Nature and Science

 It's a blustery fall day in northern Utah, we are camped beside a reservoir watching the wind stripping the last leaves from the gamble oaks. That same wind pushes the dark, heavy clouds against the mountains, only to watch them slide over the ridges, laughing as they take the promised moisture away, another example of nature ruling against the desires of humans, a reminder that man does not control nature. 

No, man does not control nature, or rather science (as nature is only a manifestation of science in a physical state); regardless of his failed attempts to influence nature as displayed through the centuries by prayers, alters, offerings, and sacrifices galore.

Even as the alchemists tried and failed to turn lead into gold, they tried again and again, only to fail each time. We may indeed use nature, such as the construction of this reservoir to harvest and store snowmelt to provide irrigation water during the dry summer, but we cannot create more snow than nature supplies, nor ban the droughts which plague our farmers.  

In fine, we cannot control nature. we may be able, with increasing accuracy, to predict the storms and their intensity, but we cannot command them away. We are able to better protect ourselves from nature's furies and better respond when they occur, but we cannot govern nature's course. 

Which brings me to the novel Cronavirus and our responses, or lack thereof, to the deadly Covid-19. Coronavirus, which has existed in some animals, mutated and now is a plague on all humans. It does not care if you are a communist, fascist, socialist, republican, democrat, independent, rich, poor, gay, straight, or undecided. It is nature, and nature does not care about you or I. Not even our President can declare it away.

Covid-19 does not care about Easter, or warmer weather. It concerns itself not if our schools or business are open, surprisingly, it does not give a wit about our upcoming election.

Science does know some facts about this scourge, and science tells us that wearing a mask, washing your hands frequently, disinfecting commonly-touched surfaces, and practicing social distancing helps to slow the spread of this leveler of mankind. These are facts, proven facts; they do not belong to either a political party, a particular person, or a specific faith. We may not like these facts, but they are facts. 

If you do not want to spread Covid-19, or see your family members sicken and perhaps die, wear a mask. If you do not want to see your child or your grandfather die from Coronavirus, wear a mask. If you want to help the country recover and prosper again, wear a mask. Stop trying to make it a political statement, or about government overreach or your personal freedom; frankly it is bigger than all that. 

It's about your life, and yes, your personal responsibility to all those around you, everyone you come in contact with. It's the bagger at the grocery store, the clerk at the hardware store, the dry cleaner, the receptionist at your place of work. 

JUST WEAR THE DAMN MASK!

Thank you for reading; feel free to share this post if you desire. Comments and thoughts are encouraged and allowed, just click the pencil in the box below to leave a comment. 

R. M. "Bob" Hartman      

I wrote this early on August 14, 2012. Mom passed late that day.
It has taken me a while to put it up, as I am still trying to understand everything that her life, and her death, mean to me.

Mother

It’s 0300 in my world
Don’t have a clue about yours
I’m wide awake and enjoying
The aches and pains of age.

Loud crickets, circling bats
Neighbors with restless pets
Fire trucks, police cars
Fill the empty night.

I know what’s coming,
I see the headlamp
Of the approaching train
No way to stop it, slow it down.

It’s on a schedule
No man wrote
Our time is determined
By another, not by us.

In His grace,
We are born
With His grace, we live
By His order, we die.

Restless, you roll the halls
Looking for salvation
As I study Holy Script
Looking for a reason.

I come up empty
Like so many years ago
When you thought you had the power
To call His wrath down on me.

When the train pulls
Into your station
And you climb aboard
No backward glance.

That’s your style
Tight lips, no wave
No long sorrowful goodbye
Turn away from me.

Go, ride away in peace
And leave me here
Our short time together
Always left me wondering

Was there something else
Something you tried to say?
Could not find the words?
I love you, with meaning

Would have been sufficient.
But those words
Did not fall
From your lips

Take your journey
Enjoy your trip
Knowing I am here
Wishing for you, peace.

Rest in Peace, Mother. Sylvia Eleanor (Hunter) Hartman passed August 14th, 2012. She was 90 years old.

Another Sailor Slides Beneath the Waves

I’ve spent the greater part of today looking at pictures, sorting out memories. Memories of a person, not known outside of his own family and small circle of friends and acquaintances; a person who tried, and in my opinion succeeded, to get past a rough childhood and became a viable part of society.

He was born in post-WWII America, perhaps one of those “War’s over” babies, to a couple with some baggage and not a lot of resources. When the marriage faltered, then broke, he was placed in an orphanage because neither parent had the means to take care of him and his step-brother. After the father remarried, he took the young boy and his step-brother to live with his new wife and baby in a small town where hopefully they could become a family. It didn’t quiet work out like the picture-perfect 1950’s family.

There was not a lot of financial stability, and “back then” there were no social workers to check on the children and oversee the blending process. Mistakes were made by all involved, mistakes that would surface much later in revolt, distrust, and violence. 

Time, in it’s normal fashion, passed, and two more children were added to the family, and the step-brother left. The young boy became a teen-ager, and typical for rural families, worked on a ranch, raising cattle and hogs, driving a tractor and baling hay. He was not enchanted with high school, and ditched classes to spend time with friends. Those events generally ended with a “strapping” by his father, who in his own way wanted the boy to be a better person then he had himself been. (The father had never entered a high school.) As a teenager, he engaged in “pranks” of minor or major importance, and again, those that were caught ended with sad consequences. He had developed a few close friends, and they became, over time, inseparable in good and bad.

War had broken out in Korea, and the family’s nightly ritual was the evening news during dinner. “Better dead than red” was the father’s motto. The young man had gone to work for a local timber company, cutting trees to feed an ever-growing demand for wood to build homes for the post-WWII families. Fast-forward to the Vietnam conflict, and the draft. Certain he would be found 4-F during his physical, he and his two best friends went for the physical. All three passed, and all three joined up in the US Navy to avoid (they hoped) ground duty in Vietnam.

His father deserted the family in 1964, leaving the mother with four children, a stack of bills, and no money. The sailor sent a portion of his pay home each month to help with the family. His tours of duty saw a violence he could not imagine, and could not escape. Leave was at times difficult; he had learned to sleep with a k-bar under his pillow. The family was cautioned never to touch him while he slept, as he would react in an aggressive manner. He didn’t talk a lot about what he had seen, but he tried, during leaves, to be sure his siblings understood the world was not as safe as it seemed.

After his discharge from the navy, he drifted in and out of relationships, and in and out of his adopted family, never seeming able to create for himself a safe place. He finally settled in Florida, with a person that felt good, and established himself. He worked in several different industries, hampered by a lack of education, and always haunted by his past. His constant connection with his family was his step-mothers sister, she had long-before married the rancher he worked for as a youth.

I re-connected with my brother during a business trip to Florida in 2004. Over several trips, he told me of his life, and of his struggles. While I accept that his was only one side of the story, I came to understand him better. He gave me insight into the life he had, and I can only be grateful for his time on earth.

Harry Edward Hartman, Jr. passed on March 23, 2012, to a better life. May he rest in peace.

Christmas Day 2011

Its Christmas morning. December 25, 2011. Disclaimer- I am a Christian, and I say Merry Christmas! It does not mean disrespect to my non-Christian friends. It is simply what I believe.

Today, I am very grateful for the gifts I have received; not those under the tree this chilly sunlight Utah morning, but those that came from long ago.

I am thankful for my parents, Harry and Sylvia Hartman, who gave me my existence. They made choices, and I am here today because of choices they made. From my father and mother, I learned the example of hard work, and the result of honest labor. I also learned how to raise children, for which I am ever thankful. Let us remember that every person needs the freedom to make choices, and let us strive to allow that freedom of choice.

My grandmother, Mildred Hunter, who worked so diligently to teach me manners, reading, and math. “No, Robert, a gentleman always opens the door for a woman. He never goes first.”
“There is an interesting article in Readers Digest on (subject). Why don’t you read it, then we will discuss it.” Her living room table contained Time, Newsweek, Readers Digest, U.S. News and World Reports, Arizona, and Family Circle. Talk about diversity!. Numerous games of dominoes and cards; “You have to keep score, my arthritis is hurting me.” Then, after the games were done, she picked up her crotchet needles..you get the picture. Grandmother-never Grandma or (Heaven forbid) Mildred-adults are not addressed by their first name- spent countless hours educating me. But then, what would you expect from someone who taught school in a 1-room schoolhouse in Emporia, Kansas? Rest in Peace, Grandmother; you earned it. May we as a country remember and reward those who educate our children. They are the first line of defense in the “War on Poverty.” Indeed, educators are the first defense in the war on War.

My best friend, Billy, who taught me that friendship knows not the boundaries of fame or family fortune. Hours of bike rides, marbles, Scouting, rockets, and dreams. Hot rods, Air Force planes, and cold beer. He was always there for me, at times when my life seemed to be overwhelmed with grief and sorrow. Great loss, great gains; sadly, he died of cancer at too young a point in his life. Why can America conduct wars against people who never hurt us, and yet deny funding for cancer research?

The good Reverend Morale, who strived to create some peace and understanding in a young man torn by the war in Vietnam. A retired man who had been a cleric in the Korean war, he drove 50 miles each way to be in the pulpit on Sunday mornings in Beulah. He was truly a “Man of God”; he could, and did, speak well about the trials of mankind, and of the peace of God. I never heard him speak in anger, or in mistrust; he reached out to help his congregation, and the community at large. Even after he retired from this work, I could talk to him, seek his counsel, and feel better for it. And, perhaps not surprisingly, he could tap a keg of beer (and showed Mom and I how to do it). From the dogs of war, come men of peace. May the youth of today be coached by people like this gentle man.

Mickey and Elaine Neelan, and John Scott; all taught me how to work in a kitchen, how to not only cook but how to create food. In doing this, they also taught me many other lessons. Mickey and Elaine helped my sister and I through some ugly times; gave us good work, good pay, a safe haven, and most importantly, good examples. Wonderful examples of good people, good employers, who knew the job we were doing at the time was not what we would grow up to do, rather, they demanded we keep up with our education; that we understood a waitress or a dishwasher was not a life-long employment. “Scotty”, John Scott, taught me to prepare not just food, but an experience of eating, the total environment of taste and refinement. Every time I prepare a dinner or event, I am giving thanks for these wonderful examples in my life; an example I try to emulate to those surrounding me.

I am very thankful for my sister, who overcame her childhood to become an amazing teacher, parent, and friend. While she does not willingly talk about the ugliness and the poverty we knew and faced, she is an example of what a person can do when they set their mind to it. If ever a book is written about the Great American Dream, certainly several chapters should be written about her; her drive, her determination, and her ability to hold my hand in the dark hours.

On this bright, sunny day, I give thanks for my very existence and for the many people in my life, and there will always be a special place in my heart and life for the people I have mentioned here. Today, and every day that follows, when you have a special person who has uplifted and promoted you, be sure to thank and acknowledge them.

Merry Christmas! May God Bless and keep you! To my friends who read this, I thank you for allowing me to be in your lives. May this day be all, and more, than you desire. May the days that come be even greater than we expect!

Part of my reason for creating this blog is to open myself and my emotions up, to allow myself some freedom of creativity, of expression. This is a very personal poem; I wrote it on what would have been Adams 30th birthday, last May. When you are finished reading it, please comment, if you desire, but more importantly, learn the lessons it contains. Thank you for listening.

At Adam’s Funeral

I was being the strong
Husband, supporting my wife;
Father, comforting our two other children
(Adam was the middle child)
A gentleman approached me.

“May I talk with you a minute, please?”
He politely inquired.
“I know this is not a good time,
But I need to apologize to you and your son.”

I guess my questioning eyes
Permitted him to proceed.
“About a month ago, my daughter
Who was a friend of your sons’
Called him from a party.

She had gotten drunk,
Too drunk to drive
She was, I am ashamed to admit
Too frightened to call me.

She asked Adam to pick
Her up and drive her home.
She handed him her house-key,
He gently lifted her up
And proceeded to the door.

I was watching through the curtains,
Unable to control my anger,
I watched as she vomited over him.
Serves him right, I said to myself out loud.

He opened the door,
I offered no assistance
As he brought her in
Gently laying her on the couch.

Angered beyond belief,
I lashed out at him.
“How dare you!
What have you done to my daughter?

“Did you get her drunk
And violate her as well?”
I continued
To berate him.

To him, it must have been hell.
But he stood there tall,
And kept looking me in the eye.
Never saying a word.

“I stopped”, he continued.
"Adam finally spoke,
His words slow and clear.
I will never forget his courage.”

“Sir, in the morning,
After your daughter is awake and better,
I am sure she will set your fears about me to rest.
Good night, sir.”

He left, morning came,
And my daughter tearfully
Told me about the night.
Church friends invited her to the party.

She had no fear,
Sixteen, innocent, virginal
No idea of what waited for her
Alcohol was served
And she got drunk.
“I was afraid to call you, Dad;
I didn’t want the fight.
Adam I called because I knew
I could rely on him.”

I thought about calling him
Offering my apologies
For I had put him through hell
I got too busy, and it was not important.

Please know your son
Was a good man, not a boy.”
I remember that night, myself.
He had finished his first week of chemo.

Home for a rest, his mother and I went to dinner.
He told me he had taken the truck
To help a friend in trouble.
I asked if everything was ok.

“Sure, dad. I just wanted you to know
Why there were miles on the truck.”
Three weeks later, he died.
A good man, not a boy.

I went to his grave today,
Sitting, eyes closed, meditating;
When a voice whispered in my ear,
Dad, they are coming closer! Look!
Eyes slowly open; a doe and a fawn
Were 10 feet away.

And I understood.
He was here, in his chosen
Environment, a place with birds,
Trees, and deer.

I asked him then,
Would it be ok if I write this?
Show the world who you are?
Yeah, Buddy!
His voice rang loudly in my ear.
So here it is.

Thinking of Adam on his birthday

Adam
Or 5/4/80

Without our plan,
You came into our lives
In a time of trouble
And strain.

You put us back together
That night.
You made us realize
Nothing is as important
As Life.

In sixteen years,
You showed many people
What true love
Is all about.

Your best friend
Was eighty five.
You protected
Your sister on the bus.
And fought like cats and dogs
At home.

You always thought of others,
Your mom, Grandmother,
Grandfather.
You worked hard, always strove
To be your best.

I remember…
A deck, completed.
You were going to
Drink that beer
No matter how much you
Disliked it!
I wish we could fly,
Adam and I,
My son and I.
Those words ring in my ears
Every time I think of you.
We flew, my son,
We flew.

Your time here was much too short
I think of you often.
How much you loved
Nature and people.
Do you remember
Being a ranger
At Yuba, for a day?

Adam and I,
My son and I.
It’s been 14 years
I miss you every day.

I am not sad,
Nor melancholy
I know you are at peace
With Grandpa Ed.
Making up stories
About the one
That got away.

I feel your presence
In long, lonely nights.
When I cannot sleep,
You come to me.
With that open smile,
That welcoming grip,
You bring me back
To what matters most.


Your time on earth was
Short, and to the point.
You moved people
In so many ways.
Adam and I
My son and I.

I cannot forget
Your calm acceptance
Of the fates before you.
As I watched you pass,
I was impressed
With your brave demeanor.
You never forgot
To say a word of thanks
To anyone who
Helped you along.

Adam and I
My son and I.
This would have been
Thirty Years.
I wonder how you would be?

Your easy style!
I could not believe
You started to drive;
Like everything you did
With style, grace, and
A racer’s skill.
You were so natural
In all that you did.

Rest well, my son.
May I have the grace
You showed to the world.
My I have the strength
That you always displayed.

Oh, by the way
The lawn needs mowing,
And the dishes need doing.
You never shirked
Any duty.
Though you thought
It was your sister’s turn.

Every time I pull
The RV out
I think of you
And your broad
Smile.

Rest well, my son.