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June 27, 2006

Complications

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Photo by LaPriel of Ospreys Flaunting Local Fishing Laws

I started writing a flippant letter this evening to my local Congressman on how I disagree with his amnesty fixation. Then I spent several hours reading previous immigration legislation, the intricacies of H-B1 temporary work visa caps, historical immigration trends, my Congressman's rationale for his position, etc. (Clearly, anyone who would do that instead of enjoying a cool Idaho summer night with his kids is nuts, or they are stranded in New Orleans because eighteen thousand librarians who have been in town the last five days for a convention booked all the flights home forcing said immigration reform student to fly out tomorrow afternoon. Which begs the question, why would any group in their right mind book a convention in New Orleans in the middle of summer?)

I gave up on my letter. Immigration reform on its surface would seem like a straightforward problem. Yet like every other major issue facing us (i.e. global warming, terrorism, healthcare reform, massive government deficits and debt, etc.), immigration reform is so dang complicated. It's much easier to resort to name calling or to drop blanket demands like "they ought to just fix the mess." And exactly how are they suppose to fix it? And who is “they”? It is always simpler to assume someone else out there is smarter than us and has all the answers but refuses to tell us what the answers are, or they won't implement them because they are "right-wing conservatives" or "left-wing liberals" and they don't want to give advantage to the other side.

The truth is no one has the answers. They just have theories on what might work to address one aspect of a particular problem without knowing what the impact will be on all the other facets tied to that problem. The variables are so interconnected and changing so quickly it's a wonder we get anything accomplished at all. We want to believe issues are black and white, but in fact they are all gray. We want to believe government, industry, or some other global entity can solve the big problems at the flick of a switch. They can't.

Big problems are solved through a simultaneous top down and bottom up effort. They are solved through the creative trials and errors of many individuals and organizations, including elected officials, acting both autonomously and in concert. Governments provide structure and set the bounds and limits of the problem solving playing field. Governments can protect against obvious injustices, particularly when the motivation of the vast hoard of problems solvers and profit seekers is asymmetrically opposed to the common good. But governments will never solve the big problems. Governments are followers. And the world is changing too fast for lumbering followers. The big problems will only be solved by individuals. And when the solutions to a big problem bubble up to the surface, and enough individuals gravitate to the solution and agree that it might work, then we can work with government to make sure the solution gets incorporated into the rules of the game.

June 25, 2006

Recovery

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by Camden

Yesterday was a blur. A perfect day for biking, sunny with no wind, lost to a virus that kept me on my back for twenty four hours. Now I am vertical again and filled with greater empathy for the bedridden. Recovered just in time to catch an early flight tomorrow to steamy New Orleans.

My son, Camden, was kind enough to join me in my misery. While I am sorry he was also sick. It at least meant that my illness wasn't due to food poisoning from our little Idaho town's only Thai restaurant.
That would be sad indeed.

June 19, 2006

Gone Fishing

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Henry's Fork

I have lived in the flyfishing mecca for five years now. People come from around the globe to fish the rivers and streams just a stone's throw from my house. I have bought a box of flies in Jackson, taken a casting class with my son, purchased books on the best fishing spots along the Henry's Fork, consulted local guides and fishermen and both watched and read A River Runs Through It.

But I haven't caught a fish because I've never gone flyfishing.

I am what they call a theoretical fisherman. I like to dream about standing in the river and watching the rise of the midge hatch and the trout jump. I can see the osprey soar overhead, hear the distant call of the sandhill crane and feel the tug of a rainbow trout on my line. It is a perfect picture. One I don't want to spoil by actually fishing and finding out the water is frigid even with waders on, that my feet tire after thirty minutes of balancing on river rock with twenty miles per hour winds blowing. That I won't catch a trout, because I am in fact the world's worst fisherman, having proven that many times over, especially during the week I spent in Canada in lakes where the pike hadn't seen a fisherman in decades and were hopping into my friends' canoes, sometimes even dispensing with the whole get captured on the lure enterprise. Yet they ignored my line. Real pike and trout can sense amateurs and avoid the shame of being caught by one.

So I tell myself I will fish when I am sixty and I'll buy a pretty red boat like the one above. I'll let it float along, and I'll lean back and watch the osprey soar. Sometimes I might even cast my line just so I can say I've gone fishing.

June 10, 2006

Childhood Dreams

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My son Bret and I went with a friend of mine to the Great American Ball Park in Cincinnati to watch the Reds play the Cubs. Unlike me, Bret has not spent his childhood immersed in baseball. He hasn’t drifted off at night with a radio to his ear listening to the distant call of the game by Marty Brenneman. He hasn’t thrown countless balls against the side of the garage, imagining he is pitching in the final game of the World Series. He doesn’t even own a mitt.

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Some might consider this a personal failure on the part of his father. How could you not teach your some the Great American pastime? How can your son have a complete childhood unless he has filled out his own boxscore, experienced the thrill of smacking a line drive over the third baseman’s outstretched arm, or hung his head in despair after a loss. These are the lessons of life.

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Because it’s only a game. And I know too well the burden of a father’s expectations. Of knowing I wasn’t and never would be the athlete my dad was. Of playing another year of baseball, because I was too afraid to tell my dad I wanted to quit.

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Childhood is a time to discover and explore, to find out for yourself your likes and dislikes. Not to be handed a ball or a bat at the age of two so that by age six a boy knows of no other path but the one that leads to the baseball diamond.

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I will not live my dreams through my children. It’s much more fun to watch my kids dream for themselves, and let them lead me to paths yet discovered.

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June 4, 2006

Hungry Calf

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LaPriel, the kids, my brother-in-law, sister-in-law and their children all went to the Dairy for ice cream last night. Out back, a line of future ice cream makers were aligned in their stalls. We were amazed by these calves' tongue dexterity. Later, LaPriel pointed out to her city boy husband that the calves were begging for milk. The question is which one of us did the calves think was the mama cow.