Santa Claus in Japan, Santa needs a new suit

Once upon a time I was called upon to play Santa Claus and in front of my friends and family. It should have been fun. I'm not too sure at the time that it really was. Well I must confess all the folk there had a good time, I just wasn't sure they were laughing with me, rather than at me. I'll share the story here from the book Gaijin! Gaijin! which just a few moments ago was uploaded in Kindle format to Amazon and should become available to anyone interested by tomorrow, Dec. 18, just in time for Christmas for anyone on your list who has or who is getting a Kindle in their stocking. But here is the story......


     Santa Claus suits were not that readily available. The week before I had been Santa at the foreigner’s fellowship held at the home of Baptist missionary, Pratt Dean. That particular foreigner’s meeting was better attended than most, because the main dish was roast turkey. Turkeys were not common in Japan, at least not in the outback areas.
     “This evening we should thank Father Aguilar for his contribution to this dinner,” Pratt had said as he pointed to the two turkeys.
     Aguilar had stood and bowed to the group. “Enjoy this feast tonight because it is getting more difficult to get them from the base at Sasebo. It is only by the grace of God that the chaplain there is willing to cooperate with us poor misplaced gaijins in Nagasaki. So tonight you might want to say a prayer for the U.S. Navy also!” he had laughed.
     After Pratt’s invocation, everyone had filled their plates with the turkey and side dishes. Even though we might not have eaten turkey more often than once a year if we were in the states, it seemed extra special to have turkey that night.
     The program was to be a piano solo by the music teacher who taught at Kwassui. As we began to find places to relax and enjoy the music, Aguilar had taken me by the arm and drawn me into another room. “We have decided that the delegation from Isahaya should be Santa Claus this year,” he said. “Would you mind?”
Everyone had been instructed to bring a gift for the tree–something of less than 500 yen value and marked for a male or female.
     “I’m the only one here who has children. Won’t they be suspicious? I think they still believe in Santa Claus!” I had argued in vain.
     “Come on now,” Aguilar had laughed. “And besides, they’ll never recognize you in the suit the good Lord has provided.”
     He set a box on the bed. “I think everything is here. If you will go ahead and put on the costume, we will be ready when the music is finished.” He went out and shut the door just as the piano solo began.
     I had spread pieces of the costume on the bed. At one time it had been a Santa outfit. But moths, time, moisture, mildew, and inadequate storage had reduced the costume to shreds of red and white.
The door opened, “You might need this,” Aguilar had said as an afterthought as he handed me a roll of transparent tape, “God also provides the patching.”
     Patches and wads of stiff yellowed tape covered almost every square inch of the tattered outfit. I put the trousers on over my slacks to retain my modesty and put on the tattered red coat. I had tried to tape the tearing cloth back together the best I could, but the least stress tore it in another place. It was so rotten it almost disintegrated in my hands.
     The beard and wig were in like disrepair. I taped them back together the best I could, put them on and looked into the mirror. It was ghastly! It was like staring at an apparition from a horror movie, the ghost of Christmas past, a leper with the skin falling away! I didn’t know whether I should go into the other room shouting Ho! Ho! Ho! or Unclean! Unclean! Unclean! My impulse had been to tear the outfit off, join the others and say Santa couldn’t find us there in Japan. But it was hard to be too serious about the situation on a stomach stuffed with turkey, candied sweet potatoes, fruit salad, squash pie and hot rolls. I sat on the bed and waited. The piano solo was followed by applause and shouts of “More! More!” I had dimly heard the piano begin another solo and yet another piece as I steadily grew colder. Thirty minutes later, I still sat shivering in the unheated room, dressed like a mummy from King Tut’s grave, waiting to be an absolute complete fool in front of my new found foreign friends and a family who would probably never let me forget it.
     At long last, Father Jose Aguilar, who was a dead ringer for actor Peter Sellers, had opened the door, taken a look and doubled over with laughter. “I think we are ready for you now,” he gasped between laughing fits. He pushed me ahead of him into the front room where we were met with similar laughter and merriment at my expense.
  
Actually at the moment it was a little embarrassing, but I hope in retrospect that I hid it. We were all a long way from home in a land very different from our own cultures and an evening of speaking our own languages and letting down our hair without too much restraint was a Christmas gift in itself.

May this holiday season be without too much stress and your lives be fulfilled with good feelings toward your fellow man.
Respectfully,
Kenneth Fenter

Our Ikebana Christmas Tree, from Arborwood Press

   I'm in the process of re-issuing my book Gaijin! Gaijin! the first of the three part series An American Family In Japan which I published in the mid 1980's. I thought you might enjoy a story from Gaijin! about our first Christmas in Japan. 


   For a Christmas tree, Philip and I pruned a pine branch that hung over the sidewalk leading to the house, put it in one of Lora’s Ikebana vases and tied it flat against the wall. We referred to it as our Ikebana Christmas tree.
Janelle folded paper origami cranes and other bird-like figures and hung them on the tree to supplement the few ornaments we had carried to Japan.
   One of the students had made a tape of Christmas carols for Mr. Uramatsu’s Christmas party. I had made a copy of the tape, and we listened to it repeatedly as we wrapped the gifts. When we finished, the floor around the tiny tree was covered with gifts. We actually hadn’t bought many of them. Most were from the children’s friends, people at the college and a box from home sent by Cinda.

   I had just finished my bath, and Lora was taking her turn at the ofuro when the phone rang. “Hello,” I answered. If I were to use the Japanese phone greeting of “Moshi, moshi,” the caller might think I were fluent enough to speak in Japanese.
   “Herro,” a male voice said.
I waited for a moment for the voice to continue, but it did not. “Hello,” I repeated.
   “Herro,” it repeated. I could tell the caller was male, and I could hear store sounds in the background.
I waited for a while longer. I was almost ready to hang up. I assumed it was a crank caller or one of the calls we occasionally received from someone on the other end who lost his nerve after hearing English.
   I said “Hello,” once again.
   “Herro, Kitaura here,” he said finally. He paused again. If it were the Kitaura we knew from Chinzei, he could speak only a little English and only when he had quite a bit to drink. “I come your house.”
   “Tonight?”
   “Yes. Good-bye!” He hung up.
   I didn’t know what to do. Lora had wanted a quiet evening at home. I told her about the phone call, and she cut her soak short. We thought perhaps like Mr. Nakano, Mr. Kitaura would stop for a moment and leave again. I had also given him a Christmas card. Also I didn’t know from where Mr. Kitaura was calling. He lived in Nagasaki nearly an hour away by train or bus. He could have been calling from Nagasaki or from Chinzei.
   A half hour passed, and we still waited. Philip and then Janelle took their turns at the ofuro. At 8:30 the buzzer sounded, and I opened the door to find Mr. Kitaura standing outside, balancing a large boxed Christmas cake in one hand and a bag of bottles in the other.
   “Merry Kurisimasu,” he said. He handed me the box. I invited him in. He kicked off his shoes, donned slippers and pushed his way into the living room. He had been there often before on school business and knew his way around. He promptly sat down in the middle of the floor on the carpet and began taking the five bottles of juice and three quarts of beer out of the shopping bag. He lined them up in front of him and then opened the cake box to take out a large white cake decorated with a cookie house, candy Santa, candy tree, the words Merry Christmas and a packet of candles.
   Lora and the children gathered around Mr. Kitaura to pose for pictures, then he insisted I join the family while he took pictures.
   Through all this no English words were exchanged. Mr. Kitaura did not speak English except after drinking, and he had not begun that yet. For most Japanese men, it was necessary to relax the tongue with a few beers before they lost their inhibitions, then alcohol could be blamed for any mistakes in grammar or pronunciation.
Janelle cut the cake and set a plate in front of him but he didn’t touch it.
   “Keki wa tabe masu.” (Eat the cake,) Janelle said.
   “I drink, no eat, Japanese Christmas party,” he laughed. He spoke rapidly in Japanese to Janelle. She understood and answered in Japanese.
   I understood neither the question nor the answer. She went to the kitchen for glasses and an opener.
   “Nijuu hachi, to my house?” he asked Philip. He had made an arrangement for the children to go to his house in Nagasaki on the 28th to meet his son and daughter who were the same ages.
   “Yes,” Philip said. “We meet you at Nagasaki station.”
   “Yes. Come back Chinzei, taxi. I bring,” he said.
   “Put them on the train,” Lora said.
   “We, Janelle, me, go train, Nagasaki, very easy,” Philip explained to Mr. Kitaura in his own brand of special English.
   Kitaura listened and asked a couple of questions in Japanese. Janelle answered. He shook his head and said. “Taxi better.” A one-way trip to Nagasaki by taxi cost nearly 5,000 yen or 25 dollars. He drank his beer and poured for us. We sipped while he drank deeply.
   Janelle brought out a Japanese card game, and he instantly took charge of it. The game consisted of two sets of cards; one set was spread out on the floor. Each card had a picture and a hiragana symbol as a clue. The leader read from another card, which contained the description of a card on the floor and had the hiragana sound as a clue. Lora, Philip and Janelle had been studying the writing system every day and had an advantage over me. I had studied them and memorized them and had forgotten them several times. 
   Kitaura read the Japanese, and we searched for the matching picture card. Philip recognized most of them first, and Mr. Kitaura began trying to arrange it so that Janelle could win at least one. He roared “Goot! Goot! Goot!” each time anyone recognized the hiragana. “Jōzu ne!” (Very skillful,) he would say and point to the winner.
   “Japanese Christmas party,” he laughed many times. It was nearly ten thirty when the game ended. We sent the children to bed, “to wait for Santa,” we told him. I thought perhaps he would take the hint that it was getting late, and he should make his way home to Nagasaki. At the faculty party at Shimabara, he had become a little too bold with Lora after a certain point in the evening and after he had a certain amount to drink.
   “I hope... I want you stay Chinzei... two year...,” he said.
   I smiled and nodded. We had already decided to stay only for the one year originally contracted, but it wasn’t a good time to tell him.
   “I am sorry... visa paper,” he said.
   I wasn’t too sure what he was talking about. He had been in charge of our papers, which were two weeks late in arriving in the summer. Perhaps he was trying to tell us he was responsible for the lateness and was sorry. Maybe he was talking about Bill’s papers, which had come the last day before he almost had to leave the country.
   “Mama san, sing White Kurisimasu,” he said. While we visited, the tape played in the background. When either “Silent Night” or “White Christmas” came on, he’d break into song, perfectly imitating Bing Crosby’s voice and inflection. “Bing Crosby,” he said. “‘White Christmas, I’m dreaming of a white Kurisimasu....’” his voice was deep, strong.... “‘just like the ones I used to know...’ In Japan, no white Kurisimasu for you... I’m sorry.”
   As we listened to the music, and he sang, Lora got out the children’s stockings, a couple of large wool socks that had red and white trim she had bought that morning.
   Kitaura was fascinated as he watched Lora fill the sock. In his notebook, he listed everything Lora put into the stockings: peanuts, a couple of Australian kiwi fruit, a small package of English walnuts, origami paper, stocking stuffer toys, candy and a mikan orange. The more Lora stuffed into the stockings, the more excited Kitaura became. He pulled out his wallet. “I am Santa,” he said. He stuffed a one thousand yen note into each sock. “For books,” he said. “Phirip kun bery goot hiragana. Phirip kun good ping-pong,” he said, using the familiar term for boys, “kun”, instead of the more formal “san”.
   Philip played table tennis during his study and lunch breaks and had begun earning a reputation at Chinzei.
“I ping-pong champion, Kyushu,” he said proudly. He pointed to his nose, a gesture with the same meaning as pointing to yourself in the chest with your thumb. “I want go America. Play ping-pong champ. When I am in college... not study English... play ping-pong,” he laughed. He checked his notebook and read down the list, “peanuts, kiwi, walnuts, mikan” We had to spell the English for some of the words, and beside each, he wrote the katakana sounds for his further reference. “I make my kids.”
   Lora hung the stockings on the back of a chair near the little tree.
   He applauded gustily, “Very good. Santa Claus Mama,” he laughed.
  It suddenly began to get quite cold in the room. Both kerosene stoves were out of fuel. Our reserve fuel cans were also empty. We had not planned to be up so late and had thought there would be enough fuel to last until about noon on Christmas day. Unfortunately, the fuel delivery would not be made on Sunday. Lora pulled a coat on over her sweater to keep warm. Kitaura seemed not to notice the cold.
   He poured again, “Japanese Kurisimasu party. Drink. ‘I’m Dreaming of a White Kurisimasu....’” he glanced at his watch. It was past 11 p.m. “I must go back home, Nagasaki,” he said.
   “How do you go home?” I asked. “By train?”
   “No, by car.”
   “Do you drive?”
   “No. I am drink. I go taxi.”
   He continued to sit in the same spot he had occupied all night, the empty bottles of beer to his side, the last glass of beer in his hand. He was a middle-aged man still in his business suit. He was tall, a little heavy, robust, his head was shaved. He had a round face with very oriental eyes and high cheekbones. His cheeks were quite flushed from the alcohol.
   He glanced at his watch again, but made no move toward the phone. “You must learn Nihongo-Japanese language,” he said. “In office, girls, men, no can’t speak English. ‘Tegami’ you say. Don’t know you want.    You must Nihongo. I teach. OK?”
   “OK,” Lora said. He coached her on what to say to the office girl when asking if the mail had come or when we needed to order propane.
   Lora repeated his phrases to his satisfaction.
   The tape of Andy Williams made it around to “White Christmas” again.
   “Sing mama, papa,” he said. We all sang with Andy for probably the tenth time that night. The song ended, and he checked his last bottle of beer. It was empty. He stood, “I must go Nagasaki.”
   “Shall I call a taxi?” Lora offered.
   “No. I call,” he said.
   He hung up the phone and rejoined us in the front room to inspect the stockings and the stack of gifts under the tree. “Very nice Japanese Kurisimasu party,” he said. “Now I go home Nagasaki,” he said.
   We led him to the front door. I started to put my shoes on to see him to the street where the taxi would pick him up, but he insisted I stay in the house. It was cold out, and it had begun to drizzle a little as he walked unsteadily up the steps. I watched until he got to the street almost at the same time a taxi pulled up.
   Lora and I picked up the empty glasses and empty beer and juice bottles and put them in the sink. “I think he sensed we were a long way from home and just wanted to be sure we had a party,” I said. “I’m sorry you didn’t have Christmas Eve with just the family here.” I half expected her to be a little angry.
   “Bill said the Japanese celebrate Christmas by getting people together and having a party like a New Year’s Eve party,” Lora said. “I thoroughly enjoyed our little party. I am so touched by his thoughtfulness. The cake box came from Nagasaki. He came all the way from Nagasaki tonight and spent a lot of money and still has an hour to go to get home,” she said. It was then 11:45 P.M.
   As usual, the children were up early Christmas morning. The house was colder than usual, as there had been no oil left from the night before. Philip took the container up to the dormitory to ask if he could borrow a little from Mrs. Yokoyama and soon returned with a full five gallons. With the fire lit and the room beginning to warm up, we began to open the gifts.
   As usual, Lora had lost all self-control and had stocked the kids with socks, sweaters and other clothes. Janelle and Philip had done their shopping a few days before when we went to Nagasaki and Toshio Mita had helped them to find the stores and the bargains.
   Lora and I settled in with our instant coffee and watched as the children each selected gifts and began carefully opening them. Their slow, careful start was in marked contrast to other Christmases when they’d ripped them open with frantic abandon and looked up in horror to ask “is that all there is?” They opened their presents and seemed very satisfied with everything when they were done.
   Many of the gifts were from school friends and from the teachers at Chinzei. When all were opened, there was a large assortment of clothes, eats and books. The children were already reading their books sent by Cinda. Lora thumbed through a big volume of “Complete Course in Japanese Conversation” a gift from Kiyru sensei.
   The last package was one that had been given to us by the Cobleigh Cultural Center where we taught the night class. Michiko Nonaka had handed it to me a week before with the comment, “Perhaps it’s meat.” I had opened the end of the wrapping and read, “ITO HAM PACKAGE.”
The stores were filled with packages of food which were to be given as year-end presents. Presents of ham, fish, dried mushrooms, canned fruits, tea, coffee and soap were attractively gift-wrapped. Because they sat on the store shelves for some time, they were nonperishable until opened. I had opened the package far enough to be satisfied it was nonperishable when I saw the canned ham label.
   I slowly removed the paper and was greeted by a faintly rotten smell. Inside the ham box were six slices of beef–six large three quarter inch thick beefsteaks. They smelled putrid. I separated them one from the other. All were thoroughly spoiled. Apparently, they had been frozen and had thawed, which added to their decay. We hadn’t seen so much beef since we’d left Oregon.
   Lora and the children joined me for a good cry. I slowly took the box outside and buried it. Beef cost about $25 a pound, and I estimated each steak weighed nearly a pound. Perhaps the hardest part would be when we would have to smile and thank the Cobleigh manager very much for the delicious steaks the next time we saw him.


This story is taken out context of the book and so a quick note on the role of alcohol in Japanese culture: The consumption of alcohol in Japanese society is spoken to in much more detail in the book Gaijin! Gaijin! It was our observation, and according to the books we read, alcohol was used to overcome habitations or to relax the very strict social rules which people lived and worked by daily. Under the influence of alcohol individuals were excused for their manners and recriminations for violations were few with exceptions. Laws could not be violated. One could not drive while intoxicated, for example, or commit crimes. One could however, be impolite, speak English without worrying about making mistakes, call without making appointments, tell their boss what they think etc. however.   

Have a joyous holiday season and a positive New Year!

Respectfully submitted,

Kenneth Fenter

Jim Henson Reception High Success at Bend Athletic Club!

A steady flow of friends joined Jim Henson at the Bend Athletic Club in the lovely Fireside Room inside Scanlons on Tuesday night Dec. 7. The weather cooperated by not snowing here in Bend and the roads did not ice up early in the evening.

Perhaps one of the highlights of the evening was when a woman showed up at the sales table and said she wanted to buy a "bunch" of books. Linda who was helping me sell and I didn't know if she was kidding or not, but she didn't seem to be. But she didn't seem to know right off just how many. She wandered over to the table where Jim was still chatting up a friend who had just purchased a copy. A few minutes later I saw him rise greet the woman, then he excitedly gave her a hug and brought her over and introduced her. It took a moment to understand what he was saying, She was introducing her as "Hugh's daughter!"

Then it dawned on me that Hugh was one of the people in his book, Pee Up a Tree: a Mental Health Memoir. Hugh was his Jim's first boss in community health practice in Oregon and according to Jim had a tremendous influence on his later style of management when he took over the Deschutes County Mental Health Department.

There is a note on the preceding blog entry of 11-28 from Jan saying who she was and that she was going to try to come down to it. Unfortunately I did not get a notification that a comment was waiting for posting and I didn't see it until I came on to make this report so we weren't expecting her. It was a total surprise when she walked in.

The rewarding thing for me as a publisher is to see this kind of interaction between the author and an individual who is affected by the book. Jan' Dad passed away some time in the past and this book is a tribute to him in its own way. Her comments about the way that it captured him was a high compliment to Jim. I won't say how many copies she ended up buying because some of the folks who might receive them might read this blog and it might spoil their Christmas. But there will be a number of happy folk who will receive an autographed copy of a very fine book purchased by the daughter of an influential Mental Health Professional who once practiced in the Rogue Valley of Oregon in the early 1970's. Jan had driven 150 miles all the way down from Mosier, Oregon on the Colombia River and had the same return trip the next day. The weather was not ideal for that kind of a drive with the ice, freezing rain and snow that we had experienced all over Central Oregon during the preceding week.

Before leaving talk was made of a follow up gathering down in Roseburg, which she expected could be even larger if she and her friends down there, including her four sisters, got to work on it. Maybe in the spring.

A wonderful evening. The staff at Scanlons and the Bend Athletic Club were charming and efficient hosts and Jim's friends in Bend certainly showed their pride in their own.

Respectfully,
Kenneth Fenter

Jim Henson Reception Dec. 7, at Bend Athletic Club

Pee Up A Tree: A Mental Health Memoir, Arborwood Press

Fireside Room inside Scanlon’s Restaurant at the Bend Athletic Club

61615 Athletic Club Dr., Bend Oregon

December 7, 2010

4:00 to 6:30 p.m. light refreshments

Booksigning by Author Jim Henson

Books for sale on site

Jim Henson's friends and the public are invited to join Jim at the beautiful Fireside Room at the Bend Athletic Club on December 7 to celebrate his first in the series of Mental Health Memoir Books based on his long career spanning service in Community Outreach in Chicago beginning in the late '60s to private practice in Bend culminating in 2009. 

While the book has been out since August and has begun accumulating accolades, this is the first big public appearance with the book in Bend. 

Readers from acclaimed author Jane Kirkpatrick to fellow practitioners have added their compliments to Jim's first steps as an author. 

Jane Kirkpatrick, A Flickering Light, and An Absence so Great: "Pee up a Tree is authentically Jim Henson -- my former boss. It's inventive, irreverent and therapeutically wise. The characters of Jim's early life in rural community mental health in Oregon are singular and memorable; the trials and triumphs worthy of cheering. This is one man's journey of service through parenting, teaching and healing, acts the world needs more of. Enjoy!"

Barbara Moline, LCSW, Oak Park, IL. Dear Jim, I just finished reading, Pee Up a Tree, bought through Amazon a few weeks ago. I really enjoyed it. There are some wonderful personalities in that book and so many wonderful stories. You brought them all to life. It reminded me again what a gifted therapist you are--that lightening quick perceptiveness and ability to hone in on the essence of someone or a situation, and to articulate it with warmth and gentle humor. I envy that. I also realize how right it was that you moved back to Oregon, as much as I was sorry to see you go so many years ago. You know these people and the culture so well; it is in your bones. That common ground certainly made a difference in your work.

Treeman, (commenting on Amazon.com) Jim Henson is quite a story teller. His love for his work and the people surrounding it came alive for me. I particularly enjoyed reading about how he dealt with his patients in the tiny towns of Oregon. I am looking forward to reading about more adventures in mental health from Jim. 

Mark the evening of Tuesday December 7, from 4-6:30 to meet and visit with Jim Henson. If you already have a copy of his book, an autographed copy would make great Christmas reading for a friend.

Best wishes for the season,

Kenneth Fenter

Sometimes Justice seems misguided when it comes to bullying

Solving the problem of bullying in our schools and on our school buses etc. is perhaps made more complicated in the way justice is applied. In this morning's paper there is the moving story of a 12 year old girl who is becoming a poster girl in the anti-bullying campaign down in Florida. She has cerebral palsy.
Her symptoms are primarily exhibited in speech and posture. She has been relentlessly bullied on the school bus and in school. Kids have been spitting in her hair, calling her names etc. Same ole, same ole. Her parent's complaints have not stopped it.
She has now come forth and is speaking out and of all things, saying to paraphrase her, she is thanking her bullies for bullying her because it has given her the experience so that she can speak out about it.
And now comes the part that I homed in on.
Her father was arrested back in September for boarding her bus, WHICH HAS VIDEO SECURITY CAMERAS ON IT. He berated the students for their harassment of his daughter. He was arrested for his harassment. He is now out on bail.
My question is, IF THAT BUS HAD VIDEO CAMERAS ON IT, WHY WERE KIDS WHO WERE SPITTING ON THE GIRL WITH CEREBRAL PALSY ALLOWED TO DO THAT without being taken to the woodshed!
The bus driver, and the school administration should have been all over that, especially in light of the parent's complaints about the treatment the girl was having with those kids.

As I said in the beginning, we don't solve the problems of bullying when the victim is further punished by drawing attention to the fact rather than shutting down the person(s) who are doing the bullying. Shutting down doesn't imply harming them, but putting up barriers such as we do in every day life when we correct our youngsters or others in society for not following decent concepts of behavior.

Respectfully,
Kenneth Fenter

Has bullying in various forms reached a "Perfect Storm?"

Suddenly it seems that bullying has reached the "Perfect Storm" level. Four suicides have occured in the last several weeks by youngsters harassed for being "gay". This comes on the heels of the beginning of the year suicide of a high school girl harassed to suicide for "attracting another girl's boyfriend".

From Ellen to the Tim Gunn from Project Runway celebrities are coming forth to reassure young people that there is a life after years of bearing the taunting and harassment.
The Trevor Project

Glee this week took on the subject of youngsters losing their belief in God over their prayers for relief from either themselves or loved ones being relieved of harassment from physical differences.

People magazine's cover story this week explores the national epidemic.

Bullying is the main focus this week of CNN's Anderson Cooper360.

Bullying in all forms is a national focus in the public schools.

In my book The Ruin the main character talks about losing his faith because he realizes he is praying to the same God that his father and his bully is praying to. How can those who are the caretakers in one breath ignore the pleas of those who are being harassed to death, and then ask them to have faith and believe in a higher power taking care of them?

This blog is one year old next month at this time. I was in the final stretch of finishing the The Ruin for publication. It has been the mission from the beginning of the project to help add a voice to the problem, the destructiveness of bullying in the schoolyard. I survived it after a fashion. I was not driven to suicide. I don't hate the ethnic group that my harasser was a member of. But I am still affected by it in many ways.

As an individual now 70 years old I have the advantage of perspective. I can look back to way points in my life and see what directions it took, what detours there were and examine them. In some ways the experiences may have been good in that they directed me in guiding my own children. In some ways, they may have been harmful as they make me intolerant in many ways.

It regulates my voting habits, my shopping habits and the friends that I keep.

In those years I have seen some interesting things happen. In one case I saw a classmate of my brothers who had a hard time of it because of her weight. She was nicknames "buffalo girl" by members of her class. A few years later my dad worked for an organization in town and he recognized her as the bookkeeper. She had blossomed as one of the more attractive young women in that town. He in the course of the next year overheard some of the young men in the lunch room discussing what a stuck up young woman she was. She had turned down all of them when they had many any overtures toward her. When he mentioned this to my brother, he laughed and told our day, it was no wonder, they were the very ones who had branded her as "buffalo" girl back when they were all in high school. You just never know. I think it was on the TV show "Desperate Housewives" that Susan is arrested by a policewoman that she had bullied in high school.

Respectfully submitted,
Kenneth Fenter

Nick Vujicic speaker at "I heart Central Oregon" sets 1700+ hug record

Nick Vujicic his Life Without Limits
My Son-In-Law- Mike invited me to go with him to an event last Saturday night at the Redmond, Oregon Expo Center. Our wives were in Portland for the quilt expo and the kids with out for their weekend with their birth father so it was just the two of us batching for the weekend. He said we should have sushi and take in the event. He was going to hear Nick Vujicic on Friday at Bend High School. I was pretty sure that my friend "The Happy Hoosier" that I use to hang out with down in Naples at the RV park had heard him and raved about him back in the day.
Mike heard the talk on Friday and was impressed.
The Expo parking lot was getting full when we got there and of course all the handicapped/van parking was full. Mike was getting ready to park like an RV (take up two spaces and hope someone didn't hem him in) when a golf cart pulled up and said to follow him, there were plenty of spaces in back. We followed for about a half mile around the barns practically up to the back door and double wide spaces where Mike could let down the ramp and roll out in his power chair. Although confined to the power chair, Mike still has the use of arms and hands, unlike Nick Vujicic who was born with neither arms feet that were developed past barely a flippers with two toes on the left and we couldn't see what on the right.
We were early. A long line snaked up to give Nick a hug and then file by to fill out a sheet so that they could tally for an attempt at a world record number of hugs in one hour. "He can't shake hands, so give him a hug," the front man on stage kept urging.
The wait grew to one hour stretching the opening past the advertised 7 p.m. to 7:30 and introductions were made for an "Acoustic Rock Band" Elliot. Elliot members have been working since 2007 in the formation of "The Heart Campaign, a campaign for social justice and desire to see positive change in communities where they play. During the day hundreds of redshirted volunteers with "I heart Central Oregon love is action" logos had spread out to the communities of Prineville, Madras, Redmond, Sisters, Bend, LaPine doing good deeds, helping "neighbors" with small and large projects. The event at the Expo center was a celebration and reward. Tickets were free for anyone taking time to pick them up ahead of time, and a token $10 at the door.
I'm not sure what the title "acoustic rock band" means. In my elderly mind acoustic means it isn't amplified and the natural acoustics do the work. Of course that doesn't do much good if you are playing those solid body guitars. Anyway, it was loud. But I took out the hearing aides and the lead singer of Elliot was quite good. I liked it. Mike who likes it that way, kept looking over at me and asking if I was OK.
The ground row seats were arranged in a large block of those who get there early and want to see the stage, stand and wave their arms, maybe dance in the aisles a while. The second block, the main block was separated from the close block by a 20 foot section which provided a walkway between where Nick had been at the end of the "hug line" and where he would go to his "book signing reception line" during the concert.
We were seated on the second row of the second seating section with the 20 aisle walkway in front of us. As Mike said, the people watching couldn't be any better.
During the concert the lights were down up front but not so much by midway back. We couldn't see the stage from back there but two video cameras were putting the main singers and clusters of players up on huge screens so we could see fine. But the action was taking place right in front of us. It was like watching the shore birds on the beach, except these were tiny birds, they were the Junior High School kids, and high school kids in an endless parade going from one side of the arena to the other. They came and went in groups of two five ten, then a singleton, pacing, flocking, swooping, to and fro, ebbing and flowing. It kind of went with the music. When the music reved up and pounded they stopped and faced the stage and bobbed and jumped and waved their arms, when the singer slowed down and sounded as though he was singing something meaningful, the flocking and swooping began all over again.
Until.... the music stopped and Nick Vujicic was introduced.
It was hard to get a perspective on him because of the video projection on the giant screen. But his voice was strong with a slight Aussie accent. He had the audience spellbound in an instant and pretty much kept them there the rest of the evening.
It didn't take long for him to launch into the main theme of his talk and it hit the topic that this blog has been about from the start... to paraphrase him...
"It doesn't take many people telling you are ugly to make you start believing it.... and for every time you hear it, it takes a thousand others telling you you are beautiful to undo it."
He recalled how he had been teased, harassed in school. And the whole litany. It was a classical story of bullying. He had told the same story to the study body at Bend High School, and Summit High in Bend and at Crook County High School on Friday.
My thought at the moment was if a man like Nick Vujicic, born with arms or legs was bullied by kids what chance does a kid who is a little chubby or skinny or whose voice isn't changing quickly enough going to have? I happen to believe that in his case some intervention from people at the schools was called for as it is now. I don't think that faith alone will save a middle school child from committing suicide if she is being bullied  to up to a certain point and she sees no support on this earth.
I think that appearances such as he makes helps kids as well as some adults realize better how to react to individuals who have a physical disability.
Sitting in front of us was a woman with a young child, I assumed was preschool. The woman I assumed was in her 20's. The woman took the child to where I think Nick was signing his books. When they came back, there was a conversation between them about people who are different and have to do things differently because of it. It was a good discussion and the child's questions were being answered intelligently.
Nick found an inner strength to survive and faith. It has worked for him. Building on that he has overcome impossible odds to become a successful man, inspirational writer and speaker. His website points to his blog and his books.
If you missed his talk check him out.
Respectfully submitted,
Kenneth Fenter

StepOut Walk to Fight Diabetes in the Eugene, Oregon Oct. 9, 2010 featuring team Savannah

Jim Henson, his wife Annis and I traveled over the mountain, down the river to Roseburg and up to Umpqua Community College for the 2010 Wine-Art-Music Festival over the 11 and 12 of Sept. to see if we could sell a few of our books. It was a kind of homecoming for Jim as his book Pee Up A Tree takes place in the Umpqua Valley of the early 1970's. I met several of his friends who populated the pages of the book. Even saw the end of one of the canoes that he mentioned their making.


The Umpqua Community College is a beautiful campus and we learned from a former Vice President who stopped by our booth that it was named last year as the 14th ranked community college in the United States, and the only Oregon community college to make the rankings. The fellow, whose name I didn't write down, proved the adage that it is truly a small world. He talked to Jim for a short time and then his eyes fell on the cover of my book, The Ruin. He seemed a little near sighted as he picked the book up and examined it up close and read a little of the Clarion Review on the back. He looked at me and said, "I taught at Cortez at MCHS. Turns out he was an Ag. teacher there in the early '70's. He knew farmers all over Summit Ridge where my book took place, Mancos, Dolores, and Mesa Verde. Small World. 


I sold a number of books but the most interesting one of all was to the daughter of the couple who had the booth next door. They sold wooden pens and wine bottle stoppers turned from exotic woods. The daughter, Savannah  acted about 6 or so in her politeness and helpfulness in the booth. She was attracted to the portable climbing wall. The thing must have been about two stories tall and the first day her dad said she climbed it seven times. The highest she got was about a third of the way up. In the afternoon she came over and asked me how much my book was. I told her the price. She asked was I sure? She went back and had a conference with her mom. She came back and dug all of her money out of her pocket and put it on the table. Two quarters, a dime, a nickel, and two pennies. I asked her if that was all the money she had. She shook her head yes. So does that mean if you buy this book you can't buy any ice-cream or anything? She didn't seem to be concerned about that. She really wanted that book. I told her that I really couldn't take all of her money. But I said, how about I trade you for a pen and a promise from your mother that she will read the book to you? Her face lit up and she shook her head yes. I said she had better go ask about that. She ran and asked her mom and came right back and asked what pen did I want. My book at the show was priced at $15.50 and their pens ranged from 12.50 to 18.00. I told her it had to be the one that was her favorite. She went back to talk to her dad. Between them they selected one that they thought would be special and a little unusual and it was. He explained that it was a Civil War commemorative pen. The pocket clasp is shaped like a civil war rifle, the point is shaped like a rifle bullet, and the top end is shaped like a pistol bullet. The barrel is short and looks like walnut. Savannah thought it was very special. I had asked if Savannah was named after the famous city of the South. (Now I was pretty sure that this pen was an appropriate choice even though at that moment I didn't realize just how appropriate if one things of the determination of the Southern effort in the Civil War.) And her mom promised to read the book to her. I explained to both parents that the first part of the book was not appropriate for her yet, but that if they read the book first they would see where to begin reading to her. They promised to do that. Sunday morning when we began the day, Mom said she had started reading the book the night before.


On Sunday Savannah began climbing the climbing wall with renewed determination. By the end of the day she had climbed clear to the top. I had watched several teen aged boys who had not made it. A couple of them had made it half way and the young man running the concession had had to help them back down. All of the climbers were in harnesses and were tethered by rope so they couldn't fall. 


I think it was during the second day that Savannah, her mom and dad came to the Festival wearing their Team Savannah t-shirts for last year's American Diabetes Association StepOut Walk to Fight Diabetes. They were getting ready to participate in the Eugene, Oregon Oct. 9, 2010, event. Her mom told us Savannah was  5 and had been living with type 1 diabetes all her life. 


She was one determined little girl. She had determined to climb the wall and in two days had done what a steady stream of boys and girls of all ages had not. She gave her best each try got back at the end of the line and tried again until she made it to the top and wasn't ready to stop when the day was over. She wanted a book, something that would last for a while, instead of an ice-cream that would be gone in a few moments. Her mom said she wanted to learn to whistle and she kept at it until she had mastered it. You have to admire that kind of spirit.


Respectfully
Kenneth Fenter

Sister defends brother, That's the way it should be.

It is back to school time here in Oregon. In many parts of the country I understand school has been underway since the middle of August. Here we continue to begin with students the day after Labor Day. This year in Bend school will let out a week early, a result of budget cuts, the result of a continuing tight state economy.
As retired teachers, my wife and I still feel as if we are playing hooky seeing the big yellow buses drive by today and we are going out the door too. We will be over it by mid morning, however, as we go back to the pile of tasks that we have created for ourselves to work on.
With this new school year daunting tasks lie ahead for our nation's schools, administrators, teachers, and the precious students in their care. Besides the obvious task of guiding them through their educations, is assuring that they can learn in a peaceful, safe environment. Considering the energy level, often overcrowded condition, and backgrounds of the students in many classrooms and on playgrounds, maintaining a safe environment is sometimes a near impossible situation.
According to a report on the NBC evening news this past week, a national focus in public schools will be on curbing bullying. The report said that top level conferences had been held this summer to brainstorm ways to combat growing problems in physical, psychological and cyber bullying among elementary, mid-school, and high school students. The statistics given on the show were alarming but not different than what has been presented here, on the Stop Bullying Now web site, and other sites that are linked to on this site.
Emphasized on the report was the new theme, "It is no longer to use the excuse, 'boys will be boys,' 'girls will be girls.'.
It is interesting how subtle, how insidious, that bullying is, and yet how quickly it can be nipped in the bud if a person is vigilant. I saw that the other night at a family gathering. I had called the families together so that I could take photos of my five grand children in the back to school clothes. Two will be a fourth graders, one will a fifth grader, one an eighth grader and one a freshman in high school. In one family is a fourth grader, fifth grader and the freshman. The second family has the fourth grader and eighth grader. I was concentrating on trying to operate a camera that I was unfamiliar with as my own camera was on the fritz. Suddenly I heard my eighth grade grand daughter saying, "Your sarcasm is uncalled for," to her two cousins. I looked up and started to pay attention. Her two cousins, the fifth grader and his brother the freshman were on either side of their fourth grade cousin who was wearing his new school pants which were lime green. The younger cousin was saying, "I'm sorry but they are just not cool!" His older brother was shaking his head in agreement.
The younger cousin stoically looked off into the distance and kept his face straight with a little bit of a smile on it. It had only been a year or so before that he would have gotten up and stomped off in anger. He said, "Your negative humor isn't all that funny." To which his slightly older cousin replied, "Oh, I assure it isn't humor. I'm serious. Not cool."
I shut it down and told my grandson he had no right to talk to his cousin that way. End of conversation. I finished the few shots left and then turned to the eighth grade grand daughter and complimented her for standing up for her brother. I told her she had done exactly the right thing to do, and why. I then turned to the two cousins and told them that I felt they had no right to criticize their cousins choice in school wear. If it didn't match what they would have chosen, that was their right. But they did not have the right to choose for him, and they should stand up for his right to make his own choice, as I hoped he would stand up for their own choices. I then told the cousin that had sat through the hazing and told him how proud of him I was that he had not just sat there silently, but had told his cousin what he thought of their comments calmly without running away.
I was proud that the five of them finished the evening on good terms. They went in to dinner, sat at the same table apart from adults and seemed to enjoy themselves. I saw no evidence that there was any left over animosity, or ill feelings. It is possible that my grand daughter could have taken care of it herself. But I felt that it was worthwhile adding my credibility to the mix. I have a good rapport with my grandchildren because of projects we have done together and that helped.
The point is that hazing, teasing, bullying, whatever name you want to give it can occur in such a subtle way that you are hardly aware that it is going on. Nipped quickly and it can go away. Let to fester, and it can become a cancer.

Growing a novel one book at a time

In Uncle Tom's Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe, Topsy a slave girl, says, "I s'pect I just growed. While the character Topsy may have been bewildered about where she came from, the book that spawned the expression exploded on world in 1852 and according to some historians helped to lay the groundwork for the Civil War. It became the the best selling novel of the 19th Century and the second best selling of book of the 1800's following the Bible. To "grow like Topsy" became a common phrase.

Well, I can't exactly say that my novel is in that category of "growing like Topsy" yet. But it is fun to see it grow and spread. In some ways I can chart it's growth, but once a book leaves my door and heads toward a reader's hands, it is out of sight. From there, I have no idea whether the person who requested it, either with an order or who just asked for as a friend, will actually read it, start it and lay it aside after a few pages, read it in a few days, read it over a long time, or what. And then what happens to it? Does it get put onto a shelf? Is it put into a sack to go to Goodwill? Put into the recycle bin? Recycled along with a box of other books at used bookstore by trading for other books? Handed to a friend? Given to a local library?

All of the above paragraph describe the things that my wife and I do with the books that we buy.

Last night when I checked out what was going on with The Ruin on Amazon I was delighted to see the first used copies hit. What surprised was that the used copies are listed at a higher price than the new copies! The thing about those first hundred copies or so that went out was that they were printed here in my facilities and were each individually handled and mostly signed. Maybe that makes them collectors items.

The thing that pleased me though was it indicates to me the book has a life of its own.
That makes me feel good about it.

Respectfully,
Kenneth Fenter

Overcoming fear through singing

"Stand By Me" The Lancaster Boys Choir I commented on the BBC network program "The Choir" on this blog on July 31. In the series, Concert Master Gareth Malone who conducts the London Symphony Orchestra Community Choir attempts to create choirs in the most unlikely settings. In the first season he went to Northolt High School a school with no music program and recruited a choir that he took to the World Choir Olympics in China. The project took one year. A year later he went back to see what affect the experience had on the participants. In the second season that is airing now Malone went to Lancaster High School one of the largest boys schools in the United Kingdom an athletic oriented school with no choir singing program and began putting together a boys choir. The goal was to present his choir at a music festival at the prestigious Royal Albert Hall in London. To make it into the festival the choir must be assessed and pass rigid standards.
He has to overcome the boy's perception, shared by many on the staff, that singing is not for boys (men). It is only for sissies, and gays. The boys who do enjoy singing do it in private. A group of rappers do their thing off to the side.
Slowly Malone draws a few boys to the choir and rehearsals begin. He begins a choir among the staff and starts a campaign for the head physical education coach. At first he seems to have one of the rappers interested but the boy, Imran turns against him.
They make it into the festival and rehearsals begin after summer break with only half the choir returning. He begins a phone campaign and gets them all back plus a few more. Finally Malone convinces the rappers to listen to a professional group of musicians who perform much like the boy's own style and draw them in.
The BBC crew does a masterful job of drawing individual boys aside to pull their feelings out as the story develops. We get to see how the choir is affecting them. One boy who does not learn well finally admits he can't read the music and gets help. He realizes he can do it, and stays. The pride on his face is amazing. Other boys begin to exhibit changed behavior as they are drawn into the group experience.
We hear Imran tell about why he has dropped out of the choir in the beginning. It had to do with going to the karaoke with his dad or friend and hearing someone say he wasn't that good. It shut him down. In his group of rappers he is o.k. but not in front of an audience.
After Malone draws his rap group called the Beatboxers into the choir with the introduction of the professional group doing a similar type of  music, Imran begins to get his confidence back. Malone convinces him he could sing a solo in the Royal Albert Hall performance. You see the result at the end of the YouTube video above.
I love the show. I like Glee for the entertainment value and the music the kids perform. But I have to admit when I watched "The Choir" this morning and the kids began to sing, I had a hard time seeing the screen through the tears. Seeing 150 boys and their teachers on the stage in the Royal Albert Hall singing like.
The kids themselves admitted that it had brought them together. The Beatboxers were hugging the timid kids that they intimidated just a year before.
Next Wednesday's show will be about Gareth Malone's reunion with boys and staff one year later. Was there carry over in his absence? Did the experience last? It will be interesting to find out.

Respectfully,
Kenneth Fenter

ForeWord Clarion Review gives The Ruin four Stars

ForeWord Clarion Review
FICTION
The Ruin
Kenneth Fenter
Arborwood Press
978-1-4536-5992-2
Four Stars (out of Five)
Kenneth Fenter’s The Ruin is part coming-of-age novel, part Robinson Crusoe, part history lesson, and wholly deserving of an audience of both adults and teenagers.
The novel follows Clifton Kelly, as an eighth-grade farm boy living in the southwest corner of Colorado in the early 1950’s, as well as an adult celebrating his last day of teaching. Cliff's retirement day turns tragic when a fellow teacher is murdered by her own son, who then goes to Cliff's sister school and kills students there. The boy’s bloody response to bullying triggers Cliff's memories of being bullied during school.
Cliff didn’t shoot his nemesis, Hector Rodriquez, even though he had his rifle in hand after a violent encounter. Instead, he sought refuge in a cave dwelling of ancient Puebloans, the Anasazi. There he learns to survive in the fashion of the First People – making fire from flint, fiber from plants, clothes from pelts, and food from cattails, dandelions, and the game he could bring down with his atlatl, a spear-thrower. From an ancient hunter, who appears in a dream, he learns “Adversity presents unique opportunity, a moment of time in God’s wilderness, use the time wisely.”
The Ruin encompasses ninety-one chapters, most dealing with Cliff’s year in the cave dwelling. Within that narrative there are flashbacks to his school years, his farm life, and to his relationship with his hard-working, highly religious, and overly strict father. Interspersed are short chapters dealing with the adult Cliff’s reactions to the school shooting.
Fenter's research, the breadth of his knowledge about the ancient Puebloans, and his familiarity with farm life are superb. But Fenter’s exposition does slow the story. For example, in his narration of Cliff’s initial explorations of the cave, Fenter uses several hundred words to describe the youngster’s search to find a bee hive. The novel, in fact, is filled with such mini-essays, with Fenter providing lessons about Native American life, bee-keeping, farming, and assorted other subjects. While interesting in its own right, the information sometimes buries the drama of Cliff’s saga, including the most emotionally powerful element, Cliff’s reconciliation with his father: “Dad, when I left, I was very angry at everyone. I had to get away and figure out how to control that. I also needed time to figure out just who I was and how I wanted to live my life.”
The author of the An American Family in Japan series, Fenter is a retired schoolteacher who served in the Springfield, Oregon community, the location of a tragic 1998 school shooting. The Ruin requires patience, but it is both satisfying and interesting, and well worth recommending to a teen reader.
Gary Presley

Combating cyber bullying with information an important first step.

Here is a link to a blog with important information on combating cyber bullying that any parent or grandparent should take a look at. cyberbullyinghelp.com 


The Blog is written by Judy H. Wright. Judy is a parent educator, family coach, and personal historian who has written more than 20 books, hundreds of articles and speaks internationally on family issues, including care giving. 


She is trained as a ready to learn consultant, she works with Head Start organizations and child care resource centers. 


I found her blog to be informative and chock full of information. She hits the sensitive issues surrounding bullying middle school and high school years and has suggestions for parents and children alike on how to work through the issues.


A new school year is just around the corner. My wife made her yearly pilgrimage to Freddys this week to buy crayons, notebooks, and folders for our daughter the third grade teacher to use in her class room. Old habits die hard. This will be our eleventh year of retirement and it is still hard to watch the preparations begin for a new year to begin without feeling like we need to rush around and finish the summer jobs because time is running out. Usually my wife buys an extra bag of pencils, crayons, folders, notebooks etc. and drops them off at the neighborhood elementary office to dole out to children who did not have a budget to buy supplies with. 


This year our oldest grand child is a freshman in high school. Next is an eighth grader. There will be two fourth graders and a fifth grader.


I dealt with direct physical bullying from teacher and kids when I was in grade school. It was overt. I could see who was coming at me. I'm afraid that as often as not now days my grandchildren may have to deal with threats from kids they may not see, may not even know, through their cell phones.  


I know the affect it had on me 55-60 years ago, I can't imaging what this additional level of stress is adding to the youngsters today and what their lives will be like 55 years from now as a result.


The best prevention is education. Links like the one above and resources that Judy Wright and other links elsewhere on this blog can point you to can help.


Respectfully submitted,
Kenneth Fenter

Announcing Pee Up A Tree: A Mental Health Memoir by Jim Henson

Pee Up a Tree: A Mental Health Memoir by Jim Henson is in production!
The hard copy proof is en-route as I write this. The Kindle edition is uploaded and will appear in the Kindle store momentarily on Amazon. I'm updating the Arborwood.com website to begin taking orders for this new offering by Arborwood Press. Keep checking. If you are a reviewer and would like to request a review copy, you can contact me immediately by clicking on the comment button at the bottom of this posting. I'll get right back to you.

Why should you read a Memoir? Here is an excerpt from the Forward by Mary Lee Fitzsimmons, PhD, former Executive Director of One World Health Centers.

"Whatever the motivation leading you to pick up this memoir,  you will find a multi-layered commentary on the first few years of someone dedicated to his clients, dedicated to the community, who is not afraid to laugh at himself or at the irony in his environment.

Perhaps you are a student of social work theory and are interested in what University of Chicago was teaching as state of the art social work theory in the late 60’s?  If so, you will not be disappointed. Vignettes illustrating key social work principles abound. Honoring the client’s definition of  the therapeutic agenda, facilitating  a focus on behavior change,  a practical approach to empathy, learning from non-verbal expression, and avoidance of  enmeshment are but a few of the social work concepts illustrated here in humorous and delightful stories. All of us who graduated from that august institution in the 60’s knew we were going to save the world and knew we had the tools we needed to succeed. We did not end up saving the world but the stories here show that the concepts we were taught, when used skillfully,  could help.

I have worked in community-based programming for over thirty years.  It is hard work.  It requires patience, respect for those you are trying to serve, and a clear focus on the community or client’s definition of the problem.  It requires the willingness to spend the time and energy necessary to form quality relationships and it requires a high degree of skilled professionalism.  The stories in this memoir illustrate all of these concepts.  What the stories most illustrate however is that a key requisite is the ability to have fun while valuing the effort required. Whatever your reasons for picking up Jim Henson’s memoir, what you will find most worthwhile is the sense of enjoyment and of fulfillment that comes when community based programming is done well. You can expect to find good humor, good will, a healthy dose of common sense and a very good read."

August 6, is the 65 anniversary of the A-bombing of Hiroshima, Sunday the 9th, Nagasaki

For the past week I have been editing my 1985 book Gaijin! Gaijin! for re-issue. The chapter I began working on a few minutes ago was "Enrollment in Schools, Chapter 11. In that chapter we formally enrolled Philip and Janelle into the public schools of Isahaya, Japan about 15 miles away from Nagasaki. I came to the following passage where we were on the way to our son Philip's Junior High School Kita Isahaya Chu gakku, North Isahaya Junior High School. Walking with us and to do the introduction was Miss Ueda. As we walked, the elderly matron told us about herself and why her legs were bad. You will see in a moment why it suddenly hit me what day it is and the irony that out of a 365 page book this passage would come along today.

As we walked, Miss Ueda told us more about herself. 
      “I was born and spent my first years as a child in Arizona. My parents wanted me to be fluent in English so I learned to speak English before Japanese. That was very convenient for me when I returned to Japan. It was very easy for me to become an English teacher at Kwassui women’s school in Nagasaki.
      “During the war, English was discontinued for a few years, so I taught other subjects. I was teaching at Kwassui the morning the bomb was dropped on Nagasaki. Many of our students were working at the factories near the harbor. It was required of all students, you see. They had to help the war effort.
      “I heard the air raid sirens and rushed into the hallway with some of the students. I saw the flash of the bomb on the wall and could hear it. It was as if the end of the world had come. I was fortunate to be protected by the hallway, but one of my colleagues who was still in her classroom died a few months later from the burns.”
     The children, Lora and I were quiet. She spoke matter of fact, seeming without bitterness.
     “Chinzei you know, was near the center of the blast. Most of its teachers, and students died instantly. We were told that it was some kind of new bomb, and none of the officials of town knew that it was radioactive. For days, I would walk down to Urakami to look for the students who had been working there. But, while I walked down there among the buildings looking for my students, I became poisoned by this radiation disease. At first, my hair fell out, and my gums bled. Also, I suffered from diarrhea for the first two months. Now I look big and fat and heavy, but after a few months then, I was only skin and bones. The doctors treated me and other victims, and after a few years some of the symptoms went away. But, even today, I tire easily, and since then, I can only work for one day and must take a rest the next day.
     “About twenty years ago, everyone had to submit to an extensive physical examination. During that examination the doctor discovered my liver had been badly damaged by the radiation disease. So, even today, I must take some medication. It has helped over the years, but I am still under the doctor’s care and must rest several hours each day,” Miss Ueda said quietly.
     Before that conversation, we had not really thought about the after effects of the bomb. The immediate death and short range death had been well publicized. I wondered how many thousands or hundreds of thousands were still disabled or suffering after 35 years. When she stopped talking, we walked in silence until we reached the school.


Respectfully submitted,Publish Post
Kenneth Fenter

“Pee up a Tree is authentically Jim Henson..." Jane Kirkpatrick bestselling award-winning author of All Together in One Place

“Pee up a Tree is authentically Jim Henson -- my former boss.  It’s inventive, irreverent  and therapeutically wise.  The characters of Jim’s early life in rural community mental health in Oregon  are singular and memorable; the trials and triumphs worthy of cheering.  This is one man’s  journey of service through parenting, teaching and healing, acts the world needs more of.  Enjoy!”  Jane Kirkpatrick, bestselling award-winning author of the non fiction, Homestead:  Modern Pioneers Pursuing the Edge of Possibility, and novels A Tendering in the Storm and A Flickering Light.


Jim Henson and Arborwood Press thank Jane Kirkpatrick, author of 19 books to date. Jane Kirkpatrick's A Tendering in the Storm won the 2007 WILLA Literary Award for Best Original Paperback and A Flickering Light, a story based on her grandmother’s life as a turn of the century photographer, was named to Library Journal’s Best Books of 2009. Her just released book An Absence So Great, is the sequel to A Flickering Light.


Jane's endorsement of Jim's work is huge coming from an author who is so successful. My wife and I read her works as they come out. We attended her "book talks" when she visits the High Desert Museum periodically and come away, enlightened, and entertained. 

We are about a day away from the final piece on Jim's book and announcing the availability of it.
 We have review copies available now. If your hometown newspaper has a book section and you can help us connect with it for a review, how about contacting us.

Jim's book will available soon on the Arborwoodpress.com website and in short order on Amazon.com. 

National Guard Youth Challenge Builds Self-Worth

This week Adam Aaro, an anchor on the evening news at the NBC affiliate KDVZ in Bend ran a multi-part series The National Guard Youth Challenge. Yesterday I wrote about The Choir, a BBC program that builds self worth among youth in British Schools who do not have a choir singing program.

While the Youth Challenge takes a different approach by basically running troubled teens through a bootcamp type program. The end result is the same.

If you live out of the Bend area you can watch and read the series by following the link above. It is an inspiring story. As Aaro points out in the first installment "The next two weeks will greatly challenge these 150 plus cadets -- and some might not make it."


Respectfully,

Kenneth Fenter

Note: The following comment came in this morning (Aug. 2). Please note the date. Ken

August 9th Frank A. Strupith, Admissions Counselor
Oregon National Guard Youth Challenge Program
www.oycp.com
frank.a.strupith@mil.state.or.us
541-317-9623 ext. 223

Frank will be a guest on LATalkradio.com with Host Dore Frances of Bend, Oregon. The show airs live at 12 noon PST. Just go to LATalkradio.com to listen live.

Call in and ask questions live on the air.