Remembering Greg

In a few days our oldest child would have been 58 years old. He died last year in May, still 56.  His brother, sister, stepfather and I remember him every day, and wish for his sunny smile and big heart to still be available to us and to the rest of his family.

Greg was tall, handsome, hearty and had many friends. At his memorial gathering in Los Alamos,NM, where he was the economic development administrator for the county, one colleague said she would always appreciate the way he encouraged her to participate in meetings, offering her ideas, insisting they were worthy of attention. That was Greg. Positive. Generous. He loved to feed people, sing and play his guitar, and write proposals and plans to make this a better world. One of the mementos we exhibited during the memorial gathering here in Tucson was a page from a college freshman notebook. The subject was utopias, or,

“the ideal arrangement of a society for the humane benefit of all its participants.”  

That was what Greg thought about and worked toward, incorporating all cultures and all natural life. He was a conservationist, not just a hiker. He was a good listener, not just a great talker. He made strong networks and connected the very best dots. He was a constant son, brother,friend and lover, not just an explorer or tourist.

Above all, he was a father. He left a daughter who contains his “spark,” as we noted when we wrote a piece in remembrance of him for the newspaper.  I would say it is more than a spark. He passed the torch.

Here he is with his sister Ann and brother Tom about 15 years ago. I am proud to say they share his ideals and dedication to the common good. Their lively conversations, revealing all their good intent, made my life worth living.

Greg, Ann and Tom 2001


Here’s what Greg’s daughter wrote in 2015  for an assignment on the topic “Why do we need to follow rules?”:

Why Daddy is So Special

Daddy is special to me and he inspires me every day. He says the harder you work the luckier you get. I love him very much. Even though Daddy is strict I know that his rules are there to help me succeed. He is the best daddy ever! I love him very much and he is amazing! – Maya

And here’s what Greg’s daughter wrote last year:

“My dad has been an inspiration to me all my life. [HER BIOGRAPHY OF HIM FOLLOWS] “One day, May 4th, 2016, my dad suffered a heart attack and unfortunately passed away. Even though he has gone, though many people believe his legacy continues through me. That is what inspires me to try my best in school and work hard so I can be as successful as my dad.”


There’s a monster under my bed! True or false?

I saw a monster under my bed.

A  philosopher in the University of Arizona School of Information Resources and Library Sciences, has been fine-tuning what is meant by “to lie.” Don Fallis strips the accepted definitions to the bare essentials, insisting that, to lie, one can’t merely hide the facts or deceive, but must “assert” that something is true that he or she actually believes to be false. The liar’s intention is that whomever is listening to him will accept his or her deliberate lie as the truth.

Fallis cites the semanticist Paul Grice’s “first maxim of quality,” which requires a social agreement that one should not say what is not true. If you say something you believe to be false, knowing the agreement to tell the truth is in effect [as in a court of law], then you have violated “the norm of conversation.”

In addition to verbal assertion, there are other forms of blatantly lying; plagiarism is one; the person who claims a work is his or hers knows he/she is going against the accepted norm by claiming authorship. 

Digging deeper, Fallis posits several less clear cut situations, for example, when you are lying deliberately, fully aware that the person you are lying to will know you are lying and yet also knowing that you will not be punished unless you admit the lie. It is a familiar dodge of children, especially among siblings. He did it! She started it! Another commonly-used tactic is a lazy child’s skilful refusal to go get something a parent asks for: I don’t know where it is.

That excuse also can be given when you lose something and don’t want to admit it. I imagine we all have been guilty of this behavior.  Or we may pretend we didn’t hear something someone has said because we don’t want to have to respond. Or we misunderstood.

I’m concerned about a problem of justice that even Don Fallis did not directly address: What if a person testifies in court according to different cultural standards? Suppose this person grew up in a society where it was necessary to lie in order to survive beatings or worse.

Suppose — for that person – lying is the accepted norm. 

Take it a step further: Suppose he/she even takes others into his/her confidence, believing they will understand that the purpose of the lie is to “win,” because the liar is afraid of any other judicial outcome and fully believes he/she is entitled to his/her preferred outcome. Now the moral responsibility falls on those whom he/she has confided his/her intent to lie. Do they care? What’s in it for them? Will they speak up? Will they even be asked to speak up? 

Alternatively, suppose the liar believes others know he/she is lying but also believes they cannot prove it. And suppose, even, that the others might wish to prove the liar is lying but cannot, so they remain silent. Or they might avoid being in that courtroom. Does that make them morally irresponsible?

Or what if they are afraid of the liar, or afraid of the consequences of being proved wrong? Will they enter into  an unspoken contract to say nothing? Is that contract with the liar? Or is it with themselves?

Ultimately,  the question is whether the person lying is inherently “bad” or simply has employed bad means for a good end. 

Professor Fallis referred me to a book by Sissela Bok. In the preface to the 1989 edition of Lying: Moral Choice in Public and Private Life, the scholar quotes, of all people, a fiction writer, Iris Murdoch, who points out that we spend much of our life in truth-seeking. I am not convinced that is apparent today, a quarter century later. I believe we are currently living in an era of self-deception. That aside,  I like Murdoch’s observation:

“A portrayal of moral reflection and moral change (degeneration, improvement) is the most important part of any system of ethics.”

Out of that come more questions:

(1)  Do we have a clear system of ethics in the American courtroom today

(2) Is a deliberate liar capable of moral reflection?

(3) Is lying to get something you believe is your right to have — whether or not it is — any different than lying to avoid a beating? 

(4) Do our courts have the means and the will to punish liars?


[1] Don Fallis, “What is Lying?” Journal of Philosophy, 106, 1 (2009), 29-56. [Herbert] Paul Grice wrote extensively on the theory of meaning in language and communication. This reference is relative to intention bases semantics, in Studies in the Way of Words (1989 edition), Harvard University Press.

Christmas Decorations 1945-2015

Assorted polar bears, $19.95 (reg. $24.95) caught my eye, along with assorted owls, assorted elves, and battery operated candles. And then: table top fireplace (buy 3, get one free)! Such were the tantalizing holiday adornments on offer in a full page ad of the Sunday morning paper, November 29, 2015. Probably they come from China. Whatever happened to the tiny plaster figure skaters to set on a mirror “pond” surrounded by cotton batten “snow” and white-speckled, green bottle-brush trees?

Christmas was a colorful (if laborious) holiday in my childhood home, with Scandinavian tradition on one side and German on the other. Cookies stand out as the festive food, always homemade, sometimes taking hours to shape, bake and decorate. The favorites to eat were almond crescents, but the most admired were the cutout sugar snowmen, santas, hearts, and candy canes elaborately frosted to hang on the tree with the punched tin stars, bubbling lanterns, and jewel-toned glass balls. The kids might add paper chains and popcorn strings.

Christmas Tree 2013

When I married and had children, I kept up the tree trimming tradition, starting with the glass balls, adding three new handmade ornaments every year, one for each child. Church bazaars yielded hand painted, wooden rocking horses and clothespin soldiers, flannel gingerbread men and batik candy canes. I was thinking they would want to take them when they had homes of their own. But they have their own traditions. Most impressively, a daughter-in-law assembles her grandmother’s aluminum, revolving tree with an Evergleam color wheel. I confess, even I gave in to my husband’s suggestion that, living on a desert, we should have a faux fir with lights already wound into its branches. All we have to do each year is fluff it up a bit. And buy gifts for sixteen people.

In the Forties and Fifties, presents from our grandparents were always special: a dog or bicycle for my brother; for me, a doll house with electric lights, and a Sonia Henie doll with a hand knit skating skirt and sweater, even a stocking cap and socks. My parents’ gifts to us were modest. They hardly had time to shop, the social season was so frenetic.  Mother might be sewing herself a fancy dress for a winter dance, or making (besides hundreds of cookies) dozens of canapes for a cocktail party. Dad was busy preparing end of year business reports.

Still, without fail, Dad put up the outdoor display and organized the trip to get a freshly cut tree. Whether it was fir or balsam or Scotch pine depended on which woods my dad had been invited by a lumber baron friend to take one from, and which one looked spectacular enough for my mother’s discerning eye. One of my outstanding memories is of a gray day, standing in awe in a wide, tall and silent forest in Upper Michigan, watching soft white flakes flutter down, faster and faster, until my five-year-old brother, hip deep in packed snowbanks beside me, let out a frightened wail that echoed longer than a wolf’s howl in the oncoming dusk. Our mother huddled him close to her all the way home, while I rubbed holes in the steam on the car window, and peered into the darkness for the lights of farmhouses marking the edge of our northwoods village.

Perhaps that is what Christmas 2015 should be, not a time of luxurious trappings and feel good fantasies, but a time to strip down to the bare essentials; to stand in awe, perhaps even fear, and feel gratitude for the love that surrounds us.


Girls, Trains and WW II

The following book review was written for   November 25, 2011

By Karen Dahood

Author Karen Dahood








E. E. Smith

Phoenix International, Inc., 2011


English writers are good at keeping their memories of World War II alive through novels and, over the recent commemorative years, television series that have filled us in on the main points, most recently in Home Fires. The focus understandably has been on Britain and France where so much action took place. It is rare now to get a personalized account of what was happening to people spending those years at home in the United States. That’s why the fictionalized account of 1945 by San Francisco writer Evelyn Eileen Smith is so important.

The reason 13-year-old Evelyn was forced to move with her mother to Shafter, Nevada, not much more than a railroad crossing, is simply that the mother was German, and Californians were considering rounding up German-born citizens just as we had rounded up Japanese, to put them in relocation camps so the rest of us could be secure. That meant Evelyn’s parents would have to learn to get along. The reunited family lived in the depot where her father was the agent and telegrapher, directing traffic on the Nevada Northern and Western Pacific railroad lines that crisscrossed in this empty landscape. Evelyn was more than annoyed to be deprived of her friends and opportunities in Sacramento, and to be stuck in a one-room schoolhouse with an uninspiring teacher, but she adapted. She took on the challenge of teaching English to a workman’s six-year-old daughter, and she eagerly submitted to lessons in classical literature from the former child actor who now operated the coal shute. Her father used his poker earnings to buy her a wild horse, and she enjoyed taming Dusty. There were worse dangers. She escaped death on a train track twice. And she accidentally boarded a train carrying wounded soldiers. As her father became more dependent on his supply of alcohol kept “out back,” and her mother began to flirt with other men passing through (not many did), things fell apart, and Evelyn’s destiny changed dramatically.

Smith is a playwright who has turned her hand to short stories and novels, including mysteries. Thus she has mastered the craft of plotting a story. Here her fluid narrative fits the time period, which I personally remember, and it made me nostalgic for those broadening biographies I read throughout sixth grade, and for eye-opening adventures of ordinary folks, as in The Boxcar Children and The Moffats.

Above all, TIMES LIKE THESE made me think about The Green Glass Sea, a novel for young adults about a Manhattan Project scientist’s adolescent daughter living with him in Los Alamos, New Mexico, in the same time frame. Neither child could have imagined what was going on in the other’s geographical space – The Great American Desert or The Secret City – both artificially shaped by the fears that gripped the adult nation. Neither girl had worries about war; their concerns were about family and how to navigate out of childhood. When Evelyn’s dad relayed the news that the Second World War was finally over – that Japan had been successfully bombed – it marked the end of an era. Never again would childhood be so innocent.

Orphans Then, Now

Book Review


Lisa Brown



Lisa Brown’s third novel to accurately, yet emotionally, portray the lives of her English ancestors who became 19th century Canadian pioneers surprised me. It is a more focused story than The Porter’s Wife and The Seeds of Sorrow, and much deeper psychologically. It worked for me as a novel of suspense. I knew something bad was going to happen to one of the young brothers, or between them, and I kept reading because I was on tenterhooks and could not sleep until I knew just what it was. It was like watching a thunderstorm broil up from distant clouds and roll toward me over the landscape until there was a mind-blowing crescendo right over my head.

I have felt amply rewarded in following this genealogy project which clearly has involved Brown in painstaking research about the Canadian frontier. I frankly don’t know enough about it, even though I have lived pretty close to its borders. I appreciate Brown as a clear and trustworthy narrator who brings history to life by describing the ordinary details of everyday work and relationships, and imagining the human responses of her characters. Notably, they had to make hard choices – sometimes not so hard when they were hungry.

Of course, to most people alive today, what was “ordinary” to 19th century farmers and settlers seems extraordinary, including the slow pace at which they managed to get through very difficult days. The story of Oliver and Simon delivers a painful memory of institutions created in large part to the early deaths of impoverished parents through disease and violence. As it happens, this recall is timely. In the last couple of years we have seen an unanticipated surge of abandoned and homeless children, first as a result of Ebola in Africa, and now from the destruction of Syria. In her preface, Brown explains the role orphanages played in those earlier migrations from Britain to younger countries that needed more helping hands. She warns us that the arrangements were not always motivated by lovingkindness or even understanding of human childhood needs. Whether or not she intended to raise questions about our present situation, she certainly has. In this non-agrarian age, what are we going to do for these thousands of destitute and traumatized 21st century children left on their own?

Brown’s new novel also resonates with concerns about domestic violence. Orphan boys arriving to work in fields and barns in exchange for a roof over their heads and decent meals had seen cruelty in their circumstances, but not necessarily anger. Oliver is old enough to remember his father having to work hard and rarely spending time with him, but he was a good parent. Much affection came from his mother. Younger Simon has few memories of hardship. He expects to be treated well and he is, without suspecting it might be twisted, or even wondering why his brother is not as lucky. Oliver, forced to be wise beyond his years, is constantly fearful, and when any kindness is shown him (again, by the females in his life) he is astonished.

The farmer who takes the boys is a villain, yet we eventually understand why. This bleak landscape is not just about the vagaries of nature and its impact on economics and social structure; it is about patterns. It instructs us that psychopathic behavior does not just appear randomly, and that children, like crops, must be nurtured into maturity by caring adults who were taught about love in their own childhood.


This review was originally published on, October 18, 2015.