These courses stress the [...]]]> I’ve been learning Spanish with a number of courses that I have purchased and downloaded over the internet. These are audio-based courses, which means that I can listen the lessons in the car, at the fitness center, etc., rather than have to sit in front of a computer.

These courses stress the ability to recognize and speak Spanish by listening to and emulating the speech of native (Latin American) speakers. This is how we all learned as children.

The courses vary in quality and content, but if you want to follow some of the paths I’ve taken, here are my recommendations among those I’ve tried and the order in which I take them now.

Synergy Spanish ($67) is the one that I’d start with. Though it’s the least “professional” in audio quality, I like the way that it builds Spanish skills around just 138 words. I was quite surprised at how much I learned in a short time. There is a good handbook that goes with the course.

Rocket Spanish Level 1 ($100) is the best documented course, and the audio quality is excellent. In addition to three written guides (basic grammar, advanced grammar, and conversation), there are also a vocabulary game, printable flash cards and bonus audio lessons.

Rocket Spanish Level 2 ($100) Follow-up course to the Level 1 above.

Learning Spanish Like Crazy (Level 1) ($100) is the one that I’m working through now. Written documentation is limited to the transcripts of the conversations, and some study in external sources is needed to understand what’s being done. But it covers a number of topics the others do not (such as speaking about the past), and there are quite a few extras that can be downloaded. There is also a help forum on the internet.

Shortcut To Spanish ($30) is a short course built around “cognates,” Spanish words that sound a lot like their English equivalents. The thought is that we may already know more Spanish words that we think if we can just recognize the patterns.

Though you can actually buy CD’s of these courses (much more expensive), I opted for the instant download of the MP3 files. I burn the files onto CD’s myself as well as load them onto my MP3 player for portability for maximum flexibility. I also print hard copies of the electronic manuals (PDF files) that can also be downloaded.

Finally, they all offer a few sample lessons as a trial, and you might want to try them out just to be sure. They all offer a money back guarantee, and I exercised that in one case without any trouble. I had ordered through Clickbank (one of the options) and paid with a credit card but doubt if that approach made any difference.

I didn’t find anything objectionable enough to detract from the quality of any of courses.

If you have any questions, you can contact me.

Hasta luego!

—–

My first time to be stopped by a policeman was when I was 19 and dating James. We had broken up (again), and I was [...]]]> About three years ago, when my wife heard that a young friend had received a speeding ticket, she recorded some of her own traumatic experiences with policemen. Perhaps you can identify.

—–

My first time to be stopped by a policeman was when I was 19 and dating James. We had broken up (again), and I was driving down Elm Street in Crossett bawling my head off and deliberately going fast. The night was dark, and there was not a soul anywhere.

When that flashing light came up behind me, I was horrified, scared, wanting to cover up. The man was nice. Did I know I was going 45 in a 15 zone? I didn’t know that, but I did know I was pushing down the pedal. But that had to do with emotion and rejection and sadness, not a desire to break the law.

With my tears, blond hair, tiny voice and the face of a brokenhearted 14 year old, it must have been hard for him to believe I was a bad person. He decided to just give me a warning since he knew Granddaddy and said he was such a nice man.

Twelve years later I was driving south on JFK in North Little Rock. I had been to Jack and Jill and had bought the cutest little nightgown for Jenny. It had a tea pot with a face singing, “I’m a little tea pot short and stout. Tip me over and pour me out.”

Desirous of beholding all that cuteness again, I was peering into the sack and driving at the same time. Suddenly a police appeared from nowhere (Don’t they all?) and had me pull over.

Did I know that I was wobbling back and forth across the yellow line? Oh, no, I was enjoying looking at the little teapot short and stout and was not paying attention.

“Well, Lady,” he said, “you have a sticker on your car that says you’re on your way to heaven. You’re going to get there a lot sooner than you intended if you don’t quit doing that.”

I received a warning–and had to find a bathroom as soon as my fear subsided enough to let me drive.

I was stopped again at about age 40 near the old icehouse in Conway. I didn’t really “run” the stop sign and had actually looked both ways and felt safe to move on. But the policeman said I hadn’t had “rolled” through the sign without coming to a dead stop. He just warned me, I suppose, because I’m sure I seemed sincerely surprised.

Policemen have no idea how a warning works with me. It makes me physically sick. It makes me want to be a good girl.

Shortly thereafter I took a group of kids on a field trip to the police station. I told the officer in charge about my “rolling” incident and how I felt safe because there was no car in sight.

He had a sane and reasonable answer: “They all think that.” Then I asked him something I had wanted to know for a long time. “Do ya’ll come back to the station, tell these stories about scaring women, and then laugh?”

“We have to laugh,” he said. The way he said it meant that they, having serious and dangerous jobs, need to laugh. I wasn’t offended and completely understood.

I’m not a bad guy–just dimwitty. Barrett says blond is not a color but an attitude.

—-

Mary’s death has left me in a curious predicament should a policeman ever stop me. Not having blond hair, copious tears, tiny voice, or brokenhearted face, I’ll probably have to pay for all the trouble she managed to escape. Unless, of course, I exercise the proper respect she always mustered as well.

Copyright 2007 James McAlister

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Upon reflection, there are many things I never expected to see either. And three graduations–high school, college and graduate school–are among them. [...]]]> "I couldn't go hunting this year because of work and school. But in May, that problem will be solved, though I never really expected to graduate." So reported the young cashier with marked enthusiasm.

Upon reflection, there are many things I never expected to see either. And three graduations–high school, college and graduate school–are among them. The "big day" always seemed distantly future, right up until the last moment. Then it rapidly faded into the mist of the past.

I never expected to see the death of my parents; they were always there. But when Daddy died in 2005 at 93, I inexorable moved to the head of the family line. Neither did I expect to bury a child, but death came anyway.

Surprised at receiving a five-year service award at work, I certainly never expected to remain there another whole lifetime–27 more years.

I never expected to retire, but the past five years make me question whether I ever had a real job.

Time was when I never expected to see the year 2000, being that I would be unimaginably old: 54 years, right up there with the fossils. But my expectations neither hastened nor retarded the new millennium's relentless march into reality.

I never thought I'd willingly pay someone to do jobs I could do myself. But I regularly engage others to repair vehicles, prepare taxes, and change oil. Money well spent, I now admit with no reluctance.

Since Mother lectured us that cats carry germs and suck the breath out of babies, I never expected to touch, much less own, one of the irksome rascals. Instead, I've been happily owned by quite a passel of the furry critters for nigh onto 40 years.

I never expected to lose my love for radios and electronic gadgets–designing, building, repairing, using. But such coldness has gradually crept in that I'm almost repelled by the needs of my boughten computer. "It'll only take an hour or so to fix it," I invariably assure Mary. One day I'll learn to speak of days, not hours.

I never expected to see grandchildren, but Jackson Barrett has graciously spoiled that non-vision. Grandchildren are highly underrated!

Since I've not done so well thus far with expectations, are there any lessons here? Perhaps.

In about a week we'll plunge headlong into another new year fraught with uncertainty. Nevertheless, I always approach this occasion with a marked degree of hopefulness.

And are there any things I don't expect this coming year? Many.

I don't expect that worry will improve my lot one iota but do expect that it will stir up a fierce nest of problems if I give in to it. The Bible admonishes, "Don't be anxious about anything, but pray about everything."

What we think, speak and dwell upon has a remarkable of coming into being. So I don't expect to succumb to the fruit of puny expectations. From the mouth of Jesus: "Ask and it shall be given unto you. Seek and you shall find. Knock and it shall be opened unto you."

I don't expect to be abandoned by the same good and gracious God who has promised to never leave me nor forsake me. May the same confidence be yours in this coming year! And may He richly bless you with heavenly expectations He longs to fulfill!

Copyright 2006 James McAlister

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Consider several snippets from his obituary.

“His church ministry was in education, youth and music in Oklahoma, Missouri, Tennessee and Florida, as well as Arkansas, where he [...]]]> Why do great men often have simple, understated obituaries summing up their lives? Perhaps because their works speak for themselves without flowery embellishments. Such was the case with Roy Chatham.

Consider several snippets from his obituary.

“His church ministry was in education, youth and music in Oklahoma, Missouri, Tennessee and Florida, as well as Arkansas, where he was a member of and serving as minister to senior adults at Harlan Park Baptist Church.”

From the dictionary, a minister is “one officiating or assisting the officiant in church worship.” Those who spoke at Roy’s two-hour memorial service breathed life into this frigid, inert definition.

More than one spoke of how Roy and Jimmie (his late wife) opened their home to students needing nurturing and guidance while attending college. Real ministers extend open hands and warm hearts, their lives embracing others. They invite, touch, feed, feel, overlook, encourage.

“He had also served First Baptist and Woodland Heights Baptist churches in Conway as minister of education.” There’s a whole universe rolled up in that little word “serve.”

Consider one friend’s assessment of Roy’s attitude toward service: he was just as happy cleaning the toilet as he was in leading the singing. Devoted service reaches beyond the short arm of mere duty.

“Bro. Roy loved to sing and was also active in the Faulkner County Men’s Chorus as well as a past member of the Oklahoma Centurymen. He was also a member of the Conway Lions Club.”

Contagious enthusiasm compels ministers and servants into involvement.

Ministry plus service equal investment–investment in the lives of those who may not find it anywhere else. And we had the pleasure of being the direct recipients of Roy’s and Jimmie’s investments on a number of Christmases past.

When our daughter, Jenny, was young, we’d bring her home from the Conway Human Development Center to celebrate Christmas with the Browns, Chathams and Bakers. The Chatham’s repertoire of songs included more than traditional hymns, and Jimmie needed little persuasion to join Roy in their special rendition of “Walking in a Winter Wonderland.”

Then coaxing the best out of his formal training at the Conservatory of Music at Washington University, Roy’s Irish tenor tones elevated “Ham and Eggs” to an entertaining work of art. Blind and profoundly retarded, Jenny thrilled at the raucous hubbub.

And when the Chatham’s daughters Susan (Baker) and April (Carpenter) broke into a violin duet, Jenny responded with effusive smiles. “Orange Blossom Special” and the high notes from Roy’s performance of “O Holy Night” always extracted squeals of delight from her.

Then dropping to the floor onto the pallet by Jenny, Roy and Jimmie spoke gently to her, making over her as if she were one of their own “normal” grandchildren. “Jesus loves you, Jenny, and one day you’ll see Him face to face.” She has.

When I stopped by Roy’s house the night before his physical decline began, I heard his trademark whistling as he came to the door. Cheerful he was, despite the growing concern that something was not right in his body. His passing leaves Mary and me without the model of a true Christian gentleman we have depended on for almost 25 years now.

“A prince of a man,” observed Judy Brown. I wholeheartedly agree.

Copyright 2006 James McAlister

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I'm certainly no embracer of favorites: colors, foods and such. But I do have a favorite song.

No, it's not the latest [...]]]> The outside air crackles with the first autumn crispness, and we're confined to chemotherapy treatments in the doctor's office. But the words of a song–my favorite–lilting through my mind transports me beyond these sobering confines.

I'm certainly no embracer of favorites: colors, foods and such. But I do have a favorite song.

No, it's not the latest offal offered up by moderns yammering in an unknown tongue. Nor does it emanate from the 1960s, the formative years of my youth, when KAAY 1090 beamed 50,000 watts of clear-channel rock-and-roll power throughout North America.

Instead, my favorite song sprang from a young woman's broken heart about 150 years ago. At age 26 and of frail health, Lina Sandell Berg helplessly watched in horror as her beloved father, tossed into the sea by a lurching ship, drowned before her eyes. Then from her pen flowed 650 hymns that mightily influenced the revival that swept across Scandinavia after 1850. "Day by Day" is my favorite.

Why do this song's simple lyrics exert such a continuing influence over me? Perhaps it's my identification with the author's own difficulties in life.

When my dad began to decline about a year ago, I couldn't have imagined the intensity of the next 12 months. And though he died unexpectedly in December, January revealed a greater difficulty: a large tumor in my wife's left kidney.

Kidney removal, recovery from surgery and the diagnosis of a rare cancer quickly gobbled up February. Preparations for admission to the M.D. Anderson Cancer Center in Houston consumed most of March. Our initial visit there absorbed the remainder of March, all of April and the first week of May.

Our son married, and, not long ago, a serious car wreck inflicted him with numerous injuries. The stress of this facilitated his wife's plunge into premature labor (which was stopped), two hospitalizations and surgery. Then she lost her job and insurance coverage.

Other weeks have been punctuated by chemo treatments and their aftermath, doctor visits, trips to Houston, wranglings over insurance and bills. Stress has been a constant but unwelcome companion.

So it's no wonder that "Day by Day" never fails to comfort and encourage me. Perhaps you sometimes find yourself in similar straits; if so consider these fragments from the song:

"Day by day and with each passing moment, strength I find to meet my trials here." As each day brings its own measure of difficulty, strength is meted out accordingly. We need not worry; it will be there.

"He whose heart is kind beyond all measure, gives unto each day what He deems best, lovingly, it's part of pain and pleasure, mingling toil with peace and with rest." Life's troubles are not random happenstances, but are kindly filtered through the hands of God, interposed with the right mixture and proportion of peace and rest.

"Help me, Lord, when toil and trouble meeting, e're to take, as from a father's hand, one by one the days, the moments fleeting, 'til I reach the blessed, promised land." Herein lies the secret: one day at a time. There is an end, and each moment nudges it imperceptibly closer.

We can survive, we can endure, we can prevail… day by day, and with each passing moment.

Copyright 2006 James McAlister

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I wish that I could justify slovenliness and that my wife didn't have to occasionally remind me to "straighten up my nest." Plunging cats that scatter books like ninepins don't [...]]]> Glancing over the right arm of my recliner, what confronts me? Books. Not neat, precise, manageable stacks–but a landslide flinging itself beyond me in ever-increasing sprawl.

I wish that I could justify slovenliness and that my wife didn't have to occasionally remind me to "straighten up my nest." Plunging cats that scatter books like ninepins don't help.

Decisive souls seem to quickly settle on themes and pursuits for life and happily camp there. From childhood they determine what they will be when grown, a question that still befuddles me. So I graze among the books within reach, driven and tossed by the mood de jour.

And what are these books which persist in creeping away from the recliner? The subjects vary widely, an indicator perhaps of my lifelong difficulty in being able to make up my mind.

Tonight I'm a clever sleuth tackling a tough nut case chronicled in RIVALS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES, a collection of 40 short stories whose detectives competed with Arthur Conan Doyle's famous hero more than a century ago.

Yesterday found me tramping through 17th century England (CROMWELL: THE LORD PROTECTOR) following Oliver Cromwell in his rise to power.

Of necessity, BEATING CANCER WITH NUTRITION tugs at me because of our daily battles with this pernicious disease. But each self-proclaimed author/expert has pet theories that persistently run cross-grain to those of the next. Confusing. Are there no precise answers? And how do we decide which to believe?

Another sort of detective intrigues me: archeological giants who bested theretofore unresolved conundrums of the earth. GODS, GRAVES AND SCHOLARS empowers my mind's eye to observe Champollion decipher the Rosetta stone, Carter unearth the tomb of Tutankhamen, Schliemann excavate Troy. Persistence pays a good reward.

Occasionally grounded in reality, though, I browse SPECIAL EDITION USING FILEMAKER 8, 900 pages of meaty instruction on database software that people occasionally pay me to use. Here I pick and choose sections at random rather than working from cover to cover as normal readers are wont to do.

How did the ancients keep time? SUNDIALS: THEIR THEORY AND CONSTRUCTION explains this oversimplified implement so that even the computer literate in this digital age can understand. Ignore the underlying equations and trigonometry if you like.

But of all the books in my stack, THE BIBLE wins top honors for value. And if I exercise diligence, it agreeably yields up treasures of the doctrine, reproof, correction and instruction I need to survive.

Puzzling habits and tastes, you conclude. Agreed. But the relentless perplexities and pressures of life frequently render me unable to connect even two meaningful thoughts. So I graze from topic to topic seeking comfort, insight, escape and edification.

Inevitably, the relentless effects of gravity and time will transmogrify even my most carefully arranged stack of books into a lava flow. So I rein it in again–and even swap its membership to better suit my circumstances.

When life buries us with a mountain of trouble, the right book is a worthy shovel. And there are many such mountains.

Copyright 2006 James McAlister

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I happened when a young river birch I had planted fell flat in a driving rain. Tying it into an upright position immediately, rain or not, [...]]]> An old friend rescued me from a bit of a jam last week. He's one of an elite group I've come to count on for more than four decades now.

I happened when a young river birch I had planted fell flat in a driving rain. Tying it into an upright position immediately, rain or not, seemed the only reasonable option for saving it.

After furiously pounding three wooden stakes into the ground, I quickly snipped off three hunks of rope. But how does one expediently attach and properly tighten three ropes in a downpour? My old pal, the taut-line hitch, specializes in such difficulties.

The taut-line hitch is a knot that slides along a rope so that its tightness can be adjusted and maintained. So after rapidly tying hitches on all three ropes, easing the tree into the proper stance took only moments.

When I entered the Boy Scouts at age 12, knots presented an agreeable challenge, even a fascination. After learning all the ones described in the Boy Scout Handbook, I bought an illustrated book of 100 knots and tackled a bunch of the new ones. Each soon manifested its own personality, strengths and preferred uses.

For simple cases of tying two ropes together, for example, I usually offer the square knot first dibs as it's both easy to tie and untie. But for ropes of different sizes, I defer to the sheet bend. Difficult and slippery cases may even demand a double sheet bend.

Knots have other applications. Once I captured a fast-moving stray dog, intending to hold him until Animal Control arrived. I quickly hooked a rope to his collar with two half hitches and efficiently secured the other end to a post with a clove hitch. But the once-mobile dog, upon finding himself firmly affixed to a stationary object, promptly chewed the rope in half and trotted away. Knots have limitations.

Some call the bowline "the king of knots" because it neither slips nor jams when properly executed. Thus, it's excellent for tying around a person in a rescue. I still recall the simple word picture we memorized to help recall which way to loop the loose end of the rope: "the rabbit comes out of the hole, around the tree, and back down the hole."

Slightly more complex is the bowline on a bight which has the advantage of not requiring one end of the rope be free to tie it. But the "rabbit and hole" picture works with it also.

Whenever a rope is a slightly too long, the sheep shank can temporarily take up the slack. Unfortunately, there's no knot for making a rope longer.

Tying a good knot is seldom enough; it must eventually be undone. So the choice of which knot to use may hinge on the difficulty to undo it once its job is done. Released with one quick jerk, the highwayman's hitch supposedly freed many a steed waiting to charge into the night.

Lifting the leaning. Securing the straying. Taking up slack. Knots perform all these jobs and more. And with both knots and people, the best friends do what the situation demands–but turn loose at the right time.

Copyright 2005 James McAlister

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