Fun Family Stories From the Past

The rifle my Grandpa Cles used was interesting for a number of reasons: for a beginning, his initials--J.C.W.--appear in the wood, and secondly, drips of paint used to paint the old house entryway at the ranch appear in running stains on both the metal and the wooden parts of the gun. It was this rifle that grandpa used once when he heard a noise at the ranch in the chicken coop. He shot a coyote. And it was this gun that he used during a deer hunt when he and my dad were riding through some brush. The two of them rode up to a deer that lay hiding, and grandpa pulled this rifle from the scabbard and shot the four point buck while in the saddle.

I shot my first deer with this gun too, and my dad laughed, because he maintained that the rifling in the barrel was so bad in the old gun, that the bullets came out end over end. But this blog is not about my grandpa's gun.

My grandfather was very particular about his horses and his tack. Dad told me that there was a young man who loved to ride my grandpa's horse and use his things. Grandpa warned him once. It happened again the next day. When the boy entered the barn the next time for another ride, grandpa was waiting for him with his lasso in hand. He threw it over a beam, and looking at the young boy he said, "You know what I do with horse thieves?" After a hasty exit, the young man never returned again. But this blog is not about my grandpa's horses and tack, and it's not about horse thieves either.

My grandparents bought a house in Malad, because they didn't want my dad and Aunt Janice riding the bus. I can understand that, even though my bus ride in Malad was less than two miles. For me as a first grade student, the terror began while waiting for the bus to arrive. Jimmy, the son of a telephone repairman, filled a squirt gun with lighter fluid and then rigged it to shoot flames when he squirted the thin stream through the flame of his lighter. Buck just intimidated us and was mean, and for a first grader, that was absolute terror. When I stepped onto the bus, the real adventure began. Before sitting down, a high school student would pick me up and throw me, and after landing on another high school student, he would pass the favor on to someone else. I was a human volleyball, except the white piece of sports equipment, that was me, cried and screamed obscenities and used nasty hand gestures that only made the older students laugh and enjoy it even more. The ride from hell lasted at least 40 minutes, if you don't count loading more perpetrators and victims. As a first grader, you hoped someone else could take your place, but this blog isn't about my bus ride either. It's enough to know that riding a bus was justification for living in Malad close to school.
In the late 40's, my Annie's family moved to Malad and into the house next door to my grandparents. At that time, David and Dennis were about the age of Jack and Tommy. One day my grandpa heard the chickens making a lot of noise, and given my grandpa's history of knowing what that meant, he ran to see what the problem was. He swung the door open, and found David and Dennis, one squeezing and choking the neck of a chicken, the other looking at the panicked bird's butt. They put the hen down. "What are you doing," my grandpa asked.

"We just wanted to see where the eggs come from," answered one of them. Dad told me how grandpa enjoyed David and Dennis, because they were "fun" little boys, who were full of life. Dad told me how my grandpa laughed over what they were doing that day.

The photograph at the right shows my Annie's family while having fun. The 50's were a great time to grow up in Malad. Fun was about being outside and enjoying life, whether fishing at a local reservoir, playing hide and go seek on a summer evening with neighborhood friends, or just having a simple picnic somewhere in the foothills or at a campground at Power House, the canyon in a range of mountains overlooking Malad on the northern side. There was always something to do, not because there was never anything to watch on the three channels of black and white television, but because being outside was simply more fun.

This picture shows David and Dennis, at least seven years after "chicken thing" happened. They still had that "fun" glint in their eye.

Just after moving to Malad, my Annie's family had an encounter with my dad. At the conclusion of each fall, those who "lettered" in a sport went through hazing that then was not only legal, but it also had a name: "M" club initiation. The traditional ritual dictated that the "master," who was already a member, gave the "goat," who was about to be tested, the choice of what house to visit. The task was to knock on the door, and as soon as someone answered, the "goat" was to enter the house, find the bathroom and shut the door and flush the toilet before leaving the house. It was against the rules to say even one word to the person who answered the door. You walked in silently. Breaking the rules meant not becoming a member of the school's club. Dad chose his new neighbors for the toilet flushing thing, thinking everything would be alright. It happened shortly after Stan and Erma's move to Malad from Northern California.

My Annie's family had just moved from California, and Grandma Erma was in the late stages of pregnancy while carrying Marvin. When dad knocked on the door, she called the local police.























Dad told that story for years, but I had no idea who the neighbors were, until Ann and I were at dinner one Sunday with Stan and Erma, my Annie's parents. Ann's dad brought up initiations, and I told my dad's story, explaining how horrible it would be to have to do that. Erma immediately told how frightened it made her when that happened after returning to Malad from California. I will always remember the smile Stan had on his face while watching me seeing Erma's reaction.

Once while riding in a car with Stan and Erma in California while attending David's wedding in LA, we were in a rural area. Stan ran a red light. Erma was riding in the back seat. Erma spoke up immediately. She shook her head in disgust. Stan ran three more, and each time Erma became more disgruntled and referred to Ann's dad as "Stanley." I glanced out of the corner of my eye and saw his smile, just like he did at dinner that day. It was fun to watch him tease Erma, just like I do my Annie, although I am more of a nuisance. They were fun people, and I wish my children could have known Stan as well as they knew Erma. Both were so much fun. My children enjoyed visits to Erma's house to find a fresh chocolate cake and puddings in the fridge in individual bowls. They would have loved Stan's "Thomas" sense of humor.

Memories and Music

The first time I heard this band was on some television show where they did a "battle of the bands." After all the hype, they introduced the East Coast band, The Four Seasons. The applause was loud, and I remember sitting stunned when Brian Wilson's The Beach Boys was not the one representing the West. They introduce this band with an incredible sound, and they were all dressed in animal skins, moccasins and leather, and one wore a beaded vest. For What It's Worth was the song they played, and I became an instant fan.

After my knee surgery in the fall of '68, I lay in bed at home in pain. Mom and dad played the radio through an intercom system we had on Bannock Street into the room I was in at the time, and I remember hearing a DJ say a new album was coming out. What came next was disappointment. It would be their last. This album was my favorite. At a dance my senior year just after my birthday, I picked my Annie up in my parent's car. My dad bought me the "state of the art" car stereo of the day, a cassette deck. It thrilled me, but what excited me most was that when I turned on the tape when I started the car, my Annie not only recognized the band, but she also knew the names of all its members. I knew she was the woman for me.

Simon & Garfunkel's Bookends reminds me about he first rock concert I attended. My dad took to see them at the beginning of my junior year. It was just before the release of Bridge Over Troubled Water, and they played every song on every one of their albums. The concert was incredible. I still enjoy listening to their music. I always enjoyed folk music, and this band was truly exceptional. Their albums always seemed to have a late release date, or maybe that is when I purchased them. It seemed that it was always winter or late fall when I had them, and although having beautiful harmonies and incredible muscianship, their music was melancholy--not like Leonard Cohen, whom I also like to listen to occasionally, but it definitely was melancholy.

I spent my first five months of my mission in Oberhausen, the final four with the best companion of my mission. Just before his transfer from Mülheim to Oberhausen, which was only a distance of a twenty miles or so and in the same branch where we attended church each Sunday, my companion and I were at my future co-worker's apartment. They were playing America's self-titled album. It was new, and when I asked if he was listening to Buffalo Springfield, Craig Walker's eyes sparkled. The Springfield was my new companion's favorite band too, and we both liked American. Craig was also a Neil Young fan, so in addition to all the hard work we did in Oberhausen, we had a lot in common. We saw a lot of success there. Listening to this album reminds of that, but it also reminds me of my dad. He loved this album too, and what is interesting, he told me the songs on it reminded him of me while I was away for two years.

My dad loved to listen to Pink Floyd. Dark Side of the Moon and The Wall were his favorite albums. He would tease me when I came to visit. My dad would play it loud enough that the entire neighborhood could hear the words, "We don't need no education." When I did the exchange in Dillingen the second time, it was when I taught German at Bonneville High in the late 80's. As soon as I heard that Pink Floyd was in concert, I had to have tickets. Willie drove me to Stuttgart, and I purchased train tickets for the return trip after the concert. I had some ear plugs, because the tickets posted a warning that hearing loss could happen while in attendance. The speakers were enormous. At the end, people were walking to the train station yelling loudly, not because they were angry but because they could not hear how loudly they spoke. Even with ear plugs my ears rang for a while. A huge pig on a tether went back and forth between the stage and the opposite end of the stadium. It had headlights for eyes, and given the cultural opinion of pig, the audience laughed every time it moved. A Momentary Lapse of Reason was the recording they featured in that concert, although they played all of their classic material too.

One of the worst things you can call a person in Germany is a Schwein or pig. One step worse would be to call someone a Schweinehund, a pig-dog.



These were my first three albums: Rubber Soul, If You Can Believe Your Eyes And Ears, and Younger than Yesterday. I was in junior high at the time.




The Poco album, Head Over Heels, was the first LP that my Annie bought me. Just before I turned 23, Ann and I were living at the ranch, and I was looking through some boxes in the store age area for something we had placed there.




"What are you doing?" Ann had this perplexed look on her face, and by that time I knew what was wrong. I had found her present for me that she bought while seeing the doctor in Logan. It was almost time for Cles to be born. I found it in September. "Well, you might as well play it, since you've already spoiled the surprise." We played it immediately, and the record soon became one of our favorites.

Everyone listened to The Beatles during the 60's. Their music had an effect on society and on the minds of youth here and abroad, but Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Heart's Club Band was the one LP that changed rock music. It took me a long time to warm up to it. First, it was different that the usual ballads and pop songs they did, but secondly, it reminded me of a horrible tragedy in my home town when a member of the class of '69's sophomore class drowned in Deep Creek Reservoir. The memory still haunts me, and although he was not a best friend, I still remember him clearly. Even now when I listen to the music on this album, it reminds me of the sadness that enveloped the entire community.


I never purchased a copy until after Ann and I had been married for some time. By the time I bought it in the late 70's or early 80's, there were songs I really liked, but the memories I associated with it are not happy ones. After listening to it for decades, I now think more of that particular spring when The Beatles released it. There was so much rain, that dad could not do any plowing before the end of school. The ground was too wet. And when they were dry enough to work, the fields in 19 Hollow had weeds almost a foot high. We had to use an offset disk plow, which only covered an eight foot swath. My day would start on the tractor well before six each morning. Mom would make me breakfast, and I would drive the white '63 pickup to the field, about 15 miles away. Dad was sleeping for a bit, because he would plow all night. At noon, dad would bring my dinner. I would sit in the truck and eat as quickly as possible, and dad would run the tractor. At 10:00 p.m. or later, dad would arrive at the field in the Blue '64 Chevrolet two ton truck. I would drive to the ranch, shower and eat a late dinner that my mother had ready. This continued until dad and I finished the summer fallow. I once knew exactly how much land was in 19, but now I can only guess that we plowed about 600 acres like that. It took us at least ten days, but we kept going until it was complete. We were able to keep the moisture that year, which ensured having a good crop in the summer of 1968.

The white album at the left was one I never appreciated until I was in my 50's. I liked it, but it was never one of my favorites until I was much older. The first time I bought it was in the late 60's. My Annie's family had a store in Malad called Stan's IGA. Although they only had a few records, the ones the had there were incredible, a sampling of all of the "must have" albums of the 60's era. As soon as I saw The White Album, I bought it immediately, a two record set. When I played it, it had a warp making it skip. I took it back immediately. I was all set to argue why I should get my money back. I waited to talk to Ann's dad, and before I could even finish a sentence, he placed the cash in my hands and smiled. It was the first time I ever had known him, but even when Ann and I dated, he scared the living "bajeebies" out of me, which was interesting, because he was such an incredible man, and he always liked me. After returning to Malad from California, he and Erma lived next door to my Grandpa Cles and Grandma Liza in the home Gordon and Betty Crowther would live in for a time until they tore it down and built the home that is there now.


Abbey Road reminds me of my Grandma Liza. She lived down the street, and she bought this incredible stereo. By the time I bought this album, our home stereo was out of commission. At least once a week, album under my arm and two sisters in tow, I would walk to grandma's house. There we would sit on the couch and listen to the incredible LP. "Don't you love this music?" I would wait for my grandmother's answer.


"It's only important that you like it, Jonie," my grandma would answer. The album not only brings back memories of sitting in her front room listening to that album, but it also reminds me of how much she cared about me and my sisters. She doted on us every second she could. I had an incredible family, and she was a fantastic grandmother. This Christmas was magical. It was my senior year, and my parents bought a Magnavox stereo just like my grandmother had. It was an incredible surprise, and I played it continuously at the highest volume possible when my parents were out of town. There was a Sony recorder inside that would tape albums, something I had never thought possible.

The D-6 Cat

This is the old Caterpillar I wrote about in earlier blogs. My mom and dad and Ann's Brent are in this picture. With Brent's jacket, I am guessing that it is an October afternoon during the deer hunt. Although I stayed a few years and hunted, most generally we made the trip to Disneyland during that time.

This tractor was the one I talked about that had the option of canvas curtains to be used to keep the driver warm.

I learned to operate machinery on this tractor. Dad had me drive it with him sitting on the cushion during the summer after my fourth grade year. The next summer I drove it alone. Working with my dad was the most incredible thing in my life. He became my best friend. And I depended on him, just like he depended on me. I learned more about life and character working long hours on that ranch than I could have done any other way.

Assumptions You Can Never Make

My Annie and I stayed with some people in Germany once. They were so nice, but there was thing about names. Each person in the family went by a different name. It was like the father's name was Herbert, but he went by Charlie. The wife's name was Ulrike, but she went by Suzie. I was so confused by the end of the month, I couldn't remember my own name. And to think that one of their children drove a Smart Car. You think that people like that enter the gene pool when the lifeguard was not on duty, yet they seemed so smart.

It didn't take long to give up on learning names. I always found it easier to refer to people I didn't intend on knowing any longer than I had to by "Hey You" or "Yea, you." During that trip, I kept thinking it was important to bring a Cuckoo Clock home. After 18 trips to Germany, I hesitated. Knowing how Germans hate the whole stereotype thing, I resisted until the bitter end of that four weeks. But then my Annie and I decided to get "the thing" done during a trip through the Black Forest. The trip was beautiful. Traditional homes and the woods are so pretty there.


Everything there is so typically German to me, and I will always find the thatched roofs of the older structures truly beautiful, like the picture below. I saw a film once from the German Information Bureau that showed an old German who lived in house with a roof like that. The fireplace in the home let out enough smoke that it preserved the thatch, and in terms of things being very practical, the man smoked hams that he would hang from the upper parts of the high ceiling. Had my Annie seen that film, she would have said, "That man has to be single." And I would have agreed. I am eccentric, but this old man in the film with a huge silver beard looked like how I imagine one of the guitar players for ZZ Top thirty years from now in some old folks home.

And did I say how beautiful those old homes were. There is nothing like it anywhere I have ever been, and in this photo, which I referred to earlier, the thatch, about a foot thick, also has moss growing on the outside. I knew a friend at college 37 years ago who had mold on his flip flops. There was nothing beautiful about it, but somehow in this picture, it is not the same.



My Annie and I finally bought a clock of the Cuckoo kind for an encounter for grandkids of the Grandma and Pop Kind. We shopped for it at this huge store which boasted
having the largest clock of its kind in the world. But we went to an entirely different store a mile down the road, because not only did they have the largest clock in front, but they also had the highest prices. That trip was my last view of Germany. It was my last chance to buy our clock. It was a defining moment. For a time I thought there was a divine hand in persuading us to buy such a clock, but looking back on it, it was all about living with people who were too Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.

My Favorite Things

1. Number 1 is my number 1, my Annie. This was picture is from May of 1974, just before our wedding at the end of the month on May 31st. She was, is and always will be a babe, my soul mate.

And besides, she makes me smile every day.2. My children, Cles, Lydia and Kristin are incredible. We were so proud of the strawberry patch we planted in our first home. At the left is the new fireplace we installed too.
The three of them pose in my favorite place too--Southern California. It is a fantastic place to visit, but I am not sure that I would ever want to live there, even if I could afford to do that. But I do wish I had the money just to think about it. With the prospect of Disneyland a short drive away, I am afraid I would do it. I would go every day, just to feel the vibes and bask in the memories of being there with my Annie, my three children and my grandchildren.This is my favorite picture of Cles on a bike he loved. My grandmother had this gift. She had a sense of the future, how I do not know, but I never questioned it. One night she called me and told me to put the bike away, so that Cles could not get to it. We were in our newer house in Malad at that time. I put in on a high shelf. I arrived home late from school, pulled in the driveway, and I heard my son's voice behind me just as I pulled my briefcase out of the trunk. He was just starting to ride between two parked cars. A high school student was driving down the hill on our street faster than 60 mph. I called out for Cles to stop, but he couldn't hear me for the noise in the neighborhood and on the street. I yelled as he approached. I screamed and threw my briefcase in his direction. Cles stopped and the car sped by him. I never questioned my grandmother's "vision." And the memory of that event still gives me an ugly feeling.
The white Mercury Cougar will bring back fun memories for my children. When I finished my degree, some interdepartment politics at ISU forced me to complete a homestudy Shakespeare class at the University of Utah in less than 10 days. We drove all the lessons to the "U." Before I registered, they tried to discourage me, since I only had a minor in English. When I finished, they wanted me to join their graduate program there in the department. On the way home from driving the lessons to Salt Lake City, Ann, Lydia and Cles were in the Cougar with me. I do not remember the movie, but this massive drive-in theater was playing some great films. We stopped. I thought Cles and Lydia were asleep, but I heard a sound. When I turned to look in the backseat, both of them sat up in the middle of the seat and watched the movie. It still makes me laugh. The two movies ended at 4:00 a.m. We arrived at home an hour later. It was a great way to celebrate finishing my undergraduate program. I would graduate and begin work in Malad School district the next year. I had my job before graduation. And any memory of the cougar must include winter drives with the entire family. Whenever we passed a large open parking lot without anyone around and without any cars, I would drive into the lot, accelerate and crank the wheel to do a series of "doughnuts." I will never know what made my three children giggle, my Annie squealing or the fun from spinning in circles in the car.
I know I have posted this picture before on an earlier blog, but it is my favorite picture of Lydia. I do not remember where she found the hat, but it will always remain a classic for me, taken in the driveway of our first house.

This is a favorite picture of Kristin, taken at our family's fun time of year. It is a tradition to have a great Christmas, one with presents and being together with family.

3. My grandchildren are a chance for me to see what it is like to see little ones change. I was so busy working when I was young, that I never had the luxury of experiencing it, but every grandfather I ever knew who also cared for children and grandchildren said that same thing. The stage of life of establishing a career and raising a family unfortunately happens at the same time, but both are necessary and very important. Without a career, the family suffers. That is why it was so important for me to have my Annie. She spent so much time with them. And she made them cakes and even went fishing with Cles when he was working on something for scouting. She still does that magic, except now it is for them and the grandchildren too.

I am not going to write any more about my three beautiful grandchildren, because most of my blogs center around them already. But here they are in pictures I love:

4. My family was an important part of my life. This picture is an important one. I was only weeks away from leaving home for my first semester at BYU. Dad wanted to do a family trip. We always took off at least once during the summer, but that was usually only overnight or two days at most. We had cattle, and in an arid area where our ranch was, water was a constant worry. Either a float would malfunction, or they would get out on the road, or a pipeline would break. It kept us close to home. Dad took us to Canada for a week. Instead of enjoying every moment, I thought about reasons why I needed to be in Malad to be with friends and to spend time with them. It took my cancer to teach me how to enjoy every moment. It is a tragedy to wish your life away.

My father and I worked together every day. My mom was also always supportive of me. When I wrestled the first time, I could hear her screaming in the crowd, and when things went poorly in the match, my dad had to take her out of the gym. It was the first time on the mat for me. To make matters worse, my opponent was from Blackfoot--a very large school with a successful wrestling program. I spent two-thirds of the match bridging on my neck, my opponent tightening the old so I had difficulty breathing and bounching to get me flat enough to get a pin. He did not pin me.

Between listening to the choking sounds I made and watching me lose, my mom told dad that she was either going to pass out or throw up in the bleachers. My dead helped her get out of the gym, and although my mom hated the sport, she and my dad never missed a match. And they never missed a football game either. They even occasionally came to a track meet, the most boring sport in the history of man. My coach always remembered that my losing match against Blackfoot. He respected me because of my refusal to take the pin, when giving up would have been the easy thing to do. My inexperience was the issue. It was my first year of varsity wrestling, where everyone else had been doing it for at least four or five years.

In order to get to the weight I wanted to wrestle at 152 pounds, I had to diet and work very hard to get down from my football "size." As a senior, my playing weight in football listed me at 190 pounds. That is a lot of weight to lose. Doctors do not allow athletes to do that today.

It weakened me to wrestle at 152 pound weight class. Whenever I wrestled at home, my mom would broil me a rib eye at lunch. It gave me strength, and I was well enough under the weight requrement, so eating the meal did not force me to jog in a plastic suit designed to lose pounds during the weigh-in before the match.

In addition to sports events, my parents never missed a band concert, from the earliest Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star to more sophisticated things I performed in bands at the university. Their driving to Provo to hear me was not an easy trip, but they did it occasionally too.

5. My Grandpa Cles and Grandma Liza also very important to me. It is unfortunate that my grandpa only had a chance to spoil me for three years and a few months before he died in 1956. The fact that I have such clear memories of him says a lot. Grandma Liza always told me that I was "perfect." Everyone needs a grandma like that, even like in my case when you are not perfect. She loved me and the rest of her little ones as much as we loved her. And that never changed.

After her brain stem injury in an accident on Interstate 15, she was in the nursing home in Malad. In the first few weeks of her stay there, there was a nurse who was from another town north of Malad. She was mean. I went to visit my grandmother, and I saw how they strapped her into the bed. Grandma Liza had bruises on her arms and on her face. The nurse entered, and I made it very clear to her that it had better never happen again. After I told the woman what was on my mind, I looked at grandma. Her eyes were shut, and she was smiling from ear to ear. Grandma was a little Welsh woman, but when it came to defending loved ones, she was a grizzly. I am glad I was able to do that for her once when I was in the position to do it.

This is how I know my Grandpa Williams loved me: I remember him carrying me in his arms to a place that I later recognized as having pool tables. I focused my attention on the animal heads on the walls, and I remember my grandpa showing me proudly to people he knew there, standing at a high counter like in an old diner. When I was in my 30's, I was with my dad in the Ford pickup. I described the memory of the place where my grandpa took me. "The old shit had you in mission billiards," my dad said. It was a bar in Malad, and as strange as it sounds, I realized how much my grandpa loved me by the "fuss" he made over me with his friends as he cradled me safely in his arms. I regret not knowing him longer. He died in an agricultural accident in the fall of 1961.
I was in the third grade in Mrs. Hartley' class that day on September 8. "Everyone can go outside for recess today, but I need Jon to stay." My heart pumped in my throat. I thought I was in trouble. My friend Jeff Alder turned around and mouthed the words, What did you do?As soon as everyone was out of the room, Mrs. Hartley asked me to come to her desk. I knew I was in trouble now, but then she had me sit on her lap. "Mrs. Williams had something terrible happen today." I was so nervous and confused that I did not realize that the Mrs. Williams she was talking about was my grandma, the school's music teacher. "Her husband died today." I remember suddenly realizing what the words meant, and I began to blink like young boys do to keep back tears. "You are such a brave little boy," she said as she hugged me in her arms and wept. She was an incredible teacher. I am so glad that she was the one who told me the news.

My Grandma Williams was more difficult for me to get to know. She loved piano, Lawrence Welk and knitting: things I still do not relate well to even how, although I do love the afghans and blankets grandma made for me. She loved me and all her children and grandchildren too, but I never remember her saying so, yet I remember as a senior in high school she was painting in her house. There was a stepladder that I started to walk under to retrieve something for her or my mom. My grandma tackled me before I could begin to walk under it. Like most people of Welsh background, one stereotypical characteristic is superstition. My grandmother, who was under five feet tall and weighed less than 110 pounds, took me to the ground. This was just before I went to college. I had been a starting offensive lineman for two years at Malad High at 190 pounds. After being taken to the ground very hard by my recently retired grandmother, I realized she loved me. She cussed me for not realizing that walking under a ladder brought very bad luck. Knowing her was realizing she cared deeply about all her grandchildren too. She protected them, she taught them love of music, she made blankets and afghans for them. Music will always be a integral part of my life. When I was in sixth grade she had me perform with a group of other students for the War Mothers. We sang songs from World War I, and I will never forget how much fun that was. It was learning a bit of history and music at the same time.

6. I loved most of my cars, but there are two that are my absolute favorites--my '29 Ford Model A truck and my '72 Ford Ranchero.

Oh, and I almost forgot my VW Bug.
7. The end of my list is about my dogs.

Curly was the family dog, and he is the first one I spent a lot of time with from the time he was a pup. I would take him with me on Sunday drives in my Ford Model A pickup, sitting on the seat next to me or riding in the back. When I took him to the Malad Drive-in for a soft ice cream cone in the days before we knew that doing that was not a good thing for dogs, I had a pan for him. I would let him lick the cone a bit, and then I would put it in the pan. He would wag his tail so hard that it is funny he didn't fall out of the truck. Curly loved vanilla ice cream. Other people ordering there laughed. But maybe it was the huge "ten gallon" black felt hat with a wide brim and large feather in the hat band. I bought it in West Yellowstone. It was just like what I saw many brave warriors wear in my favorite Westerns.

Rastus was the second dog that had a fun personality. Once after I returned from Germany on a month-long student exchange, I stood in the front yard talking to a neighbor. At first, I heard him bark at the sound of the neighbor's voice. My friend and neighbor told me to look. Rastus was peeking with one eye through a knothole in the fence. After finishing the conversation, I walked to my dog's peephole and talked to him. He jumped and coaxed for me to come back and see him.

Years later, Ann and I rushed to a vet late at night with Rastus in a blanket. He was thirteen years old at that point, and his hips made it impossible for him to live without pain. He spent a day whining and struggling the complete circle around inside of the fence. I followed the vet into a back room with my dog. Ann did not want to see what was going to happen. The vet told me, that after administering the drug that would put Rastus out of pain, he would stop breathing for up to a couple of minutes. And then the dog would gasp one more time. Even having been told that did not make it easier. My eyes welled with tears as Ann and I drove home in silence. We sat in the dark and watched televison for a few hours. I cried silently in the darkened room.

It was a long time before I bought another dog. And then we bought an English Bulldog. Ann refused to be sad over a dog's death ever again after feeling what she did when Rastus died and after watching me react to it like it did. While working at Rigby High, one of the teacher's aides had some AKC pups, and they brought Guido into my room that day. I held him for thirty minutes, and when I arrived home that evening, I went to their pet shop in Idaho Falls. My Annie chanted her mantra--I can't believe I am using that word that right wing radicals in our area use to describe democrats--"I will not buy a dog. I will not buy a dog." She holds Guido in her arms for less than a couple of minutes before he leans up and lips her ever so gently on her chin. "He kissed me," she said. My Annie told me in the car that we had to have that dog. We paid more for that dog than what we paid for our last Red Angus range bull. My dad would have kicked my butt. But I loved that dog. And then in November of 2003, I had to sell him at half the price we paid. I was sick with leukemia, and the results of chemo made my immune system very vulnerable. Ann and Kristin were not physically strong enough to deal with Guido. It was like giving away a child.

Ann will not talk about going through it again, although she has softened a bit after watching the video about Michael Phelps during the Bejing Olympics. He has an English Bulldog with a lot of personality. And he snores like Guido did, just like all English Bulldogs do.

Some Interesting Places I Visited in Germany

On the last exchange trip I did into Northern Germany, we visited an island a few miles off the coast. In only a few places in the world, the tide leaves nothing but a few channels of water and a wide path of mud. A safe hike across the mud that swallows a person up to midway up to the calf muscle happens only with an experienced guide. The beginning showed this interesting boat, propped upright with wooden supports until the tide returned.
The hike seemed a long way into the distance when we looked at the coast a few miles away. The tide was already out, and we would soon begin our walk across the mudflat. I was not wise in my choice of shoes. Sandles with straps are not what you want. I thought that it would be an advantage not having socks that would seep with the stinking mud, but there were small shells that were sharp against bare feet. An old pair of hightop canvas shoes would be the best way to do it. I must have lost one of my sandles at least five times during the hike each time my foot sank into eight inches of the thick mud.

In spite of how it looks in this picture, the guide is the guy with thin hair and a shirt that doesn't quite fit. I know about the shirt, because I feel that way every day. The teacher next to him speaking really did not know all that much about our encounter, although he had done this before with groups. Knowing the teacher like I did, he was there only in the case we needed to play a game of charades while waiting for the tide to empty our path. At this point we do not have our shoes.
I stayed in the back with the camera, taking pictures and ensuring that no one tried taking a different way than the path outlined by our guide. Occasionally, he would remind students that his way across a channel was no deeper than three feet or a bit more. An improvised way could be much deeper in any number of "holes" that he wanted to avoid.

Once a girl began to scream. She could feel something wiggling in her shoe, and when she removed it, there was a North Sea shrimp. Forest Gump would have been proud.

Some of the channels were quite deep. The group began to tire a bit at this point. A walk like this is a chore, because of your feet sinking so deep into the mud and muck. It is a bit worse than trying to walk in deep snow. The water was a bit cold, and most students wore sweatshirts. I could never understand how people could love to sit on the beach in this area where water was cold and the breeze was brisk. I will take a Southern California shoreline any time, although this walk was a once in a lifetime opportunity. There are only two places like this in the world, and the funny thing is the fact that I can not only not remember the name of this place, but I also can't think of the name of the other place in the world either. In any case, I know I wrote about it in my diary somewhere. And if I didn't, I'm sure that a bit of research on the Internet could identify quickly.
This was Kristin's last trip to Germany. I always felt badly that our cooperating teacher in Germany did not come through as promised on the side trips I promised to complete with them. Had I not booked and arranged for a trip to Berlin, there would have been nothing but staying in the host city and going to school for the entire time. Not that it would not have been a great opportunity for students to see school in Germany, but the teacher promised to book a trip for me into Paris. He never did it. And once I found he would not try to do it as promised, it was too late for me to do anything from America. I could and would have if I had know that he would not keep his promise. The teacher we had even did poorly on our visit to Hamburg to see Phantom of the Opera. He arranged for a bus, and left us with a driver who had no idea how to get to the site. We arrived after the beginning of the play. It was a miracle that ushers let us enter. His idea of activities were going to a cheese factory. That was a hit for teenagers; however, my students loved my
cheese puns I used throughout the tour. They enjoyed my bizarre sense of humor, and it made a miserable experience something they would remember.

The arrival on the shoreline shoes the island in the background. I wish I could remember how far it was or even how long it took us to walk it. It was fun, although the exchange was one--for reasons explained above--that I would never repeat. When I schedule and plan travel activities for Germans in the states, I expected the teacher to do the same. The man was not a good one to work with on such a project. He had the Midas Touch in reverse, everything he touched turned to Peat Moss of the Hereford steer kind.

The picture above is one last shot of looking from the coast back to the island from where we began our hike across the exposed sea bed. And below are the traditional large basket chairs that people rent to sit on the beach. It shields them from the wind.Cleaning up was easier, since the coast had access to spots where we could wash away the mud from our feet and legs. It was a great experience, but again, having done so many exchanges, my disappointment was not getting the group to Paris as planned. As a final indication of just how incompetent or how rude the cooperating teacher was, he scheduled us for a stay at a youth hostel in Hamburg for a week in the area of the notorious red light district. It made a great deal of work for me to find things we could do during the day that would expose our students to something my school board in America would take issue with when I returned. And not only that, the connection to the airport was so bad, I used my own money to charter a bus to get us to the airport. As much as students--especially from Rigby--appreciated the work I did for them, I really do not miss the pressure and worry of those trips. But now I do remember the good things. There are only a few negative things I remember about some of the adults who were difficult.

As big a pain as the teacher was, Ann and I really liked his American wife who was so nice. They had this little terrier, a Scotty. I always woke up very early, and Ann and I would walk him every morning around 5:30 a.m. As many irritating things as I put up with during that exchange, I smiled when the teacher told me during the visit in America that the dog would bark every morning after we left for his walk. I still smile about that.

Woof! Woof!

And I did love that dog. He was fun. In the mornings he had a play toy that the family made by sewing a couple of socks together with soft material inside them. The dog would bring it under the table next to my feet every morning. I would slide it away from him, and he would pull on it growling. I sat and looked innocently while Cujo battled the evil sock. I kicked it once. The dog chased the sock, it hit a wall and the dog slide across the hardwood floor into the wall too. But it did not discourage him from bringing it back under the table to my teasing toes. Minutes passed and the growling began again. He would do that at least four or five times. He loved playing with me.

And although this was funny to me, this was not the way to make my Annie love the dog. Before each meal, I noticed my sweetie would stare at the plates and silver before beginning the meal. Oh those free trips to Germany were wonderful--four weeks of putting up with people more eccentric than I am, four weeks of dealing with spoiled teenagers, four weeks of worry, and one day at the airport where parents would snub me for some little thing that irritated them about the way I did things.

The last trip happened, not because I felt the need to go back to Germany, but because I did have an incredible group. And I told them a little secret. I preferred taking a fourteen day cruise or longer anywhere in the world. Not only was it cheaper than any "free" exchange trip I ever planned and finished for students, but it was also something that was fun from the very first instant we stepped into the plane.

On that trip to Northern Germany, the airplane landed in Hamburg on the first day, just as the sun shone brightly on the wings. "Mr. Ward, the plane is on fire," a student said behind me. She was always so cute, but she sometimes said things like this. And she was serious about what she said too. "No, it's only the sun," I said quickly. She repeated her statement again. I turned and told her to shut up, something I never did in over 25 years of teaching. A little old lady sitting behind me tapped me on the shoulder. "Thank you sir," she said.