A Reference to Narnia at Halloween In Reno--The Cowboy, The Witch & The Cheerleader Wardrobe

In most high schools, where I taught for almost 25 years, cheerleaders were sometimes witches--or maybe it was the other way around. I try to forget the faces and names of people, who really irritated me, but then again, I try to watch my weight too.

We all know that song.

I like cheesecake and ice cream and Krispy Kremes and steaks and gravy. Well, let's just say I watch what I eat. I like ambiguity.

There's nothing vague about how I feel about my little ones.

Yes, Tommy and Jack and even Sammy did the E.T. walk, which imitates how I strut with two bad knees, two bad ankles and buns of titanium. They didn't realize what they did.

Now the 17-year-old high school girl at an Idaho high school was not like that at all. After treacherous contract negotiations, our union representative warned the male employees about what often happened: young adults walking into a room and accusing the teacher of misconduct.

"Keep your doors open, and if a young student enters your room, either make sure you have a witness or leave the room."

The very next morning, I began doing grammar drills. A former cheer leader, one the students disliked for being rude and brash and snobby, which says as much about the stereotype as it does about the bi--oh, I mean rude girl--rose her hand at the back of the classroom.

"Mr. Ward," she says. A smile slithers across her face.

"Oh, hell. OK, what is it?"

"I hear you're pregnant," she says.

I didn't hesitate with a response. The girl was a member of the dance team now, a member of the group many called "The Marching Mothers." (And I'm not talking about some Frank Zappa tribute band here.)

"Well now, I guess that would qualify me to be a member of the dance team here in the high school."

The confident smirk on the girl's face turned into something hateful. A smile spread across my face.

My class erupted into laughter. One student almost fell from his chair, and many others had tears in their eyes.

By the end of that day, every member of the drill team came to my door. "Are you the one who 'inferred' that we were the Marching Mothers."

Before answering yes, I taught her the difference between the word implied and inferred, and yes, I smiled all day long.

Some people talk about gifts that just keep on giving. That gift continued for the next six or seven years, always in the early fall. One or two girls would look in my door with the old question. I gave them the same old answer, and the same old grin swept across my face as they stormed into the hallway.

The only way it could have been better is using quotes from Conan the Barbarian. "Go to the library and contemplate this on the Couch of Woe!"

I am, however, talking about my granddaughters--a timid innocent little blond in a purple costume and a feisty almost terrible two in a Tar Heels Cheerleading costume. Both girls will never be that stereotype, even if they do become the thing that makes we awaken in the night, screaming these words: "Say it ain't so!"

My daughter and son-in-law would never allow their daughters to talk to an adult like that, even if they had a little bit of belly over their belt, and at that time, it was just a bit.

Besides, an old German once told me that a man without a belly is only half a man, which now makes my at least twice as much German as anyone living within those Teutonic borders.

I wish I could have been walking with my three little ones in Reno on this night. We saw them in Salt Lake City the day before Halloween. We laughed and played with all three Zollinger little ones, and Jack joined in the fun. By the time they left, the kids were--in the words of my parents--"stirred up to a frenzy." For good measure, I saw that all three were secure and buckled into their seats. Then I began tickling them. It's what you do when you're a Pop Pop. "Stirred Up" is just an understatement in reference to what the three were as they left.

My son-in-law pulled out of the parking place and began driving. My daughter Lydia opens the window. Sammy screams loud enough to startle "sound sleepers" on the California coast.

"Now the fun begins," Lydia said. The window slid shut, but we could still hear Sammy.

My son Cles left that morning too. I always get sad, when my children and grandchildren leave. It was not a good weekend for positive vibes: watching children and grandchildren leave for home and seeing my mother cope with her massive stroke.

Every dark cloud has a silver lining, or at least some say it happens that way. I guess after a weekend like this, you get plenty of rest.

Experiencing grandchildren and children, however, made the sadness not as painful. My mom also mentioned how much the visit helped her.

I watched her improve slowly this past weekend, and hope it continues during the next weeks and months.

Not Just A Birthday Card

My mom and paternal grandmother both had something in common--neither ever forgot a birthday, and most importantly, neither ever chose a card to celebrate it, that didn't show relevance and meaning for the receiver.

It was something that I admired, because I have never been much for cards. I seldom miss a gift, and I often call someone on the phone, but cards were not that big a deal.

However, it was a big deal getting one from someone who took that much time to select it, from someone who took that much time to seek out something that said so much about your wishes, your hopes, your desires.

My mother knew about my love for the coast, especially California. There is something about water that seems purifying. In summer, I sit and listen to leaves of quaking aspen. They sound like the gentle flow of a mountain brook. Massive poplars, however, are something else entirely. The massive branches filled with leaves make a sound like the ocean.

I turned 59 on October 27, 2011--just four days after my mother's massive stroke. The Saturday before that happened, I stopped in for what was intended to be a quick visit, but I stayed for almost four hours, and I am so glad I did.

Life changes. Nothing is ever the same, yet my mother remains the person she always was. There is a sadness about her, a coming to terms with a medical problem. But at the same time, her strong-willed nature presses her to work so hard to regain mobility and independence.

My mom's presence was always there for all of us, and it always will be. Just like the picture above, where we were dressed and ready to go with my dad to feed cattle in the hay lands south of Malad, my mom's influence will be ever-present.

When I visit her now, she tries so hard to focus her eyes, and I see her thinking of the past. She tells stories about my youth. Each one reminds me of the good times.

There were times when my family lived on a ranch with basic things. There was a roof over our heads. There was a stove. There was a shower.

The toilet was in a small separate building about 75 feet from the house.

I felt shame about that fact, when I was young. However, our farm had the best machinery on any farm in the area. Indoor plumbing do not make a farm profitable.

We had a new home in Malad. The ranch house, although primitive, was where we spent summers, and for me, I was never there that much during the day. We had meals. We slept.

And although the old house was primitive, I still dream about the summer nights, a breeze from a mountain hollow billowing white curtains in the night amid the blue shades that faded to black. It was an easy sleep there, one without concerns or worries. It's the way you hope life will always be.

October 24, 2011--The End of an Era

October 24 of 2011 was another moment that changed the lives of everyone in my family. Sometime between 10 and 11 in the morning, my mother tried to get out of bed and collapsed on the floor.

No one found her until seven o'clock that evening.

I received a call from my sister in Ogden. Ann and I were on our way to Boise for some important  educational meetings. I was going along for the ride in a way, mostly because I drove.

The trip to Boise is one that lasts three hours and thirty minutes, and beginning the trip late in the evening meant knowing there would be deer on the highways. It's that time of year. Hunters begin brushing them out of mountain hollows, and they appear where you least expect them.

Just before we reached Blackfoot on I-15, the call arrived from my sister.

At first, I told her I had to be in Boise. I was nervous about the trip for Ann, and besides, she had been sick for several months. I figured I could bring her home if she was not feeling well.

Plans changed. We turned around and returned home, packed the VW Bug, and I left in the Jetta with my bags. Ann left for Boise with Kristin and Jack. It was nice to know that someone was with Ann during the week she was to be in Boise.

The next several hours were difficult. I spent time thinking about the past, and playing music my dad loved didn't help me avoid the nostalgia. Mostly, I wallowed in the sadness, the realization, the melancholy. Nothing would be the same now. Not since my father's passing in 1991 did things seem so dark, so crushing.

My mother, devastated and affected by a massive stroke, also embraced the past.

Memories are things that support us during times like this.

Things were so different in the 50's and 60's. Sunday was a day for the family. It started out going to church at 10:00 a.m., and then we were home in the afternoon for dinner.

In the early years, we often would either have my paternal grandmother at our house for dinner, or we went there.

The staple was potatoes and gravy.

My mother's ability to communicate improved in the next days, and one afternoon, she shared a story with me.

One family, whose friendship was important during those years, had a different set of traditions. My mom told me about how they had fried chicken twice a month on Sundays. Mom immediately asked my father.

"Hell no," he said. "We raise beef." I smiled when my mother mentioned it.

My father once told me the key to success in a good marriage: "Let them think they're boss, even if they're really not." He winked at me when he said it.

Mom never questioned the whole concept of fried chicken. We ate it once or twice a year, mostly on The Fourth of July with my mom's potato salad.

My mom continued to spin the story. She told me how dad never had much of a chance to sit with us during those years. He was always on the stand, and that began soon after his baptism.

"Dad always was there early, and he stayed late talking to everyone." Mom was serious as she thought about the memory.

She told me how one Sunday he walked up to her and whispered in her ear. "Make plenty of gravy."

Mom probably smiled, her eyes twinkling like they always did.

A woman who saw dad whisper talked to my mom. "Is Jon whispering 'sweet nothings' in your ear?"

Mom was serious as she finished the story. Her response was simple. "He told me to make plenty of gravy."

The woman laughed, but mom didn't see any humor in it. She told me, that dad was never much for public displays of affection. His feelings for my mom, while very strong, were private. It's how my parents saw things. It's how my mom still sees things.

My parents shaped my life in such a positive way. It was where I learned about character, about honesty, about hard work, but most importantly, it was where I learned how to treat someone you love.