"Holiday Gifts: Spinning a Thread" Family Peanut Brittle Recipe... Elder Rosewalk

Rosewalk's Nephews Making Peanut Brittle 

          One family ritual that epitomized the way my mom’s various roles came together was making peanut brittle. Each year between Thanksgiving and Christmas, my mom would make over twenty batches of peanut brittle—mostly to give away to family, friends, and her children’s teachers. How much patience it must have taken to make so much candy, especially when you consider that she was also demonstrating the process to children while she made it.

          Generally, she also made the candy with her grade school students; it would be tough to estimate how many children observed Mom’s peanut brittle making process at school. In those days before extreme peanut allergies and lawsuit fears, children helped stir the hot syrupy mixture as it bubbled in an electric skillet.

          Mom practiced these activities first with her own children, allowing us to stir while she gave us instructions at each stage of the process.  At first, the stirring was all we were allowed to do; the period while waiting for the sugar syrup concoction to “spin a thread” before adding the peanuts seemed to last for hours.

          To detect whether or not the syrup mixture is “spinning a thread,” it is necessary to hold up the spoon over the pot and watch the mixture drip down. After the sugar and corn syrup has reached a syrupy consistency, it still takes several minutes before it attains the proper consistency to spin a thread. It is important not to add the peanuts to the syrup mixture until the mixture has spun a thread. For the first several minutes of attempts, a watery flow descends from the spoon. For the next couple of minutes, the mixture seems to flow a little more easily, so novice cooks may be tempted to call it done. It requires an experienced candy maker there to say, “That’s not it yet. You’ll recognize it when you see it. It looks like thread.” When the mixture does spin a thread, the thread is quite thin, lightweight enough to blow off to the side. When young children see this stage, some of them usually saw, “Ooh! It has a hair in it!”

          Once the mixture spins a thread, the candy maker’s patience is tested further while waiting for the syrup and peanut mixture to turn a golden brown. The stirring stage while waiting for the mixture to turn a golden brown can take ten or fifteen minutes, and Mom had more patience during this stage than we children did. We children took turns stirring, while Mom took care of other kitchen chores, keeping an ear cocked for another significant signal; all at once, Mom would say, “Listen! Do you hear the peanuts popping?” At this point, she would take a turn stirring a time or two to determine whether or not the mixture was golden brown or “not quite brown enough.”

          For the final stage, we children had to stand back away from the pot while Mom added the baking soda, margarine, and vanilla. While adding these ingredients, she would stir the mixture quickly with a wooden spoon. The way the mixture foamed up, then quickly spread out when poured onto the cookie sheet, seemed like some kind of miracle.

          As an adult, I now realize that the real miracle was that Mom had the energy to engage in this month-long process of making one or two batches of peanut brittle a night. She taught school to young children five days a week; along with Dad, she shepherded her family to church three times a week; also, along with Dad, she transported us to various athletic events and music lessons after school. Also, as a college dean’s wife, Mom accompanied Dad to at least one school function per week; during basketball season, our family went to two to three games a week.

          Each batch took nearly an hour to make, so no wonder she left all the ingredients out on the cabinet, ready for use when she found a free hour. Mom bought the ingredients in bulk:  five to ten pounds of raw shelled peanuts from a shelling business, bottles and bottles of cheap white corn syrup (“the cheaper the better”), and pounds and pounds of white sugar.

          Most people are only familiar with the chewy, overpriced peanut brittle sold in small boxes during the holidays. My mom’s candy is a completely different sort, generally provoking a comment such as, “This isn’t like any peanut brittle I’ve ever eaten.” The trick to the recipe isn’t a candy thermometer or a timer. Instead, the recipe requires the ability to recognize certain significant stages in the candy-making process. Though I’m including the recipe below, successful peanut brittle requires years of observation of the process, preferably while stirring the syrupy concoction with a wooden spoon while an experienced cook patiently watches over one’s shoulder.

Peanut Brittle

Choose a dry day for candy making. Humidity is not your friend.

Supplies:  large soup pot, wooden spoon, dry & wet measuring cups, measuring spoons, large cookie sheet

Ingredients: water, sugar, white corn syrup, peanuts (or pecans), butter, baking soda, vanilla, cooking spray (Pam)

• Heat ½ cup water to a boil in a large pot.
• Add 2 cups sugar, 1 cup white corn syrup.
• Heat over med-medium high heat until mixture spins a thread. Stir frequently with a wooden spoon.
• Add 2 cups peanuts (or pecans).
• Heat over medium low-medium heat until golden brown (stir frequently, if not constantly).
• Remove pan from heat.
• Add 2 T. butter (or margarine), 1 t. vanilla, 2 t. baking soda (fresh & dry—use a dry measuring spoon)
• Stir quickly & thoroughly. Pour out mixture quickly onto a greased cookie sheet. Do not spread. Let the mixture spread out on its own.

          Elder Rosewalk

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Politics and Old-Time Religion by Elder C. Burr

Sunday morning about 1960

            As a young child, I had no problem imagining God as “Father.” Every Sunday my mild-mannered dad preached about a loving God from a Methodist pulpit.  In the early days when I was in kindergarten (1959), he led a sing-along on Sunday nights in a beautiful brick church in Burr Oak, Kansas.  People of all ages attended.  We would raise our hands and request our favorites: “When the Roll is Called Up Yonder,” “Love Lifted Me,” “Give Me that Old Time Religion.” My weekly request was “Heavenly Sunshine.”  The songs were usually up-tempo and men, women, and children sang with gusto.  I rarely hear that type of congregational singing anymore.

            Another part of my religious upbringing seems to be missing, especially in politics—a regard for decent, respectable behavior toward others, even those with whom we disagree.  

            My parents and church taught me to respect the Ten Commandments, including do not kill, cheat, lie, covet, and steal, and to honor the Golden Rule: “Do to others as you would have them do to you.” If we kids got caught cheating, lying, or bullying, we were scolded, spanked, and sent to our rooms.  As a child, I naively thought all adults learned these lessons and they would never surrender to bad behavior.  But, of course, I was wrong and now I get daily reminders of how wrong I was.   

            None of us is perfect, even if we sit in a church pew on Sunday morning, but I'd like to see our leaders try harder to respectfully disagree with their political opponents without name-calling, without shouting over one another.

          Lately (October 2018), a 24-hour news cycle exposes politicians or leaders flaunting “alternative truth” messages or admiring, even advocating, vocal and physical violence toward others.   Bad behavior makes headlines and it seems the media and politicians feed on one another in a dizzying assault on our good nature. 

    I’ve grown grumpy.  I desire a return to “old-time” virtue and ethical living that my preacher daddy taught me around the kitchen table and from the pulpit. 

         My dad and I are often not on the same page politically, but we refuse to let our differences put a wedge in our father-daughter relationship.  I credit our bond to love and a strong ethical foundation based on respect for others, learned from grandparents, parents, and old-time religion.    

--- C. Burr

--revised in 2024.  

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The Maple Tree Outside My Window" A Poem by Kansas Elder Myster E.

The maple tree outside my window

Talked to me this morning

In language, I never heard before

She talked about patience and waiting

Breathing in and breathing out

And being still

She talked about pointing up toward heaven

And rooting deeply down

Grounding with the earth

She talked about stretching wide

In communion with the neighborhood

Offering refuge to strangers and friends

She talked about beauty

In being full, in being empty

And the wonder of being old

She talked about bending with the wind

And weathering the storm

About standing strong

She talked about taking a little

And giving a lot

About being one with All

The maple tree outside my window

Talked like I never heard before

--Myster E

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Bessie -- A Foundational Salt of the Earth by C. Burr

Bessie (photo taken about 2005 on Mother's Day)

“Maybe there is no such thing as time; there are only moments, each with its own story.”  Robin Wall Kimmerer, Braiding Sweetgrass

Robin Kimmerer inspires me to sit and listen to nature. One morning in early June,  I reclined in my backyard, noting how each oxygen-filled inhalation is a gift from trees, grasses, shrubs, flowers, mushrooms, and mosses.   As I breathed in whiffs of a neighbor’s lilacs, I thought of my mother-in-law, Bessie, and the gentle ceasing of her breath a few weeks previously.   “Death lost its sting” for me during her sacred transition, and although I’ll always feel sad about her leaving us, I am comforted by HER words of comfort. She told us not to worry; she was ready to go.

              I offered to write Bessie’s obituary, meeting the challenge to collapse a life story into a couple of paragraphs—a story absent of awards, degrees, and distinguished honors on a list of who’s who, but a life that affected dozens of people over her 93 years.  

                A friend pulled me aside, after reading the obituary, and said “There are people who are the salt of the earth and then there are people who become a foundational salt of the earth.  Bessie is one of those people.”  He went on to explain that her goodness laid a foundation that will live on in her children, grandchildren, and other people who knew her.

I know what he means.  This tiny woman lived significant verses of the Christian Bible without asking individuals if they were “saved.”  She didn’t judge others, practiced kindness, remained humble, and cared for her ailing husband, Albert.  She respected her flesh and blood temple, taking excellent care of herself and she was a good neighbor, visiting the lonely and the sick.  As salt of the earth, she preserved loving-kindness as Jesus taught.   

Bessie’s story lives on in so many of us that her kind essence will expand beyond the grave through numerous descendants over decades.   And yet, when I consider a 1.5 billion-year-old Sioux quartzite ushered into Kansas from the ice age and when I scan the midnight sky for stars millions of light-years away, I realize that Bessie’s life – all of our lives-- are but tiny specks.  

 Even in our smallness, says Kimmerer, “Isn’t it miraculous that each life, stone, and star has its own story?”     I pray my brief moment on this earth, my tiny spark of a life story can be as foundational and fruitful as my mother-in-law Bessie’s.

                                                            

Blessed are the poor in spirit,

    for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are those who mourn,

   for they will be comforted.

Blessed are the meek,

   for they shall inherit the earth.

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,

   for they will be filled.

Blessed are the merciful,

   for they will be shown mercy.

Blessed are the pure in heart,

   for they will see God. . . .

You are the salt of the earth.        Matthew 5:3 – 8; 13.

  

                                                         ---- Elder C. Burr

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"The View From Avery's World: What Would Our World be Without Animals?" by Turtle GG

                                                                            

As a family therapist and cultural anthropologist I have been increasingly concerned about how casual and disrespectful humans are about their relationship to animals—companion animals as well as those in the wild. In my search for ideas for changes in this world view of the supremacy of humans, I opened the book of essays, Zoologies: On Animals and the Human Spirit by Alison Hawthorne Deming, a science writer and poet. Her answer to my dilemma came in the form of a question, “What does the disappearance of animals mean for the human imagination?” I admit it took me three days of pondering what she was talking about.

Then I got smart and consulted with my 11-year-old granddaughter, Avery, about what she thought animals mean for us. Instantly, she said she loves the beauty of the flowers along with the bees they feed, not only the animal but how the rest of nature relates to it. She went on to say birdsong is so important to her that she couldn’t imagine outdoors without it. She agreed with me that animals can teach us things like how all the elephant family helps take care of the babies. Then lovingly she described the connection with her two dogs, wanting to be with her and snuggle and play. They feel warm and soft, comforting.

Interestingly, in Avery’s brief and heartfelt conversation, she hit upon most of the salient points I had unearthed in two years of research. She connected the beauty of nature with the animals (bees). She showed her mindfulness of the birds in her own habitat and how they contribute. She noticed that animals have found ways that work toward caring for their own that might be an improvement on what some humans do. She picked up on the importance of reciprocal connection in the world with animals. She touched on the idea that animals she is familiar with live in the moment and provide comfort. And what really stood out is the joy she feels about the natural world. She notices the beauty with her hearing and eyesight, her touch and her emotional attachment, especially to her furry friends.

 Avery also pointed me toward asking the right question in my own imagination--not what do we do for animals but what do they have to offer us? What would the world be without them? Thinking of animals as a resource for our spirits and imagination and for our sense of wonder and awe opens us to a new worldview. We share the earth and contribute to each other. This reciprocity between humans and animals connects us with all of nature, giving us hope for the future of the earth.

                                                  --Turtle GG 

submitted 9/6/18

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"NOW AND AGO" An Essay Revering the Oldest Rocks in Kansas by RiverSoul

 Monument to the Ice Age, Blue Rapids, KS

              One recent day, as I periodically feel the need to do, I revisited the Age of Glaciers Monument in the small NE Kansas town of Blue Rapids.  Some 10-11,000 years before the present (YBP) the last glacial sheet melted its way north out of Kansas.  Fossil evidence shows that several large mammals, including both mastodon and mammoth, roamed the Midwest during that time.  Archeological evidence suggests that Paleo-Indians lived in Kansas by that time and hunted, among other animals, those giant elephantine forms.

         The basic reason for my revisits is a particular type of stone:  Sioux quartzite.  I needed to read again that the large pieces of this stone, scoured out and dragged by the last glacier from SW Minnesota and found scattered across the landscape as far south as the glaciated NE corner of Kansas, are at least 1.5 billion years old.  This quartzite, a type of metamorphic rock formed from sandstone under great heat and pressure at geologic depth, began with ancient riverbed sand deposits.

          I grew up encountering those large, roughly spherical chunks of quartzite scattered across my home county of Pottawatomie that lies just to the SE of Blue Rapids.  Some chunks of this reddish-brown, very dense and resistant stone are 5-6 feet in diameter.  Standing next to one of these large stones, I feel jelly fish fragile and utterly temporary.

Oldest Rocks in Kansas

          Why does whatever metaphysical plan that may exist even bother with the mortal, and tenuous, human stage of development?  Is it (to use poet Maxine Kumin’s term) that our “Ground Time” here is a period of testing to determine what sort of placement we will earn in the spirit world?

          Or is the appearance of humans on this planet just the result of contingencies, a position fervently argued by Stephen Jay Gould, the late Harvard paleontologist and student of evolutionary theory?  Did our line persist and develop to its present stage due to a string of unplanned mutations and happenstances in the struggles, the gives and takes, the triumphs and losses of organisms during the eons of life on Earth?  Did we become the dominant species by a series of unplanned rolls of the dice?

          Or, to look at Sioux quartzite in another way, was this stone shown to us as another potent lesson about time?  About how, looking at that ancient rock, we must be moved to admit that, in spite of our thus far short Ground Time here, we, recklessly, have done great harm to the Mother Earth that sustains us?

          About how we humans have a finite amount of time—a non-renewable resource—at our disposal to turn around our collective lifestyle; about how, given our penchant for habitat destruction, and if humans are to have that significant Ground Time here, we must learn to not wait, as we tend to do, until it is almost too late; about how we must learn to live in a state of mutualism with our Earth?

          About how we must desist from viewing our Earth as something evil, as something we must conquer and control?  (Being evil is not the same as being dangerous.)  About how we must accept that we are part of the biological and physical worlds that swirl both around and within each of us?  About how we must learn to both cherish and to become persistent allies of the fragile crust of Spaceship Earth?  About how our interactions with our planet must be done with the grace of the good neighbor:  the patient gardener with the long view, living a blessed lifestyle known as “reciprocity?”

     I study the small piece of quartzite on my shelf—and I wonder.

                                                                                                                   RiverSoul

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Artisanal Caregiving -- A Creative Alternative to Nursing Homes By RoseWalk

Artisanal cheese is locally sourced and produced on a small scale, rather than mass-produced. Artisanal care is individually sourced, selected, and developed, rather than institutionally hired, supervised and monitored.

Post-stroke, my husband Jerry’s (J.) time in rehab was almost over. I knew nursing care was only a part-time solution, an exhausting, expensive compromise while I moved into our newly purchased accessible home. I had to get away from the 24/7 television noise and other distractions in the nursing home. My new home would be a sanctuary. To protect my peace of mind would not be easy, but the core elements of my vision were taking shape:

I would keep working part-time.

I would not become a martyr to my husband’s care.

I did not want strangers in my home.

What would I do? I began informal conversations with some of the workers I had bonded with during J.’s short time in rehab:

Would they be interested in working at our home?

Would they be interested in a flexible schedule with a good hourly wage?

Within a few weeks, I had lined up a few people to work for us 5-20 hours each per week. All of them were CNAs and had nursing experience.

They were experienced in providing the transfers and personal care my husband needed. They could help me get his wheelchair in and out of the car when taking J. to appointments. They had been trained in person-centered care, so they were attentive to his likes and dislikes at mealtime and when selecting videos to watch.

More importantly, they liked him. They enjoyed playing cards with him or laughing with him about a funny video. When I came home from work or chores, the caregivers were good company for me, helping me navigate our new normal.

I had an accountant help me set up a payroll system for Social Security and Medicare taxes, so I could deduct these employees’ wages. This was a workable system. As a friend put it:  “It’s a good trade. You need help, and they need money.” By foregoing an agency, I could pay the assistants more. As the months passed, the CNAs I had recruited from rehab transitioned to new jobs, new states, new responsibilities. I realized this fluidity would be a common feature of employing those in their 20s—an age at which most of us are in need of employment while in transition between life stages, while trying to figure out what’s next. I knew I’d need to recruit new caregivers soon. Who would they be?

Synchronicity struck. I received an email from a former student asking for a letter of recommendation. Also, he wondered if I knew of any part-time jobs.

It took me a day or two to realize that D. would be our next assistant. An English major, he was a good listener, attentive to detail, kind, calm, and compassionate.

He was not a trained caregiver, but he was physically strong and a good problem solver. I could provide whatever training he needed. After all, hadn’t I learned on the job?

D. worked for us for nine months before he left for another opportunity. Another former student recommended her friend P. P. worked for us for over a year and recommended his friend K. to fill in the gaps when he was unavailable. Before too long, K. found a job in her field, and P. cycled back in to work a couple of months for us before going out of state for grad school; fortunately, D. would be back in town to attend grad school the same week P. would be moving away.

These caregiving relationships were mutually beneficial. While at our home, caregivers had more ownership of their schedules:  they could eat meals when they wanted, visit the restroom when they needed, read, nap, or do homework. As long as they were available to respond to J.’s needs in a timely fashion, caregivers could relax.

There were other mutual benefits. Yes, they needed money, and we needed help, but J. and I also enjoyed their company. We exchanged movie, book, and music recommendations. We took turns cooking and shared our leftovers with one another. If I needed something from the grocery store, I’d text a request to the caregiver due to work for us the next day. I enjoyed hearing about their ups and downs with friends, partners, and family members; they also seemed interested in my life. On the cusp of career changes, caregivers seemed open to advice and recommendations from me, and I enjoyed feeling helpful. J. and I both enjoyed having these young, curious, intellectually engaged people in our home. We were happy to discover and cultivate these artisanal caregivers.

What are the key characteristics of a successful artisanal caregiver? They should be intelligent, curious, and flexible.

High in both IQ and EQ (emotional intelligence), these special caregivers could see J. as a human being with needs other than personal care. Though he can’t speak (much), his intellect is intact. Their understanding of this fact drives their respect for him and their unwillingness to talk down to him in the patronizing sort of tone that can be heard in some nursing homes, with well-intentioned, but over-worked and over-tired workers. They can also listen, pay attention to non-verbal cues, and apply complex (not always well-articulated) instructions.

Successful caregivers are curious, therefore interested in learning new things, including how best to care for J. They are also interested in the world more generally, providing wide-ranging topics of conversation that overlap with both of our interests.

Successful caregivers are flexible and able to respond according to J.’s changing energy level and abilities. They are aware that his condition will be stable, unstable, then . . . terminal. Their own transitional status allows them to cope with the fact that this job may suddenly be over.

Though I miss our mostly carefree life before J.’s stroke, I am aware that our current situation has brought some unexpected benefits. We have made new friends, and, together, we have all learned more about how to cope creatively with life’s challenges.

                                                          ---Rosewalk

Submitted 7/29/18

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"Saint Flower" A poem about zinnias from Elder PrairieTalk

Zinnias are like some special kind of saint

smiling in the face of my transgressions.

They forgive me when I don’t water them

though the Kansas sun beats down like hell.

They accept it when I uproot them

to some godforsaken spot I need to brighten.

They keep face when I cut them down in full bloom

and let them slowly wilt on my sunroom table

while the cat nibbles at them

and the vase water begins to smell.

They even seem to nod their approval

as the compost pile becomes their final resting ground.

I see some now

from the front porch swing.

They are cheering a spot

in a made-over bed,

their yellow, orange and red petals

barely faded

by dust from the road

and I have little to offer back

save the salvation they give me

on this late July afternoon.

 Ann L. Carter
(Elder PrairieTalk)

(More information about PrairieTalk (Ann Carter), please see her website:  annlcarter.com) 

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Call for Submissions: ELDERS SPEAKING.ORG

Elders Speaking group blog celebrates elders -- their wisdom, their creativity, and their reflections.     Browse through our past submissions.  You’ll find a variety of topics and styles of writing, including poetry from published and unpublished poets.  

Select “Contact Us” on our home page for information on submitting your story, poem, essay, or photo of artwork/photography.  We do not share emails.

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A submission does not guarantee publication; however, our administrator will read all submissions and offer feedback and suggestions, usually within a few weeks.   

"Growing Up In Kansas: The Poor Farm" by Kansas Elder Aldwyn

                                                              Memorial Stone at County Cemetery                                                                                                                             

     The site was located about two miles southeast of town. We drove across Black Creek and parked in a narrow drive next to the small fenced area.  It had been newly mown, weeded and well cared for.  There were only two grave stones visible on the small plot of ground.  Across the road was a wheat field with limestone pillars that once marked a fence around the County Poor Farm. 

       The marker at the south end was surrounded by Prairie Primrose and one plastic flower.  The recently laid stone to the north was shaded by the largest pecan tree I had ever seen.  Sure enough, the north stone marker was the grave of my Great Uncle Berry, Grandmother’s Brother.

        Their mother had died when they were children and the father remarried his house keeper.  This enraged Uncle Berry’s grandfather who disowned the family.  Uncle Berry’s father then moved to Kansas and took a homestead in Cowley County.  Unfortunately, he died within a short time after his arrival.  This left Great Uncle Berry to make a go of the farm at the tender age of sixteen.    

       Tragedy struck again.   It was believed that Great Uncle Berry went “coon dog hunting” one dark night and fell into the river.  Unfortunately, he swallowed a deal of water and contacted Cholera which proved to be fatal.  This left his sister and stepmother alone and faced with the upkeep of the homestead.  The Stepmother found this situation impossible, so she placed our Grandmother Emma in an orphanage and returned to her family back east. 

       At that time people were required to go to the Poorhouse if they were ill and unable to support themselves.  I think we call such taxpayer support “Welfare” in today’s society.  Sometimes I heard the term “outdoor Relief” when describing benefits.  The basic idea was that the poor would labor to off-set the expense of their keep. 

       An overwhelming sadness came to me as we stood in front of the stone and read the plain, short inscription.  So many forgotten souls lay in that small fenced area.  I was deeply moved as I listened to the wind move through the grass and trees that bordered the plot.  A dog barked in the distance as if to warn us that he had an eye out for intruders.  I like to think we all had a silent conversation with Great Uncle Berry and those who slept here.

      Ted Kooser’s poem “Site” captured much of the scene and feelings that we had that day.  I send it on with the hope that we shall remember those who helped lay our present families’ path.  They are certainly part of the foundations upon which we stand as well as for those who follow us. 

--  Elder Aldwyn

  Site

  by Ted Kooser

A fenced-in square of sand and yellow grass,

five miles or more from the nearest town

is the site where the County Poor Farm stood

for seventy years, and here the County

permitted the poor to garden, permitted them

use of the County water from a hand-pump,

lent them buckets to carry it spilling

over the grass to the sandy, burning furrows

that drank it away—a kind of Workfare

from 1900. At night, each family slept

on the floor of one room in a boxy house

that the County put up and permitted them

use of. It stood here somewhere, door

facing the road. And somewhere under this grass

lie the dead in the County's unmarked graves,

each body buried with a mason jar in which

each person's name is written on a paper.

The County provided the paper and the jars.

Ted Kooser is a poet and essayist, a Presidential Professor of English at The University of Nebraska-Lincoln. He served as the U. S. Poet Laureate from 2004-2006, and his book Delights & Shadows won the 2005 Pulitzer Prize for poetry.

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Part II Fake News: How to Manage the News (With a Little Help from Wise Friends and the Bible), by Elder Turtle GG

*Part I was posted on March 17 with same photo

Proverbs 3:13 (KVJ) “Happy is the man who finds wisdom and the man who gets understanding.”

Philippians 4:7 (KJV) “And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Jesus Christ.”

My savvy 90+-year-old friends at assisted living, who are very wise, want to “get understanding” as Proverbs suggests. Lydia brought up her concerns about the source that her granddaughter uses for all her news. She encouraged her loved one to check with other sources for balance with Facebook, but doesn’t detect much interest.

Joy Reid (New York Times), a political news reporter, talks about similar concerns; she fears that if consumers believe only what agrees with their point of view, what makes them feel good, it leaves the consumer with a narrow version of what is truly happening.

We now hear the term “fake news”—information put out that is not backed up by facts. Often this is political or financial in nature to win one over to a certain agenda. It may just distort or alter something that is factual. Although the term and the action is a global phenomenon, it is not new. Think of the snake in the Garden of Eden trying to get Eve to eat the apple, as Pope Francis explains (The New York Times https://nyti.ms/2GcOVaX) or Hitler’s sugar coating of the Holocaust to come, even consider the late night comedians who do fake news shows for laughs and the tabloids at grocery checkout. Bias is a kind of fake news as are stories based on rumor. 

A story with only a headline is often suspect as well as reports of science based on poor methods. Putting out fake news is meant to cause confusion or distress. It erodes trust of institutions and leaders on purpose. Social media of the kind Lydia is concerned about seems especially vulnerable to fake news and propaganda.

In fact, the Italian Ministry of Education along with Google and Facebook (The New York Times https://nyti.ms/2kYHplf by Jason Horowitz 10.18.17) started a program last fall in 8,000 Italian high schools to teach students to deal with propaganda, training students to recognize fake news and conspiracy theories online. 

We can definitely compare a suspected fake news story to reporting from other sources. Sometimes fact checks are built into stories on line or newspapers. Of course it is hard to be objective if a fake news story happens to make someone or group we don’t agree with look bad. But my wise group members have powerful tools in their own toolboxes of life experience and value systems. When confused by fake news and other deceits, they are grounded in their own guideposts to sort out what makes sense. They rely on “the peace of God which transcends all understanding and will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” I would rely on their judgement about fake news from their experience anytime.

As I talked to a friend (Rosewalk) about this trust challenge about news sources, she remembered a scripture that her mother had often quoted. It contains wonderful fact checking terms to help make sense of the world.

Philippians 4:8-9 “Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be a virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things. Those things, which ye have both learned, and received, and heard, and seen in me, do: and the God of peace shall be with you.”

It seems that fact checking is an old scriptural practice. This scripture grounds us in our beliefs. It gives us confidence to engage with the global world by being informed and sharing our compassion with those in the stories. 
 -- Elder Turtle GG

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"Solitary Confinement or Zen Retreat?" Elder Rosewalk finds challenges & rewards of caregiving.

As a caregiver, I find myself reading blogs to see how others have negotiated caregiving challenges. One post from a blogger whose spouse has now died offers this advice: don’t resist. Another caregiver’s blog post captures my attention, comparing caregiving to solitary confinement. Each day I negotiate the territory between these two extremes.

          My husband Jerry (“J”) had a disabling stroke in July 2015, leading to major alterations in his life—and mine. Repeated cycling through the stages of grief, we moved houses, acquired equipment, scheduled therapy. Speech therapy, occupational therapy, physical therapy—each offered promises of improvement.

          Nearly three years later, J is somewhat improved, but still severely impaired. He requires assistance for most activities. He sleeps more than sixteen hours a day.

          Most of my choices consider his needs first: is an assistant available to stay with him so I can go to lunch with friends? will J have the stamina to ride in the car for two and a half hours to visit family? will a planned meal be easy for J to eat with one hand? These questions (and more) are the backdrop for our lives.

     Family members get busy with their own lives, neglecting to send even thinking-of-you texts. Three years after J’s stroke, most friends no longer ask what they can do to help. People are busy, and it is tiring for me to continue to explain our situation, difficult for me to explain how lonely I can be.

     Besides, J sleeps a lot, and he is overwhelmed by conversation or visits that last longer than an hour. Also, it takes energy and effort to maintain contact with people who are concerned but clueless.

          Some friends have dropped out of our lives; others are more present than before.  Sometimes I get lonely, but I try to focus on the moment: my husband’s snores, Norah Jones on the stereo, a vase of yellow roses contrasted with a gray sky, a pile of books and magazines waiting to be read, my purple pen, my journal . . . this is my life.

Instead of focusing on what J and I can’t do, I focus on what we can. We won’t be traveling internationally again, but perhaps we can make a trip to an adjacent state or to a nearby city for a concert. I won’t be joining the community choir in their weekly rehearsals (which occur during J’s most alert time), but we will continue to enjoy our favorite programs together, and we will seek out recitals and concerts we can attend together.

          Don’t resist gets me through weeks and weeks of caregiving challenges. And then, other missed opportunities beckon:  a summer’s worth of unachievable travel dreams, alluring evening events and activities—most of them not interesting (or accessible) to J. On bad days, I feel inescapably confined.

     I am not a pessimist by nature, but downward spirals into solitary confinement can be seductive. Sometimes, I let myself indulge in a few hours of despair, but sadness is exhausting.

     I have my go-to techniques to spiral out of despair:

a walk in the sunshine

a trip to the grocery store

lunch with a friend

a good book

catching up on the laundry

These things—and more—are key to maintaining optimism. I prefer hope to despair. I prefer a zen retreat to solitary confinement. It is my choice.

                                                   --- Rosewalk

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The Black 'Sawn': An Elder Remembers Teasing a Childhood Friend

         Just a short half-mile east of my small, rural hometown of Onaga, KS, the Vermillion River flows southward to its meeting with the much larger Kansas River.  During the summer between grades seven and eight, this spot was a frequent playground for me, my classmate and best friend, Joe Woods, and Neil Kolterman, one year younger. 

         Joe had a small canoe with which we played the watery version of “King of the Mountain.”  On one outing Neil brought a two-foot-long model of a pirate ship he had built from a kit.  The ship, named the Black Swan, was black and red, even the sails.  But Neil’s hand painting on one sail had spelled out Black Sawn. 

         My memory is that Joe and I teased Neil about the misspelling to where he developed hard feelings.  My involvement in that teasing incident is just one of a list of words and actions I sincerely wish I could undo.  Since such episodes never can be erased, it is important that, beyond a sincere apology, something be learned from each transgression that lessens the chance for poor judgment to happen again.  We must focus upon what we can do after what we did that cannot be undone.

         I have learned that the world of tease stands on glass shards.  To tease is to flirt with hurt, to threaten the shield that guards the tenderness inside another, a shield whose thickness we cannot gauge until too late.  But my mouth, without conscious malice, has sometimes fired hurtful darts into fragile soil. Learning both to control my playful tongue and to better understand others have been life-long challenges for me.

         I do feel, through the years, that I have acquired more perspective and tongue control, but not soon enough for those that I, in supposedly good-natured fun, have stung with my wayward whiplash words.

         Unfortunately, the game doesn’t end with me.  This human trait plays in many venues.  In addition to real-life interpersonal interactions, television sit-com shows are a prominent example.  When young, our daughter, Laurel, and her friends loved getting home from school, robbing the munchie drawer, and watching “Sesame Street” and “Mr. Roberts” before going to the basement to play.

         But a time came in second or third grade when Laurel began to speak of a particular so-called comedy sitcom TV show her friends enjoyed.  Trying to be reasonably normal and indulgent parents, we three watched this new show two or three times, and we withdrew permission.  The show storyline was primarily a constant string of put-downs of one person by another. 

         A couple of other sit-coms Imogene and I sampled had basically the same format.  So much for that!  But I wonder how many people now reflect some of that acidic sitcom style in their everyday speech patterns and in interactions with others.  Studies have shown that violence and aggression on TV do affect the behavior of some viewers.

     Some would defend such shows by arguing that children need to be exposed, toughened up, and prepared for the real world.  But is a conversation filled with put-downs really a healthful reality?  Is such negativity, such calculated destruction of another’s presence, a constructive route to toughening up one’s persona for the real world?

     Neil’s pirate ship was the subject of a brief session of ridicule, but Joe and I soon realized that the words “Black Sawn” were the work of earnest hands that had wrought a transgression not even remotely capable of causing a ripple in the space/time continuum.  We soon realized our mistake and that we needed to anoint those hands with the balm of apology.

                                                                                                          -- Elder RiverSoul

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