11 September 2001, Tuesday

I look back in my journal to find the entry for 9/11/01. At the time I was a faculty member at BYU in the Marriott School. I also taught one New Testament class.Here is the entry:

"I sit in my office early preparing for my 8:00 a.m. class when Bill Baker comes by to ask if I've heard the news. Two planes have flown into the two towers of the World Trade Center in New York. I turn on CNN and watch. Ah, me. The terribleness of it all.

"Just as I am ready to go to class it develops that another plane has flown into the Pentagon in Washington, D.C. Downstairs I enter the classroom and turn on the cable system. We watch until time for class to start, then I give them two options: the value of studying the Gospel of Jesus Christ while under unknown pressures and the value of watching events unfold. They choose the latter.

"We open class with prayer, then we watch. I am mesmerized as we see footage again and again of the second plane hitting the second tower. And then, as we watch, each tower implodes on itself and slowly sinks to the ground, raining ash and debris far and wide. We gasp audibly at the occurrences we witness.

"I am remided of other benchmark days I have known: November 1963 when JFK was killed. January 27, 1967, when the first spaceship blew up (it was the day after I was married). Later when the Challenger blew up with Christa McAuliffe--the teacher--aboard, November 1995 when Rabin was assassinated while I lived in Jerusalem. Other places. Other things.

"I look around the classroom and see strength and amazement. They want to understand, seek for reason, and they are riveted. Now and then someone leaves the room to use a phone. Someone asks how far is the drive from Washington to New York City. Someone else replies, "About four hours." Students who are not in our class come to the doors and lean against the walls, and, finally, sit in an empty seat or two.

"I watch my watch carefully, praying to know what to say as I end this class. Then it is time. I turn off the cable connection and bear my testimony to them. "I know two things for sure. One is that this earth is in the Lord's hands, the other is that the Gospel of Jesus Christ helps and heals." Felicia says the closing prayer and prays for the people who are hurt and their families, for those who are fighting the fires and the debris, and for all of us.

"Back in my office an email message says that the devotional has been canceled for today, but asks if we would gather together at the Marriott Center for prayer. I rush through a bit of work I have to do, all the while with my ear tuned to CNN, then walk over to the Marriott Center amidst a hoard of people.

"I have to sit far at the side and very high up in this vast hall that holds 22,000 people. Ron Staheli of the music department has us stand to sing the opening song, "Come, Come Ye Saints," the song I had scheduled to sing in my classroom today.

"The words are overwhelming, and I weep. Those words with this terrorist backdrop are doubly deep. "We'll find the place which God for us prepared, far away, in the West." Then "Where none shall come to hurt or make afraid. . ." Then, "And should we die before our journey's through. . ." And, as always, "All is well, all is well."

"Tears run down my face. Fred Skousen prays and Alan Wilkins leads us in the Pledge of Allegiance. President Bateman speaks a bit. He tells the students not to be afraid, not to jump to conclusions and blame some country or another when we have students from those countries right here on campus. Respect all people. The Gospel of Jesus Christ is the only teaching on earth that lets us know the harmed people are all right, we will see them again, and "all is well." He tells the students that the responsibility of peace in the Gospel rests on their shoulders. They can bring it to the world. But even in a crazy world, they can feel peace in themselves. "The news is the GOOD NEWS!" he says.

"Then he prays. His voice changes to a powerful one--I'm amazed how often that happens in priesthood bearers giving blessings. He prays for those who have perpetrated these terrible acts, and for all those who are affected by them. I feel a witness of his leadership, and of the priesthood. And I weep again.

"Then we are finished. I return to my car and drive home where I follow CNN for the rest of the day. Still trying to understand."

Family Reunion

I go to Nauvoo to speak at a family reunion. Not my own. I'm impressed with what the family has pulled together about their Nauvoo ancestors. People who lived there however briefly and joined the Saints as they were driven out toward the west--eventually the Salt Lake Valley.


I'm impressed again with the value of story. Family members gave short sketches of lives they descend from. We stood at Carthage Jail and heard of Willard Richards, and a great great grandfather who was in the jail with Joseph two nights before the martyrdom.


We stood at the Trail of Hope on Parley Street and heard of others who left in that initial exodus from Nauvoo.


Over and over the descendants said they wished they had more information. But everything they knew, every shred, was interesting to them. One family member says she found a stubborn determination--sometimes to a fault--that she sees in herself and even in her children. That helps her, she says, to moderate her behavior.


Another family member that I have known for 40 years has quoted for years from her grandmother's journal. The grandmother's philosophies and ways of facing her own difficult life have continued to teach my friend all these years later.


Value lies in the writing.


I would prefer that my descendants know something about me that is important to me rather than more trivial information they keep just because that is all they have. Which means, I have to write it.


Technology makes it easy now, the writing. Letters, emails, talks, ideas, journals, actual autobiographies, all easier.

I determine to try again. In the meantime, Nauvoo is beautiful.

Draft Two

When Zach entered "Chapter Nine" into the computer this week he suggested we go back to read the beginning of The Six Towers to see if we were on track with where we started. We ran off two copies of the first 50 pages and sat down with red pens.

Several hours later we were almost finished with chapter one! The next day we returned to the 50 pages and labored onward. We are not yet finished, but the whole process has taught us several things.

1.  To become a better writer, practice writing.

We can already see that our mental muscles are more limber and more interesting than they were several weeks ago at the beginning of the book. Like the piano player who practiced on a silent keyboard when he traveled on the train said, "If I miss one day of practicing I can tell it, if I miss two my audience can tell it."

2.  To find threads, read what you've written.

Though we promised ourselves when we introduced a character or an event that we would return, we found three places we had already forgotten about. Letting the thread come to the front of the story will not be difficult, but we have to do it to make it happen.

3.  To discover new ideas, read what you've written

A character we thought was nobody and worth mentioning only in passing suddenly has a place farther along in the book. Because our plot is more fleshed out and events have surfaced we didn't know about when we mentioned him, we never would have thought about him again. Until we read again.

4.  It is okay if rough drafts are, well, rough.

Some days the words flow, some days they don't. Getting something down is better than fretting over it. Working on draft two will let us see what we wrote with fresh eyes.

5.  Writing and revising are two sides of the same coin.

We can see the two sides of the coin take two different sides of the brain. Writing is like building a fire and fanning the flame to reach every corner of our creative right brains. Revising is like throwing water on the fire to put it out and examine it, coldly, clearly, making decisions we do with our analytical left brains. Both processes cannot be done at the same time. In fact, if they are, we will frustrate the process by building the fire, throwing water on it, only to have to build it up again, only to put it out again. Pointless, and sloggingly slow.

So we will finish these first 50 pages, allow a friend or two to read them and give us feedback on the characters and the plot, then throw ourselves into the rest of the writing from chapter nine on.

Somewhere, several weeks from now, we will return to read the beginning again to see if we are doing what we mean to do.

We'll let you know how it goes.

Tonight I Lie Dreaming

   Today I had to look up the difference between to lay and to lie. The problem comes, for me, when to lie becomes the past tense lay. Confused? So am I.
   I decided to play with the concept of laying and lying, so I wrote a poem.
   "Tonight I Lie Dreaming" is the title. That is present tense. Last night I lay dreaming, is past tense. Now I lay me down to sleep is also present tense.

Tonight I Lie Dreaming

by Zach Knell

     Tonight I lie dreaming, as every kid would

     The reason is simple, though not understood.

     Why in the night do our minds come alive

     And color and movement and music arrive?

     The world is harmonic with sunshine aglow

     Water is clear, through it's rapids we row.

     The leaves on the tree often shake with the wind

     Not violently, softly, our fears they rescind

     No you can't move mountains though people have tried

     But surely in dreams I can push them aside

     I fly in the air full of lucidity

     up and beyond and past infinity

   

     If only, if only, in dreams could we live

     The sins of the past we could better forgive

     Tonight I lie dreaming, as every kid would

     The reason is simple, everyone should.

    

    

    

    

    

Zach's Concert

Zach and Ben opened for the opening act at Provo Beach Resort last night. They are amazing--dealing with a new venue, loud interference from outside sources, and the pressure of having to fill 45 minutes. 

Zach is multi-talented, Not only is he working on The Six Towers novel, he writes songs, sings with Ben in their group Lane Ends, and plays a terrific game of basketball.

It was great fun to see Zach and Ben do well last night. Of course, I long ago realized that when he performs there is no one else on the stage. I can see only him (or, whatever grandchild is performing at the time). But they sound good, look good, and are increasingly comfortable.

I keep thinking about Zach's grabbing hold of something he likes to do and making it happen. That's a skill that will serve him well for a lifetime. I also think of those who give him opportunity. Hurrah for the band that asked Zach and Ben to do 45 minutes before their main event.

Zach and Ben first performed in a public situation four years ago when they were 10. Then they played and sang in their young boy voices the two songs they had written at that point. Now they have written many songs, recorded a CD, and put together 45 minutes of good music. And now they sing in man voices. Their blend is terrific and their harmony delightful. They were good then, they are even better now.

Congratulations Zach and Ben! We hope there is much more to come.

Making Rugs

I go to Beaver for a day. Back to the place I was born and grew up and where our family home stands empty and alone since the deaths of my father and sweet stepmother. I go with my saintly sister, who lived here fulltime to care for my aging parents the last six years of their lives.

We drive down Main Street because Genene has told me the incredible news, Beaver has a stoplight! I must see it for myself, test myself on the stopping and waiting at the Post Office corner just to see that the lights go from red to green to red just like they do everywhere else.

We drive by my father's house on 600 East just to see. The dozen or so apple trees in the yard are a riot of pink and white blossoms, promising a harvest of plenty in a few months. If it doesn't freeze again. It has snowed on us this late May day all the way from Kanosh. Oh, Dad, you would love to see these trees so beautifully blooming. Even in the snow.

Our destination today is to the home of an old friend. He has offered to help me learn to make rugs. We traipse through the snow with my basket of colors sewn into strips an inch and a half wide. Downstairs into the basement we go where the loom is waiting for us. This is not just any loom. This is a memory of my childhood. For many years this loom stood in a room in our church basement waiting, strings strung, for any ward member who wanted to bring their leftover fabric to make rugs. Some of my earliest memories are of playing at my mother's feet as she passed the shuttle back and forth, pounded the rows of fabric together, and produced swaths of color that lessened the winter cold of the linoleum floor in my bedroom, or softened my standing at the sink to wash dishes.

I am amazed as I see the loom that it is much smaller than my child eyes remember.

I choose a stiff yellow fabric to begin. We wrap three or four shuttles with the long strips, choose a deep green for an accent stripe and we begin. It's simple really, with just a bit of instruction I get the hang of moving the two pedals up and down that switch the strings above or below so the weaving occurs. Pound, pound, pound with the bar between each pass of the shuttle and the stiff yellow fabric begins to take rug shape. Oh, it is beautiful. I learn to place a stretcher bar across the top of the work so the width of the rug stays even. I realize the pedal needs to be down on the side I start the shuttle from. I work blisters on three fingers of my right hand by the pounding and the muscle in my forearm begins to ache. No matter, the rug takes shape.

In a couple of hours I have completed the first rug. A break for a late lunch and I begin the second one. Pink and blue for this one. The lightness of the fabric makes the rug not so thick. More delicate. A rug, delicate?

As the afternoon wears on I make mistakes, breaking strings with the stretcher bar that takes all of us to fix so the rug holds together. I see my sister solve problems to make something work just like Dad used to do. A gift I admire. Solving problems.

By late afternoon I have made two rugs that are curled around the loom underneath. A rug always needs to stay on the loom to hold a starting place for the next one. We will return in a couple of weeks to work again. But today, we must leave to get home before dark. The snow has turned to driving rain all the way home to Provo. But I am filled with thinking about making things with my hands, turning leftover fabric into useful things of beauty, and memories of home.

About Us

Fourteen years ago Zach made me a grandmother. What a gift! He has been followed by three siblings and five cousins on our side of the family, the youngest of which is three years old. I find each one of them delightful, observant, and interesting.
When Zach was little I read to him (as I had read to his mother and his uncle before him) because my mother had read to me. As an adult I found the Strickland Gilliland poem which concludes
          "You may have tangible wealth untold;
           Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold.
          Richer than I you can never be---
          I had a mother who read to me."
I find that sentiment to be true, having first discovered the world, ancient and modern, with its nooks and crannies,  beauties and promises by listening to my mother read aloud.
So, when Zach was four years old we wrote our first book together. It was Zachie-Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, and he played all the parts. He liked that, so we wrote another. That led, over the years, to writing first books with the next six grandchildren when each one turned five. This spring we are taking the pictures for Elsa's book. She has dictated the text to me and the princess costume she will wear in the pictures already hangs in my sewing room. Only one more grandchild to go. That book will develop next year when Liesel is close to five. But we'll talk about it a lot before that and read lots of other books on the way.
When Zach was 10 he asked to write a "real" book. He wanted it to be about children in World War II Germany. I told him, as any good writing teacher would, that he should write about things he knows.
"You know about Germany, Bamma, and I know about being a kid. We can do it together."
I thought that was a pretty good argument so we set about collaborating on Grapevines. His elementary school librarian asked for a copy of the book to put in their library and children in that school are still reading it.
Then Zach moved to England for six months with his family and became fascinated by things medieval. So he proposed we write Bluestone, a book about a boy who goes on the Crusades. I had lived in Jerusalem for three years, so, Zach brought his England interest and I supplied the Jerusalem information.
Zach now writes well on his own, but we still find it fun to develop plot and characters together, so we are writing The Six Towers, a sci-fi book set in the near future where great things are required of young people in developing a new world. We worked together several hours this week and are nearing the end of chapter three. I like best when we bounce ideas back and forth, "What if. . . ?" or "How about . . . ?" Zach's ideas are increasingly mature and well thought out. We'll see what happens next.