Friday, December 30, 2005
Update on my mom
We found out while I was home for Christmas that my mother, Ruth Becktell, does indeed have breast cancer. If I had a recent photo of her on my computer, I would include one, but she is pictured below with her older sister, Elaine. Thank you for your prayers.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Old, but interesting news
I was reading the City of Moscow press releases on the internet and I found this one regarding an act of vandalism against NSA:
"At the Moscow Human Rights Commission meeting of August 17th, 2005 commissioners were made aware via letter and personal presentation by Dr. Roy Atwood, President of New Saint Andrews College of an act of vandalism which occurred earlier in the day. This act took place to greet students, faculty and staff on their first day of classes at New Saint Andrews College. On the morning of August 17th the words “Hitler Youth” were written in chalk at an entrance to the college.
The Human Rights Commission of the city of Moscow would like to express our unequivocal condemnation of this act of vandalism. This act does not reflect the aspirations of the Moscow Human Rights commission and is absolutely contradictory to an environment of constructive civil discourse."
"At the Moscow Human Rights Commission meeting of August 17th, 2005 commissioners were made aware via letter and personal presentation by Dr. Roy Atwood, President of New Saint Andrews College of an act of vandalism which occurred earlier in the day. This act took place to greet students, faculty and staff on their first day of classes at New Saint Andrews College. On the morning of August 17th the words “Hitler Youth” were written in chalk at an entrance to the college.
The Human Rights Commission of the city of Moscow would like to express our unequivocal condemnation of this act of vandalism. This act does not reflect the aspirations of the Moscow Human Rights commission and is absolutely contradictory to an environment of constructive civil discourse."
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Please pray for my mom
My mother, Ruth, has just found out that she most likely has breast cancer again. That's her on the left. Please Pray.
The Art History Class of Atlas School
I altered this photo with a Photoshop filter called "painted edges." It helped cover up the fact that I had to move some of the kids around to make them all fit in! Anyway, these are my students. Don't they look smart?
The Wenaha-Tucannon Wilderness Wide
I would love to get some criticism of the following poem I've been writing. I don't think I'm done with it, but I'm to a good stopping place and I'm tired of working on it now anyway! So, tell me what you think if you get a chance. It's based on an actual hike that I took about a month ago with some friends.
We left on a hike in the month of November,
Not knowing exactly the ending thereof.
Though of course we were seeking a sight to remember,
A mountain with scope of the lands that we love.
For the map of the national forest provided
The general idea for where we would go,
A location where noble and free men resided
Of old, upon Washington’s inland plateau.
But as for details, we had known not a one,
Such as whether some danger would send us back home,
Or whether our way would be fearing or fun,
We only had said that, “to some end we roam.”
And so thus we set out in the fog in our cars,
Which conveyed us like wombs to the start of the trek,
Where we burst from their warmth and collected snack bars,
And attempted evasion of snow down the neck.
But our first inclination, to play on the blanket
Of snowfall, which softened the path where we stood,
Was followed by chatter of how we would make it,
By this road or that, to the edge of the wood.
There was one way which drifted so slight to the right
And which skirted a canyon of certain intrigue,
But the other we took, for it promised more height,
And the prospect of views, though perhaps more fatigue.
So forward we went, till we reached a small clearing,
And wondered aloud if we further should see,
For it seemed that by now our keen vision was nearing
The depth of our forebears so noble and free.
The soothing bright light from the whiteness reflected,
So loosened our muscles we almost there stopped
For to ponder enjoying the meadow, protected
From winds, and not tiring as others may opt.
But at length there was one of our party who said
That he longed for some fitting conclusion to reach,
As a peak where we thought that our map had first led,
Where the beauty would wholly deprive us of speech.
For we want, we then thought, to attain a perspective
Of actual things which alight on our path:
Of arachnids which zip on their fibers reflective,
And chipmunks which scold us, indignant in wrath.
For which of these joys, understood on its own,
Can provide what we seek in the sum of their memory,
When, having ascended a snow-covered throne,
We examine their careful and conscious assembly?
So again we went onward, resigned to our pace,
But with hope in our hearts and each countenance calm.
Now imploring the Lord ever more for His grace,
And restoring our rhythm by singing a psalm.
“We’re as yet going up” was our watchword repeated,
Now frequently, climbing the moderate grade,
Though the trees of the wood ever stood undepleted
And running their gauntlet our hoping was staid.
But then rounding a corner we looked down the way
Just as far as we could to the place where we guessed
It would bend yet again, yet again to delay,
But it didn’t for once, for this once it went west!
It continued straight forward to meet the blue sky
And the edge of a valley with green gullies etched,
Where the honey-gold needles of tamaracks lie,
And the jagged Blue Mountains beyond them are stretched.
We beheld there in silence the beauty before us,
The Wenaha-Tucannon Wilderness wide,
It’s unceasing variety blended in chorus,
So vast and transcendent with brightness supplied.
How enchanting, we pondered, to paint every feature,
In feeble, but right, imitation of God,
And with brushstrokes on canvas, to Christen each creature,
As Adam our forebear in gardens he trod.
For above on the ridgeline a cabin commanded
The spectacular view from its tempting retreat,
Where with paints and some brushes, though snowbound and stranded,
One could primp his own garden till tidy and neat.
But in truth we foreknew that this scheme wouldn’t do:
To consume many seasons as hermits secluded,
While Christ was as yet making everything new,
All the cities and sinners, the whole world included.
Whatever He spoke to us here of His glory,
We knew we must bring to His church, which now forms
His garden and temple, sustained by His story,
And proud as this mountain, though circled with storms.
We left on a hike in the month of November,
Not knowing exactly the ending thereof.
Though of course we were seeking a sight to remember,
A mountain with scope of the lands that we love.
For the map of the national forest provided
The general idea for where we would go,
A location where noble and free men resided
Of old, upon Washington’s inland plateau.
But as for details, we had known not a one,
Such as whether some danger would send us back home,
Or whether our way would be fearing or fun,
We only had said that, “to some end we roam.”
And so thus we set out in the fog in our cars,
Which conveyed us like wombs to the start of the trek,
Where we burst from their warmth and collected snack bars,
And attempted evasion of snow down the neck.
But our first inclination, to play on the blanket
Of snowfall, which softened the path where we stood,
Was followed by chatter of how we would make it,
By this road or that, to the edge of the wood.
There was one way which drifted so slight to the right
And which skirted a canyon of certain intrigue,
But the other we took, for it promised more height,
And the prospect of views, though perhaps more fatigue.
So forward we went, till we reached a small clearing,
And wondered aloud if we further should see,
For it seemed that by now our keen vision was nearing
The depth of our forebears so noble and free.
The soothing bright light from the whiteness reflected,
So loosened our muscles we almost there stopped
For to ponder enjoying the meadow, protected
From winds, and not tiring as others may opt.
But at length there was one of our party who said
That he longed for some fitting conclusion to reach,
As a peak where we thought that our map had first led,
Where the beauty would wholly deprive us of speech.
For we want, we then thought, to attain a perspective
Of actual things which alight on our path:
Of arachnids which zip on their fibers reflective,
And chipmunks which scold us, indignant in wrath.
For which of these joys, understood on its own,
Can provide what we seek in the sum of their memory,
When, having ascended a snow-covered throne,
We examine their careful and conscious assembly?
So again we went onward, resigned to our pace,
But with hope in our hearts and each countenance calm.
Now imploring the Lord ever more for His grace,
And restoring our rhythm by singing a psalm.
“We’re as yet going up” was our watchword repeated,
Now frequently, climbing the moderate grade,
Though the trees of the wood ever stood undepleted
And running their gauntlet our hoping was staid.
But then rounding a corner we looked down the way
Just as far as we could to the place where we guessed
It would bend yet again, yet again to delay,
But it didn’t for once, for this once it went west!
It continued straight forward to meet the blue sky
And the edge of a valley with green gullies etched,
Where the honey-gold needles of tamaracks lie,
And the jagged Blue Mountains beyond them are stretched.
We beheld there in silence the beauty before us,
The Wenaha-Tucannon Wilderness wide,
It’s unceasing variety blended in chorus,
So vast and transcendent with brightness supplied.
How enchanting, we pondered, to paint every feature,
In feeble, but right, imitation of God,
And with brushstrokes on canvas, to Christen each creature,
As Adam our forebear in gardens he trod.
For above on the ridgeline a cabin commanded
The spectacular view from its tempting retreat,
Where with paints and some brushes, though snowbound and stranded,
One could primp his own garden till tidy and neat.
But in truth we foreknew that this scheme wouldn’t do:
To consume many seasons as hermits secluded,
While Christ was as yet making everything new,
All the cities and sinners, the whole world included.
Whatever He spoke to us here of His glory,
We knew we must bring to His church, which now forms
His garden and temple, sustained by His story,
And proud as this mountain, though circled with storms.
Guess what's on the National Register of Historic Places
The Nuart Theatre!
"Milburn Kenworthy built the Nuart in 1935, three doors away from his 1926 Kenworthy Theatre. The restored Kenworthy now serves as Moscow's performing arts center and the Nuart, which was operated by Carmike Cinemas for many years, was closed in March of 1999 for first-run movies but remains in excellent condition.
"The Nuart was purchased by Community Christian Ministries In January of 2004, and they have renovated the original 500-seat theatre to include the Redhawk Crossing Bookstore, wireless Internet ports, an espresso bar and couches to read books on spirituality. A small stage has been built in the lobby for their open-mic nights and on Fridays the Nuart returns to its roots with free movies.
"The Nuart, along with its neighbor, the Kenworthy, was put on the National Register of Historic Places in November of 2001."
I found the above quotation on a site about historic theatres.
"Milburn Kenworthy built the Nuart in 1935, three doors away from his 1926 Kenworthy Theatre. The restored Kenworthy now serves as Moscow's performing arts center and the Nuart, which was operated by Carmike Cinemas for many years, was closed in March of 1999 for first-run movies but remains in excellent condition.
"The Nuart was purchased by Community Christian Ministries In January of 2004, and they have renovated the original 500-seat theatre to include the Redhawk Crossing Bookstore, wireless Internet ports, an espresso bar and couches to read books on spirituality. A small stage has been built in the lobby for their open-mic nights and on Fridays the Nuart returns to its roots with free movies.
"The Nuart, along with its neighbor, the Kenworthy, was put on the National Register of Historic Places in November of 2001."
I found the above quotation on a site about historic theatres.
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