Who among us wouldn’t benefit from a little entertainment that’s sure to bring a smile?
Regular followers of this blog will likely remember some previous posts regarding the work of Steve Rapson and some of his work. He’s back again with some kitchen thoughts, especially for when the kids move back in… although the rules might apply to any adults attempting to share a kitchen.
Every Suicide Awareness and Prevention Workshop seems to have something special about it. Our most recent was attended by a thirteen-year-old girl who, when she found out her Mom was attending, asked if she could tag along. That of itself is pretty impressive but this young lady was an enthusiastic attendee with some real insights.
An important part of the workshop is a discussion of what works and what doesn’t when dealing with someone who might be suicidal. Since we’d been talking about social media, I naturally ended up mentioning a post that I’ve seen all too often on Facebook. When I described it, my thirteen-year-old student immediately looked shocked and blurted, “That’s selfish!” I think my mouth dropped open a bit as I contemplated the fact that this young girl “gets it.”
We agreed that people sharing the post are well-intended but as is often the case on social media they are clicking without thinking. As even my young friend seemed to understand, when someone is contemplating suicide, we really shouldn’t try to make it about us.
Furthermore, we know that when someone reaches the point where they are considering suicide, their thinking is affected and they are so wrapped into their own pain that consideration for others is nearly non-existent. If we really thought about it, does it make much sense to try to get that person to think about the pain he or she is going to cause us? As my young friend pointed out, “that just adds to their stress.” Personally, I would go so far as to say that statements like this trivialize the pain. It’s akin to saying, “Ha! You think you’ve got it bad? The pain you have is nothing compared to the pain I will have if you take your own life.”
Understand, I am not minimizing the pain we feel when someone we care deeply for completes a suicide. I have experienced that pain.
I am, however, deeply committed to the truth that we need to set our own potential pain aside if we want to be truly helpful to a human who is, almost literally, at the end of his or her rope.
We are probably motivated by what we teach in the workshop as the first step in an intervention with someone who may be suicidal. “Show you care.” But there are far more positive ways to do that than announcing how much we are going to suffer if the person chooses to end his or her life. For starters, we might try saying “I care what happens to you…”
Hanging up signs is not a bad thing. Some bridges have signs with the hotline number and phones with a direct connection. That’s demonstrating care because it encourages connection.
Human connection can seem complicated and difficult but it can be simple. It might start with a smile followed by genuine interest and some basic questions like “Are you okay?” If there’s any magic involved, it’s that we create the best human connections when we are genuinely interested in the other person.
My young workshop participant didn’t really talk about how much pain the issue of suicide caused her. She asked to attend so she would know how to help people. She had the courage to “role play” with me while I pretended to be suicidal.
I’ve written previously how, after every one of these workshops, I say to myself, “We have likely saved a life tonight.” I truly believe that. But I didn’t say exactly that after this most recent workshop. This time I said to myself, “That girl is going to save a life someday–probably more than one.”
Are you ready to do the same?
Reprinted from the September 2018 issue of The Patrons Chain–The Official Newsletter of the National Grange
Walter Boomsma, Program Director of Valley Grange and Maine State Grange Communications Director has authored the book, “Exploring Traditions–Celebrating the Grange Way of Life.”
While this is not his first book, Boomsma believes it may be one of his most important.
“The primary goal in writing it was to encourage exploration,” Boomsma said. “The Grange is a 150-year-old organization with a strong agricultural focus and many are questioning its relevance to
today’s society. I wanted to encourage people to develop a deeper understanding of what the Grange is all about–including our members. The Grange is very much about a way of life and, while
farming has changed, people have not.”
Boomsma said he also believes people who are not familiar with the Grange will appreciate exploring the value of tradition in general since “tradition and ritual create stability and a sense
of community, especially when we understand the basis for them.”
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National Grange Master Betsy Huber provided a foreward to the book, in which she wrote, “These essays by Walter Boomsma unpack the teachings of the Grange and relate them to today’s world and our everyday lives. He has a gift for taking the lessons from the farm and showing their relevance today, even for those whose only interaction with agriculture happens through their food and clothing choices. He understands the meaning the Grange Founders intended and interprets the sometimes archaic language to reveal the principles they wanted to teach to farm families who often had no other opportunity for education.“
Boomsma dedicated the book to a woman he affectionately calls a “Granger Extraordinaire,” Betty Van Dyke of Guilford. During a presentation of the first copy of the book, Boomsma said Van Dyke explained the great influence she had during his “formative years” as a Grange member.
“I came to appreciate both her knowledge of the Grange’s teachings and her commitment to what I later came to understand as ‘the Grange Way of Life.’”
At the height of her Grange career, Van Dyke held a number of local and state positions, including serving as the Maine State Community Service Director. At 94, Van Dyke still keeps track of what’s going on at Valley Grange and is a strong supporter.
Boomsma will sign copies of the book at the 152nd Annual Convention where it will be available for sale. It is also available through the Grange Supply Store. Contact Loretta Washington or by phone at (202) 628-3507 ext. 109.
(Also available in the and from Amazon.)
Tumisu / Pixabay
Yes, it’s the somewhat official end of summer. Many kids will tell you it actually ended last week when they returned to school. Others may suggest there’s a bite in the air suggesting fall is approaching and as an early riser, I notice the days are shorter.
But the original purpose of Labor Day was to honor the social and economic achievements of the American worker. At least one idea was that workers would have a day off to enjoy the end of summer.
It’s a fitting holiday and it’s unfortunate that the end of summer aspect has overwhelmed the labor aspect. In today’s column, Seth Godin describes what he calls “the new labor day.” As usual, he makes us think.
Today work is different. It gets harder to define and identify. I often say that I’m not always sure when I’m working and when I’m playing. My colleague Jack Falvey claims he is always working, he just isn’t sure when (and what) he’s going to be paid for it. We’re both fortunate that we’re doing things we enjoy. I remember many years ago when I started working for myself, Jack told me, “Your problem will not be knowing when and where to start. Your problem will be knowing when and where to stop.
Nearly forty years later I still find myself working on that problem and proving he was right.
A day off at the end of summer to celebrate and avoid burnout may not be enough. Seth uses the words “emotional labor” to describe a different kind of heavy lifting work requires. It is no less exhausting than “toting that barge” or “lifting those bales.” In fact, it might be more exhausting. Overdoing it physically can result in the body breaking down. Overdoing it mentally and emotionally can result in the mind and heart breaking down.
While we celebrate the end of summer, let’s also celebrate the choices we have. When it comes to laboring, knowing when to stop is important. Choosing to stop may be even more important.
First written and published in 1996, a previous version of this article won the “best story about fishing with Dad” award from the Northwoods Sporting Journal in 2007. It’s also a chapter to Small People — Big Brains by Mr. Boomsma. I remember this day often and especially on Father’s Day. This year I thought I’d share it.
“This shouldn’t be happening…” according to Ivan – my friend, father-in-law and erstwhile guide to Maine water. He wasn’t complaining though. I was otherwise occupied with my third bass in less than thirty minutes.
Ivan was my father-in-law by marriage. He was my friend by choice. We shared an understanding of the difference between “going fishing” and “catching fish.” We agreed that “going fishing” is as enjoyable as “catching fish.”
We had spent the morning fishing—working the edges of the pond with very little action. We were ready for some catching, so we dropped anchor, switched to ultra-lights, and started soaking night crawlers in anticipation of a few yellow perch.
This was proving mildly successful when the bass we had been after all morning started interfering with our perch fishing. No doubt a more technically oriented fisherman could explain what happened. We were satisfied with simply enjoying it until a fall storm forced us off the lake.
Later as we sat by the fire with our post-trip libations I found my mind wandering back to another time when something happened that shouldn’t have while fishing. It was a lesson that I never forgot.
My father was hooked on fishing. I think he waited until I was walking before he bought me my first pole. It was an unbreakable steel rod (not much action). The little stream that ran through our yard was never more than ankle deep. My ankles weren’t very far from terra firma at that age, so I was allowed to “go fishing” on my own. I lost a lot of hooks in that little brook. If Dad wasn’t around, I’d switch to a safety pin when my hooks were gone. I had to keep fishing. I had to be just like him.
I figured the reason he went across the road to the big river was to leave all the fish in the little brook for me. The fact that I never caught anything did nothing to dissuade me from the idea that Dad was the most unselfish person I knew. The reason he nearly always came home with trout was simply that he was bigger than I and had more experience. I didn’t truly appreciate his patience then as he tried to teach a bumbling, excited five-year-old the fine points of casting and bait placement.
Finally, he and Mom decided I was “big enough” to go with him across the road. My patience was strained to the maximum while we sat through Mom’s lecture about “keeping an eye on me.” My safety pin was removed and replaced with a real hook and off we went on my very first guided trip.
The river was overwhelming but not intimidating. I knew about currents from sailing my boats in the brook. Dad positioned me near a pool my five-year-old arms could reach. He reviewed casting techniques and suggested I just let my worm follow the current. I was warned not to tell Mom about it later, but he was going downstream where he knew there was a big one.
I could see that the techniques I’d been using weren’t going to work. On the little brook, I could always wade in and put my worm exactly where I wanted it. Now I was forced to cast a whole three feet and use nearly all my line. It took what seemed like an eternity to get the wrist action necessary.
On my fifteenth cast, I had that old familiar feeling that meant another lost hook. It wouldn’t do to lose it on my first trip to the big river. So I crossed my fingers (making it hard to hold the pole) and pulled hard. The worm and hook went flying over my shoulder. A little scared now; I realized I had to keep trying even though danger lurked below.
By the time I was reaching the current after only three false casts (false in this context meaning wrong), I was convinced that the bump I was feeling was a bite. Dad had described the feeling in intimate detail and even though I had never experienced it before, I was firmly convinced this was it.
Meanwhile Dad—either out of a desire to try different water or the memory of Mom’s lecture—was coming close. I wanted to watch how he got his line out so far, but I was too busty trying to nab my very first trout. Soon he was standing at my side. “Catching anything?”
I replied that I hadn’t yet, but was about to. He asked for my pole so he could see what was going on. His cast was flawless but his drift didn’t last any longer than mine. How long does it take for five feet of line to play out? He reeled in, handed me back the pole and announced, “Try the next pool. What you’re feeling is the bottom as your worm bumps along.” Then he moved upstream.
What a dilemma! Dad was always right and he always has my best interest at heart. But I was sure he was wrong this time. Or was he? Either way, would continuing to fish this pool be disobedient? If he saw me would he be hurt because I hadn’t listened? And why had he smiled if there was no fish there?
After this great inner battle, I invoked the standard just-a-little-longer logic of all fishermen. I concentrated so hard my head hurt. Cast. Bump. Nothing. Cast. Bump. Yank. Nothing. Cast Bump. Yank…
Something flew over my head that was bigger than my worm. I spun around and saw the trout flapping on the bank. It freed itself from my hook and was working its way back to the river! I pounced on it with a tackle that would make a football coach proud. As I wrestled with my monster I looked up and saw Dad watching. His grin went from ear-to-ear and maybe even around the back of his head. “Got one, did you? Well, I’m surprised! I haven’t caught a thing. Let’s take all eight inches of it home and show Mom.”
She never let on if she tired of hearing all the details of that fine catch. And she seemed genuinely amazed when Dad told her that I had showed him up because he was convinced there should not have been a fish where I caught mine.
Age has not diminished my love of fishing. I still get excited. I still make false (defined as wrong) casts. And I still use the just-a-little-longer theory. I’ve given up on safety pins though. And I wonder about my first trout.
I have a theory about that first trout. For years I was proud that I had figured out something Dad hadn’t and I told everyone who would listen. (And sometimes people who wouldn’t.) Like all fishing trips, my first trip to the big river has improved with time and my fish has gotten bigger. But I no longer think I outsmarted Dad.
I think he knew that trout was there.
And I think he knew what would happen when I caught it. For one, he knew that hooking that trout would hook me on fishing. More importantly, he knew I’d learn by experience what independence and self reliance truly are. In fishing and in life there are always “shoulds” and “shouldn’ts.” There will always be “reliable sources” and truths. But the greatest resource each of us has is inside us.
My resource was tested several years after catching my first trout when my Dad died. But then and through the many years since that resource has been there and, in a very real sense so has Dad. He guided me to my first trout and led me to believe in myself.
Thanks, Dad.
In memory of Walter Boomsma, Sr.
1926–1954