Jonie and Annie

A Letter From An Old Friend

2012-02-14T08:09:00.000-08:00

When I was in high school, Swede was the publisher and owner of the Malad newspaper, a little newspaper circulated throughout the valley, yet former residents across the country had a subscription to get the news of the town, but more importantly, it was all about reading Swede's commentaries and gaining access to his sense of humor.
He was part of what kept Malad alive. Swede gave of his time freely. He did a contest every summer, which sent finalists to Logan to participate in a regional contest. The competition varied from tug of war to sack races and from log sawing to other forms of pioneer competitions. It was incredible, but what made it so important was establishing a sense of pride in the valley.

In my high school years, he knew me as a scout. Swede was a merit badge counselor, but he knew me best when I tried out for American Legion's Boy's State Award in 1970 during my junior year. He liked me, and as a young man, he spoke highly of my interview at that time.

As a young teacher, Swede wrote a number of articles supporting the German program, and he also wrote about the beginnings of our German Exchange Program.

He never spoke about his service in World War II, but I will always wonder if the war haunted him like those experiences did for so many other veterans. He never talked about his experience, but no soldier I ever knew did.

When he became very sick and was in the hospital. I sent him a "singing telegram." A girl in a bikini appeared at the hospital and sang a song to cheer him up at a time when things were going so poorly.

His passing was a sad day for me. It was a sad time for the town and for the valley. Nothing would be the same after that. No one was there to provide the things he did to maintain a sense of community, and the local paper will never be the same.

He was, in my opinion, a man who did much for others without taking very much credit.

His wife Deon was my English teacher during my sophomore year of high school. She was one of my favorite teachers, one who probably helped me the most in terms of writing and in terms of literature. As a result of her work and that of Mary Zundel, I became an English teacher with similar goals: to help students learn how to communicate and to motivate students to think.

Swede and Deon were two people in Malad Valley, who helped shape my life in ways that made a difference to me professionally.

During one moment, when Swede wrote an article, he taught me a bit about word usage and a lot about humility. Swede told me to use the word drastic, when describing something that decreased in value or in amount. Dramatic was all about an increase. When I implied what a great writer I was, having graduated from Idaho State, Swede immediately apologized for his interceding and said he graduated from this little Texas college. If I remember correctly, it was the University of Texas, but it might have been Texas A & M too. Either way, I learned to keep my mouth shut and learn from those who tried to teach me.

Swede was my friend. Sending that telegram was a pleasure for me. Receiving this note from him was something I will always treasure, because it was one of the last things I heard from him before his untimely passing.

They scattered his ashes on Elkhorn Mountain, the range above Power House Canyon. It is the first of the two pictures in this blog.

There isn't a time I don't pass that spot on I-15, that I don't think of him and the many things he did for me, for people in the valley, for readers who enjoyed his sense of humor.

And there isn't a time I don't look at the valley and remember what great things Swede did for people of Malad. He helped us maintain an identity as a town, and today's fast-moving world, that's a difficult job to do as well as he did.

A Tribute To My Mom And To My Dad

2012-02-13T00:07:00.000-08:00

You never really know how things play out in life. I watched my father fight cancer, and after a brave fight, he passed away on a night in February of 1991. It's impossible to find pictures of only one of my parents, unless of course, someone caught a picture of my dad hunting or working in the field.

My parents were always together. I remember the house on South Main Street in Malad. The first picture shows Jill as a baby. I would have been four years old, well on my way to five.

During those early years, dad loved to hunt, especially his annual elk hunt. It began with his father, and in the early years on South Main Street, he continued to go with Bishop Max King and a couple of others. I remember a couple of things. Dad always made a stop and bought moccasins for us each time, and I remember how badly mom missed dad and hated having him gone.

Soon dad gave those trips up completely, which I disliked, because it was one thing I would love to have done with my dad. We never had the chance.

We went salmon fishing in the late 80's, but by then, dad hated being away from home and away from mom too. But I also know that cancer was just beginning to show some effect on him again. The last day we were there, he woke up early, packed and sat on the bed. He was noisy enough that soon everyone awakened and did the same. We started for home. Dad's idea of a great time was being home with mom.

My youth was a time of carefree days in springtime before moving to the ranch for the summer. It was a time before I started school, a time before I met one of my best friends: J. Verlo Rose.

His family moved to the Blackfoot area after the year we were in the first grade, but before then, we were inseparable. The fun we had together are my memories of those times. We rode our bikes all over the town. At school, we had constant fun every day. We caused trouble for our teacher in first grade. We laughed and teased others continually.

These times were brief moments when nothing seemed to matter much in the world in general, a change from a decade earlier, when all young men in the valley either fought in Europe or the Pacific.

My hometown was a typical rural community, like Mayberry on the Andy Griffith Show. There were local characters and simple pleasures like 5 cent donuts and 10 cent soft drinks.

One of the times I received the harshest punishment was after a haircut in a local shop. Old Welshmen sat for hours visiting. Their jokes must have been funny, because they all laughed until tears ran down their faces, so I thought I would share one with my sisters. Within twenty minutes of telling the joke, my dad took me to the basement, which was like a visit to the stereotypical woodshed. He kept asking me what the punchline meant. I honestly didn't know. I don't remember the joke, but the lesson was this: never repeat something I heard from the old guys at the barbershop, especially if they enjoyed it so passionately.

During my father's battle with cancer, I grew to know my mom. It wasn't like I didn't understand or really know her, but dad and I worked together from the time I was very young.

I rode with him and grandpa Cles to feed cows. Grandpa died when I was three, so I was very young when the tradition began. There was time for play as a boy, but I also understood, that there was also time when I was with my dad.

Saturdays were for my dad, when we drove in the '63 Chevrolet pickup to the ranch to feed cattle.

The tradition began shortly after my grandpa died. Dad had me ride with him to the haylands to feed cattle, just like I had when grandpa went with him. It was not so much because he needed my help, because when I was very young, he had me roll bales of hay, so I didn't hurt myself. There wasn't much I could do at a very early age, but my dad liked the "company." I was just little, but he liked my company, even if I fell asleep during the hour ride to the ranch.

There was always something about getting in the truck on that drive with the heater on full. After fifteen minutes, I would nod off to sleep. We stayed for the day. Dad had me drive the truck during feeding. I hated it when I was young.

He propped the gas pedal in place, put the truck in gear, and showed me how to steer my way in circles that gave him the chance to throw hay from the back of the truck. At a very early age, it was in this old green '51 Chevrolet two ton truck. Later dad had a pickup, a white '63 Chevy.

I hated driving, because when I was young, I was either too young to reach the gas pedal, or I was afraid of jerking the truck and either killing the engine or getting stuck in deep snow. Either way, I knew I would "catch hell." Dad was not mean. He just expected me to learn how to do it and be helpful.

I am certain it was how he learned, and it was probably how his father learned.

My life was not the exception to the rule. It's what farm boys did. And like a stated earlier, it's what dad did, although the earlier generation began sooner and had much more responsibility.

I learned at an early age, that the ranch would someday be mine. It was why we learned how to do everything the right way. We built things to last, so I would never have to redo them, and so my son possibly wouldn't either. Besides, by learning how to do it the right way, I could maintain that work ethic for generations to come, keeping the ranch in the condition it always was in any time of year. His vision was to keep it that way.

Things changed when dad died. Even months before his passing, the plan was still for me to run the ranch, when he became too old to do it. The plan was for me to help as much as I could summers, but I had to have a job to support my family. It's what I did to keep the plan workable.

Things change. Dad passed away. It was inconvenient, but more importantly, it was a horrible time in my family.

Without writing too much or placing too many pictures, I just want to say what a miracle my mom accomplished with the huge ranch. Severe drought and crop failures, due to insect infestations and other problems, compromised us with debt. Had dad lived, it would never have been a problem.

Months before my dad's cancer returned, dad refinanced the loans and his "friend" at the bank talked him out of the insurance policy, which would have paid off the balance of the loans on the farm. It angered me that the man did that, but dad trusted his "friend." Dad was optimistic. He trusted friends, sometimes too much, because at times those close to him took advantage.

Dad was an optimist. It's what you do, when you fight cancer. He believed he would always win the battle.

The odds were against my dad. The banker had to know the odds, because a day after dad signed everything without those loans, he and another loan officer were out looking at the prospects and making records of inventory on the ranch. I was angry immediately. I still hate the man.

The banker knew the odds. He played his hand. Dad passed away in the winter, not long after the bank's move--one I still thing was unethical. I would never have done something like that to a friend, but I guess that's why I never would have made a very good banker.

Mom went into the bank after dad's death to renegotiate the loans, but they insisted on rates that would have broken anyone's back financially. The card game for them was almost over. They called mom, and expected her to play her hand. She surprised them. Mom took her business elsewhere, finding lower interest rates and people welcoming her continued business instead of prospective foreclosure. It upset a few people at the small bank. But as a general rule, bastards are never happy when things don't go their way.

It must be sad, when you suddenly find that Santa Claus isn't there, figuratively speaking of course.

And I still hate those fine people, who perpetrated that inhumane plan, and after mom told me that years later, I really hated them.

At the time, mom sold one section of isolated ground. It was a sizable piece of land that dad gave me, but he told me I had to convert it into cropland. We didn't have the chance, and because it was isolated, I talked mom into selling it. She sold the machinery. She sold any unneeded assets. She paid off the debt.

She also knew what she had to do each year to maintain a profitable situation. She did it.

Mom did something amazing, but the stress had to have affected her. There were other factors as well, but it's better left unstated.

What matters most is this--dad will be proud of what she did. She suffered a massive stroke. Tonight it appears she may not live much longer, and medical expenses will be high, but there are enough "things" to pay for that.
No one "deserves" the land or the assets or anything else my mom and dad acquired.

It happened like it was meant to be. Mom is secure. It's what dad wanted. He talked to me about that in his final days. It was about mom. It wasn't about anyone owning land or continuing a tradition.

It was about ensuring the woman he loved was able to survive financially. It's like it should be.

When we leave this life, we face those relatives, who passed on before us. They know how we lived. They know our real intents, regardless what facade we may build to conceal any weakness or weaknesses. But most importantly, they wait to see what we recognize as most important.

Mom earned respect of those, who know her strength. Our inheritance, if we are lucky enough to have learned from her, is a desire to work hard, to love family intensely, to live honestly.

Dad believed that too. Here's what he taught me about the real inheritance he and those before him passed on to children and grandchildren: "Remember the name you have. Don't ever do anything to soil that name, because once you do, you lose what so many took so long to establish."

I have no fear of meeting my father. I sense him with me sometimes. And I know he smiles and shakes his head occasionally, when I state clearly what someone needs to know. My dad taught me to live that way.

My mother taught me to live that way.

I love them, honor them and cherish what they stood for during the brief time we knew them. It's sad how quickly life passes, but time will come--according to my strong religious beliefs--when we meet them again. I long for that time, when the things I have to do are complete.

Here's one more fact that is important to consider: when we leave this world, everyone gets the same farm. It's six feet in length, four feet wide and six feet deep. It's what e e cummings referred to in his poetry as "the worm farm." Besides the values and morals and ethics we learn from those we love, that small plot's what every individual takes with them.

Two Bombers That Once Introduced Me To Vanilla-Orangesicles

2012-02-12T23:31:00.000-08:00

My earliest library moments marked the time, when I began looking for books with pictures of planes, especially those from World War I and World War II.

The pictures were so incredible, yet you never really heard about the stories about those young men, hardly having graduated from high school, riding in planes covered with fabric.

Shrapnel and bullets were dangerous, but the slow moving bombers were also targets for enemy fighters--especially at the beginning of the war.

Every time I went with my mother to Snowville's small "Mom & Pop Store," I walked my mother into one of those tasty orange and vanilla popsicles, and it wasn't because I liked the taste in the beginning, and it wasn't because it felt great in your mouth on a warm summer day a while before the advent of air conditioning.

It was all about the cards inside each treat. I collected the pictures of bombers, especially the B-17's and B-24's.

Much later there were movies. Memphis Belle, though not appearing until long after I was an adult, was an incredible glimpse at the world of those teenagers, who eventually returned home as serious men as a result of their service.

I later met several, who flew on those planes. Few were willing to talk about those times.

Like any war too many friends and associates didn't return.

Imagine my excitement, when I found about a second visit during the summer. The previous year brought them to Idaho Falls, but we missed the chance to see them. I made sure that didn't happen again.

There were no plans. We didn't go to California. We didn't go to Yellowstone. We jumped into the car and rode to Idaho Falls airport.

My first few minutes were frustrating.

I watched people climb up the stairs, and I instantly knew I would not see the interior of the plane, so I satisfied myself with a few looks at the view from the outside.

Then I became brave enough to ask if I could enter from the rear of the plane, where the steps were manageable.

Great things happen when other senior citizens collect the tickets. I entered and made my way into parts of the plane that were easily accessible.

And after that visit, I decided that I would wanted an ice cream bar with a picture of Betty Grable too.

And besides being a "babe," she wasn't altogether a stereotypical blond either. Like many in our day, she made a name for herself.
I enjoyed a few quotes like these:

I have got two reasons for success and I'm standing on both of them.
Betty Grable

You're better off betting on a horse than betting on a man. A horse may not be able to hold you tight, but he doesn't wanna wander from the stable at night.
Betty Grable

Now I find it interesting how times change. I was never like a tomcat that disappears in the springtime. For me life was about making once choice and basically staying supportive and dependable. But I guess I am a boring type of guy in today's standards.

But then again I never cared much about what someone tried to stipulate as the "new morality" or the "new definition of marriage."

I'm just an "old school" kind of guy that likes a plane, but yes, the babe on the front of the plane was nice too.

My Dad, Someone Who Will Always Watch Over Me

2012-02-12T17:25:00.000-08:00

My dad's passing seems like only yesterday, even though it happened a bit more than 21 years ago today. The reason, that the family tragedy feels this way, is because some of us never really dealt with the whole thing. Grief was something you faced and just worked through like walking through deep snow.

There were cliches you always grew to recognize as paradigms in times of youth: "Children are to be seen and not heard."

Death is one of the most difficult things in the human condition, regardless of a person's point of view. It's about loss, it's about nostalgia, it's about disconnection: a severing of a relationship that you not only desperately needed, but life as such will also never be the same.

The positive side is what some unfortunate people never obtain, which is a support system that cradled you through difficult times of youth.

On this day, I remember so many examples of how my dad stood in the shadows watching me. It was not a bad thing.

It was about his being there, just in case I needed "back-up."

"You select friends, who will fight with you back-to-back. You get into a corner, lock arms and you swing at anything within reach, without letting anyone get between you or behind you. You and that friend become one." This explains why dad was always there.

I had a creepy teacher in high school, one that influenced my own career more than most people will ever understand.

The man was always "on my case," and I would mutter just loudly enough for him to hear, whenever he pulled something on my my junior year of high school. I called the man every nasty "farmer" euphemism you can imagine.

A classmate and friend by the name of Pam Facer sat in front of me, and she came from "outspoken" roots as well, would turn and whisper to me. "Jon, he can hear you."

I hoped he could. I really did. I hated how he bullied me, how he embarrassed me. And I was not the type of person, who gave a teacher a "rough go of it," unless they really deserved it.

I took it one year, and then, as ironic as it could ever be, the man actually talked to me about taking another class from him. My feelings show on my face--the did then and they do now. It's a family trait. It kept me from losing lots of money in poker. I just could never be artificial or counterfeit about anything.

In the fall of my senior year, my class elected me to be their class president. Suddenly, the man came into the room and embarrassed me by saying I didn't "make the academic requirement."

I felt so much shame, but characteristic of our class, it took two or three additional votes to find someone, or at least a face the teacher would accept on the student council.

We exited the door, and another junior teacher cornered me and took me into the counselor's office. We looked at numbers she already knew spoke of the unfairness of what happened.

I went home. I slammed doors. I stomped around.

While playing pool, I kept playing so hard that an occasional ball would shoot off the table and strike against the wood paneling in the basement. My dad came home early that night, and I heard my mom tell him he needed to speak to me about something that must have happened at school.

Dad listened. "I have a question for you," he said. "Are you going to behave like a man, or are you going to act like a little boy?"

We talked about the alternatives available. I would meet the teacher the next morning. Dad told me a number of things several times: "You don't swear at him. You don't hit him. But if he hits you, you kick his ass." Dad reminded me of that at least three times, and two more times before I left for school that morning.

The "little meeting" began in an interesting way. I waited, until a neighbor and man studying to be a teacher left the room. It was only ten minutes before the first bell.

"What can I do for you this morning Jon?" The voice was surprisingly kind, understanding--artificial.

"I just want to thank you for your support in the election yesterday," I said. I didn't yell. I didn't act rudely, maybe very sarcastically, but certainly not rudely.

The teacher made the mistake I hoped for. He took his index finger and pushed it into my chest. I pushed it away in a manner that shocked the man. And I spent the next ten minutes telling him about the issues I had with him for an entire year before that election, and then I reminded him that I did have the grades to qualify.

What made the whole thing so much fun is watching an entire class waiting in the hall, knowing they heard my "soliloquy."

Years later I told the story to a friend. "Nobody ever got the best of that man," my friend said. He didn't believe a word.

When I told my dad, his reaction was consoling. He smiled broadly. "Oh no, you told him really well. I stood outside the door and heard the whole thing."

Dad was there for me like he always was--like he still is, when things are gloomy and grim. I feel him closely. I sense the confidence and pride he has in me.

His words still echo an important reminder: "Are you going to behave like a man, or are you going to act like a little boy?"

He taught me never to bully anyone, but dad also told me never "to take a wooden nickel."

Grandma Liza's Family: The Dave & Ella Thomas Line

2012-02-09T12:30:00.000-08:00

I have only a few pictures of Grandma Liza's family, and these are the best ones. The photograph at the left had to have been taken in the late 40's or early 50's if not even earlier.

She cooked everything on a wood stove. I had breakfast at her house once. I'll never forget how good everything tasted.

The family recipe for breakfast biscuits came from Grandma Thomas and most likely relatives, who cooked them on their trip across the plains or even earlier.

My Great Grandma Thomas was over 90 when she died, and her final years were difficult times: a period where she suffered from dementia.

I saw her the last time in early 1972, just before I left to go to Germany on my mission. When I told her I was on my way to Germany, she cried. I was never sure, whether she thought I was going to war, or that it bothered her that I was about to serve a mission for a church she had issues with throughout her life. But her doing that showed me something I had never seen before: she loved me and cared for me. It's why I think she thought I was on my way to war in Germany. Her final years were confusing for her.

There are two regrets for me personally. When I was very young, I remember Great Grandma Thomas still laughing with us, and there were other times, even after the dementia my aunts referred to as a "spell," when her memories were so lucid. We would ask her about historical things.

So much remains lost, that I could have asked. It's the curse of being young. You just don't ask questions at that age, especially when a family paradigm was this at family reunions, when all of us became loud and unruly.

"Children are to be seen and not heard."

It was a simple statement. I never remember any of them shouting or slapping a child. My Great Grandmother and her daughters all had a similar comment, whenever we really were in trouble and stood at the edge of the abyss: the spot where one of us faced discipline. "Oh, the poor little thing's just not feeling well."

My second regret is simple. Grandma Liza asked me in front of my mom and dad, if I wanted to learn Welsh. I was little. I was afraid, so I didn't do it. It was something I still regret.

Great Grandma Thomas had this picture of some relatives of mine. She and Grandma Liza referred to her as Great Grandma Williams.

From what I can remember, the family came across the plains with early Mormon pioneers, but there was some bitterness over the issue of polygamy.

It's unfortunate that every religion seems affected by those, who make bad choices. When the practice became illegal in the late nineteenth century, many men simply turned their wives out to live on their own.

And even during those times, wives and children were sometimes seen as cheap labor. It was not the status quo, but it happened. I assume something like that happened in Grandma Liza's family. The bitterness lasted for a very long time.

In the top row is Uncle Melvin. I remember Grandma Liza telling me that he was a school teacher, but he had difficult times with his lungs and died at a reasonably early age. It's embarrassing to me that I don't know more about him. I never met him, so I assume he passed away before my birth.

At the right of him is Aunt Edith, a daughter blessed and obviously cursed with incredible intellectual giftedness. She graduated early from high school and college at a time, when that happened rarely. As late as the late 60's, I remember being in Boise with my family.

Dad would always call her and ask to come visit. She would decline and thank him for his call, but children made her nervous. She feared one would soil themselves or do something else that was unpleasant. It was a phobia she seemed to have, but dad would never talk about it.
Grandma Liza would always remind my parents that it was important that I be smart in school, but it was also vital that I didn't allow that intelligence to affect me like Aunt Edith. "You can be too smart," she would say quietly to my parents. I heard nothing else about it or about Aunt Edith.

At the right is my Aunt Ada. We were never formal with the whole thing about Great Grandmother or whatever. For me, Aunt Ada was always Aunt Ada. She had an outrageous sense of humor, especially at family reunions. She and Uncle Jenk would sometimes begin with some joking and teasing. I remember how hard everyone always laughed at what they would say, but I don't remember particulars--except when Aunt Ada told a story about the first time visiting her "female doctor."

She went into details about how the doctor had her disrobe and wear a gown, how she sat on a strange table with spurs, and how she kept saying this: "What are you doing down there?"

One relative wanted to know what the doctor said to her after the appointment. "He told me I had halitosis of the blow hole." I still remember how everyone laughed, until their eyes filled with tears and some choked on food."

At the time, I was only nine or ten at most. Unfortunately, I have a good memory. My parents marveled that I still recalled that story years later. It embarrassed them a bit. But for me, I remember only how funny my Aunt Ada was.

She worked in the Malad City Water Office with Mary Lou Jones. Any time I was in town, I dropped by to see her, and there was always a dime in her purse for me to go across the street to retrieve an ice cream cone at Allen Drug.

In her eighties, Aunt Ada moved into the home, where Great Grandma Thomas lived. I will always remember her walking every morning. Her husband Uncle Earl worked as a janitor at the Oneida County Court House. He never drove a car. You would see him on his bike every morning going off to work. He was an incredible man, kind man. He changed drastically after his stroke. His hobby was gardening. I will always remember his planting peanuts in his backyard. My cousins showed me the plants when we were young. Uncle Earl passed away while I was on my mission in Germany.

I still am so grateful I visited him and my Great Grandma Thomas before I left for my mission in early 1972.

At the left sitting near my Great Grandpa Thomas is Aunt Sara. I loved visiting Aunt Sara and Uncle Jenk, when they lived on their ranch. He served in the legislature for decades, so eventually they moved to Boise.

Aunt Sara always laughed when I told her I remembered how great her peanut butter and jelly sandwiches were, but there was really nothing like it. You have to remember that it has to do with homemade bread and homemade jam too.

My cousin Stan was their youngest son, Tom being the eldest. I never knew Tom all that well, but Stan was one I always admired as a child. He had these incredible models he put together and painted, which possibly explains why he eventually studied and graduated from the University of Idaho in Architecture.

Grandma Liza sits near her mother. I will tell stories I remember about my grandmother later. I still feel the loss of her passing, and she always spoiled me as a grandson.

Uncle Dave stands between his parents. His sense of humor was something people always laughed about, which I find interesting, because there are so many of Welsh descent, who have that same gift.

Grandpa Cles worked long hours on the farm, often getting to bed after midnight and then rising the next day at 4:00 a.m. to begin work again.

Uncle Dave and Aunt Norma came out to help during harvest one hear when my dad was young. Grandma Liza was cooking breakfast, and grandpa was already outside getting things ready before returning to eat. Patiently, grandma would call Dave to get him up out of bed. Finally she would say this: "Good night, Dave! Get up!"

The story grandma and my dad always told was that he responded in a funny way. "Good night, Liza."
I never remember hearing, whether he dressed and went out to work early or not, but the main point of the story was how funny his comment was. Uncle Dave and Aunt Norma were also fun relatives I often visited, even after I returned home from Germany.

The family portrait above shows Aunt Sara between her parents. Grandma Liza sits near her father and Aunt Edith is near Great Grandma Thomas.

Famiily meant everything to my Grandma Liza.

I remember her dinners at both Thanksgiving and Christmas. The Fourth of July was a time we were together in Powerhouse Campgrounds for a picnic as well, or at least I remember being there that time of year.

My father's passing in 1991 devastated her. I did a German exchange that summer, and for that particular trip, we flew out of Idaho Falls. The day was not a great one for travel.

There was strong winds and rains. Turbulence rocked the plane, and we landed in Salt Lake City in time for me to call my grandmother. She always had a sense of things, a certain uncertainty when things would potentially go badly.

I called her as soon as I deplaned. She had been crying, and I remember her saying how she'd been praying the flight would be alright. Grandma had not wanted me to take that trip, and it was something she had never done before. I had completed many exchanges in Germany like that during the early summer.

Even before the trip, she asked me to visit her, but I said I would do it when I returned from Germany. It had been a sad year with the loss of my father. Before I said goodbye on the phone that morning, I told grandma we would drive to Ogden for a visit in July after my return. She was upset, but she wished me well.

Weeks later, she was in a severe car accident. Her heart stopped while in the hospital, but family members insisted they do what they could to bring her back to us. They didn't want her to pass on without my being there.

Grandma's accident resulted in brain stem damage. We visited her in an Ogden care center in July.

She seemed happy. Of all her family, many had already passed away.

"Come back to mom's this evening," she said to me. Grandma seemed happy. She was with family, and she wanted us to return that evening to visit everyone.

It's how I remember my grandmother. The effects of the injury worsened over the next years. It must have been terrible for someone as intelligent as my grandmother was.

Zero, The Killer Bee

2012-02-08T21:33:00.000-08:00

Ann found this Killer Bee outfit on amazon.com, and since Zero approaches the day of his Puppy Kindergarten graduation, she couldn't resist getting this for him.

He liked it, or at least he liked the black foam rubber circular orbs. He liked the wings too, but he kept getting at those too easily, so we had to remove them for the picture.

He is quick for a pup, so as we laughed and marveled how cute the dog was in this outfit, our little guy took issue with that.

Maybe he was just tired, but he began doing what he does, when he's hungry or tired or victimized by gas.

But I remember this rugby shirt I tried for size in the Ralph Lauren store in Jackson, back in those years when they actually had an outlet store there.

"How does this look on me?" I knew to ask was a risk as soon as I watched Ann sport a silly grin. It spread across her face. Her brown eyes twinkled in delight. "You look like a giant bumble bee."

Two women laughed out loud. They performed the same thankless duty Ann did at that moment. Waiting for their husbands to come out of dressing rooms. They had two choices: either to be brutally honest or just to have fun with it.

Ann occasionally has a way of doing both at the same time. That's what happened that day.

"You look a giant bumble bee." I still remember those words, and to be honest, they make me laugh right now too.

One woman tried to look the other way. Even with her fancy hairdo, I could see the glee that probably danced on her face.

The other man's wife laughed out loud.

Jack's "family" pup wears that same uncomfortable grin in the photograph above, except I didn't have the Bambi eye thing going for me. But if it hadn't been a case of store customers thinking I had totally lost my mind, I probably would have bitten my sweetheart at that moment, not hard but just simple and effective enough to let her know I didn't want to be a bumble bee--especially a "giant" one.

So here I sit, understanding the heart and mind of a dog, sitting innocently while being the butt of a joke, and at the same time, tormented by three adults and an "almost" nine-year-old Third Grader, but the pictures were classic.

The outfit was the ultimate in puppy cuteness. He looks like a semi-giant bumble bee.

The Joys of Puppy Kindergarten

2012-02-08T14:00:00.000-08:00

I learned a lot from being there the first night, and after one one time, I felt really great about the fee we paid. But like everything that happens in life every single day, there are things that just don't work. For example, the teacher mentioned that a good way to cure a pup from biting was to stick your index and middle finger in the mouth toward the back. And since the snout of our dog was so short, she thought it would be a great way to deal with the problem. There are, however, other perspectives that have an effect on the eventual outcome. For example, losing an index finger isn't a problem. I just won't be able to talk to right wing politicians at the Idaho State Fair any more, but wait, that was my wife, who poked her finger into the chest of a creepy man with strange ideas about education.

But the middle finger's loss would be a severe handicap. How could a person drive I-15 or I-84 in Utah without it?

Zero's favorite moment was the "happy hour." What could be more fun for a dog than twenty minutes of scanning the floor for discarded treats and smelling the butts of ten other pups.

It was doggy heaven.

But every cloud has a silver lining, and in Puppy Kindergarten, there is a large tarp under the figurative cloud.

One small female Rottweiler pup peed four times near my Annie. It was difficult to accept the idea, accepting the whole reality, that we would have a dog, and it was even more difficult to get in the car and that we would join a group of other pups for an hour.

After the first meeting, Annie was grumpy. I guess you could say that she was really "pissed." But weeks after the fact, we can laugh about it now, or better said, I can laugh about it on my blog, before getting up the nerve to actually talk about it at home.

I'm a lot of things, but I'm not stupid. I mean really.

Then came one funny concept. I know it's appeared in movies, and occasionally someone without creativity actually uses it as a status on facebook, but our Zero spotted a little fluffy, little Shih Tzu female puppy.

He turns his little face askew a bit. His ears are cocked forward. He half skips and half bolts toward the little female behind the chairs.

"Ooh, I hope they're not old enough to have a problem there," the lady in charge said. The owners looked beneath their legs and then behind their chairs in horror--the words written up their faces like a Vegas neon sign. "Oh shit!"

Actually it was more like the possibility of Bull-Shih-Tzu.

It was the perfect conclusion of an evening of puppy fun. On the way home, I couldn't get this song out of my head: one sung by Donny Osmond in the early 70's. "Puppy Love" was a song I really hated when I was 18, but somehow, it fit the moment.

And as usual, only our family would see the humor in it. I have a feeling that the little fluffy foo foo's owners wouldn't think it humorous at all.

An Unexpected Gift From An Incredible Athlete

2012-02-08T09:21:00.000-08:00

The Tour de France was something few thought any American would ever succeed at, until Lance Armstrong made his mark on that event five times.

It's something admirable, enviable.

In a prime example of how the media and politicians function, news appeared immediately about performance enhancing drugs.

I find the euphemism interesting. As long as you don't qualify the Viagra drip that most politicians indulge themselves with both literally and figuratively, I'm sure the world will make the needed adjustments.

And as for the media, no one is immune from the joy of creating a story, a full-blown drama. It doesn't matter if it destroys the reputation of anyone.

The bottom line is the story.

An exception to that is one that made the back page lately. After years of scrutiny, all charges against Lance Armstrong are now an afterthought. They dropped them.

For those who wonder why I defend him like I do, it's important to note that he sent me this magazine, when I was going through my own fight with cancer.

Now I have a number of favorite sports and favorite athletes, but I won't hold my breath waiting for something like this from anyone else.

Lance Armstrong does this kind of thing. It is something admirable.

So how do I stand, when it comes to performance enhancing drugs?

Personally, I think politicians should find something else to do to earn the outrageous money they earn at the expense of working men and women. It's not as if there aren't enough problems in the world.

And as for my attitude about the media, they are worse than whores or whoremongers. They sell their souls for a story, regardless of credibility, of validity, of authenticity.

Exceptions are the "old school" men and women, who knew what was the term "news" really meant--like one I watched get emotional while announcing the death of JFK.

I hope we return to some paradigm, where men and women, who serve the electorate and where men and women, who report the news take a close look at the world and discover the vacuum they seem to surround themselves with daily. I hope they become, what they should be--what they could be.

That would be people, who make the world a better place.

It's why I'm a fan of Lance Armstrong. He sent me a magazine, which only cost a few dollars, and postage could not have been much either. But he did something that meant a great deal to me.

He is, without a doubt, an athlete I admire.

Tommy and Jack's First Home Visit With Santa

2012-02-03T16:42:00.000-08:00

It was December of 2004, and I was extremely sick and worried I would not be home for Christmas at all that year.

My oncologist and his office brought in a small tree and made a visit shortly before Christmas, and the chances were still quite small it would work.

There was not only the weakness of having been in the hospital for 30 days after a series of severe infections, but one in particular was a staff infection, and to make matters worse, a local doctor took a skin sample near the wound on my chest, where the chemo lines had been.

That particular doctor was more than strange, even more than eccentric. You would seem him walking in town in his grey suit and galoshes ala 1950. No doubt about it, the man was one of those strange people, who wander about the world.

I think my oncologist assumed he was a strange genius, but this dermatologist took out a section of skin the size of my thumbnail, which was dangerous, considering that I was on blood thinner.

I bled for days. At one point, my oncologist and is wife, who was a PA in the clinic, spoke softly, but I heard them.

"I don't know what we're going to do. He is losing blood as fast as we can give transfusions."

The interesting thing was that my doctor dreamt that night about how and what to use to bandage the wound and stop the bleeding. It worked, and it was just another one of the miracles in the final days of 2004 and early 2005.

But the worst part was missing so much of Christmas, even though my doctor cleared me to go home on Christmas Eve.

I missed this dinner my family had in Malad, where Santa Claus paid grandchildren and great-grandchildren a visit.

For Tommy and Jack, this was monumental, even though they probably don't remember anything about this visit.

But thanks to Kristin, we have pictures.

It was a dark time at that point, but it was the beginning of my return to normalcy, even though it involved another brief hospital stay after I boarded the "crazy train" for a brief trip to "LaLa Land." That happened in January.

Nothing helps a person survive like realizing how badly you want to stay with a wife and sweetheart, with children, and with grandchildren.

I had this morbid fear, that my grandchildren would never remember me. Not only that, Anna would not be born until the next July.

Life is fragile. Life is an incredible blessing. I savor every day and every moment.

Granted, a person can relive certain things vicariously through pictures that remind you of events and "life moments," but it's not really the same, except when you weren't there and you have no other choice.

I won't complain. I love these pictures of my Jack and my Tommy basking in their first Christmas.

Another One Of Many Reasons To Visit Virginia

2012-02-02T00:46:00.002-08:00

College basketball is an incredible experience, one I trust in terms of athletes and outcomes.

I can't say the same for professional basketball. I don't have trust in calls, in play, in commitment. I figure too many are in the deal just for the money.

The "Chris Weber Debacle" during the NCAA tournament, however, would be the only exception I call to mind. When he cost Michigan the game for calling a time out at the end of the game, when none remained, it sealed the deal for me. I never was a fan of Weber from that moment till his retirement from professional basketball.

In my mind, there was always this dubious question. How can a college athlete do something that stupid?

College basketball remains something I love to watch. There is--for the most part--more discipline, less hype. It's something I enjoy. To see the rivalries is particularly fun. We have that in the West, but nothing like on the East Coast.

And where can you see a better game than at Chapel Hill or University of Virginia?

One day, I plan to see a game with Cles and my new little grandson. That will be a great day. But it's not as if it would take a basketball game to get me there again. Besides the fun of visiting family, there is something about Virginia that no one can resist.

And besides, thanks to Cles I also know about this great donut place not far from his house.

Funny Pictures From My I-Photo Gallery

2012-02-02T00:46:00.000-08:00

This was a monumental day for our family, and after the practice at the church for the wedding of Cles and Leslie, Tommy and Pop Pop return to the car dejected. For Tommy it was horrific--even if walking with Jack--to walk down an aisle with a small box with a ring in it.

He cried. People laughed. Tommy hated it.

People laughed, because the boys were so cute in tiny black tuxedos with black high tops.

Pop Pop was heart-broken for a different reason. There just aren't enough Krispy Kreme shops, not even in the South.

But you have to love the black Converse high tops.

One thing I remember about that day was that it was full of firsts: I learned never to call grits and shrimp a name like Canjun Cream of Wheat; I learned that fried green tomatoes was not just a movie, and besides, they taste fantastic; I learned that Augusta has great vibes and friendly people.

Cles learned never to give hockey sticks to young nephews for gifts at the rehearsal dinner.

Now the next picture is a classic. It's an example of my sweetheart's sense of humor. She couldn't wait to get off the donkey in front of me at Santorini.

It explains the uncomfortable look on my face.

Thank goodness that facebook was not even a thought in anyone's mind at this point, let alone considering a situation of placing the picture on the internet.

At this point in time, I no longer have enough pride in how I look to let it bother me. That's why I shop at Walmart. I fit in well there.

Besides, it was enough for the guy leading the donkey to keep guessing my weight on the way to the top of the hill: "150 kilo? 200 kilo?"

I didn't give him the satisfaction. I just smiled. He should have been proud of the fact that Greek cuisine agreed with me so well. I don't have a history of agreeing with many people, with the exception of my beautiful soul mate.

Next, you have to understand how badly my wife hates roller coaster rides.

She was a sport to go with me on this one, probably one of the best, or worst, depending on your perspective or Ann's perspective.

I took her on California Screamin' at Disneyland. At the start, Ann started screaming, enough to shatter glass windows in the hotels in the area.

It continued without end through the second loop. Suddenly she fell silent.

Panic took over. I softly tough her face. "Are you OK?" I asked. My voice was tender, consoling, worried.
"I hate you. I hate you. I hate you." She said the words quickly and gripped the bar in front of me. It became yet another moment I will never forget. I don't let her forget either. It's one of the things about her that makes me smile.

I wish I had the actual picture of the Mickey Mouse hats we purchased on one trip.

Mine read Pop Pop. A nice Hispanic worker didn't hesitate to start to do the hat, but the anal-retentive future old maid in charge, who was only about 22, refused to consider it.

"It has to be a name someone calls you." She gave me this official look.

Suddenly Jack appeared with Kristin, just returning from Autopia.

"Hi Pop Pop." The nice Hispanic gal began working on the hat. The other one shrugged her shoulders.

Then it was Ann's turn. "What should I put on it?" Ann looked at me for a minute.

"Granny Annie," I said without hesitating. Another woman in line laughed out loud and looked at Ann. I guess some women resent being called a grandma. But they don't know my Annie, the best Grandma in the world.

She had it put on the hat and occasionally calls herself that.

By the way, did I mention she is my best friend in the whole world too? I can't feature a world, where I couldn't tease her, and she wasn't teasing me occasionally too.

Family On The East Coast

2012-02-01T01:36:00.000-08:00

It was difficult for Lydia, when they lived in Florida. Rochester, Minnesota was 18-19 hours away, but Florida was a different situation all together. First, it was too far for us to drive with cars that each approach 200,000 miles, and I know they've told me that my diesel Jetta just "breaks in" at 500,000 miles, but the person telling me that talked mostly about the engine. It has been a great car, but a three or four day trip in an old car is something I just could not do.

We talked about giving it a try. There was even a discussion about making a trip to Florida and going to Disney World, but we just couldn't make it.

But Cles and Leslie did. They made the trip from Virginia on a weekend, making it fun for Lydia to see some family.

While there, they did a number of things that were incredible, like a trip to Disney World.

The last time we were all together there was in the late 90's, when our family took a Bahama Cruise for a Christmas vacation.

The trip was something that I really appreciated, and I know Lydia did. The last time we were all together was for a few days in Virginia in the fall.

It was just before school started, the last six months of Jeff's residency there. It was a time when we thought and even expressed the fact that we would make another trip to the East Coast.

It just never happened.

It's sad how time passes so quickly, but the big thing is how complicated things get as grandchildren begin school and become older.

The day at Disney World seemed to be incredible, and Cles and Leslie enjoyed time with the kids.

That fall was the last time we were in Virginia too, or at least that's the last trip I remember. Times with family, who are so far away pass so quickly.

There is always the initial excitement of getting there. You always think how fun four or five or even seven days will be to see family, and then suddenly it passes.

You wonder where the time goes.

Holidays come and go. Time passes. Visits with family are always incredible. It's just sad to see things go so quickly, yet on the positive side, I have grown to love those areas we visit to see family.

What is fun for me is to see how each of my children create their own traditions in terms of meals and what they serve, but certain things always remain the same. Their own traditions is important: a way of defining their own moment, their own identity.

My dad would have loved the tree Cles and Leslie had in their home in Virginia. Sure it wasn't a pinion like we always chose to have, but it was truly a beautiful tree. It's what Cles and Leslie will remember about the holidays and moments that will become special to them, just like my memories are for me of my youth on those fun days in December.

There is this funny thing about Christmas trees. In my own family, I eventually found that I had an allergic reaction to live trees. Even as child at home, I grew sick every Christmas, but I didn't notice it much. Christmas was fun. I loved the tree. But I became older and unable to tolerate the allergies.

Our own tradition become one about having an artificial tree.

Then Lydia and Jeff showed me another option. After a brief visit in Reno, I found that my allergy was to pines. Fir trees didn't bother me, so next year, maybe it's time for a new tradition at our house too.

Seeing Leslie with this one and watching Lydia's kids enjoy the one in Reno taught me that I need to embrace my roots and go for a "real" tree.

So yes, it's difficult having family on the East Coast, and even though Lydia is closer, Reno is still far enough away, that planning determines when we can make that trip. Maybe my age forces me to be less spontaneous.

Times change. Children move and develop their own careers. It's what happens in families, and it's not a bad thing. It actually makes it more fun. At least that's how it worked with me.

I grew to love Virginia, and I've found that I do the same, wherever children or grandchildren live.

Halloween, Not Just A Day For Kids

2012-01-30T22:35:00.000-08:00

One of Ann's last school pictures appears at the top of the blog. She still has the chocolate chip brown eyes, that sparkle at me. That happens in the morning now, which is considerably different than when we were young.

"I'm not a morning person," she would sometimes remind me. But the years changed that, or maybe it's something else entirely.

I am careful with my sense of humor, that Ann sometimes reminds me, is something only I appreciate. And truth lies in the fact, that just because you find something funny doesn't mean the world is laughing--or even the town of Samaria, which is much smaller.

We have had a lot of fun over the years.

What makes it great is that it keeps getting better, unless of course I overstep my bounds. Sometimes it takes a while for her to forget what I said. It's a Welsh characteristic. As a people, they had short lets, but their memories were much different.

The color I like on Ann is green, almost any shade.

While on a bus trip to Nauvoo years ago, we began the whole thing with the driver saying one person in the party was to introduce themselves to the rest of the busload of travelers.

"You do it." Ann had no desire to get up. It was hot. Traffic was horrific, even when riding on a bus with someone else driving. One woman kept playing the harmonica. It was like this horrible dream you have, where you suddenly scream out in the night for something to stop.

"OKKKK." My voice inflection told her something was up. I heard her say something as I walked toward the front of the bus.

It was probably her asking the last minute for me not to embarrass her. If I learned one truism from teaching in schools, it's basically this: "It's better to say I'm sorry than ask permission."

"See that beautiful woman in the light slacks and forest green blouse in the back? That's my wife."

Ann looked at the ground. It would have been difficult for her to roll her eyes, because the entire load of women were commenting on what a wonderful man I was.

But I really did mean it. And I still think she's beautiful.

What I love about my Annie is that no day is one that allows vanity or a temptation toward narcissism to prevent her from doing something fun for children, especially our grandchildren.

Kristin was to give a presentation at Jack's school for Halloween, so Ann and Kristin dressed the part.

Jack has reached that certain level in school, where something like this is a shock to his system. He has reached a point, where he isn't excited to see a family member there.

"What are you doing here?" His brows bridge a gap, although a slight wrinkle separates them. Sometimes he doesn't look at anyone in class or especially family visitors.

I don't take it personally. Every kid goes through that phase.

The kids in class loved it. I never asked Jack about it, because any given year, I hope Ann uses that wash-away dye on her hair and Kristin dresses like another witch too, but those years are fading away, as Jack slowly advances toward the intellectual no-man's land of junior high or middle school.

Kristin is a fun mom. She enjoys seeing Jack doing as well as he does. She loves to see him in class and mixing with students. Even better is the fact that he loves school. Jack gets out of patience with us, if we suggest taking a trip to Disneyland a day before a holiday or a bit early on the last day of school.

What I love best about the hair dye is the fact that it did like it promised on the label. It actually washed away the first time. Some of my students in Germany weren't that lucky. They had to wait weeks until the hair grew out enough to trim the shade away.

But what I love best is the job the teacher selected Jack to do. He acts as the "Peacemaker." It has always been my hope that he is a gentle giant, someone who will never pick on anyone, but most importantly, someone who will never allow himself to be victimized either, yet I want him to deal with things with his mind.

He'll figure the last alternative later.

I began the other way around. That's why I want Jack to be different. That's why I'm so excited to have seen this picture.

Fighting is the easy part. It's being able to talk to someone that is difficult.

It's a last resort.

But like my dad told me once, "Sometimes son, the only thing left to do is tell someone to kiss your ass." My dad taught me at the age of five how to deal with people like that.

I hope Jack does it rarely if at all. I only had to do it a handful of times, but most people knew I meant business. I'm grateful my dad taught me those concepts, but today's world is different.

In the world today, a fight ends after someone uses a weapon. It's about escalation. It's about making excuses, even when a person is wrong in the first place, so my hope is that my grandchildren will be peacemakers.

It's not an easy path, but it is a wiser one, a safer one.

So I remember these pictures fondly. It was a time, when Jack was young. It was a time, when we still had fewer problems.

Life is never without those. You learn to cope with setbacks. My way of coping with life is to act as a sponge and absorb the vibes my sweetheart, the girl with those sparkling chocolate chip eyes, continues to send my way. Her service, her fun all are for the benefit of others.

To see her with grandchildren leaves no doubt in your mind about her commitment to them, to family.

I felt that too, especially when I needed her so desperately, when I went through some dark times
When you sit in a chair and feel chemo transferring into your body, you notice things.

As long as I live, I'll never forget seeing her come through the door of the clinic and walk down the hall toward me. She spent every break, every lunch hour with me. I never felt alone, not ever.

It's a blessing to have someone like that in your life.

My Annie is an incredible mom, wife, mother, grandmother.

And when she dresses on Halloween to frighten small children, it never works out that way. People understand her intent, her desire to have fun.

The Great Thing About Christmas

2012-01-30T15:35:00.000-08:00

The great thing about having grandsons is this: you can play with the toys you give them. We're talking about different things here, a whole range of things like race car sets, electric trains, dinosaurs. But this year saw something new. After years of my coaxing, begging pleading, Ann finally became affected with a grandson's letter, where he promised to feed, water, walk and basically do everything for the pup he hoped to get. Jack didn't mention cleaning up the poop in the back yard, but that is something we'll be teaching him too. Ann found a little English Bulldog online within a week of receiving that letter late one night.

Ann was typing up reports on the computer with the door shut. Jack slyly slide it under the door.

The day we left for Meridian to see the pup was an adventure. The drive takes three and a half hours to complete. We couldn't keep the secret from him any longer.

The plan was to get the pup shortly before Christmas. It was perfect.

We left Idaho Falls the day Jack began his Christmas Holiday Break, but the trip began with a journey to Nevada to see our grandchildren.

That worked well too, giving us a chance to take Christmas gifts and buy some extra things while there too.

The ride home from the Boise area was an adventure, requiring us to stop every hour at a spot for the little guy to take a bathroom break.

It's interesting how you forget things.

When I had my last bulldog, it was December of 2002. There was no question about my being able to take the pup out every few hours during the night to get him trained.

I did that when Guido--our first little black and white bulldog--was first in our home. He would bark, which was the signal.

I assumed that would happen again.

It didn't. Snow made footing outside slick.

Ann and Kristin took up the slack. I posed for photographs and held the dog on my chest. There is nothing like having a dog. You get attached quickly.

There is something about the way a dog looks at you that melts your heart. They have a better sense about certain things. Love for them is unconditional.

It was a perfect Christmas. And like Jack, I just want to thank Santa--and especially Mrs. Santa--for our little pork chop, the little bulldog we call Zero.

Sammy: A Tough Little Cutie, Who Only Gets Emotional About Cupcakes

2012-01-27T01:07:00.000-08:00

Sammy has passion. It sparkles in her eyes, sometimes joy and sometimes rage. It has nothing to do with the whole "Terrible Twos" thing. She just knows what she wants, and she knows what she expects from other people.

So when someone teases her, her response is varied.

A strange family trait in the Ward line is something only my dad and I shared, but on our last trip to Reno, I found that Sammy had it too.

I gently put my index finger between her big toe and the skinny next one, and hysterical laughter from her voice begins immediately. She spins. She twists. She squeals. The laughter is contagious.

And then the twisted into her mother's lap and bit Lydia on the arm.

No one found humor in that. But I did. It's about the whole passion thing.

If you can't be completely involved in something like that, why even be bothered? I mean really. Why laugh or twist? Sammy is consumed in the moment. I find my grandchildren fascinating, each one is different, and each has something I love about them.

Sammy has a classic type of single-mindedness, a type the ancients also possessed. Through time, most people don't have that kind of discipline of focus.

It's almost a Greek response, like those who became so caught up in a Bacchanal rite. Running wildly through woodlands and celebrating spring.

A week or so ago, Tommy hurt his arm. He cried because it hurt so badly, and that is not something Tommy does. It must have hurt.

Sammy came to console him. They communicated in simple terms, sometimes one or two-word sentences.

Sammy looked at him in the eye. "Shit," she said. Tommy began laughing immediately.

The hurt was gone. Sammy worked the wonder of a Shaman, working the healing wonder with her brother. In just minutes, tears of pain and sadness because ones of joy. Tears of pain are just as salty as those of sadness, but somehow, they don't sting your eyes as much.

Today, I talked to Lydia--just as she took her kids to the public library in the Reno area.

I had a call come through, while we were talking, and I had to take it. A call from an insurance company is not something you can pass on in today's situation.

I tried to call, but Lydia was most likely on the road.

Here Sammy works on a puzzle, while Tommy and Anna find books. We heard nothing until later that evening.

The next stop was at the Disney store. Sammy was just walking and tripped. It just shows how unexpected things happen, and how they occur so quickly.

I thought maybe she did the sport she loved so dearly to during mealtime, during playtime, during any time she is in a spot where she can get to the highest point possible by taking a series of steps at a time.

But she wasn't She fell after tripping on her foot, which is so strange, because she has been walking since before she was one year old. She is athletic, graceful. She doesn't often trip like that.

It's upsetting to hear about our little sweetheart feeling pain. It took eight stitches, but Sammy is a tough nut.

Her mom was as a child too. All our children were. I like to think I was as well. My Annie often has dental work done without having a shot deaden the gums in her mouth. And my granddaughters remind me of different things about Ann when she was little, at least how I remember her when we both were little and growing up on the same street and attending the same church on Sunday.

In my mind I see Sammy crying after the fall, not because she expressed a lot of pain, but because it scared her and because it probably made her mad.

But one thing for sure, ice cream or frozen yogurt is the way to go to rehabilitate a wound like this. A bandaid covers the spot, where I hope the doctor used fine stitches.

Because according to what I've heard so far, I did a better job as a kid sewing grain sacks that what the guy in the emergency room did.

I hope time heals the wound and covers any scar like it did for me.

Tomorrow will be another day, and hopefully Sammy will decide climbing is not as much fun as she thought, although it might be worth the ice cream. I know she didn't fall from climbing, when she hurt herself, but I worry. It's a parent thing-- a grandparent thing too.

I worry. Therefore, I am.

I know Sammy's Pop Pop would take a good fall for a hot caramel bowl of ice cream, like the ones we once ordered at Snelgroves in Salt Lake City.

But wait, that was a double double my dad and I always ordered, with extra small jugs of hot caramel. My dad liked the hot fudge.

Ice cream was always a weakness in our family. Grandma Liza loved Maple Nut or Banana Nut or Neapolitan ice creams. Dad loved Strawberry, although the first two Grandma Liza liked were my dad's favorites too.

Even when his sugar levels in his blood became too high, my dad would send my son Cles to the basement with several empty bowls.

"Fill 'em really full," he'd whisper. All the while, he'd watch for my mom and hope we could get the deal done, before she returned from some things she did in the next room.

Ice cream works wonders, and I'm glad it did that for Sammy today. I can't stand the thought of the little one's suffering pain like that.

For Lydia, we seldom had ice cream, so when she rode her tricycle down a short flight of stairs, there was no treat to smooth thing over.

And when Lydia as a toddler about Sammy's age crawled into a laundry chute and fell ten feet, there was no treat either.

Both times, miraculously she didn't get a bump. There was a blanket at the bottom of the laundry chute to cushion the fall. And the tricycle thing is still a mystery.

Lydia was a tough little nut too.

And for the record, the only thing that changed was her going on a parachuting adventure when she was in her late teens. I could have strangled the kid, who took her on that date.

Oh, and she jumped from bridges too. So Lydia, I'll tell you what my dad told me once about your dare devil antics.

"It's all about getting a taste of something you used to dish out." My dad was talking about karma and not ice cream, and he too worried about some of my adventures.

I will never write about them, because I don't want my children to relive them or think they have to do something more fun.

Anna--All Tangled In Cute

2012-01-26T00:39:00.000-08:00

OK. I do have a bias, but I really do think my grandchildren are all highly intelligent, cute and perfect in every way. It's a tradition in my family. That's how my Grandma Liza saw me.

"You just perfect in every way." She would say those words, eyes sparkling and arms wrapped around me.

You knew where you stood with Grandma Liza. That's a family tradition too, and she never pandered me or embellished anything she said. She never pretended anything. Sometimes truth was difficult to hear, but I never found that with my grandmother.

She really meant it, when she said I was perfect, so I'm saying it now. My grandchildren are perfect.

Everyone needs a grandmother like that. Everyone needs someone in your life, who thinks you're perfect without saying it in a sarcastic tone of voice.

That's how I feel about my grandchildren.

My grandchildren have their Pop Pop. Granny Annie spoils them too, but even if they were perfect, I don't think she would say it.

My wife is old school. It's actually the way our parents raised us.

When you see the "Welcome To Malad" sign, It's kind of like this: "Reset your watches back fifteen years. It's always been that way. Old habits die hard. Traditions last even longer.

In some ways, it still is like that, although even Malad has changed.

We sent little Sammy an outfit from the Disney movie Tangled, which also included the trademark hair.

Anna sports it here, because it terrifies Sammy. It's not a bad thing for her. Donald Trump's hair scares the hell out of me too.

So until Sammy adjusts to the whole idea, Anna will enjoy it, and it looks cute on her too.

It's fun to see her smile like she does. In every way, my little Anna is a wonderful child.

A Great Picture During Rough Times

2012-01-23T12:09:00.000-08:00

In 1997--or at least I think it was 1997--our family had another one of those years. Ann's mom suffered horribly through ALS or Lou Gherig's Disease.

It took a very long time for doctor's to diagnose it, which added to the frustration as Erma lost the use of her legs and her speech became slurred.

There were worries about stroke.

When Ann asked one doctor investigating the situation early during the problem, he asked her who Lou Gherig was.

I did an exchange during that fall. I had German guests, an entire family. Ann would take Kristin, and the two of them would travel to Malad to help Erma on the weekend.

I had mostly field trips with the exchange group on weekends, so it worked.

Then summer arrived. Erma was not well. The worst decision of my life was taking Ann and Kristin on that exchange, although I needed another chaperone desperately. There were many problems during that experience.

Ann was in Germany a week, and Erma passed away. Then came the second decision I made, that was catastrophic. I kept Kristin in Germany rather than having her return to the funeral.

Personally, I think it took years for Kristin to work with some of those issues about Erma's passing. This picture in the posting is a good one. It shows a family in the most positive way: strong, united, and committed to support one another in spite of the horrible experience their mother endured.

I have another picture I took of Ann in Germany after the funeral. I hope I lost that one.

It shows her pain and remorse at the time. Ann never shows things like that outwardly. She never complains. She never talks badly about anyone, which is another incredible influence in my own life.

I often want to fix things, making everything better immediately. Life never happens that way, not ever.

And for the record, anyone reading this should realize why I react negatively, when someone tells me how wonderful the German exchange trips were.

Yes, it was nice to be in Germany, but chaperoning students through the same places for that many years is not a pleasure trip, and that's before you consider the fact that I watched over 8-24 teenagers, who had no idea how dangerous some of their decisions were potentially.

I'm glad I did them for students, who would never have had the chance, but I recognize the sacrifices my family made for that opportunity.

Today and On this day 40 Years Ago

2012-01-22T23:26:00.000-08:00

Now I'm nine minutes too late to count this for January 22, 2012, but my good intentions made an effort to do that. January 22 is a special day for two reasons: first, my granddaughter celebrated her birthday earlier today, and actually in Reno, it's still January 22; and second, I began my mission on this day 40 years ago.

The number 40 in that last comment makes me feel really old. In fact, I remember my youngest daughter giving me one of those weird little troll dolls with silver hair. The caption on its small T-shirt read this: Forty isn't old if you're a tree.

Somehow the "fun" gift seems to have been much funnier in 1992, a time when I was so much younger.

If Jack and Tommy and Anna and Sammy learn anything from their Pop Pop, I hope it's how to enjoy life during that magical time of youth and how to enjoy life during that incredible time of being "an old fart," when grandchildren make you smile with their eccentricities, with their passion, with their sparkling eyes.

So I hope my little Sammy had a great birthday today, and when you return to the North Country of the Snake, the Tetons and wacky politicians, I hope you'll remember this . . .

The doughnut of your choice is on Pop Pop, although a cupcake might taste nicely too. We can do that.

But this entry is not just about Sammy's birthday, because it's also about what I began 40 years ago. But those additional pictures and comments will have to return tomorrow. It's time for an old coot to get some sleep.

So Sammy, good night and I hope you enjoyed my call tonight. The wolf howl and German birthday song is my style. And by the way, I loved your growl at the end of the song. It tells me you remember Pop Pop and the fun we have when we visit you or when you come to us for a quick visit too.

An Entry on Sammy's Birthday And A Tribute to Two Special Granddaughters

2012-01-22T23:07:00.000-08:00

I have so many memories of the ride Monster's, Inc. All of them are with the grandchildren, which is why I love this picture of Anna and Sammy in the limo at the entrance. The first visits, when the ride was still very new, found us waiting in long lines--mostly during summer months. It was then that people zig zagged back and forth in a long line that wound it's way through a short space before finally entering the building.

Any given wait was a time of getting after the boys for playing or hanging on chains that separated the lines. But without exception, our grandchildren loved going on this ride. It was what we did each visit, and usually, it was something we did at least five to ten times per park visit. As the boys grew older, it was more difficult to get them to ride. It's sad to see how quickly certain things become "little kid" rides, but one thing for sure, this "little kid" still enjoys it and is grateful for granddaughters, who will most likely continue to ride on it with me. If nothing else, I'm sure I can find something as a bargaining chip.

Monster's, Inc remains something fun and entertaining to see, especially the different variations behind one of the doors, where a number of filmed characters give responses.

And the final touch is the large supervisor, who looks like my fourth grade teacher and sounds like a secretary, who worked in one of the counseling offices of a high school where I worked as a teacher.

For me personally, it's fun to see the connection between Anna and Sammy. On one hand, you have someone once quite feisty, who now is quiet-spoken and overly sensitive, and on the other hand, you have Sammy, someone, who will always remain feisty and mischievous.

They are both precious granddaughters, two little ones making it so much fun to visit Disneyland in the area, where grandparents spoil them with princess dresses.

Disneyland--The Time When I Could Be There Without An Electric Cart

2012-01-22T12:07:00.000-08:00

The first trip to Disneyland, when we took both grandsons, was one I will never forget.

Both little ones were only one year old, and neither could walk. Some say it's too young an age for children to enjoy it, but that's only partially correct. A person would have a difficult time convincing me of that after hearing the excited voices of the boys as we stood in line each morning or their eyes sparkling on each ride during the day.

It was hot during that trip, which explains the redness in my face.

Having emerged from the first trial of chemotherapy, my hair came back before I returned to work that year, but it returned with a different shade. My hair, once somewhere between light and a darker brown shade, was now black---especially in the back.

The days were sometimes long, but I loved being in California. Toward the end of each day, Ann and the girls and the little guys would start back to the hotel for their nap. I walked much slower than I did each morning, but I did it without help of a wheel chair or electric cart.

And to be completely honest, I always sat out a bit once we reached Downtown Disney. I wanted to bask a bit in the sound of street musicians and the smells of the bakery and restaurants. It was fun to see people moving about so peacefully, so happy and absorbed in fun.

But I had another reason for hanging back each day.

During the last trimester, when I returned to work, I taught a larger number of concurrent education classes for ISU. I had several thousand dollars in my pocket, and I used it on that trip squandering it on the boys.

I would enter the room each day with a bag of stuffed animals.

Jack posed with those in this picture. And their moms did the same as well. The trip was one I will never forget: something that you relish in your thoughts, something you hope to relive.

But you can't always return to something that special. It's what new adventures are all about in the continual process of living day by day.

It was a special time--a time before my cancer returned and before any trip to Disneyland required me to get a small motorized vehicle to move from one end of the park to the other.

Da Boys!

2012-01-22T03:57:00.000-08:00

The first grandchildren sometimes tend to be the ones that seem to dominate the pictures. You document every moment, every smile, every adventure. Then you become tired somehow.

I'm not sure if that is what happened, but regardless, I'm glad we took pictures like we did at the time.

I remember calling my mom when the boys were both one. They did the babble and goo thing when speaking, and raced about on all fours. It was what memories seem to be of for most parents and grandparents. What I said to my mom is this: it isn't that they are curious and into things continually. It's the fact, that they seem to be communicating with each other that is sometimes shocking.

The scooted about from adventure to adventure.

But there was always "down-time" in the evenings, when I held them on my lap and enjoyed the moment.

It's what you do only a few months after a doctor diagnoses you with leukemia and tells you to get your things in order.

He wasn't talking about cleaning the hospital room.

The picture still shows me recovering at the time, and it was a short period, before I made the attempt to return to work in my teaching career.

Lydia and Jeff were in Idaho Falls at the time. Jeff did work after medical school in two different offices, so it was a pleasure to have everyone home at the time.

I returned to work, and I'll never forget the day, when Lydia and Kristin surprised me at school by showing up with my two boys. I held both in my arms and strutted through the office area to show off my grandsons to the teachers.

It was a time when everything was so upbeat and positive. It appeared that I had beaten the odds and emerged victorious from the fight with the disease. Life is an illusion.

But there was still fun times to be had.

I had used all my sick leave days, so having applied to the "sick leave bank," I was positive that I had about a week or so to use, in case I needed them.

I often went to school sick and in pain.

When I mentioned that I didn't want to stay home, intending on using those days I "purchased" for the next year, if I needed them, my principal told me I had better check with the district's policy.

A quick call at the district office was maddening. They told me that I automatically lost those days, without compensation. It was not good news. I was angry.

We had planned a trip to Disneyland just after school. I was to lose the days, so I used them. My classes had a number of senior classes in English, so I didn't have to worry about them, and as for German, we finished ahead of the final two weeks, so it wasn't a problem either.

I used those days I purchased.

Before Tommy and Lydia and Jeff arrived, we spent some time at Hogle Zoo in Salt Lake City, where we bought the stuffed animal. The boys loved it. We took pictures and had fun the night before Ann and I left for Disneyland.

Lydia and Kristin would leave a day later on a plane. The boys sensed something was happening. They sat on my feet in front of my chair the night before we left.

Ann and I drove as far as Vegas the first night. The next morning found us at Disneyland early.

Ann booked a suite at California Resort in Disney Park. It was new at the time, and we "scored" an incredible deal.

It was one of the best trips.

And I will never forget the view from our room, which overlooked the pools and a bit of California Adventure Park.

The day the boys and Lydia and Kristin arrived in the van was fun to watch. Ann and I waited at the area for the shuttles. We spotted the boys immediately, and when they saw us, smiles swept across their faces.

Disneyland was new to them. Nothing had every happened to either of them like this before. And they shared the moments of the day together.

The girls had this "double" stroller by a company called Jeep. I'll always remember the boys and how excited they were to be there that day.

Each ride was an event.

Every new spot was an adventure.

It was a time when it didn't take a series of wrestling moves to get them on some of the children's rides in Fantasy land, although I have to admit that both have been good when it came to riding those rides.

They had favorites beside the horses. Peter Pan, Alice in Wonderland, Mr. Toad's Ride, and the little train ride near Dumbo were all hits.

The day began somewhere that would set the day. We took them on It's a Small, Small World.

If I have already blogged this into a short description, a second entry is proof of this: the trip was an incredible time, a once-in-a-lifetime thing.

Both boys clamped their hands on the golden bars on these horses. They wouldn't let go--even after the ride finished and others begin filing off the small area.

Each picture brings back so many memories for me, all of which are positive.

I was a trip to remember.

It was a simple moment in time, one where the favorite ride for the boys was playing in the curtains at the hotel.

Cles: The Dude, Who Continues Tradition

2012-01-21T01:58:00.000-08:00

Cles wears this Jethro Tull T-shirt in this picture. I bought one for him, when Ann and I saw the band play in Hamm, Germany. That concert happened during our last exchange there in 1999.

In 2003, our oldest grandson Jack joined our family. It was an incredible time, and from the beginning, he--like all of the grandchildren--learned about Cles.

In order to understand what happens here, you have to know about Aunt Connie. My wife's sister has this fun sense of humor, and one thing she always said to our children, when they were little was something that made Cles grin from ear to ear, even as a small child.

"Guess what?" Connie would wait for the little ones to listen intently.

"Chicken butt!" Lydia grinned this shy smile. Kristin was too young to understand what a chicken's behind had to do with anything, and even though it doesn't, she was too young to catch the joke.

Cles on the other hand would laugh uncontrollably.

Then there was the joke Ann's dad told each one of them.

"Whatever you do," he would tell them, once they were about nine or ten, "don't tell your mom I said this."

It's a study in human nature. "What's on the ground on Blueberry Hill," he would ask. I still imagine the smile that would spread across his face.

They would shake their heads before hearing the answer.

"Bird shit." Each one over the years would race to the house behind the store to tell their mom.

Now Cles retells most of those same things, although he has new ones too.

"What's abuttfer?" He'd wait to hear them shake their heads.

"Poopin,'" he'd say and cackle before his mom would remind Cles how the grandchildren would find themselves in trouble at school for sharing those family traditions.

It's part of what makes a family fun, or at least in our family it works that way.

This picture with Jack was an important one. He's wearing a shirt Cles wore as a little one.

Ann took this patch we found at a farm implement store and sewed it onto the shirt. Cles loved it. Before we gave the shirt back to Cles, we had to have this picture.

A Lesson Learned (But Not Completely)

2012-01-21T01:35:00.000-08:00

The memories of my dad being sick often are reminders of the fact, that I still have not come to terms with his passing.

I wish I could say, that eventually I will embrace the reality of his death and grasp the religious faith that leads me through so many difficult times, but it doesn't ever seem to ease the loss I feel.

I actually makes sense, because I still sense the loss of my grandfather, who died suddenly in his late 40's in 1956.

Although I was only a bit older than three years old, I remember him vividly.

You just forget the sound of their voice, or at least you think you do. Both have talked to me in dreams during the past 20 years, and each time I recognized their voice immediately. Maybe it was my musical background or something, but I've always been able to recognize the voices of old friends--or at least most of them. Exceptions are those, whose medical conditions altered the sound somehow.

It's interesting how old photographs say so much to me. The first one is of me and my mom in the late fall before my father's passing in February. I would travel to be with my dad on weekends. They spent time on the ranch, a favorite place. There was a connection we had with the land in a place, where my father and I spent so much time together.

But during those visits, my dad was just like he always was. He had a list of things that bothered him: specific chores that had to be done, nailing down the tin on a roof of a shed, finding various things he truly loved like the sleigh bells he once had hanging in the shed. Dad wanted those placed in the house, where in the next five to ten years someone stole them. I did the list of errands.

That fall of 1990 was a horrible year. Dad had been sick all summer. In late September, he called me to ask me if I couldn't please come and help him with some projects he was finishing.

I was under contract at Rigby High, and to make matters worse, I had a German Exchange at the time.

It was yet another example how those month-long experiences--one happening in the fall and the other int he early summer--were an horrible drain on my family, both emotionally and financially.

Within a week, I lost a transmission in our Ford Taurus, which only had 80,000 original miles. That was not much considering how we took care of our cars. I asked dad if there was anything I could use to get to work, while I had the transmission repaired. He didn't, and he seemed out of character. He had much on his mind, that he didn't tell me about in that phone call.

We bought the blue Chevrolet van, a Lumina, which basically is no longer something you see on the road.

The good news is that the engine and transmission had over 250,000 miles on it, before we sold it to someone else. Doors were the problem. We fixed the passenger and driver's doors at least 20 times each, the cost of a single repair was $100. We would wait for the last minute.

During Christmas shopping one year, the sliding door and front doors were out of commission. We actually had to arrange the packages, so that we could crawl through the hatchback at the rear. I hated that car.

But it was the one I purchase when my father was so sick. We drove every weekend to be with my father. In six months, I had almost 40,000 miles on that car, miles I never regret. It was an incredible blessing for us to spend as much time with my father as possible.

When I see this pictures of our family farm, it reminds me of that time.

Dad always took care of the ranch. He had reached a time, when he knew his cancer had returned. He just didn't tell us until the last minute. We figured there was no rush to repair it, since it would break again within weeks.

Like I said, it was a bad year.

I went deer hunting with my dad that fall. My son Cles went too, and that's when I noticed something was wrong. Dad was in extreme pain on the dirt roads on the farm. Every bump was something that drained him physically. He didn't get out of the truck, and even shooting his rifle hurt him.

He went in for surgery late that fall, and a doctor in Brigham City told us the news. In spite of any hope we had, the surgeon assured me there was only a short time left. His prognosis was correct, almost to the day. Truth is realizing that what they say about the messenger is true. I still hate that surgeon.

It's part of the irrational list of things you do, when you try to cope with tragedy.

Things are in constant change. The yards, in which my dad took so much pride, now are a collection of fallen trees that died in the last 20 years. Only a few remain. The lawns no longer appear as they once did. Fences are down.
The tin I secured during those weekends for my dad still remains intact, but other sections are no gone--tossed away by wind and storm. The roof buckled at some point.

Twenty years passed. In the fall of 2011, my mother had a massive stroke.

She speaks to us. She tells stories occasionally about life on the ranch, about life during those magical years, about chores and doing things at home and on the farm.

What remains is an incredible legacy. The love my mother has for my father is still evident in the sparkle in her eyes. He visits her in her dreams now and beckons her to join him.

They taught us to cherish our spouse, our soul mate. They taught us how to work, how to be honest, how to remember the importance of living according to the name we inherited from honorable and upright people.

LIke those dark days in 1990 and 1991, when we spent time with my father, we try to be as much with my mother as possible, but things change.

I now am two years older than my father, when he passed. My cancer affected me physically, limiting my ability to spend time at the hospital like I once did. It was a time, when we all slept in chairs in my father's hospital room, a time, when we were all in our 30's, a time, when our children were all at home. Grandchildren now live all across the country.

But our thoughts are always with our parents, and our prayers are with my mom at this difficult time.

So at this point in life, I find myself in a moment, where I find that I not only learn from lessons, but I also make some of the same mistakes.

I bought a horrible Ford and turned to two terrible General Motors cars. I spent a great deal of time with my father, and wished I could have spent more meaningful moments. I now realize that things are the same regarding my mother, except for the fact that I dropped in for a visit days before her massive stroke. She and two of my aunts were there. I was an evening I will always remember.

The Thing about Dogs

2012-01-14T20:18:00.000-08:00

When we first moved to Idaho Falls in the late 80's, the first thing I felt unbearable was not having a dog.

We had had an English Springer Spaniel since May of 1971. It was a dog I truly loved.

Then we bought several Blue Heelers. They were not only faithful, but the two of them also became quite protective in spite of their small size.

After being in Idaho Falls for less than a month, I found a sign on the wall of a neighborhood grocery store advertising Springer pups.

I immediately bought one. We didn't have a lot of money at the time, so the $100 was a bit of a hardship, but we did it anyway. We had a doghouse outside, so everything went well, and it went that way for 13 years. Then one night, I heard the dog outside making horrible noises. Without a doubt, having a vet put that dog down was truly one of the worst moments I have ever experienced.

My wife hated watching me that night, broken-hearted over the loss of that dog. A few years passed. One morning at Rigby High, one of the staff members dropped in with an English Bulldog pup.

I loved the dog. I would never have thought, that I would have taken to another pup so quickly, but I did.

That night, I told Ann about the whole thing. She was not thrilled about the idea, especially at the thought of having a dog inside, in spite of the fact that once when our Springer had been sick as a pup, she had suggested making him an inside dog.

In the guise of going to the mall, I took Ann to the pet shop, where the staff member and her husband operated a small business. Ann fussed over the dog a bit, but she began this mantra: "We're not buying a dog."

Then the owner placed the little pup in my wife's arms, and he licked Ann on the face. When we climbed into the car, Ann began talking about how we had to have the dog.

We brought him home during Christmas break, and I spent the entire vacation cradling that pup in my arms.

His name was Guido Maximus.

The first bulldog I ever experienced was one we saw at Mack's Inn in Island Park.
Ann and I were first married, and a family was there with the dog. When I told my father how we should get one, he asked why.

My father loved dogs, but his approach was a neo-pragmatic one. "Why would we want one?" he asked.

"He can't hunt." My dad didn't even consider it. The dog either had to hunt or help chase cows. There was not thinking about anything like that, and as for having a dog inside a house, that just wouldn't happen.

Then we had this encounter, over 20 years after I saw that dog in Island Park. He became an instant companion. He played with us. In fact, the dog loved to wrestle with me on the floor, running furiously in circles around the room getting momentum before jumping into my arms and pushing me to the floor. I still remember house guests laughing about the dog.

He had a few things that were annoying. From the time he was a pup, he had a shedding problem: something that some of his breed have. Others don't. It's not a universal thing.

However, he snored, he passed gas. It was like having a reincarnated version of my fourth grade teacher in our home, except for the fact, that I really loved that dog.

One thing I remember is that he also had another annoying personality trait. He fell in love with people's legs, gripping them with his front paws and doing that horrific "red-neck dog thing."

When Cles first brought Leslie to our house around that time, we had Guido. Cles would take him outside, and the dog would--in the words of my son--do that "damn thing" again.

Finally one day, Cles and Leslie, our future daughter-in-law sat in our house.

"Dad, why does he do that?" Cles seemed perplexed and annoyed.

I looked at him for a moment before answering. "It's because you're so damn cute," I said.

I still remember how Leslie laughed at that. I remind Cles of it from time to time.

It's stories like this that make memories. Guido was a great dog.

I cried when I had to give him to another family because of my fight against cancer. I couldn't risk the infection, that I might get from a scratch or anything else. Guido was another example of a great dog. He loved us, and we loved him as well.

And 2011 was a great year, because we finally were able to get another bulldog. My grandson named him Zero. It's kind of cute really, a character in one of my grandson's favorite movies was Jack, and his dog was Zero. It makes sense really, in spite of the fact that I wanted to have a few other options.

It's better this way. My grandson will have the same connection with dogs, that I grew to love and appreciate.

The Curse of the Quaking Aspen

2012-01-14T13:57:00.000-08:00

Having loved the mountains all my life, I found there was only one other thing that could have a similar effect on me, and that was the sound of water.

There were multiple ways of imagining the sound of water.

That's what you do when you grow up on a dry farm in desert country.

Massive poplar trees with their leaves in summer were a substitute. When I was young and had never heard the ocean, I decided that ocean waves had to sound something like that. It's not an adequate way to hear the tide, but it works when you are in high plains desert, where trees grow if you water them.

Although the real thing is much louder and more inspiring, the sound of wind blowing through those poplars still works, if I shut my eyes. The sight of green wheat--just weeks away from beginning to turn golden--gives a visual image. These were things that satisfied my yearning, until I saw the real thing.

Quaking Aspen were something else entirely, their sound was more like the drizzle of a spring rain or the song of a mountain stream. I loved haring the sound too, so when we moved into our new house, I had to have several small groves in the front, side and back. Poplars were out of the question. They have too many leaves that turn orange and gold and yellow. Yea, they have a great sound in summer, but raking leaves does not offset the silver lining I loved to hear.

I loved the "quakies," until I began having trouble with my sprinklers. It began simply, a $100 or a bit more repair each spring, but when I was sick in '03, it was a time when we didn't have a lot of money.

The bill that year for sprinkler repair was $400. Those doing the repair said that the next year's news would be two or three times as bad. The common root system of the trees in the three different small groves became a web beneath the ground, wrapping and constricting the water pipes. Pipes burst; sprinkler heads shattered. Entire sections had to have major repair. It was not a difficult decision.

I miss the trees, but I don't regret having to have someone remove them. The removal was $750, which is much cheaper than replacement of the entire sprinkler system the next year.

These photographs are what happened just after the removal and work in the yard to cover up stumps and other odds and ends.

Besides, the trees are much finer to see in their natural surroundings with songbirds and the scent of wildflowers.

Disneyland

2012-01-14T00:40:00.000-08:00

For me, the park was a special place, and after all these years, it remains a favorite spot.

It's because I think of things my own children enjoyed, so when I look at the faces of my grandchildren, I see that same joy.

I see the fun they have with their mom and dad, creating moments with their own family like I did with mine all those years ago.

The rides change, but most things remain to help you remember.

Not a trip goes by that I don't sit at the gate and enjoy the music they play. It helps me enjoy the beautiful Southern California weather, especially when my laptop tells me that drifting snow and ice haunt everyone in the Snake River Vally at any given time we are basking in the sunshine.

The time comes when children look at these photographs, and they remember little things. Sometimes it's from other trips there, but what is most important is the fact that you were together for a brief time having fun, laughing and enjoying special moments.

I don't know what it is, but with very few exceptions, something happens during the trip that can always potentially spoil the fun.

Sometimes I give in to the moment, and I get angry for a while.

Disney employees run the park like some people play boardgames--making the rules up as they go along.

It's frustrating, but that's why it's also an added benefit to have looked at a laptop before entering the park.

It gives you something to think about, something to be grateful for at that very moment in time.

Because when it comes to the end of any trip I've ever taken there, I immediately begin coaxing to go one more day. Sometimes everyone gives way to my obsession. We spend another day doing the rides, eating the churros, watching for Disney characters.

No doubt about it, it's a place that is fun to experience.

Finding Old Pictures

2012-01-14T00:14:00.000-08:00

Discovering old pictures is like finding buried treasure.

From the time Jack was a baby, one of his favorite foods was spaghetti. I've forgotten now how he called it, but it was something he enjoyed, and his passion for it is something he shared--on his face, in his hair, upon the floor.

That's the thing about being a grandparent. You really don't care about that. It's that sparkle in their eye, the passion they have for something they truly enjoy, and it's not because you didn't experience it, but it's because you forgotten how to enjoy something like that.

During one visit to Chapel Hill, North Carolina to visit Cles and Leslie, they laughed at Jack and the whole notion of his eating with his hands, but they also noticed how much he enjoyed the Italian dish.

Leslie's mom and dad arrived, and we all went to a restaurant. Jack ordered spaghetti.

At first, I think her parents were horrified at the scene, but they noticed what everyone else did: a little boy so involved in something, so passionate about something, that it was truly magical.

You wouldn't think that pasta all over a young boy's face would be like that, but it was, and we still smile at the memory.

Finding these pictures made it even more fun, because I relived the joy that we felt at that moment, and more importantly, we thought about other things we did during that trip to North Carolina.

Looking at pictures like this make you realize, that you often relive everything vicariously, and it's a good thing too, because old people with spaghetti on their face and in their hair is a sordid thing--not as weird as some things you see old people do, but it would make the top ten list on the Letterman show.

The pictures remind me of Leslie catching fireflies in her cupped hands for Jack in the evening. After shaking them, she would release them. The small light flew upward. "Tink!" Jack thought immediately of Peter Pan, one of his favorite Disney moments, because Disney moments are what we did during those early years, just as often as possible.

Although we took Jack and Tommy to Disneyland, when they were one, this trip is where Jack seemed to notice things, and in a strange way, I think he remembered the earlier trip.

This picture is a valuable one. While fighting my leukemia, Ann was concerned. My oncologist and friend told me that I had two weeks to two months, slowly I began making improvements, but he was still worried.

One day Ann told me that we needed to get away and go somewhere. Sun Valley came to mind, but when she asked me, I asked to for a trip to Disneyland. Jack and Kristin came along. It was a magical trip, maybe because you see the magic, when life is so fragile.

My doctor laughed when I told him initially about my desire to visit Disneyland. After our return home, he asked me what we did there. I think he expected me to say I sat in a wheel chair and listened to music and enjoyed the weather. His face completely changed when I mentioned Tower of Terror and the Indian Jones ride and Matterhorn. He laughed.

I miss hearing my old friend's laugh. He called me an eternal child. It's not such a bad thing, as long as I keep the spaghetti off my face in restaurants.

It's How Life Happens

2012-01-13T23:39:00.000-08:00

At the time, you always wish for the future--thinking how much better things will be at some point, when children are no longer a concern, that you seem to worry about day and night, when money is no longer a worry, that you seem to worry about day and night, when dreams, that you hope to see somehow appear.

In the first place, dreams don't appear like that, except in Disney animated films of the past. Then there is the thing about children. You never stop worrying. And then suddenly, they have children, and you worry about them.

We won't talk about money. Only Donald Trump seems to have a way of having everything he wants in terms of materialistic things.

Nothing is worth that bad hair cut.

Besides, if I had to change anything, I wouldn't. I came to a conclusion some time ago, that if I did, somehow things wouldn't be the same now.

Paradise is having a woman by your side you truly love and how truly loves you. Paradise is having grandchildren, whose eyes show the love they feel for you.

So when I see these pictures, my only regret is not enjoying every moment. We took them on a Sunday morning.

Our meetings didn't happen until later at that time, and I remember this Sunday. Our dog began barking ferociously. The English Springer we had seldom did that. He howled when sirens began, and that happened occasionally, given the fact a fire station was not far away.

Ann went outside, and in the top picture you could see the hot air balloons some people had. For whatever reason, they landed in the fields near our house. At that time, there were not a lot of homes in the area, so there was a large field near us, that didn't have any crops to be damaged.

It was a beautiful day. It remains an incredible memory.

I wish I had enjoyed it, like I enjoy every second of life now.

Volunteer Work

2012-01-08T01:54:00.000-08:00

I can finally write about a situation. A few years ago, a former supervisor and friend at the Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington D.C. called me.

I had finished the fight with cancer, and everything seemed to be going alright, although there were numerous medical issues connected to the chemo therapy.

This friend was very excited. "I've really got something for you," he said. "It seems to fit retired teachers with something still to offer." He told me how much he appreciated my presentations and my work in the years before my retirement.

During the very first meeting, I decided I would walk as much as possible to get my legs moving again.

That was not a good choice. I was a terrible color, and when I arrived at the museum for meetings, everyone could tell that pain was an issue as well.

To be honest, the new person, who supervised the group, feared I would have a heart attack during meetings or during any presentations I gave to teachers and students.

However, it was an incredible opportunity. I don't regret having done it now, because I always felt that teaching students about the Holocaust was vitally necessary in today's world--not just because they needed to know what happened, but also because I wanted them to understand how important it was to avoid making mistakes, that cultures made in the past: decisions that resulted in nations participating in genocide, either as bystanders or perpetrators.

I did workshops. The first one was a bust. Technology problems with a video link didn't work. The weather was very bad, and the tech people in Arizona never were able to connect to the live discussions in Washington D.C. It was the longest day of my life, but what can you say about Flagstaff, Arizona. I was never a fan of that state anyway, and that part of the state was really not something I enjoyed.

A workshop in North Dakota went very well. Everyone expected 25 participants. There were well over 80 there, and that was during early summer, when a major storm hit the area with high winds, heavy rain, and those crazy situations that pull up trees and damage houses in a minor way.

Another one in Reno went very well. That was my last workshop.

There is, however, one thing I didn't mention. The friendships I encountered while doing that work is so important, and I miss working with them. But I don't miss the meetings, except when my old friend would occasionally drop in to see everyone.

Times change. It's my time to enjoy life and spend it with wife, children and grandchildren. Life is too precious, and experience teaches me the same lesson every day: I can never spend enough time with family.

A grandparent can really make a difference. But it's more than that. I want each of my grandchildren to remember me. Nothing is more important than that. When they are old, I want to remember how I loved Disneyland, how I howled like a wolf, how I tickled them until they couldn't stand it any longer.

It's what you do when you're a Pop Pop.

A Call From Tommy (With Sammy Squealing In The Background and Anna Talking About The Pooh Ride With Sammy)

2012-01-04T11:25:00.000-08:00

Tommy's voice was so excited this morning, when I answered the phone. I knew they had been on their way to Southern California to visit Disneyland. Tommy told me how he could see The Matterhorn and Tower of Terror.

It's something i did with Tommy and Jack and Anna every time we went there with them together. It was a way of calming them a bit. "Who can be the first one to see the Matterhorn or The Tower of Terror." It always worked.

Tommy told about their agenda: Pirates was to be the first ride, eventually going to Jungle Cruise. And then he added this: "Oh yea, we'll go on Haunted Mansion." The boys never liked that ride, and it was a while before Jack enjoyed it. In fact, Jack hated the ride, until Nightmare before Christmas came in theaters.

It's a movie he loves. He even insisted on naming his dog Zero.

Anna, usually so quiet and shy was also talking loudly and laughing with Sammy. When Anna asked Sammy if she wanted to go to Pooh, Sammy's response was interesting. Her little voice made a quick response to something she thought was disgusting. Sammy obviously didn't understand that Pooh was a ride and not something you do each morning.

When Anna was Sammy's age, she loved the ride, and she coaxed to return continually. She did it in a fun way. "I wanna go Pooh," she would say. The reaction of people in the park was interesting. Some would jump out of the way, as if the act were like projectile spewing or something. It made me laugh. It still makes me laugh.

Before the end of the day, Sammy will understand.

"We got Three Day Hoppers," Tommy said proudly. He talked about how they would work their way to California Adventure and go to Soarin'. "And then we'll go on that Grizzly Bear ride," he said excitedly.

"You mean Grizzly Rapids?"Tommy answered me quickly, and I could tell he was absorbing all the sights I also loved--palm trees, flowers in bloom, trees with leaves. These are things you appreciate, when you live where snow falls until June.

"Yea, Tower of Terror. We'll do that one, and then we'll do Tower of Terror and . . . Oh, we'll do Soarin' on the way too."

There was also no question about getting a churro. It's a tradition we discovered in the early days of taking Tommy to the park.

There is no doubt about our experience at Disneyland. It a place with fun memories, not only those with children but grandchildren too.

There won't be any pictures on this blog until Lydia sends them in the next few days.

The top one is something she sent earlier today. I just found it. It's what I call a role reversal. Lydia squeals like a little girl. Anna looks calm, in spite of her hair showing the speed and twist of the ride. Anthony, an old family friend and his family, were also there.

I makes we wish we could have made the visit. But that's what happens, when you get a new pup for Christmas.

The picture at the right shows my two granddaughters, the only ones so far, enjoying a moment of refreshment: Anna with a healthy choice of juice and Sammy sipping her mom's Diet Coke, which she has done for some time now.

She usually grabs the cup with a "death grip" and takes a long sip. Sammy then looks up, eyes sparkling and mouth open wide. "Ahhh," she exclaims both loudly and passionately.

It's yet another thing that makes grandchildren so much fun. Each one has their quirks, their little funny things that make me smile. It's a time when quirks are cute. I have them, buy my Annie says they just make me weird. It's what happens when you become an old fart, besides the rug of hair on your chest and back and the masses of beard that appear in your ears and nose.

The universal question is "Why?" You would think that hair would grow in a spot, where it would be best, but it is the ultimate proof that our Supreme Being has a sense of humor.

The final picture is like every picture we took of all four grandchildren, an instant classic.

Sammy waits to meet Pluto, who stands with someone else in the background. As I remember, this was also a small spot in the park to get a meal, but it was a bit more secluded--a bit more comfortable.

The only thing I heard about the trip at this point was that the park was crowded.

This makes this spot necessary.

But crowded or not, every trip is a special one.

Sith Happens!

2012-01-02T00:44:00.000-08:00

When Jack was very young, I told him stories. For his nap, I would tell a "Disneyland" story and one Star Wars story. Within a year, he would make up his own, and on days, when I felt poorly, he would reverse roles.

Jack told the story. Pop Pop took the nap.

To make a long story short, I told him stories to get him calm before his afternoon nap, and again before he fell asleep at night.

During the summer of 2011, we made the trip to Disneyland. it was something we looked forward to this year. Disney reopened Star Tours, and the Lukas "bunch" put everything together.

On the first day of the grand opening, a group from Lukas was at Disneyland. We ran into them on one of the rides, and while waiting, Jack struck up a conversation with them.

They were very impressed with his knowledge of the films, but most importantly, they loved his ideas. He began telling them a story, and as he finished, he reminded them that he would have them work on his movie, when he made it.

The crew didn't hesitate. They expressed the enthusiasm for the chance to work with them. I laughed briefly, and then I noticed two things: first, they were serious, and secondly, I remembered that both Spielberg and Lukas began doing films at an early age.

The small picture is an example of the stories Jack would write, but in most cases it was a short storyboard. This time, however, Jack confused the letters and slipped with the word representing the evil side of those serving the dark side of the force. We laughed when he noticed he had written these words: Revenge of The Shit. Jack was mortified. It shows his innocence, his determination to do all things right, his avoidance of profanity.

It's Jack, who gets after Pop Pop and Gramma for using that very word when we drive or when we drop something or when something goes awry during the course of the day.

Even though it is something that we recognized as a mistake by our little grandson, we also recognized how fun it was to see it and keep it for future years. It's another thing about our Jack, that makes us smile.

A Few Thoughts On This Last Day Of 2011

2011-12-31T23:58:00.000-08:00

I took a group to Germany, one of the last I did in my hometown, and during the trip, two students were drunk at an activity. I sent them home. Berlin was a city, where it was not hard to find trouble, if a student looked for it, yet at the same time, they found plenty in the tiny town of Malad, which is no surprise. I grew up there too.

I'm not sure if it happens to all families, but mine tends to have years, where everything goes "weird." In the 80's, for example, I totaled two cars in two accidents, where students of mine T-boned my in accidents that could have been very serious. In both cases, the cars were rendered "a done deal." The last one was a situation, where it bent the frame of the car.
I had a lump appear on my left knee. Surgery was necessary.

Before a trip to Germany, I helped my dad assemble a spray rig to be placed in the back of our pick-up truck. As I hurriedly walked around one corner, the sunlight was just right, and I walked into a section. A sharp point punctured skin one-sixteenth of an inch above and below one eye. The wound was quite deep, and I needed stitches.

Doctors diagnosed my father's cancer.

It gets worse. One of those students was my nephew.

Our family had a difficult time with the decision that happened that year. An administrator forced me to adopt an impossible policy, one that was so forceful and strict, that I believe it actually made students more apt to make poor decisions. Sometimes people do things out of spite.

I was a fool. The school board liked the way I handled things previously, and they didn't want the new idea I felt forced to adopt. Things are sometimes not what they seem.

On the positive side, had I not made a move in '88 to the Idaho Falls area with my family, everything would have been different for us. There were so many opportunities for us to experience in the Idaho Falls area. Chances for Ann and for me to develop professionally.

You never know what will happen.

I'm not going to go into specifics about how horrible 2011 has been, other than I will say that Ann and I have had health issues--not serious ones as in the past, but nonetheless, they were significant.

Then my mother had a severe stroke. That has numerous complications as well. My sisters and I are at a crossroad. It's one, where everyone has understand what is most important, or better said, who is most important.

The rest of my family had difficult times too. It was not a good year. It was one full of car accidents and other horrible situations, that affected a niece and a nephew.

So on the Eve of 2012, I sit here and begin to think about the good things that I remember--some, that happened a few years ago and other things, that happened this year.

Some people do not understand our family's passion for Disneyland.

Television ads talk about it being a place, where dreams come true. Personally, I would never go that far, but it is a special place for my family.

It's a place, where we spent glorious times with my children. They represent a short time away from the madness at work, a short time with our own small family.

When I arrive there, I don't run from ride to ride any more. My only hope is finding an electric cart that offers speeds to get from one spot to another.

The music and the scent of food there are like I always remember. Prices are much higher, but for an instant, we rediscover what we once found there.

This year was one lucky enough to find us there three or four times.

A last trip last summer was the perfect conclusion for a year, when we actually planned to go one more time. I was not to happen. Too many things prevented it. My mother's stroke, tough financial times, sickness all made it difficult to do it without making life more
complicated.

Those visits in Reno were uncomplicated. I drive a diesel, so the seven hour drive is not one that is a financial drain. The $50 one way is not a problem, and food is actually cheaper there. We buy groceries. We cook. It makes for an incredible time.

What does a grandfather learn from a visit like this?

Tommy loves sports. His favorite football team is the San Diego Chargers, so any jersey I buy him will be that color, regardless of the fact that I hate the management there and their way of dealing with players and coaches.

Oh, and Tommy likes the Jets too, mostly because LaDainian Tomlinson--a former Charger running back--plays there.

We won't begin to talk about the Lakers, because I don't want to spend that much time on this blog, but if it's one that Tommy wants me to do, it will happen. For the record, I haven't liked the Lakers since the days of Magic and the other players of that time, and even then, I was a Celtic fan, so I rooted for the Lakers only if the Celtics and Jazz weren't in the running for the championship.

I know that Ann loves pink, that she still likes Hello Kitty stuff, that she enjoys clothes.

And I know, that like all my grandchildren so far, she is very intelligent and loves to read.

She is this fragile flower, so sensitive, so kind, so gentle in any way. Her grizzly bear Pop Pop would have a difficult time with the typical creeps that prey on little ones. I pray for her and Tommy and Sammy every night, hoping that God, in the Spirit of an old Celtic prayer, will hold them in the hollow of his hand.

You never experience the true meaning of love, until a little one recognizes you and suddenly wants to be close to you. I never experienced anything like that, until I became a parent, but as a grandparent, I was even more receptive to it.

You do that, when you don't have to worry about issues like making a living.

My goal during my years of fatherhood was being the world's greatest German teacher. I spent an unbelievable amount of time and money doing everything possible to enhance my language skills. I like to think I would do things differently now.

Sammy is an enigma, a pistol. She is one that is so fun to tease. Sammy has the typical Welsh personality, although there are also influences from Northern Europe as well. Viking blood runs hot.

While visiting in Reno, I discovered that Sammy--unlike my other grandchildren--has this Achilles Heel. Both my father and I could be rendered helpless by a person's simply grasping a foot and placing a finger between the big toe and the next one. While tickling Sammy senselessly, I discovered that.

She twisted and turned and squealed in laughter. Finally she grabbed her mother and bit her on the arm. I was one of those "you had to be there moments," but it was funny.

Did I say I loved to tease my grandchildren. Only Anna hates it. Ann is like that. Lydia is like that. It doesn't mean I don't tease the three of them at times.

To make things additionally interesting, Ann allowed me to be self-indulgent during one visit in late fall. We traveled to Yosemite, something I've wanted to do for 40 years or more. The pictures speak for themselves.

The year 2011 was in the words of Dickens--The Best of Times, The Worst of Times. What can you say about life. At 59, I no longer can do things I once did, but there is so much richness in family.

He has a joy that is infectious. His laughter makes everyone smile.

This year has been a great one, another super experience at school, where he has lots of friends. He has this support system with a young bunch of third grade "intellectuals."

Yes, they still believe in Santa Claus, and yes, they still love Star Wars and Phineas and Ferb. Jack wears T-shirts to school that are a mish mash of super heroes, galactic warriors, and a whole lot of Wimpy Kid stuff.

Like my other grandchildren, his personality was evident from the beginning. And Tommy was always his best friend.

It's a blessing to have Kristin and Jack in Idaho Falls. Every day brings something new. Moments like that make me smile. Jack doesn't understand, how when we talk about stories from his younger years, that it's a way of preserving what we cherish. The same is true of all my grandchildren.

To make things even better this year, we found out that we will have an additional grandchild to spoil early next summer--as if it didn't take a lot to get me to Virginia already. I miss it. I could live there permanently, but visiting is great too.

It's things like that early summer visit in Virginia or a visit to Reno in the spring that give me something to look forward to during the dark, cold months of January, when the hounds of winter have their way with us.

And speaking of hounds, yet another thing is great about 2011. It was the addition of our little Bulldog, Jack's new pet called Zero.

There are days, where he has these moments, short times when he nips and chews and craps and pees--all of which in times and places, where you least want it to happen, but like everything else in life, we love him anyway.

Maybe unconditional love is something you learn from dogs.

Malad Courthouse--A Treasury of Memories

2011-12-28T01:02:00.000-08:00

There were no handrails in the 60's, and I would have noticed something like that, and so would every young person in the valley. But since they were just a short ride, no one would have spent very much time sliding the full length of them.

That's what they did at the old Second Ward Chapel, but the railing was at least 15-20 yards in length, or it seemed that long.

The Oneida County Library was once in the basement of this building. I loved books, although I usually checked out books about planes and ships and other things. I loved the pictures and architectural drawings.

When I think about that tiny library in the basement, I think about my junior and senior classes with Joe Davis. The first class was U.S. History. Government was what we took from him our senior year, and for both classes, he required a lengthy research paper--something that not many teachers require, but most importantly, something that prepared me for college.

I think about Dr. Seuss. I loved those books when I was very young. And I think about my junior English class. Not only did Mrs. Zundel require a "critical paper," which compared and contrasted a number of short stories or novels or any combination of things like that. It prepared me for college too, and for those projects, I spent a lot of time in the county library, the high school library and the library at Utah State.

The rolling lawn was something that seemed more spectacular in the late 50's and 60's. We would roll down the lawn during any season. When we became bored with something like that, there was always something to do like visiting the Malad Drive-In.

It was also the place, where we had to roll eggs up the hill with our noses during the athletic club initiation. I think authorities call it hazing now. The losers were supposed to eat their egg, or if it burst into goo on the lawn another replacement.

But initiation was such a bad thing. When someone asked me to do something distasteful, I told them "where to stick it," and I don't mean I suggested they try to attach an egg to their nose and join in the fun.

There were fun parts of that night, except for the fact that our "masters" made us eat a raw onion like an apple. Then they stood us on the street of the town.

It was a time when young people went "cruising," even in a small town like my hometown. We had to stop every third or fourth carload of girls and kiss everyone in the car. I didn't refuse that, and I certainly didn't see it as distasteful.

The night in late fall was fun. Anything I did was something that still makes me smile. On the southern side of the court house, a small Presbyterian Church still stands. It had a prominent bell. It still does, according to what I remember seeing on my last visit to the area.

During our junior year, when some classmates and I went through that whole initiation thing, that you had to do to become members of the high school's athletic letterman club, a small bunch of us decided to ring the bell one.

The evangelical minister was interesting. He liked to do a bit more than drink at night. In fact, occasionally he really "tied one on," which means he drank a large amount, which usually led most Welshmen to "howl at the moon." He wasn't Welsh, so he seemed quiet for the most part, unless of course someone rang that bell. And since he wasn't Welsh at all, we just recognized the fact that the man was what we as young people called "shit faced."

His words slurred. Thank goodness for that, because hopefully no one under the age of thirty heard his language.

It was after nine o'clock at night. We climbed up the metal frame, which had a couple of layers of barbed wire to prevent "young characters" from ringing it after hours. The wire didn't work. It just made things more fun. It just made it more of a challenge.

We began ringing the bell. The response shocked me, because I'd never heard "a man of the cloth" use farm boy "lingo" like that. Then he threatened to call the Oneida County Sheriff. That did the trick, because we took off momentarily. When no officers arrived, we returned. The second time, the minister really brought out "the heavy guns." He used words I'd never heard an adult use before, except the drill sergeant in charge of my group at Boy's State the summer after my junior year. We had this huge water balloon fight that nearly escalated into a brawl, so the military dudes were on their toes that night. Ours stood on a balcony on the third floor. I let one fly, and unexpectedly, it hit him in the head. We were young. He was on the third floor, so we ran into the shadows while he artistically began creating nouns, verbs, adverbs and adjectives that was amazing to us.

From the shadows, we waited before dashing to another entrance to the dorm.

As for the shouts from one of Malad Valley's alternative spiritual advisors, I couldn't resist when I heard him. "Bless you too father," I shouted. My friends laughed. He continued another brief verbal frenzy, and then the adult seemed more sure of his steps. He retreated into his house. Within minutes, sirens were howling and lights were cutting through the darkness. We ran down the hill toward a bridge by the service station now known as Ekstrom's Auto Repair.

I miss youth. On that night, we tripped through metal junk and other things that blocked our way in the darkness, and we hid under the bridge. It was fall. The water was cold, but it was only six or seven inches deep on one side. We waited there for about 20 minutes, and then we decided we'd driven that poor minister to heresy enough for one night.

We went home.

The memories of youth still make me smile. You only live once, and besides, men almost in their 60's can't hurl water balloons or taunt ministers without someone questioning an adult's sanity.

Don't Mess With Sammy (Because She's A Dancer)

2011-12-25T19:06:00.000-08:00

Lydia sent this Christmas clip, which is so fantastic. I had to add it to my blog.

Artists In The Family

2011-12-12T09:47:00.000-08:00

It's easy to be proud of my grandchildren. They have so many interesting gifts: they do extremely well in school, excelling in reading and math and science. I liked to read and loved writing, but math and science . . . Well, let's just say that there were no deluded thoughts I had of becoming a scientist.

In fact, my choice to study Geology and become a geological engineer was something that would never happen, because I couldn't do math.

My grandchildren won't live under limitations like that.

I love that kind of idea. And Anna won't have a math professor place her and any other female students in the back of the class, since women didn't need to do well in a class that didn't prepare them for baking cookies.

So much for growing up in the 60's, when things should have been different.

By the way, any math skills or science skills had to come from Ann. I not only hated math, but I disliked the teacher, who taught advanced math, chemistry and physics at my high school, even more than the passionate way I disregarded those subjects.

Tommy did a picture too, and it is incredible how creative both Tommy and Anna are.

Jack loves movies, and his pictures are a way of sketching a story he has in his mind. Since he was small, he would tell "Star Wars Stories." I may have encouraged it, because before every nap, I told him a story like that, making it up as I went along, and I also would tell a Disneyland story, about any trip we had taken to the park.

So now Jack creates story boards, thinking how he will develop a plot.

When we visited Disneyland, just after they reopened the Star Tours ride, the people working for George Lukas were there, and we ran into them. Jack entertained them with his ideas, and then he told the adults, that when he made his movie, he would hire them.

The adults were fascinated and told him how excited they would be to work with him.

My grandchildren amaze me. I brag about them. I wallow in their achievements, their hobbies.

It's what you do, when you are a Pop Pop.

Our Christmas Pup

2011-12-12T09:30:00.000-08:00

We had to give a family our last English Bulldog. The dog is one we received during the Christmas Holidays, and he was very little, when we first brought him home. In fact, he was too little--about six weeks old.

Ann and I cradled him in a blanket and held him like a small infant.

When we purchased him, I had to force Ann to go to the pet shop, where the breeders had a business in town. She refused to look at the little guy or hold him, but then the owner put the pup in her arms, and he licked her.

"He kissed me," she giggled. As soon as we sat in the car, she began saying that we were going to buy the dog. He was in our home a short time later.

I played with him on the floor. He was like a member of the family. Then came my cancer. Ann was nervous about my getting an infection, because our dog Guido Maximus wanted to jump into my lap. He wanted to play with me, and he would stand in front of my chair and paw at me with his one paw. He did it gently, but the nails were sharp.

We had to find a family to take him. It was like losing a member of the family.

Ann refused to think about getting another dog.

A family had some boxer pups, and one was incredible, but she refused to get out of the car. There would be no more of this "having a dog kiss her type thing" to get another pet.

Then Jack did something, because he desperately wanted to have a pet. He played with the neighbor's cat in all types of weather, sitting on the porch in front of our house. The other neighbors had a boxer pup, and the dog would sit on our front lawn waiting for Jack and me come out to give him some attention. But the ultimate was a note he slid under my wife's door, while she worked on some important papers for her job she does in schools. It sealed the deal, but Ann was still just a little upset by the whole idea.

Then the breeder sent this picture. It was like the kiss that our last dog Guido gave her in the pet store that day. She is as excited as Jack about the pup, or maybe as excited as Jack.

Pop Pop is excited too.

When The Dudes From "Yummy Meats" Come Knockin'

2011-12-07T07:49:00.000-08:00

When Lydia visited us the last time in Idaho Falls, everything went as usual. We had fun, played games in the evening, spoiled grandchildren and most importantly, we either went to a movie or watched something on TV in the evenings.

I'm not the type of person, who enjoys being rude. Oh, did I really say that, because there are actually times, when it is fun. There's something about the look on a person's face, when they say or do something incredibly stupid, something especially rude. I am a Christian, but sometimes I feel that being a good member of the order means helping Karma find it's way to those, who really deserve it.

What can I say other than emphasizing the shit really does happen. You hope it happens more often to those who deserve it.

But it doesn't. Look at Donald Trump. Making billions of dollars allows him to live in kitsch with a very bad haircut. I could never get away with that. Well I do have a bad haircut, but I'm not even half as rich as The Donald.

One night about 7:00 in the evening, a knock happens at the door. I put the movie on pause and listen to the voice. Kristin answers. She is the nice person in the family.

A representative from "Yummy Meats" is there, and as usual, he says that we are so lucky to find ourselves being disturbed by him. Why he was in the area to deliver meat, and someone wasn't home, so he has a deal for us.

I've had that deal before. I mean I am old and all, and I know that politicians think it's alright for me, as a retired person living on my pension and Social Security payments I supported all my working life, to eat canned meats made especially for dogs and cats living in Beverly Hills, but that doesn't mean that I intend on doing that. And I won't do "Yummy Meats" for that reason.

Kristin tries to tell the nervy salesman we're not interested, but he won't listen. He's pushing to get into the house to fill my freezer with the crap he has in a large box on his shoulder.

The TV is already on pause. "We're not interested," I say loudly turning toward the door.

"But you have to try this." The sales dude tries to give me his "Spiel," but I've been on that road to nowhere before.

"No, we've already eaten your product, and it isn't good, and it's twice as expensive as anything in a store."

The salesperson tries to interrupt. Lydia puts her hands over her ears. "I'm not hearing this," she says out loud. "La. La. La. La." Lydia is singing this weird song in a monotone, something I've not heard before, but she's singing loudly, and then she repeats herself. "I'm not hearing this."

I'm still being me. "Bye now," I am still looking over my shoulder and talking loudly. The salesman is still trying to get past he front door to my freezer. "No, go away now! We're really not interested in your poor quality product.

Lydia still has her hands over hear hears, and she puts her head between her knees, which press firmly trying to drown out my comments. I hear her mantra: "La, La, La, La."

The door shuts.

"Oh, my gosh Dad," she says. I put the movie back on play. She laughs. She shakes her head from side to side. Kristin joins us to watch the movie. They smile at each other, which leads me to believe, that I have become like the two old guys in the balcony in The Muppet Show.

But at least I don't have to eat "yummy" steak or chicken or whatever it is, when I can't tell the difference.

A Hat No Redskins Fan Would Wear To The Stadium

2011-12-07T07:11:00.000-08:00

The thing that makes memories of young children so magical is the way they pose for pictures. They have no inhibitions, no agendas.

You don't see them having to have a certain article of clothing that they see on TV or something worn by a favorite pop store or athlete.

No adult, especially a Redskins or Vikings fan, would wear a Donovan McNabb jersey, and most would prefer to wear a "new"Mad Hatter hat, the one worn by Johnny Depp in the last movie instead of this old one that was identical to the one in the early Disney film, which played in theaters when I was young.

The fact it was a movie I saw as a child could also mean that it basically was something even my parents saw as children. Later I found that to be the case with a movie like Bambi.

The notion of Bambi is something I find interesting, especially given my family's passion for deer hunting.

However, the fact remains. I love it, that I can get Jack to pose like this for a picture.

Sammy Goes Weeeeee!

2011-12-05T13:42:00.000-08:00

While in Layton visiting my mom, Sammy enjoyed walking with Pop Pop and Grandma. We grip her hands firmly, and then we swing. She raises her legs a bit. Swinging back and forth as we walk makes her giggle.

It's this fun game we've played for a while.

She's outgrown the other games she and I played: the tiger growls, the wolf howls. Things change so quickly, and suddenly little ones think they're too sophisticated to play along with strange adults, who try to do something that is now "beyond them."

Jack and Tommy now are fussy about the animated films we once enjoyed. They are now for little kids. I try to tell them that they are both only eight years old, but after all, they are both third graders now. They remind me of that often.

And Anna, she once had an imaginary friend by the name of Ema. Yes, Ema's name only had one "M" in the spelling. The name appeared on a small chalkboard near our phone during one of the summer visits, when Lydia and the kids come to entertain Kristin, Grandma, Jack and Pop Pop.

We left the name on that board. This summer, I asked Anna who Ema was, while pointing at the name she once had written on the small chalk board. Anna shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably. Her eyes glanced about, and then she looked at the floor.

She was now sophisticated too.

It's a disappointment to see my little ones grow older. But I still enjoy them. It is, after all, five years before the oldest two become teenagers. That is a dark time, a time when tremors seem to affect "The Force."

Enjoying them and each moment is what counts right now.

Please Pass The Defibrillator

2011-12-05T08:49:00.000-08:00

The mobility issues I have as a result of radical chemo therapy are a major factor in the way I live. I do my best to walk, but my joints hurt, and if I walk a long distance, it taxes me physically. I had a couple of times when I took those walks, and it really bothered people.

"Your face looks gray," they told me. Their eyes were large, and they felt uncomfortable. It wasn't that they didn't like "hanging out" with an old fat guy. The issue was simple: it scared them to death that I would have a heart attack or something.

On one occasion, I told a group of people I met in DC, that I didn't dare fall asleep during a meeting, because I feared I would awaken to sirens and a small squad of people, who after tearing open my shirt, would slap a defibrillator on my chest.

I even told them my concern was it might trigger smoke detectors in the building when my hairy chest caught fire during the course of the electric shock. No one thought it was funny. They didn't even crack a tiny smile. But as usual, I laughed. I always react that way to my own jokes.

My son always had a way of taking a picture that was not what you wanted, and I probably taught him that tendency. When we first bought a movie camera with great sound, we filmed Annie snoring on the couch.

Was it funny? Oh yes, it was funny--hilariously funny, but my Annie senses something like that. It's like this superpower she has, when someone makes a remark about snoring. But the sound of a movie camera was fain, but she roused out of a deep sleep.

I caught hell, big time. What made it even more complicated was my son's cackling.

Karma is a funny thing. Almost twenty years later, my son caught this wonderful photograph at the rehabilitation center, where my mom stays trying to recuperate from the effects of her stroke. Finally, I don't see humor in it either, and I now understand why my wife was angry about being filmed. I obviously don't have any superpowers of hypersensitivity.

I guess I'm pretty much insensitive. Maybe that's my superpower.

But one thing about it. My wife is cute when she snores, and there's nothing cute about my picture, but at least I didn't sleep with my eyes half open as I sometimes do.

It's scary. The reality of sensing the smell of burned hair on that day in the lobby would not have been funny. I guess those people in the meeting were right on track.

Sad Times in A Pathetic Year

2011-12-03T02:13:00.000-08:00

I don't know what it is about my family, but the Ward family sometimes has years, where everything goes poorly. I'm not just talking about complaining about little things here.

My son reminded me that in the midst of one of those years, he was in the truck with me and my father on the way to the ranch, something we did every Saturday during winter.

My father sees this black cat on the roadside, and he says out loud: "If that thing crosses in front of us, we're going home and going to bed for the rest of the day."

It didn't. We drove to Snowville and fed cattle, which we would have done anyway. My father was never superstitious. It was just a random comment about the type of year we had.

I totaled two cars, injured my knee and had surgery, walked into a spray rig and punctured the skin deeply a fraction of an inch below and above one of my eyes. My dad struggled with health issues. Our crops succumbed to drought, and then grasshoppers arrived. It was like something biblical.

This year has been that kind of year. Our family is larger now, but it began to happen the same way. During the worst part of those times, my mother had a massive stroke. Life, as we knew it, will never be the same.

After my mom's stroke, Lydia and Cles came to visit. It was the first time in over five years, that we were all together. I just wish I had worn something besides sweats and the shirt I had that day. But no one notices, because the smile I have on my face in the large picture looks like a scene from Dennis The Menace. You know. It's that scene, where the small boy plays with Walter Mathau's character meanly. The little guy drops false teeth into the sink. The two front teeth breath away and go down the drain. The little Dennis character then finds a replacement: chiclets gum. When a newspaper photographer comes to take a picture for the local paper, Mathau smiles with those chiclets.

He looks like Bugs Bunny. Take a gander at my picture. For family members, please strike me in the head with a medium sized rock if I smile that way again for a family picture.

The time was tough. It was difficult to think of something to allow yourself to smile, although our youngest granddaughter Sammy did that for us.

She ran and played. We teased and had fun with her. In spite of everything that happened during those weeks in October, the afternoon was nice to find us together again.

My mother told me the next day how much the visit meant to her at that time.
Sammy was beside herself that morning. She is at an age, where it is difficult to understand, why adults want her to sit still. It just doesn't happen easily, and in trying to get a picture, it's more like a wrestling match, that Sammy wins each time. She twists. She turns. She kicks her legs.

It makes the other children laugh. Why, it makes me laugh too.

The last few minutes involved getting Lydia and Jeff ready to go. Sammy ran about in the parking lot. I think Lydia sincerely believed that it would be a way of wearing the little one down a bit, but Sammy doesn't work that way. I wish I had that kind of energy, that kind of mobility.

The moments to take pictures were too brief. Sammy stretched the time a bit, something I appreciated at that time. Time passes so quickly when we are together like this. Even in situations, when the stay is more than five days, it skips by too quickly.

The three little Zollingers climb into their rental van. Pop Pop then performs the ritual. "Let me help you with the seatbelt I assure them. With the click, I begin to tickle each one. Making sure that not one of the three feel slighted, I tickle them, until their squeals and laughter satisfy me.

Lydia and Jeff pull out. They stop briefly. Sammy is squealing. She hates being strapped into a seat. "The fun now begins," she said. Lydia smiled bravely. Jeff grinned too.

Cles pulled out in his orange Dodge Charger rental. As quickly as the visit began, everyone was gone.

Life is like that.

That is the way I view my mom's tragedy. Shortly before my birthday, I stopped in for a visit in Malad. I intended to stay only 30 minutes. Four hours later I left for Idaho Falls. It was late when I arrived home, but within a few days after my birthday on October 27, my mom had a stroke and lay helpless on her floor for almost 10 hours.

I feel horrible about it. It's been that kind of year. But I am so glad for the time I spent with her just before my birthday. And I'm glad I had time to enjoy family that weekend in Ogden at the rehabilitation center, where my mom works so hard and so bravely.

I'm also happy that I kept the card my mom gave me the night of my last visit in Malad. It will be something I will always keep to remind me just what a difference she made in the lives of our family.

Life is so short. Those we love are with us such a short time, and then as quickly as we watch others age, our turn also arrives. A time when you move slowly, when you love life more than it seems to love you.

The Idaho Falls House Husband, Pretending To Have Had Extensive Facial Repair

2011-12-03T01:11:00.000-08:00

You have to understand one thing about me. I detest reality TV, but I watch it to spend time with my wife and occasionally either one or both of my daughters. It still doesn't change the way I feel, and sometimes they ask me to go into the other room.

They're nice about it. It's not like they talk to me like a dog or anything. They don't say this: "Go on! To to your room!" But they do make me understand that they really don't want to know my feelings about men wearing pink boas or whatever or women having had so many facelifts that their forehead looks like the top of a snare drum.

I still have noticed however, that some of them have issues with smiling. The reconstruction is so extensive, that they either look like some large house cat, or they can't smile normally.

With this blog, I seek to recreate what I saw on the Wives of Orange County or whatever the snobby bimbos in LA call themselves.

I wanted to stretch the skin on my face, but I'm like one of those Chinese dogs, and since I don't want to pull back on my ears until they meet at the rear of my head, I figure I'll just have to have those nasty wrinkles--something those women don't have.

In order to recreate the moment seen on TV, I even told myself a joke. It's easy for me, because I've always been able to laugh at my own humor. It's a sign of a healthy self-concept, although my wife once told me it is actually a sign that I'm the only one, who thinks I'm funny.

So I smile, and for a moment, I wish I were in sunny California, not in the sprawling home of a bunch of socialites, but on Main Street Disney.

My New Picture of Annie

2011-12-03T00:56:00.000-08:00

Ann bought me a new camera for Father's Day a few years ago, and I instantly began making the same mistake I've made for decades: taking pictures of landscapes and things rather than people.

It's a natural thing for me to do actually. We all are creatures of habit. My family farmed, and we seldom took time to take pictures, except for holidays. Even then, the pictures were very rare.

For many years, the camera we had in our family was a Kodak Brownie. My parents bought that for me as a gift, and although I took a few pictures of family members, most of them were landscapes.

Somewhere in my mom's house are stacks of pictures I took in Yellowstone. I keep hoping I took some family photographs, but I doubt that I did. It's a sad commentary.

I began to change. It's because I noticed that I didn't have any pictures of my wife. We have done so many things together, and in spite of our being together for the better part of three decades and slowly approaching a fourth, I don't have many photos to show a sample of those times.

A few summers ago, I tried to take pictures of Ann, but she would hide her face or turn her head. It just wouldn't happen, which I found amazing, since my wife always loved being in a picture, when we were young. Ann was the one who made us smile.

Today was a good day. She returned from her contract work for ISU. She enjoys it. It's a way of staying in teaching by helping schools cope with new changes. She looked beautiful, like she always has, so I took some pictures.

She still has those chocolate chip eyes, that often sparkle with mischief, and regardless what she may say or tell others, she loves to tease me with different things during the day. She makes life better by being there.

That's what you look for in searching for someone to marry.

It's why we've been together since May of 1974.

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

2011-11-01T14:33:00.000-07:00

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

2011-11-01T12:00:00.000-07:00

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

2011-11-01T07:36:00.000-07:00

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.

Doin' The ET Moonwalk

2011-10-12T15:14:00.000-07:00

There is something about grandchildren I find so fun. Only my wife gets away with teasing about certain things. Anyone else would catch "it" for doing something like that. Even my own children never were able to tease about the way I walked or other various things.

When Jack and Tommy were about two, both boys followed me down a hallway. Being where they were, I failed to understand family members laughing themselves silly.

After asking, Ann told me they were walking like ET.

"What?" I asked. Then Ann shuffled along, leaning to extremes from side to side as she walked. Suddenly both boys did it again. I joined in the laughter.

What can you do? I mean--it's easy to take something personal from an adult, but children have this pure heart that makes it impossible to see anything vicious in what they do, especially when it comes to your own grandchildren.

The my youngest granddaughter did it one morning. I did my morning howl, growled and chased her down a hallway. She ran quickly toward the kitchen and living room, where she stood my everyone.

Suddenly, she extends her arms, and opens her mouth widely. I expected her to growl, but she leaned from side to side. Yes, another grandchild did the ET thing.

And it's OK, until she reaches the age of seven or so. Then I won't laugh as loudly.

The Day We Left For Home

2011-10-11T22:56:00.000-07:00

Saying good-bye is never an easy task. The last visit was the first time that little Sammy understood what waves meant. As we drove away, it was if a tiny cloud passed across her face.

This visit was different. What makes it so is the realization, that we can visit any weekend, especially the long weekends--ones that mean that we have Friday free and possibly the following Monday too. Those are the super weekends.

Not seeing these little ones for an entire year, while they were in Florida was more than difficult.

So saying good-bye is not hard now like it was last year. When we said farewell last October, we were in Virginia.

It meant that not only was I saying bye to three grandchildren for an entire year, but I would get back to Virginia any time soon either.

It's interesting what difference a year makes. We will see Cles and Leslie in the spring. We'll see Lydia and Jeff and the little ones on some long weekends.

And Kristin and Jack are still in Idaho Falls. There is comfort knowing these things. It's what makes life enjoyable, and more importantly, it's what makes time enjoyable. I can withstand Idaho winters knowing that springtime and open roads means travel to see family

Visiting Grandchildren--Doctor's Orders

2011-10-11T22:48:00.000-07:00

In the week before we traveled to see family, I saw my oncologist. I've had so many problems since late July, and it seemed like after a six week situation, where Wound Care in Idaho Falls treated something that wouldn't heal on the front of my right lower front calf, I feared my doctor would recommend we stay home. It didn't happen.

The trip seemed like it took forever, and even though they visited us the week before in Idaho Falls, I couldn't wait to get there. It's ironic that before the birth of my oldest granddaughter, I sat up nights without being able to get to sleep. For me, it was a concern that my new little one would never remember me. My grandsons were two at the time, and I thought my magic had been enough for them to think of Pop Pop at Disneyland and other spots, where we had so much fun together, before the second fight with leukemia AML began.

I asked both grandsons a few years ago, if they could remember those incredible trips we took to Southern California when they both were so young. Neither remembered.

It's funny how things never quite work like you think they will. Now they are both eight, and they have spent more than just a little time with me. My oldest granddaughter is the same. She just began going to school this year.

Kindergarten is the age that my youngest daughter was, when my father died. She remembers little about my dad. My oldest two children remember so much, but Kristin doesn't. That's what haunted me about my little ones.

At least I know the three oldest will remember me, but I'm working on memories with the youngest.

While visiting, I howl like a wolf. I do animal sounds. I even resort to the peek a' boo thing at times, shaking my cheeks and making strange sounds. Our little one giggles. "Pop Pop's funny," she says.

Without exception, my sweetheart adds her take on the subject. "Sammy, grandma's known that for a very long time."

I can do funny--ha ha or other wise. As long as these little ones have fond memories of me and what I was to them, it's what matters. There is nothing as priceless as the smile on one of their faces, unless of course it's the love in their eyes they show me when I hold them.

Their grandma has shown me that look for decades. Knowing someone loves you like that is a priceless gift.

The Trip to Mammoth Hot Springs

2011-10-02T23:39:00.000-07:00

What can I say more about this day. It was full of beautiful clouds amid a sea of blue. The temperature was comfortable. Grandchildren are always fun to be with on a road trip, even if a bit of teasing occurs occasionally. It gives adults something to laugh about years later.

Jack's comments, Tommy's annoying noise, Anna's timid voice are all things that make each one interesting. The fun they have together is evident in how much noise eventually resounded in the car just after arriving at Mammoth.

What made the day complete was hearing elk bugle. Our day in Yellowstone on Friday September 30 was one to be remembered. We didn't try to see everything, but what we find was so much fun, so breathtaking.

Rock Climbing

2011-10-02T19:56:00.000-07:00

I could not go to Blast Off! the day Lydia took this picture. For me, it's fun to see grandchildren enjoy something so much, but it was also important to take care of some nagging problems I've had with my legs.

My physical condition is not what it was when I was young, not even like what it was when I was moderately old and in between.

For me, it's difficult to climb out of a chair in front of the TV.

It's fun for me to watch something like this vicariously. I know it's not like seeing Tommy do it "live," but it's better than just trying to imagine it myself.

I have no common reference. Tommy doesn't have to struggle to get to his feet, push himself up to a standing position, and then wait until knee joints stop makng the Rice Krispie sound: snap, crackle, pop.

Even then, I wait and stagger above the large leather chair, knowing that if I fall, I plunge into a large piece of leather furniture. It's like the way I sit down, just a different direction.

So Tommy, my hat is off to you, and it's fun to see you climb like this--as long as you don't do any of that free climbing without the harness and spikes I saw on 60 Minutes tonight.

Just thinking of someone climbing up a rock cliff 2000 feet straight into the air made me ache, but I ache pretty much all over anyway.

Road Trips

2011-10-02T19:46:00.000-07:00

It's always interesting how Yellowstone affects me. After I arrive, I forget all the irritating things of the normal day--drivers with cell phones, extremely old people in motor homes.

Sometimes even conversation becomes difficult, so grandchildren invent something.

"He's touching me!" There's an annoyed tremor in the voice, and when I turn around, a grandson is tickling my granddaughter on the neck.

We correct it. Suddenly, my grandson's voice appears: " "Tell Anna to stop hugging me." Tommy's eyes fill with mischief.

"I'm not." Anna's voice quakes a bit, and then she starts to cry. Jack feels indignant and has to make things right. He wants justice.

"Tommy's just saying that."

I understand. I had sisters, and when I wasn't saying or doing something to irritate them, I said or did something to get them in trouble. They learned the skill well, and they often found the tactic to be a weapon--especially on long road trips.

My dad understood classical conditioning. We'll let you listen to your music Jon, but you can't tease. My heart pounded. I handed a cassette of Deep Purple or The Who. Midway through the fist song, one of my sisters would cry out, even if I didn't say or do anything. I could feel them smiling at me first. Anger swept across my face.

"I'll get you good," I'd say. I always mouthed the words clearly, just so they could not mistake my meaning. But they knew they had me. Dad gave me one warning without saying anything. He hit the eject button. My next movement was almost involuntary. I felt the need to put my arms behind my head to stretch. I would slap both, just to get the right sister.

He's going to hit us dad. My father would give a brief stare. I recognized the look. It meant my dishing out karma would have to wait. We drove in silence. Then he would put in something he liked.

I always had "chick music." They were cassettes from bands like Bread or music of Neil Diamond. Dad liked all that. I preferred Neil Diamond. My dad's singing the words "Jeremiah was a bullfrog" was too much for any road trip. And besides, he teased me too. As soon as he noticed it bothered me, he began singing. He missed the words on purpose to.

These are things you think about when you experience a road trip with grandchildren. Maybe it's karma. I like to think my dad is sitting next to me in spirit, enjoying me grit my teeth when little ones begin to become restless.

It's why I think of Neil Diamond and Bread when we drive to Yellowstone.

Being Young Means Learning About Absolute Truth

2011-10-02T08:50:00.000-07:00

Adults always talk about the sunset, bathing the sky in tones of orange and reds and yellow with brushstrokes of blue and purple and pink on edges of clouds. Distance is sometimes the thing, because age teaches you to note the scene in memory. It's about remembering something like that, but more importantly, it's about hoping that rediscovery is just around the corner.

I remember having to wait for the right pose, sitting on steps or on a gravel driveway. There you stand for minutes that seem like hours. And people ask you to smile, while looking into the sun that still seems so blinding, so imposing, so threatening.

But you do it anyway.

It's about having a picture, and even that concept is one you never understand until you smell like old people. You arrive at a time, when suddenly you wish there were things to remind you, when you you able to run without getting tired or without finding something like arthritis pain.

Pictures are tokens. But if you're lucky, you keep them. It's like being on a toll road, except you keep the coin for ice cream, and the picture is a way of taking into account the whole trip.

Yes, looking into the sun is not a fun thing, but that's what being young is all about in situations like this. They say "Smile!" A young mind suddenly wonders just what is so funny or so interesting--especially looking into that distant star.

But then suddenly one might stop. A sober look spreads across their face, and suddenly they say this: "Hey, we're like Luke Skywalker, except we're only looking at one sun instead of two." Luckily, my three little ones didn't think they had to smile half as much, since their experience was only half of what Skywalker saw on that desert planet scene.

Flying in Darkened Skies

2011-09-29T15:45:00.000-07:00

Puffs of Michelangelo wander across a summer sky
like old friends. They cast no reflection
earthward, just shadows. Beauty has consequences.

I heard a small clutch of sparrows flutter toward
branches of scrub brush. Nature's niche
became their sanctuary. Joy in their song seemed complete.

Beauty has consequences.

Feathers whisper, then shout the secret
in rhythmic retreat: a vision upon
an open hillside at dusk. Their flight bounces
effortlessly. They seek. They find.
Fading light frames the picture.

Beauty at dusk begins what midnight finishes. A gentle rain
softens light in fingers that extend from clouds. Stacatto voices
abound in small puddles.

Islands appear amid a sea
of dusty summer soil. Raindrops dimple maiden faces
with tiny domes.

Beauty has consequences.

I dream of the blanket of night sky to come
when time
allows me to wallow in moments. Hear the sound
of breezes in isolated hollows. I look
in a rearview mirror
nature hands me. Visions of the past appear.

A wise man once hold me to keep my eyes forward. Those behind me
watch my back. I recognize
an old friend, when I hear familiar music. They guard solitude like the lights
in the night sky--far away
yet starlight helps
by being there
by giving a gift in darkness
by watching in times of need.

Sing me songs. Dance the night away. Don foot's garb
and prance the role
of merry andrew. Bells and laughter help me
in moments of change: times when flight
meant going on, walking a winding path
one step at a time.

Beauty has consequences.

Sometimes it takes a friend to help you see trees in a forest
fish in a sea
because there's nothing like a friend who understands the difference
between drawing your name in the sand
and doing the same on an electric fence. Youth is about learning
things the difficult way.

Just plain "pissin' in the wind" never brings contentment. Bernard
Shakey
taught me that fact.

Beauty has consequences. I find myself on desert paths
when I seek the magic of youth. No one wants
to eat
honey and dried locusts. Illumination has its price.

Living means more than participating vicariously. Life is a gift
you never expect. Serendipity glides and soars
circling ever so gracefully overhead. Feathers seldom mark
ascent or descent. Why spoil the surprise
with crass expectations? Life is full
of disappointments
but like stumbling through shale and loose rock
eventually the chiseled edge of a mountain ridge appears.

I always love blue-hazed distances
because you never know what hides behind
the cobalt blue shroud
maybe the comfort tones of a stream
or the rage of a river's torrent passing over misty falls. Music begins
and solace spreads across my face.

Sadness blooms
like a desert flower. Only those
with well-trained eyes decipher beauty
find solace amid musk
of sage
of cedar
of scrub brush. Life is like that. Love lost
is unfortunate. Never having loved is tragic. Lucky ones

know the difference. Beauty has consequences.

You've never lived, until you find a friend
who shares the worst of times
who walks
the Valley of Death with you. My love shares my path. She hands me
a sandwich and a cold soda. We share
moments
without measuring when they turn to parts of years. Wisdom teaches not
to waste love with red swollen eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

There is music on a dark night in the desert. Silence has strength.
Notes appear
not strummed
by fingers on strings. If you find
passion a stranger
walk
life's path alone. Don't possess
something you can never understand.

For me alchemy made the difference. A woman loves me
in spite of what I am
in spite of what I suffer
in spite of what humors me. She conjures me

into something bright
something beautiful
something sparkly. She never lets me stand alone.

It's a way of finding flight. She flutters like the mountain blue jays I see
in memories, chasing the day
from branch to branch toward sunset. I feel
carried, supported, strengthened. I hear
birdsong laughing in her eyes. It warns me
of omens

hidden amid desert hillsides. She leads me from harm's way
toward peace of mind. Her flight
is sure--never lost, never faint, never anxious. My love
takes my hand
cradling my heart
in unconditional love.

Beauty has consequences.

First Day of School

2011-08-29T16:13:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-26T08:54:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-25T01:28:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-25T00:57:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-22T16:40:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-21T17:57:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-17T21:57:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-15T12:01:00.000-07:00

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)

2011-08-15T11:37:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-14T21:50:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-11T08:44:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-03T17:34:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-03T16:33:00.000-07:00

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.

Tough Economic Times

2011-07-31T20:11:00.000-07:00

Our family all has an interesting sense of humor. One summer, when Lydia came home and brought my other two grandchildren, I took all three to the movies. I didn't notice anything at first, but then as the movie continued, I noticed my three grandchildren and I were the only ones laughing at scenes, that were funny in only a way that my family found delightful. We love slapstick and other things: jokes that some people either miss entirely or fail to see the hidden smile behind a comment, prank or situation.

And yes, we all laughed the same way--deep, passionate, insanely hysterical. I still smile when I think of it.

Today is no exception. Cles sent me a picture of a Cadillac with a pizza delivery ad on the top. Obviously, the driver was doing a bit of night work to make up for the loss in revenue. The times are rough, but still, we find humor in a picture like this. And it's not because we don't feel pity for some snob or wanna be snob, but because the whole situation of doing pizza delivery in a Caddy is somehow hysterically funny, but then again, you have to be a member of my family to find it funny.

The Joys of Four Grandchildren and the Gifts They Bring To Pop Pop

2011-07-28T10:40:00.000-07:00

I never dreamed I would arrive at a point, where I am right now. Understanding the meaning of Christmas was something I knew was necessary, and I enjoyed giving, but I also focused on my own gifts. And there are still times, when they seem important, but they really are only things.

It is in this time of my life, that I discovered something better. Father's Day was upon us, and my wife surprised me with an incredible gift--something I've wanted for decades: a Rosetta Stone Italian Program with five levels. The thought of getting it was so exciting. There is this hope I have that I will be able to use one more language to communicate, but there is something else too. I want to return to Tuscany. And I want to have family with me. Ann has never seen it.

So my Father's Day gift this year was incredible, and it was last year too, when Ann bought me a nice Nikon camera with an extra zoom lens.

For me, the greatest gift is to be surrounded by family, whether at home or at a place that our family loves like Disneyland, it's still the same. The only advantage to having a spot away from home is that I don't feel the vacuum left after the sometimes shrill squeaks and screams of little ones fade with their absence.

But life takes unexpected turns. For Ann and me, there was a gift Jack

gave us that was impressive. I didn't cost any more than a few dollars, but the thought behind it was incredible.

So at this point in my life, it is the little ones that bring me so much peace, so much contentment. But my definition of "little ones" is ambiguous at best. To have my family here is not limited to grandchildren. Each child, each grandchild has something unique about their personality. It's the eccentricities that make the world so fun, so interesting, so pleasurable.

Our family has the market on eccentric.

It's what makes us fun. It's what makes us enjoyable, at least for those who enjoy our company. At Anna's birthday in Reno, which I couldn't get to this time, They went to this incredible steak place we found last time. At least that's what it looks like in the picture. They have this incredible bread pudding there. I didn't taste it, but I could see other fat people eating it. That's a sign you know. It's like proof of a good red-neck restaurant. If you see lots of semi-trucks in the parking lot, it's a good stop for chicken fried steak and pie.

This place, called The Claim Jumper or something like that, also has two types of chocolate cakes: one with six or seven layers of deep dark chocolate cake covered rich frosting and accessorized with who slices of walnuts on top and the sides; the second with six or seven layers of deep red velvet cake with thick frosting as well. Both are at least 10,000 calories per slice--good thing I wasn't there. Self-indulgence is one thing, but I see myself with two plates--one huge slice of each one--sitting in front of me. I smile a manic grin, a fork in each hand. Just thinking about those desserts make me feel like I gained 10 pounds.

I get the best part, seeing my soulmate clowning around with Anna and seeing Anna with an enormous blue cowboy hat. They do that at restaurants. Waiters place this big hat on your head, gather seven or eight other workers, who can't sing a note in tune, and they scream through the song Happy Birthday To You.

I figure it's a form of classical conditioning. No customer will submit to that type of humiliation, but free dessert is still a good deal with our family, so we just grin through the song and enjoy the free calories.

It's what birthdays are about: not having to apologize for eating too much. You know. It's like love. You never have to say you're sorry. OK. I assume you saw that extremely stupid movie from the early 70's too. Whoever coined that phrase probably paid a record amount of alimony.

But when it comes to getting a free dessert, it's a luxury you can only do when you are six like my little Anna. Besides, in a wind storm, she is so skinny, she has to wear those ankle weights, just so a stiff breeze doesn't carry her into the next county.

But the best part of this trip is seeing Tommy and Anna pose in front of their new home, just before going to school. I'm envious. I would love to have been there.

But when you're a Pop Pop, and you have a grandson at home, who looks forward to a birthday party all summer, you stay for that, even if it means not seeing my other grandchildren and even if it means not eating your favorite cake and even if it means not being able to enjoy one more road trip. I would do it for any one of my four grandchildren.

But like I said, I miss not being there when Tommy and Ann went to school. They love it. That's where "me and mine" also seem different than most--we actually loved school. It is a time to learn new things, to see familiar faces, to meet new friends.

And I can't imagine my Sweetie being any different than that. We are a family of teachers. Loving school is what we do.

Just like loving grandchildren so intensely is what you do, if you know what it means to be a grandparent. There's something about watching how they emerge from crawling infants to a little one, who suddenly shows in their eyes they recognize you. That is ultimately the joy of being a grandparent. Money and things can't buy that kind of thing.