Monument Valley

Our friend Charmaine Kearl came to visit us (read: Elliot) this week. In celebration, we trekked over to Monument Valley, Utah for the day. Monument Valley is essentially a collection of red rock buttes. While not as awesome as the Grand Canyon, it was undeniably beautiful in its own way. We couldn't find a horse guide, so we drove the tour. It lasted about an hour and a half, and made the 3.5 hour drive (each way, mind you) worth it. So, without further ado, here are some photos.

Finally, a Hike

We've been traveling so much lately we haven't gone on a hike in almost two months. We rectified that today by first driving to Durango and walking the city. We found a couple used book stores (By the way, has anyone else noticed the only people who own used book stores are strung out old hippies. Just an observation.) and didn't find anything interesting. After picking up lunch, we drove to a trail head toward Silverton. Not sure how long we hiked, but it was enough to satisfy us and recharge our batteries for the week. We can't wait for spring. Oh, how nice that will be. Oh, here are some photos.

Old Photos

I've been scanning my old pre-mission and mission pictures and posting them on Facebook, so I thought I would post a few on the blog as well.

I love this one. It shows me at my absolute fattest (I'm second from the left).

And here's one when I entered the MTC. The girl standing next to me was my then girlfriend, Chrstine Pratt. I look super stoked, don't I?

Ah, the memories. By the way, Christine and I dated after the mission, then she broke up with me. Subsequently, she married a guy named Marcus from Fairbanks, Alaska. Mere coincidence? Maybe. (The last bit was a joke. Christine's was a great girl. She now has a couple beautiful kids and lives in Juneau.)

Anyway, more photos will follow.

The Problem with Pacifism

The problem with pacifism as an enduring ideology is succintly stated as follows:

Pale Ebenezer thought it wrong to fight
But Roaring Bull (who killed him) thought it right.

Hilaire Belloc, The Pacifist (1938). That is all.

Christmas with the Whirling Dervish

We spent the holidays with Dem's family. Since the Claysons are more numerous than the Yankee's farm teams, each person is assigned one family member for which they are to buy a present. This year, Erick was assigned Elliot. Much to Elliot's (and our) satisfaction, Erick bought Elliot a drum and clothes in Afghanistan. Elliot digs the drum (well, he actually digs anything he can hit, thereby causing it to make noise), and the clothes make him look like a little Whirling Dervish.

Now, all he needs is a pomegranate, a conversion to Islam, and a beard, and he could pass for a native Afghan.

Where Have Real Men Gone?

I'm currently reading When Trumpets Call by Patricia O'Toole. It's about Teddy Roosevelt's years after his presidency. Essentially, O'Toole filled the void left by Edmund Morris, who has yet to finish the last of his three volume biography on Roosevelt. While O'Toole is a gifted writer, Edmund's last volume -- which he is writing now -- will undoubtedly prove superior.

In any case, the When Trumpets Call's recounting of John Schrank's failed attempt to assassinate Roosevelt during the 1912 presidential campaign makes you long for real men in political office. Schrank was seven feet away when he shot Roosevelt in the chest. The bullet, slowed by a metal eyeglass case and a copy of his speech, lodged in Roosevelt's ribs. After the shot, Roosevelt felt his mouth, determined the bullet had not perforated his lung, and dispatched the idea of missing his speech and receiving medical care with these words: "You get me to that speech, . . . it may be the last one I shall ever deliver, but I am going to deliver this one."

During his ensuing eighty minute speech, he informed the crowd what had happened: "I don't know whether you fully understand that I have just been shot; but it take more than that to kill a Bull Moose." For effect, Roosevelt showed onlookers the bullet holes in his speech and pull back his vest, exposing his blood-stained shirt.

On the train ride to Chicago for treatment, he changed his shirt, shaved, and slept.

Too bad men (or women for that matter) like this no longer run for public office. Our nation would be better if they did.

Texas Specialness

We all know Texans fancy themselves as special because they live in a big state and can secede from the Union whenever they feel like it. (Although, we fought a civil war about states seceding, and, lo and behold, consensus is states can't actually secede, but that's neither here nor there.) Apparently, Texans' specialness has reached new bounds this holiday season.

As we were driving to Dem's house, we passed a truck with this written on its side: "Merry Texmas." So much for "Christmas"; I guess the point of the season is now to worship father Texas in all his greatness and glory. I wonder what the Texmas mascot will be? Perhaps a football, or a barrel of oil.