Here are some tidbits of wisdom that I imparted to the Laramie County Community College graduates this past week
Graduation 2009
“Tidbits of Wisdom”
Tidbit #1: Be consistent—People know you by the choices you make, no matter what they are. My counsel to you is to be consistent in making good choices. Yes, I know it is difficult to make the right choice all the time. But your consistency will ultimately define you.
Tidbit #2: Practice constant vigilance—Mad-Eye Moody consistently said to Harry Potter, “Constant vigilance, Potter.” Tonight I say, “Constant vigilance, graduates.” You have to be constantly vigilant and watchful that you might avoid the pitfalls that people tend to place, inadvertently or advertently, in your way. When we are not vigilant, we tend to be the reed that blows constantly in the wind, not knowing where we are being blown.
Tidbit #3: Seek good friends and colleagues—One of the most important decisions you will ever make is to seek good friends and colleagues, the ones that will help you rise above the challenges that you face and then help you move forward along a successful career. So-called friends who continually tear you down tell you that you cannot ever succeed, or create a contentious environment are not your friends and probably never will be your friends. Good friends will buoy you up, strive to help you when in need, and will create an environment where you will succeed.
Tidbit # 4: Be kind, gracious, and understanding—Somehow over the past several decades, the ability to be kind, gracious, and/or understanding has become submerged in the “mean-girls-and-mean-boys” syndrome. People seem to want to destroy others in order to gain some semblance of something. Those who espouse this philosophy ultimately end up alone, estranged from all those who loved them, estranged from their jobs, and, unfortunately, estranged from themselves. But being kind and gracious to others will create the environment wherein all succeed.
Tidbit #5: Rise above the froth of life and don’t become entangled in the underbrush—In today’s ever-more negative society, it is easy to be sucked into doing and saying things you never intended on saying and doing and being someone that you never planned on being. To stay above the froth of life, you must have the vision and the character to do the right thing at the right time and eschew that which does not uplift, enhance, or create an environment of positive change.
Tidbit #6: Celebrate successes, no matter how big or small—We need to celebrate even the tiniest success. We are here to celebrate success; we are here to celebrate life and all of its trappings, good and bad; we are here to celebrate learning; we are here to celebrate your bright futures; we are here to celebrate your choice to be here and to have accomplished what you have accomplished. A positive celebration now and then is not a bad thing.
Tidbit #7: Learn something new every day—Ah, yes, you have earned your degree. Now what? Learning never stops unless you choose to let it stop. Lifelong learning should become one thing that remains active in your arsenal for living large. Remember: You either progress or retrogress. There is no such thing as stagnation.
Tidbit #8: Do your homework—Yes, school is done—at least for now anyway. But doing your homework should never end. Before opining about this or that, be sure to research both sides of the issue. Just because so and so said X does not mean that what so and so said is totally and completely true. Jumping to conclusions without all of the facts will ultimately damage your reputation for having integrity.
Tidbit #9: Understand you are the puppeteer of your own life—One of the largest challenges in life is finally understanding that you control your life. You make the choices; you are accountable for what you do. When you allow someone else to dangle your strings, you will never be free, you will never accept total responsibility, and your life will never be yours. Ultimately, your life depends on the choices you make.
Tidbit #10: Always stay focused on the goal and the mission—I was reminded the other day by a former Base Commander that we will have fewer problems, encounter fewer challenges, and be more successful if we stay the course and focus constantly on our goals and mission. Yes, there will be the 10% to 30%--and maybe even more, maybe less—who will attempt to throw you off by placing varying sizes of problematic boulders/ problems in your path. But if you focus on your goals and mission and plow forward to meet them, you will be able to push or pulverize the boulders that lie menacingly along the path.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Ode to Graduating Nurses
Ode to Graduating Nurses
Today you sit quietly, dressed in the garb of nurses,
poised to participate in poignant pinnings,
and poised, one more time, to listen,
to tidbits of wisdom from those who soon will be
your peers and colleagues.
For those of us whose parents, in-laws, sons,
daughters, grandparents, neighbors, cousins,
acquaintances, and dear friends you serve and will serve,
we salute you, pay homage to your care,
your kindness, your concern, whether early morning,
midday, midnight, around the clock.
You amble through soft-lit halls,
step cautiously into darkened rooms
whose only noise stems from machines,
the rhythmic beating of heart monitors,
breathing apparatuses, and sometimes
the straggly breathing of the sick and the wounded;
yet, you still step in, confident, ready
to the handle any situation, not really knowing
whether Death has swooped in
surreptitiously or waits patiently.
You are there to stem the tide, to relegate Death
to another time, perhaps another place,
mostly by your positive attitude, attention to detail,
and knowing exactly what to do.
You are constantly cognizant of your duty
to mend minds and bodies and often souls.
Many of us watch from perches to the side of the bed,
magazines or books or computers
in hand, pretending to read them or do work,
but we watch you do your thing,
marvel at the deft and depth
of your care of those in your care.
Each day, emotions run rampant in those rooms
with monitors, tubes, and things; yet, you seem to assuage
the emotions, part the thickness of sickness
like Moses did the Red Sea, and salve healing
on your patients and their loved ones.
Yes, you have been trained to wear
the appropriately colored pull-string scrubs
and cushioned shoes or crocs, monitor vital signs,
give medications, raise beds
up and down, place extra pillows and blankets,
take blood pressure, and care
for those who are sick and afflicted,
our kin, our loved ones.
Yes, we know that you have been trained well,
learned at the feet of gifted nurses.
We salute you for spending the time to learn
both from books and practical experience;
and we pray that you will continue your journey
and be there again tomorrow,
whether for our own or someone else’s,
it is still the same.
May you go forth and remember
this day and past days.
May you remember who you are
and why you are,
for you are nurses, who love,
who heal, and who understand.
The sun will set later this evening;
the sun will set tomorrow.
and the sun will set
every evening for eternity;
yet, the sun will never set
on nurses helping those most in need.
Thank you from the families and friends
of those for whom you care.
Darrel L. Hammon
May 2009
Today you sit quietly, dressed in the garb of nurses,
poised to participate in poignant pinnings,
and poised, one more time, to listen,
to tidbits of wisdom from those who soon will be
your peers and colleagues.
For those of us whose parents, in-laws, sons,
daughters, grandparents, neighbors, cousins,
acquaintances, and dear friends you serve and will serve,
we salute you, pay homage to your care,
your kindness, your concern, whether early morning,
midday, midnight, around the clock.
You amble through soft-lit halls,
step cautiously into darkened rooms
whose only noise stems from machines,
the rhythmic beating of heart monitors,
breathing apparatuses, and sometimes
the straggly breathing of the sick and the wounded;
yet, you still step in, confident, ready
to the handle any situation, not really knowing
whether Death has swooped in
surreptitiously or waits patiently.
You are there to stem the tide, to relegate Death
to another time, perhaps another place,
mostly by your positive attitude, attention to detail,
and knowing exactly what to do.
You are constantly cognizant of your duty
to mend minds and bodies and often souls.
Many of us watch from perches to the side of the bed,
magazines or books or computers
in hand, pretending to read them or do work,
but we watch you do your thing,
marvel at the deft and depth
of your care of those in your care.
Each day, emotions run rampant in those rooms
with monitors, tubes, and things; yet, you seem to assuage
the emotions, part the thickness of sickness
like Moses did the Red Sea, and salve healing
on your patients and their loved ones.
Yes, you have been trained to wear
the appropriately colored pull-string scrubs
and cushioned shoes or crocs, monitor vital signs,
give medications, raise beds
up and down, place extra pillows and blankets,
take blood pressure, and care
for those who are sick and afflicted,
our kin, our loved ones.
Yes, we know that you have been trained well,
learned at the feet of gifted nurses.
We salute you for spending the time to learn
both from books and practical experience;
and we pray that you will continue your journey
and be there again tomorrow,
whether for our own or someone else’s,
it is still the same.
May you go forth and remember
this day and past days.
May you remember who you are
and why you are,
for you are nurses, who love,
who heal, and who understand.
The sun will set later this evening;
the sun will set tomorrow.
and the sun will set
every evening for eternity;
yet, the sun will never set
on nurses helping those most in need.
Thank you from the families and friends
of those for whom you care.
Darrel L. Hammon
May 2009
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Sunday, May 10, 2009
My Mother Taught Me
For all of the mothers out there:
My Mother Taught Me
When I was young and learning things,
I kneeled in prayer beside my bed.
My mother stood in the shadows,
listening while some words I said:
Oh, Dear Father who art in Heaven
My mother tells me thou art true.
But I don't know just what to think
for all of this is still too new.
But before I turn old like my friends
wilt thou just lean beyond thy cloudless veil
and whisper from thy throne on high
and cause my spirit to softly swell?
If thou doest this I promise all—
I will be thy obedient son
just as my Mother thinks of me
And thy will shall all be done.
Then I climbed up into my bed,
waited for my mother's love.
Then on bended knee she bowed
and poured out her heart to thee above.
I listened to the words she spoke.
They settled on her lips like dew.
I wondered where she learned to speak
such words of love—all true.
To her humble words, I carefully listened:
“Oh, My Father, this night I plea
for my children....please keep them safe...”
finally showed me how to talk to Thee.
My Mother Taught Me
When I was young and learning things,
I kneeled in prayer beside my bed.
My mother stood in the shadows,
listening while some words I said:
Oh, Dear Father who art in Heaven
My mother tells me thou art true.
But I don't know just what to think
for all of this is still too new.
But before I turn old like my friends
wilt thou just lean beyond thy cloudless veil
and whisper from thy throne on high
and cause my spirit to softly swell?
If thou doest this I promise all—
I will be thy obedient son
just as my Mother thinks of me
And thy will shall all be done.
Then I climbed up into my bed,
waited for my mother's love.
Then on bended knee she bowed
and poured out her heart to thee above.
I listened to the words she spoke.
They settled on her lips like dew.
I wondered where she learned to speak
such words of love—all true.
To her humble words, I carefully listened:
“Oh, My Father, this night I plea
for my children....please keep them safe...”
finally showed me how to talk to Thee.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Fall
Fall
Fall sneaks in like mice at night.
One day, the trees are green;
flowers bloom; tomatoes still produce.
Yet, next morning, summer’s elegance
flees at 32 degrees and below.
The first freeze is always the toughest, most brutal.
I try to cover the vegetables,
anticipating the initial freeze.
But the day before, that gorgeous 72
and no wind lulled us into a false security.
Even at midnight, when I rise, a bit blurry-eyed,
to relieve the one glass of water too many
before bed, the temperature still hovers around 40.
Not feeling the mercury drop outside, I climb back
under the red sheets, now cold from my absence,
fall to sleep, thinking nothing of the frost
that surreptitiously creeps in around 2:00 a.m.,
delicately kissing each tomato, each colored flower.
Frost is no respecter of flowers or vegetables
or anything that might be dainty and vulnerable.
He is clandestine, yet sometimes blatant, and then lingers
for his big brother—winter’s snow—cheating
everything beautiful, yet simultaneously creating beauty
in his own wonderfully white, fresh way.
And spring, their sister, waits her turn, patiently.
Fall sneaks in like mice at night.
One day, the trees are green;
flowers bloom; tomatoes still produce.
Yet, next morning, summer’s elegance
flees at 32 degrees and below.
The first freeze is always the toughest, most brutal.
I try to cover the vegetables,
anticipating the initial freeze.
But the day before, that gorgeous 72
and no wind lulled us into a false security.
Even at midnight, when I rise, a bit blurry-eyed,
to relieve the one glass of water too many
before bed, the temperature still hovers around 40.
Not feeling the mercury drop outside, I climb back
under the red sheets, now cold from my absence,
fall to sleep, thinking nothing of the frost
that surreptitiously creeps in around 2:00 a.m.,
delicately kissing each tomato, each colored flower.
Frost is no respecter of flowers or vegetables
or anything that might be dainty and vulnerable.
He is clandestine, yet sometimes blatant, and then lingers
for his big brother—winter’s snow—cheating
everything beautiful, yet simultaneously creating beauty
in his own wonderfully white, fresh way.
And spring, their sister, waits her turn, patiently.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Menan Buttes: Ricks College Legacy
The following essay recently won the the Ricks College/Brigham Young University Alumni "Legacy" Writing contest. Enjoy!
Darrel L. Hammon
When students return from BYU-Idaho, I ask them a simple question: “During your stay at BYU-Idaho, did you climb the stoic Menan Buttes?” For the most part, they say no and have a puzzled look on their faces as if to say, “Menan Buttes? What are those?” From my perspective, this is where the spirit of Ricks College/BYU-Idaho emerged for me.
Growing up in the shadows of the Menan Buttes in Menan, Idaho, we did a fair amount of hiking the Buttes, first as children with my parents on Easter weekend and later with friends, fellow Boy Scouts, and my 9th grade class led by Charles Henry, the venerable science teacher at Midway Junior High School. When we arrived at the magical dating age and then post-mission, we took our dates to the Buttes, usually on a full-moon night, flash lights in hand, and hiked to Red Rock on the North Butte. There we sat side by side or back to back, stared down into the valley below and listened to cock pheasants crow and the Black Angus cows on Miller’s place beller. From the top, we could see all the way to Rexburg, yes, even to the “college on the hill.”
It was on this butte, an old volcano, now dormant for thousands of years, where I contemplated life, contemplated what I needed to do, what college I should attend, how I was going to serve a mission, how to get along with my family, and what I generally was going to do with my life. When I sat on the red rock that we fondly called Table Rock or Red Rock, staring into the ancient crater or around the Snake River Valley, I saw beyond the mundane, beyond my own self. Perhaps, it was a place where quietness reigned supreme, despite the wind jostling the cedars, the barking coyotes, the quiet rustling of jack rabbits and mice, and sometimes tractors trudging down dirt roads or through potato fields just below us.
When I returned to BYU-Idaho much later when my daughters attended Especially for Youth, I stood on the new plaza, just south of the Manwaring Center, amazed at the number of students sauntering to and from the new buildings to the north, amazed at the changes, amazed at the new gifts the students received by merely walking the hallowed halls of that great campus. I wondered, though, if they had been to the Buttes, contemplated their lives, wondered about what they were about.
The spirit of Ricks is always seeing afar off and understanding—finally—our roles in both the “small picture” and the “big picture.” At Ricks, it was much like sitting on Red Rock and seeing eastern Idaho, our little world, for the first time or climbing down into the volcano, seeing ragged outcroppings of rock or sagebrush. In class or in devotionals, we learned about the whole person, who you were, what you were about, why you were you, and what you needed to do to become better.
During one class period, we learned about biology and life from Brother Speth; the next period, Brother Stubbs helped us find our way through the Book of Mormon and its many machinations; then the next class, we played playing basketball on “big boys’ court” in the Hart Gymnasium; and to top it off, on Tuesdays, we listened to the servants of God, like President Kimball, who shared with us their lives, their spiritual experiences, their renditions of their own Menan Buttes and understanding themselves for the first time.
Where else can you learn about both academics and yourself, except at Ricks College, now BYU-Idaho? Much like the Menan Buttes, poking out of the good farming country, BYU-Idaho sits on the opposite hill across the great valley and the mighty Snake River, reveling in beauty, academic prowess, and spiritual enlightenment. Is it no wonder that President Hinckley chose “the hill” on which to build a temple of God?
I suspect that if I were to sit on the top of Red Rock today, I would be able to see the expanded lights on the campus and the soft glow of the Rexburg Idaho Temple, feel of its spirit, understand who I was then and what I have become, and hear the gentle, wise voice of the old volcano, whispering across the valley to the temple: “It is your turn to help the young to see afar off” and then retreat to take its ancient place where it had been for thousands of years—overlooking “the college on the hill,” watching another legacy to grow.
Darrel L. Hammon
When students return from BYU-Idaho, I ask them a simple question: “During your stay at BYU-Idaho, did you climb the stoic Menan Buttes?” For the most part, they say no and have a puzzled look on their faces as if to say, “Menan Buttes? What are those?” From my perspective, this is where the spirit of Ricks College/BYU-Idaho emerged for me.
Growing up in the shadows of the Menan Buttes in Menan, Idaho, we did a fair amount of hiking the Buttes, first as children with my parents on Easter weekend and later with friends, fellow Boy Scouts, and my 9th grade class led by Charles Henry, the venerable science teacher at Midway Junior High School. When we arrived at the magical dating age and then post-mission, we took our dates to the Buttes, usually on a full-moon night, flash lights in hand, and hiked to Red Rock on the North Butte. There we sat side by side or back to back, stared down into the valley below and listened to cock pheasants crow and the Black Angus cows on Miller’s place beller. From the top, we could see all the way to Rexburg, yes, even to the “college on the hill.”
It was on this butte, an old volcano, now dormant for thousands of years, where I contemplated life, contemplated what I needed to do, what college I should attend, how I was going to serve a mission, how to get along with my family, and what I generally was going to do with my life. When I sat on the red rock that we fondly called Table Rock or Red Rock, staring into the ancient crater or around the Snake River Valley, I saw beyond the mundane, beyond my own self. Perhaps, it was a place where quietness reigned supreme, despite the wind jostling the cedars, the barking coyotes, the quiet rustling of jack rabbits and mice, and sometimes tractors trudging down dirt roads or through potato fields just below us.
When I returned to BYU-Idaho much later when my daughters attended Especially for Youth, I stood on the new plaza, just south of the Manwaring Center, amazed at the number of students sauntering to and from the new buildings to the north, amazed at the changes, amazed at the new gifts the students received by merely walking the hallowed halls of that great campus. I wondered, though, if they had been to the Buttes, contemplated their lives, wondered about what they were about.
The spirit of Ricks is always seeing afar off and understanding—finally—our roles in both the “small picture” and the “big picture.” At Ricks, it was much like sitting on Red Rock and seeing eastern Idaho, our little world, for the first time or climbing down into the volcano, seeing ragged outcroppings of rock or sagebrush. In class or in devotionals, we learned about the whole person, who you were, what you were about, why you were you, and what you needed to do to become better.
During one class period, we learned about biology and life from Brother Speth; the next period, Brother Stubbs helped us find our way through the Book of Mormon and its many machinations; then the next class, we played playing basketball on “big boys’ court” in the Hart Gymnasium; and to top it off, on Tuesdays, we listened to the servants of God, like President Kimball, who shared with us their lives, their spiritual experiences, their renditions of their own Menan Buttes and understanding themselves for the first time.
Where else can you learn about both academics and yourself, except at Ricks College, now BYU-Idaho? Much like the Menan Buttes, poking out of the good farming country, BYU-Idaho sits on the opposite hill across the great valley and the mighty Snake River, reveling in beauty, academic prowess, and spiritual enlightenment. Is it no wonder that President Hinckley chose “the hill” on which to build a temple of God?
I suspect that if I were to sit on the top of Red Rock today, I would be able to see the expanded lights on the campus and the soft glow of the Rexburg Idaho Temple, feel of its spirit, understand who I was then and what I have become, and hear the gentle, wise voice of the old volcano, whispering across the valley to the temple: “It is your turn to help the young to see afar off” and then retreat to take its ancient place where it had been for thousands of years—overlooking “the college on the hill,” watching another legacy to grow.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Tip: A Poem
The following poem is about a dog our family used to have. We named him Tip.
Enjoy
Tip
While growing up, I can remember
having just one favorite dog: Tippy
although we fondly called him Tip.
I have no idea how that name came to be;
that was just his name, anointed and proper.
Yeah, we had other dogs, a black dog
named Trixie who died unexpectedly
at the jaws of Davids’ monster dogs
while she followed them down the street;
and the Chihuahuas that my mom had,
little yippers that barked all the time,
and nipped at our pant legs
if we did something out of character,
which we did as rambunctious little boys.
But Tippy, now he was the dog of the place,
a collie, always wanting attention,
like some girls I know.
Tip liked to follow us, no matter
where we went, whether into the woods
to hunt pheasants or to slough where we watched
frogs leap from the bank into the murky pond,
or followed us when we rode bikes
to Spring Creek to fish or just hang out on the bank.
He often sauntered with us to the railroads tracks
and Huntings where he lay outside on the lawn
until we finished playing pool or
playing golf using croquet balls and clubs.
Often, Tip would get these hanging things,
dried up hair or something, that matted and hung
like a cowbell on cows; so we merely performed
surgery, delicate and dainty, so he looked
like a real dog without any ornaments.
For us, Tip was always around,
at dawn when we milked cows
or drove in from duck hunting—
man’s best friend or in our case,
boys’ best friend—Tip was there
to play or bark or just plain stand there,
watching us with anxious eyes,
his tail flapping back and forth, perhaps
thinking “I am here when you need me.”
Often, I think of Tip at weird times:
during the day when driving alone
along some vacant stretch of Highway 59
or see another collie whose markings seem
like Tip’s. I don’t remember
when he died or how although I should ask.
But for some reason, I don’t want to know,
don’t want to delve into something in the past,
something too long ago to dredge up.
Rather, I want to remember his bark,
his constant following us everywhere.
At those weird moments, I do look around, hoping,
just hoping, that Tip might be there,
want to rub his head on my pant leg,
just once to remind me of those forgotten times
when he jumped up on me for one last dance
in the early evening after chores were done.
Enjoy
Tip
While growing up, I can remember
having just one favorite dog: Tippy
although we fondly called him Tip.
I have no idea how that name came to be;
that was just his name, anointed and proper.
Yeah, we had other dogs, a black dog
named Trixie who died unexpectedly
at the jaws of Davids’ monster dogs
while she followed them down the street;
and the Chihuahuas that my mom had,
little yippers that barked all the time,
and nipped at our pant legs
if we did something out of character,
which we did as rambunctious little boys.
But Tippy, now he was the dog of the place,
a collie, always wanting attention,
like some girls I know.
Tip liked to follow us, no matter
where we went, whether into the woods
to hunt pheasants or to slough where we watched
frogs leap from the bank into the murky pond,
or followed us when we rode bikes
to Spring Creek to fish or just hang out on the bank.
He often sauntered with us to the railroads tracks
and Huntings where he lay outside on the lawn
until we finished playing pool or
playing golf using croquet balls and clubs.
Often, Tip would get these hanging things,
dried up hair or something, that matted and hung
like a cowbell on cows; so we merely performed
surgery, delicate and dainty, so he looked
like a real dog without any ornaments.
For us, Tip was always around,
at dawn when we milked cows
or drove in from duck hunting—
man’s best friend or in our case,
boys’ best friend—Tip was there
to play or bark or just plain stand there,
watching us with anxious eyes,
his tail flapping back and forth, perhaps
thinking “I am here when you need me.”
Often, I think of Tip at weird times:
during the day when driving alone
along some vacant stretch of Highway 59
or see another collie whose markings seem
like Tip’s. I don’t remember
when he died or how although I should ask.
But for some reason, I don’t want to know,
don’t want to delve into something in the past,
something too long ago to dredge up.
Rather, I want to remember his bark,
his constant following us everywhere.
At those weird moments, I do look around, hoping,
just hoping, that Tip might be there,
want to rub his head on my pant leg,
just once to remind me of those forgotten times
when he jumped up on me for one last dance
in the early evening after chores were done.
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