"Remembering childhood is not childish"
Darrel Hammon
I love this quote from Ken Macrorie. I have had it for years. It goes along with the essay "Using Snippets of Life to Coax Out the Lasting Memories," which I wrote a week or two ago on this blog. If this quote resonates with you, then write some of those childhood memories.
“Remembering childhood is not childish, but wise and sweet and necessary. We go back because we loved those years of play. We go back because remembering moves us closer to the children around us today. We go back because in writing through these years we gain a second life. The best writers take this journey....These [writers] wrote of childhood at the height of their mature powers. If you are under twenty, you need even more than they to write of childhood. A writer requires some distance between him and the events he recalls—not always, but usually. Then he is unfamiliar enough with them to feel the need to relate them fully for his readers and not for himself. If he writes of yesterday’s or last year’s events, he usually remembers them so well he leaves them shrouded in his nearby intimate memory, which the reader does not share.”
Macrorie, K. (1976). Telling Writing, rev. 2nd Ed. Rochelle Park: Hayden Book Company,Inc., pp.106-107.
Showing posts with label Darrel Hammon. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Darrel Hammon. Show all posts
Monday, April 11, 2011
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Uncle Milt's Barn: Eye Sore or Icon
Uncle Milt's Barn: Eye Sore or Icon
It's long gone now, burned down. I do not remember the first time I saw Uncle Milt's barn. It was always just there. With three openings in the front, the barn sat on the west edge of Uncle Milt's circular yard. His house sat on the south side; the potato cellar on the northeast corner; the lambing pens and sheds on the north; the cow corrals on the northwest corner; and the granary in the middle of the yard.
Uncle Milt's barn was a huge thing that had long sloping roofs that peaked into a beak-like top that jutted out over the driveway. At one time, it had been painted red, but when I was growing up, the red had since faded into the crevices of the brown wood, long since worn by the beating snows and winds of eastern Idaho. The barn had windows on the side and one window in the front until one of my brothers threw an errant rock that shattered it instead of the back of my head.
The barn was divided into three sections, each with its own entrance. The first entrance led to where Uncle Milt milked his cows. Several cow stanchions lined the inside. Before Uncle Milt opened the back door that led to the corrals, he warned us to stand up by the front door. After he slid open the door, his huge Holstein cows rushed in, took a quick look at a couple of strange little boys in the door way, then sauntered to their appointed spots. They lowered their heads and began licking up the oat mixture that we had placed for them from rusted gallon cans.
The second entry led to a huge room. My dad said that this was the room where they would store loose hay, hauled up and in by an old Jackson Fork and derrick. Now the huge cathedral-like room was empty, except for a few rays of sunlight, mixed with dust and a couple of young boys staring toward an open window at the very top. I remember the softness of the floor of the room. Fifty plus years of hay, grain, straw, dust, manure, and who knows what else had been ground in, thus making a soft forest-like cushion.
If we stood real still and listened, the pigeons above us fluttered back and forth, perch to perch, then cooed as they sat, probably watching us, waiting for us to do something dangerous.
And we didn't disappoint them. We yelled to hear our voices echo, causing the pigeons and the sparrows to once again clamor about and across the great openness of the top of the barn. After a few moments, they settled and began again their musical cooing, wondering, I’m sure, when these humans would leave them alone to enjoy the silence and the airy barn.
Often, we walked in front of the manager and watched the cows chomp on the oats. Sometimes, they stopped, cautiously lifted their heads, and stared. The skittish ones tried to back out of the manager, only to find their heads stuck between the stanchion boards. When the shy ones did that, it was our cue to back away.
The middle section also had a loft with a ladder that led up to it. Frequently, we climbed up the ladder and played there until Uncle Milt or dad told us to come down. To me, it was scary to walk across the floor. Each board creaked, causing me to feel that I was going to fall through on top of the cows.
On most occasions when we visited, Uncle Milt let us feed the calves in a pen right next to where the cows were milked. We mixed milk in buckets that had huge nipples on the sides. As we approached the calves, they lined up to be fed. When we offered them their dinner, they latched on the white nipples and began draining the buckets, periodically head butting them as if they were their mothers' utters.
The third section of the barn was divided from the rest. In the old days, the horses spent time there after work and during the winter. Their harnesses hung on the back wall, waiting for another day to be in the hot fields around the necks of sweaty horses. The windows in this section were used as the opening to sling out manure to the pile outside where in the spring someone would haul it to the fields as fertilizer.
We did not go to this side of the barn often. Instead of horses and harnesses, it was full of odds and ends that had been stored there for years. Thick dust and pigeon droppings served as coverings for much of the stuff. My father retrieved his mother's table from the stack, spiffed it up, and placed it in our kitchen. It was big enough to comfortable sit six growing children and our parents.
Now, unlike grandmother's old table that still sits in my parents' kitchen, the barn no longer stands. Uncle Milt's cows have long since gone to the auction block or someone's freezer. After my uncle retired, he sold the farm to an area farmer. Over the years, the barn had become a safety hazard, perhaps even an eye sore. Before too long, Uncle Milt's barn, the icon that I could see from my house in the city, disappeared. And with its demise dissipated the years of history that lay soaked up in the decaying barn wood that once was red and bright and stoic.
Before my father and mother died, we passed Uncle Milt and Aunt Stella’s old house on our way to Menan. They, too, have gone like their huge barn. But I often honked as I pass by Uncle Milt's house, thinking that maybe, just maybe, I capture a glimpse of Uncle Milt out front in his typical hat, hoping he would wave at us. Mostly, now, I wonder where his pigeons roost at night.
It's long gone now, burned down. I do not remember the first time I saw Uncle Milt's barn. It was always just there. With three openings in the front, the barn sat on the west edge of Uncle Milt's circular yard. His house sat on the south side; the potato cellar on the northeast corner; the lambing pens and sheds on the north; the cow corrals on the northwest corner; and the granary in the middle of the yard.
Uncle Milt's barn was a huge thing that had long sloping roofs that peaked into a beak-like top that jutted out over the driveway. At one time, it had been painted red, but when I was growing up, the red had since faded into the crevices of the brown wood, long since worn by the beating snows and winds of eastern Idaho. The barn had windows on the side and one window in the front until one of my brothers threw an errant rock that shattered it instead of the back of my head.
The barn was divided into three sections, each with its own entrance. The first entrance led to where Uncle Milt milked his cows. Several cow stanchions lined the inside. Before Uncle Milt opened the back door that led to the corrals, he warned us to stand up by the front door. After he slid open the door, his huge Holstein cows rushed in, took a quick look at a couple of strange little boys in the door way, then sauntered to their appointed spots. They lowered their heads and began licking up the oat mixture that we had placed for them from rusted gallon cans.
The second entry led to a huge room. My dad said that this was the room where they would store loose hay, hauled up and in by an old Jackson Fork and derrick. Now the huge cathedral-like room was empty, except for a few rays of sunlight, mixed with dust and a couple of young boys staring toward an open window at the very top. I remember the softness of the floor of the room. Fifty plus years of hay, grain, straw, dust, manure, and who knows what else had been ground in, thus making a soft forest-like cushion.
If we stood real still and listened, the pigeons above us fluttered back and forth, perch to perch, then cooed as they sat, probably watching us, waiting for us to do something dangerous.
And we didn't disappoint them. We yelled to hear our voices echo, causing the pigeons and the sparrows to once again clamor about and across the great openness of the top of the barn. After a few moments, they settled and began again their musical cooing, wondering, I’m sure, when these humans would leave them alone to enjoy the silence and the airy barn.
Often, we walked in front of the manager and watched the cows chomp on the oats. Sometimes, they stopped, cautiously lifted their heads, and stared. The skittish ones tried to back out of the manager, only to find their heads stuck between the stanchion boards. When the shy ones did that, it was our cue to back away.
The middle section also had a loft with a ladder that led up to it. Frequently, we climbed up the ladder and played there until Uncle Milt or dad told us to come down. To me, it was scary to walk across the floor. Each board creaked, causing me to feel that I was going to fall through on top of the cows.
On most occasions when we visited, Uncle Milt let us feed the calves in a pen right next to where the cows were milked. We mixed milk in buckets that had huge nipples on the sides. As we approached the calves, they lined up to be fed. When we offered them their dinner, they latched on the white nipples and began draining the buckets, periodically head butting them as if they were their mothers' utters.
The third section of the barn was divided from the rest. In the old days, the horses spent time there after work and during the winter. Their harnesses hung on the back wall, waiting for another day to be in the hot fields around the necks of sweaty horses. The windows in this section were used as the opening to sling out manure to the pile outside where in the spring someone would haul it to the fields as fertilizer.
We did not go to this side of the barn often. Instead of horses and harnesses, it was full of odds and ends that had been stored there for years. Thick dust and pigeon droppings served as coverings for much of the stuff. My father retrieved his mother's table from the stack, spiffed it up, and placed it in our kitchen. It was big enough to comfortable sit six growing children and our parents.
Now, unlike grandmother's old table that still sits in my parents' kitchen, the barn no longer stands. Uncle Milt's cows have long since gone to the auction block or someone's freezer. After my uncle retired, he sold the farm to an area farmer. Over the years, the barn had become a safety hazard, perhaps even an eye sore. Before too long, Uncle Milt's barn, the icon that I could see from my house in the city, disappeared. And with its demise dissipated the years of history that lay soaked up in the decaying barn wood that once was red and bright and stoic.
Before my father and mother died, we passed Uncle Milt and Aunt Stella’s old house on our way to Menan. They, too, have gone like their huge barn. But I often honked as I pass by Uncle Milt's house, thinking that maybe, just maybe, I capture a glimpse of Uncle Milt out front in his typical hat, hoping he would wave at us. Mostly, now, I wonder where his pigeons roost at night.
Monday, February 14, 2011
To Joanne
To Joanne
Thinking of you today (and every day…)
charms me, warms me through to the core,
knowing full well you are the reason
why we are and continue moving forward.
You are the reason for all our happiness,
the girls, our nice home, our spirituality,
yes, even delicious food on the table.
You are the reason why I am what I am.
I wanted you to be proud of me.
I wanted your eyes, your gorgeous smile, your consistency,
your warmth, your comfort, and more, always more.
And you gave it, time and time again, without thought,
no matter what I did or what I didn’t do.
You still gave willingly, lovingly, often. It is no wonder
Father made me wait, wander around in my thoughts.
He knew I needed you more than you needed me
to buoy me up during difficult times,
share my odd humor, push me out the door
when I needed it, coo soft words of encouragement,
clap thunderously when I succeeded, even the little ones.
I know I married up, way beyond
my dreams and aspirations. I can only say,
“Thank you, Father. Thank you for sending me
Joanne when I needed her the most.”
Eternity is a long time; but to be with you,
time seems to float like mist on the Snake
in the early morning—yet, at midday, it rises,
surreptitiously disappears into the trees,
and the vista opens to new horizons,
to you and me, far beyond anything we imagined.
Yes, eternity is a long time, and I am willing
to spend it with you, now and forever.
Thank you, Joanne. I love you!
Darrel L. Hammon
February 2011
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Greatness: The Common Lot of Man and Woman
Greatness: The Common Lot of Man and Woman
Some are afraid of knowing
too much, perhaps too little.
Some shrink away, afraid
of what others might think
about them.
Others do nothing, hoping
that life will not touch them.
Many shine in school,
on the playing field, in the bright lights
of the world, think
that greatness has enveloped them,
allowed them to become someone.
What we don’t know
Because, perhaps,
We do not want to know
is others shine, too—
In the confines of their own rooms,
laden with microscopes,
computers, shelves of used books,
and brothers or sisters.
They help the poor, the needy,
read to neighbors,
take food to shut ins, write letters
to those who need words of comfort.
We read in the scriptures
about lights under a bushel basket,
talents hidden low in the dirt,
withdrawing within ourselves.
We can fill ourselves with knowledge
of what we really can become,
of who we need to become
in this life to prepare for another life,
of whose we really are,
for we are truly His….
Once we know who we really are,
no longer will our talents be hidden.
We will reach out to others.
Our lights will shine forth.
Then we shall see afar off,
knowing what He knows,
seeing what He sees,
feeling what He feels,
being what He is.
Truly then, and only then,
We will be great.
Some are afraid of knowing
too much, perhaps too little.
Some shrink away, afraid
of what others might think
about them.
Others do nothing, hoping
that life will not touch them.
Many shine in school,
on the playing field, in the bright lights
of the world, think
that greatness has enveloped them,
allowed them to become someone.
What we don’t know
Because, perhaps,
We do not want to know
is others shine, too—
In the confines of their own rooms,
laden with microscopes,
computers, shelves of used books,
and brothers or sisters.
They help the poor, the needy,
read to neighbors,
take food to shut ins, write letters
to those who need words of comfort.
We read in the scriptures
about lights under a bushel basket,
talents hidden low in the dirt,
withdrawing within ourselves.
We can fill ourselves with knowledge
of what we really can become,
of who we need to become
in this life to prepare for another life,
of whose we really are,
for we are truly His….
Once we know who we really are,
no longer will our talents be hidden.
We will reach out to others.
Our lights will shine forth.
Then we shall see afar off,
knowing what He knows,
seeing what He sees,
feeling what He feels,
being what He is.
Truly then, and only then,
We will be great.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Why Winter Was Created!
Whatever happened to shouts of glee and over anxiousness that accompanied the coming of winter and the snow? It snowed again last night, and the snow continues its descent onto our parched high mountain plains of Wyoming. Yes, the weather people predicted this stuff. Some said 7-8 inches; others, perfunctorily, said a few inches. Whatever they said or meant to say, we knew the snows would still come.
Whatever happened to the feeling of being able to go outside and play in the snow, build snow forts in the backyard along the west fence by the Hewards, create human chains and tube the massive sand dunes by St. Anthony, or go snowmobiling with Carey and Laura in Charlie Hunting’s fields down by the slough? All that fades, now that the cold and the snows continue harassing us.
Although Punxsatawney Phil did not see his shadow, meaning, ostensibly, an early spring, winter still blusters around us, spewing snow and unseasonably cold weather everywhere in America. And I am not happy about it. I guess age somehow deadens the naïve senses of youth and the good old days and causes blinders to shut out the looking forward to the white stuff.
When I was younger, I loved peeking out the curtains when my mother wasn’t looking—she hated them parted once they were closed—and watching the huge flakes float daintily to the ground, covering the blotching brown with soft whiteness. Before street lights in Menan, the outside porch light created a funnel that welcomed the white flakes, kissing each one with sprays of 60 watts of light.
Often at night, my brothers and I anticipated what the morning would bring, hoping our alarms would wake us to so much snow that we wouldn’t have to go to school. Finally, we dropped off to sleep, knowing, praying, the snows would pile high enough for us to make paths in the new snow in the soft glow of the morning.
Come morning around 6:15 a.m., we donned blue or gray hooded sweatshirts, our new snowmobile suits, yellow fuzzy gloves, knit stocking cap with face masks, and our green snow Pacs. All bundled up, we were finally ready for the deep drifts, leading to the barn. Like sled dogs breaking trail, we sloshed through the snow toward the barn and corrals where the pigs, cows, chickens, and horses waited for us, anxious for their morning breakfast. As soon as the milking and other chores were done, we had time to play in the snow before we had to get ready for school and a dismal day inside.
Usually our first order of business in the newly converted yard was making snow angels. We fell backwards and began making snow angels, arms and legs outstretched and moving them side to side, ever so carefully out and away from our bodies, touching our gloved hands to our thighs, creating perfect angel wings.
Trying to rise from our angelic pose and not ruining the perfectness of the snow angels proved to be the most difficult task. Carefully, we inched our bodies now thick with clothes and clotted snow to our elbows, then to our hands; then using our hands, we pushed our bodies up and onto our feet and leaped clear of our angels. We stood, congratulating ourselves that we had not plopped back into the crevices of our angels, thus preserving the angelic sculptures in the snow.
Once the angels were completed, we grabbed the shovels and tossed snow until we could see the driveway and the sidewalks. Finished shoveling out our side of the world, we shuffled over to Basil and Freda Heward’s place and began shoveling them out. We tried to be quiet so we wouldn’t wake them. With two or three of us, it did not take very long to uncover their walks and single car driveway.
Just before we slipped back into our house to warm up, drink a cup of hot chocolate, chuck full of miniature Marshmallows, and have breakfast, we trundled to the backyard where we oogled the snow drifts, now fence high, that beckoned us to come partake. Tempting as it was, we knew they would still be there, maybe even be bigger, when we returned home that afternoon from school. For just a brief moment, we planned how we were going to build the snow fort, carefully this time, together, not like last time when the snow was just right for snow balls and all else was forgotten in an onslaught of fist-packed snow. Somehow boys possess a sense of quitting everything when being bombarded by snowballs. Snowballing fights were war, and we couldn’t lose.
Only quiet memories still linger in the minds of adults, now too old or too lethargic to climb from their soft, leather chairs to shuffle outside to taste winter the way it was supposed to be: to sling snowballs; make perfect forts in deep drifts; and create snow angels in the soft, perfect snow, made especially for little boys with imaginations, warm blood surging through their young veins, and no sense of cold or wetness seeping through their clothes.
Whatever happened to the feeling of being able to go outside and play in the snow, build snow forts in the backyard along the west fence by the Hewards, create human chains and tube the massive sand dunes by St. Anthony, or go snowmobiling with Carey and Laura in Charlie Hunting’s fields down by the slough? All that fades, now that the cold and the snows continue harassing us.
Although Punxsatawney Phil did not see his shadow, meaning, ostensibly, an early spring, winter still blusters around us, spewing snow and unseasonably cold weather everywhere in America. And I am not happy about it. I guess age somehow deadens the naïve senses of youth and the good old days and causes blinders to shut out the looking forward to the white stuff.
When I was younger, I loved peeking out the curtains when my mother wasn’t looking—she hated them parted once they were closed—and watching the huge flakes float daintily to the ground, covering the blotching brown with soft whiteness. Before street lights in Menan, the outside porch light created a funnel that welcomed the white flakes, kissing each one with sprays of 60 watts of light.
Often at night, my brothers and I anticipated what the morning would bring, hoping our alarms would wake us to so much snow that we wouldn’t have to go to school. Finally, we dropped off to sleep, knowing, praying, the snows would pile high enough for us to make paths in the new snow in the soft glow of the morning.
Come morning around 6:15 a.m., we donned blue or gray hooded sweatshirts, our new snowmobile suits, yellow fuzzy gloves, knit stocking cap with face masks, and our green snow Pacs. All bundled up, we were finally ready for the deep drifts, leading to the barn. Like sled dogs breaking trail, we sloshed through the snow toward the barn and corrals where the pigs, cows, chickens, and horses waited for us, anxious for their morning breakfast. As soon as the milking and other chores were done, we had time to play in the snow before we had to get ready for school and a dismal day inside.
Usually our first order of business in the newly converted yard was making snow angels. We fell backwards and began making snow angels, arms and legs outstretched and moving them side to side, ever so carefully out and away from our bodies, touching our gloved hands to our thighs, creating perfect angel wings.
Trying to rise from our angelic pose and not ruining the perfectness of the snow angels proved to be the most difficult task. Carefully, we inched our bodies now thick with clothes and clotted snow to our elbows, then to our hands; then using our hands, we pushed our bodies up and onto our feet and leaped clear of our angels. We stood, congratulating ourselves that we had not plopped back into the crevices of our angels, thus preserving the angelic sculptures in the snow.
Once the angels were completed, we grabbed the shovels and tossed snow until we could see the driveway and the sidewalks. Finished shoveling out our side of the world, we shuffled over to Basil and Freda Heward’s place and began shoveling them out. We tried to be quiet so we wouldn’t wake them. With two or three of us, it did not take very long to uncover their walks and single car driveway.
Just before we slipped back into our house to warm up, drink a cup of hot chocolate, chuck full of miniature Marshmallows, and have breakfast, we trundled to the backyard where we oogled the snow drifts, now fence high, that beckoned us to come partake. Tempting as it was, we knew they would still be there, maybe even be bigger, when we returned home that afternoon from school. For just a brief moment, we planned how we were going to build the snow fort, carefully this time, together, not like last time when the snow was just right for snow balls and all else was forgotten in an onslaught of fist-packed snow. Somehow boys possess a sense of quitting everything when being bombarded by snowballs. Snowballing fights were war, and we couldn’t lose.
Only quiet memories still linger in the minds of adults, now too old or too lethargic to climb from their soft, leather chairs to shuffle outside to taste winter the way it was supposed to be: to sling snowballs; make perfect forts in deep drifts; and create snow angels in the soft, perfect snow, made especially for little boys with imaginations, warm blood surging through their young veins, and no sense of cold or wetness seeping through their clothes.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
A Scratch
A Scratch
I thought about Mercutio the other day,
out of the blue.
Perhaps, it was the paper cut,
ever so slight, when
Mercutio’s fatal words dipped
from nowhere, “A scratch…but tis enough.”
I wasn’t hurting that bad. Truly it was
a mere scratch, nothing
that would set off a revolution
among my family and the family next door.
Perhaps, I was thinking
about how dismal life can be,
all bottled up inside
like my mother’s peaches she canned
in August of every year—
tight and placed one by one
until they ached for space and light,
room to breath.
Then the gooey juice dribbled over them,
creating air pockets
that mother squished out
with a regular table knife, moving
from side to side, pressing ever so gently,
until all the bubbles pushed their way
to surface and out.
I was amazed
how a mere table knife
could coax air pockets to dissipate.
Perhaps, for others, this mere table knife
could be used for more
than just squeezing out life’s bubbles.
Perhaps, we could use it
to spread the jams of the world,
across the wheat and rye breads
of confrontation, those quiet ones
or maybe even the loud ones
we hear about through CNN.com
and the rest of world that thrives on news bits,
scrolling surreptitiously
at the bottom of newscasts on television
and headers on the Internet.
Perhaps, my mother knew
the simplicity of peach making
and that’s why she did it only in August,
knowing full well
that if she did in other months,
her life, too, would surreptitiously scroll
along the bottom of somebody’s journal,
and she didn’t want that to happen,
just because it was her life and no one else’s.
I thought about Mercutio the other day,
out of the blue.
Perhaps, it was the paper cut,
ever so slight, when
Mercutio’s fatal words dipped
from nowhere, “A scratch…but tis enough.”
I wasn’t hurting that bad. Truly it was
a mere scratch, nothing
that would set off a revolution
among my family and the family next door.
Perhaps, I was thinking
about how dismal life can be,
all bottled up inside
like my mother’s peaches she canned
in August of every year—
tight and placed one by one
until they ached for space and light,
room to breath.
Then the gooey juice dribbled over them,
creating air pockets
that mother squished out
with a regular table knife, moving
from side to side, pressing ever so gently,
until all the bubbles pushed their way
to surface and out.
I was amazed
how a mere table knife
could coax air pockets to dissipate.
Perhaps, for others, this mere table knife
could be used for more
than just squeezing out life’s bubbles.
Perhaps, we could use it
to spread the jams of the world,
across the wheat and rye breads
of confrontation, those quiet ones
or maybe even the loud ones
we hear about through CNN.com
and the rest of world that thrives on news bits,
scrolling surreptitiously
at the bottom of newscasts on television
and headers on the Internet.
Perhaps, my mother knew
the simplicity of peach making
and that’s why she did it only in August,
knowing full well
that if she did in other months,
her life, too, would surreptitiously scroll
along the bottom of somebody’s journal,
and she didn’t want that to happen,
just because it was her life and no one else’s.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Intellectual Aristocracy
Want to be part of the new aristocracy?
The new aristocracy is called the intellectual aristocracy, filled with people who have invested in acquiring knowledge.
Some years ago, Jaime Escalante, whose life was depicted in the movie Stand and Deliver, spoke about a poster hanging on a wall in his classroom. It read: “Free, free, free—knowledge. Bring your own containers.” How apropos for high school students on the brink of entering college and transitioning to the new world economy.
Knowledge is abundant in the new economy, but we have to be willing to obtain it.
Since the knowledge-based economy has engulfed us, we must prepare ourselves to not only to survive but to thrive. Unfortunately, mom and dad are not always going to support your habits.
Soon—for some, sooner than you think—the responsibility will fall to you. Are you ready? At eighteen, I knew I wasn’t ready. After two years in southern Chile and a year of work, I was ready to enter college to gain knowledge. Had I heard about Escalante’s admonition, I would have brought along more containers.
Consider these suggestions:
One, understand that going to college should not be an option. It is a must, a prerequisite to being a part of the new intellectual aristocracy. Our family has always focused on the phrase: “Not if you are going to college but where.”
Two, while in high school, take a rigorous set of courses. If you can, take those that count for dual-credit, credit for high school and college. You will be further ahead when you enroll in college. In fact, some students in other states earn their high school diploma one day, and the next day they receive their associate degree in other states. Invest now in obtaining the best grades and being involved, thus enhancing your chances to earn scholarships.
Three, when you go to college, take advantage of the most affordable one you can attend, even if it is close to home. Because most college programs require two years of general education, it is more affordable to attend a two-year college. Community colleges offer a wonderful array of core courses taught by extremely gifted professors.
Four, take a variety of courses, particularly those that require hard work and critical thinking skills. In the global market, most employers seek talented people who can think, adapt to change, and maneuver within the organization. Possessing good skill sets will enable you to succeed.
And five, think of your education as an investment that should be replenished often. If you don’t reinvest in yourself and upgrade your skills along the way, you will succumb to the plight of dinosaurs who couldn’t adapt to change.
Graduating from high school is truly a huge step. But begin strategizing now how you are going to maneuver successfully through our knowledge-based economy. The best part of being part of your lifelong educational investment is that you become part of the new intellectual aristocracy.
Remember to bring lots of containers.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
I'm Back: My Blog is Now Open....
I apologize to all of you who have been faithful viewers and readers of my blog. Last fall, I basically withdrew the reading of my Hammon blog from the general public because certain individuals used bits and pieces of my content, took them way out of context, and then wrote disparaging comments in their own pathetic writings.
While I am a believer in the free press, it would be nice--actually, professional--to see people actually do real research before writing. Taking snippets here and there and bits and pieces from uninformed people and then attempting to write factual material is not real reporting or writing. It is just plain creative fibbing with trappings of truthfulness. In fact, if people really want to know about me and what I think or what I do or what I have done or the choices I have made, they probably ought to visit with me personally, face-to-face, cara a cara.
Taking things out of context, twisting them for their own pleasure, visiting with people who really don't have a clue or don't see the truth if it is placed before them on a beautiful piece of china, and surmising what might be or what might have been without ever really getting to the facts create challenges all around. Literally, that type of writing lacks authenticity and truth and hovers on the abyss of very bad, even convoluted, writing. With a mere shove--or even a flick of one single finger--it should fall into that evil abyss, clinging to its morass of shoddy writing and shoddy research while crying forlornly until it crashes to the bottom, never to raise its ugly, vicious head again.
If you read something about me, and I did not write it, and if it doesn't sound like something I did or might have said or done, chances are that the writer did not ask me any questions before writing the essay or the article. Some people have a tendency to go off half cocked and not really have any of the facts straight.
Unfortunately, in our media-driven society, we sometimes want to believe those people and what they write when, in fact, they have no facts at all. Thus, beware of those wayward souls who feel inclined to write about things they know nothing about and then attempt to conjure up stuff to "enlighten" or "inform" their readers. Unfortunately, most of the time, what they write is mean and vicious and contains not one shred of truth.
I personally adhere to the LDS Church's 13th Article of Faith: "We believe in being honest, true, chaste, benevolent, virtuous, and in doing good to all men; indeed, we may say that we follow the admonition of Paul—We believe all things, we hope all things, we have endured many things, and hope to be able to endure all things. If there is anything virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy, we seek after these things" (Articles of Faith 1:13, Bold mine).
I will be posting writings, poems, reminiscences, essays, talks that I have recently given in various Sacrament meetings (these may be a bit long although I will insert snippets), thoughts on a variety of items, photos, etc. Many of my photos are on my Facebook page.
I truly appreciate your willingness to slog through a few of these writings. I think it is important to let people know who I am, how I am, why I am about, what I am about, and how I think. My writings are not to persuade you to do anything; rather, they are to inform.
So, I apologize for being off line. Now, read away. I do have one favor of those who read my posts: If you have a question about them or don't quite understand what I am saying or thinking, please do not hesitate to contact me. The only way to get to the bottom of a particular writing or posting is to contact the source. I am the source; so, please contact me.
While I am a believer in the free press, it would be nice--actually, professional--to see people actually do real research before writing. Taking snippets here and there and bits and pieces from uninformed people and then attempting to write factual material is not real reporting or writing. It is just plain creative fibbing with trappings of truthfulness. In fact, if people really want to know about me and what I think or what I do or what I have done or the choices I have made, they probably ought to visit with me personally, face-to-face, cara a cara.
Taking things out of context, twisting them for their own pleasure, visiting with people who really don't have a clue or don't see the truth if it is placed before them on a beautiful piece of china, and surmising what might be or what might have been without ever really getting to the facts create challenges all around. Literally, that type of writing lacks authenticity and truth and hovers on the abyss of very bad, even convoluted, writing. With a mere shove--or even a flick of one single finger--it should fall into that evil abyss, clinging to its morass of shoddy writing and shoddy research while crying forlornly until it crashes to the bottom, never to raise its ugly, vicious head again.
If you read something about me, and I did not write it, and if it doesn't sound like something I did or might have said or done, chances are that the writer did not ask me any questions before writing the essay or the article. Some people have a tendency to go off half cocked and not really have any of the facts straight.
Unfortunately, in our media-driven society, we sometimes want to believe those people and what they write when, in fact, they have no facts at all. Thus, beware of those wayward souls who feel inclined to write about things they know nothing about and then attempt to conjure up stuff to "enlighten" or "inform" their readers. Unfortunately, most of the time, what they write is mean and vicious and contains not one shred of truth.
I personally adhere to the LDS Church's 13th Article of Faith: "We believe in being honest, true, chaste, benevolent, virtuous, and in doing good to all men; indeed, we may say that we follow the admonition of Paul—We believe all things, we hope all things, we have endured many things, and hope to be able to endure all things. If there is anything virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy, we seek after these things" (Articles of Faith 1:13, Bold mine).
I will be posting writings, poems, reminiscences, essays, talks that I have recently given in various Sacrament meetings (these may be a bit long although I will insert snippets), thoughts on a variety of items, photos, etc. Many of my photos are on my Facebook page.
I truly appreciate your willingness to slog through a few of these writings. I think it is important to let people know who I am, how I am, why I am about, what I am about, and how I think. My writings are not to persuade you to do anything; rather, they are to inform.
So, I apologize for being off line. Now, read away. I do have one favor of those who read my posts: If you have a question about them or don't quite understand what I am saying or thinking, please do not hesitate to contact me. The only way to get to the bottom of a particular writing or posting is to contact the source. I am the source; so, please contact me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
