The Final Birthday of the Season

Sunday was the final birthday in our family until snow falls (or early December, as snow may not fall here by then). For the record, we have 5 birthdays between May and August, so reaching this point is like a big sigh of relief.

Anyhow, here is the birthday boy with his gifts. First, a baby-sized basketball hoop (although the basketballs interest him a lot more):
And second, one of those little button-pop-type toys that you always have in nursery (note how he is already attached to the basketballs):
As Summer blogged about previously, the cake was a homemade masterpiece. Here Evan reaches for the candle:

And here he prepares to dive into his slice of cake:
Then we have before:
During:
And after:
Happy Birthday!

10,678'

On Saturday we decided to escape the heat by going around to the east side of the Sandias and driving to the crest. Once through Tijeras canyon, the land changes to mountains and the road works its way north along the Turquoise Trail through small towns. We then turned west and followed the Sandia Crest Byway up to the top of the mountain. At the crest, several hiking trails converge at a Forest Service visitors center. We got out and did some hiking. Here we are at an overlook above the city:
And here's a view down the mountain looking southwest:
We then took off through the spruce-fir forest for a longer hike. It was amazing how the altitude changes everything. The ground was wet from recent rains and the air was cool. We were among the clouds and the air was thin. In fact, Summer mentioned that she had never hiked at such heights, and I think the same may be true for me. We were at 10,678' at the crest, and I can't think of a time when I've hiked at that altitude.

Here the kids stop in the woods:
The trail branched off after a half-mile, with one route leading to the tram base atop the mountain and another leading to the Kiwanis cabin. We chose the latter, passing by this alpine meadow:
We didn't go all the way to the cabin, as the thin air wore us out quickly. On the way base to the crest we took a spur route along the edge of the mountain. Here is Isaac at the bottom of a set of stairs that led to the cliff edge:
After catching our breath we drove downhill to a picnic area for a late lunch. We came home amazed that it took us six years to make it to the top of the Sandias and convinced that we need to go back often, especially in the heat of the summer. I also have a renewed determination to hike throughout the mountains to our east. My goal--hike the ~20 mile crest trail from end to end. I think in a few years the two older kids can make the hike with me, and maybe we try to get Nathan to come before he leaves on his mission.

Could It Be?

So for the past week or so, Evan has been fanatical about playing catch. He will take a soft ball and run around the house (that's right, walking has given way to a clumsy running) looking to throw the ball to someone. We've made a fun game of sitting in the hall and playing a modified version of catch. When he's feeling wild he'll take a ball in each hand and overload on the fun of it all.
But the best part for me--as seen above--is that he always prefers to throw with his left hand. Now, I love all of my children, and each is wonderful in his/her own way. But to have not one, but two lefties among my offspring (Isaac still favors his left, although he might be completely ambidextrous before all is said and done) is amazing. I just hope I don't get insane about it all. (Too late, you say?)

The Hardest Thing I Ever Have To Do--Work Version

Sorry for the long absence from the blog. This entry will explain that.

Last Saturday at the local Home Storage Center run by the Church, we were canning oats. We prepared over two tons of rolled oats, and, not to brag, I was responsible for dumping about 80% of that from the 25 pound bags into the bins, from which the cans were then filled prior to being sealed. At one point in the process, a member of the ward said to me, "Be careful. That sort of thing can turn into work real quickly if you're not careful."

I assured him that I eschew work, and that is why I went into teaching. This is actually a running gag for me: I tried work and didn't like it, so I chose education. But at times, it's a lot of work. The past two weeks have been among those times.

The courses I teach are all graded on a pass/fail basis, which I love. I always despised having to decide if an assignment was a B+ or an A-, and now, that issue is resolved. In its place, however, is an agonizing moment.

I require my students to earn a certain minimum score on their 5 assignments, with higher scores available for revisions. I see this as emphasizing the importance of revising their work, a key objective to the course. I also leave the time frame for revising open until the end of the term.

The deadline this semester was last Friday. By the end of the day, students needed to have sent in any last revisions to earn the minimum score. So I wound up grading over 200 essays last week to help students get to the minimum score. Most did so, but a few, for a variety of reasons, did not. Thus the agony.

You see, I email students to let them know that they will be unable to pass the class when this situation arises. It's a hard email to write, but I think I usually do a good job of it. However, the students to whom I am writing are usually the least likely to diligently check their email; a lack of dedication to the course underlies most failing grades.

So Monday and Tuesday I had to tell 6 students that they had failed to meet the required score by the deadline and would therefore fail the class. I am not one for confrontation, so this is always an uncomfortable exchange. But more than that, I want so desperately for my students to succeed that assigning a failing grade is painful. I loathe it.

Last year in a meeting with colleagues, I made the comment that anytime a student fails a class, the failure is, at least in part, ours as educators. I believe that, and that belief is why this is the hardest ting I have to do professionally.

"All Done"

No picture for this posting, which is too bad, as it's ridiculously cute. I'll see what I can do later. Anyhow, for the narrative...

Evan has begun to communicate with not just body movements, but also sounds. Proto-words, if you will. He will mimic us and make a "du" sound when we lift our hands, shrug our shoulders and say, "all done?" He makes the cutest face when he does this, tossing his head back and scrunching his eyes closed. I'm not sure how close he is to making the sound unprompted, but I suppose once he's talking we'll long for the days of relative silence. So I'll just enjoy this new skill of his.

A Cry For Help

That title makes this sound a bit more psychological than it is. It's really a practical ting, but I suppose it's hard to ask for this help, so it is a bit of a cry.

Here's the deal. Summer has relented to my plan to get a scooter, but on the condition that I make some real progress on our backyard (it's a fiasco, really). Her latest deal: once we get the retaining wall built, I can get my wheels. So, I cry for help.

Here's the plan. The week of 11 August I beginning a two-week break, and I want to build the wall then. I'm working on getting either Dad's help or at least his advice/guidance, and then any other kin who could make it down to help would be welcomed warmly (seriously, August in ABQ is warm, but it's been pretty rainy this season). We may also try to get the ward to help out--our home teacher has two teenaged boys, Summer's visiting teachers are married to the Elders Quorum and Young Mens presidents, etc.

(There, I asked for help. Next thing you know I'll ask for directions too...)

Thanks in advance

Defining the Blog

Remember when you're dating someone and the relationship has begun to evolve, and there is that moment when one or both of you realizes that it's time to define the relationship? In the world of single folk at BYU, "DTR" is as important an acronym as GPA, but I'm far removed from that world. Or so I thought, until Summer set up her new blog. Suddenly we have to figure out if this is my blog and that is hers, or if this is ours and I have my work blogs to fill that part of my life.


(I know, so far this is shaping up to be the worst blog entry ever. It will hopefully get better...)


This of course gets me thinking about the roles the blogs play, as I now find myself at least partially responsible for this and 8 other blogs over at Wordpress for work (I'm not counting my two defunct work-related Blogger blogs). But only this one fills a personal need. In my case, that need is to stay in touch, to share moments from our family's life. It's a blend of email and photo albums that makes me feel more connected.


I say all this because my high council speaking topic for this month is the role journal-keeping plays in family history work. It's a topic that makes me less than comfortable, mainly because my journal-keeping experience has been abysmal. Even on my mission, I would miss months on end. (I claimed I was working too hard to have time for a journal, but we all know I eschew work and would certainly rather write.)


But in thinking about and studying the topic, I have come to some conclusions about how families work and the role a family plays in our lives. And I think this is the direction I wish to take for my talk. (Is this then a thinly veiled attempt to get feedback on my talk? Perhaps...)


I contend that there are three reasons why we have families. The first is to feel part of a group, to love and teach and serve and learn from each other. The second is to find and create an identity for ourselves, to give, both literally and metaphorically, a name to our sense of who we are. The third purpose is to unite ourselves to both a past the precedes us and a future that we will not see.


I see journals playing a role in all three facets of family. They help strengthen our relationships, both in the act of reading each other's thoughts (which, as it turns out, is made more possible via blogging) and in the act of reflecting on our connections to those we love. They allow us an avenue for exploring identity and putting into words that sense of self. And they help us create a record that--whether is is preserved for posterity or not--factors into the turning of the hearts that is central to our theology.


I see this last role as crucial. Obviously family records play a role in family history work today, as we are able to compile the information needed to carry out temple work through records kept by our ancestors. But we also fulfill in part Malachi's prophesy and Elijah's mission by stepping aside from our daily concerns, the minutae that occupies so much of our lives, and contemplating from whence we came and what will remain when we are gone. As I said at the Catherall Memorial Day gathering, our great fear is that we do not matter, that when we are gone, no one will know that we ever were. And in recording our lives we turn our lives to both the past and the future.


To return to where this began, I see this medium as an exciting way of doing all of this. And I take from my wife (as I typically do) a lesson in finding ways to live gospel principles that I usually do poorly at.