The day a piece of my past blew away

By Matt Dunn (matt.dunn@codydental.com) When I’d heard that a tornado had passed through Holly, Colorado last week, cutting a 300-yard wide swath through the center of town, I wondered if my grandfather’s former home might have been spared. The next day’s photos in the Rocky Mountain News, sitting in the reception area of my dental office, showed that it had not been.

On page 4 and page 8, the views of Roy Dunn’s former home marked a melancholy spectacle. One corner room still had four walls around it – the room I stayed in when helping out on wheat harvests – but the rest were long gone. (See also items 3, 5, and 7 in this online slide show.)

Setting foot in Holly a few days later, I walked towards the intersection of Park Avenue and Highland Street, hoping to get a last look at the old family outpost before its remnant bricks and bits of drywall were to be hauled away.

The town I once knew was scarcely recognizable. Some houses were reduced to nothing but foundation, some were missing windows and roofs, while others showed holes in their sides from projectiles having passed through. Street signs were gone, trees and phone poles had been snapped like toothpicks, the windows of dozens of parked cars had fractured into thousands of glass cubes spread on the ground around them.

Talking briefly with one Holly resident, he mentioned that one of his neighbors had a phone call from near Dodge City, Kansas – over 100 miles away – where someone found a cancelled check in their yard and called the number. “Sent by air mail,” the fellow chuckled.

In the jumbles of wreckage I noticed a red fragment of a PlayStation DVD, presumably a neighborhood grade-schooler’s, on the edge of a grass lawn. I visited with an emergency volunteer as she combed the ground for stray bullets and shotgun shells, placing them in a burlap bag. She didn’t want any kids playing with those.

Walking on, I realized I’d marched past my destination without having any idea of where I was. Backtracking a bit, through the traffic of energetic volunteers, came the jolting view that the one-time center of countless family gatherings simply wasn’t there anymore, nor were several of the neighboring homes.

Roy Dunn came to the southeastern Colorado plains in the 1940s to experiment with dryland wheat farming. Working then as a professional heavyweight wrestler, crisscrossing America on an unpredictable schedule, he figured he could tend to his land between matches.

The experiment proved a success, and for upwards of 60 years he raised crop after crop of golden Colorado wheat.

As a teenager I was routinely dispatched from the Denver suburbs to partake in the family farming enterprise, putting in plenty of hot hours alone on a tractor. During harvests, my job was to help haul grain from the combines to the Co-Op’s.

It was fantastic work, as far as I was concerned. No matter how hot it got, no matter how many biting flies swirled around the tractor cab, it was genuine adult responsibility – and great excitement to be out of the suburbs. With the tractor radio stuck on the same station each year, I eventually developed an abiding love of AM country music.

I also developed a sense of awe at the miracles of agriculture, having absorbed many a grandfatherly sermon on the proper way to “raise wheat.”

After sundown, I’d often join my grandfather on evening drives around Holly to inspect “the weather.” He was an expert at gauging the distances of cloudbanks, and at predicting how much rain might be expected in each corner of his land. It was the farmer’s job to adapt his fields as perfectly as possible to what Mother Nature had to offer. A similar job, in many respects, to his former profession of wrestling.

Not long after my grandfather passed away six years ago, at the age of 90, Keith and Renee Denis moved into the house. I was able to chat with Keith and Renee on their front lawn, as a bulldozer was busy knocking down their remaining few walls.

On Wednesday night when they heard an unusual train-like noise in the neighborhood, they thought they might get into their car and drive a ways out of town. On their way to the garage door, windows started to shatter. A second or two later, the roof blew off the house.

Holding onto one another, they felt themselves being lifted upwards, as if gravity had shifted into reverse. Thankfully, around then, the interior wall to the garage came down on top of them, pinning them to the floor, holding them stationary.

Renee attributes the falling wall to having saved their lives. No matter what had happened to their house and all of their bestrewn belongings, they would yet live to talk about their encounter and start the process of rebuilding their lives.

Remaining upbeat, Renee looked forward to a new house, hinting to her husband that “a walk-in closet” might be a nice addition. “And a basement too,” Keith added.

The residents of rural, agricultural Colorado are all-too-familiar with the workings of Mother Nature. Meteorology is the undisputed anchor of the economy, and topic number one in town cafes. Day in and day out the weather is discussed, monitored, scrutinized – and always accepted.

Some crop years are better than others, and sometimes storms grow violent. It’s just the way nature works. You grow and build when you can, you rebuild when you need to.

During his 37 years of living in Holly, my grandfather witnessed many a tornado in the area, but none that had ever made it to town. The luck of the draw, I suppose. Though there was one tragic fatality from Wednesday’s unwelcome visitor, there could easily have been dozens more.

Driving back towards Denver that night, remembering the family camaraderie of yesterday’s wheat harvests, saddened with pictures of the new devastation – the muffled steel guitars on the AM country radio station sounded the way they always had, in the only place where they can sound just that way, out there on Colorado’s flattened southeastern plains.

Not too late, say Easter believers

By John Andrews (andrewsjk@aol.com) Too late? No, it’s still early. The story is far from over. That’s the good news for a weary world, as Jesus’ followers once again commemorate his crucifixion and resurrection at Passover time two millenia ago. Time and again in this greatest of all dramas, the early returns were overturned. Think about it:

On Palm Sunday Christians remembered their Lord’s triumphal entry to Jerusalem where David once reigned. Was this the long-awaited liberator from foreign oppression? That early hope soon faded. By Good Friday, “King of the Jews” was only a mocking insult on the criminal’s cross where Christ died. But the early reactions that night, his disciples’ defeat and his enemies’ elation, were not the last word either. On Easter morning the tomb was empty and the report was: “He is risen.”

Even then the early expectations didn’t hold. Claims that Jesus’ body was stolen, the authorities’ attempt at a coverup, collapsed when he appeared to hundreds of eyewitnesses. On the other hand, his followers’ hunch that the end times were near didn’t prove out either. History went on and still does. Good and evil still battle, hope and hardship still contend.

But all to what purpose? As Holy Week comes round anew with the spring moon, repeating the cycle of 20 long centuries, skeptics feel justified in asking what’s different, what’s better after all these aeons of religion? Believers in turn feel, or ought to feel, the burden of proof in our assertion that the best is yet to come – it’s still early.

We begin the proof by noting that human experience has a story line. History is not, as some wag said, just one darn thing after another. What’s better in our day because Jesus died and rose in Caesar’s day, say Christians, is that forgiveness and love are in the world more fully. New beginnings are in the world; new life for persons who thought they were at a dead end.

Christ’s followers have a woefully uneven record of living out this promise. Yet he keeps fulfilling it himself, in spite of us. And he does so for the most unlikely people. Even as this suffering servant hung on the cross, when everyone watching thought it was too late, he showed it was still early – speaking with authority to redeem a thief, give his grieving mother a new son, and even forgive his murderers.

The unconditional love that Jesus of Nazareth lavishes on everyone, everyone, is the hardest thing about him for me to imitate, I’ll tell you for sure. The political opponents my column sometimes harshly condemns? He’s fine with them. Marxists and Islamofascists? He cherishes each one personally, err as they may. I am shamed by his gentle patience with each atheist, his tender heart toward each illegal alien.

My Lord is so far ahead of me in the forgiveness department that I blush to call myself one of his men; still I stumble on in his footsteps. He was harder on religious hypocrites than government hacks, tougher on temple profiteers than slum-dwelling prostitutes. Who knew? If we who claim to be his church don’t find ourselves startled and chastened by him every single day, we’d best wake up.

A second chance, a fresh start, a clean slate, the last made first, a new ballgame in the ninth, a God who believes in you even if you don’t believe in him – it sounds crazy, but that’s what Easter means. Yes, the Cross is foolishness, said Paul; but it’s also salvation. For all of us fools who thought it was too late, check the calendar. Holy Week this year began with April Fool’s – plenty early for everything a surprising Savior has in store.

Lincoln & me, experiencing DC

By Melanie Harmon (harmon.melanie@gmail.com)

Editor’s Note: Melanie Harmon, a new contributor, submitted this piece Monday on Lincoln’s birthday. I met her as a DU undergrad when she testified in the Senate about radical faculty infringing academic freedom at Metro State, her former school. She later founded DU’s conservative student paper, Common Sense, and worked on the Holtzman for Governor campaign, before graduating in spring 2006. Welcome, Melanie – JA

Like most recent college graduates, I busted out of my cap and gown ready to conquer my next life experience: the real world. Four days after graduation, I moved to Washington, D.C. with two suitcases and lofty visions of what my life would be, post-University of Denver.

I chose our nation’s capital because I wanted to continue the conservative activism of my previous four years. I would be serving my country and the state of Colorado while sticking to the principles I knew to be good and right: personal and fiscal responsibility, little government interference, faith in God and faith in the American people.

Five months into my cross-country, real world experience, those lofty visions were promptly pulled back down to earth. The November elections taught me Lesson No. 1 of living in the real world: that life is chock-full of disappointments.

The Republican losses equaled personal disappointment. Many of the friends I had made were quickly gone, for they had lost their jobs due to election events. Lesson No. 2: working in politics is never a secure gig. Duly noted: we work in the conservative movement for the passion and the principle, certainly not for the security and definitely not for the money.

My job hunt in Washington can only be described as one of a conservative vagabond. Like many other young conservatives in Washington, I frequent the free events at The Heritage Foundation and the Cato Institute, just hoping that my name will catch on somewhere. Although I have a wealth of job experience, compared to all those conservatives who just lost their jobs, I simply don’t match up. Post-elections, the conservative work force became a whole lot more competitive.

Despite the tumultuous job market, I managed to land a job at a libertarian-minded firm as a writer. But working there made me realize that my goals could turn out to be impenetrable. The vast difference between libertarians and conservatives is worthy of a separate discussion altogether. But what I learned is valuable Lesson No. 3: there is no job worth having if one must sacrifice one’s principles.

Thus, I left my job at the libertarian “wonk house,” as we say in Washington, but with my conservative beliefs intact and my dignity not sacrificed for anything, not even for a paycheck. My conservatism is as much a part of me as my brain and my heart.

Since arriving in Washington, I have often asked myself harsh questions and wondered if I had made the right choice in taking such a leap of faith on my ideology—and myself.

Which brings me to important Lesson No. 4: keep looking up to those who give you inspiration. I am blessed to have the National Mall just minutes from my front doorstep, and any time I feel like giving up on my lofty visions, I must remind myself of why I am here in the first place.

As President Lincoln sits tall and proud in his chair, looking over the city, those lofty visions all start coming back to me. Lincoln was the first Republican leader and stood up for what he believed to be good and right when it was highly unpopular and dangerous to do so. His sentiment echoes almost 150 years later, back to Republicans who may not be popular, but do what they know to be good and right. Lincoln’s bravery is something every young conservative should aspire to emulate.

As a young conservative in these arduous times of Washington, I am faced with many challenges. But with those challenges comes many lessons of which I am happy to learn. Things will not be getting easier any time soon, but what I do have are my principles to guide me through those times, and the leaders who inspired me to do it in the first place.

Postcard from Turkey

By Krista Kafer (krista555@msn.com) Oppressive heat and lack of sleep soften the edges of consciousness and blur the colors of memory. I have dreamy impressions of the four days I spent in Turkey this month, bordered on either side by the hard lines of travel. Together with four other Americans – one international expert and his wife, a retired educator; an education expert; and a representative from a higher education council – I arrived in Istanbul after four flights and little sleep.

We began our journey with a boat ride on the Bosporus, the river that bisects Istanbul into the Asiatic and European sides. Istanbul is the only city to occupy two continents. Elaborate stone mosques with slender minarets, Victorian-style mansions, palaces, and hip restaurants passed us on the European side. Hills rose on the more distant Asian shore where the golden light of near-sunset burnished the pale facades of apartment buildings with red clay tiled roofs. After the requisite glass of fresh fruit juice, our hosts led us to the buffet on the lower deck where we had our first taste of Turkish food. Our palettes were unprepared for the delights of the cuisine with its fresh vegetables, savory meats, and delicious fish. Turkish food rivals French food, my favorite, in terms of sheer yumminess. Later, we finished the evening at a famous patisserie eating baklava on the roof terrace. Minarets, swathed in pale moonlight, rose above the still busy streets. Above the murmur of conversation, the call to prayer, like a strange song spilled forth.

In wee hours of the morning we boarded another plane taking us to the capital city of Ankara. Ubiquitous construction projects signal rapid urban growth. The city is modern and attractive yet distinctly Turkish. The new apartment buildings are decorated in beautiful tile mosaics. At a highrise office of a prominent businessman, we were treated to a hands-on lesson in ebru – traditional Turkish painting. The artist literally paints on water with horsehair brushes. When satisfied, he lays a sheet of paper upon the water which absorbs the paint. As with other meetings, we left with gifts under our arms. We received so many gifts during our stay I had to borrow another travel bag to bring them home.

Here while entertaining an endless stream of meetings with dignitaries, educators, and business leaders; I received my first impression of Turks. Turks seem both European and Asian. Sophisticated and secular like Westerners, they are also warm and generous like the Arabs to the south.

While the modern state of Turkey dates to 1923, the Turkish people are of much older origins. Migrating from central Asia, Turks gradually conquered Anatolia from the Byzantines who ruled the eastern Roman Empire after the fall of Roman civilization in the west. In 1453, the Turks took Constantinople, breaking through the massive double wall that had long shielded the city. The crumbling ruins, visible throughout the modern city, testify to the strength of the Ottoman army. At their height, Ottoman rule spanned Anatolia, the Middle East, North Africa, and Southeastern and Eastern Europe. Only the combined efforts of the European powers stopped the Turkish military juggernaut at Vienna. The powerful empire lasted until its alliance with Germany in World War I led to its demise. Carved up by the victors, the Turks retained essentially the borders they have today.

Modern Turkey is a democratic republic. Like many states founded in the 20th Century, it suffers from the statist economic policies popular at the time of its inception. The government regulates everything. In the field of education, bureaucrats in Ankara place teachers and write curriculum. Even private K-12 schools, tutoring companies, and universities are regulated.

In this year’s edition of the Index of Economic Freedom produced by the Heritage Foundation and the Wall Street Journal, Turkey ranks 85th in the world in terms of the level of government coercion in the marketplace. Rated on such variables as trade policy, taxation, property rights, wages and prices, regulation, and other factors, the Index rates Turkey among the “mostly unfree countries” of India, China, and others in Africa and central America. The vast authority of the government became clear when I asked the head of a private university what freedom and flexibility the university has compared to public universities. He responded that other than the freedom to raise their own money, they are regulated the same. Basically they receive less money but bear the same burden of regulation – what a deal.

Other problems persist. The Economist reported recently that only 40 percent of Turkish youths have a secondary school diploma. A third of school aged girls are not even in school. Among the Kurdish minority, statistics are more dismal. An adjacent article reported that 47 of the country’s writers face criminal charges for insulting the country and other controversial writing.

In spite of the heavy hand of government, the country seems to be prospering. An exporter of agricultural products, textiles, and minerals, the country is experiencing a growth rate of 8 percent. Turkey is currently seeking admittance into the European Union. It must first satisfy the demands of entry including resolving its ongoing conflict with Greece over the island of Cyprus. If admitted, Turkey will be the first predominantly Muslim country to enter the union.

Although the citizenry is 99 percent Muslim, the government is strictly secular. As in the rest of Europe, the influence of religion is waning. About half of the country is nominally Muslim. We saw women with and without head scarves and nearly all in very chic outfits. A Turkish mall in Istanbul featured hip clothes, modern electronics and of course, giggling teenage girls. The mall could have been anywhere in the world.

To be sure, the countryside is certainly more conservative and distinctively Turkish than the cosmopolitan city of Istanbul. After another hot, near sleepless night, we flew to Izmir, a city on the coast of the Aegean Sea. Dozing in the van on the way to Ephesus, I awoke to a stunning, sun-scorched Mediterranean countryside. Mountains covered in pine trees and orchards of peaches, olives, and figs, blurred past my window. The figs, sampled at a fruit stand, were luscious.

It was 110 degrees in Ephesus. The sun, reflecting off the marble ruins, was blinding even with a hat and sunglasses. We walked in the footsteps of Apostle Paul -- listening to the strange Irish brogue of our Turkish tour guide who had gained his language skills from Irish and Scottish friends. Half blinded by the reflected sunlight, I stood in the great theatre facing rows of stone that could seat an audience of 24,000. It was as if I could hear the roar of the angry crowd roused against the apostle. Incited by the sellers of idols who stood to lose money, the mob shouted “Great is Diana!” condemning Paul as he stood before them. For a second I could hear their voices. I turned to go. A short distance later, I came to gift shops selling Christian souvenirs.

Back in Izmir we enjoyed a quick cup of hot, sweet tea. The café’s awning could not protect us from the swelter. It was 105 degrees at least and humid. After another doze in the van, we arrived at a friend of a friend’s house. The house sits on the edge of a lake ringed by olive trees. On the walkway to the house we passed three terraced gardens full of ripening tomatoes, egg plants, beans, herbs, and strawberries. Behind the house, the family keeps an orchard. The house has about same square footage as a large middle class home in the United States. The walls are painted but there are no pictures, typical for Muslim homes. The living room features a traditional room with sitting pillows and a low table, as well as a modern room with chairs. Our host is a judge and wealthy by Turkish standards.

My colleague Shahnaz and I were seated with the women. All but one wore colorful head scarves and long sleeves. I admired their endurance; it was at least 100 degrees in the house. We sampled the chewy, semi-sweet candy that is known as Turkish Delight. Joining the men on the balcony we ate an exquisite meal overlooking the orchard. As the sun set, the song of cicadas faded to the chirping of crickets. After the meal, the sexes separated again. The women languished on pillows fanning themselves and drinking thick, sweet Turkish coffee in small, china cups. The host’s daughter and her friends translated for the group. The sounds of Turkish and English flowed back and forth flavored with laughter. Everyone was smiling. Deeply relaxed from heat and sleep deprivation, I thought this might be one of the loveliest moments of my life.

Back at our hotel in Izmir, the power went out in the middle of the night leaving our room at 95 degrees, possibility higher. I was beyond sleeping. A final plane ride brought us back to Istanbul for some sightseeing. Hopped up on sweet tea, we wandered from the Sultan’s palace to Hagia Sophia, the Byzantine cathedral turned mosque turned museum, to the Blue Mosque, a sublimely beautiful building with thousands of blue ceramic tiles. The visit to Hagia Sophia left me with a lingering sadness. It was once the marvel of the Byzantine capital. Its high gold dome floats above rows of grand interior arches and windows. Despite its structural grandeur, its paint is flaking. While some of the original Christian mosaics remain, Islamic calligraphy covers part of the interior walls. One can see where the cross was removed from the great church door. Like a smoldering ember left after a great fire has been quenched, the church is but a shadow of its former self.

We boarded the van again to head to the suburbs of Istanbul to a businessman’s summer home. Along with gardens and orchards, he keeps peacocks, turkeys, hens, pigeons, Anatolian shepherds, and a horse. As in Izmir, the family is joined by friends for the evening. We devour the most delicious grilled meats, stuffed peppers, and chopped cucumber, onion, and tomato salad, flat bread, and other sumptuous bites. It seemed impossible to eat more until the bowls of fresh fruit were set before us – perfect apricots, a kind of dried fruit roll-up, dried white mulberries, nuts, and of course delicious coffee. The conversation ebbed and flowed in Turkish and English. These men and women, like everyone we had met, are deeply concerned about the future of their country. Their philanthropic giving supports schools, colleges, and hospitals around the country. When the government flounders, their institutions are laying the ground for future prosperity. We are honored to know them.

On our final day, we have two more meetings plus a few hours of shopping. Our bags grow heavy with hand painted pottery and exotic textiles. After a final dinner at a local university, we held back to the hotel. Enjoying the balmy evening by the pool, our small group chatted about the whirlwind trip. Since we had to be at the airport at 3 am we decided to stay up rather than sleep. Somehow it seemed a fitting end to four and a half days in Turkey.