Malad Elementary and The Old High School

One of Lydia's stops was at the elementary school, where Lydia was until she finished the fifth grade. Lydia entered the sixth when we arrived in Idaho Falls. It was from this door that our kids arrived at school, after riding the trip from home with my Annie. Ann's third grade class was on the western end of the building facing the northern side. Her window had a view of the football field.


In the sandy area in front of the large fence was once a large merry-go-round that students pushed as hard as they could before jumping on and spinning four or five times. Nothing was "high tech" when Ann and I went to school in the fifties.

At the side of that primitive ride is a rock wall for students to climb. A deep pit of sand surrounds it.

On the large sidewalk at this entrance, we once skated with skates that needed a key to tighten them against the front of your shoes after you buckled two straps. We thought they were wonderful. By the time my own children were in school, no skates were acceptable at school because of fears of injuries. And baseball was out of the question. Those were the main things that we enjoyed.

But then of course at least a few times during the year, we had sacks of marbles and a whole set of games we played to win agates and cat's eyes from other students. I am so glad I went to school when I did.

This entrance at the west side of the school also had a large sidewalk we used for skating. It also led to the auditorium, and above the lunchroom was the wrestling room where our high school team trained and learned new moves for competition. We ran down the halls and up and down stairs to develop leg strength and stamina too. I'm sure the elementary teachers hated us during the late 60's and early 70's.

You can also see the "M" mountain faintly at the right of the flag pole. On Homecoming, we set tires aflame the night before the game at the outside pep rally. I'm sure our Druid anscestors were proud. I can not say the same about the EPA. There are still wires up there left from the tires we burned.

I think this was Pioneer Park. It was between the old high school and the football field. During my first years of teaching, I often worked late at night. The old building was spooky. It seemed to talk to you, and some nights you could swear that you could hear footsteps. My friend who also occasionally worked there late at night said it talked to you with those odd creaks and groans.

One night I was nervous, and since it was a warm night early in the fall, I thought I would sprint across the park. It was one or two in the morning. About halfway into the park, I tripped over something in the darkness, hit the ground, swore and rolled at least ten feet.

I could hear a young boy and his date snickering. I'm glad I rolled as far as I did. At least I didn't have to feel the shame to see what most likely was happening. I never found out who it was, but I am sure that someone will tell a funny story about my sprint through Lover's Lane.

My friend had a similar experience. When he finished working early in the morning hours, he noticed that someone left the lights on in the gym. He walked the full length of the floor, turned out the lights, and in a similar fashion began running for the door. He forgot the volleyball nets were set up in the middle of the floor. When he hit them, he began swinging his fists. He became so tangled in the net that it took at least thirty or forty minutes to get free.

I taught in the old high school for two years, before finishing my experience in Oneida School District in the "new building."

Baby Jack & Guido Maximus, The English Bulldog

Before February 24 of 2003, Jack's date of birth, our baby was Guido. He was my English Bulldog.

By day, Kristin took care of him: letting him out the door when he needed to fertilize the lawn, watering him when his water bowl was empty, feeding him when he coaxed for food.

When I arrived hom from school each day, I would open the door, and in a falsetto voice squeal, "Guido!" The dog would run to me, wagging his stubbed and curley bobbed tail until he actually occasionally fell down the steps as he ran to me.

She always looked at me with disgust. "I feed him. I put up with him all day, and he acts like this the minute you walk in the door."

We loved the dog, and he truly loved us. He was like a member of the family, yet he did make all of us nervous around Jack. In the pictures, below where Kristin lets the dog sniff Jack's toe, he began to jump to try to lick Jack. We ran and pulled him away immediately.

We still are protective of all of our grandchildren like that. Ann's mom would have scalped me for having a housedog, let alone a Bulldog in the house with a baby.



My family thought my name for my AKC dog was strange when I filled out the forms, but I thought it was funny, and I never met anyone who didn't smile at the thought of giving an English Bulldog an Italian name. It was fun. I love English Bulldogs, and I love Italian food. It is not a slam against Italians, because I like them--much better than Englishmen.

If you are talking Welshmen or Irishmen, that is something entirely different. I had a bad experience in London on my way home from my mission in 1974, and as silly and illogical as it seems to me, I still feel that way today. I really feel this tinge of resentment toward Englishmen.

In January of 1974, I was not aware of the terrorist action that occurred the day before we landed. They installed new metal detectors, and I walked through it without their having explained what it was. The biggest problem was that I had a heavy German accent after living in Germany for two years, and my clothing was all German too.

I had metal microphones for my reel to reel German stereo recorder in my pockets, metal pens in my pockets, even several other metal things in my pockets. The detector went off immediately.

"He's got a gun!" The woman screamed at the machine, and two men with guns drawn rushed me. One threw me against the wall, hurting my face and nose. I heard his gun click, and he pressed it hard against my temple.

"You move and I'll blow your brains out!" I hated him.

He asked me what was in my pockets, and I told him. I carefully took everything out, and after they looked it all over carefully, one man pushed me through the entry way hard enough that I almost fell to the ground. There was no, "Gee, I'm sorry sir."

Like I said, I still hate the British, and for the sake of those who find my language occasionally offensive, I will not use an assortment of other expletives I usually place both before and after the word British.

This is the only movie I have of Jack as a baby. The picture below shows Jack in his Chicago Blackhawks stuff. We bought Tommy the same things, and we had pictures of the boys and grandma and grandpa taken, all of us in those wonderful red jerseys.

This picture at the right is one I told Jack about. When I told him that I would blow raspberries on his feet to make him giggle when he was a baby, he would say, "Oh, yuckie!"

Only my own grandchildren would get that kind of entertainment, and that is only before they are able to walk.

Restaurants In Malad

When I first left Malad to go on my mission, I met other nineteen-year-olds who had spent time on the road from Utah to ski resorts in Idaho. Without exception, they talked and laughed about the restaurant names.

At that time, there was one called The Chat 'N Chew. It was an old style diner. The grill was in the main part of the restaurant, and a full length counter with swiveling stools lined it. Booths stretched the length of the restaurant by the windows.

Whenever someone asked me about the interesting names of Malad restaurants, the Chat 'N Chew was the one that always made them smile. The food was exceptional there, but the name was fun. It was typical of our town.

During the time when Ann and I dated in high school, we always went there for a steak after a movie or dance. It always shocked me that Ann did not put ketchup or steak sauce on her cut of beef.

She never said anything about not liking it. I never found out about that preference until after I married her. I still find that funny, not that people should not feel a craving for something to spill on their steak but that I should think that everyone drowned their beef in artificial flavoring like I did and still do.

The second restaurant was the Dude Ranch Cafe. This one brings back memories. It also was like an old style diner, although the kitchen was in the back.

Their pies are still fantastic. Whenever I can, I buy a Boysenberry or Gooseberry and take it home for us, especially when we expect visitors.

And their corn chowder is still incredible, although I found a recipe that tastes more like how I remember it did when I was young.

When Ann and I lived in Malad, our German guests who came with exchange groups every spring loved to go there in the afternoons for a "slice."

On one exchange, I sent two teachers from Berlin there before us to have dessert first. They wanted to go for a walk, and we had some things to do at home first. I figured we would get there for dinner about thirty or forty minutes later.

They returned angrily within fifteen minutes. "What's wrong?" I looked at both teachers. Both were angry.

"We ordered our pie, and the waitress called us bitches." He described the waitress, a former student of mine at the high school who would never have done anything offensive. Both Helga and Juergen's eyes flashed with resentment at being treated so poorly. I told them we would drive there for dinner, but they were tense and uneasy. I could tell they wanted to resolve the problem. They wanted a taste of justice instead of pie.

As soon as we sat down in our booth at the Dude Ranch Cafe, my former student came to our table. "I was wondering where you went." She looked at the two teachers, hoping to find out what was wrong. Helga smiled and laughed politely. "The two of them left after they ordered pie. I thought they were sick or something," my student continued. The two teachers glared at her.

I began my order, after looking through the menu. "Could I have a Farmer's Special with corn chowder instead of salad?" I looked up at the young girl, trying not to smile at the two angry teachers in front of me. I knew there had been a misunderstanding, because this girl never offended anyone.

"You betcha!" the waitress said, smiling at everyone while trying to break the ice. She wrote down all our orders on the small green pad in her hand, stuffed it in her apron and walked back to the kitchen at the back of the restaurant.

Both teachers shared a moment of bliss at the thought that I had been mistaken and that they really had been insulted by the waitress in question. I could not understand what they seemed to pleased about at the moment.

"See, she called you a bitch too," Juergen said. His eyes still flashed anger and resentment. I sipped water from my glass and choked a bit. Ann and I both laughed. And the two teachers were angry at us too, until we spent a little time talking to them about the Malad dialect and words people from Malad use that sometimes can be confused with something else, just like they do in Germany.

After that, the two teachers went to the restaurant and had the same waitress bring them pie every day. There was no problem.

Grandma's House As My Children Will Remember It

The picture at the left shows the dining area, where we often had Sunday meals with the whole family. Whenever everyone was there for Thanksgiving or Christmas or Christmas Eve, the meals were downstairs.

The picture below and to teh left shows the old Magnavox stereo with the Infinity "Tower" speakers on each side. Grandpa's favorite chair was the burgundy leather chair.

I will always be haunted by the movie clip we took of him on his last Christmas sitting in that chair and looking at the tree. But I still have to have someone transfer it to DVD. Haunting or not, I have to have that last picture of him.

The light fixture in the corner was my favorite. My mom and dad bought it somewhere in Salt Lake City when they built the house. It was very expensive. When mom sold the house in the 90's, the new owners took it out and gave it to one of the children. We could never locate it again.

The pewter plate on the stereo is one I brought home to mom and dad from Berlin. It was made to look antique. It was fun to buy it for them.

He always resented the contractor for both the fireplace work and the wood paneling. Dad told me that the contractor put the paneling on the wall to cover a bad job of plastering. Dad was very uspset with the poor quality of wood paneling they used. The basement's birch materials were closer to what he wanted upstairs too.

The family picture on the wall above the fireplace was one that my parents had taken just before my mission. A copy is at the bottom of this posting.


The small bronze piece on the table was something my dad loved.

Grandma's House

The picture in front of grandma's is going to be a classic: Anna in pig tails, teasing Tommy in his Polo shirt, and Jack in his Pirates of the Caribbean Hockey Shirt that has Captain Jack written on the back. The three of them are so cute and enjoy each other so much. What makes it even more fun is how Anna refers to Jack as Jackie, a name my grandma used for my dad.

The three loved being at grandma's house. They spent the entire time exploring.

Interestingly enough, that is what I loved to do at my Grandma Liza's house whenever I was there. She had this apple peeler that I always begged her to use each time we visited. She stuck an apple on the machine's tongs, turned the crank, and my sisters watched it do its job. It mystified us.

I knew where the door was in one bedroom that led to the attic, and I also knew about the boxes of grandpa's things in the basement. Little kids are always that way and probably always will be.

Until I was four, I always thought I could find my grandpa among those things downstairs. He died when I was a bit more than three. But in my mind, I always thought I could find him waiting for me down there. And I looked every time I was there. I even dreamed about it, seeing a room in my mind that I could never find.

My mom's front room, in the photograph below and on the right, has a large picture of my dad immediately over the fireplace. For our family, it is the centerpiece. An artist painted it from an old bent photo we had of my dad when he was very small, the one below and at the left.

The house is truly beautiful. And Anna told her so at least once.

The kitchen cabinets--as seen in the picture above--are a light wood finish, and my grandkids will always remember it. It is the room where we often sit and talk with grandma, although she always had us come into the front room to sit in one of the chairs or on the sofa.

In the basement, my mom showed Lydia and the grandchildren my dad's belt buckle with our family brand on it.

Tommy liked the pocket watches the best.

The spurs that Grandpa Cles had are the most interesting for me.

The picture of him and Grandma Liza is one that I always remember as a child. It was on top of the DuMont T.V.















Tommy did not like this room. He was getting a time out, and he continued to dislike it until I told him that it had been my bedroom when I lived at home.

The bed and matching oak desk and chest of drawers were the only pieces of furniture in the room. The captain's chairs were originally in the large family room.

When I was home, dad had a pool table in the family room. It was my favorite part of the house at the time, and I loved to play pool with my friends there.

A July Visit To Grandma's House

Anna loved visiting Great Grandma Ward's house. Her eyes sparkled after the trip to the bathroom where she discovered her favorite color--pink towels, pink sink, sink tile, pink toilet, pink tub and pink flooring.

And yes, the chair Anna sits in for this picture has a bit of pink in it too.

Anna told grandma what a pretty house she had. I know my mom enjoyed watching our little princess and listening how much she had changed since the last visit.

Her little conversations are fun.

Grandma was an instant hit before our little princess noticed the aroma of cookies coming from the basement. Grandma made chocolate drop cookies, oatmeal raisin and chocolate chip and apple sauce, and yes the apple sauce had chocolate chips too.

And to put the cherry on the top of the day, my mom made us a fresh loaf of bread too.

Anna does not go to people quickly, but she recognized a soul mate in Great Grandma Ward. With a pink bathroom and an ability to work magic with chocolate, Great Grandma Ward was a hit with Anna.

Anna enjoyed grandma's hugs, and here you can see how pleased she was. I can tell because of the sheepish grin she has when she enjoys someone making a fuss over her.
Anna is my mom's first granddaughter.








And where would a day in Malad be without a trip to the Malad Drive-In. The boys and Lydia show off the T-shirts we found there, although the boys might be in college before they fit well.

The sign looks different than it did in 1955, but the food is still the same. The boys and Anna feasted on grilled cheese sandwiches and tater tots.

I did not notice until the end of the meal that I forgot to order Jack his lemonade. But his grin was twice as big as usual when I finally remembered, ordered it at the counter and placed it in front of him.

After all these years, the menu has not changed much. They still have the Glamour Burger, and their milk shakes are still the best in the area when it comes to anything you can find at a fast food place. Personally, I find all of there food better than anything I find anywhere else.

I only wish I had had the time to stop for a Fresh Lime on the way out of town, but we were trying to get home before early evening.

Without a doubt, the Malad Drive-In brings back memories. It is where my classmates and I "hung out" whenever there was time to cruise in our parents' cars, and it is where we stopped to talk and enjoy a summer afternoon with friends.

Every time I go to the Drive-In, I tell my children and grandchildren about the trips I made there with my Springer Spaniel to get me a shake and him a Frosty. I would let him lick at the cone before putting it in a little plate I had for him in the back of my Model A Ford pickup.

And I always show my children and grandchildren where I parked my car under the shade of the same large tree that is still there. It is where I always parked my car. If someone was there, I drove through town until the place was free.

It was a great day in Malad. On the way out of town, Lydia had me stop for one more picture of her and Anna in front of the stone honoring Governor John V. Evans, a local politician who was an incredible governor. He never forgot about his roots, and he always made a point to talk to people from Malad.

It will always upset me that the town voted for Steve Symms instead of John V. in his final election when he ran for the U.S. Senate. As much as John V. did for the town of Malad, he deserved much more than that. But that is ho things go sometimes in small towns.



Here is one more picture of us at grandma's with me hugging my grandsons. It is great that all three still enjoy hugs. That will change too soon.

Scrub A Dub Dub

It's a bath for "Happy Jack." I found classic rock songs for my two grandsons, both by The Who to entertain them when I listened to my music. "Happy Jack" was for Jack, and Tommy, an entire album, was for Tommy.

Jack always loved bathing and a chance to splash about.

It is hard to believe that Jack was little enough for grandma to cradle in his towel in her arms. I know he remembers this, because even now as a five-year-old, he still enjoys being held in a towel like in the picture below.

I had forgotton about these videos until I found them in a computer file. It's bath time for Jack when he was a two-year-old. This was a time when I was still very sick. These are things that made me smile then, and they still do.

Lydia, Jeff and Tommy were in Ohio. It would not be long until Ann and I would fly to Ohio and visit them. After visiting Church History sites in Ohio and New York, we flew out of Rochester and arrived in North Carolina. Cles and Leslie met us at the airport for our first visit in Chapel Hill.

The last time that Cles saw me was in January of '05, when my friend and doctor told me that there could be no further chemo, since my body could not take its effects. He told Ann I had two weeks to two months. When Ann and I came down the ramp at the airport in North Carolina, I heard Leslie say to Cles, "Your dad looks really good Cles."

I knew Cles had been worrying about me, and it was so nice to see Cles and his soul mate.

Ann and I loved North Carolina, and we became instant UNC fans. Carolina Blue is now our signiture color.

Two Reminders of Where I Have Been And Where I Am Now

Whenever I get discouraged with my current physical state, I look at these pictures. This is Christmas Eve of 2004. I had just completed the second hospital stay of 30 days in Eastern Idaho Regional Medical Center.

I only remember a few things. That itself is interesting, since I always had a very good memory. I can recall things from when I was a toddler, and most classmates don't want to know what I can remember about elementary, junior high, and high school.

I remember Lydia coming to the hospital with Kristin at night. She stayed a short time with us in Idaho Falls. She was so sick while carrying Anna. And coming to terms with what appeared to be going to happen to me was beyond painful for her.

It didn't help things when I told her how badly I felt not being able to see her new baby, who would be born in July.

During this time, I also remember Dr. Brooks. I had developed a staff infection after a radiology procedure to insert the typical "chemo tubes" resulted in a dangerous situation. You can still see the redness on my neck, and there was another inflamed area on my chest where the "tubes" had been.

This doctor was to take a skin biopsy from my chest area. The sampling was quite large--especially considering the blood thinner I was talking at the time. Nurses could not stop the bleeding, which in addition to the staff infection was troubling. I was weak enough already from the chemo and infection, and the loss of blood made things worse.

I remember my oncologist, whom all patients thought of as not only able to walk on water but also as their dear friend. I still think of him that way. He and his wife Megan, the clinic PA, stood at my side at the worst part of the bleeding and infection. I heard them say to each other that they didn't know what they could do.

Eventually the bleeding stopped and the infection subsided. My oncologist Dr. Mulvey worked hard to get me home before Christmas Day. It was late on Christmas Eve of 2004, but being home was the first part of "the miracle."

The picture above shows me eating my son's chili just after getting home from the hospital. It tasted so good. There were not a lot of things during this time that appealed to me at all.

This second picture is also from that time when I was so weak.

It took so much concentration just to survive. Everything about life seemed so distasteful, so painful, so wearisome.
It was wanting to stay with wife and children and grandchildren that kept me fighting for every breath.

So when I get discouraged about not being able to be a bit more mobile or not being a bit more anything, I look at these pictures.

They show me where I was and remind me how badly I want to stay where I am right now, surrounded by a loving and devoted wife, and children and grandchildren. Having grandchildren is an experience that words can not describe. You see the love they feel for you in their eyes. There is no guile. There is only joy.

I bask in the love of my wife and children, in the love that I see in the eyes of my three grandchildren guides me every day, in the desire to continue where I am now.

Christmas of '05

Star Wars is just like Jell-O. Whether it's Christmas, the Fourth of July, or Thanksgiving, there is always "room" for a light saber fight with Uncle Cles. Jack was almost a three-year-old at the time, and with his best buddy Tommy here at Christmas too, it was a glorious Christmas. Uncle Cles was the icing on the cake for both boys, whom he teased and entertained the entire time.

And there were other things as well:

quality entertainment, with Jack on trumpet--a favorite decoration from the tree--Tommy on piano; (And when that wasn't enough fun, there was always the Surfing Santa that did a "jig" to a Beach Boys song.)

a lot of toys, with Tommy excited about his new Thomas the Train additions and a Caterpillar dump truck, bulldozer and loader; (There were other gifts I can't even remember having them open.)

and toys, with Jack discovering his bike helmet and new bike, and Tommy finding his train table;

and did I say toys, with Jack getting help from grandma with that bike helmet, Anna mystified by it all, and Tommy still playing with his trains: (Kristin took pictures of all the fun.)

And there was Anna.

I think this was her first Christmas. But most importantly, it was the Christmas when all my children and grandchildren were home--the thing that makes the holidays so much fun.

The tradition of having a big Christmas started with my father. He always talked about sacrifices his parents made to see the magic of Christmas. Dad did it for me and my sisters, and I tried to do it for all of mine. It isn't about materialism. It is about what is most important in my sweet heart's life and my life right now: our children and grandchildren.

There is nothing like Christmas. But the memories are fantastic too.

Fourth of July

The Fourth of July was important for a number of reasons.

It was a holiday that made it possible to see friends during the summer. Early morning was full of getting ready for the parade. As a child you would "fix up" your bike by decorating it with colored streamers—red, white and blue.

My first Schwinn had this large tank instead of just a metal bar. With a new battery, I had a horn, something which I rarely used, but it was still a cause of wonderment for any eight-year-old to have a bike with a horn like that. At least it was for me at that time.
This picture shows Ann with the Smith Twins--Marilyn and Marlene--during one of those parades.

I was so lucky to have my Annie who still occasionally wears that same grin, but I only wish I could also have the '52 Chevrolet pickup in the background.

I remember one parade in particular. My bike was "fit" for the Fourth, with streamers and baseball cards of course. With the help of a few wooden pins, that my mom used for the clothes lines behind the house to dry her washed clothes, I attached five or six baseball cards. They made a motorcycle sound, at least in the mind of a young boy, when the cards flipped against the spokes.

After the parade, my mom and dad asked me to ride my bike home slowly with my two sisters, who also had their bikes. The trip was short, only a mile from the small town center at most.

Summer meant that any young boy new the sporting spots in a neighborhood. On the way home, we would pass two houses: one owned by the small town lawyer, whom the entire town of Malad refused to forgive because he foreclosed on many people during The Great Depression, and the house next door to him owned by his crazy sister.

She would stand by the sidewalk each day with a garden hose, squirting children. My friends and I began a passive protest that summer—we would drive by as fast as possible, while she was watching on the porch or from the front window of her house. Before her very eyes, we would "hit the brakes," leaving black tire marks that stretched at least six feet on the cement walk.

We knew she would be ready for the next attack. Giving the old woman at least thirty minutes to arm herself with hose and nozzle, we would all make another strafing run at the walk. She would squirt us, but she could never get all of us. And besides, during the heat of a typical summer day, it not only felt good, but it was better than just running through a sprinkler. And you could irritate and heckle the mean old woman at the same time.

On that Fourth of July ride home with my sisters, I spotted the old lady.

She stood feet away from the sidewalk, hose in hand and water dripping from the ready nozzle that was twisted into the off position. She stood confidently, knowing that with one quick twist, she could soak the perpetrators.

I started peddling at least a hundred feet before reaching her. I sailed by while the old woman fumbled with her weapon.

But I heard hysterical screams and crying behind me. She soaked my sisters. Streamers decorating their bikes hung limply and dripped red, white and blue on the sidewalk. They even stopped. Maybe it was the cold water on a hot day that took their breath away. I watched in wonder, not only did I see my two sisters get a good soaking, but I also irritated the old woman again. My sisters howled like Harpies all the way home. I smiled.

Neighbors came out to see what was wrong when they heard the tears. That was probably when I realized I was "in for it" when I arrived home. But after the initial moments of anger, I knew my mom and dad would be angrier at the neighborhood's crazy lady.

Additional memories are about playing in the high school band. The parade on the Fourth in Malad was a preparation for the big parade in Salt Lake City on the 24th of July. Our high school band had a fantastic music teacher, Mr. Don Castleton.

Preparing for parades meant marching practice at least once or twice a week for me. He made an allowance, since I was on the ranch in Snowville. Most band members, who lived in town, could not miss a practice.

Dad would let me ride to Malad with my mom and sisters on the day of the water turn. I would help my mom soak the lawn during the day, and then I practiced in the evening with the band.

For me, it was an additional day with friends. Usually there was only late Saturday night to be with friends. On Sunday evening after church, we returned to the ranch.

After high school, Ann and I continued traditions in our home town on the Forth. We would get up early in the morning, wash and shine my Ford Model A pickup, and prepare to drive it in the parade.

There were usually only a few vintage cars in the parade: a fantastic old car owned by Swede Hansen, the town newspaper owner and editor; and finally, one or several of the classic Thunderbirds owned by Lyle and Mary Thomas.

Mitchell Deschamps always drove old farm equipment in the parade too.

People who graduated from Malad High School always seemed to return for the Fourth. Many classes tried to host reunions during that time. It was fun to meet so many people.

Swede Hansen also initiated the Jim Bridger competition in Malad during the Fourth. After the parade and during the day's activities at Pioneer Park, individuals and teams competed. Winners would travel to Logan for a regional competition.

The picture below shows me in my team competing in Logan. Don Hubbard, J.D. Thomas and I were on the team, but I can not remember the others who competed. I do remember winning in Logan, although I don't remember how well we did.


















My last memory of the Fourth in Malad was not really on the Fourth.

In 2003, my mom wanted to have family pictures taken during that weekend, but complicated doctor's schedule meant that I had hip replacement surgery on July 3, so had the pictures taken on July 2, my dad's birthday.

Life was never the same after that family picture. Doctors diagnosed my leukemia AML by the end of July in 2003.

Ann and I celebrated the Fourth yesterday, July 4, 2008.

Cles is in Japan on business. My daughter-in-law Leslie is in Virginia, where she and Cles now live.

Jeff and Lydia spent a few days in Yellowstone Park at a Zollinger Family Reunion. Jeff will drive back to Rochester this morning, and Lydia and Tommy and Anna will remain with us for a short time before Ann and I travel with them back to Rochester.

Kristin and Jack watched the fireworks last night near the river. Jack was excited to tell me about it.

"The fireworks were way up in the sky," he said in the phone.

When Kristin asked me what Ann and I did for the Fourth. She laughed when I old her we went to Albertson's earlier in the day.

The fact is that Ann fried some chicken and made me a potato salad, two things that bring back memories of Malad and growing up there. It was fun for us to be together. I feels good to be here.

I will always miss the way things once were in Malad.

Fireworks were especially fun. Everyone would sit on the grass at the old football field while the local firefighters set off the annual fireworks display. Occasionally there was a dud. But just like in golf, when someone hits a ball into the crowd, it makes for excitement.

Fireworks in Malad were sometimes that way. A large firework would explode close to the ground, and at least once or twice, someone would catch a spark, and as a flame would ignite, the panic-stricken runner would race across the field, chased by one or two people. There was always applause after the saving tackle, when do-gooders not only brought the crazed sprinter to the ground but also smothered out the flames.

How can you enjoy fireworks when you've seen the real thing in Malad?