Their flat, in Perpignan, France:
Say. This cheese is mouldy!
Looking out the kitchen window:
Now up to the Netherlands, where Sarah got herself a present:
This one photograph was worth getting married and having children for:
27 July, 2015
Two missionaries
Spencer has arrived!
Their flat, in Perpignan, France:
Say. This cheese is mouldy!
Looking out the kitchen window:
Now up to the Netherlands, where Sarah got herself a present:
This one photograph was worth getting married and having children for:
Their flat, in Perpignan, France:
Say. This cheese is mouldy!
Looking out the kitchen window:
Now up to the Netherlands, where Sarah got herself a present:
This one photograph was worth getting married and having children for:
23 July, 2015
This exciting news
Here's an e-mail, from France:
23 juillet, 2015
Great excitement as they go forth to invite others to Christ. You have done your part and now that teaching along with the Spirit will work mighty miracles!
23 juillet, 2015
Dear Parents,
Elder Duncan has been assigned a wonderful trainer/companion, Elder Bryce. They are serving in Perpignan, France. Their address is:
Les Missionnaires
Elder Duncan
11 Rue de la Butte
66000 Perpignan
France
Elder Duncan
11 Rue de la Butte
66000 Perpignan
France
Great excitement as they go forth to invite others to Christ. You have done your part and now that teaching along with the Spirit will work mighty miracles!
We are grateful to have your wonderful child in our mission!
With Warmest Regards,
Soeur Sweeney, Mission Secretary
Mission Française de Lyon
On the map!
Mission Française de Lyon
On the map!
21 July, 2015
17 July, 2015
Sarah's old friends/Claire's new friends
University of Utah high school soccer camp, July 2015 (absent, Ali & Baylee)
13 July, 2015
Two manifestations of consistently committed, creative, outstanding parenting
Mum:
That's pretty good. But Dad!
That's pretty good. But Dad!
Ravine, pt. 2
During the wintertime it was two or three Saturdays a month, and a couple of days after school. Occasionally, maybe imprudently, and if it were moon bright, we would come out in the evening after dinner.
Credit where it's due! The cub scout and the boy scout programs were implicated here. I have no memory at all about their dire ideological impositions, or obliviousnesses. Which is the whole of our experience in this part of the US. At that time scouting connected us to the world outside, and some of its bounty and possibility. That was Ernest Thompson Seton's influence, wasn't it?
And it was my brother's too. Scott would point out the traces and characteristics of this species or that. Here was a nest, or footprints, or a lair. Here's how it worked, or what they did, or where they went. Sometimes, often, the species itself would be on hand. Minutes and half-hours would pass lightly, easily, in the modest pursuit of or the hushed, glancing co-habitation with all of this bounty.
We weren't trailblazers, we weren't hunters or trappers, we weren't fugitives from the RCMP. Beyond the incalculable value of the time and the place and the duration and the company, these frequent interludes would not lead to any lasting occupation, or even avocation. For me it didn't really lead to any useful or retained knowledge. The echoes of past plenitudes, now extinct!
And yet, there was something true and real in all of this. Something kind of I Corinthians 12: 8-9. Scott's was the knowledge, and mine was the faith therein. I can't quite say how or what, but it definitely panned out into something, or other ...
This toboggan run was really long, and perfectly graded, and a years-and-years-delight. Here's how it worked. If you were in it for the speed, or looking to crash, you'd take that steep start and lean into it. If you made it that far, and the pitch started to flatten a bit on its way down to Whitemud Creek at the very bottom, you'd roll off and run back and repeat the entire exercise.
How far was it? A mile? In joyful memory it was, but more realistically this track was probably about 300 metres long. 400 we could even say, if we were being reckless.
Sometimes you'd go for speed, but other times you'd go for distance. The grade flattened after a while, but depending on the amount and condition of the snow, you might only be halfway done, halfway down. The pounding and the whistling in your ears would give way to the sound of wood or plastic on snow, and the busy silence of the winter wilderness. It certainly was winter, and it was also quite wild, after a fashion.
 |
| The creek, at the bottom |
This is the end. If you got this far, it was purely by pulling with your arms. Cheating? No! It got you to the bottom, which was an accomplishment.
Is the scene, above, aggrandized in memory, diminished in fact? Maybe. But maybe not. The water used to move more. There was often, there was usually a beaver dam, which made for a much more dynamic eco-system. But this was quite a thing, there in the more or less middle of the city. Still is.
The pregnant silence that prevailed down here, with the odd burst or bustle of creatures, signalled a second motivation, or kind of occupation. Sometimes we were sledding. Other times, often, we explored.
Scott, as usual!
Here's a turning, from further up the hill, trailing off to the south. Sometimes, winter and summer too, we'd walk instead of running down here. We'd peel off. We'd explore, or imagine or often, just be.
The illustrious Scott was a bona fide outdoorsman, always immersed in some book or other about plants and animals and woodcraft and the like. And he was generous about it to. "Come on," he'd say. So down we went, to this little shelter that (he) we (he) had fashioned, to this outlook, or that.
 |
| Our doughty provincial flower, being doughty |
Credit where it's due! The cub scout and the boy scout programs were implicated here. I have no memory at all about their dire ideological impositions, or obliviousnesses. Which is the whole of our experience in this part of the US. At that time scouting connected us to the world outside, and some of its bounty and possibility. That was Ernest Thompson Seton's influence, wasn't it?
And it was my brother's too. Scott would point out the traces and characteristics of this species or that. Here was a nest, or footprints, or a lair. Here's how it worked, or what they did, or where they went. Sometimes, often, the species itself would be on hand. Minutes and half-hours would pass lightly, easily, in the modest pursuit of or the hushed, glancing co-habitation with all of this bounty.
We weren't trailblazers, we weren't hunters or trappers, we weren't fugitives from the RCMP. Beyond the incalculable value of the time and the place and the duration and the company, these frequent interludes would not lead to any lasting occupation, or even avocation. For me it didn't really lead to any useful or retained knowledge. The echoes of past plenitudes, now extinct!
And yet, there was something true and real in all of this. Something kind of I Corinthians 12: 8-9. Scott's was the knowledge, and mine was the faith therein. I can't quite say how or what, but it definitely panned out into something, or other ...
 |
| Going back up that hill ... |
The ravine, behind our house, pt. 1
You'll remember the rink, maybe, and our frequent visits through the wintertime. Just as much, and nearly as often, we had this amazing place, and right behind our house!
Abandon hope, all ye who enter here. Not really! At the time we didn't have this barricade, or this po-faced sign. We would just—all the kids, and our friends, in various groupings and configurations—run around the corner, hop in tandem upon the toboggan, or in pairs on the carpet, or alone on the disc, and go!
In the last 30 years these trees have encroached some five yards on each side on our actual sledding run. Much like life.
Look at this! Once, in grade seven, I went to the ravine for a quick late Saturday afternoon session. I got the usual good running start, gathered some speed and hit a nice slick patch, that sped me up even more as I hit a nice little jump, right here exactly.
Up I went! Down I came! Thought I oughta catch myself, sort of. Did so by putting down my hand, with the rest of my considerable bulk following after. Ouch! Wipe out, which was part of the point, after all. So I tried a couple of more runs. Ouch, continued. Back home, reporting discomfort to parents. In the time-honoured manner of parents to whom discomfort is being reported, my esteemed mother waited until Monday to check it out. I'd probably do the same, myself. If I ever let my kids go out and do fun things that is.
Result? A broken wrist! In the strange manner of early adolescent males, I took this to be cool, distinguished, a badge of honour in some fashion. Or, perhaps, I was only glad that I wouldn't have to practice the piano for a whole six weeks ...
Abandon hope, all ye who enter here. Not really! At the time we didn't have this barricade, or this po-faced sign. We would just—all the kids, and our friends, in various groupings and configurations—run around the corner, hop in tandem upon the toboggan, or in pairs on the carpet, or alone on the disc, and go!
 |
| Does this give a proper sense of the actual incline? It does not. |
 |
| Poplars here. Also, aspen and birch. And pine, fir, spruce. |
In the last 30 years these trees have encroached some five yards on each side on our actual sledding run. Much like life.
Look at this! Once, in grade seven, I went to the ravine for a quick late Saturday afternoon session. I got the usual good running start, gathered some speed and hit a nice slick patch, that sped me up even more as I hit a nice little jump, right here exactly.
 |
| Right here, exactly |
Up I went! Down I came! Thought I oughta catch myself, sort of. Did so by putting down my hand, with the rest of my considerable bulk following after. Ouch! Wipe out, which was part of the point, after all. So I tried a couple of more runs. Ouch, continued. Back home, reporting discomfort to parents. In the time-honoured manner of parents to whom discomfort is being reported, my esteemed mother waited until Monday to check it out. I'd probably do the same, myself. If I ever let my kids go out and do fun things that is.
 |
| Do these give a proper sense of the actual incline? They do not. |
12 July, 2015
11 July, 2015
Rinks, pt. 2
Rinks, I was saying. Here they are, again:
Let's cross that street.
This is where your so-called city league hockey happened. You got ice late at night, and the spectators would stand on the drifted snow beside the benches, and freeze. And the players would freeze too. And they'd stop the game in the middle of the period so they could shovel the snow off. Sometimes, when it's really cold, the ice is no good.
Sound miserable? Wrong! This is Quebec, in the early 60s. This is more what Scott and Susan would have experienced when they were little. A few years on and things were a little different. Not that different though!
https://www.nfb.ca/film/rink
What a beautiful film this is. Milieu! Collective! The Remembrance of Things Past!
I remember leagues and organized teams. I remember that pretty soon your team would be renting ice at an arena, and they'd properly expect and require more of you, and it was a whole different kind of experience. I remember that as far as organized hockey went, I didn't go past grade eight.
But mostly, I remember free skating at the community rink. Two or three Saturdays a month. One or two days a week, having taken your stick and skates to school, you'd go over as soon as the bell rang. Or maybe, on a different one or two days, you'd run over after supper.
Hardly any one there? No problem! You'd skate back and forth and in circles, do some cross-overs, skate backwards a bit. Even sprint a time or too, always careful not to get carried away or anything. You'd definitely do some stickhandling. And you'd shoot, and shoot, and shoot. Pretending a goalie was in there, or deciding if that shot would have gone in if a goalie had been there. For some reason the coolest thing was when you hit the crossbar. You gotta watch out for someone who can hit the crossbar!
You might pretend you were someone or other. It was a combination of NHL Leafs and WHA Oilers for us in those days. I was Norm Ullman, believe it or not.
A few people there? Diplomacy, negotiation. Realpolitik. The evil that men do. Once I arrived at the rink with a brand new stick and a brand new puck. I was skating around, using them. I shot one against the boards. A big kid shot his puck against the boards too. I went and got my brand new puck. "That's mine," he said. When you're small-ish, and your means are limited, and you just bought a puck, you recognize it as if it was your own baby. "Nope," said the big kid. "Mine."
Off he went. And I never felt safe in my bed again.
And what if there were lots of people on the ice? Shinny! Hours and hours, all day long, through the winter, all your life. Life is full of pleasures and blessings, enhancements and expansions, accomplishments and deep, deep satisfactions. But really, it was all downhill from here ...
Let's cross that street.
This is where your so-called city league hockey happened. You got ice late at night, and the spectators would stand on the drifted snow beside the benches, and freeze. And the players would freeze too. And they'd stop the game in the middle of the period so they could shovel the snow off. Sometimes, when it's really cold, the ice is no good.
Sound miserable? Wrong! This is Quebec, in the early 60s. This is more what Scott and Susan would have experienced when they were little. A few years on and things were a little different. Not that different though!
https://www.nfb.ca/film/rink
What a beautiful film this is. Milieu! Collective! The Remembrance of Things Past!
I remember leagues and organized teams. I remember that pretty soon your team would be renting ice at an arena, and they'd properly expect and require more of you, and it was a whole different kind of experience. I remember that as far as organized hockey went, I didn't go past grade eight.
But mostly, I remember free skating at the community rink. Two or three Saturdays a month. One or two days a week, having taken your stick and skates to school, you'd go over as soon as the bell rang. Or maybe, on a different one or two days, you'd run over after supper.
 |
| Rob Cameron once fell on his rear end, right here, really hard |
Hardly any one there? No problem! You'd skate back and forth and in circles, do some cross-overs, skate backwards a bit. Even sprint a time or too, always careful not to get carried away or anything. You'd definitely do some stickhandling. And you'd shoot, and shoot, and shoot. Pretending a goalie was in there, or deciding if that shot would have gone in if a goalie had been there. For some reason the coolest thing was when you hit the crossbar. You gotta watch out for someone who can hit the crossbar!
You might pretend you were someone or other. It was a combination of NHL Leafs and WHA Oilers for us in those days. I was Norm Ullman, believe it or not.
A few people there? Diplomacy, negotiation. Realpolitik. The evil that men do. Once I arrived at the rink with a brand new stick and a brand new puck. I was skating around, using them. I shot one against the boards. A big kid shot his puck against the boards too. I went and got my brand new puck. "That's mine," he said. When you're small-ish, and your means are limited, and you just bought a puck, you recognize it as if it was your own baby. "Nope," said the big kid. "Mine."
Off he went. And I never felt safe in my bed again.
 |
| The shack |
And what if there were lots of people on the ice? Shinny! Hours and hours, all day long, through the winter, all your life. Life is full of pleasures and blessings, enhancements and expansions, accomplishments and deep, deep satisfactions. But really, it was all downhill from here ...
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