Jokes on Me

The Joke's on Me by Wayne Dixon It was a five hour drive from Fresno to Banning California that winter’s day. We were headed to their Grandmother’s house for Christmas in our Volkswagen Bug, and I was not too happy with the large package our daughters insisted on bringing along. “It’s your Christmas present,” they said, a sure-fire way to obligate me to bring it along. “OK,” I consented, but it has to ride in the back seat with you two. I could barely see around it as I complained all the way to Grandma’s house. I was hooked, however by my curiosity as to what could be in this large oblong box. Could it be a telescope, I wondered. What else could it be? I mused. I could hardly wait for Christmas morn to find out. My turn finally came as we went round robin opening our gifts one at a time. I tore off the paper and finally opened the box with anticipation only to find another box inside, and then another, and another. As the boxes got smaller and smaller I shifted my guesswork to a wristwatch as the final outcome. Boy, was I disappointed to open that last package to find what? Can you guess? A rock. A plain old rock, not even a special gem of a rock. I can’t remember my real present that year, but I do remember my daughters’ peals of laughter as the joke was on me! Other times followed, as my junior high students played a tricks on me. One time they all dropped their books on the floor at a prearranged signal and waited for my reaction. I joined in and dropped my book as well. “I saw that TV show last night, “ I said, “Wasn’t that fun?” Now the joke was on them, ha, ha. One morning at school I heard a student say outside the door to her friend, “Mr. Dixon will faint when he finds out I finished my science project.” So I obliged as she brought in her project. I fell to the floor pretending to faint. Turn-about is fair play I told her, reassuring her I was alright. I’m mellower now, so when our gym instructor said I was doing a good job, I took it as a compliment. She had offered me a mini-candy bar from her Easter basket, and said, “Take an extra one for your wife.” “She won’t eat it,” I said as I helped myself to a second, adding, “I have to eat for two these days.” She looked me over in my wet bathing suit and said, “You’re doing a good job!” Another ha ha on me, I thought. That’s not as bad as at the hardware store when the clerk at checkout challenged my credit card. I had bought some plants for our front yard where Jean had cleared some room, and when I handed over my card I was asked, “Is this your card?” Indignantly, I pointed to my picture on the face of the card. “That’s me, right there,” I insisted. “Are you sure, “ she said, adding “I thought it was your son!” Ha ha? At the gym again, a former student from long ago recognized me. “What is your name,” I asked. “Sylvia,” she replied. I thought back to the student who hit me on the head with a pink eraser. She didn’t remember that, she said, and now she was working at my old school as a teacher’s aide. She complained about the behavior of her students, and I said, “It’s payback time, Sylvia.” I gave her an invitation to our presentation at Woodward Park Library. She enthusiastically offered to invite everyone who remembered me to come. That should be interesting, don’t you think?

Beyond Christmas

BEYOND CHRISTMAS by Wayne Dixon My grandfather used to say, “They always want to keep Jesus in the manger. Why won’t they let Him grow up?” Beyond Christmas is Good Friday, Easter Sunday, and the Ascension, and the Second Coming. My grandfather believed he would live to see the Second Coming, and it threw me for a loop, when grandpa died when I was still an adolescent. Was grandpa wrong or did Jesus come for him in his time? I have since come to realize that Christ comes to us again and again. He comes to us in history. He comes to us in experience. And He comes to us in the future. That first Christmas is rooted in history in the fullness of time. “I bring you tidings of great joy,” the angel announced out of the blue to startled shepherds. That message continues to reverberate throughout history, dividing time into before and after. We are the inheritors of that legacy. Civilization since is embedded with that event, an inescapable part of our culture. Christ comes to us personally in experience. The apostle John wrote that Christ is the light that lighteth every man born into the world. That light comes to us as “a lamp to our feet and a light to our pathway,” as my grandfather wrote in my birthday Bible at age eleven. The light still shines 2,012 years later, an unbroken beam passing through history to our present experience. And what of the future? “No man knoweth the day nor the hour,” the Bible records. The future is often obscured by clouds of current events swirling about in threatening storms. But the last words of the Bible voice the enduring hope, “Even so, come, Lord Jesus.” That legacy of Christmas remains with us. Even in the most profane circumstances the echoing carols remind us of a resilient heritage beneath the surface. Should we keep Christ in Christmas amidst all commercialism and controversy? Of course, by all means. But more importantly let us keep Christ beyond Christmas. As they sang at my grandfather’s funeral, “We praise thee O God, for the Son of thy love, for Jesus who died and is now gone above. Hallelujah, thine the glory. Hallelujah, amen. Revive us again.”

Cuba Flashbacks

Back Flashes to Cuba by Wayne Dixon We’ve been back from Cuba now for three whole days, but we’re still on Cuban time and temperatures. We fall asleep in front of the TV by 8 pm (but that has happened before more than occasionally) and we’re up by 4 am (usually 5 or later). Jet lag has taken its toll in other ways as well in various forms of disorientation and confusion. We had arrived back at San Francisco April 12 Friday morning after midnight. After getting our luggage and going through customs we called the hotel and waited in a shelter for the van to arrive. It was cold and raining and we were joined by a few other unhappy customers for what seemed like an hour. We were not in our rooms until 1:30 in the morning, and went straight to bed. You’d think we’d sleep in, but Cuban time kicked in and we were awake before our time. The breakfast room did not open, we thought, until seven, so we waited. Later, inside, I saw a clock in a mirror and it seemed time was going backwards. “Is it five till eight, or five after eight?” I asked Jean at my side, who was more awake than I. “Five after,” she informed me. We were on the road to Fresno by 8:45 am, missing most of the early work traffic. Although it was raining we had a good drive home. It was actually pretty through Gilroy and beyond, reminding me of the beautiful Cuban countryside we had seen the week before. I was surprised then how much of Cuba was rural in nature, and I am now surprised how much open space there remains here in California on the way to and from Los Banos, although commuters are finding new tract homes along the way. I was tempted to stop at a thrift store I spied in Los Banos, wondering what treasures might be found from this community. In Cuba, I remembered, nothing goes to waste, but is recycled over and over. I had left a shirt behind I could no longer fit into after all those rich Cuban meals and a ten pound weight gain, which led us to Home Buffet in Clovis for lunch upon our return home. We were hungry right on Cuban schedule. Jean frowned at the suggestion, but I assuaged her with the idea that we must go through gradual withdrawal. However, there was nothing gradual about our appetites for the foods of home. I noticed a preference for our Cuban diet of cucumbers and tomatoes, pineapples, chicken and beef, skipping the rice. It was the desserts that I had missed as I rediscovered peanut butter pie with white chocolate cappuccino. I don’t know what has happened to my English spelling as I type these words at 5:30 am on Sunday. My brain is still on Spanish, and there are other bewilderments as I want to put dates in Cuban form with the day before the month. I won’t even tell you the confusions of my early morning nature calls when I head for the wrong directions and cannot find the mandatory waste container to save on Cuban plumbing. When Jean and I cross paths in the dark startling each other, I mutter something about the ghosts of Cuban pasts.

Grandma's Watering Can

Grandmother’s Watering Can by Wayne Dixon My Grandmother lived for her garden and plants of all kinds. I remember how upset she was when I accidently hoed up her iris rhizomes thinking I was doing her a favor by removing weeds. “It will take two years for them to bloom again,” she said. “Don’t hoe any more weeds,” she insisted. It was one of the very few times I saw her angry. She nurtured her plants from slips, as she called them, and was somewhat of an expert at starting new plants in pots which she kept under her grape arbor behind her white-frame house. One had to be careful walking around not to knock over one of her precious potted succulents and cacti. She would water them by hand with her omnipresent watering can. I do not remember her ever using a hose. She always filled her watering can from the faucet and laboriously carried it from plant to plant, front yard or back. They would reward her from time to time with extravagant blooms. I still have some of my Grandmother’s plants, transplanted over the miles and times from her house to mine. There were the hen and chicken succulents, expanding like their name, over the pots. I, too, have jade plants all over the yard, some of them started from a single leaf, bringing me prosperity and good luck. Her baby-tear moss has died, unable to tolerate Fresno’s heat. Some plants, such as her purple flowering Mexican sage, I’ve obtained from nurseries in her memory and that of my growing up years. And now I even have a watering can! What would my Grandmother think of that?

Blue Danube Reflections

BLUE DANUBE REFLECTIONS by Wayne Dixon They say the Danube River isn’t really blue but looks like chocolate from all the mud and silt it carries. It is only blue when the sun is at the right angle and the blue sky is reflected on the water. I can verify that by experience. In all my photos the water is muddy in appearance, and I only remember seeing the river blue once, punctuated by mirrored fluffy white clouds on the water. Our trip itself through the Balkans remains a bit of a muddle in my mind, having passed through seven countries in a dozen or so days, getting off the riverboat here and there for an inland tour. Places and faces race by mostly from tour-bus windows. The barrage of tour guide facts are like pieces of a puzzle heaped together waiting for the larger picture, like truth, to emerge. That takes time and patience for bits to converge, and upon reflection, to convey more than passes by the eye. On the riverboat, ours is a frog’s eye view of the river and its banks as we cruise by. Our cabin is in the bottom of the boat at water level. Much of what we see is reflected reality of “castles and kings, and hundreds of things.” Things are things, philosophers say, and like histories, have the importance that we attach to them. We float by much of that history, much of it eclipsed by more recent events. You would think World War II never happened as we have heard the guides narrate the modern struggle to free themselves from Russian Communism, once hailed as liberators form Nazism. We are shown bombed buildings but they are from Kosovo’s war. I first learned of the war of Kosovo from President Clinton’s speech at our Abraham Lincoln School in Selma, California. He was running for office again, landing in his helicopter, kicking off his campaign with issues far away in the Balkans. I had taken his picture, shaken his hand, and now here I am in the land of Kosovo, staring out the bus window at bombed out buildings, taking pictures again. What we bring on board beside our baggage, what we take from our journey, and what we add to it after the trip, refocuses on the significance of what we’ve seen more than forgotten facts. It is not the details I recall, but I feel it is the river I have come to know, moving on, day by day, as our version of “The African Queen.” Now and then, reflections, like memories, come and go, shimmering momentarily on the water, and then vanishing. History parades before us like art, impressionistic in nature, giving us glimpses of what was, what is, and what might be. We are like Alice in Wonderland, looking through the looking glass, or as St. Paul put it, looking through that glass darkly, waiting for face to face.

ISLAND MAGIC

THE ISLANDS OF OUR LIVES by Wayne Dixon “No man is an island,” John Donne wrote, yet islands have played an important part in our lives since our 1960 honeymoon-days in Catalina. What an adventure that was as we flew on a seaplane landing in Avalon bay. We enjoyed our stay so much we went back a second time the following year, to see the flying fish, explore the isthmus, and walk all over what was then the small community atmosphere 53 years ago. We would walk out past the domed ballroom to the now gone St. Catherine’s Hotel for lunch, and to the bird park behind the town of Avalon. Years later we spent our seventeenth anniversary in the Hawaiian Islands. While we were in Oahu, we arranged to fly to the adjacent island of Kauai. We drove all over the island in a rental car with a destination of a historic mission station on the north side. It rained cats and dogs flooding even the bridges. When we arrived the docent wiped the rain from Jean’s face with a Kleenex and asked where we were from. I replied that is was such a small place, she probably never heard of Clovis, near Fresno, California. We were startled when she said it was named for her uncle Clovis Cole! Small world, isn’t it? There are other islands in our lives: Mediterranean islands such as Rhodes, Patmos, Mikonos, each one deserving of a story, at least a visited memory. Rhodes was a medieval memory enshrined in stonework from the days of the Crusades. Walking through the archways on cobbled streets we were transported to days of yore. Taking us back even further in time was Revelation’s cave on the isle of Patmos where the apostle John envisioned the future. And Mikonos the Greek isle was memorable for its white stucco houses and windmills by day and its moon reflected by night. We have Atlantic islands such as Ireland, Iceland and Newfoundland. And what about Great Britain, that sceptered isle? In spite of what they say, Britain is very European regardless of its present detachment. Its gothic architecture rules over all from Westminster Abbey to the stately ruins of Coventry Cathedral. Ireland was as green as Iceland was glacial white in places. Both took your breath away with their unbroken vistas. Newfoundland was just that with some things old, some things new, and blue sky and water over all. No wonder Marconi’s signal could be carried across the Atlantic from Europe. Our Caribbean islands, later in time, included the Bahamas, Jamaica, Roiatan, and Cuba on separate trips. The Caribbean is a world of its own, no matter where you land, the rhythm is the same, and not just the music, but the life-style. Even the Castro brothers could not change that with their Soviet-style regimen. The people set their own relaxed pace in each place. Pacific islands we visited included Orcas Island where we stayed for a week in our RV. Does Japan count as an island, as it’s not a continent? Actually it’s a series of islands. People are always asking me about my favorite island trip, and I will have to say the Galapagos Islands. At first landing it was such a barren, God-forsaken looking place. But I soon learned otherwise as the small ship took us from one Eden to another. No wonder Darwin was impressed. Australia is a continent, but down under is Phillips Island where we braved the rain to watch the penguins come out of the sea at night to migrate to their on shore nesting sites. Then there were African islands, such as the one Nelson Mandela spent 27 years in prison, Robben island. As did President Obama later visit Mandela’s cell, so did we years before off the coast of South Africa. Nor will we forget Isle de Gore off the coast of Senegal where African slaves were transported to the New World in the 18th century. Our island-hopping now continues, to celebrate our fifty-third anniversary on a cruise to Polynesia, with its array of Pacific isles. Did you know that Hawaii alone encompasses seventeen islands, and that the Pacific Ocean includes some 25,000 islands? That ought to keep us busy for awhile!

John's Gospel

GETTING THROUGH THE GOSPELS by Wayne Dixon My friend has passed on now for over a year. But I keep plugging through the gospels. I had suggested that my friend read the gospels, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, and I decided to do the same, just in case any questions came up. I would be prepared, so I thought. I had not anticipated how weighty that rereading could be, seeing it through my friend’s eyes. My friend had never read the Bible. I could cite its familiar contents from the Christmas to Easter story. Perhaps that was the problem, familiarity. It was easy to gloss over its real contents. But now I was reading as if for the first time wondering what my friend would make of it. What did I make of it now for myself? It went slowly. “Let these sayings sink down into your ears,” and they did, a few words at a time, because that’s all I could truly absorb. The readings became daily with a kind of wonder, “What would I find anew today?” I made steady progress through Matthew, Mark, and Luke and found them straightforward and chronological. By the time I got to John I was sailing. John would be easier, I thought from “In the beginning was the word” to “God so loved the world” to “in my Father’s house are many mansions.” These were the cherries on the tree, hand-picked. But now I was overwhelmed by all that unbroken red lettering, whole pages of dialog I’d only skimmed before. John’s presentation is intimate in detail, rendering whole extended conversations. And who was doing the talking, Jesus or John? Scholars must have a field day with that one. What is reporting and what is editorial, however, become irrelevant to the enduring impact of the words. He presents the Christ of transitions, what is and what will be. It is though John wrote from a different dimension, beyond place and time, not unlike the book of Revelation, also attributed to him. I stopped short of John’s last two chapters. I wanted to reread the whole thing first, to let it sink in again, as a book you’re not ready to finish. I ran across a newer version at the thrift store for $1.00 and thought that might help, not that I needed any more Bibles, but it is an interesting comparison. “Wilt thou be made whole?” of the King James Version becomes “Would you like to get well?” Perhaps I should have given my friend a newer translation?

Captain James Cook at Alaska's Resurrection Bay

REGENERATION PLACES by Wayne Dixon Predawn darkness was broken only by the red glow of a lone neon HOTEL sign as we awoke on our cruise ship gliding into Seward's wharf. Its 2,700 residents were still sleeping, making the most of what was left of Alaska's short summer night. It was Saturday, the original Jewish Sabbath, observed by most Christians on Sunday and Moslems on Friday. We were in Resurrection Bay, named for that ultimate Sabbath hoped for by these believers. Captain James Cook was one of those seekers, if we take seriously names he gave places he touched upon in his journeys. On his first journey he found Providential Channel escaping the mazes of Australia's Great Barrier Reef. Later, caught between two rocks in an Alaskan fog, he journaled, "Providence had conducted us through between these rocks where I should not have ventured in a clear day, and to such an anchoring place that I could not have chosen a better." He was always conscious of the fragility of his quests, especially so on his last venture looking for the mythical Northwest Passage. Past his prime in the eyes of some, he volunteered to find the way through Arctic waters connecting Europe with Asia. "My fate drives me from one extream (sic) to a nother," he wrote. It was not to be found along the Oregon and Washington coast where he met storms in 1778. He missed the Strait of Juan de Fuca near Vancouver Island. Prince William Sound offered the first real opportunity to explore. There he met native Alaskans, spending a little time without finding his elusive waterway. Cook's hope sprang eternal. Near Resurrection Bay he found resources to continue his journey, including warming sea otter pelts. It was calm here, protected from the ups and downs of open sea. Scoured by ancient glaciers to the depth of a thousand feet, today it still shelters an abundance of sea life as well as a host of small craft. Thirteen years later, the Russian explorer, Alexander Baranof found refuge here on the Russian Orthodox Easter Sunday in 1791. He gratefully named it Resurrection Bay. Recovering from storms, he again found his way. We, too, hopefully followed our itinerary, leaving our ship, boarding our bus for Anchorage, one hundred-twenty miles away. We were on land now, adjusting our sea-legs to taken-for- granted security of terra firma. Not so, our driver informed us. Dead trees along the highway stood as silent reminders of thirty-foot high tidal waves inundating seaside forests on Good Friday, 1964, during Alaska's great earthquake. The Kenai Peninsula's mountains shrank 6-8 feet as a result of this cataclysm. Seward itself was shredded and took ten years to recover. It rains over a hundred days a year here, and nearby Chugash State Park as well as Kenai Fjords National Park offer evidence of renewal. Oh, yes, the driver told us, there was a problem with spruce bark beetles eating away at the phloem, but we hardly noticed those trees given the resilient forests. Life went on, and so did we.

Polynesian Family Links

MY FAMILY LINKS TO POLYNESIA by Wayne Dixon It’s no wonder that the Pinkham name is linked to the islands of the sea. The surname may have originated on the British island known as the Isle of Wight which is a fitting beginning for those who later ventured from Nantucket to the South Seas. Richard Pinkham of Dover, New Hampshire, was the first forebear to land on American shores with Captain Wiggins in 1633 and records show that he signed the 1640 government founding document. His children spread from Maine to Massachusetts, including Nantucket Island in 1680. I am descended through my Grandmother, Bertha Pinkham Dixon, from those who went to Maine. Others who went to Nantucket Island in Massachusetts intermarried with other Quaker families of the island, including the Folgers, Macys, Mitchells, Coffins, Gardners, Delanos, Swaines, and Starbucks who all took up whaling as an occupation. According to historian Alexander Starbuck, this endeavor began quite by chance when a whale came close to the island and was resourcefully harvested for its oil and blubber. From then on the Nantucket men went out to sea in search of more whales, a venture immortalized by Herman Melville’s Moby Dick. One whaler kinsman by marriage, Timothy Folger, was Benjamin Franklin’s cousin, who described the warmer water Atlantic Gulf Stream that Franklin later famously mapped for posterity. Farther asea these kinsmen went in search of whales all across the Atlantic into the Pacific where they, too, left their mark on the map. These Yankees rounded South America’s Cape Horn by 1791. Mayhew Folger, son of William Folger and Ruth Coffin and uncle to abolitionist Lucretia Mott,rediscovered Pitcairn Island in 1806 to rescue the last survivor of the Bounty rebels against Captain Bligh. Another Folger, Captain Elisha Folger,crossed the Equator in 1818 into Micronesian waters to sight today’s white sands Baker’s Island, although it was named New Nantucket by Obed Starbuck in 1825. Were these men homesick or not? Today Baker Island is part of the Phoenix group of the wildlife preservation islands of Kiribati, although during World War II it saw plenty of action. This Obed Starbuck got around to other islands including Starbuck Island of the former Equatorial Islands, now known as the Line Islands, also part of Kiribati. Obed visited South Sea islands Niutao and Vaitupu, and spent time mapping Tuvalu. Kinsman Richard Macy occupied himself discovering Macy’s Island, and possibly Sydney’s Island. Or was that James C. Swain? Even Jeremiah Reynold’s 1828 report to the United States House of Representatives could not untangle their claims to fame. And where was Loo Choo Island? Somewhere off the coast of Japan? Thanks to Amelia Earhart, everyone knows where Nikumaroro Island is, where Earhart crashed headed for Howland Island. According to rumor her cosmetic kit was found there with her broken mirror compact. It was either Captain Joshua Gardner or Joshua Coffin who named this spot Gardner Island, kinsmen all and on the same ship owned by Gideon Gardner in 1825. Joshua’s kinsman James Coffin had already been credited with finding Enderby’s Island in 1823 aboard the “Ganges.” What about Edward Gardner of Wake Island fame, or even George Washington Gardner’s credit for his 1824 discovery of Maria Island? What about whaler Valentine Starbuck who transported the last King of Hawaii, Kamehamea II to London in 1823? Unfortunately the king never made it home, stricken with measles. And Valentine was sued for not bringing home the whales. But Valentine was not forgotten, having an island named for him. But no historian should miss Lucius Pinkham who left San Francisco for Honolulu and found a job in a hardware store. Through hard work, perseverance, and the favor of President Woodrow Wilson he was appointed governor of Captain Cook’s Sandwich Islands which by then had declared its independence as the Territory of Hawaii in 1913. If by chance you visit Waikiki and book a skyscraper hotel room, you can thank the Pinkham clan for Lucius’ planning the Ala Wai Canal that made it all possible, draining the swamps of Honolulu. If you should have a Starbuck’s coffee in hand as you walk Waikiki’s sand, remember poor kinsman Valentine Starbuck, stuck with all that debt. At least he had an island named in his honor, Starbucks Island, and his surname survives in your hand. How many can claim that?

TARMAC PROPHECIES

TARMAC PROPHECIES by Wayne Dixon I remember my fascination with my Dixon grandparent’s window-shade biblical illustrations which ironically were stored in my Siefke grandparent’s garage. I would unroll them like ancient scrolls perusing their contents. There was an outline diagram of the Old Testament tabernacle, a favorite topic of Bertha Pinkham Dixon as she explained the New Testament hidden in the Old. My grandfather William Taylor Dixon favored prophecies with a giant figure of Daniel’s foreshadowing kingdoms come and gone. I remember one window-shade with the great plan of the ages from the beginning of time to the times of the Gentiles. That would be us, followed by the second coming and the everlasting kingdom. My grandfather had told me during my mid-teens that he expected to see it all come to pass during his lifetime, an awesome thought to an impressionable young man. My fascination with grandfather’s prophetic themes continued through to my retirement 50 years later. When I started a second Master’s degree late in life, I chose to research an obscure 17th century group known as Fifth Monarchists who similarly believed it would all happen during their lifetimes with a little help. They did help bring down Charles I whom they saw as the Antichrist only to be replaced with their own demise under Charles II. Charles II relentlessly pursued these men to the American colonies, where ironically one of their number, John Clarke of Rhode Island, obtained his royal charter initiating freedom of religion. I now see these developments as a tarmac from which events, like planes, take off and return. I see ancient prophecies as templates befitting many historic and future events. The apostle John said there were many antichrists gone out into the world. Even our present situations parallel previous circumstances in history reminiscent of Revelation language. The beasts prefigured there arise again from the sea with big horns and little horns. As a child driven to my grandfather’s house in San Bernardino from Glendora I would fall asleep in the back seat. I would look forward to these visits, and upon awaking I would ask, “Are we there yet?” Sometimes we were only to the fields of Cucamonga. Other times we were just around the corner. As I now look at world events I ask the same question, “Are we there yet?”

Convincements and Small Providentials

SMALL PROVIDENTIALS by Wayne Dixon Some would call co-ordinate events coincidences, but I call them “providentials.” They happen unexpectedly, but often as outcomes of choices made. When we are surprised by positive outcomes, we wonder what would have happened if we had pursued a different path. My mind works in mysterious ways, as though I am making rebound decisions based on persistent inward impressions. By past experience I’ve learned not to mentally teeter-totter too long but to go with the initial intuition. That saves time, mental struggle, and releases doubts. Sometimes if I consciously veto the inward suggestion and shrug it off, then I wonder what I might miss. In the course of a day there are many minor choices. Let me give you an example. I was in the gym the other day in the spa and I told a person I that I was going to the pedaling exercise machine when I had actually intended to do arm exercise. When I realized my contradiction I went ahead to the bike room as I said I would. When I got there two bikes were open, one to the right and to the left, and as I was headed to one I redirected to the other. After I’d done a mile on the cycle, the person on my side said, “I know you from somewhere.” A significant conversation followed. What if? Perhaps this is a universal experience. Blaise Pascal, the seventeen century French mathematician wrote, “The heart has its reasons that reason never knows.” My father used to say he had a “convincement” about a matter. When I looked the term up in the unabridged dictionary it was listed as an archaic Quaker term related to one’s inner light. My Quaker great-grandfather called it “His Voice to Me” as a manuscript title of his experiences. So I follow along, my life’s daily directives. Many times these directives are in mental Biblical telegrams like, “Follow the pattern shown thee in the mount,” originally addressed to Moses. Or in the words of the Proverbist, “Be not as the mule,” perhaps referring to the prophet talked to by a mule? I pay attention to these reminders because they fit in with my world view, “God’s in His heaven, all’s right with the world.” I just try to keep it that way.

Nelson Mandela on Robben Island

REMEMBERING NELSON MANDELA ON ROBBEN ISLAND by Wayne Dixon We visited South Africa’s Robben Island in February, 2011, as part of our Capetown to Cairo month-long journey. South Africa has much to offer in terms of tourism including Table Top Mountain, a penguin preserve, the Waterfront, and the Cape of Good Hope, but the most meaningful event for us was a tour of the prison where Nelson Mandela spent many years. Robben Island, though near the mainland, is isolated from Capetown by a narrow stretch of the Atlantic. As we left the city by boat, Capetown’s skyscrapers and the mountains behind them diminished in size as the tiny island came into view. As we disembarked we were struck by the rocky bareness of the island so near the South African coastline. It probably had little use other than the rock quarry where prisoners labored, although it once was a leper colony and World War II facility. Now its main inhabitants are jackass penguins and cormorants. As our vehicle neared the prison its tower dominated the horizon, reminding me of San Francisco’s inescapable Alcatraz. I did not know much about Robben Island’s history nor of the policies that brought political prisoners there. But we were soon to be informed. Our guide, himself a former prisoner, took our group into an outer lobby where we were shown the mats upon which the prisoners slept. I took pictures of pictures displayed showing yester-years’ conditions, a stark contrast to the now well-maintained tourist museum. We were next shown the exercise yard where some sparse plants survive from Mandela’s 1960s to 1990 off and on sojourn. Ironically, Mandela managed to earn a law degree during his incarceration which served him later. We were then taken down a dim hallway to Mandela’s cell where we viewed his small space through bars and out a high transept window. His cot and table fill the enclosure where he spent 18 years of his 27 prison life. Viewing it was a solemn moment. It was here, Mandela’s friend Archbishop Tutu later said, “The furnace of affliction burnt away the dross, and he progressively grew in a new spiritual depth. He began to be more patient and understanding of the foibles of others, especially of those of his jailers and the oppressors of his people and their fears of being overwhelmed by the black masses. This is where he was purified and made to be more compassionate and magnanimous.”

Bora Bora, The Real Story

BORA BORA, THE REAL STORY by Wayne Dixon Beauty abounds in Bora Bora, by reputation the most picturesque Pacific island with its jagged peaks surrounded by coral reefs. No wonder Hollywood took it over for filming its epics, and its celebrities took up residence there. Our tour bus paused for pictures in front of what once was Marlin Brando’s cabana next to Jack Nicholson. We also stopped by Bloody Mary’s bar, a character lifted out of James Michener’s “Tales of the South Pacific” to photograph its signboard, a litany of the rich and famous who visited there. But Bora Bora, or Bali Hi as Michener fictionalized, fell on hard times. Our recent American recession became their depression as its main source of income, tourism, dwindled. As our tour continued, we saw deteriorating projects including American resorts and hotels. So what is Bora Bora’s real story, the enduring one? Polynesians landed here centuries ago, some say originally from Asian nations. Their ancient outdoor temples, the marae, remain by the roadside as we pause for more pictures, capturing graffiti-like petroglyphs of symbolic crosshatched turtles. These ingenious adventurers brought their livelihoods with them in hand-carved catamarans to establish new settlements. Their cornucopia included coconuts which today sway in the winds before us and a host of other flora and fauna found through out this cultivated paradise. Christian missionaries planted another seed which took root on the island. They encoded the language and translated their narrative into Tahitian and their efforts bore apostolic-like successes. While some condemned their efforts, particularly whalers and traders, the missionary legacy lived on in indigenous churches they established. Ironically, some of the customs missionaries introduced, such as Sunday-keeping, outlasted their Western origins. When our cruise ship, the Statendam, landed late Sunday afternoon, would-be-tourists were advised, “Nothing will be open today on shore. It’s Sunday, and the custom here is to stay closed. Wait until tomorrow to do your shopping.” On our Monday tour we stopped by one of those legacy churches. As I took pictures around the building, I noticed people had been sleeping on the floor of the back hall. I asked our guide if they were homeless. “No,” he said, they’ve gathered here from around the island for a conference.” European flags followed the missionaries, first the British, then the French. The French have done well by modern Bora Bora, establishing infrastructure and maintaining schools and hospitals. There is no move toward independence here for fear they might go the way of Vanatu and be bereft of advantages accrued as part of the French government where they claim a seat in its parliament. Of course, there were sadder pages in Bora Bora’s history, particularly during World War II. Bora Borans rejected the German-controlled Vichy French government and opted for Charles De Gaulle’s leadership. The former British rule held no sway, but Uncle Sam competed favorably for Bora Boran loyalties. When Americans established a military base there, a flood-gate of material goods opened to the natives. Over twice as many servicemen were stationed there as there were natives. American cannons, quonset huts, wharves, ramps, and an airport remain. When I asked our guide if we would see the cannons, he smiled and said, “No that would be another tour up into the mountains.” “Fortunately,” he added, “they were never needed.”

My Take Now

My Take Now by Wayne Dixon The Christian vision is a life long experience. Mine began as a pre-adolescent when my Grandfather Dixon sent me a Bible for my eleventh birthday. I received a notice that a package was being held for me at the post office and how excited I was to pick it up until I opened it. “Oh, a Bible,” I said to my mother disappointedly. However it wasn’t too long before I began reading it thanks to my Methodist Sunday School teacher who gave us points for doing so. Over the years my Christian vision has experienced different takes and forms and this now is my matured take, a kind of reasoning as I continue the journey. Having experienced the ups and downs and rounds of various issues and answers I now see it as a framework for understanding my life. While that may seem presumptuous and even self-centered, I consider it a given. It encompasses beginnings and endings and everything in between. You see, the Christian view of beginnings not only accounts for the existence of everything, but it envisions personal origins. “I am fearfully and wonderfully made,” said King David. And to Jeremiah came the word of the Lord, “Before thou wast formed in the womb, I knew thee.” I take this all to heart now, that we were all foreknown in the mind of God before we were born. My birth, then in October of 1940, after a lingering world-wide depression and before a second world war, was no accident in time but by design. If, then, my beginnings are included in divine intention, then it follows that the events of my life, too, are part of that larger plan. All those ups and downs and arounds fulfill a larger purpose for “all the days of my life.” I find that significant now as I look back and try to make sense of it all, to leave things lay as they all laid out. This Christian vision holds out the best for last where eyes have not seen and ears have not heard. I take for myself the words of St. Paul, “Then shall I know, even as I am known.” The best, then, is yet to be.

William Taylor Dixon (missionary) William Taylor Dixon, independent faith missionary to China and minister in the United States, was born in Snow Camp, North Carolina, to Quaker parents Milo and Rosa Dixon on June 23, 1879. He married educator Bertha Teresa Pinkham, daughter of Evangelical Friends leader William Penn Pinkham and Emma Cecilia Curry on June 23,1904[1]. Bertha was principal of the Training School for Christian Workers in Los Angeles, California, which later became Azusa Pacific University located in Azusa, California.[2] Influenced by early 20th century missionary movements, the Dixons left for China in 1909 with their two young children, Wendell and Gertrude. They were assisted in part by China Inland Mission's Cecil Pohill, one of the Cambridge Seven missionaries to China[3] Bertha Pinkham Dixon later published her memoirs, A Romance of Faith, which included their experiences in China [4]. Her narrative recorded their arrivals in Shanghai and Hong Kong where they were associated with early Pentecostal missionaries [5] Alfred and Lillian Garr [6], Robert and Aimee Semple (later evangelist Aimee Semple McPherson)[7], and Chinese pastor Mok Lai Chi [8], who later pioneered an indigenous Christian movement [9]. In 1910 the Dixons transferred to Guangzhou (Canton). Guangzhou was the center of rising Chinese revolution at that time and civil unrest prevailed. Disease outbreaks occurred of which the two Dixon children died in 1911. They were buried in homemade coffins outside the city in a Chinese Christian burial ground. The Dixons returned to San Francisco in 1912 following a ministry in Zhaoqing (Shiu Hing), serving with the Edmund J. Clinton family whose son Clifford Clinton later founded the Clifton's Cafeterias and Meals for Millions[10]. Although the Dixon's time in China was shortened, they and their co-workers left behind a continuing work in China [11] During their remaining years, the Dixons served churches in Snow Camp, North Carolina, and San Jose, Santa Ana, Gilroy, Morgan Hill, Santa Rosa, Redlands, and Los Angeles, California. Among these pastorates was the Pisgah Home[12] after the death of founder Finis Yoakum[13]. Bertha Dixon died in 1947 [14], followed by William Dixon in 1959. They were survived by five children and eight grandchildren. 1. Sinnett, Charles Nelson (1908). Richard Pinkham of Old Dover New Hampshire and His Descendants East and West, Rumford Printing Company,Concord, NH. p. 154. 2. http://www.apu.edu/about/history 3. Pollock, John (1969). The Cambridge Seven,Intervarsity Press, London. p.109 4. Dixon, Bertha (1941). A Romance of Faith, Bedrock Press, Los Angeles. 5. Robeck, Cecil M.(2006) The Azusa Street Mission and Revival: The Birth of the Global Pentecostal Movement, Thomas Nelson, Inc., Nashville. p.258 6. Orr, J. Edwin (1975) Evangelical Awakening in Eastern Asia, Bethany Fellowship, Inc., Minneapolis 7. McPherson, Aimee Semple (1921). This is That: Personal Experiences, Sermons, and Writings, Bridal Call Publishing, Los Angeles. p.68 8. Bertha P. Dixon (1910). "From Hong Kong," in Bridal Messenger (March 15, 1910) 5 9. Bays, Daniel H. (1995)"Indigneous Protestant Churches in China, 1900-1937: A Pentecostal Case Study" in Indigenous Responses to Western Christianity. Steven Kaplan, Ed. New York University Press, New York. p. 129 10. http://www.Mealsformillions.org 11. Nichol, John Thomas (1966). Pentecostalism, Harper and Row, New York. pp.48,49.

Coral from Honolulu and More

For Every Island a Stone by Wayne Dixon We decided to gather rocks from each island on our Polynesian tour. We started with Honolulu on Oahu. We had been here before but that was 36 years ago and now we’re back. We had celebrated our 17th wedding anniversary at that time and now we are celebrating our 53rd anniversary. Back in 1978 we stayed at the Reef Hotel. I remember it well because our travel company at that time had put us in the wrong hotel several blocks back from the beach in the “Don Ho.” We were dismayed at not seeing the ocean from our window which was blocked by beachfront hotels including our expected Reef Hotel. We walked several blocks down to the Reef Hotel and when we entered the lobby we located the manager’s office and proceeded up the stairs to an elegant view of the ocean. I bypassed the manager's desk to enjoy the view and informed her that this is what we had hoped for. Then we produced our documents indicating our original plan and explained that we had researched and chosen this hotel for the view. They complied with our request to be relocated. From our new room we could see the white sands of Waikiki. Now 36 years later we could not find the Reef Hotel in its remembered location. Meanwhile it had been renamed the Outrigger Reef Hotel and was not recognizable to us, much fancier now. However the white sands of Waikiki Beach remained the same and we now kicked off our shoes and put our toes in the ocean. This was enough to bring back memories from long before. We bent over to pick up our first souvenir stone which was actually a piece of coral. Our experience of Hawaii is much different this time partly due to our own preparation and the programs on board Holland America’s Statendam. One of our speakers is native Hawaiian and we can see Honolulu through his eyes for the first time. Long ago all we knew about Hawaii was getting off the plane and being given a lei on our way to Waikiki. We had spent most of our time on the beach although we had a rental car thanks to a free offer of listening to a sales pitch for a condominium. I can't help but laughing out loud remembering how nice the salesman was to us taking us to the condo and how rude he was returning us to the hotel at our insistence after not committing ourselves to a lifetime purchase. However now it's all different as we are based at the Honolulu pier from the ship and can make our own way on the transportation provided by the municipality of Honolulu for one dollar traveling anywhere with transfers as senior citizens and we made the most of it. One thing we had skipped on our first visit was the Bishop Museum. But now having read extensively the history of the Pacific Islands we made our way to see the archaeological and historical artifacts on display at this world-class facility. From there we went to the Mission House in downtown Honolulu where after visiting the original church and cemetary, we toured the homes of the first missionaries. We also visited the Army Museum for the World War II history displays. Some of our passengers were destined for the Arizona Memorial which was closed due to government shutdown. We had seen that on our first visit and remembered the solemnity of the time. For every island there are available tours for a fee of course but very worthwhile in terms of completing our visit to Oahu. Our chosen tour took us inside the Diamond Head crater which we had never seen close up. The guide explained that this is not a real crater but a windblown ash build-up in circular form. The top of Diamond Head is a circular hole with a world of its own hidden from those below. We had taken morning pictures of Diamond Head from the ship upon our early morning arrival including all the skyscrapers of Honolulu at sunrise. These were impressive enough but to see other parts of the island including beaches and shores added to the natural beauty to be seen on this island. Of course our ship would take us to other Hawaiian islands but they are stories of their own. I recently reached in my shirt pocket and it felt gritty like sugar. It evidently was sand shaken from the coral piece I’d brought from Waikiki. Upon our return to San Diego our guide there said she always sprinkle Coronado beach sand on her tuna sandwich to remember her childhood picnics there. I’ll settle for a few grains from Waikiki in my pocket.

DOMINOES TO TAHITI by Wayne Dixon It began with an eighteenth English cobbler named William Carey, or even before that with James Cook, the famed Pacific explorer. William Carey devoured the published journals of James Cook which extended Carey’s vision of the world to far away places. Upon his conversion, Carey carried over his plan to a missionary vision and founded a society to promote the gospel in other lands. He saw himself in Captain Cook’s Tahiti converting the heathen. Destiny determined otherwise. Carey went to India instead where he labored for decades. But Tahiti was not forgotten. In 1796 a band of would-be missionaries set off on a journey aboard the Duff, a worthy vessel under the command of Captain James Wilson. They were a mixed lot, high on hopes, and short on preparation. One was a bricklayer, and others carpenters, shoemakers, tailors, gardener, and harness maker. They were not ready for Tahiti and Tahiti was not ready for them. The missionaries were preceded not only by Captain Cook but by an assorted band of whalers and traders who had already made their mark on the island. The missionaries floundered on the beach, and faced with native and imported opposition, some took the first boat home. Others fled to Australia leaving Henry Nott behind. Henry Nott was the bricklayer, perhaps by occupation a more patient and perseverant man. He stood up to chieftains and captains alike. It took ten years of plugging before Nott had a single convert. Meanwhile he teamed up with the Pomares, the dynastic native rulers, to learn Tahitian, to encode it in nine consonants and five vowels, and begin translating the Bible. He began with John 3:16. That’s where the dominoes began to fall into place, cascading into multiple conversions first envisioned by William Carey. If God wanted the heathen converted, William Carey was told years before, He would do it in his own time. And so He did, first with a band of eighty, and then even more. Chapels were built all over the island, and native teachers were sent from there to other nearby islands. When other missionaries later came to these outlying islands, they were surprised to find their work already begun by natives to natives. On Bora Bora they were surprised to find converts already gathered in native-built chapels conducting their own prayer meetings. Venus Point on Tahiti’s Matavai Bay bears no marks of these beginnings. As we viewed the bathers on the beach one would never know what happened here, except for a plaque bearing James Cook’s name. I pocketed a piece of volcanic stone to remember these stories.

Tahiti's Bay of Matavai

Tahiti’s Bay of Matavai by Wayne Dixon Captain Cook was not the first explorer to land at the Bay of Matavai at the South Pacific island of Tahiti. By the time he arrived in the 1700’s, the area was well known. His mission was to document the crossing of the planet Venus across the face of the sun. By comparing other world-wide observations, the earth’s distance from the sun could be determined. This distance now known as one astronomical unit would later become one of the measuring yard-sticks of the known universe. Captain Cook’s published journals opened the door of interest and opportunity of other adventurers including other explorers, missionaries, whalers and traders. They all came to Tahiti’s Bay of Matavai. Among the explorers who came was Frenchman Louis-Antoine de Bougainville for whom the tropical scarlet flower was named. Captain William Bligh returned to Tahiti in 1791. He had been there before with Captain Cook as part of his crew. He came again for breadfruit plants thought to provided economical nutrition for slaves. Unfortunately Bligh treated his crew like slaves and they rebelled, giving rise to Norman Hall’s “Mutiny on the Bounty” of literary and film reknown. We toured his home in Tahiti and purchased his colorful biography signed by his daughter. In 1796 the London Missionary Society began sending missionaries to Tahiti and other neighboring islands. They arrived at Matavai Bay aboard the Duff captained by James Wilson in March, 1797. Captain Bligh’s vacated house on Matavai Bay became the first mission location. Things did not go as anticipated. Some took the first ship out to Australia. In 1800 twelve replacements arrived, but even many of these did not stay. Henry Nott, the English bricklayer persevered to learn Tahitian, to preach in it, and to translate portions of the Bible. His efforts are commemorated in a state holiday every March 5 throughout Tahiti.

Fanning Island Visit

Billy Brick Visits Fanning Island by Wayne Dixon As many explorers present and past, Billy Brick was always looking for somewhere else to be. Billy would tire of being just another brick in the wall and imagined better opportunities elsewhere. Like early Polynesians, he viewed the distant horizons and imagined the possibilities beyond. These ancient Polynesians would load up their gear and head for the next island wherever it might be. Researchers believe that some of these adventurers landed on Fanning Island before it was called that, based on artifacts found there. Originally from the Marquesas, they did not stay long before they headed for Hawaii. Captain Edmund Fanning gave the island its name in 1789. He is honored on a brass tablet we saw attached to a tower of rocks near the entrance to Fanning Island’s blue lagoon. Other later arrivals were listed in order of their appearance including Henry English and William Greig. We arrived October 2013 in search of adventures of our own. Fanning Island is different from the nine other islands we would visit. It is a coral atoll near the equator. It surrounds a lagoon that once was a volcano, part of a chain that now forms the Line Islands, some five hundred miles south of Hawaii. We left our ship early after breakfast and were transported zodiac style to a rickety pier and greeted by the local choir raising money for their church. There was a bucket for donations and buckets elsewhere around the island for contributions for other causes. Being a retired teacher, I brought our donations in the form of school supplies, some of which had been a small part of my career. There was no electricity on the island, no paved roads, no drinking fountains, and no personal facilities other than the sea. The natives lived in relative isolation from the rest of the world except for occasional visits from cruise ships. They were prepared for our arrival with crafts and performances, and of course, money buckets. I had dreamed of such a place years ago during a winter of discontent. Where could I make more of a difference than where I was? I imagined in the dark of night a bright island with eager learners awaiting me. Now confronted with reality it became a different matter. The school was a large open-air shelter with some smaller sheds round-about. A bell rang and children emerged from everywhere, and they ran in every direction, some with papers falling from their composition books as they went home. We visited the empty quarters and saw on the walls evidence of their teachers’ diligence. They were in good hands. As we left the school area I noticed gloriosa daisies growing in profusion. My grandmother used to grow these black-eyed susans, but I’ve never been able to cultivate them with any success. I also spied some lantana bushes growing in the wild. What were they doing here, all this way from my home? I had planted several in my front yard before we left, just days ago. I wondered how they were doing now at home, a word that strangely resonated in this isolated place. We hurried back to the pier through the coconut trees, pausing only to take a photo here and there. We were hungry and thirsty and needed to use the ship facilities. We hastily picked up a piece of coral for our collection on our way. And who is this Billy Brick? That would be me, a brick from another wall.

Lahina on Mau

Lahaina on Maui by Wayne Dixon When we landed at Maui we sought out the Whaling Museum which was quite a distance from downtown Lahaina. We wandered around Lahaina looking for directions as our ship arrived very early in the morning. Nothing much was open except one lady was preparing her merchandise and talked to us briefly about directions. We later returned to her busy shop to pay back her hospitality with our souvenir purchases. We learned there would be a free shuttle to the Whalers Shopping Center where the museum is located. It was quite a ways from downtown and too far to walk the distance. On our way we picked up some brochures which indicated the admission to the museum was free. Upon our arrival there was a schedule of fees and I asked the clerk about the free admission. He knew nothing of that he said but if I could prove the brochure claims he would honor it. I told him I had discarded it upon our arrival to the shopping center. Not to be discouraged, I returned to every trash can we had met on our way. At the last I found the notice of free admission which I presented on a triumphant note to the clerk. It was well worth the effort. I had researched whaling history from the island of Nantucket, Massachusetts, because of a distant connection to family history on my father’s side. The Pinkhams, which was his mother's maiden name, originated in England and settled in Dover, New Hampshire, at an early 1600s date. From there branches of the family moved in different directions, one of which settled on Nantucket Island. They were dependent on resources from the sea to maintain their community and an early date took up whaling. Nantucket families intermarried. The Pinkhams were related to more familiar names such as Folgers, Starbucks, and Gardners. These families at the turn of the 18th century rounded the Horn to the Pacific Ocean in relentless pursuit of whales. Many of them found islands which to this day bear their names. Although the Whaler’s Museum was small it was packed full of artifacts and I took many photos. We noted on the announcement board that there would be a speaker at 11 o'clock so I asked the person in charge if they would let us back in the museum on our free admission and he assured me that we could come and go all day. So we walked down to the beach which was bordered by luxury hotels and restaurants. We stooped down along the shore to gather our souvenir fresh from the sea which turned out to be another well-worn piece of coral. It would seem that many islands were made mainly of coral. The history of the islands includes stages in which they were formed by volcanic eruptions and then by coral growth followed by erosion, leaving behind the remains for us to pick up along the way. We returned to the museum in time to catch the speaker who was well informed about whales. His talk lasted for over an hour and it was very well illustrated by slides and the personal experiences of the speaker. We learned many interesting things we had not known before and it added to our enjoyment of our previous whale watching experiences. We had recently encountered whales in Monterey, California, that were there to feed off the anchovies in late September. We were hoping to see the Maui whales but were told they would not be there until much later in December or January. So we had to be satisfied with learning about them. Our way back on the free shuttle we stopped by a restaurant that had a suitcase on the bench with a pair of boots which we thought someone had inadvertently left behind. We soon realized it was a staged display from the Forest Gump movie after which the restaurant was themed. There were many other shops along the waterfront but for us the main attractions were the craftsmen under the huge banyan tree and the museum inside the former courthouse. Inside the old courthouse were displays illustrating the history of Maui and the conflicts between the whalers and the missionaries. It would seem that missionaries get a bad rap in these parts but perhaps more of the blame should be placed upon some of the ne'er-do-well whalers including perhaps some of my distant kinsman from Nantucket.