Primary Posters

It isn't often that I will use this forum to move data. However, this is one of those times. Jen, here are the posters that I worked on the Primary Day Camp. They are a little different each one, but it gives you (as a presidency) a choice.

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Revised Collage Style:



Ok, Jen, it's up to you...or do you want something different?

The Beginning of "I Love You…"

“We don’t know the moment when love begins,
But we always know the moment when love ends.”
-Harris Telamacher
(L.A. Story)

If you haven’t seen the movie, do yourself a favor and see it. That’s it. That’s my plug for the film “L.A. Story.” I won’t say anymore about the movie. I would like to address this quote, as it is one of many that this movie offers for those who listen while watching movies.

Since I first heard Steve Martin’s voiceover lay down these words, I thought that they contained infinite truth and abundant wisdom. That was before I fell in love with Jen. Now I know that with some love, one can mark the beginning, and hopefully never the end.

I had seen her, watched her talking with friends, and I couldn’t help but notice how she looked in her pink jumper. What can I say but that I had a bad case of the smitten kitten? But that was not love. Smite, even deep smite of the heart, does not equal love. Only love is love…accept no substitutes.

I remember the time and place when the smittenness of my heart morphed into love. It was across a Subway counter in Littleton, Colorado. Jen worked there, and I had a part time job hanging out and watching Jen work. Now before you call me a filthy stalker, let me just say that we were dating, and I had to spend as much time with her as I could because I had plans to leave the country for a few years. So it’s cool…simmer down…she was ok with it.

Like I said, she was working and I was watching her work. In a lull, a brief moment, we leaned across the counter to sneak a little kiss. It was a peck on the lips, nothing more, but it unlocked a new world. Everything changed, and I realized it at that moment. As we parted, I wanted to tell her that I loved her. I mean I really loved her and I knew it.

Before I could even draw breath to give power to those words, she said it first. I was relegated to an “I love you, too.”

It felt lamely given, but held no less truth than the phrase “I love you” without the “too” attached to it. That was it. That was the beginning of the “I love you…more” war. Though my “more” came out strangely sounding like “too”, it was true.

“We don’t know the moment when love begins,
But I do know, Jen, that I love you more.”
-Bob Justus
(Just now…this blog)

DOGS

“Outside of a dog, books are man’s best friends.
Inside of a dog…it’s too dark to read.”
-Groucho Marx

I count this as one of my favorite quotes. I love books. I love dogs. What’s not to like about the quote? I spend a fair amount of time thinking about my favorite books. I have provided a list of the top five, which has remained firm for the past decade, on the right margin of my blog. I fear that I have neglected my loving companions on this forum.

No longer…

I hereby submit to you a record of my doggie friends. I will give them in a chronologic order…as I find it impossible to list them in order from least to greatest or vice-versa.

BUSTER
My first memory of a dog…any dog…is Buster. I suppose that he was my dad’s dog before he married my mom. I was a little over a year old when they married and we moved in with him to the house on 835 Lee Street. I thought that Dad named him after Buster Brown shoes…and that’s why he always bought me those kind of shoes. Kids draw weird lines in their heads between two different things. He was a brown dog, big to a little guy like me, who lived in our back yard. I had asked my dad about Buster’s breed once, about that time of a kid’s life when he learns that there are names for different kinds of dogs.. Dad called him a “purebred mutt,” and I happily paraded my dog’s breed around school.

Buster was the best dog ever. He came when we called, played fetch the right way (without making us chase him), ran around the mountains with youthful abandon, and loved me unconditionally. Of course most of my memories of him are clouded in the blissful rose-tinted lens of time.

I do clearly remember getting up late one wintry night, sometime between Larry and Darin’s birth, to noises in the kitchen. I went out in my one-piece footed PJ’s to investigate and found Dad in his green Army khakis rubbing Buster down with a towel. Buster was an outdoor dog, never allowed in the house…but here he was dripping melting ice on the kitchen floor. Dad had brought him in out of a raging snowstorm to keep him warm. He never said it, but I kind of already knew that this was something that mom didn’t need to know about. We sat with the dog for awhile, and I think that I actually fell asleep on the kitchen floor with my head on Buster. I woke up the next morning in bed, and Buster was in the garage.

We had Buster for a good long time, and I am sure that he was an old and wise (albeit “purebred”) mutt by the time I said good bye to him. Actually, he never died…at least not in my home. He didn’t run away from me…he ran away from Larry. Larry’s hobby after returning from the hospital after his accident was throwing things at my dog. One day, after one-too-many-rocks hit him in the head, Buster had enough. He jumped the fence that he never before had to jump, and took off for a retirement away from the strife we called Larry. I saw him from the front yard and called after him. He stopped, looked at me with his wise old brown eyes, barked and gave a short whine, then ran down the street and out of my life. I knew that he really didn’t want to go away from the only home that he could ever remember. I know that he loved me, and even thought for a short moment about staying with me. In the end, he could not stay.
I miss Buster. I hope to see him in Heaven and let him know that I would have come with him if I could.

PANCHO
¡Ah…Pancho! ¡Ah…Cisco!

Actually he was “Ponch,” after Erik Estrada’s character in the hit TV serried “CHIPS.” Pancho came home with Greg one day while Greg was in high school. He was just a little puppy…and cute as could be at that. He was a German Shepherd/Doberman mix. “CHIPS” was on the TV when Greg came home with the puppy…and the name came naturally and unanimously from all of us kids.

It turns out that Greg picked up the pup without consulting Dad, and Dad was not too happy. Still, we couldn’t turn the poor guy away. We all loved him and played with him, and Pancho grew quickly. In a matter of months, he had grown to the point where his playful puppiness more or less resembled vicious attack doginess. He took over the backyard, having grown physically huge, but remained a puppy with harmless intentions in his head. The only two alpha’s he accepted in his life were Dad and Greg. He saw everyone else as a self-propelled chew toy.

After less than a year, Dad took Pancho down to the Denver Dumb Friends League. He felt (and rightly so) that Pancho needed different pack and a different situation. However, just as Greg didn’t consult Dad when bringing Pancho into the pack, Dad did not consult Greg when taking Pancho away.

Both Dad and Pancho are gone, but it’s a touchy subject still today with Greg.

On his way home Dad picked up a new friend for the family, and the next canine friend in my life…

SPUNKY
Now there was a great little dog. I don’t say that much about small dogs, but this little terri-poo was my buddy. He had black hair, usually matted because we couldn’t be bothered to brush him regularly. Dad would shear him annually, and his hair would look like a little poodle rug with a body, arms, legs, and neck.

I would play with him in the yard. We would wrestle in the living room (he let me win sometimes.) He would snooze in my lap while I watched “East of Eden” or “Rebel Without a Cause.” I missed him most of all when I moved out of my Dad’s house. He always came to me so excited when I came by for visits.

Spunky had grown pretty old by the time I left on my mission. He still showed his excitement when I came home…but it looked a lot like incontinence. Jen and I had only been married a short time when Spunky succumbed to his many years of happiness with our family, and died in Brad’s arms. I miss that little squirt (the dog…Brad’s still around…he’s my brother.)

TOBY
Brad missed having a four legged best friend, and so when he was 18 he went down to the Denver Dumb Friends League and picked up a 2 year old yellow lab named Toby. This dog had one word going through his mind 24/7: PLAY. He was curious, and ran away a lot, but always came back home…after we found him, leashed him, and dragged him all of the way back to the house. He did like to fetch though. Brad moved out, moved on, but Toby stayed at Dad’s house. Dad got married and moved out, but Toby stayed with Larry and Darin. He lived and played there with us for 10 years, and then one day he laid down for a nap under the tree in the back yard, and woke up in Heaven…

BELLA
That brings me to my current doggy friend: Bella. She is a beagle/blue healer mix. Jen got her for me last year, knowing that I love dogs. She is not as easy as I remember a dog being inside the home…but that just follows the tried and true equation:

TIME + MEMORIES = LIES OF A BETTER YESTERDAY

Bella stays mainly downstairs with Larry and Darin since my surgery last fall. I walk her often, and play with her every day. She has taken to some training that Greg taught me. She brays beautifully, and I have provided her a big back yard full of wonderful things to sniff. I love her. She’s my doggy.

We are going to have one heck of a pack in Heaven…when dogs, cats, birds, crayfish, and all other pets that Jen and I have ever had, do have, or will have will live in happy peace together. I will read to them from good books...because in Heaven the lighting should be just fine for both dogs and reading.

Oath Breaker

This is a rough draft of a story that is percolating inside of me. Right now it's mostly clichés and a bad use of Spanish. Still, I think that the idea that I have behind it will develop into a fun story. Enjoy...

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“I don’t want to have to do this…” his voice trailed off as the gangly young man advanced towards him with his curved sword drawn. The determined look in the boy’s face made it clear to Alain: he would have fight.

Nearly a decade had passed since the end of the war, and still many farm boys sought to make something of their lives by challenging Alain for the reward money that followed him wherever he traveled. Sadly for them, none had ever collected. He would have to do something about that reward one day, but right now Alain had some business to tend in the Southlands.

He pulled the short sword from his hip, leaving the long word on his back in its scabbard. He would only need the smaller sword for today’s work. Crouching slightly, keeping the weight over the balls of his feet, Alain waited for the boy to advance. He focused on his opponent, and shut out the crowd that gathered at a safe distance to see the fight. In a few measured breaths his training took over to handle the boy’s challenge.

The boy came in slowly, and then sped up the last few steps as he swung the sword from low back and around to attack from a high position. Alain sidestepped the blow and prepared to end the challenge quickly. Much to his surprise, the boy didn’t lose his guard by overextending his reach. Instead, the boy kept his sword up and spun around quickly to move out of the short sword’s reach.

The boy quickly moved in again, this time with some caution, and kept his guard high. The high guard, or the ‘Eagles Perch,’ was thought of as the best form in this region of the country. Many had adopted it to much success. It allowed for the fighter to slash downward with force, and block effectively without fighting the weight of the sword.

Alain was a veteran of many wars around the world, and had seen many different forms. While the ‘Eagles Perch’ had its benefits, but he could beat it – he had done so many times. The boy swung with both hands on his sword. He conserved his motion, and thus conserved energy and strength: signs of some training the veteran thought.

They parried and studied each other’s form. Alain attacked with a thrust, or a slash, and watched how the younger man parried and blocked the small attacks. After a few exchanges Alain felt that he knew the proper form to use to beat the lad, and he held no remorse in ending the fight.

Using the small opening the boy gave him, Alain forced the younger fighter off balance, and maneuvered his way to the boy’s flank. He quickly swung his short sword high with the blade pointed diagonally down and thrust with both hands in the ‘Scorpion’s Stinger.’ The boy abandoned his ruse of being off-balance and quickly spun out of the way of the strike while batting the short sword near the hilt with this own blade.

The short sword flew out of the older man’s hands, which forced the man to retreat briefly to pull the long sword from this back. He felt a fool to have regarded the boy so lightly. The boy kicked the short sword away to keep it from coming back into play and advanced again on the older man.

“I commend you,” the older man said as the younger fighter advanced, “You have skill, and you have been taught by someone with skill. I might’ve spared your life had you pled for mercy, but now you force me to deal with you harshly.”

The boy silently advanced and took up a new form to attack…the ‘Heart Attack.’ He fought with one hand instead of two, and kept his body at a maximum distance from his enemy’s weapon. He struck from his hilt starting at the center of own his own chest, and thrust with speed and accuracy to his opponent’s heart.

The older man parried and countered, edging the duo in a tight circle. The boy had taken such an offensive posture, that it left little room for the older man to mount a decent attack. He kept up his defense until he had angled himself to within 20 feet of his short sword where it lay on the street. He then knocked the boy’s sword hard and away to give him a brief moment to reach out his empty left hand towards his fallen sword.

“Venga!” He shouted.

As soon as he spoke the strange word static rippled up his arm. The boy stopped in shock as the hairs on his own arm stood on end. The short sword that lay twenty feet away jerked and leapt across the air into Alain’s outstretched hand. The boy knew now that the fight would end. He had counted on keeping only one sword in the veteran’s hand, but with two swords…with two swords the ‘Hawk and the Sparrow’ would spell his doom.

Alain advanced in a sort of dance. His knees moved high, the swords swung in a rhythmic motion that held all who watched in a horrified trance. The boy waited, his sword held straight up with both hands, the hilt at his sternum. He touched the flat of his sword to his forehead briefly and muttered a quite prayer while the older man advanced.

“Parete!” Someone called from the crowd. The voice was old, but still powerful. “No se maten.”

Alain stopped in the middle of his dance of death. He let his hands drop to his side, with the blades crossed in front of him. He could not resist the power in the ancient words spoken. The magic in those words bound him to stop…and not kill the boy.

“Who speaks to me that way?” Alain demanded.

“I am Zarten, the boy’s grandfather.” An old man replied as he stepped from the crowd.

“You put him up to this? You would sacrifice your own blood for the chance at some coin?”

“No, not that,” Zarten replied as he stood at the younger man’s side. “I heard the rumors that one who resembled Alain of Syrek had passed this way…I had to know if it was really Alain, or an imposter living on someone else’s legend.”

“You were looking for me to speak the words, and I have obliged you. What do you want, old man?” Alain demanded.

“Not many have ever heard the ancient language, and fewer still had ever had the opportunity to learn it. Alain, you and I were once allied in Kain’s army. We fought a common enemy, until Forked River. The survivors of that day pledged our honor to each other. Alain, I have need for you to fulfill that pledge.”

“Your grandson has given me dishonor in disarming me in public. Our comradeship cannot take away that insult. What will you have me do?” Alain said flatly.

The boy dropped to his knee and held his sword in front of him with his head bowed. “I beg forgiveness. I knew that I could disarm you, but I also knew that if you were Alain of Syrek, then I would die for such disrespect. I offer you my own sword to take my head.”

The Pledge of Acquiescence, known by few and spoken by fewer. It took Alain back for a moment to hear them coming from the young man. He would make the choice of killing the boy, or keeping him alive as a bondsman.

“Te perdono, hijo.” Alain answered in the ancient language as he sheathed his swords. The boy remained kneeling with his head bowed offering his sword. “I accept your pledge, stand up.”

The old man put his hands on the boy’s shoulders and pulled him to his feet. The boy looked confused. He stood awkwardly before the old veteran whom he had just fought.

“Do you understand what I said?” Alain asked the boy.

“No.” he said shaking his head.

“Forgive him, he cannot speak.” Zarten said to Alan. “He is, however, gifted in many other ways.”

“He cannot speak? He does not know the Ancient Language? But his skill…” it was Alain’s turn to be amazed.

“He was born to the metal, not the magic, Alain. He uses the sword as an extension of his own being.” Zarten explained.

Alain took a moment to look at his new young bondsman. The boy had not yet completed growing, and would fill out one day to an imposing height. His short brown hair, cut to the style of the younger generation in the Southlands, made him look younger than his years; still Alain did not judge him for more than 16 summers.

“Do you understand the vow that you have made?” Alan inquired of the boy.
The boy nodded and bowed to Alain, holding his tongue.

“We both understand that he and his entire family are now bound to you.” Zarten said, and then he too bowed to Alain.

“Then let us retire and speak of your need, Zarten.” Alain said. “Sheath your own sword and give me a name that I may call you.” Alain said to the boy.

“You may call me Xander.” The boy replied, sheathing his blade.