Lift Up Your Hearts!

My nephew T got his driver's permit recently.  I didn't find that at all surprising—until I read that the percentage of young people becoming licensed drivers has dropped radically since at least 1983.  In that year, 46% of 16-year-old had their licenses; by 2010 that had plummeted to 28%.

Why?  Reasons suggested range from reasonable to ridiculous, from encourging to frightening.  Some of them (in no particular order):

1. Too busy
2. Too expensive
3. Driving interferes with texting
4. Online resources make travel less necessary
5. Preference for public transit/biking/walking
6. Changes in licensing requirements

#1 I haven't figured out yet.  Most DMV lines are long, but not that long.

#2 I understand as a reason to put off buying a car, but not a reason for not getting a license.  A 16-year-old should be happy enough using the family car, and an older, "boomerang kid" still living at home should welcome the opportunity to assist the parents who are still supporting him.  Owning a car isn't a prerequisite for acquiring a license!

#3 Okay, once I got over the ridiculousness of being so addicted to your phone that you refuse to drive because most states don't allow texting while driving, I acknowledge that being able to do something else while travelling is one of the great advantages of public transit.  My father was a book lover with not a lot of spare time; taking the train to work was like being handed an extra hour to read.

#4 Very true.  Since I hate to shop, I really appreciate being able to do much of it online.  And watching movies at home is much nicer than getting my feet sticky in a movie theater.  But even here in Switzerland, which has the best public transit I've seen anywhere, most people find they have need for a car—if not actually owning one, at least subscribing to a car-sharing service.

#5 The best reason of all.  I'm thrilled that it's becoming "cool" to use public transit.  I've said for a long time that public transit, along with walking and biking for transport (as opposed to exercise or sport), will never make it in the U.S. until it shakes its image of being just for the poor and for drunks who have had their driver's licenses taken way.  But see my comment on #4.

#6  There needs to be more said about this than I've heard so far.  Getting a license used to be straightforward and relatively easy, even when it became more restrictive than it was for our parents:  "This is my daughter.  She can drive; give her a license." "Okay, ma'am; here it is."  Many states have become increasingly restrictive when it comes to licensing young people, with more rules than I've been able to keep track of, rules that take away much of the immediate incentive for learning to drive.  If they can't drive themselves home after a football game (too late at night) and can't provide transportation for their friends (passenger limits), who can blame many young people for finding the whole process too much hassle to bother with, since they can get fully licensed with ease in just a few more years?

"There's a segment of this generation missing opportunities to learn under the safeguards that [graduated licensing] provides," said Peter Kissinger, the president of the AAA Foundation for Traffic safety.

All I can say to that is that they brought it on themselves by in effect telling young people they are irresponsible idiots.  Who can blame those who decide to chuck the whole system?

While I've been here for Daniel's birth, I've had the privilege of joining the family for their noontime and evening family times.  They begin with a general picking up of toys, followed by the meal.  Family devotions, based on those in the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer, come immediately after lunch, and again in the evening after bedtime preparations and some play time (if the former haven't taken too long).

Two of the most amazing parts of the procedure are individual prayers with the children—Joseph spontaneously started praying for Daniel as he is prayed for by the adults—and singing time.  The latter has been a growth opportunity for me despite all my choir training, because it's done a cappella.  Normally I don't find singing the alto line of hymns to be difficult, but singing without accompaniment is much more of a challenge.  Nonetheless, it's been awesome.  Even our three-part harmony is lovely, and it was really great when Porter was here to add the tenor part to our soprano, alto, and bass.  The kids don't sing with us—yet—but are taking it all in.  Joseph has memorized several of the hymns and can occasionally be heard singing parts of them as he goes about his daily activities.  (We have another grandson who sings or whistles a lot, too.  Recently he was overheard moving seamlessly between Funniculi, Funnicula and Christ the Lord Is Risen Today.)

With all due respect to Sunday School/Children's Church, Vacation Bible School, and the many and varied children's music programs available, I think this integrated family prayer and singing time is an unbeatable foundation for a strong spiritual and musical education.

Not to mention a whole lot of fun.

I've been writing a lot about Joseph, and recently Daniel has taken center stage, so before I write more about either of her brothers, it's time Vivienne had a post of her own.  She is 18 1/2 months old, as Joseph was when I was here for her birth, so it's interesting to observe the similarities and differences, as well of course as their interactions.

I wonder if second children, who are born with a sibling, are more predisposed to compassion and an awareness of the needs of others.  I remember noting that characteristic in Noah, and Vivienne has it in spades.  She's physically very affectionate, too, asking to "snuggle," and freely doling out hugs.  One of the first things she and Joseph do in the morning is to give each other good morning hugs.  Unless Joseph is already eating, or otherwise engaged in intense concentration, that is.  The funny thing is, I remember him as being much more reserved, and less demonstrative in his affection; it seems to me as if he has learned a lot from his younger sister.

And she, of course, is learning a lot from him.  She does not have the same fascination with letters and numbers that he did at 18 months, but knows more about them than most her age, if only in the same way a fish knows about water.  She can already count to five in three languages (Swiss German, English, and French), because we always count the toys as they are being put away.

Vivienne, in one sense, is all girl.  She's a dancer, always moving, especially if there's music or even rhythmic speech to be heard.  She has a petite frame, despite having been born both longer and heavier than Joseph, and has blonde hair with soft curls.  I've mentioned her tender heart; if she notices Joseph needs something, she'll often get it for him, and while she'll scream bloody murder if he takes a toy from her, frequently after getting it back she'll voluntarily hand it to him.  She's adorably cute in her little dresses, and I'm convinced she knows it:  she has a look that can bend adults to her will, and will probably enslave more than a few boys in her teen years.  Joseph has a few favorite pieces of clothing he will wear until forced to change, even to the extent of wearing long sleeves and long pants on hot summer days; Vivienne sometimes finds the day too short to wear just one outfit.  Plus, she loves shoes.  There's a rack of shoes outside the door to the apartment, and a favorite activity is to sit on the steps and try out other people's footwear.  Our Swiss National Day celebration included a bounce house, which Joseph could not get enough of—but Vivienne preferred to investigate the assortment of shoes left on the outside.

But this is no "girly girl."  She'll be an ezer warrior for sure.  She's tender—her cheek is rarely without a tear from some physical or emotional wound—but at the same time tough as nails.  When she wants to get somewhere, she runs rather than walks, reminding me of her cousin Joy.  (On the other hand, if an adult wants her to get somewhere, she must stroll and stop to examine every flower, bug, and pebble.)  She's eager to keep up with her big brother, whether running, climbing, or flinging herself off the slide into the ball pit at the nearby shopping center.  She has a real temper and a scream that would wake the dead, leading me to suspect that her Irish ancestry (on both sides, though somewhat distant) has contributed more than the slight reddish tinge to her blonde hair.  But she recovers quickly and is quick to sign, "sorry."  She's much like her mother at that age:  her hair is fine and with all the activity won't stay combed for more than a minute, which contributes to a ragamuffin, gamine look—as do the skinned knees and an affinity for dirt and water.

Ah, water.  Called "mo-mo," for no reason discernable in either English or German, it's a Vivienne magnet.  Water is her beverage of choice at all meals, and many times in between.  She'll drink from a cup, directly from the faucet, and from any vessel that passes through her hands while she helps me wash dishes, which is one of her favorite activities.  In a book, in a video, through the bus window—if Waldo were water, Vivienne would spot him before anyone else.  If there's a puddle, she's in it.  Larger bodies of water are even better, especially if there are stones around; as far as Vivienne is concerned, the purpose of pebbles is to be thrown into any available water.

But water is not her only love.  She's crazy about airplanes of any sort, especially the jets that fly overhead multiple times a day, to and from the nearby military airfield.  When they were considering this apartment, Joseph was eight months old, and Janet saw the airfield as a plus, thinking it would be great fun for a little boy to grow up watching the jets.  And he does enjoy them, but not nearly as much as Vivienne does:  she must run to the window whenever she hears their (extremely loud) sound.  She's also the more enthusiastic about watching the new construction going on next door:  the diggers, the bulldozer, the front loader all doing their (very loud) work all day, every day but Sundays and holidays.  (Did I mention enough times that it is loud here, and do you remember that we have a newborn in the house?  Oddly enough, none of it seems to bother Daniel, though he was intelligent enough to be born on Mariä Himmelfahrt, so his first day was uncharacteristically quiet for him in this Catholic canton.)

Here is another difference between Joseph and Vivienne:  At this age, his wooden number puzzle was one of the great joys of Joseph's life.  Vivienne also likes the puzzle, and can easily put the pieces in the right places, but the + and x pieces, which to Joseph were "addition" and "multiplication," are both airplanes to Vivienne.

Vivienne adores going out, whether to help in the garden, or to run errands, or simply to play on the swingset.  Oh, how she loves to swing!  She has been able to hold on well to regular swings from a young age, and has a much longer attention span for swinging than most adults, who often alleviate their boredom by counting the pushes.  (Joseph makes that a challenge by requesting the count be in French, or by 5's, or as he did recently for me, by 51's.  He's patient with my struggles, but if he asks for 51's in French, I'm giving up.)

She also loves balls, can throw pretty decently, and kick really well for her age.  Not to mention carry them around in her mouth like a mama cat with her kittens.

The biggest change in Vivienne in the four weeks I've been here is an absolute explosion in language.  Both English and German, but more noticeable (at least to me) in English, probably because it's been the dominant tongue in use since I came (though not exclusive by any means).  The meaning is clear enough for those in the know, though there's not a lot yet that would be understandable to outsiders—except for "Nei!  Nei!  Nei!" which with a shake of the head and a stamp of the foot may be the most universally recognizable utterance.  "Nei" has been around for a long time, but recently she has added "no" for my sake; even at her age she is sensitive to who speaks what language.  It is an exciting privilege to be present at this point in her development.

As it is to watch all of our grandchildren blossom, each in his or her own, individual, marvellous way.

Vivienne's post is overdue, but it's long, and getting written in bits and snatches.  So today I'll record a Joseph story before I forget it.

Early this morning, Joseph awoke and went into the bathroom to get dressed.  He seemed to be spending an inordinate amount of time in there, so I peeked in (the door was open) to discover him sitting naked, counting the holes in the laundry hamper.  In French.  I backed out and left him alone, though I made a point of listening.  He counted 115 with no trouble, which was impressive, given how squirrelly French counting gets past 69.

But this hamper might have been designed just for Joseph, because the air vents are not just holes, but shaped into circles, triangles, and rectangles.  After the first enumeration, Joseph began again, this time counting the triangles....

There's never a dull moment around here; it's time to write them up that's scarce.

The Evolution of Diaper Laundering
(both sides of the Atlantic)

First baby

• Washed separately
• Special baby detergent
• Presoak
• Hot water
• Special cycle
• Extra rinse

Second baby

• Washed separately
• Regular detergent
• Hot water
• Regular cycle

Third baby

• Thrown in with the rest of the laundry

Except for the obvious connection between his middle name and his maternal grandfather, Daniel Porter Stücklin was not named for anyone in particular.  But out of a surfeit of genealogical curiosity, I looked up Daniel Porter (with Porter as a surname, not a middle name) in my genealogical database.

It turns out I have five Daniel Porters recorded, though none born later than 1750.  Of these, two are direct ancestors.

Dr. Daniel Porter, who came to Connecticut before 1644 and was one of the founders of Farmington.  He is Daniel Porter Stücklin's 10th great-grandfather on my side.

Daniel Porter, born January 1726, the son of John Porter and Esther Deane, and the great-great grandson of immigrant ancestors John Porter and Anna White.  He also lived in Connecticut, and is Daniel Porter Stücklin's 6th great-grandfather on Porter's side.

Soon I'll have his birth story to link to—Janet's been working hard on writing it in brief gaps between working hard on keeping him fed, clean, and happy—but for now, here's the short version.  (I hope to write my own story, but with two other kids needing to be kept fed, clean, and happy, Stephan and I don't have much time, either.  You'd think that with a 1:1 adult/child ratio things would be easier than they are, but they aren't.)

Daniel Porter Stücklin
Born at home in Emmen, Switzerland
Thursday, August 15, 2013 at 2:48 a.m.
Length: 53cm (21in)
Weight: 4300g (9lbs 8oz)

Happy Grandma!

We are now at Due Date Plus Five.  The intense activity aimed at fitting as much as we could in while Dad-o was still with us has passed, and life has setting into—well, not normal, since there's always the "labor could start at any moment" anticipation.  Perhaps I should say "mundane," though that, too, is a poor word to use with grandchildren around.

For example, who would have thought I'd ever leave my laptop computer alone with a three-year-old?  I don't, for long—but I do.  The apartment is small, and it's easy to make a quick check and to keep an ear out for trouble.  Still, Joseph sometimes surprises me.

He and Vivienne have two interests in my computer:  writing e-mails, and watching the PowerPoint shows I have created for our grandkids.  Though Vivienne would like to control the mouse, I have put Joseph in charge of running the ppt shows, and they can both watch for quite a long time.  When they are done, Joseph exits out of the show (via a button that is part of the show), then out of the show menu (another special button), then X's out of PowerPoint itself.  (I've been running them from within PowerPoint, but am thinking of setting them up differently so he can be even more independent.)  Next, he "puts the computer to sleep" by holding the Fn key and typing F4, waiting till the disk and network lights go off, then carefully (from the middle) closes the lid.  Then he puts the mouse to sleep (turns it off) and lays it gently on its "bed" on top of the computer.  Today he added another step:  the computer was in my bedroom instead of out in the living room, and he noticed that the power cord was plugged into the wall but not into the computer—so he proceded to rectify the situation.  I was torn between reminding him that he was not to do anything to the computer without asking me first, and wanting to see what he would do.  The latter won, and indeed, he plugged the computer in as quickly and as smoothly as I do.

When Vivienne sees me at the computer, she runs over and says, "e-mail Dad-o."  ("E-mail" isn't so clear, but she's consistent with it, so I know what she means.)  I open up a composition window and she sits on my lap and types.  "E" she says as she types, and I respond, "L."  "L" she says, then types another letter, again saying "E."  I respond with the correct character, and so we continue until one of us decides she's done.  Then I hover the mouse pointer over the "Send" button, and she clicks the mouse button.

Both Vivienne and Joseph had written to Dad-o early this morning, but wanted to do it again.  I explained that it wasn't even time to get up yet where Dad-o is, and so he hadn't received their first e-mails yet.  Vivienne accepted this, but Joseph immediately replied, "E-mail Aunt Heather!"  So he did.  He usually types out the recipient's name, then "touch types" apparently random strings of letters:  he places his fingers in approximately the correct typing position, then rapidly wiggles his fingers, all with an intense look of concentration.  When he goes over the end of a line, he backspaces enough so that his letters fit into the window, then types Enter, and begins another line.  When done, he will sometimes type his name, though not always.  Until today, I would then send the mail in much the same way I do for Vivienne.  But today I had left him typing to go into the kitchen for something, telling him to call me when he was ready to send the e-mail.  When I checked back a few minutes later, the composition window was gone.  I thought perhaps it was hidden behind another window, but it wasn't.  Then I checked the Sent folder....

I believe the main secret to Joseph's surprising activities is keen observation and a great memory.  He had seen me plug and unplug the computer; he had seen me click on the Send button.  I find myself trying not to be too obvious when I type in my password.

mqwwwwqasdzxcdccccccccccccbaaaaaaaayqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqaqaaaaaaaaaaaa

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

dxaaaaaaaaaaaaaa,,m,,,,,,maaaaaaaaaaaa5321`ssssssssssssssssss

qaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaeeeeeeeeeeeeez

As you can see, Vivienne woke up from her nap and wanted to type, and now Joseph is waiting for his turn.  So I'll save my Vivienne notes for another post, and get on with life!

The question of the day is, why have I been writing mundane book reviews when I could be telling more grandchild stories?

This one is again about Joseph.  I wish I could have recorded the moment, but there's no more certain way to break a mood than to bring out a camera.

While Vivienne naps, Joseph takes a rest in which he doesn't need to sleep, but must play quietly by himself for two hours.  This is a lovely, creative period for him and he has no trouble filling the time with activity.  When quiet time is over, especially if Vivienne is still asleep, Janet usually goes in and they enjoy some one-on-one time together.  Joseph particularly enjoys working on the blackboard that was his "gift from Vivienne" when she was born, and that's what they were doing when I walked in on them yesterday.

The room was (no surprise) a mess, and Janet was helping Joseph pick up.  She would write on the blackboard, "Please bring me the sheep"; Joseph would read the sentence, go get the sheep and put it where it belonged, then wait for Janet to change the sentence:  "...the other sheep" or "...the boy and the dog" or "...two hens."  Not a very efficient way of picking up toys, but totally delightful to Joseph—and to Grandma, who never tires of watching this barely-three-year-old blow her socks off.

(All our grandchildren blow my socks off.  This is why I am usually barefoot.)

The next time I came into the room they were writing numbers.  Janet would write, say, 3,725,304 and Joseph would read the number.  (He crowed with delight at 111,111.)  Then it would be Joseph's turn to write.  After a while, the game morphed into Roman numerals.  At one point, Joseph wrote vii, and I explained that that was the lower case version, whereas VII was uppercase.  But when Janet wrote VII, she drew the top and bottom lines all the way across, as I was taught in school.  The game then transitioned into Greek letters, and Joseph wrote an alpha, added lines above and below, and announced it was an upper case alpha.

I did not overtly correct him, but exclaimed over his logical thought processes.  Janet, however, noticed that he was quite aware from my reaction that he had done something "wrong."  He didn't fuss about it (though sometimes he does when corrected), but grew quiet and tentative for a while as they continued writing the Greek alphabet.  No wonder she and Stephan prefer not to correct him, but to let him adjust his own model of the world over time.

After the journey from reading to large numbers to Roman numerals to Greek letters, it was back to cleaning up, then playing with/fighting over the Brio train set with his sister.  Which event is "normal"?  Around here, both of them.

Oh, one more quiet time story.  Joseph had been disobedient and surly over some issue, so Janet told him I would not be able to help him pick up after quiet time.  When cleanup time came, he was distressed, and kept begging, "Count in French!"  (When I'm helping, I count each piece of the train set, or the Legos, or puzzle, as he and Vivienne put them away.  Depending on his mood and mine, I count in English, French, or High German.  We all miss Dad-o, who would count in Dutch for them.)  Finally, I took pity on him, and told him, "Joseph, I can't count in French for you today, because you disobeyed and had a bad attitude.  But, you know, you can count in French."  At which revelation he picked up all the toys, cheerfully counting past 50 in that language.

3 Theories of Everything by Ellis Potter (Destinée Media, 2012)

It’s a good thing this little book is only 111 pages long, and easy to read to boot, because with our whirlwind sightseeing schedule—or what passes for whirlwind when 1.5- and three-year-old tornados are involved—there hasn’t been much time for reading.

The author is a former pastor of my son-in-law’s church, and that’s all I know about him because there’s no author blurb and I’m writing this “blind”:  we’ve had no Internet for two days.  And when it comes back I’ll be too busy/lazy to change the above.  [Correction:  I did find this short bio of Ellis Potter that covers a good deal.]

As I said, it’s a quick read, but well worth the attention.  Potter’s search for absolute reality took him all over the map, so to speak, two of the notable stops being as a Buddhist monk and as a Christian pastor.  3 Theories of Everything is a brief and admittedly greatly simplified look at Monism, Dualism, and Trinitarianism, its strongest point being the obvious respect Potter has for all three, despite having decided that Trinitarianism comes closest to describing the true nature of the universe.

I’ve had my fill of arguments that think to prove their premises by sketching a false picture of their opponent’s position and mocking it into oblivion.  What kept me reading this book, which had the potential to be just that, is that it isn’t.  Potter is not one of those preachers who sees nothing but irrationality and evil in other religious beliefs and practices, even though he feels strongly about the truth of his own.

Besides that, my favorite part of 3 Theories of Everything is the discussion of relationship as the heart of Trinitarianism:  God alone is God, and God is not alone.  Unity and diversity, relationship, love, service, obedience, and sacrifice existed in God Himself before the creation of the world, and thus are fundamental to the very nature of the universe.  Adam needed his relationship with similar-but-different Eve to be fully human.  We are not ourselves in ourselves, but in relationship with others.

Potter is annoying sometimes, a little too Baptist in some places and a little too patriarchal in others, but his humility makes this easy to forgive.

God Is Red:  The Secret Story of How Christianity Survived and Flourished in Communist China by Liao Yiwu, translated by Wen Huang (HarperOne, 2011)

After reading Liao Yiwu's The Corpse Walker, I knew I had to order God Is Red.  Being pressed for time Having grandchildren to play with, I'm going to take the lazy way out with this review and quote the dust jacket:

When journalist Liao Yiwu first stumbled upon a vibrant Christian community in the officially secular China, he knew little about Christianity. In fact, he'd been taught that religion was evil, and that those who believed in it were deluded, cultists, or imperialist spies. But as a writer whose work has been banned in China and has even landed him in jail, Liao felt a kinship with Chinese Christians in their unwavering commitment to the freedom of expression and to finding meaning in a tumultuous society.

Unwilling to let his nation lose memory of its past or deny its present, Liao set out to document the untold stories of brave believers whose totalitarian government could not break their faith in God, including:

• The over-100-year-old nun who persevered in spite of beatings, famine, and decades of physical labor, and still fights for the rightful return of church land seized by the government
• The surgeon who gave up a lucrative Communist hospital administrator position to treat villagers for free in the remote, mountainous regions of southwestern China
• The Protestant minister, now memorialized in London's Westminster Abbey, who was executed during the Cultural Revolution as "an incorrigible counterrevolutionary"

This ultimately triumphant tale of a vibrant church thriving against all odds serves as both a powerful conversation about politics and spirituality and a moving tribute to China's valiant shepherds of faith, who prove that a totalitarian government cannot control what is in people's hearts.

Because I can't resist and in order to make this a little more personal, here are a few quotations.

The surgeon's story is particularly interesting.

A critical skill of an ER surgeon is to diagnose fast and accurately, and then act.  You can't play games.  But as an administrator, none of the skills I had acquired applied.  They played by a different set of rules.  In my leadership position, I initiated some reform measures.  The school assigned me a ... car, but I asked the authorities to sell it and spend the money on the hospital.  I rode my bike to work every day.  I abolished the traditional big staff banquets during holidays and banned the use of public money for eating and drinking.  I also tightened up on reimbursing expenses.  All of those measures hurt the interests of other leaders; they hated my guts and conspired against me.  It was very frustrating and depressing. ... I got hold of a Bible.  I was examining my life at that time.  I felt extremely frustrated with my work as a deputy dean.  The Bible taught me to be in awe of God and to love, two important qualities that the Chinese people lacked.  Too many Chinese will do anything for trivial material gains and have no regard for morality, ethics, or the law.  How do we change that?  Can we rely on the Communist Party?  Can we rely on government rules and regulations  Apparently not.

Why does this description of the medical problems in Communist China sound just a little too familiar?

I couldn't work [at the big government-run hospital] out of conscience.  Say a patient, tortured by illness, sits in front of you, staring at you, hoping you can find a cure for him.  What kind of medicine should you prescribe?  Many meds do the same thing, but their prices can vary sharply.  I would prescribe the cheapest and most effective.  But if I continued to do that, the pharmacy and the hospital would be upset because I have undermined their profits, disrupting the cozy deal between pharmaceutical companies and hospitals.  When you break hidden rules and harm the collective interests of hospitals and doctors, you find yourself very alienated. ... As a Christian, I have to tell my patients the truth.  I cannot lie to get more money out of them.

American television isn't all bad.  Who'd have thought M*A*S*H could be an answer to prayer?

I told the minister that I would do [breast cancer surgery] for free, that I had done far more complicated surgery than what was required here, and he needed to trust me.  He looked at me in disbelief, as did the villagers gathering around us.  I'm not sure which of my assertions they had the most trouble believing.

I wanted to take the woman back with me to Kunming so I could use a proper operating room, but she didn't want to leave her home.  That night, I knelt and prayed, and as I was praying, an old American TV show popped into my mind—a team of cheerful doctors doing surgery while cracking jokes, a mobile army hospital, tents in an open field, the war in Korea. ... I felt inspired.  The next day, I bought some basic surgical instruments to supplement the ones I carried with me, and we did the operation in her bedroom.  Her bed was a wooden plank; no table necessary. ...  The room was very dark; even after we opened all the windows, it was still pretty bad.  I tied four flashlights together and had the grandpa hold them as operating lights.  That grandpa was strong and in great health.  He stood there for hours without moving, holding the light steady. ... It was a sweet feeling to be there with the poor villagers and to do God's work, though I never thought I'd ever have to perform surgery in quite those conditions.

From another man's story of life under Chairman Mao, evidence that if some of China's ills aren't that far from ours, some are almost unimaginable.

You are too young to understand what it was like.  We were treated much worse than animals.  People would torture us whenever they felt like it.  During the peak of the campaign, the government work teams fanned the sentiment of hatred.  Even the nicest and kindest peasants began to wave their fists and slap or kick us.  Toward the end, revolutionary peasants didn't need a reason to kill a landlord.  At public denunciation meetings, people became carried away with their emotions and would drag someone out and shoot him on the spot. ... Nobody questioned this ruthless practice or took responsibility. ... The work-team members didn't dare ignore the voice of the people.  Once people became brainwashed by Communist ideology and by Mao's propaganda, their thinking became chaotic.  All humanity was lost.  At its peak, even the work team found it hard to rein in the fanaticism.

Let me explain.  In this area, it was rare to find anyone who was not addicted to opium or gambling.  Only those who had embraced God had the stamina to kick their habits.  When I was a kid, I remember that people in this area didn't grow crops.  Instead, they grew poppies. ... They also gambled heavily.  This was a very strange phenomenon.  People's wealth switched hands very quickly.  In the afternoon, the person might be a rich landowner.  By evening he was homeless, having gambled everything away—his land, his house, even his wife.

When the Communists came, they banned opium smoking and gambling, and they banned Christianity.  Apart from working in the fields, people didn't have anything else to do in the evenings.  Political campaigns turned into a form of entertainment. They devoted all their extra energy to beating up people, killing people, and confiscating the property of others.  Those homeless drug addicts and gamblers suddenly became loyal revolutionary allies.  They didn't have to pay off their debts; their gambling and drug habits, their poverty, the practice of pawning their wives and children for drug money, their homelessness, everything was the fault of landlords exploiting poor revolutionaries.

Poverty became a badge of honor, and the children of the poor became the offspring of the true proletariat.  They felt superior to everyone else and were well fed and clothed.  They didn't even have to take any responsibility when killing someone at public denunciation meetings.  That was more fun than smoking opium and gambling, don't you think?

The Communist Party's policies might have been well meant, but the people who implemented them took a lot of liberties and interpreted them in their own way.  Random killing was quite liberating.

The stories of those whose faith saw them through the impossible years is humbling and inspiring.  As in The Corpse Walker, Liao Yiwu is careful to place more blame on past administrations than present, but he does give a glimpse into the struggles of the modern Church in China, including the friction between the official, state-controlled churches and the house church movement.  Perhaps the attitude of this new convert is also eerily familiar.

[T]hree religions are practiced in our home.  Everyone does his or her own stuff.  Why can't they form a uniform family religion so we don't have to fight all the time?  It's kind of strange.  As a kid, I would go with my dad to Buddhist temples and mimic the gestures and facial expressions of the Buddhist statues. ... When I was with my mom, I would attend services at an old church.  People sang hymns.  It was kind of grand and cool.

I prefer Christianity.  Buddhism is too regional, secular, and not cool.  Those old men and women, those wealthy businessmen or government officials, go to the temples, burning incense and praying for trivial stuff, such as more money, more promotions, and more luck.  Taoism is way too highbrow, not attainable.  I think Christianity is the only one that's all encompassing. ...

People in your age group are too political.  You guys are too interested in politics.  It's different with my generation.  Sometimes it bothers me.  I attended a house church one time.  When we were reading the Bible, a minister or a church elder suddenly stood up.  Without getting everyone's approval, he started to deliver a political statement and then asked eveyrone to pray for so-and-so who had died for the Lord, and then so-and-so who had been arrested by the government.  He also asked us to pray for the sins of the government.  He totally changed the mood of the gathering, making it depressing and tragic.  Several members started to cry after hearing his political plea.  I guess I was too young and didn't have that much experience.  I felt awkward.  I thought, Why don't we let God do God's work and Caesar do Caesar's?  Why do we always mix the two?  The government wants to politicize religion, and some Christians are doing the same thing.  These things kill my spiritual appetite.

For all those anxiously awaiting news of the next grandchild:  not yet.  But my prediction in the Baby Pool is for tomorrow, so I'm hopeful.  Not that I've ever gotten the date right....

I'm not sure, now, whether Hooker and Company... is a favorite picture of Joseph's or just a favorite name. He seems to have a preference for long phrases, or at least he practices them more. During today's naptime I overheard him repeatedly reciting (while playing with trains) the Albert Anker title, Heinrich Pestalozzi and the Orphans in Stans.

One thing I forgot to mention in my previous post is how absolutely clear and distinct is Joseph's diction, which I find unusual for someone just a month past his third birthday.  It makes me feel guilty for my own sloppy speech!

I also catch myself using unnecessary "child speech"—not baby talk, but the simple way adults usually talk to beginning speakers, such as, "say 'please.'"  Like any three-year-old, Joseph needs to be reminded to ask politely, but it appears to be just as easy for him to say, "Please, Grandma, may I have some more milk?" as simply, "please."  And now that he has caught on to that, the reminder, "what do you say"—or a pause, or similar actions that parents use to get their children to say please—will often evoke the whole sentence, with "milk" swapped out for the appropriate word.

When did "different" come to require a diagnosis?

The child who once was an energetic boy now has Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder.  The shy kid who likes math and science more than his classmates do is "on the autism spectrum."  We have conflated normal-defined-as-average with normal-defined-as-free-from-disease, and view with suspicion anyone who strays too far—in any direction—from the common herd.  It's a very contemporary diagnosis, too:  today's hyperactive child would likely have been an admired leader in Viking society.

We are learning, possibly too late, of the dangers of narrowing the once-vast diversity of life on our planet, especially in agriculture, where nearly every Thanksgiving dinner is dependent on a single breed of turkey—turkeys so stupid as to be unable to reproduce without human intervention—and where one variety-specific disease could wipe out nearly every existing banana plant.  I believe we have a similar problem in the human population, where for all we talk about the importance of diversity, we are identifying more and more people as abnormal—people who would in an earlier day have been considered merely quirky, or even honored for their differences.  We then attempt to "cure" them by squashing them into standardized boxes, the most common of which is school.

I officially gave up on the psychiatric profession's labels when I discovered hyperlexia:  "the precocious ability to read words without prior training in learning to read typically before the age of five."  If children aren't reading by the end of first grade, schools and parents begin to worry, and yet reading before kindergarten is a problem?  What's with that?

The proximate inspiration for this post was observing grandson Joseph, age three, as he is learning to speak.  His speech is much more echolalic than I am accustomed to, and because that is yet another psychiatric diagnosis, I was wondering if I should be concerned—though it's difficult even to think of a child who speaks two languages as being "behind" in speech.

Now that I'm where I can observe Joseph directly and interact with him I can laugh at any concerns, though I doubt that would stop the psychiatrists from labelling him.  His speech is definitely different from that of the average child his age, and so is the way he is figuring out language patterns.  But it's not bad; it's just different.  And fascinating.

Instead of repeating words and short phrases that he hears from other people, then gradually putting them together into longer and longer verbalizations, Joseph remembers, and repeats, entire sentences and long passages, such as the name of one of one of his favorite Frederic Church paintings:  Hooker and Company Journeying through the Wilderness from Plymouth to Hartford in 1636.  Really.  With such things as these as his basic language building blocks, it's not surprising that his approach to speech is unusual.  Instead of creating phrases of increasing complexity by a more additive method, he starts with a long sentence, takes it apart, and puts it back together.

Recently he and I were watching the people walk up and down a main street in Zermatt; more precisely, we were observing their dogs.  "Here comes a dog," I said, and Joseph repeated, "Here comes a dog."  Then he expanded with, "Here comes a white dog."  Later, he proclaimed, "Here comes another dog," and still later, "Here comes a little, white dog."  Same pattern, expanded from the inside out.

It is my totally unverifiable theory that Joseph started out thinking in large chunks of language.  For example, "put your shoes on" is associated, as an entire sentence, with the act of putting on his shoes.  Thus, whether describing his actions or asking for help, "put your shoes on" has been the phrase of choice (sometimes modified to "no put your shoes on").  Gradually, however, he is dissecting these chunks and discovering the recombinant possibilities.

It's fascinating to observe.  It's different.  It's not normal-defined-as-average.  But it's certainly not a disease.