A Trip To Bremen With My Annie

While in Northern Germany with my Annie on an exchange, I took her to Bremen. I wanted to see just was there to consider taking students on a quick trip on an afternoon, but as the trip began to wind down toward a conclusion, they chose to have more money for souvenirs. It really didn't bother me, because I gave up trying to convince teenagers about seeing things they would never see again and putting up with their being angry at my forcing them to do something they wouldn't appreciate until at least a decade after our return home. It just wasn't worth it to me anymore, but the trip was a fantastic afternoon to be with my Annie. The main train station was one of those traditional ones with the large hall and an open entrance where the train would enter. The yellow phone booths are now a rare sight in Germany. During my last visit, some "rocket scientist" decided he would paint them a color so that they would blend in with the environment. I could never find them after that, and everyone else must have had a similar experience, because they began to be a rare thing to find in Germany, just like they are here now.
One thing interesting about Germany cities is the art you find there. And Bremen was no exception. The fountain was interesting, but the surrounding parts of the city here were not the best things we found that day. Bremen is a beautiful city.

Ann and I find open air markets fun. First, you have fresh fruit and vegetables which include a number of things occasionally that we never see here: things from parts of Europe and other exotic places that would be too expensive for American vendors to carry, especially in the West.




And I am sure that most of my Annie's fascination comes from the fact that she grew up in a home where her dad was a grocer. Stan was also, as I remember, a very good produce man in earlier experiences in the business. And he would have loved being with us seeing how they marketed things at markets like this. This stand is one I found interesting. I always bought cherries when I could find them. One rule was not picking up any of the fruit. I remember Ann's dad telling me how frustrating it was to throw away produce bruised by the hands of people squeezing their way to a selection. In Germany, you tell the vendor how much you want, and they wrap it in a folded piece of paper for you. There is also usually a place where you can wash the fruit in the area near the market, although this is not always the case.


I remember Ann taking these pictures of the market. It still makes me smile for the reason I already mentioned, but I also admire the quality of the pictures. I do the same thing when it comes to taking pictures of farms.




Bremen is a beautiful city, worth spending time there. The sights there are incredible, the people are friendly, the atmosphere is pleasing. There are also opportunities to see a Broadway type play in Bremen. Unlike America where New York seems to be the center for that aspect of cultural life, different plays appear in a number of cities from Hamburg and Bremen in the North to Stuttgart in the South. And there are other venues as well, and that does not consider typical concerts and plays you find in any European city. It is no wonder that movie theaters I occasionally visited with students were empty. There are much better things to do with time and money. But then again, for those who prefer souvenirs, you might not want to see so many fascinating things.

My Dad's Favorite Joke

This tractor was one my dad bought while I was in Germany from '72-'74. Air conditioning, radio, and a heater were all things nice about this tractor that the old D-6 Caterpillar did not have. When it was early in the spring or late in the fall, dad would put up canvas panels that would force the heat of the engine air back to the driver's seat. The disadvantage was that it sent dirt into your eyes too. I always hated riding on the old tractor when it was cold, but because I was in school, dad was the one who knew most about that whole story. I could always tell when he used the curtains: his eyes would be red when he came home at night from the ranch, and that happened every year when dad was doing fall planting or plowing or doing tractor work early in the spring. He would alone at the ranch and work all week to get things finished.

My senior year was a time when my friends and I started to get into trouble at school, and on weekends we really started having some fun. I remember my dad asking me if I was doing a lot of work at school, and I really wasn't. I was stupid to tell my dad I wasn't doing a lot at school. Dad took me out of school for a week to help with spring work. At the end of the six days, he smiled and said, "Now, if you think that school is just a lot of fun and games and if you want to do something else with your time, you just let me know." What most people do not know about a day's work at the ranch during critical times was that it began long before the sun came up, and dad was always still doing things at midnight. His dad did it that way. My dad did it that way, and when I was with him working on the ranch, I did it that way too.
I still miss him, and as odd as it seems, I enjoyed the work. Almost twenty years since his death, I still miss working with him. The last words I told my dad just before I left to return to Idaho Falls hours before he passed away were ones I whispered into his ear: I told him how much I loved working with him and how much I loved him and how much I would miss his picking me up to go to the ranch.

He played several jokes on me. First, whenever the Malad School District had a school cancellation because of snow or cold, he would call immediately. The phone would ring, and would tell me I had ten minutes. Five minutes later he was in the driveway, honking the horn and revving the engine. Dad had a large motor in his Ford pickup at the time, and he the exhaust system had a great sound, except at seven in the morning. When I came out the door, dad would sit in the truck and laugh when he saw me.

One year late in the fall in the 80's, I was running the old D-6 and planting grain. Dad liked using it, because it didn't pack the ground as much as the wheeled machinery like the John Deere or the Steiger tractors we had. I was just getting dark. When you drill, you check the grain at the end of the field before you turn to ensure that grain is still dropping into the ground through the boots. You could see it in a small opening near some cogs in ten spots or so on each drill. Dad ran behind me without my seeing him, climbed aboard the drill exactly where I would look, and he sat on the grain tank. I turned. Dad waved like you would to a little kid, all four fingers in unison going up and down while he folded his arms. I almost jumped out of the seat of the tractor. The field was ten miles away from the Interstate, and usually at night, a coyote would jog just beyond the lights. Whenever a rabbit sat frozen in fear in the lights, the coyote would find a new entree. When you shut the tractor off at night, there was complete silence and the darkness was overwhelming. The sounds were spooky, crickets and howls during the summer and spring and just howls during the rest of the year. There were a lot of coyotes. Needless to say, it would get "spooky" at night.

But dad's favorite joke in those final years is what still makes me smile. "What does a 600 pound canary say to a cat," he would say grinning that broad smile he would always make. His eyes would twinkle. His voice lowered into a very deep baritone. "Here Kitty Kitty." The best part of the joke was my dad's response. I still miss it.

The Thirty Year Reunion of the Class of '71

The last class reunion was an important one. Up to that point, we had lost only one member of our class, which was a horrible tragedy in 1974. Everyone else, in spite of bouts with cancer and other health problems, were still doing alright. The things I remember about this reunion are the things we did as a group, just like we once were able to do when we were still in school together. We did not cater the meal, so a few met together before the whole thing to do some preparation. It worked out to be the best reunion we ever had. Two of our class clowns were doing the MC honors.


We had a raffle where class members brought specific things that could be sold at an auction. The stories, the interaction, the laughter was what I remember about our class. Everyone pulled together and created something fantastic. It was and still is a great class, although we brought fear into the hearts of teachers and administrators. Most high schools today have this motto they print on graduation programs, something from Plato or Shakespeare. Ours was simple, "Raise hell have fun, we're the class of '71." And we lived that way through twelve years of school in Malad.

Ann and I had just purchased our new silver VW turbo Bug a few years prior to that reunion in 2001. We parked it in front of the old high school. The picture shows a beautiful view of the valley in early summer, a time when things are still green.

One street in Malad--South Main--had a lot of our classmates. I lived at the far southern end. J. Verlo a best friend of mine, whose family moved to the Blackfoot area to farm, lived on a side street about 100 yards away. Dixie, at the far left side of the picture, lived 100 yards north of my house. My Annie lived another 60 yards further north on South Main, and Marie, holding the tray in her hands, lived on a side street not far from that same street too. We grew up going to the same church. There were at least 20 of our class who went to church in the old Second Ward. I think of my classmates as close friends, but this blog will be mostly about those living on or near South Main.

Dixie and Marie always took me under their wing. At least that is how I viewed it, but now I lonk at it differently, they treated everyone that way. When I returned from Germany in 1974, I lived through this weird phase of adjusting to American society. My Annie and I were dating at the time, and I was unsure of everything--what I was studying and how I would relate to things that seemed so foreign to me. For me personally, I always disliked people who took advantage of others, like not paying their own way whether it was just dinner or anything else. I did not want to be what my father called a "mooch." Just after I came home from Germany after two years, I was at BYU and Ann and I were dating. Our relationship was at a crossroads. Ann invited me to stay to eat, and I said I would come back another time. I left and started walking through the parking lot of their apartment complex on my way back to my dorm. Suddenly I heard Dixie's voice from their balcony on the third floor. "Damn you Jon Ward. Get your butt back in here right now." There were heads turning everywhere. To hear "damn" is not a frequent occurrence at BYU, unless you had friends from Malad. I still see shock and horror in their eyes if I go to a football or basketball game at BYU. I have this problem about expressing my opinion in "Malad terms" about officiating at games.
I returned to the apartment, and Dixie questioned me like this, "Just what is your problem?" I told her about my not wanting to be a "mooch." She said something like, "Don't be so damn dumb. Sit down and eat with us."
I still remember what we had for dinner that night, because Ann still cooks the pork chops the same way sometimes, with rice and Cream of Mushroom soup. When I was in rough shape with my cancer in 2004 and 2005, I was at the computer one day. We had MSN Messenger, and suddenly a bell sounded, meaning that a friend just logged on their computer. I had not bothered to log on, so I was logged on as my Annie. Marie just logged on in Seattle and was online. I told her that I was at the computer, and we talked back and forth for a while. Ann and I had been worried about her, because we had not heard from her for a long time. That was not like Marie, because like Dixie, she not only stayed in contact, but she also had a way of showing the type of concern that friends show. I will always remember her by that communication that day. She seemed sad. She told me how she prayed for me and hoped I was doing well. It was not long after that that she passed away from cancer, and like Ann, I will miss her as a South Main friend.

Dixie and I were friends before we were in school. But interestingly enough, playing together did not last long. One afternoon my mother came outside. I don't think Dixie or I realized it that we had been arguing the entire day. "If you two can't play without arguing and learn to get along, you can't play together any more." The yard was not big enough for two-strong willed five-year-old preschoolers, and some fifty years later, both of us are still opinionated, but she is still a good friend.
It was a disappointment when another reunion did not happen in 2006, especially given the fact that it is now when we are old when we should do those "five year things." Dotty always seemed to get people together to do preliminary planning, but during the time when we should have been having that reunion, Dotty and her husband Brent were in Georgia while Brent served as a mission president.

The Short But Fantastic Visit

While in Washington D.C. at my meetings at the Holocaust Museum, I phoned Cles and told him about our night that we had free in the schedule. Cles and Leslie drove from Virginia to see us. Cles knew a Middle Eastern place he knew I would like, but I told him that we needed to do something everyone would enjoy. We went to this great restaurant that featured Fondue. We ordered a grilled platter with a mixture of beef, chicken, pork, shrimp and lobster. I don't think I have ever tasted anything so good. The fondue pot is in the middle of the table in this picture. Jack called us that evening from Idaho Falls, and I told him about our meal. Ann, Cles and Jack had been there the year before when I was in Washington D.C. at our first meeting. When I told him about dessert with dunking marshmallow crispy treats into chocolate fondue, Jack said immediately, "Did they have marshmallows too."

The dessert also featured two types of marshmallows--one large one covered with chocolate and another large one covered with coconut. Although Jack may have thought about another restaurant he visited in D.C. that featured cooking schmors at the table, he still remembered that trip from a year ago. The memory made his voice all excited.

There was only one thing wrong with the perfect evening. The visit with Cles and Leslie, as great as it was, was just too short, yet I notice that saying goodbye is difficult like that whether we had had them there two hours or two days. It just made Ann and me realize how we need to make a trip to Virginia after Leslie's test in the fall.

Happy Birthday Lydia

Although your birthday gift is has more to do with the pictures we had Cindy Radford take for us of Tommy and Anna, there is one more thing we will bring you in mid September: raspberry and blackberry jam. And if I think you like gooseberry, you will get a bit of that too. The raspberries this year were a dark, beautiful red color, and their taste was incredible.

I am curious to see how Tommy and Anna react to it. While in Idaho Falls, I used some chocolate sprinkles I buy at the Dutch Deli in Salt Lake City to put on Anna's toast. She watched me do it very carefully, and then she picked up the tiny sandwich I cut in a triangular shape for her, and she pointed to the sprinkles. I waited for words that would express the ecstasy that sparkles in grandma's eyes at the mentioning of European chocolate.

"Dirty," Anna said. I spent the next few minutes scraping the wonderful sprinkles into the disposal. But I know there will a time in the near future when she will like them. The texture bothered her, so the raspberry seeds might create the same response.

Lydia, this is your turn for jam. Next year will be the year when mom and I travel to Virginia in early summer to put jam together for Cles and Leslie next year. If we drive there later this year, we will bring jam with us in the trunk.

Annie the Jam Maker

More proof of the type of babe I married is in the jam. I developed a taste for gooseberry when I did my first German trip in Southern Germany. It is sweet, but there is a tartness that doesn't make the jam overpowering. I would pay $3 or more for a bottle in Germany, and then after returning home, I would stash it in a corner of the fridge where I thought no one would find it. Weeks later I would rant and rave about how the jam seemed to evaporate, yet not a single person would own up to the fact they were using "my jam."

This past summer we were on the road a lot. We spent at least two weeks in Minnesota and a week in Washington D.C. at meetings for my Holocaust Museum work. It was upsetting for me, because I only had a few bottles of gooseberry jam in the basement left from last year, but then we visited the Farmer's Market in late July. The vendor, who earlier in the season promised some berries, told me that he would have some for me when we returned. I ordered two flats.

It is a miracle that Ann didn't smother me with a pillow during the night over this ordeal. The process took three days. There were two flats, and the cups were very large. The worst part of the whole deal was making sure that there were no stems, but then at the bottom of each berry is this little thing too. Both had to be plucked from each individual berry. Ann did not complain even once. (Well maybe she did one time.) Each of the three days found us stemming berries in the morning and waiting until evening when the house cooled to begin making the jam.

We filled the fridge with berries to ensure that they would not be too ripe. I do not remember how expensive we figured each bottle was, given the high cost of sugar and $60 for the two flats of berries, but I do know that it is much cheaper than what I paid years ago for a half pint at $3 a bottle. And the taste of our jam is much better too.

We now have 44 bottles of gooseberry jam to add to those we had left from last year. When I told Cles, he finally admitted to knowing how the German jam I always stashed evaporated. It appears that my three children also like gooseberry jam too, so I am sure we have plenty for everyone now. We just need to figure a way to get it to them.

Moments at The Farmers Market

At this point we do not have any pictures. But the last weekend was like a scene from I Love Lucy. I stand in line for ten minutes with bags of fresh fruit and vegetables in bags hanging from both hands, and before I can hand them to the sales people to pay, women in their frantic quest for anything from fresh corn to bottled herbs reach over my shoulder, around my ribs, past my ear. "Thank you!" A person selling produce took money from them each time without looking at me.

I could feel this pressure building up behind my left eyebrow. I tried so hard not to let it twitch, but then again, concentrating on my eye allowed by left upper lip to curl. I had an old bird dog that would do that just before he bit at someone or something.

The lip thing happened so spontaneously it almost shocked me. A sixty-year-old woman was pushing her forefinger firmly into my back while humming some song I could not recognize. I was so proud of myself. I did not say a word, yet anyone looking at the twitches on my face knew I wanted to scream hysterically. Not that Name That Tune was not a great game show back in its day, but none of the contestants poked a finger in the back of the game show host, just like John Dillinger did several times to break out of jail. The woman's humming was a mixture of music meets transcendental meditation--OMMMMMMMM! I kept thinking it was a nightmare, where a yak or some other strange beast stood smiling behind me. But it was just this eccentric, tone deaf person.

But next Saturday will come again, and my Annie and I will be at the Farmer's Market. Next week I will dull my sensitivity with ear plugs, or maybe I will take my Ipod and turn it on really loud.

Lydia At Two Great Times

This is Lydia's first Christmas. My parents always had a beautiful tree, and it usually was a pinion, but for a while, they were difficult to get, so my dad would look for a tree with long needles. I think this one was a Scotch Pine, but I do not remember for sure. One thing for certain is that this picture was fantastic. I took it, but I was upset at the time, because I worried that the tree would fall on my Lydia, the joys of OCD.

Those moments contain irrational fears that spoil the moment. I remember my Annie being disgusted with me over worrying about something as stupid as that. At the time, Lydia could not reach the lower branches.
The second picture is one from one of our Deer Hunt holiday trips to Disneyland. Getting away from that district at any time was a good memory, but going to Disneyland was the beginning of a wonderful tradition. Malad School District had a fall vacation during the deer hunt that one principle insisted upon, because he was too cheap to supply his family with beef. Instead he filled a freezer with venison that was free.

Personally, I could never stand the taste of deer meat. People told me to cook it with onions or to soak it in buttermilk. The best way to cook it is on a shingle. After baking the meat for five or six hours at 500 degrees, you basically throw the meat away and eat the shingle. That is the only way venison is at its best.

For this vacation, we would pack the car the night before we were to leave. School always ended on Wednesday, sometimes even at noon. I would drive like a maniac to the elementary, pick up my Annie and the kids, and we would begin the trip, which at that time took fourteen and a half hours to complete. I drove all night, while the three little ones slept under a blanket in the back. We would put the seat down, arrange the luggage, and let the kids rest. Doing that now--driving to California without my children secured with seat belts--is something I would never attempt now. Why I did it then I will never understand, especially when my OCD lets me worry about killer Christmas trees.

This last picture shows Lydia, when she was tall enough to drive her own car for the first time at Disneyland's Autopia. This picture was one of pure joy and ultimate elation, but it did not last for long. Cles would ride behind her and bump into her with his car during the entire ride, laughing that trademark laugh while he did it. It not only irritated Lydia, but it made his mother angry too. That meant that Cles could smile twice as broadly, because he loved teasing everyone.

A Favorite Baby Picture of Cles

This picture of Cles brings back many memories. My parents had this huge bean bag chair in their front room, and after putting the blanket we had for Cles over it, we took his picture. Cles always had this infectious laugh. In fact Cles, Lydia and Kristin were funny when they laughed, which explains why I loved to tickle and tease them as much as I did.

The only thing that I ever did that disgusted my Grandma Liza was giving my little ones razor burns from my whiskers when I blew raspberries on their cheeks or necks. They would get these red marks about the size of a silver dollar, and my grandma would just give me this look. I never remember her ever saying anything in anger to me. She always told me that I was perfect. Everyone needs someone like that in life. When I tell my Annie that, she uses a quote about my Great Great Grandpa Moon, whom someone called "The Greatest Man God ever Created." My Annie calls me that, but she always has that smile on her face when she says it, the one she wears when she teases me.

Tommy and Anna waiting for the Big Parade

During 2007, one of our Disneyland trips we took was either around the holidays or even as late as February. But that year was so fun that I am sure that we did both. Lydia and Tommy and Anna were waiting for the big show that was about to begin, and for some reason, the parade people passed out hula hoops to those on the sidelines. I find it remarkable that I can not only remember the toy from the 50's, but I can also recall having one large red one and several smaller ones. The trick was making all of them, around your hips and on your arms, spin at the same time, which after much practice I could do. We even had multiple large ones we also used in the weird 50's ritual. Once you achieved that remarkable ability as a child, you then sat and wondered why you ever wanted a toy like that. What amazes me is being able to remember all of that, yet not knowing the point in life I reached before my butt would no longer fit into one.

The California Kids

This picture is from one of the California trips in 2007. We spent more than 30 days at Disneyland that year and fulfilled one of my dreams by purchasing Premium Passes, the ticket that lets a person into Disneyland for free for a year.

Anna is wearing her little red sweatshirt we bought her, and Tommy is holding a juice container--something he and Jack carried around the house at that age. When they started doing Picasso types of artistic moves with them on the walls, we knew they were too old to have them in hand. They now drink from glasses and the walls no longer have juice splashes.

When we did the first day at the park on any one of those trips, Jack would not realize we were actually there until we stepped out of the car. "Oh, thank you grandma and Pop Pop," he would say each time. For Tommy, living in California and thirty minutes from the magical place meant having a hard time understanding such elation from getting out of the car at the Disney Parking Lot to get aboard a tourist transport. Both boys always had their favorite rides, but it was Anna who had the classic request that would turn the heads of all adults who ever had little ones. "I wanna go Pooh," she would say. In English classes I once taught, that would have been an ambiguous statement, but for all of us--including Jack and Tommy--we knew she wanted to ride the Winnie the Pooh ride. It also usually meant going two or three times while we were there.

The Way She Struts

When Anna first learned to walk, she took some early steps on one of those trips we made to Ontario. Ann, Jack and I would drive from early in the morning hoping to get to California at a reasonable hour. Jeff had rounds at a hospital in Chino. The doctor in charge was the "Prince of Darkness." He was the worst of what humanity has to offer, the kind of person you hope gets stranded alone in a part of Borneo where aboriginal people are starving. Jeff was magnificent during the ordeal.

Our trip from Idaho would end often late at night. Lydia would stand in front of her apartment, Anna in her arms and Tommy in hand. When Tommy noticed the car, he would start bouncing up an down. Jack would start squealing behind us. The boys still remain best friends. The first steps we saw were in the picture. Anna would walk with her arms flailing above her head, must like the orangutan in the Clint Eastwood movie.
It was so cute the way she would walk. We took pictures every time we saw her do it. And during that time, many of the pictures, like this one at Brother Bear in the California Adventure Park at Disney, were of Anna taking those steps.

Something To Make Every Redneck Proud

It's a great day at Disneyland when Pop Pop is number 7 among all boys from age 4 to 90. I may have to use an electric cart to get me from the front gate to the different rides, but I can still aim a good laser blaster.

Halloween at Grandma and Pop Pop's House

The year that Jeff was doing "rounds" gave Lydia a chance to stay with us during times when things would get very busy, and what made it fun was getting to see Tommy and Anna. The last year they stayed with us was a great one, because we made Jack-O-Lanterns for all three grandchildren. Grandma took a picture at night to show how well the little carving project worked.

But the fun did not stop there. The boys discovered the fun of playing in leaves, and where could a person find more leaves than grandma and Pop Pop's house. Years ago a neighbor who was worked at the nuclear site for the U.S. Navy lived behind us. He was abusive. He was creepy. But the worst thing was his lack of knowledge about what would happen if you plant poplar trees too close to a fence. After only two years, the tree was over one hundred feet tall. The leaves each fall are unbearable, yet the shade during the summer has been nice.

The boys spent hours playing in the back yard. Each one perfected ways of covering themselves and jumping out to scare anyone who did not know where they were, but then as quickly as it seemed Lydia came for a visit, it was time to go again. The waiting at the door was the worst, even at times when my Annie and I knew we would see them in a few weeks, either in California, when they were in Ontario, or in Minnesota, now that they live in a house there.

We will always have these pictures and memories, and we will always have the damn leaves too. They just are not as fun anymore, especially now that both Jack and Tommy are at an age when they do not like playing in them. I keep hoping that a day will come when all three grandchildren and maybe more can visit at Halloween all at the same time, but with Tommy starting school in the fall and Anna not far behind, it will be a long time before that happens. But at least we have the fun memories--a time when laughter and leaves went "hand in hand."

Interesting Things About the Pop Pop and The Crew

For anyone who knows me, I sit in this picture at Christmas of 1956 surrounded in with toys.
This was something my dad started. Christmas was his favorite time of year, and I never remember there ever being a disappointing one, unless it was a transition time--a time when boys become young men and presents are not trucks and bulldozers and battleships but sport jackets and shoes and records or tapes. But here begins my passion for music. I am looking at a small record player, and I had hand fulls of small 45's, which were small records about six inches in diameter that played at a higher speed than the larger albums. There were recordings of Christmas songs and nursery rhymes, all worn out within a few years from listening to them every day. It was also in this house on South Main in Malad where dad would play his jazz records and talk to me about the instruments, trying to get me to see the difference between a trumpet and a sax. When I played in band and began to excel, a regular baritone sax was not good enough. He bought me a Selmer, and I will never part with it. Like Charleton Heston, someone will have to pry my lifeless fingers from it to take it from me. Oh, that was a gun that the former Moses was talking about when he said that at a NRA convention.

This is Christmas Eve when Cles was one year old. He had this great stocking cap, an Idaho Vandals sweatshirt, and jeans that his grandma found him. They were a size "O." I wish we still had those jeans somewhere, but everyone always throws things like that away, in spite of fun memories. The horse would make galloping noises, and whenever a child pulled the reins backward, the toy would whinny. It was a hit, and not many years later, Lydia loved the toy too. Any visitor's child unlucky to sit on it found Lydia's elbow placed every so firmly in a spot that send frightened eyes over the top of the little horse in an incredible gymnastics move.

Jack won the hearts of every teacher and teacher's aide at his preschool, and his signature wink became a legend. When he and I watched a movie together today, I worried about something mean he said earlier in the day. It was not anything major, just something that surprised me. I was talking to him about it, and I said something that I believed to be very important. "Have you ever seen Pop Pop hurt anyone?" He thought for a moment while we watched his favorite Japanese animation film called Howl's Moving Castle. We were watching a movie, and I had my arm under his head. "Well, sometimes when you put your arm under my head it is a little uncomfortable." My grandchildren are always thinking. Memories of each of them make me smile every day. All three have different little quirks, yet they share a zest for life. When they laugh their eyes sparkle like stars in the sky, and their laughter is infectious. The sound makes people around them turn and smile when they hear it. All three are hypersensitive. And all three are little ones I love very much.

Tommy loves chocolate, and his favorite bar is a Kit Kat. That was my Grandma Liza's favorite too. In fact, it was staying at her house on weekends that made my sisters and me fans too. And when Tommy visits Pop Pop, I can always tell when he wants me to tickle him. He will peek around a corner whenever I tease Anna or Jack. I can feel his smile, even though he stands behind me. Enticing him to come closer to make him laugh is easy. "What have you got on your shirt right there." I point at any spot. He approaches with a smile on his face, because he knows Pop Pop is going to tickle him.

Not just another Burg in Southern Germany

It is interesting for me to realize that I once spent my summers taking pictures like these. In fact, some students would occasionally say that they had seen so many castles that they could not recognize one from another. That statement still amazes me, because I could never have felt that way, and I would never have said it--regardless how old I was.

The first thing my father taught me was never to use any form of the word boring, whether as an adjective, a verb or a noun. It did not result in being kicked or hit or anything else.

What the result was are things that are much worse for anyone who finds something boring. On the ranch where I grew up, there were always rocks to haul, fences to mend, fields to tend. There were times that just thinking about being bored was a good thing.

That must sound strange to anyone who has never spent he day lifting lava rocks. Gloves make it more comforting, especially since basalt stones like that sometimes have edges that scrape the skin. And they are not always heavy either, depending on just how violent the forces of nature were when the rock flew into the air so long ago. It is just doing it for four or five hours or more is more than tedious, yet hauling rocks is so much better than dealing with sunshine: a euphemism for the substance produced by happy cattle after they eat grass and grain. The Germans have a word for it, Mist.


The word always made me smile, especially after I saw some American soft drink company use the word for a name of a new soft drink, Alpine Mist--or something like that. And even in ignorance, having tasted the drink once, they really did not miss the mark very far. But after attempting to drink one out of a can once, I poured the remainder on a lawn of a house I once owned. Unlike the substance in Germany or "sunshine" on the farm where I once worked, it did not make the lawn grow any better.

I have a difficult time thinking how anyone would mind seeing a place like this. To see it every day would be nice. Living in a small German city would be so nice, not even taking Italian ice cream or German chocolate or the fine pastries at the local bakery into consideration.

My dad once heard one of my students use the word boring just one time at the airport when we returned home from Germany. The student complained about seeing one too many castles and one too many gothic churches and cathedrals, because mean old Mr. Ward would not let them take a break and go to a disco.
It was once that I would love to have known what my father thought at that moment, because I am sure that he would have taken the little dear to the tarmac to remove stones, weeds and occasional tumble weeds that sometimes pause in their bouncing path across a runway at Salt Lake International Airport.

But what he did do was this. "Jon, you need to take adults to Germany," he said loud enough for the young adult and his parents to hear. "You know, someone who would appreciate seeing what is there."
Dad never had a chance to have me take him there. But if he and I are ever sitting in heaven on a lazy afternoon when I join him some day, if he even mentions the word boring, I will take him there--more as a fun joke between the two of us rather than punishment.

Teaching me not to use "boring" in any conversation is probably one of the greatest things he taught me. And he taught me a great deal of things in the years we spent together hauling rocks, mending fences, tending fields. Sometimes we went fishing and hunting together. But regardless what we did, there is not much I do not think about fondly at this moment.

Riding with Willi in his BMW

Like I mentioned in an earlier blog, Willi often took me for a ride in his BMW on weekends, sometimes the trip lasted from morning until early evening. It was a fantastic time, an opportunity to see parts of Southern Germany I would never see again. It gave me a chance to take some beautiful pictures.

On more than a few occasions, we stopped and walked around some of the small places for a while. Willi took me for rides throughout Southern Germany and even over the border into Austria. That I remember, because I had to show my passport.

Some of the small cities we stopped in had interesting things to photograph. The one below had a small stream that flowed through the center of the town.




























And then as in the pictures below, there was this beautiful mountain lake fed by melting water from a glacier. The water was a deep green color, and it was icy cold--colder than anything I have ever seen. That day we could see a windsurfer on the opposite end. I could not imagine someone on a board on that lake, and I once tried water skiing down the river into Island Park Reservoir on a Fourth of July weekend when an unexpected snowstorm dropped four inches of snow on the ground. I wore cutoff Levi shorts, and we were silly enough not to know why I was so exhausted and needed so much help to get me back into the boat. I refused to give up until my dad forced me back into the boat. Ann was glad when I gave up trying. The mountain lake in Southern Germany was colder than that day water skiing.

I will never forget the color of the water, a deep green color that was lighter than a forest green and darker than jade.

Shortly before The Big Adventure

My last German exchange was in 2001. It was the first time that I could not keep up with the fastest walkers in any group. Old sports injuries--in my opinion at the time--had finally taken their toll upon me. Two years later I made plans to return to Stuttgart, something I looked forward to doing, because I loved the exchanges I did in Southern Germany; however, I felt ill at ease.

I have always had a sixth sense about things, and with the Iraqi War just beginning, I felt uneasy about being in Germany, especially given some things I saw in Stuttgart just prior to 9-11.

After thinking about the situation for a few weeks, I cancelled the trip. Ann scheduled a doctor appointment for me in June, and my doctor immediately diagnosed my damaged hip. Surgery was in early July. By the beginning of August, an oncologist diagnosed my cancer. I recognize now that I probably suffered from the effects of my leukemia for months prior to my surgery, and I also realize how fortunate I am for not taking that trip. I can see that in the picture.

Someone took this picture just a few days before the surgery. I have Tommy asleep in my arms. And I still find comfort in my three little ones: Jack, Tommy and Anna.

My First Exchange in 1981

I was 29 years old. Ann and I took our first exchange group to Germany. The sign they made was incredible, displaying a Welsh dragon. The parents were fantastic and made the trip a success for our students. Both the excitement of parents and students alike made the trip so much fun.

The picture is from Bahnhof Zoo in Berlin. When you walked into that station or came out of it after exiting a train, you saw interesting things. It is how I picture hell: drug addicts, thieves, prostitutes. And that is during the daytime.

Berlin, however, is also full of fantastic memories. The Doppeldecker Bus or double-decker as we called it was fun for all of us to ride in as a group. A spiral stair brought you to an upper deck of seats with a low ceiling. In some parts of Berlin with many trees, you could hear branches slide over the top as the bus went from stop to stop. I rode with students. The bus driver, who had a mirror like a periscope, did not like having young students up there, because youths were the ones who scrawled graffiti all over the bus and ripped the seats.

This first group of Americans was an incredible bunch of kids. I will never forget them and their excitement of being in Germany. It was a great exchange, but my lack of experience prevented me from traveling like I did at the end of my teaching career.

Mr. Piano Man

When we first began watching American Idol, Jack would go into the living room and plunk on the piano and sing like he had watched on television. One night while Cles visited us, Jack did the same thing, and Cles caught it on two separate video clips.

Clips like this make me wish that you could prevent children from growing up so quickly, yet each day brings things like this--from Jack, from Tommy, from Anna--that make me smile. On the way home to Minnesota, Tommy had noticed signs with deer that warn drivers of wild animals on the road. Near West Yellowstone, Montana, Tommy saw a sign with a horse and rider. "Look out for wild cowboys," Tommy said from the backseat. That is Grandma Annie's favorite recent Tommy story.

Last night Anna called grandma and Pop Pop to update us on her adventures in toilet training. "I peed in Taco Time!" Anna's voice was static with excitement at her newly-found skill.

I had to spoil the moment with a snappy comment. "Can Pop Pop pee at Taco Time when I come to visit?" There was that silence on the other end of the conversation like the moment they show on television: the one where there is total silence except for crickets singing. And then Anna continues, "Grandma, can You come to visit me?"