Joe's Place

Music To Die By

haynie.joe@gmail.com (Joe Haynie) — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 18:03:00 +0000

She was dying, that much was clear. It was not a jarring eventful kind of expiration accompanied by sirens, triage, and defibrillators. It was instead the steady inexorable dissolution of dementia where first the mind and then the body slowly shrivel like a dessicated December apple still bound to the branch long after the juicy ripeness of September is past. After several years of decline she was bed-bound, bereft of speech, and almost completely unresponsive. Her once remarkable intellect had withdrawn and was replaced by a frightening void that left her disoriented and inarticulate.

However, by contrast, her ever-vibrant spirit burned even brighter from somewhere within. Though somewhat subsumed into a deeper less-accessible place, the sweetness of her soul was condensed and concentrated from what had been a nice nectar to a rich honey by the evaporative effects of her disease. You sensed this from the glow in her eyes as they'd lock with yours for a few seconds when you'd visit--in those moments she seemed to see beyond your public facade to the very core of you but somehow you sensed that she loved you anyway. You also glimpsed it occasionally in the fleeting heart-melting smiles that began at the corners of her eyes and spread to her still-beautiful lips. More than fifty years earlier those lips had sung me sweetly to sleep with loving lullabies. Now they were mostly mute.

The other thing that endured, beside her love for people, was her love of music. Each of my visits included a stint with my guitar singing her songs we had sung together for years. In the early years of her dementia she could still sing some of the words. Later she would beat the rhythm with her hand. Even toward the end, when she was bed-ridden and lost in the fog of her illness, whenever I sang she grew less agitated and watched me with a peaceful gaze.

At the time I was singing in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and we had just completed the recording of Mack Wilberg's "Requiem". Requiem is the Latin word for "rest" (sometimes rendered as "peace") and is traditionally a musical composition setting the text of the Latin funeral mass which pleads with God for rest for someone who has died. Notable compositions have been written by Mozart, Verdi, Dvořák, Duruflé and Fauré. Mack Wilberg departed from the traditional exclusive use of the Catholic liturgical texts and added favorite scriptures as well as other moving texts so his Requiem would be one "that honors the dead and comforts the living." During the summer of 2006 Mack had ensconced himself for three weeks in an historic farmhouse in the Berkshire Mountains of Massachusetts to compose this work. The result was a composition for choir and orchestra that is a sublime sojourn for the soul. We performed it as an Easter concert and later recorded an album of this remarkable Requiem.

One Sunday near the end of her life we were visiting mom (we’d stay with her while dad went to church). She was bed-ridden and that day she was agitated and yelling out incoherently. I decided to try out our recently-recorded Requiem on mom. From the moment I placed the ear-buds in her ears and turned on the music she calmed down, her eyes focused upward, and her face took on a peaceful glow. She listened quietly to the entire album. She actually seemed to glow toward the end of the it. After I took the player back I re-listened to the final number on the album which is titled “Let Peace Then Still The Strife” and is a collaboration between Mack the musician and his good friend and noted lyricist David Warner. It is both a benediction to the well-lived-lives of those we love who pass away, and an anthem of hope for those of us left behind. In the context of mom’s imminent death that piece pierced the protective plating of my customary composure and I wept.

I am convinced that Heaven is filled with stirring music (e.g. Heavenly hosts sang at Jesus’ birth and will sing again at His second coming) and if that is so it seems appropriate that the significant bridge events between heaven and earth such as births and deaths should be likewise accompanied by the most glorious music we can find. Accordingly, she sang lullabies to me at my birth to welcome me here, and in the very last hours of her life most of mom’s family gathered around her bed and sang her home with hymns and favorite songs. What a wonderful way to come into and go out of this world. May we all be so blessed.

The King of Kings

haynie.joe@gmail.com (Joe Haynie) — Sun, 25 Dec 2011 21:30:00 +0000

In your mind’s eye fly back with me over two thousand yearsto a cold and filthy animal pen in a small and unremarkable middle-easternvillage in the highlands of Judea. Ayoung girl, heavy with child and exhausted from a long journey, huddles on theground in the final stages of a painful labor. With her is her loving, if inexperienced, husband…solicitous for herwelfare, frustrated that he has been unable to obtain better accommodations,praying that God will nevertheless bless his wife and protect her child. After some final excruciating contractionsand bearing down with what feels like the last of her strength the young girlfeels a surge from within and a wave of relief as her tiny helpless babyemerges into a world which, on that night, is literally both cold andcruel. The girl and her husband quicklywrap the child in a long cloth to keep him warm and weep for joy at theprecious perfect infant cradled in their arms. They look up and gasp with wonder as a bright new star bursts into viewin the heavens overhead. In nearbyfields shepherds are startled by the sudden appearance of a sky-full of brightangels declaring “Glory to God in the Highest, and on earth peace, good willtoward men”. I pose this question toyou, who is this child, just minutes old, born in destitution and shivering inthe night, and what matters He to you and I?

Soar with me back through the eons of time to the very creationof all we know. There stands a mightyone, the Firstborn Son of the Father, Jehovah by name, the Great God of theuniverse, and from his mouth flow commands that the very expanse of space andmatter must obey. At His word theuniverse is structured and ordered. Stars are set ablaze, worlds congeal out of the spinning masses ofshapeless matter, and the great void is filled. By His word are all things made.

Let me transport you again to a holy counsel held in Heavenby our Eternal Father the God of Gods and His vast family. We see ourselves among the throng of Hisspirit children gathered there. Our EternalFather explains His plan to give all His children a chance to grow up to becomelike He and our Mother. When Heindicates that His plan calls for One to “go down” and “descend below allthings” to pay the price for the rest of His children’s sins, that sameFirstborn son who created the universe responds with simple courage andhumility “here am I, send me”.

We see the Firstborn son again forming this earth at HisFather’s direction and filling it with living things—plants, animals, andfinally God’s children. He stays andgoverns the earth as its Lord of Lords and King or Kings. He calls prophets, makes covenants, dispensestruth and light, meets Moses in a burning bush on Mt. Sinai and declares “I Amthat I Am”.

And then our Lord and our God, He who laid the foundationsof Heaven and earth, performed his greatest act of love…He lowered Himself tobe one of us…to walk among us.

The ancient prophets foretold a time when “The LordOmnipotent who reigneth, who was, and is from all eternity to all eternity,shall come down from heaven among the children of men, and shall dwell in atabernacle of clay.” (Mosiah 3:7)

The gospel writer Luke recorded that an angel named Gabrielcame to a young pure Hebrew girl named Mary and told her that “The Holy Ghostshall come upon thee, and the power of the Highest shall overshadow thee:therefore also that holy thing which shall be born of thee shall be called theSon of God”. (Luke 1:35) And so it wasthat on that night of nights the Great God of the universe, Jehovah Himself,Jesus the Firstborn Son of the Father, condescended to be born to a mortalwoman into the humblest of circumstances and to subject himself to all thecruelty both men and demons could devise.

Who was this destitute shivering child born in an animalpen? His mortal mother was Mary, a puredescendent of David, and His mortal Father was God. Thus the Firstborn Son of the Father inspirit became the Only Begotten son of the Father in the flesh.

What matters this Babe to you and I? The God of the Old Testament became a mortalso He could live, teach, sacrifice Himself, and die in order to free us fromdeath and sin. Because of His holy birthand subsequent atonement, death, and resurrection we too will live again afterwe are dead. He descended below allthings that He might lift us up on eagle’s wings to Life Eternal. Because he lived we too can be purged of sinand sorrow. We too can return to be withand be like our Father and Mother in heaven.

I testify that our Redeemer still lives. He will soon return in power and greatglory. He will make bare His holy armand all flesh shall see it together. Ifwe have loved each other and if we have a broken heart and a contrite spirit wewill see Him as He is and will abide the day of his coming.

Every knee shall bow and every tongue confessthat He is the Christ. The kingdoms ofthis world will become the kingdom of our Lord. He will rule and reign is justice, mercy, and peace. I love Him. I trust Him. He has protectedme. He comforts me. Though I’m prone to wander He encircles meabout in the arms of His love and brings me safely over the great gulf ofsorrow again and again. He knows I willfollow Him and give all my life to Him. This Christmas season as we contemplate His divine birth let us come toChrist and be sanctified through His atonement that we too may live. Even in the sacred name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Christmas 2011

haynie.joe@gmail.com (Joe Haynie) — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 05:31:00 +0000

Dear Family and Friends,

Thank you to so many who have continued to send us Christmas cards even though we haven't been organized enough to do it ourselves. Let's see if we have better luck with an email format. We have had an exciting year. Just before 2011 began we welcomed David Lev Olsen (Jon and Diana's), Elise Jane Oka (Shane and Maria's), and Anna Marie Leininger (Jon and Sarah's) to our family. They joined our group of growing grandkids: Brooklyn Marie Oka (born June 2008), Olivia Lynn Leininger (born June 2009), and Michael Reed Haynie, son of Joseph and Megan (born June 2010).

We proceeded to spend the year of 2011 looking for opportunities to bond with all 6 of our grandchildren, no easy task since they are spread from coast to coast. We gathered in California in March for our niece Emily Burch's wedding. In August we had a reunion at our farmhouse in Michigan, and in October we gathered in Utah to celebrate Sarahs 30th Birthday. We feel spoiled that our children were willing to travel so much. Because of that and Skype, all of the new babies seem to know who we are and seem to like us. Hurray! Mission accomplished:)

Other exciting news of the year is that we were able to cash in some frequent flier miles, and take Christy and Rachel to Brazil to get aquainted with the land of their birth. It was wonderful to see the beautiful country and wonderful friends again. Our girls were great travelers, and were very grateful for the opportunity to make their own Brazillian memories since they were so young when we lived there.

Joe is still working for Hewlett Packard and traveling quite a bit. We remain grateful for a good job.
Linda stays busy, as a mother of two teenage daughters, and enjoys volunteering at the MTC. Her pace of service and hard work continues undiminished.
Jon and Sarah live in the Baltimore area where Jon works for Lockheed Martin. Jon finished his Master's degree in November and Sarah did a beautiful job supporting him.
Joseph and Megan live in Provo (in our ward ). Joseph graduated from BYU this year and works for IM flash Technologies. Megan is busy raising their adorable son.
Shane and Maria live in California where they switched houses and jobs this year. Shane's commute went from 5 minutes to about 90 minutes each way. Maria takes good care of the girls while he's gone.
Jon and Diana live in NYC while he attends Columbia Law School, and they have an internship in Dallas followed by an exchange in Germany next year for their final year of law school.
Joy is a Junior at BYU who is very busy with school, friends, a very active social life and many good causes (e.g. regular temple attendance, indexing for the Church Family History Department, visiting older folks etc.).
Christy is a senior who has just applied to BYU for next fall. She is involved in Drama, Dance, Choir, and Figure Skating.
Rachel is a Sophomore who is also busy with Drama, Dance, Choir, and Figure Skating.

We are grateful for all of you our friends and family, and for the beautiful message of the Christmas Season.

The Tell-Tale Tear on a Teeming Train

haynie.joe@gmail.com (Joe Haynie) — Tue, 27 Sep 2011 22:48:00 +0000

I didn’t notice her at first. She was sitting silently behind a press of people on packed subway car and besides, I was being distracted by our gregarious little grandson. I had been in New York City for a few days on business and had spent a delightful evening in Central Park with our daughter Diana, her husband Jon, and their 10-month old son David. For the trip home we boarded the uptown “1” train at 72nd street which, given the evening rush, was a standing-room-only affair. It took several stops for the crowd to thin enough for us to find seats. After a stop or two I noticed her. She was sitting across from us holding an oversized handbag in her lap. She was perhaps in her mid-thirties, dressed as a professional, with dark hair and a swarthy complexion. She had her eyes closed and was leaning her head back against the window. She was shutting out the cacophony around us by listening to an iPod Shuffle MP3 player clipped to her collar through the attached ear buds. Her face was impassive and she was, on the whole, unobtrusive—invisible. What made me notice her at all was a single tear rolling down her cheek which flinched almost imperceptibly. She made no attempt to wipe it away and it hung there along with the glistening track it had made on her face. Behind that tear was a story; perhaps a sad story of unspeakable sorrow but there was no screaming or whining—just a tiny terrible tear. In her quiet anguish she seemed so devastatingly alone despite being surrounded by a jostling milling mob of humanity, all of us rushing about with hardly a thought for the lives loves and losses of our travelling companions. In that moment I felt a deep impulse to cross the aisle and put a comforting arm around her shoulders. That was of course impossible. The strict social codes of our modern western society would have made that inconceivably awkward, rude, and even frightening. Nevertheless it was maddening that even when I finally recognized her need the powerful societal constraints of propriety and politeness prevented me from even approaching. I was afraid she would be afraid of me so I did nothing but watch and pray. After several more stops she got up and shuffled out of the car and was lost in the crowd. I was left hoping she had someone at home with a listening ear and a kind heart. I wondered what Jesus (or even Leo Buscaglia) might have done. The tear resulted from her personal pain, but it was emblematic of all the sorrow surrounding us. Every person on that subway had a story. Each had suffered loss or disappointment. The world is indeed a difficult place to live and ironically what we all need is what we cannot or are too afraid to give—understanding compassion and a helping hand. I suppose the best place to be encircled in the arms of love is in families, but given the prevalence of family dissolution too many people are left to struggle alone. I’m left to ponder what will happen to me if I’m in an hour of need among strangers. What if I’m an hungered, thirsty, a stranger, naked, sick, or in prison. Will someone care enough to take the social and perhaps personal risk to give me meat, give me drink, take me in, clothe me, or visit me? Maybe someone braver and more compassionate than I.

Practicing Providence, Losing Lumps, a Klatsch of Kin, and a Romantic Ride

haynie.joe@gmail.com (Joe Haynie) — Tue, 13 Sep 2011 22:01:00 +0000

It was September 1980 and Linda Bangerter had just made the most fearsome commitment of her young life. She had been dating Joe Haynie for about 7 months when he asked her to marry him. She hadn’t said yes right away, but after 3 weeks (the longest of his life) of consideration, fasting, and prayer, she finally obtained Heaven’s witness that she could condescend to marry the fledgling fellow. She had just leapt into the unknown, taken the terrible risk, and told him yes. As they transitioned from their courtship to the beginning of their betrothal they made a pact to stop spending money on dates and reroute their finite funds to buy second-hand canning jars, fresh fruit (which was more abundant and less expensive in those days) to preserve in them, and staples such as wheat, powdered milk, rice, flour, and beans. During much of that autumn their “dates” became evening canning sessions, after homework was done, where they’d sit together in a steamy kitchen with peach juice dripping off their elbows as they peeled the blanched fruit and slipped the glistening golden hemispheres into bright bottles. As they worked together they talked of deep things; they laughed and planned, they dreamed and hoped, they grew close and got to know each other, and they “laid-up” far more than simply peaches, tomato salsa, and applesauce. They cemented a partnership and a bond that has continued for nearly 31 years. In addition the food they acquired and stored during their engagement became a key to successfully navigating the penury of that first challenging year of their marriage when their pay was irregular, uncertain, and sadly small. They made wheat bread with hand-ground flour from the wheat they bought. They ate cracked wheat cereal for breakfast with reconstituted powdered milk poured over it. They took sandwiches made with homemade bread to school for lunch, and had beans and rice for dinner. They spent a bare minimum at the grocery store and yet lived abundantly though their income put them far below the poverty line of the time. That prosaic pact to be provident began a pattern that has persisted through their marriage. They’ve planted gardens and learned to make their own clothing, cheese, yogurt, all manner of baked goods, and home-made meals. They’ve learned to paint walls, fix plumbing, make electrical repairs, and a dozen other skills required to maintain a household. As children came along they taught them these skills (just as they were taught by their own parents) and now their adult children are carrying on the provident living in their own families.I ruminated on all these things as Linda and I once again inaugurated our annual canning season this week by bottling 13 quarts of peaches. The work itself is a fulfillment of one of God’s early commandments that we eat our bread by the sweat of our brow, but toiling together has the added benefit of a kindling a kind of binding unity, and yes even pleasure, that neither diversion nor hedonism can create. Last week I finally made an appointment with the dermatologist to see lump on my left arm (the one that is seared by sunlight during most of my many miles of driving). She took one look and pronounced it “pre-cancerous” and declared that it needed to be frozen off. Any phrase that contains the word cancer in it is, by definition, emotionally charged so I tremulously inquired whether she’d be having a biopsy done and she said “oh not yet—if it grows back we’ll freeze it off again—if that happens three times we’ll consider a biopsy”. She was cavalier enough that I guess “pre-cancerous” at this point means “non-cancerous”. The freezing process was cool ;-> and consisted of wielding a canister of liquid nitrogen with a trigger and a long nozzle. She used this precise nozzle to direct a tiny blast of liquid nitrogen onto the lump on my arm. It hurt (felt more like burning) as she was spraying it on, but it fell off within a couple of days and hasn’t hurt much since. She also froze the two annoying moles on my back (if you were planning to volunteer you missed your opportunity) but they're taking their sweet time about falling off.Saturday Linda and I went to Salt Lake to attend the Jared Pratt family reunion. Jared Pratt is my great-great-great-grandfather on my mother’s side. There were around a thousand people attending and I knew maybe seven of them (three of which were my wife, my brother Glen, and his wife). The family organization was formed in 1881 after the death of one of Jared’s sons Orson. Miraculously it has stayed in existence, has grown, and has spawned original research on our family history. It is unusual to have a vibrant active group of family members still consciously connected to each other through someone born in 1769. I signed up to participate in transcribing hand-written documents from the early Pratt family. Researchers actively use these transcriptions once they’re complete.Last night Linda and I drove up to Sundance Ski resort (although there’s no snow this time of year) bedecked with warm clothing, blankets, hot cocoa, earphone splitters and an iPhone playlist of mellow music to share. We took a night ride on their ski lift through the chilled mountain air by the light of the moon. Every summer month during the three nights with the fullest moon Sundance Resort (owned by Robert Redford) sponsors their Moonlight Ride up and back down their long ski lift. It’s a quiet romantic getaway just a 20 minute drive from home and we’ve done it three times over the past few years. We stopped for ice cream on the way home. Great date!

Sweet Summer and Some Self-Inflicted Slashes

haynie.joe@gmail.com (Joe Haynie) — Sat, 03 Sep 2011 17:45:00 +0000

Now, after a protracted summer break, I’m resuming my regular reports with a recognition of the responsibility to record my relatively random rendition of reality. So much has happened since I last wrote that I’ll just convey a quick cursory compendium of our contentment to supply you with a small sense of how we have been beautifully blessed despite our persistent propensity to peregrinate from the proscribed path.
The summer was full. In addition to the surfeit of church-sponsored activities (e.g. girl’s camp, youth conference, Especially For Youth, neighborhood picnics etc.) calculated to keep our vulnerable youth from the curse of idleness, our girls kept their lives full and busy. Christy got her driver’s license. They read books, played with friends, worked on craft projects, entertained a visitor from Brazil, and practiced their skating. Later in the summer my lovely wife Linda further bequeathed her wonderful way with work (she has always outworked any of us in the family) to our two youngest by hiring them to fix up our Michigan home which had been savaged by our last renters. She, Christy, and Rachel spend three weeks painting, scraping, scrubbing, weeding, repairing, and cleaning in preparation for a delightful family reunion we held August 18th – 22nd. The girls worked hard for 6 hours per day except Sundays and, along with their mother, accomplished the remarkable healing of our deeply wounded home.
Our reunion was pure heaven. All nineteen members of our family made it. Linda had prepared a bedroom for each of the four married couples and their children, Joy/Christy/Rachel slept in the family room, and Linda and I slept on an inflatable bed in the laundry room. Our Holly Michigan home is where all our children grew up. It was built in 1880 and is on two sprawling acres with towering trees, and a large lush lawn. We enjoyed many trips down memory lane (e.g. picked blueberries and made pies, visited Michael’s grave, had bread and fudge in Frankenmuth, swam in Bush Lake, took a walk on our tree-tunneled dirt road, visited our old wards, hosted a campfire and sing-along with local friends etc.). Our six grandbabies had a blast playing with each other and in the yard. We gave them “under-ducks” on a tire swing and a baby swing we’d hung from our tall pine trees. They played house in the secret garden Christy and Rachel prepared for them inside an overgrown forsythia bush. We all lounged and talked in the hammocks Linda hung in our pine forest. The men in the family played three holes of golf in the rain before the lightning got too intense and then finished a couple of days later with our rain checks. We picnicked on patios, we snarfed sizzling s’mores, we sang, we laughed, and we shared our joys, sorrows, and testimonies with each other. It was memorable and beautiful, and we were grateful everyone made the effort and the sacrifice to come so far. For me this was a summer of business travel (the latest was a 3-day trip to NYC where I stayed with Diana, Jon, and baby David and had a delightful time), family, and a couple of self-inflicted wounds.
The first set of wounds came from foolishly freaking -out a feral feline. We have two domestic mousers of our own who live outdoors, but the food we leave for them attracts a whole “cacophony of cats” (their nighttime yowling makes this collective noun seem more appropriate in our case than the more common “clutter of cats”) from the neighborhood. One in particular, however was a young black female that was wild and needed care and attention we couldn’t give. Linda decided we should catch her and take her to the Humane Society. She trapped it in the garage one morning and the plan was that we would catch it, somehow get it into a travel cage, and take it to the nearest animal shelter. As usual the execution phase was more complex and difficult than the planning phase. She was wily and streetwise, and did her best to avoid us or any direct confrontation. We were persistent however and after cornering her for the umpteenth time I managed to reach down and clutch her back with my left hand as she was streaking by. She instantly lunged forward and sunk her teeth into my calf. I reach down with my right hand to get her by the scruff of the neck but in the blink of an eye she released my calf and latched onto my thumb. I was wearing long pants and gloves but they were no match for her terrible teeth and terrifying tenacity. We clutched each other for a few more seconds but I could see I was outmatched so I let her go. We called animal control and they sent two officers that had better tools and more experience. They took pictures of the 3-inch gashes on my calf and the punctures in my thumb. Then they went into the garage and after barely 30 seconds we heard a frightened yowl from the poor pussy (they had reached into a dark corner with their meter-long grasping tool and snagged her) and in less than a minute they were back carrying her in a wire cage. They told me they’d observe her for the next 10 days and let me know if she developed rabies (they never called back so she either didn’t have rabies or they forgot). I went to the doctor who told me cat bites often develop raging infections and if left untreated can lead to gangrene and amputations. He prescribed a cocktail of powerful antibiotics (including an injection into my soft hind-parts that left me tender for a week) and regular soaking. Even with all that antimicrobial prophylaxis the puncture wounds in my thumb didn’t fully heal for a month. I consider this wound self-inflicted because the cat was just doing what instinct told her was required to survive. I should have known better than to corner and grab a wild animal.
I’m actually rather proud of my second self-inflicted wound. I’ve always wondered if I would be capable of performing surgery on myself, and last week I found out. For years I’ve had an annoying flobbery grape-sized mole on my right hip that dangled by a small strip of skin about ¼ inch thick. It was covered with tiny convoluted wrinkles and folds that made it look like a shrunken brain. I mentioned it to my doctor a recent visit and half-jokingly mentioned that I’ve been tempted to just snip it off. He smiled and proceeded to tell what to do if I wanted to cut it off on my own. I decided it would be another interesting life experience so I went to the hardware store and bought a package of single-edged razor blades. Preparation for the procedure was simple enough. I just sterilized one of the blades with hand-sanitizer, then held a couple of ice cubes to the mole my hip until that place was numb. I’m right-handed so I reached around with my left hand and pulled the mole away from my hip to stretch out the umbilicus-like flap of flesh that linked me to this grotesque little growth. I took the razor in my right hand and reached down to slice it off, but at the last second I got a little squeamish. After a few deep breaths and a little mental pep talk (“don’t think about pain or blood—it’s like jumping off the high-dive—don’t think at all—just do it”) I wielded the blade again and went for it. In my involuntary timidity I only got about halfway through. At that point there was nothing to do but to carefully slice through the rest of the way. After that I only had to keep pressure on it until the bleeding slowed, and then to bandage it well. After a week it’s healing up nicely although I sometimes imagine that I can still feel an itch in the “phantom” protuberance that is no longer there. I faced my fears and conquered them, and like most of what we fear the thing itself turned out to be of far less consequence than my imagination had made of it. It turns out that I have another dangling mole on my back where I can’t reach it myself and will need help. Any volunteers? I can promise you a memorable experience ;-).

Rites of Spring and an Ephemeral Existence

haynie.joe@gmail.com (Joe Haynie) — Thu, 02 Jun 2011 01:57:00 +0000

I’ve missed writing for a while so I need to squeeze the juice out of the last three weeks rather than just one. The first thing to note is that we’re suddenly becoming reconnected to Michigan both personally and professionally. The personal connection is that the long-time renters of our home in Holly are buying their own home and moving out. They’ve done a lot of damage to the home so Linda was already planning an end-of-the-month trip out there to work on the house and see to the repairs. We have decided not to rent it out any more so we can fix it up the way we’d like rather than just the temporary fixes you do when you know someone else will destroy it anyway. In this case we’re preparing for a summer family reunion we’ll be having there in August. The professional connection is that I have a new client in Ann Arbor so I’ll be travelling there quite a bit this summer (I travelled there a twice in the last three weeks and I’ll be travelling there again this coming week which means of my trip will overlap with Linda’s so we’ll be able to work together in the evenings. This is a good time to be going back to Michigan because it’s so green and beautiful in the spring.
Springtime in Provo is a bit of an oxymoron this year. It has been cold, cloudy, and rainy so it hasn’t seemed much like spring. However as the mean-temperature has climbed so have the chores, the average daily steps on my pedometer, and severity of the sunburn on my polished pate (I really need to wear a hat more often during my outdoor chores). The first burn came when I manually mowed the large yard at our Fairview home a few weekends ago. The riding mower we share with our neighbors and stored on their property there was pinned under the rubble of one of their collapsed sheds (Fairview is naturally windy but there was a winter microburst that blew down several of the structures on their property). That meant hand mowing with a small push-mower. By the time I was done there my arms and head were burned and red. The following weekend (two weeks ago) was my annual automatic sprinkler odyssey. We live in a desert so in order to have a green lawn we have sprinkler pipes installed in the ground and an electronic controller that turns them on and off certain times of the week. I shut them off in the fall when the cold weather starts and then in the spring when I turn them on again I discover the seemingly inevitable damage done to the system during the winter. It’s always interesting as I turn on each “station” (region of the yard) to see geysers where heads have been broken off, water bubbling up from the ground where the pipes have been broken, or irregular water patterns where sprinkler heads get damaged or stuck. It requires muddy digging and dirty work on hands and knees to get things repaired. I’ve also had some plumbing work to try to remedy the water damage to the ceiling in the room beneath our upstairs shower. My most interesting project this spring has been installing a small solar-electric system at our home in Provo similar to the one I installed at our Fairview home a few years ago. I went to a cheap hardware store called Harbor Freight and bought a small three-panel 45 watt system for under $200, and a 2000 watt inverter for about $150. I also bought a deep-cell marine battery from Costco for around $70. After that it was simply a matter of attaching the solar panels to the roof, running the cable down to the wall outside my kitchen, drilling a hole through the wall into the cupboard under the sink, and then installing the controller that came with the kit, connecting it to the battery, and connecting that to the inverter. On Saturday I made six loaves of whole wheat bread and ground the wheat with an electric grinder connected to our new solar system. We will now have renewable emergency power in an emergency or if the grid fails.
I flew back to Michigan for work Tuesday and on the leg of the trip from Salt Lake City to Denver I ended up sitting next to one of my favorite people (who just happens to be my cousin) Lee Shumway! It had been so long since we really talked and caught up on each other’s lives and family’s that it was a serendipitous treasure. I didn’t put on my noise cancelling headphones or read any of the book I brought—we just listened and talked as fast as we could so we wouldn’t waste a minute. He’s a great man who married a great woman and consequently have some great children.
This last week I’ve been repeatedly reminded of the fragility of our existence. The news has been full of tragic wars, devastating floods, and deadly tornadic destruction. The ephemeral nature of our lives was brought into stark relief for me personally this week as well. Tuesday evening my uncle Jim was driving home from an errand and was slammed into from behind by someone driving under the influence. The impact broke his neck at the highest cervical vertebra severed his spinal cord and paralyzed him from there down. He was still alive but with severe quadriplegia requiring a ventilator and a feeding tube. On Thursday evening Chris Southwick, our dear Bishop from Michigan, who had moved with his family to St. George Utah in 2007 had a massive heart attack and was unable to be revived. He is only a few months older than me, and our children are of similar ages. They are treasured friends. Then Sunday in church one of the older women in the congregation just suddenly collapsed. A doctor sitting nearby worked on her while her forlorn-looking husband watched helplessly. She’s been taken to the hospital and we’re awaiting news on her condition. Most of the time I rattle on with life in the blithe pretense that I am somehow immortal, and that I’ll continue unscathed. However our mortal journey is filled with surprise detours on the way to our inevitable destination. How then shall we face such uncertainty?
I stopped by the University of Utah hospital as soon as I landed on Friday to visit uncle Jim and aunt Mona and see their family. Uncle Jim had just come out of surgeries to insert the ventilator tube through a hole in his trachea and a feeding tube through a hole in his abdomen. He was all hooked up to machines and in an unimaginably difficult situation but when he saw me he smiled. I compared notes with him on how aggravating having a dry mouth is (my greatest misery when I broke my neck was how dry my mouth was because they wouldn’t let me have water) and when I asked if he was having a similar experience he emphatically blinked his eyes, mouthed “yes”, and nodded his head slightly. He was coherent and showing remarkable resilience. Aunt Mona had gotten very little sleep and was under tremendous stress but she was so graceful and good humored. She woke up when I arrived she seemed genuinely glad to see me and she ushered me back to Uncle Jim’s room, woke him gently so we could chat and then welcomed me to listen in as she spoke to the attending physician. I was almost certainly an interruption in a moment of trauma but they willingly welcomed me into their lives, and shared their hearts. They are both such remarkable people…I want to grow up to be like them. I want to bear my trials with such humility, gratitude, and submissiveness to Father sends my way. Over 14 years ago I broke my neck while living in Brazil (I fell backward off a bridge and landed on my head at the bottom of a ravine). I had a compression fracture that left me in pain and with a long recovery but I could still walk and move (the doctor did tell me that the fracture was just a couple of millimeters from severing the spinal chord and that I would have died or been quadriplegic). Talking to uncle Jim was a clear reminder that every day I can walk and move is a gift. And yet despite severe disability his glowing gaze and silent smile betoken an inner peace that might seem completely irrational given his circumstances, but it’s because his life is founded on faith and his outlook is grounded in grace. All of his children travelled in to be with him. It looked for a while like he was stabilizing would live on for some time (they were making arrangements for a care center closer to home). He had sufficient time to arrange his personal affairs and to express his love to his family, but then Sunday afternoon he slipped back through the veil into the Spirit World. Another of the great examples in my life has been called home. More and more my generation is being left to carry the legacy of the great ones who have preceded us. I pray we will faithfully pass the torch to the rising generations.

Still An Angel

haynie.joe@gmail.com (Joe Haynie) — Mon, 09 May 2011 04:19:00 +0000

It was the late 1950s. More than a decade after the end of the Second World War western economies were booming and so was the global birth rate. There was exponential growth in technology. The Soviet Union had become a looming nuclear threat and began the space race with their launch of Sputnik I, the first artificial satellite to orbit the earth. A young unknown singer, named Elvis Presley, hit the pop music charts with “heartbreak hotel”. Detroit’s automobile factories were churning out ever larger and more garish fleets that were fun, flashy, and flamboyantly finned. One in three high-school graduates was heading off to college.

Among those were Carl and Gerda Haynie. They had met and married while he was in the military. They began their family right away with the birth of a son followed by a daughter just fifteen months later. Twelve short months after that they had twins. He had left the military to go back to college but with four children in diapers they were finding it hard to make ends meet. Carl was forced to quit school and go to work. He found a job working with his brother Evan for a copper mine that was going into operation in southern Peru. Carl flew down first to get established and Gerda followed later with the four children. The mine site is in the desolate mountains northeast of the city of Tacna. The mining company built a town named Toquepala near the site for the miners and their families. Nothing grows in those mountains. I’m absolutely serious…NOTHING grows. In deserts from Arizona to Death Valley you find plants and animals suited to the harsh environments, but here there is just rock and dirt as far as the eye can see without ANY living thing—it’s like being on the moon. It was into this desolation that my mother rode all those years ago. She had left all that was familiar and flew with faith to a far-flung field to try to make a better life with her husband and growing family.

Two years ago, soon after our mother died my dad, my siblings, and our spouses made the trip along the road up into Toquepala. As we drove up that dry brown dusty road I suddenly had the feeling that my mother had joined us on our pilgrimage back to our beginnings. It made me consider that over 50 years ago she made that same journey with four tiny children. She must have been wondering "what have I gotten myself into?", but she bloomed where she was planted and made a wonderful home. I’ve also thought many times about the next choice she made—to have a baby! The hospital the mining company was building was not yet complete—all they had was a small chicken-coop-shaped clinic. She already had her hands full with more children than the 3.67 average of the time. She could have stopped right then and settled in to raise the ones she had, but instead she chose me. I was a big baby (9 lbs. 10 oz.) and the labor was harder than any she ever experienced, but she and I somehow survived and she brought me home on Christmas Day 1958. She never held it against me, that I hurt her so badly. Instead she filled my childhood with fun and music and joy. I always felt secure in her love—even when she discovered me being bad.

My mother was articulate, intelligent, and a remarkable leader (she served multiple times as President of the Relief Society, and she finished her career as head of the Utah County Public Health Department). She was wise and firm. She was kind and compassionate. She had many talents and interests. She could have been anything she wanted, but what she wanted most, what she felt was more important than any of those other possibilities was me! She gave up the rest of her options for me and, one must presume ;->, the rest of my siblings. She gave us all the best of herself. She gave her money, herself, and her time and all who knew her were enriched. I continue to meet people who, when they find out who my mother was, tell me stories of her kindness to them and of their admiration for her. In her final years with the descent into ever more debilitating dementia she lost her memories and ultimately much of her motor skills and bodily functions, but she never lost her warm kindness, her winning smile, or her love of music. There were many times toward the end that she didn’t recognize me but when I played my guitar and/or sang she could sing along at the beginning of the disease, later she’d tap her leg to the rhythm, and even at the very end she’d get calm and listen peacefully. Many of our children never really knew her when she was lucid. I look forward to that great reunion where they’ll see her as she is…glorious and remarkable. Like Abraham Lincoln I had an angel mother and her legacy continues in the lives of her posterity.

Thank you mom! I love you.

Wild Weekends Babies Birthdays and Fun Families

haynie.joe@gmail.com (Joe Haynie) — Mon, 02 May 2011 03:08:00 +0000

I missed writing last Sunday. Our first weekend home from Brazil was perhaps the busiest I can recall. First Joy moved home from college Friday morning (she’s living at home to save money so she can spend the coming winter semester at the Jerusalem Center). Next was Rachel’s friend birthday party Friday night. Our baby turned 15 and had a few close friends for a sleepover. Then there was the annual Bangerter cousin’s party held the Saturday night before Easter and we spend most of the day preparing for that. Two of my sister Lucy’s children, who live in our area, had babies recently (one while we were gone to Brazil) so she had come to town before we left for Brazil and started a major remodeling project on mom and dad Bangerter’s which home they bought (both my wife Linda and my sister’s husband Hugh grew up in that home). She was preparing because she had volunteered to hold the cousin’s party at the old family home. There are over 70 cousins on the Bangerter side and 48 cousins and spouses showed up. These reunions are always great fun because even though most of us are grandparents and have serious church responsibilities (e.g. among them are Julie Beck—General Relief Society President, a member of the Quorum of the Seventy, several Mission Presidents, Stake Presidents, Bishops, Relief Society Presidents etc.) when we get together there is laughter and merriment that would rival any tumultuous troupe of teenage tarts. Jokes were told, games were played, reminiscences shared. Sunday was Easter and, because I was recently called to be the Ward Choir Director, I conducted three numbers for our church Easter program. Our choir did an amazing job and the Spirit was strong as we all contemplated and celebrated the redemptive atonement of our Lord. During the meeting one of Lucy’s grandchildren (Declan Williams) was blessed surrounded by an enormous circle of related priesthood holders. After the meeting we went to another ward’s Sacrament Meeting for the blessing of Lucy’s other grandchild (Anna Marie Bangerter). After the meetings we had a family dinner to celebrate Rachel’s birthday as well as Megan’s (Joseph’s wife) whose birthday had been Friday. We dyed Easter eggs, hid them, and helped baby Michael search for them. The whole weekend was a fete of family, feasting, faith, and fun.

Monday morning I got up at 3:30 a.m. to catch an early flight to Chicago for three days of negotiations with Walgreens. They went well but I was delighted to get home Wednesday evening. This weekend began with SNOW (on April 30th) which looked incongruous on the spring daffodils and tulips, but which melted off as the day progressed. It included several dance concerts in which the girls performed, a funeral for a Bangerter family friend (Dr. Wayne Mineer), and a beautiful Sunday with a choir practice in our home, a family dinner, a family home evening, and a Haynie family phone call (once per month my dad and my siblings and spouses get together on a conference call and update each other on our lives. Work and home life are both busy and beneficial…we wouldn’t have it any other way.

Spring Break in Spectacular Brazil

haynie.joe@gmail.com (Joe Haynie) — Fri, 22 Apr 2011 18:36:00 +0000

This has been a remarkable week. On Monday April 11th Linda, Christy, Rachel, and I got on a plane and flew to Brazil for a special family vacation during their Spring Break from school. We flew all night and arrived in Sao Paulo early Tuesday morning. I rented a car and we drove downtown to meet my former secretary Dalva (the best secretary I’ve ever worked with-she is the one who arranged the rescue helicopter when I fell and broke my neck in Brazil). This was the first of my driving adventures with questionable GPS directions leading me down impossible paths. Brazilian cities are one big network of one-way streets but half the time the GPS doesn’t know their direction so following its directions is always a bit of a goose chase. Dalva was gracious enough to meet us for lunch in the basement of the famous M.A.S.P. (Sao Paulo Museum of Art). It was delightful to catch up with her. We visited for a couple of hours, had lunch, took some pictures and then went our separate ways having renewed a great friendship. We stopped and shopped at a street market, returned to the airport, boarded another flight and flew to Foz d’Iguacu.

Foz d’Iguacu is the city on the Brazilian side of the remarkable Igauzu Falls. We checked into a hotel there and had a good night’s sleep. The next day we hired a taxi to take us to the Argentine side of the falls. We did that side of the falls in about 4 hours, though it normally takes 5-6 hours to see (the falls are vast as are the trails and despite a small train in the national park that moves you between major points of interest you have to plan well and move fast to do it in any less). We got started late enough that we decided to hurry as fast as we could so we’d still have time to visit the Brazilian side of the falls. It was cloudy and threatened rain the first half of the day but that turned out to be perfect weather for all the hurried hiking we did. At the end of the time the taxi picked us up and drove us to the Brazilian side. As we pulled into the park and came in view of the falls the hazy gray clouds lifted and the evening sun burst through to illuminate the already breathtaking falls with a kind of unearthly glow. On both sides of the falls we basked in the beauty of God’s grand creations (flora, fauna, topography, and climate combined to create a breathtaking experience), and stood in awe at the thundering power of the river as hundreds of millions of gallons of water per second burst over rugged cliffs and fell hundreds of feet in a crushing cascade that exploded at the bottom into mountains of mist that drenched the cliff walls and every intrepid visitor who dared to venture near. The wild jungle surrounding the falls was dense and tropical and filled with fantastic flowers, striking scents, and grandiose greenery. During our explorations we saw beautiful butterflies, countless curious coatamundi (pesky raccoon-like creatures with long snouts, ringed tails, and insatiable appetites), two toucans, a darting deer, a wild boar, and rodents the size of small dogs. That night we ate at a churrascaria (a type of Brazilian restaurant where they bring limitless different cuts of fire-roasted meats to your table), the girls went for a starlit swim in the roof-top pool, and then we collapsed again into another catatonic sleep.

The next day we hired another taxi to take us over the border into Ciudad del’Este Paraguay. It is mostly a massive open-air market where you can buy anything from tropical fruits to clothing to native crafts to high-end electronics. Ostensibly the prices are much lower than elsewhere because of minimal taxation or regulation (which—though I’m loathe to admit it given my belief that the freer the market the greater the good to society—perhaps correlated with the chaos, filth, and seeming lawlessness of the streets). The girls bought some nice leather sandals at a reasonable price and my tender-hearted wife helped out a couple of pushy peddlers pandering some socks and a battery-powered massage/hairbrush. We spent less than an hour and then jumped in our taxi and went back across the border bridge where no one on either side bothered to check our passports (which surprised me given the bureaucratic hoops and hundreds of dollars we spent getting Brazilian tourist visas). After a couple of quick stops on the Brazilian side we went to the airport, caught a delayed flight to Rio de Janeiro, rented a car with a GPS, and then drove 4 hours over truck-crowded highways and dark winding mountain roads. The GPS was worse than useless in this instance because it took us the long-way, tried to lead us down non-existent roads in the hilly hinterlands, and when it finally told us we had arrived at our destination (a small hotel in the historic ocean-side town of Parati) no one there had ever heard of the hotel. If we hadn’t been able to speak the language that midnight arrival in a strange place could have been a mess, but we found the phone number on our itinerary and some kind people called our hotel and gave us correct directions. We finally got to bed after midnight.

Parati is an historic town at the end of the legendary Portuguese “golden road”. Rio de Janeiro (about a 3-hour drive to the north) was inaccessible except by boat at the time. A road was built over the mountains from Parati to the gold-rich state of Minas-Gerais. The mines were worked by slaves and the gold travelled in heavily guarded caravans down the golden-road to the port in Parati where it was shipped to Portugal. In those early days the port was the frequent target of pirates trying to steal the gold, and the port was heavily fortified. Now it’s a quaint tourist town with cobble-stone streets and ancient tile-roofed buildings. After another much-needed sleep we had another nice Brazilian breakfast (which is included in all the hotel prices) of fresh-squeezed tropical fruit juices, bread, cheese, sliced meats, fruit, and cake. We asked the hotel clerk about a boat trip to sea to see the nearby islands, as well as about how to get to a waterfall/pool in the nearby mountains. She suggested that if we wanted the flexibility to do both we should go to the waterfall first and then hire a private speed-boat (rather than booking passage on of the lumbering schooners disguised as pirate ships that ferry crowds of tourists to small beaches on remote islands that, by definition, become crowded). We took her advice and drove up into the mountain in search of the charming waterfall/swimming hole we’d heard about. After a couple of lucky turns we found the place, paid our very reasonable entrance fee, and climbed up a jungle trail. There was hardly anyone there in the morning (they were all out on the schooners) so we had it mostly to ourselves during our swim and exploration. It was an idyllic place with all the charm you would imagine from a remote jungle waterfall tumbling through the greenery into a series of deep clear pools surrounded by ragged rocks. We climbed, swam, dove off rocks, splashed, and explored shady eddies under high cliffs festooned with vines and tropical foliage. It exceeded our high expectations. After a while the place got busier with other tourists and we made our way down to the ocean town to meet Leo the skipper of our hired speed-boat. He met us with his boat near a bridge on the river and we all aboard. Not only did we have the flexibility to go where we wanted but we were able to get there in about a fourth of the time of the schooners.

Parati is surrounded by little tropical islands and spurs of land many of which have quiet isolated beaches with gentle surf, others of which are surrounded by reefs teeming with sea life. Our first stop was the reef off a small island that has the clearest water in the area. As we approached it a flying fish burst from the surface of the sea and glided through the air for nearly 50 yards on silver “wings”. It startled us at first but then we watched with wonder. Leo told us that although he’d spent all his life on the water this was only the third time he’d ever seen a flying fish. We then dropped anchor and he showed us how to draw in fish by holding a piece or two of bread in the water. Schools of striped fish swirled around our fingers snatching at the bread and occasionally nibbling our fingers. We then used his snorkeling equipment to dive into the water and swim around the reef looking at coral and schools of tropical fish. He then took us to beautiful beach named “Lula” and dropped anchor. We had it pretty much to ourselves and we basked in the sun, swam, ate some lunch, took pictures, and watched a very awkward vulture hop around in the sand near a little fresh-water streamlet that flowed into the sea. The last beach he took us to was at the end of a deep narrow inlet. I looked off to the side of the boat and saw a sea turtle swimming by. We all put on masks and jumped in to see if we could find him again. Linda saw him and called us but by the time we got over he was gone. We kept searching but eventually swam to shore and played on the beach until the sun had nearly set. Leo then drove us back to town. We went to our hotel, showered, then walked the quaint streets of the historic town. We ate at a restaurant at a table set out on the cobble stones in the street near an historic church. The food was good and we enjoyed their live music. We spent the rest of the evening shopping at quaint little stands or stores. Our sleep was swift and sound.

The next morning brought a quick breakfast and a long drive along a meandering but marvelous highway up the coast to Rio de Janeiro. We didn’t really use the GPS to get to Rio but we tried to use it once we got to the city to get to the Christ the Redeemer statue that stands with arms outstretched watching over the whole city.. Unfortunately once again the GPS got us lost. We pulled over and asked a few people and they basically said we were nowhere near it. I began driving toward the mountain where I’d seen it from afar and after going through two long tunnels, turning around and driving back through one of them I was able to find the narrow steep cobblestone road that winds its way up the dizzying heights and sheer precipices of the “Corcovado”. When we got there we had to park way down the road and we only had enough cash (they didn’t take credit cards) to get three of us in so I sent the girls on ahead. They came back after only about 45 minutes to report that the top was so crowded they could hardly turn around or get pictures but they were able to get a sense of the statue’s stunning size. On the way down we stopped at a lookout point that actually gave us a less crowded less-hazy bird’s-eye view of the amazing city built on a strips of beach among impossibly steep mountains (the topsy-turvy topography is tough to take in from any one single vantage point but this lookout place was pretty amazing. We had a few hours before our flight so we drove randomly downtown, found a parking place near a street market, found a cash machine and the girls all had fun getting clothes. We drove past Sugarloaf mountain and Copacabana and Ipanema beaches just to let the kids see the famous spots close up, then we headed back toward the airport. Our flight to Sao Paulo was at 8:00 p.m. and we headed that way about 4:30 p.m. (we did take a quick stop at a Pizzeria for dinner) but everything went wrong. The GPS led us astray again. It was getting dark and we were getting a bit concerned with simply finding the airport in the maze of streets in Rio. I was driving along a highway and had a last minute impression to take an exit to the right. It turned out to be inspired because we found ourselves on the way to the airport. Once we got there we had no idea how to return the rental car. We drove up to the departures curve and pulled over to ask someone when an AVIS employee in a passing car recognized our vehicle and told us to just back in to a spot 5 feet in front of us. Inside the airport we couldn’t find our flight on any of the departing flight screens so we didn’t know which terminal we needed to be in. On a hunch we walked the long way from terminal one (where AVIS is) to terminal two and discovered that it was actually listed as an international flight to London (the stopover in Sao Paulo wasn’t noted) so we ended up going through the considerably greater scrutiny Brazil has for international versus domestic flights. When we finally landed in Sao Paulo our dear friend Steve Sorensen, who was providing us a ride from the airport, had trouble finding us because he was waiting at the domestic terminal. Thankfully my phone had been enabled for international calling and I was able to reach him by mobile phone. The drive to his home where we planned to spend the weekend was also grueling because the main highway heading that way went from 4 lanes to 1 and then was sent onto a side road. By the time we got home it was near midnight.

Steve Sorensen and his wife Roseli were some of our dear friends when we lived in Brazil. He was the Branch President of our small English-speaking International Branch of the LDS Church. They were so welcoming and kind. I ended up being his home teacher during a difficult time for them (their baby Tracie died unexpectedly after just a few days—our experience losing a baby helped draw us closer together). Since we left Brazil they have had two additional daughters (one named Kaylie who’s nearly 14 and the other Kassie who’s 7). They hosted us for the last two nights and days of our stay and they were most gracious. First of all they gave Linda and I the master bedroom and they slept on the couch. They fed us like kings. They cancelled their work and school to spend time with us. They drove us all over town. They were excited to see us and so sad when we left. We truly felt loved and that’s a remarkable feeling! We went to church with the Sorensens (their ward meets at the chapel right next to the Sao Paulo temple) and had a wonderful time. I translated for the girls during Sacrament meeting talks and they went with their own age groups to Sunday School and Young Women’s. I was a little concerned that they were not going to like it since they don’t speak Portuguese and they were strangers there, but they came out of their classes beaming, exchanging email addresses with the Brazilian kids, and raving about how nice everyone there was. Monday morning we visited Portal do Morumbi which is the amazing apartment complex where we lived in Sao Paulo. I took a number of pictures there until I was approached by a guard and informed that their new security rules (since 9-11 apparently) don’t allow photography. That’s really a shame because the grounds are absolutely amazing (like living in a tropical forest)! Afterward the Sorensens took us to a Churrascaria (Brazilian barbeque) and then to visit Embu das Artes, a small town famous for its art and little shops. Their street market we always took our kids to is only held on the weekends so we didn’t make it there but we did go into some of the permanent shops. After that we stopped at a grocery store to buy Tang (they have wonderful flavors there such as passion fruit, pineapple/coconut, guava etc.) and chocolate. Steve drove us to the airport, we flew all night, and we got home tired but happy.

Bottom line: we still love Brazil with its beautiful sights, delicious food, and friendly people. We travel together to make memories and build relationships. By that measure this was a very successful trip.

Slight Senility, Return to Roots, and Wonderful Wallpaper

haynie.joe@gmail.com (Joe Haynie) — Mon, 11 Apr 2011 03:05:00 +0000

I just sat down to begin this letter and tried to think back over the past week…but I came up blank. I know I did something this week because I was crazy busy at work, and I was apparently equally engaged at home because I know we didn’t watch TV or lay around and I didn’t really get to sleep on time. However someone seems to have erased the log-file because I don’t seem to be able to retrieve anything. How could I do that much living and not be able to remember any of it. It makes me wonder if I actually had an uneventful week (seems unlikely given my historically chaotic existence) or if my seeming somnolence is simply a slide down the slippery slope of senescence. If it’s the latter it’s at least nice to know that the troubles incident to growing old will be mitigated by my mushy memory. Albert Schweitzer said “Happiness is nothing more than good health and a bad memory”. Perhaps the Lord’s mercy allows us to look forward with hope rather than remember past pain. Linda told me that the excruciating experience of giving birth (she bore 8 children without ever getting an epidural) quickly faded from her memory and she was just left with the joy of its miraculous outcome.

So rather than looking backward I’ll look forward. Tomorrow is the beginning of the girls’ Spring Break from school so Linda, Christy, Rachel, and I are using my frequent flier miles from all my travels last year to go to Brazil where the girls were born but which they don’t remember. We fly tomorrow afternoon and arrive in Sao Paulo early the next morning and then that evening fly to Iguaçu Falls. We’ll also visit Rio, Parati, and then go back to Sao Paulo so the girls can get to know the places we lived and enjoyed when we lived there. I had a similar situation (born in Peru but moved away as a child with no memories) and all we siblings, our spouses, and dad took a trip back to there two years ago (see http://returntoperu.blogspot.com/). It was a remarkable experience to experience the land of my birth firsthand. Knowing I was born in Peru was simply an interesting conversation piece until then. Our trip suddenly shifted Peru from the realm of imagination to a tangible experiential place of origin. In some way I find hard to describe it wasn’t until after my return to Peru that I finally become rooted and anchored. I have felt Peruvian since that experience. I wanted that for our girls.

I changed the wallpaper on my computer to a photo that was taken while we were all in California a few weeks ago. It’s a picture of Linda and I sitting with our 6 grandbabies (you can see it on Linda’s Facebook page as her profile picture). Whenever work gets hard or my daily stress distorts my perspective I just shrink all my programs so I can see the photo. It elicits a smile or a chuckle every time and what really counts comes back into sharp focus. The pain of the past will fade—for some of us more quickly than for others—but the present and the future are full of promise…just look into the eyes of the children.

A Captivating Conference and the Truth About Tempers

haynie.joe@gmail.com (Joe Haynie) — Tue, 05 Apr 2011 19:25:00 +0000

This was an auspicious weekend and I’ve very much enjoyed family time and the LDS Church’s General Conference weekend. For the uninitiated beginning in April of 1830 the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints has held a General Conference twice per year (in April and October). In the early days members of the church would travel from wherever they lived to listen to their leaders’ meaningful messages and marvelous music. The President of the church as well as the Apostles and other General Leaders of the church teach the mind and will of God for our day (we believe in modern-day prophets and current revelation from heaven just like in ancient times) so as you can imagine these conferences are meaningful to we members. And so just as in 1830 we look forward to gathering together. In our time, given the advances of technology, most of us gather with our own families in our own homes and watch the conference over satellite or Internet transmission. It’s an experience we share with over 14,000,000 members of the church all over the world. In the current configuration we get to enjoy five two-hour sessions over two days the first weekend in April and October every year. Spending 10 hours over a weekend listening to religious messages may seem strange it’s actually sweet and sublime. I always walk away wanting to be a better husband, father, brother, son, and employee.

I have a public confession to make. I got angry this week. I yelled at one of my customers. Because of certain delays by my client they got themselves into a precarious financial situation involving getting services they needed from a new supplier who had not completed a sublease on time to a building that my company leases and that meant their supplier couldn’t get access and begin providing services to my client. I had foreseen the risk, warned them of it, and spent weeks and a lot of political capital with my leadership and our legal department trying to work around the client’s delay and get permission for the new supplier to get access to our building before the sublease was finalized. Last Monday I laid out my plans with the client and their supplier for resolving the situation and pleaded with them not to allow the new supplier to go into our warehouse building until I finalized official permission. I had almost gotten all the internal permissions lined up when I found out very publicly (in front of my boss and our legal and real estate department) that my client had let their supplier into the building—they got desperate enough that they bent the rules. The consequence was that my role as their advocate was compromised and it appeared their shutdown would persist. I contacted the client and asked why he had ignored our agreement and undermined my efforts on his company’s behalf since it was now going to cause more delays in the ultimate resolution. He got defensive and yelled at me so I raised my voice a bit and yelled back. He called me back a few minutes later after he’d cooled off and apologized for having violated his commitment to me. By the end of the week I was able to get the final approval for their supplier to come into the building early so the situation was ultimately resolved. I don’t get angry very often so whenever I do I try spend some time examining the root cause to see what I can learn from the experience. In this case I felt relatively peaceful through it all. I didn’t feel that toxic surge in my body chemistry that I have sometimes felt in the past (e.g. I wrote a few years ago about an experience I had where I drove around a mall parking lot for about 20 minutes looking for a parking space, finally found someone walking to their car, waited patiently, only to have some teenagers in a hot-rod who clearly saw me waiting pull into the empty space ahead of me and grin at me as they strutted to the mall—I was angry enough that time that I laid hard on the horn and briefly considered running them over!) so I wondered what was different. The inner calm I felt during and after the latest encounter left me with a few questions:
• Is anger always bad, as I’ve believed for many years, because it’s a surrender to a dangerous selfish undisciplined part of ourselves?
• Was my inner quiet during and after this week’s incident compared to the seething loss of control during the situation in the parking lot simply a matter of degree or were the two experiences with anger substantially different in some way?
• If acceptable anger is possible on what principles is it based?
Linda and I went on a date Friday night and discussed the experience I’d had over dinner. While I’m still not sure I have perfect clarity about the principles underlying good and bad anger here are some of the insights I gained as we talked about it:
• Anger is a secondary emotion that usually results from a less obvious primary emotion such as embarrassment, fear, a sense of injustice, exhaustion etc. and understanding the primary emotion that triggered it is key to learning what caused it and more importantly how to control it
• Anger itself is simply a force like fire and it can be either productive or destructive (though the latter seems to be the norm)
• Productive anger is rarer because it requires that our motivations and our desired outcomes be altruistic, and that the heat of the flame be proportional to the job that needs to be done
An example of a source of productive anger is the powerful protective instinct mothers have relative to their children. Mostly mild-mannered moms can become big bad bears if they perceive peril to their progeny. In that case the motivation is correct (altruistic) and the desired end is worthy (the safety of her children). The only remaining question is whether her anger is proportional (is her reaction right relative to the real risk?). In the mall parking lot my primary emotion was a deep sense of injustice when the teenagers deliberately violated societal norms and selfishly took “my” parking spot. I let that primary emotion turn into an uncontrolled kind of anger and my diabolical desire to run them over with my car was the result of solely selfish stimuli and dreadfully disproportionate desired outcomes. By contrast the frustration I felt with my client was rooted in his having undermined my desire to help him. I have to admit that there may have been an initial tinge of human pride in my anger (like the parent who longs to cry out to their children “how can you not appreciate that I’ve sacrificed my whole life for you?”) but through careful self-examination I came to see that my prideful pang was only a passing predicament. I really did have his best interests at heart and I wanted to stop him from hurting his own cause. Now that I better understand anger I hope in the future to channel it and keep from burning or being burned by it.

Run River Run

haynie.joe@gmail.com (Joe Haynie) — Wed, 30 Mar 2011 03:08:00 +0000

Another wonderful week washed by us but we barely had time to dip our proverbial toes into its vast currents—so much of life to live and so little time to live it! We float along in our diminutive dingys sometimes blasting exhilaratingly into the roiling rapids, other times slipping into quiet swirling eddies, but never really seeing or comprehending even a fraction of what rushes by us on the shore, under the surface, or in the sky overhead.

My job lately has been a ripping run down the chancy churning channel of this river of life. Every day at work brings breathtaking new challenges with tens of millions of dollars in opportunity or risk, with the future viability of some of my clients in the balance, and with human drama and emotions that would make for a good soap opera. There are crabby clients, belligerent bosses, and embittered employees as well as compassionate customers, superb superiors, and committed coworkers. As I lay down to sleep at the end of a maniacal day I often wonder how my work could get any more intense, and then the next day surpasses the previous and I’m surprised again. By any definition my job is high stress, but for me it’s normally an exhilarating challenge, not that dangerous kind of anxiety that leads to a stroke or coronary infarction. I have found, over the nearly 26 years in this job, that the perpetual parade of preposterous problems requiring resolution is not the downside of the job—it is the reason I have a job. If my work were pleasant, predictable, and stress-free anyone could do it and it wouldn’t pay much. I’ve also learned that any job can be done with compassion and good-humor if I keep things in perspective so that is my goal—seeing the big picture. The tenacious torrent of typical troubles conspire to create the illusion of importance when, with the benefit of hindsight, it is nothing more than the frothy spume that gathers in the backwater.

The other ripple in the river of my consciousness this week was the start of spring. It’s hard to justify the irrational exuberance occasioned by the first flash of floral finery in a passing garden (in my case it involved two abrupt U-turns in order to get a better look). The wan warmth of the thin rays of spring sunshine after such a string of invernal monochrome months elicit, nonetheless, a specious sense of cosmic opulence unwarranted by the trifling trickle of photons. Whether its allure is illusory or whether it’s simply a question of contrast (the sweet side of the rule that there must needs be opposition in all things) springtime is achingly beautiful. There were several days this week when the winter soot and smoke that often veil and darken the valleys of the Wasatch front were washed away by a gentle rain only to have the clouds lift and the air fill with a glorious clarity and light. On those evenings Linda and I made our pilgrimage to Utah Lake to watch the sunset together. Through the limpid air the sharp features of the snow covered mountains around us stood out in the evening sun. The lapping of waves against the rocky shore of the lake and busy waterfowl completed the enchantment. The spring sunshine is like liquid light that washes away the residue of the workday.

I’ve been a bit of a gypsy so I don’t set my emotional roots too deeply into any place, but this place with its seasons and sunsets, with its meadows and mountains, and with its peaceful people is coming close to feeling like home.

Story Time

haynie.joe@gmail.com (Joe Haynie) — Sun, 20 Mar 2011 18:35:00 +0000

Boys and girls—it’s time for a love story.

There was once a lonely boy who met a pretty girl. She was out of his league…both breathtakingly beautiful and grounded in goodness…but his hubris held and he intrepidly invited her to join him for his first post-mission movie. He had persistence, wore down her resistance, and first friendship—then finally love—flamed into existence. With the help of Heaven they contemplated converting their courtship to a conjugal commitment. He was, of course, ready first. She took longer but finally found faith to “take the terrible chance” on him. College was far from complete; fortune was not yet found, but the two of them happily and hopefully (some said naively) fused their futures with a trusting troth. The first years were meager but memorable, both worked ignominious jobs and studied hard and she bore a bevy of beautiful babies. Over the years he found he had been wrong about her—she was way out of his league—more beautiful than he had known, wiser than he could have understood, and a godly anchor to their home. Her simple faith in his better nature became self-fulfilling as he fought to become what she already believed him to be. His work took their young family many places far from their roots but instead of pining for the familiar they embraced the unknown. The children became each other’s best friends and their sense of “home” was wherever they were together. The marriage was crowned with eight cherubic children, though the sixth didn’t linger long. Together the parents and children suffered sorrows (which brought them together in ways the happy times never could), had adventures, saw much of the world, developed their gifts, found ways to serve, expanded their education, were blessed with more opportunities and this world’s temporal goods than they deserved, and, through it all remained close to each other and faithful to God. Most of their million mutual moments were mundane but many meant much more. Their children have mostly grown up, struck off and started their own stories. Several are married and raising children of their own, and all have reached the age where the trajectory of their choices are fairly self-evident. The simple love the boy and the girl had for each other and for the Lord were small seeds indeed at the beginning but they have blossomed into a bounty of blessings neither could have foreseen. Their cultivation isn’t complete but they have begun the joyful harvest season of their marriage. Certain moments, some serendipitous and others planned, have offered the opportunity to reflect on the remarkable fruits of their loving but less-than-sufficient labors. These moments have sometimes come during father’s blessings, other times during heart-to-heart sharing with cherished children, and more and more while shamelessly goochy-gooing their gorgeous grandchildren. Each one of the six little chunky cherubs in the rising generation is unique and unbearably beautiful. This love story is far from over. In many ways it has just begun and the two of them gaze into a future consisting of an endlessly expanding circle of joy. In other ways it is simply another chapter in a much longer epic involving a legacy of love spanning generations before the boy and girl in question were even born.

We are all links in a mighty chain stretching backward and forward further than our imaginations can take us. The question is will our link keep the chain unbroken?

Internet Enabled Immobility and More Cheese Please

haynie.joe@gmail.com (Joe Haynie) — Mon, 07 Mar 2011 06:01:00 +0000

This was a good week
The weather was better—and
I didn’t travel

That would be my update if reduced to a Haiku; but given my vain (in both the arrogant and fruitless senses of the word) veneration of verbosity, if you’ll indulge me I’ll elaborate a bit…

At HP, where I’m employed, everyone by default is considered a “mobile worker” which means that you don’t have a permanent cube or office (there are a few exceptions for people whose job requires them to be at a company site or people who work at a customer site) and you have the tools to work from anywhere with a phone and internet connection. Since many days are packed with back-to-back conference calls that I do over the phone with colleagues or clients scattered all over the country and world I frequently choose to work from home rather than drive to the office I have at a client site nearly an hour away in Salt Lake. That allows me to be more productive while simultaneously being more present with those I love the most. It’s an elegant solution that saves the company billions of dollars in real estate expense while actually making its employees more satisfied. Consequently several times this week I did my daily duties from our dear domestic dwelling. I actually proposed this very concept 10 years ago. It was right after 9/11 and I had just broken my knee (by falling off a ladder while desperately attempting to jettison a buzzing chain-saw—but that’s a story for another day) so I was laid up at home for several weeks. I discovered then that I was much more productive than I had been when I was contending with a crowded quotidian commute. I thought about how a logistical construct (putting people together in a common place to do their work) that made perfect sense in an industrial era had become inherently irrelevant to information workers in the age of the Internet. In the case of the information worker in the twin towers the perpetuation of an irrelevant logistical model was catastrophic. They were vulnerable to attack because they were all working in the same place at the same time. I wrote a letter to our CEO at the time proposing that we shift our strategy to something I called “disaggregation” which meant dispersing our assets (computers and people) in order to reduce risk while saving money, increasing productivity, and improving employee morale. I got a polite response that indicated they were looking at such options but that the technology was not yet sufficiently mature to make it practical on a large scale. Well a lot has changed in ten years and we are fortunate to have been acquired by a company with a vision better aligned to mine. This wouldn’t work well for jobs that require working with things (atoms) but it’s great for jobs dealing with information (bits). Ironically being a “mobile worker” mostly means driving less and staying in one place more often (perhaps “immobile worker” would be a better term).

Tuesday evening, before Linda and I went to the temple together, I took advantage of a class (one of the variety of courses being sponsored weekly by a local hardware store named Parley’s) on making cheese. There will be others in the future but this initial course focused on the simplest and most basic of cheeses—“queso blanco” (white cheese) that is made in Mexico. It is so simple and delicious. You basically heat milk, without scorching it, to 195 degrees Fahrenheit (the lady teaching used a double boiler but at home I did it in the microwave). After the milk is heated to the right temperature you simply stir in either vinegar (can be flavored or the simple white stuff) or lemon juice until the milk curdles, which happens all of the sudden. Once the milk curdles you pour it into a cheese cloth (or a light porous cotton fabric like they used to make flour sacks from) and swish it around until the whey runs out. Then you put it in a bowl and work in non-iodized salt to taste (I like the flakey Kosher Salt you can get at most grocery stores) with your fingers. Then you break out the crackers and start eating right away. You can crumble this cheese up on Mexican dishes such as enchiladas. This is a “high-temperature” or “hard” cheese so it doesn’t melt like soft cheeses do, but it’s yummy and really easy. The yield is about a pound of cheese per gallon of milk, and the only unusual equipment required is a thermometer (I have a digital one I got at Harbor Freight) and some cheesecloth. At home I tried making it using powdered milk we have in our food storage to see if it would work. It came out fine though I perceived a slight residual powdered milk taste. However, you flavor your cheese (e.g. add garlic or cumin when your stirring in the vinegar) to mostly mask it, and it would be a nice alternative way to get protein if you have to live off your food storage. Her next class is on making Gouda cheese (one of the soft cheeses that uses rennet to curdle the milk) and I hope to be able to go and learn more. I do enjoy learning new things about the old ways. It’s fascinating and it often enables provident living and independence.

Bye for now,
Joe

Local Living and All Your Dreams Come True

haynie.joe@gmail.com (Joe Haynie) — Mon, 28 Feb 2011 00:44:00 +0000

My workweek was once again engaging and eventful but I was able to wrestle the ruckus remotely so I avoided air-travel. Staying home allowed me to enjoy evenings with Linda and the fragments of our family that either still live at home or are close enough to make vis-à-vis visiting viable. Our vapid visits were virtual with the remote relations (using remarkable resources such as Skype and mobile phones) so no one in our immediate family was left unscathed. Local living also allowed me the satisfaction of sleeping in my own sack and the sweetness of stirring from slumber to see some sumptuous snowfalls. We probably got at least two feet of snow in the valleys this week (much more in the mountains) but subsequent relatively warm temperatures—the hopeful harbingers of a speedy spring—have quickly cleared the sidewalks and the roads so we’ve maintained mounds of marshmallow fluff on the grass and trees without the trial of tedious travel.

I’ve been contemplating how improbable chains of causes lead to the exceptional effects (whether calamitous or beneficent) that we experience in life. Every outcome is the result of one or more choices or events that are themselves outcomes of another set of choices or events and so on back through time. Often very significant occurrences, when traced back through their precedent causations, turn on some of the most seemingly inconsequential events. The job you get, the person you marry, or the accident that kills you are all the ultimately the result of tiny events whose momentous consequences could not have been foreseen at the time they occurred. The dizzying possibilities of what might have been had we not moved where we moved, left when we left, or met who we met, have been the subject of human regret and unrealistic mind-bending time-travel stories through the ages. For some people the seemingly random outcomes of life are attributed to luck, others believe in immutable destiny, and still others see themselves as either victims or beneficiaries of a complex web of arbitrary circumstances. I don’t believe in luck, destiny, or pure randomness. I believe we have chosen to be who what and where we are in life. To me so much of what happens to us we create or attract ourselves by what we choose as our goal. Our minds act like a heat-seeking missile and guide us subconsciously but inexorably down the paths that ultimately lead to our objective. Ironically that objective can be either something we desire or something we dread because faith and fear are simply flip sides of the same coin (e.g. seeking security is simply the antithesis of dreading destitution). What this means for you and I is that we must discipline our minds to focus on desired outcomes (faith) and not drift into distress over what we wish to avoid (fear). Much of this mental focus is born from the unending dialogue we carry on with ourselves (some call this self-talk). The strange thing is that even our jests (e.g. self-deprecating humor) are sucked into our subconscious steering mechanism. Have you ever noticed how those with positive outlooks and expectations seem to live lavish lives while people with pessimistic propensities seem to be punished with perpetual problems? None of us are smart or powerful enough to consciously create all the conditions necessary to determine the precise outcomes we desire, but we can stand back and let our endlessly creative and strangely prophetic minds guide us through the chaotic complexity to the destination of our dreams. Our dreams will come true whether we want them to or not so let’s ensure that they are fond fantasies and not nasty nightmares.

Bountiful Blessings and a Legacy of Love

haynie.joe@gmail.com (Joe Haynie) — Mon, 21 Feb 2011 04:34:00 +0000

This week I’ve been contemplating the charmed life I’ve somehow been granted in the midst of a troubled and chaotic world. Linda and I were enjoying our weekly date last night at new Thai restaurant in town. I had been away travelling most of the week and was feeling particularly grateful to be home with the family. As I smiled happily at my wife across the table, for some reason, I waxed introspective about the abundant and bountiful blessings bestowed on me since back before my birth. My continuing creature comforts and lifelong love are just two of the abundant advantages that I’ve experienced through my earthly existence. The world about me is in such turmoil and trouble. There are political and social upheavals, cataclysmic clashes that affect millions, there are private tragedies and betrayals, and no shortage of disease, hunger, ignorance, and misery. Remarkably my wanderings through this world’s wasteland of woe have somehow been wonderful. I am free to choose my path in life, I have always had enough to eat, I’ve had exceptional educational experiences, I’ve been able to travel and form frequent friendships. I have a wonderful wife and a precious progeny. Our children have opted for obedience and pursued the pathways of peace. Our grandchildren are great and are gaining grounding in the gospel. My Patriarchal Blessing is more succinct in the matter stating “few of our Father’s children since the days of father Adam have ever known the great blessings that have been yours all the days of your life”. I’ve often wondered why I should have been so protected and favored. I really can’t say though the taxi driver that drove me back from the hospital after I broke my neck in Brazil postulated that my miraculous preservation was actually Him watching out for my angel wife who would have been left to raise 7 children alone. I certainly know that it’s nothing I’ve earned or deserved. I’m simply left to ponder the celestial largess in wonder and gratitude.

I also feel a deep obligation to pass the torch of truth (the source of so many of my blessings) along, undimmed, to the next generations. As I mentioned my favored life began long before I was born. I am the product of generations of faithful hardworking pioneers and pilgrims who have lived their lives to leave a legacy for their lineage. In so many ways I have become who I am because of the sacrifices and choices of people I never even knew. Albert Einstein, the great physicist, felt similarly when he mused that "A hundred times every day I remind myself that my inner and outer life are based on the labors of other men, living and dead, and that I must exert myself in order to give in the same measure as I have received and am still receiving." A few years ago I wrote a song that expressed my gratitude for my antecedents as well as a recognition of my role in the continuous concatenation of courageous commitment. I titled it “Unbroken Chain” and the lyrics are as follows:

Unbroken Chain
Our legacy of love is built one family at a time
With links forged out of parent's hearts with children's intertwined
A chain of strength that reaches into long forgotten days
A mighty chain that will endure the world's ungodly ways

Chorus -
Let's keep the chain unbroken
Draw strength from God above
Let every word that's spoken
Build homes of trust and love

The faithful ones who came before were tempered in the fire
By mountains of adversity and rivers of desire
Though sometimes they have stumbled, they've overcome at length
And forged a link like tempered steel a heritage of strength

Supported by our parent's links we're free to form our own
We struggle just as they did but, like them, we're not alone
Whatever life may bring us, whether precious peace or pain
We must pass on to our children a strong unbroken chain

Needless to say I’m very grateful for all of you.

Bye for now,
Joe

A Crummy Cold and a Still Soul

haynie.joe@gmail.com (Joe Haynie) — Mon, 14 Feb 2011 06:02:00 +0000

I woke up Friday morning with a little tickle in my throat. I recognized it as the beginning of a cold and scurried off to the medicine cabinet to begin my regimen of zinc tablets. “Zinc?” you ask—well yes, sublingual absorption of zinc lozenges has been shown in various medical trials to significantly shorten colds if administered every few hours after the appearance of the first symptoms. The problem with zinc is that it is so horrible tasting that most patients in the trials preferred the agony of the cold symptoms to suffering through the zinc treatment. There are a couple of brands of lozenges that do a near adequate job of masking the frightful flavor of the terrible tonic, but obfuscation renders the experience only just tolerable. Even when you administer zinc faithfully the cold is not cured—just minimized and shortened. You still go through a fleeting form of each frustrating phase. The first night it was a dreadful drainage that made it difficult to draw breath and kept me awake half the night. Then last night it was aches and chills. I’m trying to stay away from people (I stayed home from church and have decided I’ll dolefully decline to dandle our delightful grandson Michael when he comes over this afternoon) to avoid giving them the gift that keeps on giving, but that’s going to get progressively more difficult because I fly to Texas tonight for my requisite four-day training session (I have been going to these refresher executive training sessions at our division headquarters every few years). I have begun to be a bit better so perhaps this peevish pestilence will promptly pass and I can proceed pleasantly with my periodic pilgrimage to Plano.

I was summoned this week by my sister to provide a priesthood blessing for an ongoing illness. I was on my way home from work when I received the call and my soul was still surging with the scoria of stupid stress from my work-a-day worries. I promptly switched from the news on the radio to a Mormon Tabernacle Choir CD in order to focus my jangling thoughts and to get grounded in eternal things versus the crush of my quotidian cares. The song that was playing was “Be Still My Soul”. The haunting melody is by Jean Sibelius written in 1900. The words are a translation of a more ancient text written by Katharina von Schlegel in the late 1600s. I’ve heard and sung this hymn many times but for some reason this time the moving message and music stirred something inside my secret self. I truly wanted, in that moment, to have a “still soul” but, given the inner cacophony resulting from my glaring insufficiencies, my pathetic pride, and my propensity for misguided self-reliance, on what basis was that to be achieved? The lyrics replied stirringly “…the Lord is on thy side…leave to thy God to order and provide…thy God doth undertake to guide the future as he has the past…the waves and winds still know His voice…all safe and blessed we shall meet at last”. Submissive reliance on and trust in God is more like sitting on secure shoulders than it is a reckless release of responsibility. It became clear that this meaningful moment was given to me not only as a beautiful balm for my own bruised being but as a sweet salve for my sick sister’s blessing.

It’s late now and time for my beauty rest (though my expectations of its efficacy have diminished substantially over the years).

Brazil Reprised and Cousins Encountered

haynie.joe@gmail.com (Joe Haynie) — Mon, 07 Feb 2011 04:38:00 +0000

In December of 1993 we were living happily in our beloved farmhouse (built in 1880) in Holly Michigan. I was working for EDS supporting our General Motors customer and driving to Detroit and back every day. I got a call one day from my boss about an opportunity in Sao Paulo Brazil. A dinner was arranged at a very nice restaurant where Linda and I met with Bruce Culver who was the account leader in Brazil at the time. He told us about the opportunity which involved moving our family there for an expatriate assignment for an 18-month project (which turned into 3 years). He asked for a decision within a couple of weeks. We discussed it with our 5 children. We all felt both the excitement and agony of the momentous decision but after much discussion and prayer we decided to accept the offer so I called and gave Bruce our commitment. The very next day Linda found out she was pregnant. We were a bit worried at first but, after talking with other expatriates living in Brazil, we were reassured that there would be good hospitals and doctors so we accepted that new wrinkle and began preparing for the move. Unfortunately, like so many business assignments, this one turned out to be dependent on actually selling the project I would be running, and in this instance that ended up taking nearly 7 months. By the time we actually arrived in Brazil Linda was 8 months pregnant. We discussed having her stay and have the baby in the US but I had been travelling back and forth so much that my intrepid wife preferred moving and bringing the family together rather than waiting any more. Our apartment wasn’t ready at first so we squeezed into a hotel room for a few weeks. And so it was that when the days were accomplished that she should be delivered we were still living in a hotel (thankfully in our case there WAS room in the inn). Christine was born right in the middle of the 1994 world cup when the whole country stopped to watch, mesmerized, as Brazil won game after game ultimately resulting in victory. Even Linda’s middle-aged female Brazilian Gynecologist blushingly admitted she was grateful the actual birth didn’t take place during a game. We brought baby Christy “home” to the hotel where we were living and she was so cute that the staff just ate her up. The local expatriate community in Brazil was fairly tight-knit and our family quickly became well known as “that family with 5 kids who moved to Brazil when the mom was 8-months pregnant”. We became even more notorious a little less than two years later when Linda became pregnant again. Rachel, our last child, was born in the same hospital (the world-class Albert Einstein was just minutes away from our home) as Christy. That’s how we ended up with two Brazilians in the family. We learned to love Brazil and were sad to leave. The five oldest children have fond memories of living there but ironically the two Brazilians in our family don’t remember it at all.

With all my business travel for the last 18 months I had racked up over 300,000 frequent flier miles. About a month ago Linda and I decided that the best way to use the miles would be to take Christy and Rachel back to Brazil during their spring break this April to get to know the land of their birth. We have kept it a secret as we’ve worked on the preparatory details hoping to surprise the girls last minute, but it became increasingly clear that we would have to involve them in the ponderous passport preparations and that we’d need to tell them sooner rather than later. One of the ridiculous requirements for getting the girls’ Brazilian passports (as Brazilians they can’t get a tourist visa but must use Brazilian passports) is that, since we long-since lost their baby passports, we have to present the Brazilian consulate with police reports stating that their original passports were lost or stolen. Linda contacted the Provo Police with the strange request and they agreed to issue two official “Crime Reports”. Each crime report mentioned one of the girls by name and explained that their parents were taking them to Brazil for spring break and that they had lost their passports. Those reports became the opportunity we had been waiting for to break the news to the girls. I put on my most serious face and walked into the room where they were and said “your mother got a call from the police department about a crime report on each of you girls—and it’s going to cost you big time”. I handed each of the girls their report to read and what followed was a very uncomfortable silence as they perused their crime reports (Rachel told us later she was wracking her brain to think of what she could have done so wrong as to merit a crime report and settled on the possibility that perhaps it was related to taking food into a public place where maybe it wasn’t allowed). When they got to the part about their parents taking them to Brazil for spring break the short-term shock and shame shifted to the sweetness of a staggering surprise. They jumped to their feet and hugged us both. They kept asking if it was a trick or a joke but when assured that it was real the cacophonous carousal continued for quite some time. Rachel immediately posted it as her status on Facebook, which meant that the news spread quickly to friends and other family members. We hadn’t told their siblings so they weren’t prepared for the predictable pang of pique that might possess them when they came to know that they were (necessarily) neglected. However I’m happy to report that each one seems to have quickly gotten over the initial jealous rage and sagely settled in to a sort of subliminal smolder ☺. No doubt the younger two will wrestle with wry remarks about being our most pampered progeny long after Linda and I have passed to that peaceful place, but since we’ve shamelessly spoiled all their siblings as well the youngest should be ready with rounds of retorts.

Last night Linda and I decided to dine at Applebee’s restaurant for our date night (they happen to serve my favorite dessert ever—the Maple Butter Blondie). As we were haggling with the greeter over the duration of the wait we heard a familiar voice behind us and turned to find one of my dear cousins Lee Shumway and his wife Becky standing there. That was remarkable because they live in Elko Nevada and we seldom see them. They had come for the BYU basketball game against UNLV. We caught up on our respective families and heard that after the game they had gone to the BYU Bookstore where they found our other cousin Steve Young, wearing a red University of Utah cap, doing some shopping. Turns out he was trying to buy a blue BYU cap—perhaps as a result of some (undoubtedly good-natured) assault or (benign) persecution he experienced from BYU fans at the game. We love serendipitous encounters with unexpected loved ones—only wished we could have had more time.

Being There, Reviving a Dead Beetle, and the Sweetness of a Swan

haynie.joe@gmail.com (Joe Haynie) — Mon, 31 Jan 2011 05:58:00 +0000

Dear family and friends (or other infelicitous recipients of this epispastic epistle),
This has been another marvelous week at home (two weeks in a row without travel)! I can thank the approach of my company’s fiscal quarter-end for my immotility (like many western companies, obsessed with quarterly results, we routinely freeze all discretionary spending—including travel—every 3 months or so). Not travelling means “being there”…being there to kiss Linda goodnight, being there for family scriptures and prayer, being there to wheedle the kids into finishing their homework before midnight, and being there for the pleasure of eating dinner together. This week I even got to cook meals a few times (for me a culinary quest is a decent diversion from my quotidian disquiet). I usually get to cook only on weekends but because we had some storms I worked from home a couple of days this week so I was able to make relatively more frequent forays into my food foolery. Linda bought some Tilapia (a ubiquitous farm-raised fish) filets so I found a recipe (http://allrecipes.com//Recipe/broiled-tilapia-parmesan/Detail.aspx) that was fast, easy, and soooo good served with Calrose rice. I found a reasonably priced jumbo-pack of chicken breasts so we had Chicken Fajitas (made up my own recipe), Chicken Empanadas roughly based on a recipe from Paula Deen (http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/paula-deen/chicken-empanadas-recipe/index.html), and Four Cheese Ravioli with Chicken Alfredo sauce (mmmm). One of my favorite things about the Internet is the ability to scrounge through your cupboard or fridge, see what ingredients you have, and quickly find recipes that use what you have. Even if it’s not a perfect match with a little creative customization you get to enjoy delicious food, use stuff in your fridge before the advanced mold stage sets in, and get out of the same old gastronomical groove.
Another thing I like about the Internet is the ability to search out the most arcane advice for solving some of life’s more impenetrable mysteries. For instance Friday night we planned to have Joy over to dinner (she’s our college-age daughter living in an apartment nearby) and then taking the two younger girls and some their friends up to our farm in Fairview for a sleep-over and a trip up Fairview canyon to go sledding (the weather Saturday was sunny and warm by-the-way and we had a great time). Joy had agreed to pick the girls up from their dance class and bring them home for dinner, but she called saying she was having problems with the car she uses (her mother’s little red New Beetle—as opposed to the old kind of VW Beetle with the engine in the back and the useless heater). Every time she tried to turn the key the burglar alarm would go off (deafening the occupant of the vehicle and any neighbors within earshot) but the car wouldn’t start. I drove down and picked up the girls and then went to her apartment and tried it myself. Sure enough, the alarm was stuck on and was not being unset as it should by opening the door with the key. We made other arrangements to get to Fairview and discussed having it towed to the dealer on Monday to figure out what was wrong. Saturday after we returned from Fairview I started thinking that someone out there in the wide-world must have faced this situation before so I got onto Google and searched for New Beetle Alarm. I was able to find a couple of obscure posts that suggested that the alarm on an old New Beetle (how’s that for an oxymoron?) could be reset by opening the hatchback and one of the doors and then starting the car. I drove over to Joy’s apartment and tried it and it worked! Seems like car electric system voodoo to me but it’s hard to argue with success. What did we ever do before Mr. Gore invented the Internet?
Linda and I have a favorite retreat for surveying the sunset. We’ve bought an annual pass to Utah Lake State Park, and we go there often in the evening for a refreshing walk through the chilled winter air and, if we’ve been especially good, a breathtaking sunset. Thursday evening was just such an evening. The sun had set by the time we got there, but the deepening golds oranges purples and reds in the sky and the dark jagged silhouettes of Oquirrh mountains were reflected on the lake. We stood where the Provo River eases itself into the wide lake. The forest of reeds that grow there were teaming with wild waterfowl. There’s a particularly jocular-sounding species of duck whose quacking reminds me for all the world of the laughter of some teenage wag mocking the supposed seriousness of our adult concerns. The juxtaposition of the exquisitely beautiful lake and sky with the derisive cackle of our frolicking fowl friends was enchanting. Suddenly a black swan came out of the reeds across the mouth of the river and glided toward us through the twilight. I’ve never seen a swan at Utah lake before much less a black one, but this graceful bird seemed to be an inky incarnation of the magical mood created by the golden gloaming. I snapped a photo with my camera phone and uploaded it to Facebook but the light was so low the blurry snapshot didn’t do it justice. Standing there with my arms around my sweetheart in the deepening dusk I felt great gratitude “and I said to myself…what a wonderful world”!
Bye for now,
Joe

A Missing Mom, A Sweet CD, and The Bounty of Bread

haynie.joe@gmail.com (Joe Haynie) — Mon, 24 Jan 2011 05:05:00 +0000

Dear family and friends,
It’s been a fine week living in the shadow of the everlasting hills because, just to be different I stayed in Utah and didn’t schedule any travel. Linda and the girls are trying to work out how to fit me back into their lives and I’m trying to get with the changes (e.g. youth activity night has moved to Tuesdays, church starts at 9:00 a.m., and the girls have a couple of extra dance classes—ballet and hip-hop to be specific—to improve their ice-skating). Actually living at home is apparently so disorienting that the other day I lost my own wife. I woke up on Wednesday to find that Linda was not next to me in bed. That didn’t concern me much because it’s not uncommon for her to wake up in the night and go out to the living room to read a book. It’s just that after I got out of the bathroom I looked in the living room and she wasn’t there either so I went about my morning routine assuming that she had made an early-morning run to Walmart (she will sometimes go shopping early if she can’t sleep so she can get a jump on the day—plus the store is pretty empty at that time so it’s more efficient). Just for good measure I looked into each room in the house to see if she’d climbed in bed somewhere else (once she gets up in the night she tries not to climb back in our bed to avoid waking me). At 6:20 I woke the girls for school and had a prayer with them before taking off to SLC and tried calling Linda’s mobile phone to see if I could find out where she was but it just went to voice mail. When I got to the garage I saw that Linda’s car was still there so she hadn’t gone to Walmart after all. I was curious and a little concerned but I had to get on a work call right then so I assumed she had taken an early morning walk and started driving to work. When I finished the work call 30 minutes later I called home and the girls said they still hadn’t seen their mother so I got off the freeway at the next exit and turned around to head back home so I could get the girls to school and perhaps file a quick missing persons report. Just at that moment Christy called back to tell me that her mother was asleep in our bed! She had apparently heard me get up and, while I was in the bathroom, had climbed back in our bed and pulled the blankets clear over her head. At one point I had actually looked into our room but her side of the bed just looked like a twist of blankets in the twilit room. My phone call woke her up and she got the kids off to school without a hitch. I backed out of the southbound freeway ramp I had entered and continued on to work.
Because I am approaching the one year anniversary of my retirement (resignation is probably more accurate but retirement sounds more benign) from the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, and because I can only get the choir member discount on CDs for one year after leaving the Choir, I called Jim Shumway (one of my old car-pool buddies and a friend from my ward growing up) gave him a blank check and asked him to get me copies of the two new CDs. One is a collection of music celebrating 100 years of recordings by the choir. The other is a CD sung exclusively by the men of the choir. I haven’t heard much from the first CD yet but I have been basking in the beauty of the Men of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir CD. I love the richness of men’s voices anyway, but the selections, the arrangements, the orchestral accompaniment, the thundering fortissimos, the even more devastatingly powerful pianissimos have made my multiple musical meanderings through this new CD pure pleasure. I especially enjoyed it through the Bose noise-cancelling headphones I normally use for travel. I felt like I was back singing among them. This is a good one.
Most of you know I have had a life-long fascination with baking bread. The staple is the whole wheat loaves I’ve made for years, but I’m fascinated by many other kinds of bread (e.g. melt-in-your-mouth dinner rolls, crunchy crust for pizza, snappy Italian breadsticks, savory sourdough, various artisan breads etc.). I once tasted a delicious loaf of olive bread so on Friday, after making six loaves of fluffy light whole-wheat bread (I’ll save how that is accomplished for a different post) I decided to experiment and make a couple of long white Italian-style loaves flavored with a few green olives I had left in the fridge. I added fresh Parmesan cheese to fill-in the flavor and really liked the result. It’s especially good with slices of avocado and a sprinkle of kosher salt. Just in case anyone is interested here’s the recipe as I remember it:
Olive Parmesan Bread
2 C Luke-warm water
2 T Yeast
1 T Salt
Unbleached white flour (around 5 – 6 cups—see instructions below to gauge consistency)
8-10 Green olives cut off the pits and diced roughly
½ C Grate fresh Parmesan cheese
If you have a bread mixer just dissolve the yeast and salt in the water, mix in the flour a cup at a time until the dough pulls away from the side of the bowl and the dough springs back a bit when poked with your finger. If you do it by hand stir in the flour a cup at a time until the dough becomes too stiff to stir and then turn out on a counter and knead more flour in until the dough springs back a bit when poked.
Let the dough rise until doubled, punch down, and then form the loaves by dividing the dough in half, rolling out two rectangles about 14”X6”, and sprinkling the cheese and the olive bits over the rectangles. Then roll up the dough along the long side so you end up with a 14” long loaf. Pinch the seam, place the two loaves seams-down on a greased pan, score the tops with shallow diagonal slices and top with a sprinkling of Parmesan cheese. Let the loaves rise double and bake 25 minutes at 425 degrees F. Cool on a rack and enjoy this warm savory bread.

My sister Becky reminded me that yesterday was the two-year anniversary of our family’s return to Peru (Lucy and I were born there and the older siblings had lived there). All my siblings and I, our spouses, and my father travelled together on a never-to-be-forgotten journey to the marvels of Machu-Picchu, the lush Lake Titicaca, and memory-laden mine where dad worked, the family lived, and a couple of us were born. You can read and see more about this remarkable journey at https://returntoperu.blogspot.com.
Well, that’s more than enough for this week. Bye for now,
Joe

Aspirations and Condensed Living

haynie.joe@gmail.com (Joe Haynie) — Mon, 17 Jan 2011 00:09:00 +0000

Dear family and friends,
We were at Sarah and Jon’s home for New Years and we held a Family Home Evening the following Monday where we each talked about our resolutions for 2011 (historically my resolutions have turned out to be less than resolute so in my case I’ve downgraded to the more intellectually honest “aspirations”). I mentioned to the family that I aspire to do a better job recording my life and considered that it might be most effective if I returned to writing a letter to friends and family perhaps several times a month. So far I’ve dashed off one per week and you, my dear relative/friend, are the unfortunate victim of my vacuous missives.

Another eventful week has just past. I began it in New York where I was attending the National Retail Federation Convention where HP had a display of our latest capabilities to help Retailers sell more stuff to you and I. In order to eliminate expense and expand enjoyment I stayed with Diana, Jon, and baby David up in the Bronx which meant taking a 20 minute walk and a 40 minute subway ride each way to and from the convention. Actually, for the first couple of nights I stayed with their friend James (his family was travelling so he had room) because Jon’s parents Orrin and Sandy Olsen were at their home for David’s blessing. Everyone was very hospitable and kind and being with family made it seem less like a business trip and more like home.

With all the back and forth I experienced New York City at the gritty-bus-and-subway-street-level. The city has a pulse. Millions of people are stacked together on a set of overpopulated islands linked by bridges, constantly crowded streets, and packed public transportation. The press of people prevents privacy and pushes you into the public eye, and yet you’re absolutely anonymous along with everyone else. At any hour and in any weather every building, bus, street, sidewalk, shop, and subway seems to seethe and froth with human-beings each going about their own life in a marvelously chaotic but strangely-ordered collective dance. I would have expected more collisions and friction but instead it was more like one of those enormous flocks of birds that tip and swirl in impossible patterns without knocking each other out of the sky. I found the natives a bit brusque but happy to help. The condensed living is not what I prefer personally (I’m a rural farm-boy at heart) but I confess it is exhilarating.

One of my projects with a new client has hit some snags so, while I was scheduled to fly home Thursday morning, I had to reschedule flights and am finally returning Saturday morning. I left Linda in Baltimore on the 4th and we haven’t seen each other for 11 days. She is a very patient and supportive angel. So are Christy and Rachel who are often left to fend for themselves (I call them our occasional orphans), and Joy who gets pulled away from college life to sleep at home when we’re both gone. This high travel time in my career began about 13 months ago and looks like it will be unrelenting for the foreseeable future. I couldn’t do it without having a wholesome home to inspire and sustain me, and to head back to at the end.

All in all, though we are blessed and happy.

Bye for now,
Joe

Back To The Bronx

haynie.joe@gmail.com (Joe Haynie) — Mon, 10 Jan 2011 04:47:00 +0000

Today was a red-letter day for our family. We had two grandchildren blessed the same day. David Lev Olsen was blessed in the Bronx, and Anna Marie Leininger was blessed in Baltimore. Linda stayed in Baltimore after the rest of us left last Tuesday so she was able to attend Anna's blessing along with Anna's paternal grandparents and, coincidentally I had to travel back to New York City for business last night so I was able to be at David's blessing along with his paternal grandparents. Linda flew home tonight to our "occasional orphans" at home in Provo.

This was my second Sunday in a row attending church with Jon and Diana in the Bronx ward known as the Kingsbridge 2nd Ward. I love the spirit in their ward. The ethnic diversity is like something you might see in a United Nations staff photo. The talks and testimonies were powerful. The Sunday School lesson was about the respective pregnancies of Mary and Elizabeth with Jesus and John and the insights shared and the Spirit I felt moved me deeply. The hymns were sung with gusto. I heard several languages spoken and saw every shade of skin-color. I enjoyed watching the love that their ward members have for our children and grandson. This was like a pre-glimpse of Heaven. David was wide awake but completely content during his blessing and naming. I was grateful to be there. It made me want to be a better man with more humility, holiness, and hope.

I like Jon and Diana's apartment and their neighborhood has a gritty kind of charm. I've learned to walk to the subway station (about 15 minutes away). I've figured out how to get around on the subways, buses, and trains, and I even played chauffer to get all the family members who needed to get to church and back

Children, Tough Times, and Hope

haynie.joe@gmail.com (Joe Haynie) — Thu, 30 Dec 2010 03:52:00 +0000

Well, to begin with I'm on a plane heading to the east coast to be with Anna Marie (born in Baltimore to Sarah and Jon Leininger just yesterday), her sister Olivia, and David Lev (born in New York to Diana and Jon Olsen in late November), after a delightful week of being with our western grand-babies Elise Jane (born in Southern California to Maria and Shane in late November), her sister Brooklyn, and Michael Reed (born in Provo to Joseph and Megan Haynie last June). Coincidentally we really enjoy being with their parents as well as our other children, but I admit shamelessly that the main attraction in our family circus are its newest additions.

We began this year with two grandchildren and are ending the year with six. This is likely the last time we'll triple the number of grandchildren in one year (mathematically it becomes more and more difficult). Each one is unique--and each a treasure, and yet each represents a rarer and rarer occurrence in these economic hard-times. The Pew Research Center recently reported that the US birthrate has declined every year since hitting a record high in 2007. Most experts blame the recession. Andrew Hacker from City University of New York says “Children are the most expensive item in every family’s budget...so it’s a good place to cut back when you’re uncertain about the future.” All our married children and their spouses are either still in school, contemplating going back, or early in their careers. All have been affected by the current economic uncertainty. They are hardly the demographic you'd expect to be given to "irrational exuberance" yet each one chose to bring a child into the world in 2010. What were they thinking? Well the decision to have a child is the ultimate expression of hope in the future. This bumper crop of newborn sweetness is a tangible manifestation of their parents' confidence and hope born, in this case, from a trust in Heaven. These children they are bearing and nurturing are the greatest resource in the world because productive human beings create, by definition, more than they consume. Tonight I honor these parents for their remarkable optimism and faith during these difficult times. I look forward to the great dividends (both personal and global) that their sacrificial investments will pay in the years to come.

The $600 Billion Challenge

haynie.joe@gmail.com (Joe Haynie) — Tue, 13 Jul 2010 18:43:00 +0000

Just read a great article in Fortune (see the link in the title above) about how Warren Buffet and Bill & Melinda Gates have been quietly gathering the super rich (including Oprah, Ted Turner, David Rockafeller, George Soros etc.) across the US to pitch a remarkable idea...give away at least 50% of your wealth (Buffet and the Gates have commitments to give away much more than that) to people in the world who need it most.

LOOK WHO CAME TO DINNER: The crowd at the inaugural event added up to a list that would make any charity – or any conspiracy theorist – swoon. Left to right: Bill Gates, Oprah Winfrey, Warren Buffett, Eli and Edythe Broad, Ted Turner, David Rockefeller, Chuck Feeney, Michael Bloomberg, George Soros, Julian Robertson, John and Tashia Morgridge, Pete Peterson

One of the things that jumped out at me from this article is that Americans (not just the super rich) are the most financially generous people in the world. A quote from the article states that "The U.S. outdoes all other countries in philanthropic generosity, annually giving in the neighborhood of $300 billion. Some of that gets reported as charitable deductions on the tax filings made by individuals. But taxpayers at low income levels don't tend to itemize, taking the standard deduction instead". That of course doesn't begin to count the millions of hours of volunteer time spent by people in this country. I often joke about the arrogance of we Americans (e.g. What do you call someone who speaks two languages? "bi-lingual" How about someone who speaks three languages? "tri-lingual" Then what do you call someone who only speaks one language? "American") but the remarkable generosity of this people is evidence that capitalism is not only about self-interest (the critics call it "greed") but also about enabling our innate altruism.
Warren Buffet (the multi-billionaire founder of Berkshire Hathaway and good friend of the Gates') announced back in 2006 that he'd be giving away 99% of his wealth to charity. But, as part of their campaign to convince other billionaires to follow suit he recently articulated his reasoning by publishing what he entitled "My Philanthropic Pledge". It is a humble acknowledgement of the good fortune he has enjoyed and an acknowledgement that in many ways average Americans give much more that he. I'll quote his pledge verbatim (it's not too long) because it impressed and inspired me.

In 2006, I made a commitment to gradually give all of my Berkshire Hathaway stock to philanthropic foundations. I couldn't be happier with that decision.
Now, Bill and Melinda Gates and I are asking hundreds of rich Americans to pledge at least 50% of their wealth to charity. So I think it is fitting that I reiterate my intentions and explain the thinking that lies behind them.
First, my pledge: More than 99% of my wealth will go to philanthropy during my lifetime or at death. Measured by dollars, this commitment is large. In a comparative sense, though, many individuals give more to others every day.
Millions of people who regularly contribute to churches, schools, and other organizations thereby relinquish the use of funds that would otherwise benefit their own families. The dollars these people drop into a collection plate or give to United Way mean forgone movies, dinners out, or other personal pleasures. In contrast, my family and I will give up nothing we need or want by fulfilling this 99% pledge.
Moreover, this pledge does not leave me contributing the most precious asset, which is time. Many people, including -- I'm proud to say -- my three children, give extensively of their own time and talents to help others. Gifts of this kind often prove far more valuable than money. A struggling child, befriended and nurtured by a caring mentor, receives a gift whose value far exceeds what can be bestowed by a check. My sister, Doris, extends significant person-to-person help daily. I've done little of this.
What I can do, however, is to take a pile of Berkshire Hathaway stock certificates -- "claim checks" that when converted to cash can command far-ranging resources -- and commit them to benefit others who, through the luck of the draw, have received the short straws in life. To date about 20% of my shares have been distributed (including shares given by my late wife, Susan Buffett). I will continue to annually distribute about 4% of the shares I retain. At the latest, the proceeds from all of my Berkshire shares will be expended for philanthropic purposes by 10 years after my estate is settled. Nothing will go to endowments; I want the money spent on current needs.
This pledge will leave my lifestyle untouched and that of my children as well. They have already received significant sums for their personal use and will receive more in the future. They live comfortable and productive lives. And I will continue to live in a manner that gives me everything that I could possibly want in life.
Some material things make my life more enjoyable; many, however, would not. I like having an expensive private plane, but owning a half-dozen homes would be a burden. Too often, a vast collection of possessions ends up possessing its owner. The asset I most value, aside from health, is interesting, diverse, and long-standing friends.
My wealth has come from a combination of living in America, some lucky genes, and compound interest. Both my children and I won what I call the ovarian lottery. (For starters, the odds against my 1930 birth taking place in the U.S. were at least 30 to 1. My being male and white also removed huge obstacles that a majority of Americans then faced.)
My luck was accentuated by my living in a market system that sometimes produces distorted results, though overall it serves our country well. I've worked in an economy that rewards someone who saves the lives of others on a battlefield with a medal, rewards a great teacher with thank-you notes from parents, but rewards those who can detect the mispricing of securities with sums reaching into the billions. In short, fate's distribution of long straws is wildly capricious.
The reaction of my family and me to our extraordinary good fortune is not guilt, but rather gratitude. Were we to use more than 1% of my claim checks on ourselves, neither our happiness nor our well-being would be enhanced. In contrast, that remaining 99% can have a huge effect on the health and welfare of others. That reality sets an obvious course for me and my family: Keep all we can conceivably need and distribute the rest to society, for its needs. My pledge starts us down that course.