tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35224292024-03-08T12:36:50.575-08:00cybersamizdatthoughts and reflections on life, literature, politics, poetry, sports and the weatherRon Ericksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16047784900287625544noreply@blogger.comBlogger54125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3522429.post-57380476125856150882012-01-22T20:28:00.001-08:002012-01-22T21:30:13.051-08:00"Entrepreneurship is the pursuit of opportunity without regard to resources currently controlled."<br /><br />Howard StevensonRon Ericksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16047784900287625544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3522429.post-18437250384652996992010-01-29T11:15:00.001-08:002010-01-29T11:15:30.174-08:00"...being good in business is the most fascinating kind of art..." <br /><br />Andy WarholRon Ericksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16047784900287625544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3522429.post-59345499243660577382009-03-11T20:25:00.000-07:002009-10-29T08:46:35.943-07:00<span style="font-weight:bold;">The Unforgiving Minute</span><br /><br />If you can fill the unforgiving minute<br />With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, <br />Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, <br />And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son! <br /><br />Rudyard KiplingRon Ericksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16047784900287625544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3522429.post-9645921162715300182008-01-23T16:03:00.000-08:002008-01-23T16:05:26.101-08:00<span style="font-weight: bold;">VISTA Health Advocates</span> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">During the winter of 1968 I was involved in a special project at the headquarters of VISTA (Volunteers in Service to America) a division of the Office of Economic Opportunity (OEO), the agency formed to lead the Johnson administration’s efforts in the so-called War on Poverty.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>We wanted to see what impact we could have if we created a special program which selected the very best of the best and brightest who applied for the VISTA program; gave them special training and put them into a small group of counties in the rural south.<span style=""> </span>We called it the VISTA Health Advocates program.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>It was a project which would have approximately 20 <st1:place st="on">VISTA</st1:place> volunteers.<span style=""> </span>They would be placed in six rural and very economically depressed counties in <st1:place st="on">Eastern Arkansas</st1:place>.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>I was tasked, with among other things, as a young Management Intern at OEO, the job of selecting the participants in the Health Advocates program.<span style=""> </span>I personally went through the thousands of application folders for the <st1:place st="on">VISTA</st1:place> volunteer program and selected applicants who had been campus leaders and who, in their applications, exhibited some special talents that caused them to stand out from the rest.<span style=""> </span>I was 25 years old, so I was passing judgment on people who were essentially my peers.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Once selected, the Health Advocates attended a special training program in <st1:city st="on">Austin</st1:City>, <st1:state st="on">Texas</st1:State>, and were then placed into the field in <st1:place st="on">Eastern Arkansas</st1:place>.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Among the volunteers were the only <st1:place st="on">VISTA</st1:place> medical doctor (Dr. Blumenthal) and nurse (Corinne Cass).<span style=""> </span>We put them in <st1:city st="on">Marianna</st1:City>, <st1:state st="on">Arkansas</st1:State>, the county seat of <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Lee</st1:PlaceName> <st1:placename st="on">County</st1:PlaceName></st1:place>.<span style=""> </span>At the time it was the fourth poorest county in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">America</st1:place></st1:country-region> with an average annual income of just over $1200.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>There was no health care for poor whites or poor blacks in Marianna.<span style=""> </span>If you were ill you had to make a three hour drive to <st1:city st="on">Little Rock</st1:City> or <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Memphis</st1:place></st1:City>.<span style=""> </span>We decided to put together a rudimentary health clinic.<span style=""> </span>There was no space and we couldn’t rent space from white merchants so we started the health clinic in the back room of the black owned funeral home.<span style=""> </span>In many small towns in the south, the most prominent and wealthiest black man was the owner of the funeral home.<span style=""> </span>That was the case in Marianna.<span style=""> </span>He owned a Cadillac and was very refined and worldly.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>We needed an executive director for the clinic which we called the Lee County Cooperative.<span style=""> </span>Somehow we found Olly Neal.<span style=""> </span>He had grown up in Marianna and then moved to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Chicago</st1:place></st1:City>.<span style=""> </span>He had returned to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Memphis</st1:place></st1:City> and we hired him to run the clinic.<span style=""> </span>He was an extraordinary charismatic man.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Once established, the Cooperative became a vehicle for all manner of community activity, not just health and nutrition.<span style=""> </span>When we first began work in Mariana we discovered that only 18 to 20% of the registered voters were black,<span style=""> </span>while more than half of the population was black.<span style=""> </span>Clearly, a voter registration campaign made a lot of sense.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Over time, enough black voters registered to provide a black majority in the electorate.<br /><o:p></o:p>The logical next step was to run a slate of black candidates for each office on the upcoming election.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Election night, as ballots were being counted from the precincts around the county, it was looking very likely that the black candidates would win.<span style=""> </span>With only a handful of “mixed” race precincts left to count, the black candidates were ahead.<span style=""> </span>At that moment, the <st1:place st="on"><st1:placetype st="on">County</st1:PlaceType> <st1:placename st="on">Sheriff</st1:PlaceName></st1:place> and his deputies arrived and confiscated the ballot boxes.<span style=""> </span>The next day it was announced that the white candidates had won.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>It was a classic example of racist <st1:place st="on">Southern United States</st1:place> election politics.<span style=""> </span>I was outraged and wanted to immediately contact the <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">U. S.</st1:place></st1:country-region> Attorney with a claim of election fraud.<span style=""> </span>Olly Neal restrained me and said, “You don’t live here.<span style=""> </span>I live here.<span style=""> </span>We know what to do next time and we will win.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>And, Olly and the people of Lee County, Arkansas did win.<span style=""> </span>Olly continued to successfully manage the Coop, then returned to school where he ultimately obtained a law degree.<span style=""> </span>He later became a judge on the Arkansas Court of Appeals, retiring in late 2006.<br /><o:p></o:p>In 1996 I attended a dinner for Hilary Clinton and had the opportunity to speak with her briefly about my time in <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Arkansas</st1:place></st1:State>.<span style=""> </span>I mentioned the name, Olly Neal.<span style=""> </span>Hilary said, “I know Olly Neal. He is wonderful.<span style=""> </span>He is a judge on the Arkansas Court of Appeals.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>A couple of years ago Olly and I traded phone calls but didn’t connect. <span style=""> </span>I just did a search and found that among other things, he just contributed $1000 to Hilary’s Presidential Campaign.</p>Ron Ericksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16047784900287625544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3522429.post-64284358418131491882008-01-23T15:59:00.000-08:002008-01-23T16:12:05.977-08:00<p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">Breakfast with the <st1:place st="on"><st1:placetype st="on">County</st1:placetype> <st1:placename st="on">Judge</st1:placename></st1:place></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>I had been traveling in and out of Eastern Arkansas with regularity in my role as liaison between headquarters in <st1:city st="on">Washington</st1:city>, <st1:state st="on">DC</st1:state> and the field operations of the VISTA Health Advocates program located in six rural counties along the delta of the <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Mississippi</st1:place></st1:state>.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>On one trip I stayed overnight at the Holiday Inn at the interchange at the freeway exit for <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Forest City</st1:city> , <st1:state st="on">Arkansas</st1:state></st1:place>.<span style=""> </span>The freeway was new as was the Holiday Inn.<span style=""> </span><st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Arkansas</st1:place></st1:state> had boomed under the tutelage of the Governor Winthrop Rockefeller, but that boom had missed, as booms do, the lower socio-economic rungs of the ladder.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>In the morning I came down for breakfast and walked into the restaurant.<span style=""> </span>The hostess said, as came in with an associate, “The County Judge is here and would like to have breakfast with you boys.”<span style=""> </span>Well, the <st1:place st="on"><st1:placetype st="on">County</st1:placetype> <st1:placename st="on">Judge</st1:placename></st1:place> in the rural south was typically the most powerful elected official in the county and presided not only over the court, but over the county itself.<span style=""> </span>Often, the county judge lacked any legal education, and in fact, may not have had any education beyond the 8<sup>th</sup> grade.<span style=""> </span>No matter!<span style=""> </span>Even handed justice in the rural south didn’t require education; it just required good common sense.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>We sat down across from the Judge, whose name I don’t recall.<span style=""> </span>He was silver haired and lean.<span style=""> </span>I asked him why he wanted to see us.<span style=""> </span>He said that he wanted to talk with us; that he didn’t like us, “….enticing the Nigras to demonstrate.”<span style=""> </span>I told him we were working with <st1:place st="on">VISTA</st1:place> and working with volunteers in his county.<span style=""> </span>Recently two volunteers had moved into a small town on the east side of his county.<span style=""> </span>Within days of their arrival they had both been severely beaten by some local thugs.<span style=""> </span>I asked him how that could happen in his county.<span style=""> </span>Clearly, he knew about the beatings.<span style=""> </span>He said they had been beaten because, “….when they came into town they just failed to properly identify themselves.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>That day I drove around his county in my rental car checking on various volunteers and projects.<span style=""> </span>I was followed all day at an uncomfortable distance by one the Sheriff’s deputies.<span style=""> </span>I have a strong recollection to this day, of the hair standing on the back of my neck.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Ron Ericksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16047784900287625544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3522429.post-49341017752358363272008-01-07T12:59:00.001-08:002008-01-07T12:59:57.036-08:00<span class="text"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;">"Everybody gets so much information all day long that they lose their <br />common sense."<br /><br /> Gertrude Stein</span></span>Ron Ericksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16047784900287625544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3522429.post-90904714247956560332007-12-06T12:58:00.000-08:002007-12-06T13:02:06.015-08:00<p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Letter Writing</span><o:p style="font-weight: bold;"> </o:p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">My mother just celebrated her 90<sup>th</sup> birthday.<span style=""> </span>120 of her friends attended the reception for her at the <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">First</st1:PlaceName> <st1:placename st="on">Methodist</st1:PlaceName> <st1:placetype st="on">Church</st1:PlaceType></st1:place>.<span style=""> </span>It was a wonderful event, largely a testament to the fact that she has kept in close touch with family and friends.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>My mom is a great letter writer.<span style=""> </span>Letter writing is fast becoming a lost art.<span style=""> </span>I read with great interest in the Times yesterday that the personal papers of Arthur M. Schlesinger, Jr. had been obtained by the New York Public Library.<span style=""> </span>Among the trove was the correspondence between Schlesinger and many of the notables of the last half of 20<sup>th</sup> century in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">America</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<span style=""> </span>As the piece reported,<span style=""> </span><i style="">“About one-third of the 400 boxes of material consist of Mr. Schlesinger’s voluminous correspondence, which in many cases includes both sides of the exchange. Mr. Schlesinger routinely stapled copies of his responses to letters that he had received. “It’s not just who he corresponded with,” a librarian said. “It’s that these were two- or three-page letters exchanged — often about the most pressing topics of the day.””<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>What will become of the history of this new computer age?<span style=""> </span>Will the New York Public Library receive some computer disks from the estate of the next generation’s premier historian?<span style=""> </span>Will they have archived and kept their correspondence through transitions from 5 and ½ to 3 and ¼ to CD to DVD and on to the next medium?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Mom’s correspondence has all been handwritten.<span style=""> </span>She learned Palmer Method cursive at the <st1:placename st="on">Cove</st1:PlaceName> <st1:placetype st="on">School</st1:PlaceType>, a small country school outside of <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Ellensburg</st1:City>, <st1:state st="on">Washington</st1:State></st1:place> where her family homesteaded in 1876.<span style=""> </span>She practiced at the chalk board and wrote hundreds of sentences as a child.<span style=""> </span>Today, her cursive is every bit as perfect and legible as when she graduated from the 8<sup>th</sup> grade.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>I grew up writing cursive as well.<span style=""> </span>We practiced with our pencils on lined paper beginning in the third grade at a point when our brains and our manual dexterity coalesced to allow the formation of those carefully crafted letters.<span style=""> </span>Practice made perfect.<span style=""> </span>Of course, my practice was aided by the occasional need to write 500 sentences that proclaimed that I would no longer pull the hair of the girl who sat in front of me, or some other indiscretion.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>There was something more to the learning of cursive than the simple ability to communicate thoughts in written form.<span style=""> </span>Cursive had a certain flair and elegance and was, when well executed, an art form that communicated not only ideas but something of the personality of the writer as well.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Today, my children don’t learn cursive in school.<span style=""> </span>It has been dropped from the curriculum.<span style=""> </span>I think the loss is a significant one.<span style=""> </span>Not only are children now deprived of an opportunity for tedious, disciplined learning but the fine art of letter writing is undermined as well.<span style=""> </span>Rigor, as an element of the educational process, has been replaced with every increasing opportunity for expression.<span style=""> </span>But, it seems to me, expression finds its fullest form when it springs from a solid base of disciplined learning.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>In addition to the loss of cursive, and the death of the fine art of letter writing, the future will miss the opportunity to receive into its archives the reportorial work of the custodians of its history.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Ron Ericksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16047784900287625544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3522429.post-75575894019019114592007-11-12T13:39:00.000-08:002007-11-12T13:41:57.524-08:00Casserole<br /><br />The word spread<br />rapidly through<br />the small rural<br />community<br /><br />She was not<br />doing well<br /><br />After years<br />of failing health<br />she was now passing<br /><br />It was a blessing<br />but nonetheless<br />it was difficult<br />and a time for<br />family and friends<br />to gather around<br /><br />They sat silently<br />in the front room<br />and puttered in<br />the kitchen<br />waiting for the<br />inevitable<br /><br />There were three<br />casserolesRon Ericksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16047784900287625544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3522429.post-56844318459191823862007-10-09T08:57:00.000-07:002007-10-09T09:03:11.099-07:00<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Really!<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p><span style="font-size: 10pt;">“We found a body but<o:p></o:p><br />we caught the most amazing <o:p></o:p><br />fish though.”<a style="" href="#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style=""><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Times New Roman";">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p>Yeah, we were walking through<o:p></o:p><br />The woods to get to this really<o:p></o:p><br />Cool fishing hole.<span style=""> </span>It is really deep and<o:p></o:p><br />Has the eddies that move back against the<o:p></o:p><br />Cliff on the far side.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p>I had my old bamboo rod and that spinning reel <o:p></o:p><br />That my Grandpa gave me<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p>There was this leg sticking out of the leaves<o:p></o:p><br />On the trail.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p>I caught a bunch of grasshoppers yesterday <o:p></o:p><br />Evening and dug up some nightcrawlers from <o:p></o:p><br />The worm farm by the back door.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p>It looked really gnarly like it had been there a <o:p></o:p><br />Long time<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p>I had a fresh set of Eagleclaw No.10 hooks<o:p></o:p><br />And some new leader and I rigged up a bobber<o:p></o:p><br />So I could drift in with about eight feet of line<o:p></o:p><br />And let the bait move back into the eddy with<o:p></o:p><br />Three small lead BB weights on the line<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p>Gawd it was amazing.<span style=""> </span>When it hit it was like <o:p></o:p><br />A freight train.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p>Billy ran back to call the cops.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p>It grabbed that bait and took the hook and almost <o:p></o:p><br />Jerked the pole right out of my hand.<span style=""> </span>Jesus did it<o:p></o:p><br />Pull that line.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p>But I kept working it and working it and just kept <o:p></o:p><br />Breathing like my Grandpa said until my arms were <o:p></o:p><br />Aching.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p>It was unbelievable.<span style=""> </span>It was 18 inches long.<span style=""> </span>A big<o:p></o:p><br />Fat rainbow.<span style=""> </span>I think I hooked it last summer and lost it.<o:p></o:p><br />I’m gonna take it home and bread it and fry it.<o:p></o:p><br />It was so amazing.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p>Yeah, really!<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <div style=""><hr align="left" size="1" width="33%"> <!--[endif]--> <div style="" id="ftn1"> <p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a style="" href="#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style=""><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Times New Roman";">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> From the movie,<b style=""> Jindabyne</b>, a loose adaptation of Raymond Carver’s short story “So Much Water So Close to Home.”<o:p></o:p></p> </div> </div>Ron Ericksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16047784900287625544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3522429.post-71259402024132558532007-08-03T17:58:00.000-07:002007-08-03T18:03:22.847-07:00<p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">P. O. V.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>It hurt my<br />Head to think<br />About the universe<br />Expanding out<br />Forever without end</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>I was six years<br />Old and struggled<br />With that<br />Perplexing notion</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Until, one day walking<br />In my backyard<br />To climb my<br />Favorite apple tree</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>It occurred to me<br />That if I were<br />Small boy<br />On Mars<br />It might hurt my<br />Head to think<br />Of a universe that<br />Had an end</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>And it might<br />Seem normal for<br />The universe to<br />Go on forever</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Nearly sixty years<br />Have passed since<br />That day and I<br />Still find comfort<br />In the idea</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>That you can<br />Imagine a different<br />Point of view<br />And it will stop<br />The hurt in<br />Your head.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><st1:date month="1" day="15" year="2007"><br /></st1:date></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Ron Ericksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16047784900287625544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3522429.post-38385598681074288402007-05-20T16:44:00.000-07:002007-05-20T16:46:39.695-07:00<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">“</b><st1:state><st1:place><b style="">Missouri</b></st1:place></st1:State><b style=""> on a Leaf”<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It was a metaphor<br />That could grace<br />His tombstone</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>An epitaph stood<br />For what had been</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>He had in mind<br />More a sense<br />Of becoming</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>He read it years ago<br />In a“Beat” tract and<br />It immediately embodied<br />For him that sense<br />Of freedom and wonder<br />That he wanted for<br />The core of his life</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>It meant nothing at<br />All but yet it held for him<br />Wonderful possibility</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Where are you going?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>“I’m going to<br /><st1:state><st1:place>Missouri</st1:place></st1:State> on a leaf”</p>Ron Ericksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16047784900287625544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3522429.post-58971430079061829132007-03-24T15:09:00.000-07:002007-03-24T15:17:52.401-07:00<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">The <span style=""> </span>Edge<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><o:p></o:p></b>You stand on the edge<br />Thinking for a moment<br />Do I go forward?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Knowing in some way<br />That your life will change<br />Inalterably if you<br />Take that step</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Knowing that<br />Whether you move<br />Or not your life<br />Will change</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Knowing that the<br />Edge is not a cliff<br />But a knife<br />That slices your life<br />Into before and after</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Ron Ericksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16047784900287625544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3522429.post-76886751189283665382007-01-01T18:30:00.000-08:002007-01-01T18:31:29.600-08:00You need only claim the events<br />of your life to make yourself yours.<br />When you truly possess all you<br />have been and done, which may<br />take some time, you are fierce<br />with reality.<br /><br />Florida Scott MaxwellRon Ericksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16047784900287625544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3522429.post-40964348456097629062007-01-01T14:02:00.001-08:002007-01-01T14:02:58.625-08:00Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation), there is one elementary truth the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then providence moves too. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one’s favor all manner of unforeseen incidents, meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamt would have come his way.<br /><br />Scottish mountain climber<br />W.H. MurrayRon Ericksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16047784900287625544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3522429.post-1167082391999715142006-12-25T13:27:00.000-08:002006-12-28T10:47:02.100-08:00<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">Tears of Joy</span><br /><?xml:namespace prefix = o /><o:p><br /></o:p>I entered<br />Her dressing room,<br />Hugged her<br />And burst into<br />Tears<br />Don’t be sad<br />She said</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>I’m not<br />Sad, I mumbled<br />Through<br />My sobs</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>They are<br />Rare, these<br />Tears of joy</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Those few<br />Times in a<br />Life when<br />The magic<br />Combination<br />Of love and wonder<br />Bring a flood<br />Of emotion</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>I had surprised<br />Her back stage<br />After a cross<br />Country trip</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>To watch<br />Her perform<br />The lead in<br /><?xml:namespace prefix = st1 /><st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Swan</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Lake</st1:placetype></st1:place></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>She was the<br />Swan<br />Transfixing and<br />Elegant</p>And she was<br />My little girl<br />Now grown up and<br />A starRon Ericksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16047784900287625544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3522429.post-1167082009430167702006-12-25T13:23:00.000-08:002006-12-25T13:26:49.443-08:00<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Holding My Hand<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Hold my hand<br />When we cross<br />The street</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>We do it<br />For safety<br />And security</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>And we do<br />It for comfort<br />And affection</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>As children grow<br />Hands begin<br />To stay busy<br />Or in pockets</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>“I’m big now”<br />No need to hold<br />Hands to cross<br />The street</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>But old habits<br />Are slow to die</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>I remember still<br />That time and place<br />When my daughter<br /><st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Elizabeth</st1:place></st1:City> last reached<br />Spontaneously for<br />My hand</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>It is a moment<br />I treasure</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>The last time<br />She held my hand</p>Ron Ericksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16047784900287625544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3522429.post-1165717396578053742006-12-09T18:19:00.000-08:002006-12-11T07:56:09.813-08:00<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Headstone<o:p></o:p></b><br /><o:p><br /></o:p>It was beautiful<br />Dark brown<br />And rose<br />With a high polish</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>The name across<br />The granite jumped out</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>There is a moment<br />Of shock when<br />You see your name</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>It was Memorial Day<br />And Dad’s headstone<br />Had just been installed</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>“I like the font,”<br />My daughter said.</p>Ron Ericksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16047784900287625544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3522429.post-1151425961550989012006-06-27T09:28:00.000-07:002006-06-27T09:32:41.606-07:00<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Skunk Cabbage<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I was five or six<br />The small creek<br />Behind the school<br />Held a patch of<br />Skunk cabbage.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>I would pick some<br />And chase the girls<br />Especially the girl<br />I liked best that day.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>The girls squealed<br />And ran away.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Somehow I knew<br />They secretly liked<br />The attention.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Although many years<br />Have passed and<br />I haven’t seen or held<br />Any since my youth<br />I still chase girls with<br />Skunk cabbage.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br /></o:p>September 2005</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Ron Ericksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16047784900287625544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3522429.post-1143951155978592012006-04-01T20:08:00.000-08:002006-12-11T07:56:56.683-08:00<p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">Snow Angel</p> <p class="MsoNormal">One of my early<br />Memories of snow<br />Is making snow angels<br />And playing fox and hen<br />In the snow with my Dad<br />Along side the highway on the<br />Way to <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Snoqualmie</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Pass</st1:placetype></st1:place></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Yesterday I visited his<br />Grave and uncovered the<br />Snow from the wreath my<br />Mom had my brother lay<br />At the place of the headstone</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>I laid the wreath against<br />The plastic yellow sunflowers<br />I purchased at Albertson’s<br />Grocery store</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>And then, I lay on the<br />Ground above his grave<br />And made a snow angel</p>Ron Ericksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16047784900287625544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3522429.post-1143388041104634532006-03-26T07:44:00.000-08:002006-03-26T07:47:21.116-08:00<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; line-height: 150%;" align="center">Ida and Wes</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I am Ron Erickson.<span style=""> </span>Ida and Wes were my Aunt and Uncle.<span style=""> </span>I am honored to stand before you today and give tribute to Ida and Wes.<span style=""> </span>Ida was my Dad, Ed Erickson’s, sister.<span style=""> </span>Many of you in this room know the Erickson story.<span style=""> </span><st1:city><st1:place>Homestead</st1:place></st1:City> in <st1:state><st1:place>Minnesota</st1:place></st1:State>.<span style=""> </span>Peter and Julia Erickson had five children.<span style=""> </span>Four girls and a boy.<span style=""> </span>They were homestead stock, Scandinavian immigrant stock, hardy stock.<span style=""> </span>They were forever resourceful. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""></span>Ida was born with a club foot.<span style=""> </span>With no doctors and no money, her father, Peter, fashioned an iron brace which he adjusted over time until her foot was straight.<span style=""> </span>When they moved in 1922 to a small place just down the road, and visited a Doctor at Children’s Hospital, he said, “I couldn’t have done any better myself.”<span style=""> </span>The foot brace resides in Ida’s family’s archives.<span style=""> </span><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Early, Wes June intersected with the Ericksons.<span style=""> </span>Wes knew the family.<span style=""> </span>He told me that when he got the news that Peter Erickson was killed in a logging accident right up there on the ridge above <st1:city><st1:place>High Point</st1:place></st1:City> he couldn’t believe it, because Pete had a reputation for being safe and smart in the woods.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p>As chance would have it, the intersection occurred again in the mid 60’s.<span style=""> </span>Ida was widowed and Wes divorced and then began a wonderful love affair.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p>Many of us share wonderful memories of <st1:street><st1:address>Rainier Avenue</st1:address></st1:Street>.<span style=""> </span>Great parties, lots of laughter, and easy-going ribbing.<span style=""> </span>And…then picnics on the bare lot at <st1:place><st1:placename>Beaver</st1:PlaceName> <st1:placetype>Lake</st1:PlaceType></st1:place>…and the home there with its always open door.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p>Today though I want to share stories of love.<span style=""> </span>Wes was devoted to Ida and cared for her with love and compassion.<span style=""> </span>And Ida was full of love and a relentless spirit.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Just weeks before she died, in May of last year, I visited Ida and Wes at the nursing home on <st1:city><st1:place>Mercer Island</st1:place></st1:City> gaining strength to go home.<span style=""> </span>My Dad was in an assisted living facility dealing with dementia.<span style=""> </span>In her bed, with Wes at her side she said, “Ed needs to get home.<span style=""> </span>Wes and I will come help take care of him.”<span style=""> </span>Full of love and compassion.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p>As it turned out Ida was not to see her brother again.<span style=""> </span>Shortly thereafter she passed away.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p>On Memorial Day we picked up my Dad from the assisted living facility and drove down to <st1:place><st1:placename>Greenwood</st1:PlaceName> <st1:placetype>Cemetery</st1:PlaceType></st1:place> in <st1:city><st1:place>Renton</st1:place></st1:City> where a large portion of the extended family resides.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Dad stood by the graves of his parents and sisters and said, “I didn’t get to say goodbye to Ida.<span style=""> </span>I know she would have asked for me.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">A month later, Dad fell, had a cerebral hemorrhage and lapsed into a coma.<span style=""> </span>Ultimately life support was removed. Wes was in the room with Dad when the decision was made.<span style=""> </span>He said, “I want the right decision for Ed.<span style=""> </span>I know what he would want.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">A week in hospice followed before Dad passed away.<span style=""> </span>Wes sat with Mom and the family throughout that week.<span style=""> </span>He was a steady comforting presence.<span style=""> </span>He was full of love.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Wes’ work was complete. <span style=""> </span>A full life.<span style=""> </span>He once said that he wanted to live one day more than Ida.<span style=""> </span>He lived 257 days.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Mom said to him, “Wes, so many people love you and want you to live.”<span style=""> </span>“Oh,” he said, “They will get along okay without me.”<span style=""> </span>He’s right.<span style=""> </span>We will.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">But we miss you Wes.<span style=""> </span>And we miss Ida.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">We miss the smiles, the laughter.<span style=""> </span>We miss the offer of a game of crib.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">And we miss the offer of a toddie. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">And we love you.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Ron Ericksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16047784900287625544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3522429.post-1139004104543283752006-02-03T14:00:00.000-08:002006-02-03T14:01:44.553-08:00"You're Only As Young As The Last Time You Changed Your Mind"<br /><br /> Timothy LearyRon Ericksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16047784900287625544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3522429.post-1135374661623026422005-12-23T13:50:00.000-08:002005-12-23T13:51:01.633-08:00<b><i><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 0);">"Remember not only to say the right thing in the right place, but far more difficult still, to leave unsaid the wrong thing at the tempting moment."</span></i><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 0);"> -- Benjamin Franklin</span></b>Ron Ericksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16047784900287625544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3522429.post-1135125516768106532005-12-20T16:37:00.000-08:002005-12-20T16:38:36.776-08:00Risk is the price you pay for opportunity<br /> <br /> Charles Abrams<br /> (a great friend, may he rest in peace)Ron Ericksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16047784900287625544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3522429.post-1131215681627088072005-11-05T10:33:00.000-08:002005-11-05T10:34:41.636-08:00Mud Puddle<br /><br />What took you<br />Long, she asked,<br />To come home<br />From school<br /><br />It was the<br />Mud puddle<br />My brother said<br />He had to walk<br />Around a<br />Mud puddle<br /><br />He got in trouble<br />Because he forgot<br />To say the mud puddle<br />Was large and fascinating<br /><br />He forgot to say<br />He stopped to throw rocks<br />In it, steer small<br />Wooden ships across it<br />And wage imaginary wars<br /><br />The mud puddle was<br />Intriguing and complex<br />And time ran away<br />From him<br /><br />He got in trouble<br />Because he didn’t<br />Explain the nuance.<br /><br />Life is a lot<br />Like a mud puddle.Ron Ericksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16047784900287625544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3522429.post-1130178876972283082005-10-24T11:33:00.000-07:002005-10-24T11:38:37.526-07:00<p class="MsoNormal">Waves</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Time passes<br />After the death<br />Numbness abates</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Exhaustion is replaced with<br />A bounce in your step</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Life, for a moment,<br />As exquisite<br />And vivid and rich<br />As life can be </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Drifts once again<br />Toward the banal</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Then a wave hits<br />An emotional tsunami</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Out of nowhere<br />A wave</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">A wave of recollection<br />And grief and pain and loss<br />Powerful for just a moment<br />Then passing away</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I miss you Dad.</p>Ron Ericksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16047784900287625544noreply@blogger.com0