportunity to be heroes. Pham's adoptive brother Mike Thompson perhaps summed it up the best when he said, "He may have died a hero to you, but he lived a hero to me."
The speakers at the funeral certainly mentioned Pham's devotion to his country and career, but what they really dwelt on was his devotion to family and friends. Is it possible that this was what truly qualified him as a hero? If so, do we not all have the same opportunity? If you were to be gone tomorrow, who will have "breathed easier" for your having lived? This, I think, is the question I need to ask myself daily.
For those of you who knew my father, you can appreciate the huge impact he had on the lives of those around him. He was born into a large Mormon family, and grew up in an agricultural background. He served honorably in the U.S. Naval Air Corp during WWII. He married his childhood sweetheart, and together they had 12 ( yes 12!!) children. He had several careers, none of which made him rich. He and his wife Nancy lived in the same home they built as a young married couple for their entire married life. He served as mayor in his town, he was a member of the Lion's club, and an active member of his church. He was active in the scouting program his whole life, and served as scoutmaster for more than 20 years. He never graduated from college. It is highly unlikely that his name was well known outside of the confines of Cache Valley. As the world would judge success, he was just average. How would you judge him? At some future date I will post the tribute of him which I wrote several years before his death. Perhaps that will more adequately explain the true nature of his heroism, for unless you KNEW him, it may not have been evident. Does this, then, make him any less of a hero? Does it make him any less of a "success?".
What about yourself? Does it really matter what we earn, or what size home we have? When was the last time you smiled BECAUSE you had a job? When was the last time you smiled at the cashier at the fast food restaurant? When was the last time you were appreciative of your server at a restaurant? They would have helped you whether you were appreciative or not- it is their job, right? Have we "won the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children?" Have we kept our word? Have we hauled our sorry butts off the couch and away from the TV to play on the trampoline with our kids? Have we committed a "random act of kindness"? I'd like to think that maybe this is something we can consider tomorrow morning, and the next day, and the day after that. Life continues at the same pace regardless of our action or inaction.
Since Dad's passing, I've spoken to countless friends and acquaintances about it... I suppose it is therapeutic for me to do so. This week I was on a farm call to the home of a woman whose husband died in his sleep at 57 years old last week. Dad died suddenly at 87 1/2 years old. Nearly every week I see an obituary for someone who is younger than me. My point is, you never know when you are going to go. I know that intellectually we all understand that, but, if so, why don't we LIVE it? I think the biggest comfort to me in Dad's passing is the surety that he had NO unfinished business. He didn't have to call up a long-alienated acquaintance to try to patch things up, he didn't have to have an urgent conversation with his clergyman. If you were told you had 2-3 days to live, could you say the same?
I think the thing that bothers me about this is, if we KNOW truths, why don't we allow that knowledge to affect the way we live our lives? There might NOT be another opportunity to jump on that trampoline! I believe that in the end, our success should be measured by HOW we spent our time, not WHAT we acquired. Nadine Stair said, "If I had my life to live over I would pick more daisies". Would you?
My Father's Rock
My Father’s Rock An Essay by James E. Israelsen
Directly west of the Israelsen/Crookston cabin in Franklin Basin lie 2 large, open clearings known to our family as “the flats”. The result of ancient glacial activity, each is treeless, but covered with rounded boulders, sagebrush, mule’s ear, and native grasses. A strip of pine trees and aspen divides the two clearings, hiding each from the other.
In the spring and summer, they are green- covered in yellow glory with mule’s ear flowers, and accented with tall, white sprays of yarrow. In the fall, they are dry, dusty, and hot, with brown papery mule’s ear leaves crackling underfoot with each step. In winter they are white sparkling wonderlands; an expanse so smooth it belies the rocky terrain hidden underneath.
In the northwest corner of the westernmost of these two flats sits a large boulder. It is by far the most sizeable rock on the flat, and is composed of the same grey, pink, and deep red-mottled rock as its surrounding brethren.
The clearing slopes to the east, so the east side of the rock juts up some 4 ½ feet, while the west side protrudes only 24 inches from the ground. It is covered in multicolored lichens, and is similar in shape to a Volkswagen Beetle. This then, is my father’s rock. When I see or think of this rock, it is nearly always with memories of my father.
I hiked to this rock tonight on a cool, cloudless, breezy September evening. The mule’s ear crackled underfoot, the smell of sage caressed my memory, and a myriad of stars kept watch overhead, changeless and silent. A small flashlight served to light my way, but by-and-large I was guided by memories.
Some of my strongest childhood memories are tied to that rock- memories of cool, crisp, dark October mornings riding up the bumpy “road” (just a track now, used only by cattle, horses, and ATV’s) in Dad’s blue Chevrolet truck. I remember stopping the truck at the edge of the trees and beginning the long hike to “Dad’s rock”. My short legs taking 3 steps for every one of my father’s, I would look eagerly for our goal. In the early morning darkness, it was often just a black shape at the top of the gentle hill. Tonight, the trip from the edge of the trees took maybe 3 minutes. Then, it seemed like 30.
Once we arrived, we’d settle onto the rock, looking south and east for any signs of movement. Often after 15 or 20 minutes, my patience would wear thin and I’d start to fidget. Dad would gently “shush” me, reminding me that we’d see no deer if they heard us first. We’d sit and wait, sometimes eating a “sweetroll” for breakfast. When youthful energy could no longer be contained, I’d climb off the rock and explore the surrounding area, pretending to be the first white man ever to set foot there, and wondering what humans the rock had seen before.
Our stated purpose was to watch for deer, but I have no actual memories of ever shooting at one from that rock, even though we went there every year for numerous visits. What I do remember is growing sleepy in the warm October sun, and of Dad helping me shelter from the wind at the base of the steep eastern face of the rock. I recall curling up in both his coat and mine while he stood ever-vigilant watch. I have memories of peanut M&Ms shared, and more importantly, of shared conversations.
While no single conversation stands out clearly, I know that most avenues were thoroughly explored, from the best ways to spot a deer, to how to build a campfire, to God’s wishes for us. The topics melded easily one into another, and Dad’s rock felt like the safest place on earth.
If one looks south from the rock, the long ridge of White Pine canyon dominates the horizon. More memories center there- memories of my father. I remember another, colder October hunt on horseback with cousins, uncles, Dad, and my younger sister Bonnie. The ride started well before dark and well below freezing. In the hour it took to reach the canyon by first light, we learned the uselessness of our trendy foam “moon boots” at keeping feet warm while on horseback. I remember Bonnie’s tears, remember Dad tying the horses up, gathering wood, clearing snow, building a large fire, and gently rubbing Bonnie’s feet while she calmed down. I’m sure no deer were seen that day, but two young hearts learned the depth of their father’s love.
Another memory, a much earlier one, springs to mind when gazing at White Pine canyon from the rock. It is a distant, spotty memory, comprised mainly of images in rapid succession, like a slide show. They are images of a trip to White Pine canyon to camp as a family. There is an image of baby Bonnie, probably no more than two years old riding in a baby carrier on Dad’s back and sobbing miserably. There are images of mother and siblings trying to calm her, images of the huge army green center-pole canvas tent, the blue truck. Neither the cause nor the outcome of Bonnie’s unhappiness is remembered, but Dad’s quiet patience while carrying her is indelibly etched. There is an idyllic quality to all these images, as if the sun slanting through the pines can never be so golden again, and the air itself seems infused with light. These are, almost certainly, my first memories of family camping.
On this night, as I lie on my back on “Dad’s rock” and gaze up at the amazing palette of stars I see the Milky Way running bright and true across the heavens. I feel the cool breeze, and somewhere to the west an elk bugles, perhaps practicing his show for the rut to come. Another answers from across the mountain. A coyote sings, then decrescendos into a chorus of yips and barks. The wind rustles the mule’s ear, a shooting star slices across the sky. The rock is solid beneath me, and my heart is free to ponder. These mountains are little-changed in my lifetime, and likewise the rock. There are a few flecks of charcoal on the lee side of the rock, likely from some kid-warming fire long ago. The rock stands watch over the wilderness, but it is also deep in my heart. Like my father, the rock is always there. The memories that one man took time to create for a small boy have softened a little, but, like the rock, remain forever.
Now I, as a father myself, think of my rock. In the left-hand pocket of my jacket is a folded sheet of paper. It is an image of a pig, carefully colored completely blue for me by a beautiful little girl with her mother’s blonde hair and her grandfather’s light blue eyes. “Daddy, I want you to have this”, she said as she gravely handed it to me. “I made it for you.”
The chain of life continues. I have already brought her and her brother to this rock, and we have sat in the sun and shared stories of their grandfather. Will this memory remain for them, or will we have another rock of our own?
It has always been this way for me, that thoughts are clearest and feelings the deepest in this place. As my life goes on, and so many things are transient, I know that my father’s rock will remain. Through my lifetime and that of my children, the rock will stand, a silent testament to the love of a father. Thank you Father, from the bottom of my heart. - James
Directly west of the Israelsen/Crookston cabin in Franklin Basin lie 2 large, open clearings known to our family as “the flats”. The result of ancient glacial activity, each is treeless, but covered with rounded boulders, sagebrush, mule’s ear, and native grasses. A strip of pine trees and aspen divides the two clearings, hiding each from the other.
In the spring and summer, they are green- covered in yellow glory with mule’s ear flowers, and accented with tall, white sprays of yarrow. In the fall, they are dry, dusty, and hot, with brown papery mule’s ear leaves crackling underfoot with each step. In winter they are white sparkling wonderlands; an expanse so smooth it belies the rocky terrain hidden underneath.
In the northwest corner of the westernmost of these two flats sits a large boulder. It is by far the most sizeable rock on the flat, and is composed of the same grey, pink, and deep red-mottled rock as its surrounding brethren.
The clearing slopes to the east, so the east side of the rock juts up some 4 ½ feet, while the west side protrudes only 24 inches from the ground. It is covered in multicolored lichens, and is similar in shape to a Volkswagen Beetle. This then, is my father’s rock. When I see or think of this rock, it is nearly always with memories of my father.
I hiked to this rock tonight on a cool, cloudless, breezy September evening. The mule’s ear crackled underfoot, the smell of sage caressed my memory, and a myriad of stars kept watch overhead, changeless and silent. A small flashlight served to light my way, but by-and-large I was guided by memories.
Some of my strongest childhood memories are tied to that rock- memories of cool, crisp, dark October mornings riding up the bumpy “road” (just a track now, used only by cattle, horses, and ATV’s) in Dad’s blue Chevrolet truck. I remember stopping the truck at the edge of the trees and beginning the long hike to “Dad’s rock”. My short legs taking 3 steps for every one of my father’s, I would look eagerly for our goal. In the early morning darkness, it was often just a black shape at the top of the gentle hill. Tonight, the trip from the edge of the trees took maybe 3 minutes. Then, it seemed like 30.
Once we arrived, we’d settle onto the rock, looking south and east for any signs of movement. Often after 15 or 20 minutes, my patience would wear thin and I’d start to fidget. Dad would gently “shush” me, reminding me that we’d see no deer if they heard us first. We’d sit and wait, sometimes eating a “sweetroll” for breakfast. When youthful energy could no longer be contained, I’d climb off the rock and explore the surrounding area, pretending to be the first white man ever to set foot there, and wondering what humans the rock had seen before.
Our stated purpose was to watch for deer, but I have no actual memories of ever shooting at one from that rock, even though we went there every year for numerous visits. What I do remember is growing sleepy in the warm October sun, and of Dad helping me shelter from the wind at the base of the steep eastern face of the rock. I recall curling up in both his coat and mine while he stood ever-vigilant watch. I have memories of peanut M&Ms shared, and more importantly, of shared conversations.
While no single conversation stands out clearly, I know that most avenues were thoroughly explored, from the best ways to spot a deer, to how to build a campfire, to God’s wishes for us. The topics melded easily one into another, and Dad’s rock felt like the safest place on earth.
If one looks south from the rock, the long ridge of White Pine canyon dominates the horizon. More memories center there- memories of my father. I remember another, colder October hunt on horseback with cousins, uncles, Dad, and my younger sister Bonnie. The ride started well before dark and well below freezing. In the hour it took to reach the canyon by first light, we learned the uselessness of our trendy foam “moon boots” at keeping feet warm while on horseback. I remember Bonnie’s tears, remember Dad tying the horses up, gathering wood, clearing snow, building a large fire, and gently rubbing Bonnie’s feet while she calmed down. I’m sure no deer were seen that day, but two young hearts learned the depth of their father’s love.
Another memory, a much earlier one, springs to mind when gazing at White Pine canyon from the rock. It is a distant, spotty memory, comprised mainly of images in rapid succession, like a slide show. They are images of a trip to White Pine canyon to camp as a family. There is an image of baby Bonnie, probably no more than two years old riding in a baby carrier on Dad’s back and sobbing miserably. There are images of mother and siblings trying to calm her, images of the huge army green center-pole canvas tent, the blue truck. Neither the cause nor the outcome of Bonnie’s unhappiness is remembered, but Dad’s quiet patience while carrying her is indelibly etched. There is an idyllic quality to all these images, as if the sun slanting through the pines can never be so golden again, and the air itself seems infused with light. These are, almost certainly, my first memories of family camping.
On this night, as I lie on my back on “Dad’s rock” and gaze up at the amazing palette of stars I see the Milky Way running bright and true across the heavens. I feel the cool breeze, and somewhere to the west an elk bugles, perhaps practicing his show for the rut to come. Another answers from across the mountain. A coyote sings, then decrescendos into a chorus of yips and barks. The wind rustles the mule’s ear, a shooting star slices across the sky. The rock is solid beneath me, and my heart is free to ponder. These mountains are little-changed in my lifetime, and likewise the rock. There are a few flecks of charcoal on the lee side of the rock, likely from some kid-warming fire long ago. The rock stands watch over the wilderness, but it is also deep in my heart. Like my father, the rock is always there. The memories that one man took time to create for a small boy have softened a little, but, like the rock, remain forever.
Now I, as a father myself, think of my rock. In the left-hand pocket of my jacket is a folded sheet of paper. It is an image of a pig, carefully colored completely blue for me by a beautiful little girl with her mother’s blonde hair and her grandfather’s light blue eyes. “Daddy, I want you to have this”, she said as she gravely handed it to me. “I made it for you.”
The chain of life continues. I have already brought her and her brother to this rock, and we have sat in the sun and shared stories of their grandfather. Will this memory remain for them, or will we have another rock of our own?
It has always been this way for me, that thoughts are clearest and feelings the deepest in this place. As my life goes on, and so many things are transient, I know that my father’s rock will remain. Through my lifetime and that of my children, the rock will stand, a silent testament to the love of a father. Thank you Father, from the bottom of my heart. - James
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