Book of Mormon Narratives: Inspirations and Offenses

    This far into the 21st century, the Book of Mormon has been around pretty close to 200 years. 187 years, if we are counting closely, but as the next decade plus goes I presume it is safe to round up. In that period of time, millions of people have come to their various conclusions about it. To some it is scripture, to others a false attempt at mimicking holy writ, to others a mere fable. There are at least 3-4 billion living people who have little or no access to it, or possess any workable knowledge of the Book of Mormon. Which makes sense to its detractors. And this is a reason for missionaries of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints to send out more envoys. There are still quite a few illiterate folks in the world, there are some who do not have this book in their language, and there are plenty who live in environments where the Book of Mormon is not freely welcome.

 I will make a list of a few of the conclusions that people have arrived at regarding this book. But before making that list, I wish to write a few ideas that I have as a believer as to its intent by its creators and owners today.

1. The Book of Mormon intends on having its readers believe in Jesus Christ as the Son of God, the Savior of the World, and for each believer of Him to have Jesus the Messiah as their personal Redeemer.

2. The Book is supposed to be evidence to the prophetic mantle of Joseph Smith and his successors as Prophets, Seers, and Revelators; that they are the true authorities of a Restored Church of Jesus Christ in the latter or last days, also known to many Christians as the end times.

3. The Book of Mormon is used as additional scripture to help motivate and instruct Christians in the last days to be better founded in Gospel knowledge, blessed by its messages for enlightenment and edification.

4. It is supposed to help the entire world know about the true history of peoples that were not being tracked historically, but that figure a part in world history that portends to the trajectory of the peoples of the Bible like the Tribes of Israel, and to the origins of many native Americans and others who have descended from them today.

How true all of those points are remains to be seen by each person who comes in contact with it.

Much like the Bible, or the Quran, or other purported holy books, the Book of Mormon is a test of faith and study for millions.

Some claim, like Joseph Smith its "translator", that it is the most correct book, and that one will grow closer to God by following its precepts than any other book.

Range of conclusions:

1. The Book of Mormon is true scripture, backing the Holy Bible that Jesus Christ is who He says He is, that the Restored Church of Jesus Christ is established by those that espouse the Book, that the Western Hemisphere is a Promised Land of God's people, and that Book of Mormon peoples who have survived until now await long promised blessings, some of which are more nuanced and particular.

2. The Book of Mormon is a true record but its translator Joseph Smith became a fallen prophet.

3. The Book of Mormon was completely fabricated falsely by Joseph Smith. And Joseph himself was of such ill repute that anything written by him should be questioned as morally justifiable.

3. The Book of Mormon was invented by Joseph Smith;  he copied other materials to put it together.

4. The Book of Mormon was written by contemporary associates of Joseph Smith, who also may or may not have borrowed others' works to make it.

6. The Book of Mormon is a well meant tome like other sacred writings, but does not contain literal truthes, but is more valuable as a document for moral principles.

5. Not only is the Book of Mormon false, but Jesus Christ is also a fabrication of human hopes and beliefs, thus Christianity is not based on a true narrative.

6. The Book of Mormon is a tool of Satan, deceiving well-meaning people into supporting or following a false faith, or cult.

7. Joseph Smith was deceived by the Adversary, Satan, who deceived him with the use of trickery and supernatural yet nefarious means, like visitations by "angels of light".

8. The Book of Mormon is a nice attempt at teaching a moral code, like the Holy Bible, but is not heavenly directed or inspired.

9. The Book of Mormon is part of a coercive message/narrative to control people for the natural purposes of having a unified organization that exploits people for their money and continued power influence.

There are probably a few other conclusions that I have not voiced, but hopefully at least touched on above.

What to think? What to believe? How to deal with these 15 compiled books that claim ancient origins, edited by a wise prophet that saw our future day and trials?

Many of us believe there is a loving and just God that wishes the best for us, His Children, and that He will settle the doubts and scrutinizing when we put forth the effort to find out.

I believe I know what works for me. I cannot tell anyone else what they will believe. I can only exhort all within the sound of my voice and influence to try to find out.

Moroni, its last writer, gave us a promise that God Himself will send His Spirit for us to discern and know with certainty if in fact that is true.

Learning that invitation as a youth helped me believe in it more. It was up to me and God. We can listen to other arguments and testimonies, consider them, weigh them, but ultimately only the individual can decide whether to buy the narrative of this book or not.

We, active Latter-day Saints, promise blessings and strength by better knowing its contents.

May each reader and analyst consider for their own betterment.

And yes, I agree, it can be hard to know. But worth the effort.

Neil Reid and Bobby Pedronio: Similar in their Precocious Shortened Lives

This is a reflective analysis of two real people: one I knew personally and the other that I knew of from afar. What makes this odd, and interesting, in my opinion, is that true to the standard of "truth being stranger than fiction", they had a lot in common, and this in some ways makes this story worth telling. You can look one guy up on the Internet and learn a lot more about him. The other one I changed his name because family is worried about his story not being known to his progeny. I have run into problems posting about him in the past and I do not want to do that, least of all hurt people's feelings or self-esteem.

Both these guys left us too young; I feel like they ought to be remembered: their lives had meaning. I feel good about recounting a bit of their lives for others to hear. Their lives had meaning beyond themselves, but also to their fans and friends. I count myself as part of that cadre. And of course, sympathies and condolences to the family that lost them much too soon. I also feel like their lives have meaning to me in the sense that I can learn from them and they are worth analyzing. Admittedly, there are parts of me that I think I can relate to and identify with them both; as I describe their situations some lectors may decide the same and possibly benefit from this. I truly hope someone does. Neil and Bobby were ultimately pretty cool guys, worth knowing about.

What is really compelling to me is that when I write, when I think about things and put them in print, I feel like I understand myself and life better. Not bad for a Saturday morning. Maybe I just use the contemplation of these two people of an extension of myself, my own identity. Maybe. So be it.

The fellow that I did not know personally, Neil, was someone who affected a team, a coach, a sport and fan base that I have supported avidly. And he had an impact on those things that I watch, take pleasure from, and have contemplated over the years. You don't have to relate to my sports enthusiasm to know that this guy had a unique life, left a legacy of sorts. The  impact was a moment of time, but in some ways influenced millions over the years. It bespeaks generations of Americans, in my opinion. You'll understand as it plays out.

I'll start with Bobby. I knew him from when we were little kids, playing with toys in his back yard while our mothers visited. Bloomington back in the 1970s. Not a bad place at all.

However, things were a bit tougher for Bobby, I think, because his parents were split up; I was never sure how much his relatively wealthy dad supported this young guy: I think he deserved more attention. His mother did her best as his primary caregiver; because of church relationships and his natural affable spirit he had a lot of friends and associates that he would see and hang out with. But, I do think in retrospect he was rather lonely, and maybe never found a key group of friends that he could relate to or related to him.

He was gifted musically, talented enough to play drums in bands that were "cool", and that gave him some cred, some respectability as an artist. Bobby was artistic, at least he had the aspirations, and I know he dressed and groomed himself thus as a teenager. He had a favorite Christian hard rock band that was unique in the 1980s, Stryper: "To Hell with the Devil!" was their mantra. Bobby liked them so much he would visit them on tours in cities across the country. They knew and recognized him and they would pose with Bobby back stage. His mother doted on his likes and ambitions to the best of her ability, as I observed.

Later Bobby married young. His wedding was in an artistic fashion that had Medieval themes and dress. I missed it while living in South America. I saw Bobby a few times at church when I came back from my two year mission. He being married while I was single, and attending a different congregation, we did not see each other much and I don't recall talking with him substantially. He had hair in a pony tail usually, which maybe was something that superficially kept me more at a distance, I don't know. He left Indiana University with a practical science degree and moved to the inter-mountain west with his wife, and they had a child.

By the end of the 1990s I found myself with a new life and a sweet wife from California, living in the Inland Empire east of LA. I came to learn that Bobby still aspired work and creativity as an artist, now with career aims to be a movie writer. He had spent more of his time with friends and interests that lent toward films and narratives. His own marriage had drifted and he ended up moving to Los Angeles alone. A mere hour from me where I had established my West Coast home. We spoke on the phone; I intended to visit with him. I was moving to LA for school and I planned on having him over for dinner. My brother-in-law that knew Bobby and I since childhood also planned on catching up with him. Evan lived in the Bay Area four hours to the north, so for mid-western guys like us, being together in the Golden State was a fortuitous circumstance.

But it would not end up that way, regrettably. People with promise, we find in life, do not always achieve their goals or hopes as designed.

Like Neil Reed.

Neil, like Bobby Pedronio, was a natural redhead. He was unique in ways that were more public than Bobby, thus you can check my story about him in the annals of television and the Web. Perhaps some books and magazine articles on file recount his rise and fall. Not just perhaps. It's there, Wikipedia and all.

Like Bobby, I think Neil was probably a loner. I don't know for sure, just making some guesses. I think a lot of guys are loners at heart. Maybe ladies, too; maybe that is simply the human condition for many of us.

I first saw Neil in person doing what made him both famous and notorious, or infamous. Little did we know when we saw him as a precocious basketball savant at Bloomington High School South, my hometown alma mater, what national implications were laid in store. He was merely a freshman in high school,  and me a re-visiting returned missionary with younger high school buddies checking out the Purple Panthers. I got more of the basketball playing bug later in high school, but I had been a viewing fan since fifth grade. It was fun to see the old high school team, some of whom I had played against personally at the local YMCA. And some were college bound, always cool to see future talent prospects.

Reid was already tall for a first year high school baller, 6'2" or so. But more important than his height was his basketball acumen, his intelligence and wits, and natural ability. He was special on the court: he could shoot, he could pass, he could rebound. He could outplay people bigger, older, faster. He would help you win. He moved away to Louisiana with his family either as a sophomore or junior, and wound up becoming the Louisiana player of the year as a senior down south. And because of his previous Bloomington connection to Bob Knight and Indiana University, he matriculated back to Bloomington.

Good story. But it goes sideways.

Now if you do not know about Robert Montgomery Knight, legendary basketball coach and winner at every level of the amateur enterprise of roundball that is revered in the Hoosier State, I will allow you to find out more about that elsewhere. Small libraries contain those stories. Suffice to say, Coach Knight would assemble talented, dedicated, young college athletes and do extraordinary things.

And Neil fit the mold, or so we thought. Talented, dedicated, driven. Attributes of Knight's last benighted hero, Steve Alford. Slow of foot, overall, but money on the court game day. A natural-born hoops killer.

Reed was the heir apparent after a drought of no national championships, which was becoming uncomfortably long for us impatient Hoosier fans well into the decade. Reed would be part of the championship puzzle, we tantalized. High expectations, high pressure, and Knight was a fiery heavy laden coach, trying to bring back the glory of the 1970s and 80s, in a generation of the 1990s when times had changed.

Physical, or even mental abuse was now a hiss and byword throughout the sports world. People saw more, complained more, filmed more, reported more. John Feinstein, a nationally renowned sports writer now, did this with Knight himself in 1985-86, perhaps the harbinger of amplified attention and pressure towards success, ratings, money, power, prestige through sports.

Reed accused Knight of choking him during practice. I was a part-time student of IU at the time of the accusations. ESPN touted the headlines. It seemed serious, if true. We had public footage of Knight grabbing players, slamming desks and phones at courtside, "accidentally" head butting a star player, being very physical demonstrative and emotionally overbearing. And yes, throwing chairs. Knight was the tyrant, the bully, the general, the champion. In the 1978 Pan Am Games in Puerto Rico he was issued a warrant for arrest for assaulting a police officer. I think the claim is still pending in 2017, 40 years later and over a decade after Bob's retirement.

But in Indiana, basketball is a bit like a war. There are casualties, people get hurt. But the pains surpassed are worth the triumphs. Coach Knight was our General Patton: we loved him, warts and all. He didn't cheat, he required his student-athletes to attend class, and made them become something beyond disciplined ball players, come heck or high water. And Coach used the crude language of a military general as well.

But the Reid accusation changed things. And then the video tape of the "choking" was released, as there were questions if there were witnesses or tangible proof. Bob Knight did grab Neil by his throat during practice. I have seen it many times, regular time and slow motion. Of course, I could debate the meaning of that "hands on" act.

So, yeah, I said do your own research on Knight, but his story makes Neil Reid's story and Reid's life more significant, and now their narratives will forever be inextricably linked.

Neil left the school, ended up transferring to Mississippi  State, then wound up in Santa Maria, California. He was leading a normal life and doing all right. Happily married and doing things out of the spot light, well distanced from this incredibly overblown scarred incident and past.

Us Hoosier fans resented him and the whole end of the Knight era more for the overall malaise of the program, not necessarily because of him as a person or player. That "choking" led the IU president to be put on a zero tolerance policy, which a couple years later got Knight fired unceremoniously. Reid became somewhat of a scapegoat; I recall reading and hearing (Bloomington is a small town, after all, people talk), that other IU players alongside Reid accused him of being lazy and not hustling, precisely what Knight was trying to affect in the exact practice incident in question.

But let bygones be bygones and live to another day, right? Live a good life with kids and grandkids, and reflect and wax nostalgic and perhaps counter-spin or reflect what could have been  done better, said better, lived better.

But life is strange. Neil Reed died in his mid thirties. Tragic early death. He was living a normal life like the rest of us, perhaps occasionally approached by some sports historian or reporter, but beyond the old life of a culminating negative moment of drama and anguish, recriminations of different audiences and generations.

Alas, tough realities.

My friend Bobby died young, too. Alone, an overdose that may have been due to some medications that did not react right with his already weakened body, an illness that is still mysterious to me.

Neil and Bobby. One I knew, the other I didn't.

Both a part of me in different ways.

Both are like me in different ways. Both dads. Both with hopes to do something productive, significant. Both Hoosiers that ended up in California.

I left California a number of years ago. I could have died in the state a few times, I had a few health flare ups, nothing too serious, but sobering all the same. Cars and trucks were more likely to be my demise there, but fate did not choose me.

Neil and Bobby. I hope the best for you now, where you are, and your remaining family and friends.

Your lives had meaning; I only hope to find out more about what that could really mean.

Maybe others will too. Lives don't happen in vain. And brilliance in any arena is not forgotten.

Bryce Harper Update 2017 (MAY)

578. So far this season Bryce has moved up a bit, hitting another 13 homers in his young career. He is tied with Ian Desmond, former National teammate, but 3 seasons ahead of Mr. Harper in the majors.

Carlos Baerga (14)

134

B

HR Log

Derek Bell (11)

134

R

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Paul Blair (17)

134

R

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John Buck (11)

134

R

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Ian Desmond (9, 31)

134

R

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Tom Haller (12)

134

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Mel Hall (13)

134

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Bryce Harper (6, 24)

134

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Eddie Joost (17)

134

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Mike Pagliarulo (11)

134

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Ernie 591. Dale Long (10) 132 L HR Log   Al Martin (11) 132 L HR Log   Joe Mauer (14, 34) 132 L HR Log   Juan Rivera (12) 132 R HR Log   Cody Ross (12) 132 R HR Log   Norm Siebern (12) 132 L HR Log   Zack Wheat+ (19) 132 L HR Log Whitt (15)  598. Wes Covington (11) 131 L HR Log   Ken Harrelson (9) 131 R HR Log   Joe Kuhel (18) 131 L HR Log Rank Player (yrs, age) Home Runs Bats HR Log   John Milner (12) 131 L HR Log

134

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He is almost to the top 500.

Good year so far, hitting well for percentage, too.   589. Mack Jones (10) 133 L HR Log   Frank Malzone (12) 133 R HR Log

Kafka was a Crazy Man in the Middle of Europe

Franz did not publish much during his lifetime.

He became a literary legend posthumously, after the second world hemorrhage, the locus in Europe.

Franz Kafka was born in 1883 as a Czech citizen, a little bit like a citizen between a rock and a hard place. "Between the sword and the wall" as the Spaniards say. A tough place to be: wedged between a bellicose France and Germany, and a historically aggressive Russia. Czechs need to choose their friends wisely, and deal with their enemies smartly, too. Enough to make people feel like they are on trial for unknown reasons, or perhaps feel like their humanity was at stake, or questioned.

Their existential value.

Kafka wrote about those things. Was he crazy? Or was he dealing with some real issues?

I think that being a Czech in the late 1800s would be psychologically troublesome.

Poor young Kafka dealt with it. He missed out on World War II because tuberculosis  killed him before all that. But as a guy and a citizen of those caught in the middle, perhaps he saw the writing on the wall.

Crazy guy.

Maybe not so much.

A gifted writer, a brilliant thinker, a normal victim of his circumstances, perhaps.

I don't know. A prophet. A sage. A crackpot. A weirdo.

He died in 1924.

God bless his soul; enjoy his writings. I think they say some things that we should hear.

Humanity Can Do Better: We Devolve into Cruelty All Too Often

Humanity Can Do Better: We Devolve into Cruelty All Too Often

I started this post sometime last year as we were far into the Arab winter and other world travesties.

2016

And here we are, a third of the way through the present year; bad stuff continues.

The particularly brutal Islamic State has been going through their hard times; many Western powers and their local allies are pounding on this recent iteration of sharia and government, headquartered in western Syria.

Syria itself is a shambles, where the regime leader Bashar Al-Assad has been attacked by many sides and more vociferously called out for crimes against humanity, including the use of toxic Sarin gas against innocents, mere children.

The Russians that are present there and back home disagree. They have their troubles.

Vladimir Putin is playing by many of his own rules.

The former Cold War powers are playing their games of influence throughout the Arab world.

Former nation-states struggle to be one: Libya, Yemen, Iraq.

Somalia has not been one place since the early 1990s, perhaps earlier. I question if it ever was really under one central government, even as a colony.

South Sudan has too much infighting. Very deadly.

Yemen is threatened by severe malnutrition and hunger, besides the wars, as is much of eastern Africa.

Thousands of refugees try to cross borders, primarily destined for Europe. Some die by drowning along the way. Some get stuck in border nations, refugee camps.

Afghanistan is still wracked by problems of governance and stability. The poor and maltreated choose to leave, which is many.

Random terrorists from central Asian nations like Kirgyzstan and Uzbekistan attack targets in Sweden and Russia; Turkey suffers terrorist blows.

Chicago has had a bad year in violence, maybe it has been the last three...

Drug gangs hurt US populations, as they do in Mexico, and most likely Brazil. All over gangs have their effects of violence and counter-violence.

Venezuela sees many violent protests, there is a shortage of everything.

Chinese boats and military controlled islands and planes threaten the seas.

North Korea shoots off missiles and cries foul.

And yet, vast swathes of the world's population seem to mend their way ahead.

Without the killing. The bloodshed and brutality.

Still, our systems of justice seem strained to prevent hard realities of forced cruelty.

Is it cruel to abort unborn fetuses? Many Americans believe so unless there is proper justification. The rest of the world has its say.

Is it cruel to mine the lands and seas of fossil fuels, depleting the natural commodities of our planet and further polluting our waters and gaseous atmospheres?

Is it cruel to deprive a billion Chinese citizens of the freedoms of the Internet and the vagaries of free expression?

Is it mean or cruel to tax the majority of citizens to subsidize the health care of the most needy and forsaken?

What is mean, lacking sympathy? What is cruel? What do we deem unfair and nasty?

How can we let the people do such wicked things in so many places?

How can we be distracted? How can we go on day after day ensconced in our own little worlds of safety, peace, and abundance?

Deny the fact of extreme privations. Cruelty. Brutality. Want. Hunger. Thirst.

We are cruel.

We have to admit: we are a cruel and unfair people, truly deep down.

We don't care enough.

Some go and do.

I can name parents, brothers-in-laws, nephews, uncles and aunts. Good hearted friends. They have gone to West Africa, South Africa, India, Cambodia, Indonesia.

Trying to make a difference.

They have.

Made stabs against cruel fates of humanity.

How to kill this beast?

Keep searching for answers, beyond our comforts of home.

Keep searching and moving, thinking and reacting.

Do what it is supposed to be done. Be kind and brave, by going outside.

Outside your home. Your neighborhood. Your city. Your country.

Go beyond.

Your native language.

Go and be like the spiritual masters that have taught you.

Go and do.

Chasing Waterfalls

    One way of talking about living in South America as I experienced it, where I have been repeatedly, is chasing waterfalls. Every time I went there I did literally visit some waterfalls in the countryside of this beautiful nation, but the greater goals behind those visits sum up those exercises.

You could say that the three times that I went there for three different reasons, I was pursuing things that are ephemeral and squishy. Not tangible. Hard to measure the success.

Then again, perhaps I found the rewards that I was looking for. Perhaps those things, those rewards or results remain to be found in the future. Perhaps they are not easily measured, but at least analyzing and discussing them may prove useful.

Thus this entry about the subject.

Chasing waterfalls is a metaphor that some people use to pursue something that is not solid, not real.

The first time I went to Chile was for the purpose to preach and teach the gospel of Jesus Christ, to baptize people in Christ's name, to help reach out to anyone who would hear our message and help them repent of their sins, commit to living His principles and doctrines, and join His Church, the Restored Kingdom of God on Earth.

A waterfall? A false premise? An unattainable fantasy? A lie?

To millions who have any exposure to the message and practice of Latter-day Saints, each person has their own take. Kingdom of God filling the earth and fulfilling prophesy. Nice humanitarian type group. Pushy and pesky people looking for recruits. Greedy corporation cheating millions. Satanic cult growing by power of the adversary, contrary to Bible teachings.

Take your pick!

I fall under the first descriptions as far as my outlook and understanding. I am an advocate and active member, doing my part to make the faith succeed.

After my 22 months of dedicated service as a full time missionary there, my first stay concluded and I considered my time and efforts a success. My fourteen companions and I, nine of them from the country, plus the members and other full time missionaries that I associated with, managed to teach and serve many people, some of whom entered the waters of baptism and joined the Church.

In my five areas of assignment (and others) I can point to people who we taught and baptized, sometimes investigators that were full or part member families. We also visited large numbers of active and less active Church members, this also being an indication of success and productive interaction. We did service projects, participated in parties and celebrations and fun activities, we lifted and blessed people as we went.

On paper: a success. Mentally and emotionally, linguistically and spiritually, I left the country in October 1991 feeling like I had accomplished what I had been assigned to do.

Waterfalls visited? The national landmark Salto de Laja (twice), and Salto Reguen, a harder to find waterfall south of Mulchen, 8th Region.

A couple years later I found myself back in the familiar grounds of the 8th Region again. As a student, university level. I loved going back to my old haunts, re-finding my former brothers and sisters that I had known as an Elder, a full time servant of my faith. Now, as a part timer, so-to-speak, I went back to streets and homes that I had attempted to have a good influence on, with no specific mission as formerly assigned, but simply to see how their lives had progressed.

At least one former convert had passed away; many had moved on to other residences withing their towns, or to other cities and regions. Some had stopped attending church; some had become more activated and gone on missions themselves! Children had been born to some of them.

It was difficult to gauge the success of my personal efforts based on the lives of the people that I knew 2 to 4 years later; of course, me being one person among them for only a few months at time, that would not be the most accurate way of assessing my efforts. But as a team member, I was hoping for the overall stated objectives of people being happy and content with their lives. And I saw evidence of a great mix of happiness and frustration.

1994 waterfalls visited: Salto de Laja again (once). Some Andes side waterfalls near mountain retreats and homes, such as the Rojas river home and Pan, Jamon y Vino, 7th and 8th regions. Some waterfalls in the 9th and 10th regions, in the Lake Regions. Perhaps one on the island of Chiloe.

My last visit was 11 years after the student visit. 14 years since the original mission excursion. There was more change and evolution, obviously. Much positive and negative had occurred to those of the Concepcion Mission that I knew. I had changed a bit: I was married with two children. I had worked as a teacher, mostly teaching Spanish and English as a Second Language in California. I had earned a Masters Degree in Latin America Studies, had attended and served in a dynamic Spanish speaking branch in southern California.

I saw my old stomping grounds with new eyes. And my old ones. And through the eyes of new ones: my wife and two daughters. Change, progress, time passing and decay. The whole gamut.

More people had passed away, like a former first counselor in the foundling Santa Juana branch. More people had moved. More had gone on to serve missions. Children were adults, some of them had their own children.

Streets and neighborhoods had changed. Roads had been created where there were empty fields and trash heaps. New buildings were built where there were previous torn down institutions or shack-like hovels.

More cars abounded, the new multi-media of cell phones and computers, Internet cafes and increased technology everywhere.

My wife and I, my two daughters had positive impacts, we felt. We did what we had hoped to do, and maybe a little more. My attempts at teaching English was not  as fruitful as I had hoped.

Nor were my attempts at church re-activation. Even finding former converts proved very hard. Some, I believe, were almost erased from my memory. The town I stayed in for five months, Angol, had the magic number of seven converts that I could not finally recall who they all were...

Things slid into obscurity, ephemeral missions were hazy.

Waterfalls visited: not Salto de Laja (sorry Jen), but we took a side trip to the Andes and climbed a snowy volcano and saw some side snow-melt waterfalls in the 8th region, west of Lonqimay.

Maybe between that and Curacautin.

Chasing waterfalls.

Were there measurable results of success? A way to gauge how things were affected for six months?

Is there a method to prove what waterfalls chased (metaphorically) has resulted in?

Maybe not for years to come. Maybe not ever.

But-- sometimes worth reflecting about.

Chasing waterfalls.

30 Years Later, The Dream Lingers On

30 Years Later, The Dream Lingers On

Thirty years after a fact, it is amusing to reflect back on a thrilling occurrence. Some things that occur that are fantastic to one's imagination and interest may only happen once in a lifetime, like an incredible brush with a celebrity or a brush with fame itself; maybe there was a sudden windfall of money or a singular spectacular vacation that one knows will not happen again, so there are no further hopes of obtaining such pleasure. Fine, one can live life knowing that  one will not expect to have that event or experience again. But you will always cherish the memory.

In the world of sports and teams and players that have achieved greatness, we like to think that things will happen again, especially for those that we favor. With due diligence and patience, hard work and some luck, and of course, the continued devotion on the part of the fans and followers, success and the pay off should happen. We pay for tickets, TV rights, paraphernalia, we even donate to the school to make it great and desired for great players to make it a champion. We read about it, listen and analyze those who also read and scrutinize it. We will win the ultimate crown again, as the pattern has been established. For a fan of Bob Knight and his teams, the pattern had been established to win it all every 5 to 6 years. A nice pattern. Prior to him, IU had placed two banners in the ceiling, so the pace of victory had increased since the beginnings of the NCAA tourney in 1939.

But, Knight's last 13 years at IU he made only one more Final Four, and perhaps as a sign of the change of guard nationally Knight lost in the semi-finals to his esteemed protogě Coach Mike Krzyzewski; this was in 1992, five years after the wonderful 1987. The pattern had been altered. Well, 25 years since then, the pattern had been irrevocably smashed. Because the following year was more snake bitten. Here we are, Hoosier fans. 2017 and 5 coaches later, nada, zip, and zippo. The triumvirate of nothing superlative.

So, for an event that caused such sheer joy and celebration that many decades ago, and that was expected to yield more in the years since but to no avail, it can cause some heartache and angst.

Grumpiness. Forlornness. Contempt and crabbiness. Despair.

Lots of yelling at the TV and other things. Random dogs and cats, and the occasional squirrel.My poor wife and kids... And occasional passers-by...

We have had years to think that things would be different, that IU would in fact, rise back to their championship selves. I guess we have been tricked into thinking we (they) were that good? Was it all a deception or fantasy? Perhaps. 1992. (See above). The following year 1993-close but key big man injury ends those hopes. I was hopeful in 1994. But no.

I reached my twenties. No.

I reached my thirties, still hopeful, despite harsh setbacks like the Zero tolerance policy of former IU President Myles Brand and the firing of the Legend. No still.

Now I am past half way into my forties. The latest coach fired, after a nine year tenure. Nada.

1998. 2002. 2007. 2013. Even the beginning of this the 30th season (2016-17), we beat top teams Kansas and North Carolina, making us think we could dream so big in March of this season of '17, but this year unlike many that did not start as promising we knew by January and February that this team was on board a sinking ship.

And now in March, it sunk for sure.

It's like waiting for a job that never comes, a raise that never happens, a promised date that is forever postponed. Cancelled, booted to the cellar.

Hoosier fans have grown impatient, cynical, and desperate.Three decades! Three decades? Almost a third of a century?

And such is the life and expectation of an Indiana Hoosier basketball fan in 2017.

In 1987 I was a sophomore high school student in Bloomington, Indiana. It was the heartland of the United States late in the Ronald Reagan era, the heartland of basketball country, largely because of a legendary basketball coach at the university a mile away. Yet, Indiana cared about basketball beyond college or pros: it was at the high school level where people loved it the most in the Heartland of Indiana. Everyone cared. Well, okay, not everyone in Bloomington watched or cared about the Hurry'n Hoosiers or the local high school teams. But I learned to care and breathe it, like so many of the rest of the state. I was a part of the majority, a religion known as hoops. And I loved it.

 The intense passion for it had grown on me. In me. Through me; I knew that drugs were bad, addictive and destructive, just as an anti-drug crusader named Toma would preach and yell on the floor of Assembly Hall, the basketball arena on campus, to thousands of us middle schoolers in 1985, the very court and stage where the Hoosiers wended their magic every season. Of course, that very season of '85 the Hoosiers struggled and did not make the NCAA, the Big Dance that they had won just four years earlier. But they did make the NIT, and went on to the championship game in New York before losing to a future legendary Indiana Pacer professional player named Reggie Miller of UCLA.

Indiana played poorly and loused up on occasion but they were still good. Almost great, while not champions. That was part of the thrill. And the Hoosiers would come around and win: everything!

The Big Dance, the Big Enchilada. Happened twice in my lifetime already by fourth grade, four times in the school's history, back to World War II. Indiana was a constant when it came  to hanging championship banners from the towering vaulted roofs of our home court, Assembly Hall. Right by 17th street. I lived a few blocks from 1st.

Just four years prior in 1981, as a fourth grader, the very day that our newly elected former California Governor was shot as a new president in Washington D.C., the Indiana team had won its second ring during my short life; I realized the day after that historical Monday that I did not take it in properly, that I did not celebrate enough with the surrounding campus and fellow Hoosier fans, my classmates included.

So I waited with breath bated another five years, and sure enough as a sophomore, a tenth grader at Bloomington South High School just a few miles from the campus of Indiana University and the Bob Knight Hoosiers, we (I emphasize we) did it again: this time in dramatic fashion with a tremendous comeback and a last possession shot at the Superdome in New Orleans. The games and season leading up to that pinnacle were climatically exciting as well. This was a like an energy drug of exquisite imagination and lore for me as a fan and resident of the community. Such events stretch on into the magical month of March, but well beyond into other hopes and fancies. And that would be the last time of triumph, to the chagrin of millions of us.

A little-known junior college transfer named Keith Smart carried the day along with senior and underclass heroes; we celebrated Knight's third national crown, and I soaked every moment in.

And I wanted more, in the 1990s, the 2000s...

I moved across the planet during other seasons to come, from Indiana to Chile to Utah, back to Chile, back to Utah, a side trip to the Middle East, back to Indiana, then to California, back to Chile again (3rd time's the charm), then to Virginia and California again, with trips to Missouri and Arizona,back to Virginia, with  a tour to Afghanistan, back to Virginia.

And: no! Never! New coaches! New players! New hopes! And ... nothing.

Okay, we made it to the dance and advanced a few times. All came up short, most very short.
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BREAK: I learned today that Tom Crean has been fired after 9 years of being the IU coach, part of the unsuccessful legacy of not reaching number six for the banners, our would be 6th elusive national championship. 16 Mar. '17
The vagaries of March Madness.
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30 years later and we are still waiting for the 6th banner to be hung from the rafters. IU came closest to this feat in 2002, but Maryland had a superior team responding to the surprising run of second year coach Mike Davis. But despite that indication of a legacy of greatness right after Knight, his luck and recruiting ran out and IU faltered into March. He was fired, the well had run dry by 2005. Other years we were generally far from the goal since 1995, some years not qualifying for the tournament or more often simply putting up a dud in the first round of the Big Dance. Like going to a ball or dance and leaving after the first song or two. Not many people's idea of a dance.

And so, this being the week  at the end of winter that IU's March dreams have ended again to the sounds and realms of a thud, the 30th year since that ecstatic time of the nostalgic eighties and my teenage, high school and middle school years, some think of them as the Wonder Years, yes, for these same reasons, I myself have a high school student daughter in her sophomore year, and the search, the quest, the dream, lingers.

The hope is ahead of us, like many seasons that we hope to see come again.

May it ever be so.

Go, IU. Get that class of players, get that championship back to Bloomington.

Go, IU!

Fight.

Fight.

Fight!