Jotting Joan

Before our holiday gathering, I asked Joy about bringing the old- fashioned hand grinder to prepare the cranberries for cranberry salad.
“It really is neater to use the blender, but the hand grinder can be kind of fun for the kids. It is what we used for years.”
“I think Sophie would enjoy it,” she said.
So I pulled a chair across the kitchen floor and reached into the top shelf for the original, albeit worn-out, faded red cardboard box that holds our old-fashioned food grinder. I received it as a wedding gift from my Canadian college friend. She insisted it was essential to any household.
I accepted the gift, but had no idea how I would use it. I could not think of any time my sisters and I had used one when we cooked together at home.
But, I did find many uses for it during my first decade of canning fresh fruits and vegetables. I used it to make relish when I began canning food for the family. The twist of the handle with its wooden grip crunched crisply into cucumbers and onions – and sprayed my face with a fresh garden produce smell and onion juice to bring tears to my eyes.
I used it to add in a couple of carrots, exulting in the sound of the crunch of metal against a carrot still exuding a fresh earthy smell.
I even used it a couple times to reduce ham into ground ham for a salad. But, I never did learn to like cleaning the spiral of the grinder and the blades after those greasy experiences.
I did learn that shoving a couple o carrots or some other solid fruit or vegetable pushed out the last bit of meat while cleaning up most of the residue. But over time, we used the hand grinder less frequently, settling for using it only to prepare our traditional holiday cranberry salad.
The bouncing red berries easily fall into the stuffing funnel of the grinder so little fingers are not tempted to push them into the mechanism. The berries make a gratifying pop as we turn the handle and the rich red juice and pulp slowly accumulates in the catching bowls.
The only thing I never liked about it was the juice leaking from the unsealed joints when I used the grinder with berries and other juicy foods. I quickly learned to place a pie pan under the device after we clamped it to a table leaf, chair or board to keep from having to wash the floor afterward.
At the family gathering, the grandchildren eagerly surrounded us, impatiently waiting their turn at the handle. With only one pound of cranberries, we  made sure each had a turn to add berries and a turn swinging the handle.
The two-year-old insisted she be included with her almost four-year-old cousin and five-year-old brother. With the grinder clamped to a board only a couple feet off the ground, they all could stretch high enough to swing the handle or stand on the other side to carefully add handfuls of cranberries.
The children wound the handle round and round. Their mothers monitored and we all tried to snap a few photos of the little ones helping make our traditional cranberry salad. They loved the short task, just as had their father and mother.
Long ago, we all accepted the modern blender as a tidier, if noisier means for doing the same job. But seeing the little ones running over to help, eager to  control a simple machine and make it work reminded me again that even the youngest child will lend a helping hand at the day’s work – given an invitation and a chance to enter the adult world for a short time.

(Joan Hershberger is a reporter at the News-Times. E-mail her at joanh@everybody.org.)

Okay, so the woman made a mistake. She had an affair with a married man. She says she did not know about the wife until she announced her pregnancy and he said, as a married man he had no interest in divorcing his wife and marrying the young woman.
He disappeared from her life as emphatically as he had arrived.
She refused to even consider abortion, but, adoption – perhaps – but she chose to keep the child, a boy.
She did not, however, take the next step and embrace the mantle of motherhood. As an infant, baby and then pre-schooler, the boy needed her loving direction in his life and a sense of her commitment to him – and he did not feel it.
By the time he was three, after yet another person had given up on baby-sitting a child who screamed and threw tantrums, his mom went to a woman she had met at the church she had begun attending.
“No one wants to baby-sit him. They can’t control him. Would you please babysit?” the young mother sighed in defeat.
The baby-sitter, a mother of three and grandmother of two, agreed to try.
The first day the pre-schooler overwhelmed with the frustrations that every little kid experiences began throwing a screaming temper tantrum.
The baby-sitter began singing, “Jesus loves me, this I know.”
“Stop singing,” he screamed at her.
“You do not tell me what to do,” she said bending down to look in his eyes. “I am 50; you are 3. I am the boss, not you. When you stop screaming, I will stop singing.”
He looked at her dubiously.
He screeched. She began singing.
He stopped. She stopped.
He screamed; she sang. He stopped and looked at her. “You’re the boss?” he asked tentatively.
“Yes.”
He sank down inside himself to think about that.
He tried the scream a few more times and discovered she would not yield to his tantrum. He pretty much quit screaming around the babysitter.
The baby-sitter told the workers in the church nursery, “If he starts screaming, sing.”
But it was not all discipline for the child. This baby-sitter enjoyed children. She spent her days interacting with them, playing and even doing a bit of roughhousing and tumbling about.
“You want to play with me?” he asked bewildered at this strange adult.
Yes, and she even encouraged him to jump on her second hand couch from Goodwill and to learn to fall into the cushions.
“But, I told him to be sure to ask before he did it at any other house because not everyone would want him to jump on their couch,” she said.
He looked at her in astonishment. She didn’t just want him to sit in front of the TV and just be good?
The mother told the baby-sitter she would not take her son out in public because he did not behave.
“Well you have to train him how to act in public. He won’t learn unless you take him,” the baby-sitter said.
So the mom took her son shopping and was surprised at how well he behaved.
The baby-sitter was surprised at how long the mother held onto her guilt for having had an affair.
“Maybe I should have given my son up for adoption,” the mother said one day as she wallowed in her misery.
“No. You made the decision, now forgive yourself and choose to have a good time with him,” the baby-sitter urged her.
“If I had given him up when he was born, I would not miss him,” the mother mused one day.
“Yes, you would. Once you are pregnant, even if you never have the child, it changes you forever. Now grow up and become his mother.”
During their daily visits the mother expressed astonishment at all that the baby-sitter knew. “I wish I knew how to do all that,” she sighed
“Look, I am a baby-sitter. I am a mother of three and I have taken care of many more children. I just have had more time with more children than you have. You’re a first time mom. You’re not supposed to know all this. You are still learning. That is normal. You’re supposed to ask questions and not know how to do it all, So ask, watch, listen and learn. That is what you do at this time.”
“I don’t have to be the best?”
“No, but you do have to ask questions from experienced people. Talk with other moms, talk with teachers … and listen. They have had more time and experience. That’s what it takes.”
Or as it says in Titus 2:4, “let the older women teach the younger” … and let the younger ones learn.
(Joan Hershberger is a reporter at the News-Times. E-mail her at jhershberger@eldoradonews.com.)

The giants moved through the land of the Lilliputians with great ease during the early Thanksgiving gathering in the holiday suite. While the giants hauled in suitcases, boxes of food and toys, the Lilliputians, released from car seat captivities, raced, toddled and crawled as they explored the unit where they discovered the basket of the toys.
The tiniest Lilliputian man pulled out the yellow bulldozer connected with an electric cord to a controller. Holding the controller, he paraded around the circle of rooms with the trailing bulldozer, delighted to be controlling something smaller than himself.
His Lilliputian sister with an elfish grin grabbed the tea set, filled the tea pot with water and began filling tea cups to serve to the giants.
The giants smiled knowingly and politely sipped their tea.
The Lilliputian Curlytop promptly found all the books and a Giant with a lap. She plopped herself down, confident that any Giant will read books to any Lilliputian who sits in their lap.
A couple years shy of becoming a short giant, the oldest Lilliputian roared through the rooms, showing off his new-found skill of sounding out Giant letters and sometimes words. He struggled with the Giant’s shoe-tying mandate, proved he knew how to set a table and sat for long periods at the fancy desk to color – sometimes joined by the Lilliputian with the elfish grin.
The roly-poly Lilliputian smiled, cooed and grabbed her newly-discovered toes. Anything anyone said in her general direction sufficed for a conversation. Propped into a sitting position and surrounded by pillows she reached and picked up items to study. When she tipped too far to the side, she rolled over and began shoving and pushing with her legs. She protested any attempt to cuddle her like a baby – she insisted she needed help standing. She liked to stand. She liked to bounce. As soon as she got her strength up, she promised to be up, crawling and walking, but just now, she needed a helping hand.
When the Giants moved back and forth fixing food, the Lilliputians pulled out pots, pans and lids for the Giants to use … even if they did not need them. The old, white-haired Giant peeled apples for an apple crisp watching a parade of sleepy giants coming to fill their cups at the coffee pot.
Giant women carried Lilliputians on their hips as they prepared vegetables, tasted desserts and made grocery lists of necessities. Giant men took Lilliputians out to explore the park.
The tiny little man tolerated being lifted up to the counter to eat, but voiced a strong opinion in body language about the food offered. A violent thrust backward said he did not like the vegetables. He much preferred the cake and desserts, his grabby hands insisted. When the oldest Giant lady offered to help him eat, he communicated his displeasure with a twist, a turn, a lean and reaching out to the Giant man he kept around to help him every day.
Sitting at the table of bounty for the Thanksgiving dinner, the Giants declared, “Let’s go around the table and for each letter of the alphabet give thanks for one item.”
Curly-top Lilliputian did not want to participate. Little man had not learned enough of the Giant’s language yet, he just thumped the table for another helping of food. The Lilliputian with the elfish grin giggled. Not knowing the Giant’s letters that well, she smiled and said, “I’m not thankful,” for most of her turns.
The almost Giant, but still Lilliputian, proudly grinned and announced he was that for the letter U he was thankful for onions.
For these moments, fleeting as they may be, thank you, Lord. For the blessing of Lilliputians, who all too soon will be Giants helping to prepare the holiday feast, we thank you. With each new Lilliputian at the Thanksgiving table, we celebrate the promise of the continuation of life and the joy they bring.

(Joan Hershberger is a reporter at the News-Times. E-mail her at jhershberger@eldoradonews.com.)

Choosing a leader has never been easy. Few know a person’s capabilities under pressure. Only God knows that.
So centuries ago when God sent the prophet Samuel to Jesse’s house in Bethlehem to anoint a king, He emphasized, “anoint the one I indicate.”
In Bethlehem, Samuel consecrated Jesse and his sons and had each son, from the oldest to the youngest, come before him as recorded in I Samuel 16. Of the family of eight brothers, only the three oldest and the very youngest are named.
“Samuel saw Eliab and thought, “Surely the Lord’s anointed stands here before the Lord.’”
But the Lord said to Samuel, “Do not consider his appearance or his height, for I have rejected him. The Lord does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart.”
Then Abinadab and Shammah each stand before Samuel and look promising to Samuel. But each time he hears, “The Lord has not chosen this one.”
The next four sons similarly pass before Samuel. Finally, Samuel turns to Jesse and asks,” Are there are any other sons?” Samuel has been sent to anoint one of Jesse’s son, but God passed over the first seven.
Jesse has one more son; a son so young he was not called in from watching sheep for the special sacrifice. At Samuel’s request, David is called home, and arrives glowing with health and good looks. “This is the one, anoint him,” the Lord tells Samuel.
With all seven older brothers watching, David is anointed – a ceremony signifying God’s choice.
Years later he assumes the throne and is called a man after God’s own heart – an improbable title considering his personal history. During his kingship, David had an affair, he started and completed wars with neighboring countries, he had family problems, rebellious children, incestuous children and was himself an accused murderer. Even God called him a bloody man and would not allow him to build the first temple for Him.
Yet, God called David a man after His heart.
Why?
Because David trusted God. His trust stands out the only other time the same four brothers are named – during a war with the Philistines when the giant Goliath challenges the Israelites to send out one soldier to fight him.
Jesse sends David from tending sheep to take food to his three oldest brothers, Eliab, Abinadab and Shammah, on the battlefield with King Saul. David hears the giant’s daily challenge and sees the fear and desperation of all the Israelite soldiers – including his brothers. Eliab accuses David of being conceited, wicked and a spectator. For obvious reasons, no one wants to fight such a formidable foe.
No one, that is, except David who goes to King Saul and promises, “Let no one lose heart on account of this Philistine; your servant will go and fight him . . . The LORD who rescued me from the paw of the lion and the paw of the bear will rescue me from the hand of this Philistine.” I Samuel 17:37.
With that statement of trust in the God of Israel, David demonstrated “why” God had chosen him to be the next king rather than Eliab, Abinadab or Shammah or the other four brothers. David knew he would not fight Goliath alone; he would fight with God.
In later years when he was called down for his sins, David stood before God and said, “Against You and You alone I have sinned.” Psalm 51:4. He did not make excuses or whine as King Saul had done when Samuel pointed out his deliberate disobedience to God’s instructions.
David had all the characteristics of a strong leader. Good leaders take responsibility, they don’t whine and blame others. Leaders persist with a plan in the face of nay-sayers. Leaders volunteer to tackle the impossible task because they trust God and expect Him to be there with them in the battle.

(Joan Hershberger is a reporter at the News-Times. E-mail her at joanh@everybody.org.)

Children bring a fresh view of life to the delight of their mom, dad and grandfather – who shared the following stories with me.
My nephew in New York posted on Facebook that his five-year-old daughter stopped singing one day, looked up at him and said, “I have a frog in my throat. Daddy, feel my throat.”
As he felt it, she said, “See, doesn’t it feel like the body of a frog?”
Evidently the frog continued to hang around because the next day she told him it felt like the frog was trying to blow air bubbles in her throat.
A grandfather told me about an outing with his grandson that included a tricycle race track bordered with hay bales.
The other children raced for a while and left but “all he wanted to do was pedal around and round until he was all by himself,” Papaw said. Finally the lad stopped and leaned on his handle bars.
“What’s wrong?” Papaw asked.
“I came in for tires and my whole pit crew quit and now I have to race with old tires,” the child sighed.
He looked up and saw the trail of a passing jet above them.
“Look Papaw, there is an airplane. My whole pit crew is leaving on that plane.” That boy was just not having the best of days at the race track.
I happened to have a very rare visit recently with my aunt and cousin with our paths converging at my daughter’s house. My husband chatted at length with my aunt while our grandson tried in vain to catch Grandpa’s attention.
Finally, loud and clear, our grandson asked, “Why do you like her so much? Huh? Why do you like her so much?”
All conversation stopped as we all looked at him.
Grandpa shifted gears a bit to include the child.
Usually older folks do focus on the little ones, as they did the day my daughter took her 4- year-old son, 2-year-old daughter and newborn to see their great-grandma at the nursing home. They gave an impromptu choral concert.
“All the residents of the nursing home LOVED Eli, Daisy, and especially Caroline, who handed out hugs rather freely upon our departure. Even the ones with dementia enjoyed the kids . . . and asked, “do I know you?” she mused on Facebook.
She recently moved away from a busy street to a quiet circle street where 5-year-old Eli can cross the street by himself. “He asked to play ball with the neighbors, crossed by himself and now he’s making friends. When did he get so big?” she pondered as she watched him from the window.
He is getting big – almost big enough to not need a nap – at least he doesn’t think he does. My daughter put the children down to nap and then collapsed onto her bed. While she slept, Eli slipped out of bed, pulled on his cowboy hat, chaps, boots and vest and went prowling with his toy gun. His mom woke up to find one little cowboy sprawled sound asleep outside her door. She took a picture to post on Facebook and wrote, “It looks like a crime scene from the old west, but really it’s just Eli trying to do whatever he can to a…void fall…ing a…sleeeeeeee … zzzzz!”
Like most children, Eli struggles to obey instructions.
Told to dress to go home after Mother’s Day Out, he pulled his socks over his hands instead and had them talking back and forth to each other as puppets.
The teacher noticed and said, “I love that you are playing puppets. That is very creative, but I did tell you to put on your socks and shoes.”
One sock puppet turned to her and said, “Okay, but I’m going to die,” because it would no longer be a puppet – only a sock.
Another time it was the necessity of changing shoes that triggered the following discussion.
“Why do I have to change my shoes?” he asked.
“Oh, because at the hospital they make us parents promise to make you kids as miserable as possible,” his mom said.
The child responded, “Well, I have a handbook telling me how to be mad!”
With or without a handbook, he knows his night time rituals. At the end of a busy day he came home and said, “I’m SO tired. Do I have time to brush my teeth, or not?” After brushing he declared, ‘Dad, just pray for me and sing me a song, and I’ll go to sleep’ – and he did.
Old enough to know his need for sleep and his dad’s part of the routine.
(Joan Hershberger is a reporter at the News-Times. E-mail her at joanh@everybody.org.)

The munchkins began knocking at our door before 6 p.m. on Monday. Not quite ready, my husband raced to the bedroom to finish dressing for the evening while I dropped candy into bags and baskets.
We turned on all the lights at the front of the house to invite the parade of kids in costume to come and share the 200 pieces of candy we had waiting for them. I figured that would be enough. We had had to be out of town last year, but the neighbors said they had handed out 150 bags before they had to turn off their lights.
Dragging his rocking chair outside to the end of the drive, my husband pulled out the encyclopedia of magic tricks that he has been studying lately. He snapped on a ball cap advertising the circus.
I like seeing the kids come trick or treating as much as he does, so I checked often to make sure he had plenty of candy in his basket.
He barely noticed when I came out with more candy. Surrounded by half a dozen children and their guardians, he was in his glory, “What do you say?”
“Please?” the littlest kid answered.
“No.”
“Trick or treat,” an older child piped up.
“You want a trick or a treat? All right, I will show you a magic trick,” he announced to their bewilderment. “I have been studying magic so I can join the circus,” he said, touching his hat.
“Now see this ordinary dime?” he held it upright between his thumb and forefinger.
“Now I am going to put it through my head. Watch,” he said and stuffed the coin into his right ear, tipped his head over, pounded his head, held his other hand under his ear and the coin appeared in that hand.
Astonished little ones wondered how he did that.
Sometimes he leaned forward and made a show of putting the coin into a child’s ear, “Now spit it out.”
Totally puzzled, the child would do a fake spit only to look down and discover the coin sitting in my husband’s open hand under their mouth.
One kid worked up the saliva and did a real spit – and still got a coin.
“Now I am going to do one more trick. I am going to make you disappear,” he declared.
“Yeah, do it!” they eagerly yelled.
He handed each child a piece of candy. “Now turn around. Now start walking down the driveway.”
They turned and walked. As they neared the dark end of the drive, he announced, “You are disappearing.” One boy returned, refusing a second helping of candy … he just wanted his dad to see the magic trick.
Most kids disappeared across the street to our neighbor’s drive lit with a path of plastic pumpkins and a well-lit display of scarecrows. Like us, they plan and prepare for the annual, spontaneous block party.
The accompanying adults laughed. Before one man left he asked, “How long does this go on?”
“Until the treats are gone,” my husband said.
For a couple of hours, my magician kept up his one-man show as the candy supply dwindled. Around 7:45 p.m., I looked in the basket, and I could see the bottom. I did not have any more candy, but cars still lined the street. I went inside, pulled out the big kettle and began popping up a bushel of popcorn to put in first paper and then plastic sacks.
By 8:10 p.m. I had made up four or five pans of popcorn and the last three of my stash of individual microwave popcorn bags I usually save for work. With only a handful of treats left, I began turning off lights.
The magician closed down his act, handed out a couple more bags, moved the furniture back into the house and negated any further ideas I might have for treats. “That’s enough. Turn out the lights.”
The streets still hummed with the sound of pick-up trucks, vans and hay wagons, but only one child ventured to ring the doorbell of our darkened door. Because I really do enjoy my annual evening of philanthropy, I found a treat for that child.
The next morning, I saw the lady across the street gathering up her row of plastic pumpkins. I walked over and asked her, “How many trick-or-treaters did you have this year?”
“Right at 300. I made up 120 bags of treats. I had a big bag of 85 treats and a bag of 100 suckers. We had a few suckers left, but they come in groups of 10 to 12 and we would not have had enough for everyone in a group. We really like doing it though – the kids are so cute in their costumes,” she smiled as she tucked the last plastic pumpkin into her hand.
As do we – once a year – for a couple hours.

(The cheap philanthropist, Joan Hershberger is a reporter at the News-Times. E-mail her at joanh@everybody.org.)

My heart raced with excitement; my brain exploded with ideas and possibilities as I toured the new El Dorado High School facility during the open house.
I love the smell of new opportunities engendered from fresh cut wood and paint. Walking down the wide, central hall called ‘Main Street,’ I anticipated the rush of students that would follow the opening of the doors the first day of school. Talking with teachers in the different wings of the school, I remembered entering and enrolling in a new school and the thrill of possibilities I felt as I studied the class options.
My husband and I explored the EHS home economics class rooms filled with cooking centers and sewing machine stations. We studied the new industrial cooking classroom where the industrial cooking teacher proudly displayed the new equipment. This year she does not have to just show a picture of industrial equipment found in the food businesses – the students can actually cook with them. Several visitors wondered if the school would offer a night school for adults interested in learning to work with the equipment.
Peeking into the chemistry and biology labs took my husband and I back to our college and high school science classes. Yes, I know the classes can be quite hard, but the information we gained into the secrets of the universe can never be replaced. I pounded my head over chemistry, but now when I cook, I understand enough about how baking soda works that I can explain ‘why’ to a 4-year-old.
Walking back behind the stage of the new auditorium and drama department, seeing the neatly arranged props and costumes … and the space for so much more, reminded me of the times I participated in a community play. The organization of the props promised possibilities ahead for the students.
So many new opportunities, so many possibilities – that was the same feeling I found at the third high school I attended – a large, city high school in southern Utah: Cedar City High School.
Cedar City had embraced and built their school with a full commitment to the then popular modular system. Modular scheduling allowed 40, 60 or 80 minutes for classes depending on the amount of time teachers actually needed to present the information and practice it.
The schedule blocked out 80 minutes for chemistry – enough time for chemistry labs and an explanation of the difficult subject. We never needed the 40 minutes designated to the accounting class. The teacher handed me the book and work book and told me to work at my own pace: Just do a certain amount every day. If I needed a technique explained, he sat at the front of the class ready to help. Having enrolled in that school a month-and-a-half after everyone else, I was already late in starting accounting, but I loved the paperwork, filling in the spread sheets and the magic of balanced accounts. I caught up and completed the book that year.
But the real fun at Cedar City came in the Advanced Placement Classes – a relatively new challenge in education. Eager to be in college, I grabbed at the chance to take college level English and American History classes in high school. I hear that same embracing of the challenge each year when I interview the county’s National Merit Semifinalists.
The EHS tour hinted of that same feeling of an educational candy shop. With the first nine-weeks of the school year completed and the reality of another school year ahead, I hope the students at EHS, as well as other area high schools, take a moment to step back and enjoy the educational opportunities they enjoy.
(Joan Hershberger is a reporter at the News-Times. E-mail her at jhershberger@eldoradonews.com.)

Learning early to carry his own load helped our oldest son Randy, as his memories of being in the 82nd Airborne demonstrate.
Constantly working to keep fit for war, Randy’s platoon “worked hard to be the best platoon in the 82nd Airborne. Every Friday we took a 12 mile hike/run with a pack on our back. We challenged others. I usually came in second or third – I could not keep up with the tall, athletic guys.” His platoon passed other platoons on the long hikes.
As the radio communication man, “I carried the heaviest equipment – I think bike riding to deliver papers and running in high school helped me carry heavy loads for long distances,” he said.
Radio specialists came to train with Randy’s platoon on a hike up the Appalachian trail as they practiced communication with the planes circling overhead.

“We had five to seven people in our team in our platoon. One guy kind of hooked up with me. He was pretty chubby and not in very good shape. I was carrying our radio. He was carrying his and he could not keep up with us. I ended up carrying his pack and mine – just for him to keep up and he was still struggling” – to the exasperation of the team leader who could not believe he had to wait for anyone.
At the rendezvous point for the night, the men sat around talking. The chubby radio soldier who had two children said, “I’m thinking about leaving my wife. She has gotten fat.”
Randy exploded, “Are you kidding me? Look at you! You are over weight and out-of-shape and you are talking about leaving your wife with two kids because she is fat.”
“He kind of looked at me because I’d lost it on him. I didn’t have a problem helping him out, but when he said that, I thought ‘you have a lot of nerve!’”
At one point Randy had a “team leader – a fairly small guy – who was pretty cocky. One time the team leader dropped his rifle to the bottom of the pond and made someone else go after it for him.”
Randy assumed “that was just what team leaders were supposed to do.” But, an incident during the team’s preparation to go Grenada changed his perspective. Lining up packs to load, “our team leader’s pack started to blow across the ground – it was so light. He chased after it. The platoon leader went to pick up my pack to help me.”
Hefting it, he turned to Randy and asked, “What in the world?! Do you carry this?”
“Yes, sir, every time we go out, wherever we go,” Randy replied.
The team leader was written up for making Randy carry so much while the leader’s pack was so light it blew away.
“On the trip to England the team leader got demoted because he and a bunch of other guys went out on the town, got wasted, came back, passed out spread eagle in the middle of the hallway and puked all over himself in a public place. They busted him right down to private from staff sergeant. It kind of added up after a while,” Randy recalled.
The rigors of military training for Randy also included training to be a POW, “you know the stuff they talk about in Iraq and Afghanistan,” he explained.
“That is what they did to us for training. They stripped us naked and did water boarding. They blew smoke in our faces until we puked.”
“Before that training my mentality was ‘I will never ….’ After that training, I learned it was my responsibility to my family to come back alive – to not think I will never give up information. Instead count on it, put it off as long as possible and then give believable mis-information. I learned you can put up with a lot more than you think. You know you are in pain, but you shut down. You are watching it happen to yourself. You just disconnect,” he said.
He said some guys felt the torture, but had no memories of screaming. “In their minds they were doing what they had been trained to do to survive, but their instincts were to scream.”
Recalling those years of military training, Randy reflected, “People talk about how badly they are treating the terrorist prisoners – and they did that stuff to me just for training.”
Military life is not easy, just one way a select few choose to protect the country.
(Joan Hershberger is a reporter at the News-Times. E-mail her at joanh@everybody.org.)

Yes, I know that some children come into the world with a brain wired quite differently from others. Yes, I know that the pharmaceutical companies have developed any number of medications to address the more inconvenient characteristics of these children and provide much relief for their worn-out parents.
But, I also know that behavior modification and parental expectations play an important role in any child’s development and behavior and can even keep many kids off medications.
Decades ago, my neighbor and I each had a son within a year of each other. We visited frequently. My son entertained me with his energy and eagerness to explore his world. At six months I discovered him halfway up the stairway to the second-floor bedrooms. By the time he walked, I had moved my breakables out of his reach.
My neighbor’s son took a more traditional, calmer route for reaching out to his world. The tall, elegant glass vase she had received as a wedding gift never left its corner. Early in his toddlerhood she came to visit us one day and mentioned, “I took him in for a treatment for his hyperactivity,” she said.
Treatment for hyperactivity for this bit of a child? The diagnosis did not fit. Within months we each had another son and her actions said she had mistakenly assessed her first son’s typical, toddler behavior; when her second, more energetic son began crawling the vase disappeared.
Kids are noisy, they have short tempers, they yell, tear up stuff and make messes. They don’t sit still, they don’t accept everything. They act irrationally at times and they do stupid things. But that does not mean that they all need medication – not even for attention deficit hyperactivity disorder – not even if the teacher recommends it.
I write that from three experiences. The one year I taught school I worked beside another first year teacher – not yet a parent – who was continually astounded with his middle school students’ energy level and distractibility. He readily suggested Ritalin to most of his students’ parents – even after the school had a child rushed to the hospital with side effects from the drug.
A few years later, as a reporter I attended a seminar given by one of the state’s leading professionals working with ADHD-ADD students. After her lecture, she opened the program for questions and answers. One question and answer stays with me to this day.
“Where were all these children before medication? What happened to them?”
The woman who had researched the subject and spent her days working with the children kind of laughed and said, “We did not have TV. Children got outside and played hard. They had very structured lives, knew the rules and results and went to bed early.” Structure, predictable results for unacceptable behavior and ways to work off the energy.
Been there, seen that, worked with it. After researching hyperactivity, one of my children agrees with the teacher who asked if we had ever considered giving the child medication. Still not on medication, my now adult child – who completed college in four years – uses that energy to get a lot done and attributes it to growing up in a boring, structured home with chores and clear guidelines for behavior.
A few years ago, my husband and I practiced our boring rules when we took care of a couple of children for several weeks – some took medication. Early in their time with us, we spent time with other children and saw the difference emphasized during in the daily combing of much loved, but often messy, long hair. That simple task took forever with one child as wails of pain, misery and outright screams embarrassed one helpful adult after another. One day four people attempted to comb that head of hair, only to stop and step back in self defense at the child’s screams hinting of child abuse.
I decided enough already. For the remainder of their visit we instituted a behavior modification routine. Acceptable behavior: Being polite, helping out and especially practicing self-control and not whining or crying earned them buttons in a jar to trade for desired activities and objects. Unacceptable behavior resulted in the loss of buttons and a longer route to the desired goal. Once a button was earned or lost there was no discussion.
About the fourth or fifth day as I combed that head of hair, the child looked up at me in total surprise, “I’m not crying!”
“Good for you. That’s because you are growing up.”
All the medication in the world could not have fixed that issue.
Helping children learn to live within themselves and to practice self control goes a long ways toward establishing a peaceful home and saving money on medication. Plus, it shows kids they do not have to reach for a pill every time they hit life’s big and little bumps, they can learn to stand still and get their hair combed.

(Joan Hershberger is a reporter at the News-Times. E-mail her at joanh@everybody.org.)