First Day of School

Jack was so excited to be in school today. I know, that given the look on his face, desire and excitement for learning are not a credible possibility; however, although he enjoyed everything about summer, he was not able to see friends every day: something he missed. Jack was in bed early last night. I was up before my alarm sounded this morning, making Cream of Wheat.

For one of the very few times I've done it, I lied to my grandson. I made it like I always did--milk, Cream of Wheat cereal, brown sugar and honey. Today he looks at me with these big baby blue eyes, piercing into my soul.

"Did you put honey in it, Pop Pop?"

Now came the ethical dilemma. If I tell him I did, there is not enough milk to make another batch. If I tell him I did, there is not the time to fix something else on the first day, without driving everyone into a frenzy.




"No, I said innocently. I fixed it just like I did last year. It has brown sugar in it to sweeten it, so you don't need sugar." The answer swept contentment across his face, but with the next taste came a look into my soul one more time.

It was not a complete lie. It was the way I made it last year for him every day during late December and January.

By the way, Jack has learned the initial lessons of sarcasm from Pop Pop. Just look at the smile below.

The shower was the next thing this morning. His clothes, the Ghostbuster T-shirt and shorts, were already set. He needed only underwear, the word you don't say in front of him, even if no one else is in the room. It's as if he is afraid that someone can hear me say the words. But maybe he's right.

That last Stones concert left me with buzzing and ringing for three days before everything simmered done to a ringing sound. Ann always complain that I talk loudly. Actually, I don't think she likes me talking at all, but maybe she and Jack are right about it. I do rock the house, whenever I watch a Blu-Ray. The Bose system is incredible. You have to feel it to enjoy it.

It's not that I'm hedonistic or anything. I just like feeling my chair shake when explosions hit the screen, and given the weight of me sitting in the chair, I must admit, the TV must be a bit loud. It sounds OK to me.

But in TV viewing, as in all almost all things, truth is relative.

Hopefully, I don't fit the form of a stereotype, which some accept as absolute truth: old dude with vision, hearing and mobility problems. Well, I do still drive without glasses occasionally, but I always enjoyed living on the edge.

I had a dental appointment this morning with a new office: one that doesn't begin to salivate, when they hear my diesel engine shut off in their parking lot. Ann had to take me there by 8:30 a.m. Jack's bus was to arrive about the same time. We're hurrying this morning.

Can we schedule just one more thing? OK, I have a great idea, let's take the VW Bug to the mechanic. Ann remembered she didn't want it to look too dirty. It was just going to the mechanic to have the A/C checked. But grandma chose to clean off the bugs. I mean, really. It is called a Bug. I keep my sarcasm to myself, but I see beauty in her eyes every time I see her, so I take her picture too.

I only took two pictures. My camera is a Nikon, and I didn't want to get water on it. I know it would have to come from a hose. I was standing at least ten feet away, but with the use of a finger or thumb, my Annie can work magic with a hose like that.

It has not been a great day. I missed Jack. Dental appointments never work into a great day. I feel guilt overindulging in Chinese food for lunch. And last but not least, the mechanic just told me that it will cost $1000 to repair the air conditioning. I'm glad it's September. I figure we won't have to worry about it within two weeks, and then we won't need it until late July of next year. We can wait for that repair. Besides, I think I'll shop around a bit for better services on the VW.

Loving Life One Day At A Time

Some time ago, I was experiencing the grief of having lost my father. As it sometimes happens, I began to feel some anger inside, and as strange as it might sound to some, my father visited me in a dream.

Now you have to understand the history here. From the time I was very young, I worked with my dad on a farm. The strength of character was something he gave me. The vision of seeing a task with complete attention to it was another gift he gave me.

As I watch my grandsons, I am in awe of the fact that my dad, like other fathers of young sons my age, taught their little ones how to work, how to drive large implements, how to deal with issues.

My family's history made some of that difficult. A cousin of mine, while only five years old, ran with his brother to their father, as he rode into the yard on a tractor. He stopped. Both boys climbed atop the tracks, but one grabbed the clutch, engaging the machine. The tractor jolted into motion and rolled over the little boy.

This story explains why my father always shadowed me. When I was still in grades school and driving a D-6 Caterpillar Series C, I could see him drive up a dirt road, stop and walk a short way to peek around a cedar. He was there to see I was alright.

After his passing, I felt that for a time: his being there just to ensure I was OK. In a time when I felt anger--resentment that we never hunted elk together, that we never often fished together, that we never did something fun together--he took me fishing in my dreams.

For almost a month, I struggled and attempted to remember the spot where we were. The trees were thick and beautiful, all surrounding a large clear pond that showed these magnificent colors: mossy stones and plants lay beneath the waters. The colors of that place were beautiful, full of lush trees and shrubs and mountain flowers in full bloom: things no one could ever paint. It was too beautiful for even words to describe the scene. That's when I realized, that it was a special place, one I visited in my dreams. My father took me to that place.

So in the past week, I had another experience like that, except I was there alone. I stood in a beautiful orchard full of tall, green meadow grass. Around me cherry blossoms bloomed, yet there was no wind to stir them. Not one petal fell toward the blanket of green below. I stood, enjoyed clear, blue skies.

I realized something. Maybe it's because I'm about to become 59, a rare event for anyone in my family--at least in the Ward family line. My great uncles, father and grandfather passed on between the ages of 49 and their early 50's.

I cherish life, yet I also know that something beautiful waits for us: a place without distractions of noise or politics or rage. And I know I'll find family and friends there waiting for me, but in the meantime, I'll savor every moment with my soul mate and children and grandchildren. Life is like a good movie. You only remember the ones that leave you wanting more, wishing it could continue.

Different Things That Make Teasing Grandchildren Delightful

When Jack was tiny, there were a few things that were fun I loved doing to tease him. The whole "I gotcher nose thing" was delightful. I would take two fingers, squeeze his nose gently, and then stick my thumb between the two fingers.

"Got it!" I would wiggle my thumb gently. Jack would wrestle me to seize my hand. Sometimes I would pretend to bite my thumb and then chew.

Jack would pry open my mouth, pretend to take it and put it back on his nose. "It's not a toy," he'd say to me triumphantly. He had heard me say that often, whether it was about my stereo equipment or something else.

Oh, and there was also the "Pookey Bear" deal.

"Do you know you are Pop Pop's Pookey Bear?" Jack would shake his head.

"Oh, Pop Pop," he'd say while shaking his head in disgust.

Now with Tommy, everything was different. He smiled about the whole nose thing, and I never made the mistake of calling Jack my Pookey Bear around his cousins.

With Tommy, I found him fun to tease when he was just six months old. He would cling to his mom. Lydia put him down on the floor once, while visiting my mom, and in front of his Great-Grandma Ward, I would crawl toward him on my hands and knees growling.



He moved rapidly behind his mom's legs, peeking around each side--first one side and then the other. "No!" he'd shout and slap his hand at me. I continued growling. Eventually, Tommy adjusted to being near me. He knew the teasing was as inevitable as the sun rising each morning.

While watching a movie, he would sit next to me in a chair. I would tickle him on his neck or on his side. He would laugh uncontrollably. Ann hated that, but I still do it when they visit.

Anna was a different story. As difficult as it was not to tease, I knew I could do it once, and then she would avoid me, so I usually did it just at the end of a visit. That way, she wouldn't remember my having done that. I tickled her like I did Tommy, or I would give her raspberries by blowing on her cheek. She would giggle, but occasionally, she would wind up her little arm, and with the force of Catfish Hunter, who threw great pitches during his career, Anna would let it swing and catch me on my cheek.

"Did she slap you dad," Lydia said the first time Anna did it. It always made me laugh. But I'm still careful about teasing Anna. She is like her mom, like her grandma Annie. Neither one enjoy teasing, so I avoided it. Sometimes, however, I just can't resist. My grandchildren are too cute not to torment them.

All of them are sensitive, so I have to be careful. They all coaxed to watch this black and white Wolfman film with Lon Chaney from the 30's. All three grandchildren sat on each side. The lights were off in the house. During key moments in the film, I would howl and I would growl and pretend to bite each one.

They all laughed. Then they stirred and cried out in the night during a sleep that was far less than restful. Ann had to travel with her part-time job the next day. My Annie damned me all to hell over that trick, and she reminds me about that, every time I do my Pop Pop Wolf Man howl.

And then there was Sammy. She is the one that makes the most sport. Feisty is the key. When a child is like that, it makes it especially fun.

I notice during each visit, that her older brother Tommy enjoys teasing her too. She squawks. She squeals. The gives him "the stink eye." It makes it fun. I can read it in his eyes.

I realized at that moment, that his motivation was the same as mine. It's what you do, especially when a grandparent has four grandchildren as cute as mine.

Little Ones

I don't know why we do things like we do, but it's interesting how you sometimes wish little ones grow up, so you don't have to worry about certain issues: soiled diapers, dirty hand prints, messy rooms.And then suddenly, that little one is in grade school. A few more years pass, and then they are in that no man's land that people call junior high or middle school. You can't dress them anymore in clothes that are fun and bring so many memories.

It's just the human condition. At least that's what I've come to believe. You do it in your own life. I wished for times like that, and then suddenly years pass, and suddenly you have a house without small footprints that race across floors to new adventures. Music, that you didn't choose to play, doesn't blast from bedrooms. 

So I figure I just sit back and relax. Why would I want time to race forward? 

The only sad part is realizing it took grandchildren for me to realize how to enjoy the present. Ironically, it not only helps me pass the day each day, but it also is a way of dealing with the past. You re-experience moments. 

Sadly, I thought certain things would be different: that I wouldn't tease little ones as much or that I wouldn't find myself going to bed without thinking about the great events of each day. Again, it's that whole human condition. We glide from moment to moment, like some skater on a sheet of ice, who thinks that speed somehow is beautiful.

I like walking slowly now. And there's nothing like the sound of a grandchild giggling, all wild-eyed and squirming. 

Suddenly, I realize why one grandfather enjoyed it so much and why my father enjoyed it too. It's what you do. It's what makes having little ones so much fun.

Preparations For September 23, 2011

The first thing was a stop I made in Nevada on the way back to Idaho. I saw a hand puppet, but I didn't buy it. I took care of that. Originally, there were four or five of them. By time time I returned only a week later, only one remained. I found it hidden in the stack of many other puppets. It's something Sammy will possibly enjoy. 

When the kids arrive, we'll return to The little park just off Highway 20 near Rigby. Tommy will love to go on the go carts a second time. And Jack will love it too.

As for Anna, I'll have some extra cash for Grandma and Pop Pop to take her shopping. It's something she will enjoy too, although I figure she'll enjoy The Riot Zone park too.

There's nothing like a ride in a go cart, and besides. other things there are a lot of fun too. It's something to look forward to doing in September.

The Thing About Virginia

Sometimes we get some sort of concept in our mind, and it's impossible to think otherwise. It's how you judge people and things and objects, but when it comes to Virginia, there is something else at play. I know there are things that probably are different than this picture, but this is what I enjoy seeing, whenever I'm there.

The rail fences, the night sounds--all things I find there--make each visit something interesting, something incredible.

A Great Way To End A Day

While in Reno, we went to the park with the grandkids every evening. Jack and Tommy are almost too old to enjoy the ritual, but for the moment, it's a fantastic experience--time to run and slide and climb and skip and run. Blue skies are as beautiful there tonight as they were, when we spent three magnificent days there.

Although being there is great, getting a picture like this rates pretty high on my list too. It's what makes being a grandparent so great.

The Rental In Reno

  

The house that Jeff and Lydia found in Reno is in a beautiful spot. I envy them. Now the other side of the valley is lush and green. Ponderosa Pine and other plants like you see in the Tahoe area seems to be there.

My preference, however, is exactly where the kids found their new place. Cedar and sage dot the mountains in the background. Everything is so much the desert ranch, where I grew to adulthood.

The first night we saw the house, weeks before the kids moved into it, we stopped there in the evening. 

A cottontail rabbit stood frozen in the headlights in the middle of the culdesac. 

I knew immediately that it was the place for me. Signs posted warn of wild horses. Coyotes are there, although I have yet to hear them at night. And there are also bobcat and mountain lions. 

Every place has it's pitfalls. They have scorpions and rattlesnakes too.

It beats finding a gator under your car in the morning. 

Even an occasional rattlesnake beats finding water moccasins or copperheads in your backyard like in Florida.

As for Idaho, what I hate most has more to do with snow. I'll brave anything to find relief from  subzero temperatures in January or snow flurries in June and July.

There are a few other things too. That happens, when you live somewhere like that for over 20 years. First, you begin to hate the weather, and suddenly you begin to form a list of things you dislike. 

I guess it's always "greener" on the other side of the fence, or in the case of Reno, something "less green" and in shades of light purple. The lavender along the fence line outside Lydia's place is beautiful. 

A small bridge crosses a stream. It's something I would love to have had near my home, although it would be additional fun to see some trout swimming in it. That would be my perfect place. If I ever see something like that in a dream--a home with those surroundings and a stream with trout near the driveway--any given night, I would awaken with a start, fearing I had died and found paradise.

This is close to paradise.





I am excited for the kids. They deserve this, especially after the moves and the sacrifice and the hard study and work. Good things happen. Sometimes you just have to wait for it, but it eventually happens.

Cottontail Rabbits are one thing, but I did mention that there are wild horses that wander about the neighborhood. The area is truly spectacular.

A Walk To School With Tommy & Anna (And Lydia and Sammy and Jack Too)

I always hated it when adults took my picture, and I had to stare into the bright sunlight. It wasn't because of some dread of bright lights, because I always loved summer.

The whole thing was about your eyes hurting, while you stood and waited for someone to snap a picture.

Pictures are not a big deal when you are under the age of 25. It's another sign that you are old. You cherish moments, and you want something to remind you of what you felt and heard and saw that summer morning.


Signs of fall begin to appear. It's the beginning of a time when sunlight fades in early afternoon to gentle yellow colors.

We had planned to walk the kids to school that morning, but it was too difficult to leave.

Within a short time, we decided to stay one more day: another afternoon spent at the park with laughing and dancing grandchildren, another evening with more hugs for little ones--just before we decide to get ready for an early start home the next day,


another night of sitting on the brick-tiled patio in a chair to see the sky fade from azure to royal blue, just before stars begin to appear in the darkened blanket above.

Did I mention the sound of crickets, something I love to hear. It has to be a sign, that you grew up in the country to recognize the beauty of night song, the chatter of crickets, the deep croaks of toads, the sounds of an occasional hawk or other bird.

The area of Reno reminds me of the ranch where spent summers as a child and adult, but the birds are different here. Nighthawks are here, but I don't hear doves or larks or killdeer.

The area is beautiful, and the people here are friendly.

A Weekend In Reno

The thing about experiencing a road trip is savoring each moment. Some people warned us about Highway 95 from Boise to Nevada. It's the stretch through Oregon that is a nightmare. I have to explain, because I loved everything about the drive.

Blue sky, feathery cirrus clouds, vapor trails that interwove the sky into a thing of beauty. It's something you see only in summer, when the weather is warm and a hint of green still lies scattered about the landscape.

People warned us that the drive was boring. It wasn't. The scenery reminded me of lava ledges and rolling hills on our family ranch. Cedar trees and sage dotted the landscape.

A badger crossed the road two or three hundred yards ahead of us, but it may have been a bobcat. It was too small for anything else, and it moved differently than a rabbit.



The animal was too far away to recognize the brown speckled coat of a bobcat,

which in the desert is sometimes
almost orange. The animal was, however agile, which leads me to believe that it was a cat.

The lava ledges, while sometimes similar to what I remember on our family acreage in Northern Utah, was also occasionally different.

Some jagged ledges were eroded like teeth on a saw blade, almost like the hoodoos in Southern Utah.

I loved the scenery. Just after leaving Boise, I put on the Beatles on my I-pod.

It played for the next five or six hours, beginning with Abbey Road. By the time I finished listening to Beatles '65 and Help! and a few other early albums, we switched the music to some other favorites.

By then, it didn't matter.

I was just watching everything about me.

The advice was wrong about the landscape. It was beautiful. What they were right about was the Oregon side of the road. We passed at least four or five state patrolmen. The speed limit was 55 miles per hour, which was agonizing, but it went by quickly.

Great tunes and scenery helped it along, but the big thing was looking forward to seeing family in Reno. Three grandchildren squealed and laughed, when we talked to our daughter in Reno. By then, we were only hours away. 
We arrived. Ann drove the last two hours. I was too exhausted to drive any further. As usual, I overdid it in Boise. The day before our departure for Reno, Ann had meetings, so I swam and worked out in the exercise area.

I swam well over a mile, and actually was halfway to the second one when I finished. Before I swam, I did a quarter mile on the elliptical machine and some curls--fifty reps with a smaller bar on each arm.

The next day I was miserable. I always do that. I think it's my impatience to get my body moving like I want, but the plan never works well.

I spent the next two days taking it easy, but I still was able to enjoy the little ones. I just couldn't do the walking. I'll do better next time and avoid last minute attempts to exercise.

Regardless of what anyone says, a road trip to visit grandchildren is better than anything imaginable. It's the memories.

And there are always new ones to find, like the sound of crickets outside: something I haven't heard for years. Even crickets know better than settling in a place like Idaho Falls, where temperatures reach 20-30 degrees below zero. The toad in the backyard is a plus too. It's not a chorus like where the kids lived in Minnesota, but it's still fun.

Memories Of South Main

Ann's dad is one I remember very well, but my first memories of him was of his store. At an early age in the 50's, I was a fun of Howdy Doody and Buffalo Bob.

Funny thing is that the only part I recall is the Twinkie Break. At one point during the show, a pure example of sly marketing appeared. Buffalo Bob had every young person--both in the studio and at home--open their plastic packages of the yellow spongecake with the creamy filling. Each package cost 5 cents, and when my mother bought them, I was always with her.

But there was another item too, one that wasn't plugged by the show's creators: a little six pack of Welch's Grape Juice they made at the time. Each bottle was only about three or inches high, and they came in a cardboard six pack. You have to understand that I really hated the taste of grape, but the whole thing was about the cool look. I guess some things don't really change from generation to generation.

Consuming the Hostess Twinkies was no problem at all. I still like them. The grape juice, on the other hand, was another matter. Each week my mother would ask me if I would finally actually drink the tiny bottles of refreshment, and each week I assured her I would.

She would place another tiny six pack in the cart at Stan's IGA. But I didn't drink it. I just liked holding the tiny bottles. The tiny cap on each was about the size of an adult's smallest fingernail.

It was one of my earliest compulsive choices, but eventually, my mom stopped buying them for me. I was a waste of resources, regardless how inexpensive at item was. Wasting something like that was not acceptable in our family, and I'm glad it wasn't. It was something I learned in those years on South Main.

By the time I was five or six, my parents bought me this great Schwinn bike. It was just like the photograph below.
I wish I had it now, not so I could ride it down the street. That would a great photograph for the AP Wire Services or even for the "Believe it or not" segment of any show like Late Night with David Letterman, kind of like an elephant sitting on a vintage VW Bug.

If the bike were in perfect shape, I would get $3000 or more for it right now, but it isn't, and I won't have to feel the guilt of selling an object, that brought me so much joy.

My friend J. Verlo Rose and I rode our bikes everywhere. Mine had a light, mounted on the front fender, but batteries were not what they are now, and they corroded and ruined it. Eventually the mount on the top was missing. It wasn't as if I needed something like that, because my parents would never have allowed me to be on the road after dark.

There was also a button on the side of the large tank, but the same fate affected it. Batteries damaged everything then, leaving white corrosion around the inside of the electrical wiring and staining things with this ugly brown corrosive stain. But it remained an incredible bike.

The only abuse it really took was from a high school student. Four or five of my friends and I were riding on a country road miles from our house on South Main. These 17-year-olds kept jeering at us, throwing things at us, taunting us. We did what we did on the school bus every day: use one of the many creative vulgar hand gestures these same young adults used and taught younger students. Outraged, the car spun around and began chasing us.

We thought we were safe, and we rode down into the borrow pit. That's the lower part on either side of a road. The car went off the road and followed behind us, speeding up. The high school students were angry. All four or five of us rode near the fence line, set our bikes down, and raced across plowed ground about thirty or forty yards.

One high school student tried to follow, but as he tried to climb the four wire fence, his foot slipped. He fell onto the top wire. We could tell by the look on his face that it hurt, kind of like what we felt, if our foot slipped off the pedal and we dropped onto the metal bar of our bike. But this 17-year old had something else to contend with that day: barbed wire. I tangled into his pants and beyond. He shrieked, he yelled out in pain. His friends laughed hysterically, so we thought we could too.

Eventually he pulled himself free. Then he tossed our bikes into the dirt. It left a dent in my bike. My dad inquired immediately, and within a month or so, the kid gave my mom a rough time while driving on the road. My dad caught the kid within thirty minutes. It never happened again.

Dad's way of dealing with something like that was archaic, but it did the job.

"Would you like to step out of your car and try that shit on me?" he'd ask. Dad's voice was a in a monotone, but his eyes flashed, his jaw was set, his fists were clenched. No one ever stepped out. Dad wasn't a bully. He just took care of bullies, especially anyone, who threatened a member of the family.

I learned it from him. My son learned it from me.

It's something you never regret, until you see a younger generation reacting that way. Now I wish I had done differently in front of my son. Future generations will do it, not to become liberal and tolerant, but to become survivors. You never know what a person carries under their car seat or in their pant pocket.

But there were other times and other places I visited on that bike.

But it didn't mean I didn't use that bike. It was one of the reasons my lower body strength was what it was during my formative years and throughout high school.

Ann's dad owned one of the local stores. He and his brother Boyd built it with his own hands. The cooling units were some of the first in Idaho, enabling local shoppers to buy frozen goods.

But I went to the store for more than Twinkies or Welch's Grape Juice or anything else. Ann's dad Stan had the most incredible doughnuts you could ever imagine, and they cost 5 cents. My mother would give me enough to buy a doughnut and a drink. We did it once a week or so. Stan would let us choose the doughnut, but he was gruff when he mentioned the bottles of soda. We never had the extra amount to pay for the bottle, and he reminded us to sit in the front and finish our treats and leave the "empties" with him.

Years later, I found he wasn't gruff at all. Not only that, he loved the fact that Ann and I married. He knew my paternal grandparents.

Just after my Grandpa Cles moved into town, he heard a horrible noise coming from the chickens in  a small section on the left side of the new family barn. He shot a coyote at our ranch. The animal was killing chickens and finished a large number before grandpa finished off the pest. That day was different.

Ann's oldest brothers, David and Dennis, were inside the coop. One held a chicken by the neck, and the other looked underneath the bird. They looked at my grandpa sheepishly when the door swung open fiercely.

"We just want to know where the eggs come from." One of the boys blurted out their alibi.

Grandpa laughed about it. Grandma Liza told the story for years, and the family always smiled. My grandmother always liked Ann's mom and dad, and when Stan went into the bank to do business, he always went to my grandmother's window. After my grandfather's death in '56, she worked in First National Bank in Malad as a bank teller.

Malad was an incredible place to live during those times. Memories are so vivid for me there. And although it's been over 50 years since I rode that Schwinn bike to get doughnuts. I still not only savor the taste, but I also remember the baseball cards we attached to the bike fender. They would flutter against the spokes and make a great sound. In our child-like minds, we imagined we road motorcycles.

Jack's Card For Pop Pop On Father's Day

It's fun for grandparents to receive things like this on Father's Day. It was a perfect celebration this year. Jack came up early that Sunday morning and gave me his card. 


What made it perfect is what he wrote in it and on the outside.

And the day was a great one. I heard from Tommy and Anna. Sammy remains too young for phone conversations, so Sammy and Pop Pop mostly just do lion growls over the phone line. Thank goodness Nixon is no longer in office. A phone tap on my line might send me into the loony bin. Is that politically correct in this age of euphemisms--one for every medical or mental condition and each and every ethnic origin?


I heard from all three of my children. Ann gave me a Rosetta Stone language program for Italian.


I loved that, but the hug was very nice too. Pop Pop will never grow too old to appreciate a good bear hug.

My Annie With Chocolate Eyes of Mischief

Our marriage has been 38 years of fun. Maybe that's why we endured so much hardship occasionally. We have a close relationship, and we refuse to let anything affect it.

Recently, yet another thing happened that was fun, and I couldn't resist taking a picture and sharing on my blog.

Our weakness is drinking Diet Coke or Diet Pepsi. Over the years, Ann began drinking the latter. Personally, I like whatever is cold, so naturally, I open the door of the fridge and find it quickly. This time a message appears in red permanent marker on the label:

In large print, Ann wrote: Grandma Spit in this!


I couldn't resist the moment. My answer is at the top: Me too! Love, Pop Pop

Yet again, it's the little things in life that bring so much pleasure.