It would be nice if I understood the complicated nature of why people function and behave like they do, but since I have lived over 56 years and still really don't understand why I do some of the things I do, how can I really know why others act like they do? My hope is that my three grandchildren will each have a life that is somehow even better than what I experienced. If we can't achieve that as parents and grandparents, and most importantly, if we can't hope for that as parents and grandparents, there is not only something wrong with us but something wrong with our culture.
I have my six month doctor's appointment Tuesday of this week, June 23 of 2009. It is one where my oncologist will examine my bloodwork to ensure that everything is still alright. The positive side of this whole process is the fact that going this long without a problem is a very good sign; however, every time this appointment approaches, I find myself recognizing just how precarious life is, yet what I determined some time ago is that no one really knows when their "number is up" and when they will join the big skinny-dipping party in the sky. We are all in the same situation when it comes down to it.
I knew someone who worked for years and finally retired in his 60's. Ann and I saw him and his wife at a concert in Idaho Falls that Roger McGuinn--a founding member of The Byrds--played in October of 2003. I was going through severe treatments, but at that point, I was still not having to spend a lot of time in the hospital. When he saw me, he said how sorry he was. I always hated pity, but I had always liked him, and I knew he meant well looking at me like he did and all, but there was one monumental problem: within a short time, he went into the doctor complaining of abdominal pain. Within weeks, he died of cancer.
A second man did the same thing. This time, I was at a retired IEA Member luncheon, and a former teacher from Rexburg expressed the same thing. He too had that sad look in his eyes. While on a hike on the Buttes during that summer, something happened with his pacemaker, and he met his maker too. The list keeps going.
In each instance, I felt badly, because their departure was so untimely, so unexpected, and then I realized something. No one knows when that time comes calling.
It's not so bad, when I really look at it logically. I recognize how precious life is and reexamine what is most important in my life. But I also find myself looking for that old spectre that will eventually reappear. I find myself waiting for the "other shoe" to drop.
I shouldn't waste time worrying about it, because I know when my time arrives--whether noticing something that just doesn't seem right or while walking somewhere--I too will become a memory.
But when that time comes, I hope my three little ones will remember those last years we spent together, especially this last trip to Minnesota and back. It was one that found Jack and me alone for the twelve hour trip on the first leg. Ann flew to Rochester, because Lydia needed some help while she was sick.
That trip was magical in some ways. Jack watched movies, but during the drive, we stopped several times. One in particular was somewhere in Wyoming, just before passing into South Dakota. Restrooms were scarce, so Pop Pop and Jack had to write their names in the sand, but while taking that brief break, I noticed the grinding chirp of crickets, the melancholy sigh of a mourning dove, and the call of a small bird we always called a kill deer: a bird that would always nest near a small stream or marsh. It had long legs. And it would run a short distance and then drop over and play "possum." It was its way of protecting its nest. Those were sounds I was able to help Jack notice, and then I remembered how my grandpa taught me how to recognize the trill of a meadow lark.
But I was never lucky enough to have had the chance to take a twelve hour road trip with him. He was gone by the time I was three, yet I still remember him clearly, and my other grandfather, although he lived until I was in the third grade, never really had a chance like that either.
That would have been fun for me, and so I hope Jack will remember it in that same way.
And I will hope that Tommy and Anna remember the trip we took back to Idaho Falls with us the same way. All three grandchildren had fun. They watched movies, they played with toys, they giggled over silly things they said and did together. It's the stuff I remember doing with my cousins occasionally, but then again, I never remember being lucky enough to take a long road trip like that.
When I was young, I thought that something different than this trip would be the thing I would want to experience, like smoking the tires of a Vette with the top down, racing along a highway on a summer night and feeling the wind tossing my hair.
That's just some fantasy that we see in a movie or on a television program. And most of the time, dreams like that feature a person sitting alone. Funny thing is that I know people who live that dream, and they live it alone. Now, don't get me wrong, I miss smoking the tires on a car, and I always hoped to do it in a vehicle that I owned rather that something that belonged to my parents.
So cleaning bugs from the window of the car at a station is an adventure when you make the trip with people you love. You notice things like, "I never knew there were so many bugs in the world like this until I drove through South Dakota," and you say things like, "I'm so glad the bikers aren't at Sturgis yet, so that the three little ones don't have to witness someone's grandma on the back of a Harley with no top." Ann and I will always be grateful that we didn't have grandchildren with us when we stopped once to see the biker extravaganza.
And even finding bad restaurants occasionally can be fun, like we did here in Montana at a Pizza Hut, where the owner sold the part of the restaurant with the tables to a new owner who created a gambling parlor. We ate outside away from the smoke and the cuckoos looking to find happiness by pulling the dirty handle of a slot machine.
So the thing with the Vette never happend--that dream where I ride in a silver flashy convertible with pipes, a large engine and all the dangerous fun options. Ironically, I don't really even regret not doing that now, especially since the laughter and smiles of little ones is much more fun, although at the end of the twelve hours on the road, I occasionally had to remind myself how much fun we were having.
But I have no problem looking at these pictures now and recognizing how much fun we had. So when it comes down to the whole issue of worrying about something I can't control. I will always remember this trip and others like it, and I will always remember my three precious grandchildren, just like I hope they always remember me.
I remember when I was very young, no older than third or fourth grade. My family took a trip to Yellowstone. We always followed the same route, leaving Malad in the morning and driving to Lava Hot Springs. After going for a swim and spending time there in one of the small hotels, we left the next day for the park. 
