Photo Essay: Postcards from my Kids. "I'm glad you're entering in poetry contests."

I've included a postcard from my first grandchild, Diesel. It's just a scribble. Sadly, I never met the lad until eight years after he was born. I had two weeks to leave Thailand when I couldn't get my passport renewed because of my back child support, so in a panic I called Madelaine, who was then living in Woodbridge, Virginia, to ask if I could come stay with her and her husband Donald, and child Diesel -- since I had absolutely nowhere else to go and no money saved up in the bank, thanks to my importunate girlfriend Joom. I had to borrow the funds for a one-way ticket back to the States. (I still owe an old Bangkok friend 1200 dollars for that ticket -- I wish I knew where he was now; I'd start paying him back ten dollars a month. Really, I would.)
Donald was never very happy having me under his roof. He refused to let me have a room of my own, so I slept on the living room couch for six months while I stayed with them. (And paid rent, too.)
While living in Woodbridge I was called up before the bench for owing over 100 thousand dollars in back child support -- the judge made it very plain that unless I came up with a plan to start paying that off in large installments I would go to jail. Terrified, I told this to Madel in tears, who told Amy about it. At her own expense, she flew out from North Dakota to intercede with the judge on my behalf. He forgave the back child support, as long as I started paying one hundred dollars a month for Daisy's support -- she was still living with Amy back in Ray ND. 
I bless Amy's name every time I think of the hell she saved me from.
None of my kids write poetry today, although all the girls did back in high school. I wish they had kept it up.
To me, poetry is the salt and pepper of life. You can get along without it -- but why would you want to?

He invites you to the work

"The Lord is leading the Restoration of His gospel and His Church. He knows the future perfectly. He invites you to the work."

Henry B. Eyring

The Lord has perfect knowledge of the future for each soul.

He invites, entices, each to work with Him in whole.

He has restored the gospel so we each can know what's true;

if you will let Him lead you there is such a glorious view!

Doubt not for a minute that His genius overlays

all the doubts and schemes of men, to give us better days.

Trust in His great goodness and His promises sublime.

To the very mountain tops He gives me strength to climb!

#JanesWalkNYC New York Memories

I grew up in the staid Midwest,

where children always brushed with Crest.

The lawns stretched for eternity;

a fine place for a squirrel or tree.

But restless feet, and on a dare,

sent me to gawk at bright Times Square. 

While there a mendicant implored

a bit of my quite modest hoard.

Unshaven, breathing Smirnoff fumes,

his presence still before me looms;

for he was not a beggar mere --

for coin he would recite Shakespeare!

And so he did, as Hamlet rolled

right off his tongue like bards of old.

He got a dollar bill from me,

then followed so tenaciously,

a-spouting sonnets by the score,

that even Grant's Tomb was a bore.

At last I called a man in blue

to rid me of this bugaboo.

But ever since, I've often pined

for New York mendicants refined.

When plague is done, I'm sure to yearn

for Broadway bums who quote Swinburne!

#JanesWalkNYC

Photo Essay: Postcards from my Kids. "I love you. Elder Torkildson"

My son Adam only ever wrote to me while he was on his mission in California. He was told by his mission president to write his parents once a week. I'm grateful for that much, anyway. Adam has never been forthcoming with much information about his life and his feelings -- not to me, anyway. He bought a scrumptious house out in American Fork three years ago, just ten miles from me, and I have been invited over a total of seven times. But why complain? When I do visit him at his place, or he comes over to my place, we don't seem to communicate except in the barest of one syllable words. He makes Calvin Coolidge look like the Barber of Baghdad. And whenever I try to engage him in conversation I wind up putting both feet, right and left, in my mouth. I hope we're able to develop telepathy in the next life, otherwise it's going to be very tough sledding between the two of us.
We did have one break through moment about two years ago, however, when he came over to confess something to me as part of a 12 step recovery program he is in. It was very emotional, and we hugged. But neither one of us has ever mentioned it again.
I get the feeling that if he ever reads the above paragraph it's going to embarrass the hell out of him, and he may just stop communicating with me altogether.
 I'm told by some of my kids that Ed is the exact same way, but I wouldn't know. He won't have anything to do with me. Period.
Virginia is writing poetry and putting together a chapbook of her work. I vaguely remember her sending it to me -- I wonder if I have it anywhere still?
As I have often said, memory is a pleasant servant but a terrible master. So I try not to take these postcards from my children too seriously  -- they are real, but what they represent is long gone, or maybe buried in the basement. There are days when my memory wants to stage 'Arsenic and Old Lace.' And I don't think I'll ever let it.

Remember the greatness of God

"I invite you to remember each day the greatness of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ and what They have done for you."

Dale G. Renlund

Consider the goodness of God;

remember His loving embrace

he gave to you e'er you had left

His beaming compassionate face.

Remember how great is the Christ,

unique in His power to save

his brothers and sisters for good

from all the demands of the grave.

Each day as you ready yourself

to struggle and stumble and strive,

recall in a gratified way

how Heaven means for you to thrive!

Photo Essay: Postcards to my President. Volume 22.5.

Photo Essay: Postcards from my Kids. "I'm just sitting here with the hiccups."

In today's installment of postcards Virginia is battling 'hiccups' as she writes to me. Sarah disclaims all knowledge of having a boyfriend, or even a male study buddy -- methinks she protests too much. And Madelaine is in over her head with some gal named Ginger with an internet MLM scheme. Which she offers to let me in on -- on the ground floor!  I distinctly remember politely turning down the so-called opportunity and advising her to extricate herself from it asap. I no longer recall what happened -- maybe I'll find another postcard from Madel with further details. 
Amy's family, at least the distaff side, always had trouble staying away from MLM and ponzi schemes. Amy's mother was a firm believer in Shaklee supplements, and Amy also gave in to the superstition. On our honeymoon in Provo she tried to get me to take nearly a dozen Shaklee pills each day, which I stoutly refused, calling them (in those far off days when we could kid with each other because we were sex-crazed maniacs) 'snake oil bunco.' Her concern for my health was sincere and very touching; she was convinced I would soon expire from malaria or dry beriberi if I did not ingest Shaklee's wonder pills on a daily basis. So, to humor her, I let her mix up half a dozen pills in the blender with milk and a banana for a Shaklee smoothie. I took one gulp and promptly spewed it back up. No more was said about it -- at least until things began to fall apart fourteen years later, when my resistance to Amy's extravagant spending on nutritional supplements and tea tree oil and god knows what else threatened to bankrupt us. I put my foot down, and was thus guilty of child abuse -- endangering the health of our children because of my miserliness.
If I seem a bit overwrought about the whole subject, it's because our son Irvin was a victim of this damnable mindset. He died soon after the divorce, in a diabetic coma, despite Amy's cursed Shaklee pills. 
You never really get over the death of your own young child, not in this life. Only in the next life, when I can clasp him in my arms again, will the rent in my heart, and in Amy's heart, truly be healed for good. 

Photo Essay: Postcards from my Kids. Volume Six. "I'll probably never see you again soon."

Children break our hearts without meaning to. In a postcard addressed simply to "Dad" my son Adam writes "I'll probably never see you again soon." I tried to think of that as a non sequitur, but it's a haunting phrase that brought my carefully constructed and rigidly maintained self image as a dad more sinned against than sinning crashing down around my ears once again.
Sarah writes to tell me they moved to Ray North Dakota. Amy bought a house there with her second husband Rick, which they  apparently still own. Last I heard Rick pays Amy rent for it. I've asked the kids what the house was like, and I get the feeling they are hiding the fact it was a hellhole and garbage dump because they want to spare my feelings. 
To end on a positive note, I'm making chicken teriyaki today for lunch. Enough to serve at least a dozen people. And I happen to like leftover chicken teriyaki, so I'm not worried about whether it all gets eaten today or not. 

The Central Message

"The central message of the Book of Mormon is to restore the true knowledge of the essential role of Jesus Christ in the salvation and exaltation of mankind."

Gerald Causse

Restore your faith in Jesus Christ

and his exalted role

by reading Book of Mormon verse --

it penetrates your soul.

A testimony you will gain,

if you sincere can be

in reading of the Nephite's faith

in ancient history.

The central role of Jesus Christ

is known and loved by throngs

who willingly so testify

with effervescent songs!

Ol' Doc Trump

Headline in today's WaPo:   "Trump comments prompt doctors, and Lysol, to warn against injecting disinfectants"

  

 Ol' Doc Trump is on the case/prescribing with a bland straight face/willow bark and sassafras/stump water and lemon grass/polliwogs in pickled brine/needle tea from spruce or pine/Just a drop of Clorox may/go down smooth with beaujolais/Ev'ry patient can be cured/unless, of course, they're uninsured. 

Tork