Winter is for Children

I put this blog together, so my grandchildren would see that there was a time when their Pop Pop didn't call snow a bad name by referring to it as that white s@%t that's on the sidewalk and driveway again.  

There actually was  a time when my dad would take a long rope and tie it securely onto the bumper of our pick-up or car, and drive slowly while pulling me on a sled and several friends on their sleds too.  We could only do it when the roads were covered with a thick layer of packed snow, so I actually looked forward to that too, instead of cursing local city officials for not getting snow removed quickly.

And it was also a time when I went to work with my dad and grandfather.  My dad would bundle me up in boots and hat and this old plaid coat that was thick and warm.  We drove to what we called the hay lands, an area where farmers cut summer grasses, rich in timothy and sometimes a bit of clover, to feed cattle in winter when thick snow blanketed pastures.  It was here that I watched my dad and grandpa load a late 40's or early 50's two ton truck with a load of hay before taking it to an adjacent field where we fed our cattle.  In those days, we brought our cattle into Malad rather than driving to Snowville every day to feed them there.

The old way was safer and cheaper, but it was before farmers and ranchers had to live with laws requiring fees for each cow and calf and bull regarding brand inspection.  

While I am sure that it prevented some thefts of cattle, I have a difficult time thinking that cattle rustlers would transport loads during daytime hours.  Thieves never worry about being accommodating.  They never stop by the house of the brand inspector who lives on the highway just for fun either.  

And even my dad loved snow too.  The picture shows him bundled up for snow in a wooden box atop his own sled.  

I wish he were here to tell me if the picture was in the back of Great Grandpa Ward's place, because that is my best guess at this point, although some of the sheds look familiar to what we had on the ranch.

Even when I was older and in my 20's and 30's, I loved snow, because it was a time when we were able to ride a snow machine, and although we did it rarely with having to feed cattle every day, we still were able to do it occasionally.

The picture below is one of the early times when we participated in the sport.  My dad bought two green machines for a few hundred dollars per sled, something that would never happen today when enthusiasts pay as much for a snow machine as they do for a car.  It was a new sport at that time, a time when it was fun to do something with my dad besides the work we did every day.

The mountains around Malad were loaded with places to ride.  I think this picture shows a trail just above Jess Ward's ranch on the way to Powerhouse, although it may also have been the trip dad took to the cabin one year.  Tom Perry went with us, because dad was nervous that the snow on the roof would create problems.  

When we opened the door and entered, the entire inside of the cabin was coated with a layer of frost, just like what appears on car windows in winter.  We started a fire, and after a few hours, the inside was warm.  Riding the snow machines that year, however, was something that required thick coats and helmets with visors.  Even then we wore a bandana to cover our face, because hte daytime temperatures were never higher than 20 below zero.  We had to worry about wind chill, which explains why we dressed like we did.  

The beauty I found during those winter trips was incredible.  The mountains around Malad had beautiful places to ride too, and to this day, I will never understand why someone there doesn't groom trails for snow machines in winter and bike trails in summer.   At one time there was someone who groomed trails, but that was when everyone rode their snow machines in the mountains.  I don't think it happens as much now.  It became a rich man's sport with the advent of advanced technology that created massive snow machines with cooled engines.  The simple way is sometimes a better path.

Winter was a beautiful time there in my memory.  Everyone decorated yards and businesses for Christmas, and there was always a huge Christmas tree in the center of town.  The fifty or sixty foot tree was a traffic hazard and also a hassle for city police trying to catch teens who stole colored light bulbs, but it was still fun to have that tree there.  Now the town uses a smaller version in a parking lot, and I think it is also an artificial tree.  In years past, property owners would donate one overgrown pine in their own yard to be sacrificed by city officials wielding chain saws.

I wish that I could have been old enough to remember my grandpa feeding cattle with Great Grandpa Ward's team.  Now that would have been a sleigh ride to remember, although the work involved requiring loading that hay rack with a pitchfork was not an "E-ticket" ride at any Disney Park.  It was difficult work.

In spite of the work involved in feeding cattle, I still have fond memories of the evenings with my father.  The skies were sometimes crystal clear, and stars shone brightly in a massive ocean of cobalt blue.  I will never forget the sound of cattle feeding in the silence of winter.  The season in my memory was a beautiful place. 

Minnesota: A Place Meant for Summer Visits

Minnesota is a beautiful place to be during the summer.  There are rolling hills of corn.  Every farm you see is well-kept: the fences appear freshly painted, old machinery does not litter the landscape, homes and sheds are in order.  It basically looks like people, who take pride in what they do, live there.  

And even the summer storms are beautiful.  When it rains, it is torrential, and as bizarre as it seems to appear, I love to hear the echo of thunder that shakes windows in homes, although I hate the fact that tornadoes are a thing to worry about there too, which is something that we have here only rarely.  But even then, every time it rains, I look for things I am accustomed to here in the high plains desert, like the smell of ozone after a storm when everything smells so fresh and clean.  

In summer, you can hear the sounds of crickets and frogs.  To watch grandchildren pick them up and play with them is not only fun, but it also reminds me of my doing the same thing.  

The picture above is of Tommy and Anna at Soldier Park.  Minnesota recognizes that parks are important.  There are incredible examples of playground equipment that any child loves, designed to give them the exercise they need by getting out of the house and away from computer games and television.   

Jack loved the park there when he was with us in September of '08, but there were already changes in the air while we were there.  It began to be cool at night, requiring a light coat and closed windows at night.  In the heat of summer, the windows stay open, if not to create a little cool fresh air, then definitely a chance to hear those frogs and crickets.  The night sounds were still there in September.  You could, however, still notice the anticipation of winter.  

Driving became a NASCAR adventure with people who cut you off frequently or suddenly recognized that cars have horns to be used if someone waits a fraction of a second too long at a light or stop sign.   The smiles were no longer there, and no one seemed to be experiencing karma.  They seemed to know that winter was coming.  I don't blame them.  In fact, the reason I probably interpret the sadness is because it is how I feel in winter.

I can't imagine what they must feel.   Seeing the "white stuff" is depressing enough, so I have no way of understanding what they must feel when they find weeks where daytime temperatures rarely climb to plus degrees.  In fact, the only thing that helps we survive Idaho winter at this point in my life is knowing that somewhere in Minnesota, it is most likely forty or fifty below zero any given night in January and early February.

We will visit again this summer.  I will drive across Montana and Wyoming and the Dakotas, hoping to make it well in advance of the invasion by fans of Harley Davidson who feel that it is their constitutional right to bare themselves at any given moment.  There should be a law that forbids anyone over the age of 45 from acting stupid like that.   

But being in Minnesota means visiting Tommy and Anna with Jack, a rare time when we have all three grandchildren together in one place at one time.  It means driving to the Dutch restaurant to see the workers bring a plate with a European pancake smothered in berries while saying very loud, "Pfannekuchen."  Oh, they don't say it in German.  They use the Dutch word, although I am sure they mispronounce it badly, but it's still fun to be there and watch the fun and eat the great food.

A Loosely Based Interpretation of Star Wars By One Of My Annie's Gifted Students

Star Wars: Retold (by someone who hasn't seen it) from Joe Nicolosi on Vimeo.

Just when I thought I had seen everything, I find something fun like this, and I have to share it on my blog.

I Wish Joni Mitchell Would Write A Song About Karma

Just when I thought I could resist reading any letter to the editor in Idaho Falls, it happened. I take a quick glance at titles, refuse to allow it to act upon my day, and do the crossword. It helps to do that ritual, because if I read one of the letters, I undoubtedly get angry. It's kind of like that movie The Sixth Sense, except unlike the young boy. I see stupid people. And they irritate me.

So when I opened the paper on Wednesday, January 28, I began the ritual true to form, and then it appeared: a title in bold letters. It was like the late 50's horror film I once saw entitled, From Hell It Came!

Teachers must sacrifice

There has been much discussion on what the state government must do to stay within a balanced budget during these sad economic times. When the subject of budget cuts surfaces and especially eduactrion cuts are suggested, the uproar begins. In the "Our View" section of the Post Register on January 14, the article states that if education gets less, then the quality of teaching will be less. For every 10 dollars, nine goes to salaraies and benefits.

Being in the building business, I know what it means to have to bid on projects including homes for teachers. If I want the job, I must bid the project at the lowest possible cost, but the people do not want the lowest possible quality. No, they still insist on the best top quality as if I were the highest bidder. Where is the double standard today? Everyone should have to sacrifice at a time when economical tough times occur.

Perhaps teachers should bid for their jobs and experience what everyone in teh competitive world has had to do forever.

Now, I don't have any problem with the word sacrifice. As a teacher I did it for 25 years. I never owned a car that didn't have over 100,000 miles on it before I purchased another, except for the last red Ford I owned with a bad transmission, but that is another story.

I also spent thousands of dollars every year out of my own pocket buying classroom materials and doing other things that I didn't have to do. It was money that I chose to do, but it was a sacrifice for my family. And money is only the beginning. I sacrificed a great deal of time too. Whether after or before school, I spent hours in my classroom creating an atmosphere that students could enjoy and developing materials that would help them learn. It is what you do as a teacher. I did it, and I know others who did it and still do.

I paced for a while. During the afternoon, I even listened to some mellow 60's music that usually has a calming effect, but it didn't work. Then I turned to the annoying journalists on ESPN who hate some of my favorite teams and ridicule some of my favorite players. I thought, Hey maybe they can annoy me enough to forget about the man from Sugar City who obviously hates teachers. But like the not so nice woman in The Wizard of Oz--who by the way reminds me of my fourth grade teacher (See, I dislike a few in my profession for good reason too, but it doesn't make all teachers bad.)--I hated the man and his little letter too.

My letter began to form in my mind, and suddenly there was this smile that began to crawl across my face. I sat at the computer, while my Annie watched something on TV. "What are you doing Jon?"

She knew I was up to something. She saw all the danger signs of my having read another one of those--in her words and not mine--damn letters to the editor in the Post Register. And then I looked at the finished copy. I can never be sure, but as I looked at it, the words "It's alive!" came from my mouth. I smiled in satisfaction with my creation.

As a retired teacher, I gratefully acknowledge the Sugar City businessman who is a builder and who took it upon himself to teach me and other educators what we should have done years ago—giving our expertise to the highest bidder.

I never succumbed to the highest bid when it came to teaching, and after 25 years—almost 16 of which were in a district whose students were exactly why I am glad I didn’t go for the highest bid when a job in Oregon came calling, when a job in Nevada came calling, and even when a job in California came calling—I stayed because I believed in what I was doing here.

And so did many other excellent teachers, who in the past 25 years have not seen exorbitant pay or benefit increases. That’s why you, as a builder, don’t build expensive homes for teachers, and that’s why you don’t see new, expensive cars in their driveways every year either.

You see, teachers believed that the state and even individual school districts would use “rainy day funds” when economic bad weather appeared, but call me pessimistic if you must, but I always knew what politicians and officials would do when that day came: initiating cuts rather than using those funds for schools.

Don’t you love people who always think someone else deserves to stand in line at the local soup kitchen? When the new world emerges for teachers, maybe you could submit a bid on my outhouse.

I was so pleased with myself. "I've got a letter to the editor I want you to read," I said to my Annie.

"Please don't. It took months for some people to forget about the last one. I don't want the hate stares at church, and I don't want you to be a whacko, just like the others who write letters to the editor."

I would do anything for my wife, except throw away my collection of Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin or Emerson, Lake and Palmer CD's. So I put my response on my blog.

The Circus That Came To Town

I never liked hunting.  It was the red licorice I liked, and I liked the chocolate kind too. Whenever we go on a road trip that lasts more than a few hours, we always buy some, and the taste reminds me of when I was young.

On the opening day of deer hunt, my dad would put our lunch in a saddle bag, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for both of us.  That is where I learned an important thing about peanut butter and jelly: they taste better after you smash them.  My dad would make them, carefully wrap them, and then smash them.  

He watched my response the first time, and then he explained the ritual.  They are going to get that way anyway, so why not just get down to it, and besides, he would explain, they taste better that way.  The funny part about that was the fact that they are better when smashed.

The ritual was the same for years.  Sometimes we were successful, each of us shooting and tagging a dear, but mostly, it was a day of riding horses in the mountains, listening to the occasional distant rumble of a rifle.  Whenever I smell sagebrush, I think of those great times with my father.  But my dad always reminded me that the work started after you shot a deer.  It wasn't that I was lazy, because I am not, but I also had this thing about gutting the animal.  I would have to leave the area, because I would start to get light-headed: a sure sign that I would never have been very good in any branch of the medical profession.  

People told me that deer meat was great.  That statement is a classic.  It's right up there with the phrases like "fun run" or one describing the new age grocery product that is a scientific mystery: fat free potato chips. Running is never fun, and fat free potato chips taste like thin wooden shingles passionately tenderized with who knows how many chemicals.  People devour masses of them in good conscience, thinking they will magically make them thin by sacrificing themselves on the altar of a fat free diet.

To make a long story short.  Deer meat sucks.  I tried to soak it in buttermilk.  I cooked it with onions and herbs.  I even tried spicy sauces as a marinade, but whenever I tried to cook it--regardless of how I did it--dogs began barking near and far, not because they were hungry, but because they sensed something more hideous than Alpo.   

Because I refuse to eat deer meat, I find no inclination ever to hunt again, because my best friend, my hunting partner, and my maker of peanut butter sandwiches passed away in February of 1991.  Those trips with my father remain only in my memories now.

I kept my guns, because my father gave most of them to me.  The rifles and shotguns will eventually go to my son, because he actually wants to hunt.  I have no problem with that at all.   However, no one in my family will ever get my handguns, because it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out why people have them.  

Call me a liberal, but I figure that if it takes a gun to defend myself on a daily basis, I am living in the wrong place.  And given my family's temperament, I will not give any of them a handgun.   

So at this point, I decided to go to a gun show in our town this past weekend to see if I could sell my Smith & Wesson .357, a pistol that I bought when I was young.  At the time, Ann and I decided I needed it before going to the cabin my father owned one weekend.  At that time I had ten days to finish a Shakespeare home study course in order to graduate from ISU in 1979, and there had been a number of attacks by a black bear in the area of our family cabin.  I bought the gun, and the pistol is still in the original package in pristine condition.   Given the present economic situation, I figured some extra money would be nice at this point, but I learned an important lesson. 

As soon as I arrived at the gun show, one very nice man saw me and motioned for me to take his parking place, since he was leaving for home.  I was about to find out that he was the only nice person at the little "get together" for right wing radicals.  I walked in the door.

There were hunting rifles, and I don't have a problem with that.  But no one seemed interested in any of that, or at least not many did.  They gathered and salivated at this table with automatic weapons.  And yes, they were officially semiautomatic, but everyone knows that people there know how to alter them.  The vendor spoke loudly, "Why, after the Obama-na-tion, these have tripled in value."  He was trying to be funny in his appraisal of the inauguration of America's new president, whose politics he obviously didn't like.  I guess he wanted everyone to know that he believed the democratic process was an abomination, because he didn't agree with the majority of voters.  Regardless of how unfunny he was, and how stupid he and others were, I really hated the wretch.  And I hated his customers too.  I had seen enough.

See, I have a difficult time understanding why a person would want an Uzi or an AK-47 or any automatic weapon.  It's because I saw three kids shoot a deer once.  It fell against a large chunk of brush, and they continued firing their 30-30's.  The animal had long since hopped into another dimension, and the carcass had forty or fifty holes in it.  Why would a person need an expensive weapon to do what I watched three idiots complete successfully so many years ago with their own deer rifles?  And if these "Great White Hunters" think they need more than two rounds to shoot wild game, they should practice before going into the hills.  That's why it's a sport.  My father only needed one shot.  But he was an incredible shot and an exceptional hunter.

Every one--those buying formidable weapons and those resenting the fact they are accessible--knows why people want them.  They are not for hunting.  Once I saw this couple in a store, the husband admiring an expensive assault rifle with a bayonet.  "It's shaped like this so the blade entry wound does not heal."  

The salesmen then told the customer, dressed in tatters like his wife, about the price tag of the weapon: almost $2000, and that was almost 20 years ago.

So in this time of economic difficulty when I figure I could get $600 or even more for a pistol, which I have rarely used, I decided that I will not place it into the hands of those people I met at that show.  Not only are they crazy, but their parents were never married.  

In the town where I grew up, there is a word, used immediately after "crazy," that locals once used to describe Utah fishermen and hunters who invaded our reservoirs, fields and mountains every year.   They still do, but now because of the large number of people living in Utah, many new residents of my hometown are Utahans, who chose to live there permanently to get away from newcomers in the state.   Or maybe they just wanted to get away from large cities.  Regardless of their reasoning, many of those "crazies" now live there.

The people I saw at the gun show, who deserve being called both of the words I mentioned, are kind of like a particular Utah fisherman, who reportedly went into a highway rest stop for a bathroom break.  He leaned over to pick something up, and his glasses fell into one of those toilets that once existed.  It was the kind that still exists in most parks, the chemical kind which doesn't need flushing.  This fisherman could see the glasses floating in the horrific dark waters below, so he went back to his truck to retrieve his fishing pole.  

While dangling hook and line into the abyss, another motorist accidentally opened the stall and saw him with his fishing pole trying to retrieve the glasses.  The embarrassed fisherman reportedly had an interesting comment.  He looked at the puzzled bystander.  "I've been here all day without a single tug on my line."  

The traveler shut the door of the stall and returned to his car, probably to speed away in horror.  

Like I said, I refuse to consider selling a pistol to any of the fine people I met that day at the gun show, all clamoring to arm themselves against imaginary adversaries in order to keep safe.  I hope someone will protect the rest of us from these people I met at the gun show, young and old and all buying automatic weapons and boxes of ammunition instead of food and clothing and necessities for their families.  

No terrorist in their right mind would want to meet people like this.

January 1, 2009

In January of 2005, things were not good. I lost the ability to use my legs. I lost the ability to reason. The visit at the oncology clinic of Dr. Mulvey was a disaster. Hallucinations were bothering me. Before my arrival, I was sure that opening up a certain set of drawers in a random way would allow the light to go on in the bedroom that morning. Things worsened. Ann sat by me in the chemo room at the clinic, and everything she said, I still remember saying, "Prove it!" I kept repeating the words. I didn't recognize anyone by name, by the end of my day there, I had everyone in tears--my wife, other patients, the nurses and staff. My doctor seemed to choke up a bit too. I could not get my legs to move, so after a blood transfusion I had had to receive, I sat without being able to get up out of the chair.

Finally they were able to move me into a room. I remember the doctor telling my Annie that he believed the cancer had spread into my spine and brain. There was not much time left. In the room, he asked me if he could try one thing. He injected some chemo into my spine with a syringe after telling me how much I was loved by so many people.

An ambulance took me to the hospital. To make matters worse, I had had a bad line, tubes going under the skin across my chest and ribcage and connecting to the jugular. Within a short time, the new line that created the staff infection--as if I didn't have enough things going on at the time--was gone and a new one replaced it. A local dermatologist took a sample of skin to have it analyzed, but the chunk was the size of the tip of my thumb, not a smooth move considering the fact that I was on blood thinner. For two days, they could not get the bleeding to stop.

I have to remind myself that I was in a first class seat on the Crazy Train at the time, so as good a memory as I have always had, I will never be sure that I was aware of everything or that I recall everything as it happened. The last night before everything changed, Dr. Mulvey and Megan his PA were in my room. I enjoyed seeing them. I trusted them with my life, because they were incredible, but they were my friends too. Dr. Mulvey whispered to her, but I guess he didn't know an important fact that I always told my high school students: I can hear a gnat flatulate at least 500 meters away. He told her, although I don't remember the exact words, that he didn't know what to do, because I was losing blood as fast as they could put it into me through additional blood transfusions. The staff infection was very bad, and I had a high fever.

He came in the next morning with a solution that he dreamed in a dream. He used a sanitary napkin under the bandage to stop the bleeding. It worked. The bleeding stopped. In another week or so the infection subsided. I returned home very weak, so weak that I could not walk five feet without stopping to rest. Dr. Mulvey told Ann that he figured I had two weeks to two months to live.

My Annie worked hard to make me feel comfortable. She was so sad. One day, she told me that we needed to go somewhere for fun. She asked me, while I sat in a chair, where I would like he to take me.

"Disneyland!" I answered immediately. I also said I wanted Jack and Kristin to come too. When I told Dr. Mulvey, it shocked him. He laughed, and then when he saw that I was serious, he said, "Why not!"

The day we left, it was a bleak day in February. I insisted on driving. My arms shook the entire way to Salt Lake City, but I said nothing, because I was afraid if I said anything, my Annie would take me straight home. We arrived at the hotel, and we left the next morning on an early flight. The trip was fun. I only wish the rest of the family could have been there too, similar to the trip we had taken in late May of 2004 when my cancer seemed to be in remission.

I rented an electric cart, and we spent every day at the park.

When I returned, Dr. Mulvey saw me within days at an appointment. "What ride are you going to tell me about?" He looked at me, expecting me to say that I rode the train around the park a couple of times. I told him about my rides on Tower of Terror.

His response was a classic. With eyes the size of silver dollars, he listened to me tell the story. "You've got to be kidding!" And he began to laugh. Within a month, I started swimming again. First I swam half a mile, and a week later I began swimming a mile a day. In two months it was two miles, and a couple of times I swam four miles. The people at the pool were so good to let me stay in a lane to get the exercise I needed.

In the fall, an administrator asked me if I could return to work. It please me. I thought it to be an incredible compliment, but it made my friend and doctor angry. His reply was another classic. "You remember that drug trial we did with you in conjunction with Loyolla University? According to them, you are not alive."

Like all of Dr. Mulvey's patients, I miss my incredible doctor and friend. This past September, Ann and I traveled to Mayo Clinic in Minnesota to get help with the circulation in my legs, and while there, we visited one of the leading oncologists in the world. When I told him the story, he told me my doctor was right. In fact, when I asked him how many patients survived that drug trail, he told me I was it.

I would be a fool to recognize my survival as anything less than a miracle. Dr. Mulvey is one of the best oncologists in the country, but he told me something important one day. "Jesus must really love you Jon. He wants to keep you around." He teared up when he told me that too.

Rubbing my religious beliefs in someone's nose is something I never do, unless I feel they want to know or if they ask me, but I will say that anyone who thinks that there is not a God or that faith does not make a difference is the foolish one. Friends and family who witnessed what I suffered know this fact, but the reason for this blog is not to talk about this. It is about looking at what I have four years later.

1. Realization that I have a devoted and loving wife is something I have always believed, but now I know it to be true.

2. Recognizing that family is the most important thing in life is a blessing.

3. Having children married to soul mates who treat them well like mine treats me is a small piece of heaven.

4. Laughter of grandchildren is the real nectar of the gods.

5. Loving every second of life is what really keeps you young at heart, although frequent trips to Disneyland with grandchildren are a major asset in maintaining that goal.

Having Cles and Leslie stay with us for a few short days after Christmas was so incredible, but it went by so quickly. And it always does that. I write the same thing when Lydia visits, whether it's for a week or a month.

We saw them just before they left on a shuttle that took them from our hotel in Salt Lake to the airport. Ann and I spent the rest of the day with Jack.

The first stop was at Gateway Mall, where we went to the Apple Store. We finally bought our Apple Computer, after talking the name of Bill Gates in vain for at least 10 years. I hope he knows what he can do with Vista.

We stopped in Layton. After checking Toys 'R Us for any additional Star Wars toys that had been unavailable in our area during the Christmas shopping season, we went to Target which was just a short distance away. Ann called me within minutes of entering the store. They had piles of Star Wars Galactic Heroes Cinema Scenes, and they also had the one I wanted to get Jack and Tommy for Christmas, Jabba's Skiff.

Jack spent the rest of the trip clutching the new toy in his arms. Tommy will get his when he returns to Minnesota. I will mail it to him.


So how is January of 2009 different than 2005? I can't begin to express in words what I feel with every beat of my heart. To see the happiness of a grandchild when I spoil any one of the three of them or all three at the same time is what I live for each day. It is a family tradition for those who knew key people in my family.

It is wonderful to take my Annie's hand and press it to my lips as often as I can. She rolls her eyes every time I do it, just like she will when she reads this, but I will never stop doing it. It is so nice not to hear her sob gently in the darkness over the loss she feared would happen. After almost 39 years, we still enjoy each other, although we will never have the money to drive a Porsche, a Cadillac or even a used Mercedes. We won't have a mansion on the hill above Idaho Falls either, but we do have fun every moment of the day.

And did I mention that I not only filled one I Pod with over 19,000 songs or about 1800 albums, but I am still putting my jazz and classical music on another. There might be a big of room for some books and of course music my children enjoy while they travel with us. It's nice to hold my entire music collection in the palm of my hand.

But I still hope for the day when my Annie and I live in a spot where it is always warm and comfortable, where I can have palm trees in the front yard and citrus trees in the backyard, where my childen and grandchildren can visit often.

The Advantages of Being OCD

In As Good As It Gets where Jack Nicholson plays an author who suffers from Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, there is a part near the end of the movie where he looks at the artist's suitcase and says, "Great packing!"

While my daughter went through her things today, she and my wife found a packing list I made whenever I began putting my suitcase together for an exchange trip.

Here it is:

Levi 8 blue 5 black 1 shorts 2
socks 13 grey 4 red 3 blue 4 brown 2
(cowboy) underwear 12
deodorant
shirts 14 green 2 red 2 beige/white 3 blue 3 brown 1 maroon 1 orange 1 rust 1
slacks 1
clippers 2 toe 1 finger 1
money pouch/passport holder 1
gifts
tickets, etc.
rain poncho 1
shoes 2
water socks 1

I never forgot anything whenever I traveled, and I always began packing two weeks before the trip. My large bag always had 35 pounds or less, and the carry on was only 10 pounds.

The entire group also had a number that they put on their bag with duct or electrical tape. It made it easy for the group to find our bags when we arrived in Germany. I separated the group into two groups, each one waiting at different ends of the baggage claim conveyer. A group of 25 could retrieve bags in 30 minutes, something absolutely necessary when you had a train connection to make.

Cles and Leslie Visit Snow Country

Jack looked forward to having Cles and Leslie visit. Cles teases Jack, just like I do and just like I teased Cles when he was little. It's the gift that keeps on giving. My Grandpa Williams teased and tickled me unmercifully. I remember getting tickled until I couldn't get my breath. They are some of the good memories I have of him. The first day that Cles and Leslie were in town meant that we made a trip to Toys 'R Us or as Jack calls it--Toys 'R Bus. We spent at least two hours there, while Jack examined every toy in the store, and while Cles tormented me by trying to buy Jack any number of play weapons. Ironically, I may have to buy that toy machine gun he showed me.

The time went too quickly. As soon as they arrived, we tried doing everything we had been wanting to do. But on New Year's Eve, we started back for Salt Lake City. After our dinner and spending some time at Trolley Square, we returned to the hotel, where Uncle Cles taught Jack how to prank call Pop Pop.

The trip wouldn't be complete without Cles and Leslie emphasizing the need for Jack to love North Carolina's Tarheels. There was a game that night, and Jack enjoyed it with Cles and Leslie, although I figure that he liked the exercise more than the game.

Jack's First Aggie Experience

When we arrived at the game, Jack was mystified by the arena and the vibes. We entered at the end of the arena, just above the tunnels where the players emerge. One is visible at the right side of the picture. I watched Jack stand for a moment, and then he sat down in an unoccupied seat at the top. After watching him for a moment, I had him stand and go with us to our seats where this picture happened.

He watched the entire game without taking his eyes away from the floor, except when grandma took him to the concessions and Utah State Bookstore booth, where she bought him a T-shirt.
He was proud of his new shirt. And grandma getting him that and some other fun things too. He came back with popcorn and other goodies. The funny thing about their concessions is the fact that the popcorn still smells just as nice as it did when I was in the old Field House at my first game there in the late 60's. My only disappointment was that the band was not there, since it was still during Christmas break.

When Ann and I were at Utah State in our graduate programs in the late 80's, there were two things that made the game unforgetable--the band, and throwing rolls of toilet paper as far as you could throw your roll after the Aggies scored their first basket. They don't do that anymore. I'm sure Mr. Whipple felt the "squeeze" from that move by the NCAA. For those "young whippersnappers" who have no idea who Mr. Whipple was, he was the grocer who warned customers not to squeeze the Charmin in commercials in the "olden days."

As for the band, I remember the fun things they did. They would start with a drum, and then they would chant, "The Green Iguana!" Why they did it, I have no idea, but it was funny, and they waved a giant plastic lizard all while they did it. Minutes later, they would hold a large plastic chicken fryer in the air, "Tastes great!" Then they would hold the Green Iguana in the air again. "Less filling!" The arena would erupt in laughter.

The new generation just doesn't know how to have fun.
We were excited about the fact that Kristin could go with us to the game. Ann and Kristin came in the Bug after she finished work. Connie worked the magic again and was able to get us tickets.

Jenny enjoyed being with the group at the game, and as evidence that Jack is now getting older, he refused to sit by her when she asked him. He was embarrassed. I find that funny, because when he was just little and first able to talk, he would talk to any girl over the age of three and under the age of 80. "My name is Jack," he would tell them. They would say how cute he was, and it just encouraged him to do it whenever we went into a store.

I find it interesing how my daughters do not like their picture taken. They are shy about it. I am the same way, but I dislike my picture taken for a different reason: I don't want someone's camera to steal my soul.

I can't believe we didn't take more pictures, especially of Leslie and Cles. We only have these few of Leslie, and there is not one of Cles. The rode to Logan with Jack and me. Jack watched movies the entire trip with Leslie. Cles sat in the front and helped me select 60's music that wouldn't irritate anyone. We arrived at Connie and Doug's house, expecting to stay for an hour or so before leaving for the game. It was impossible to get Jack to leave. He loved playing with Connie's kids.The game was fantastic. Utah State won. Jack experienced a first, his first college basketball game, and we all had a great time with Cles and Leslie a few days before they left for home.

The Things We Remember About Erma

Kristin wanted a drawer to her desk that was in our garage, and after she found it last night, she began going through things she kept in it. There was a card from her Grandma Thomas, one that expresses so many things that were fun about her.

I remember Erma a number of different ways. One year after she lived a while in her new house, she had the entire family come to dinner. There was a large table set in the dining area for adults, and she also had rolled out carpet in the two-car garage and set up a table there for grandchildren there too.

During the dinner, I went to check on our three children, whenever I heard anything that sounded like the little dears in the garage were having "way too much fun." I had already set my plate down twice with food, and after returning to a spot to retrieve a fork or knife or getting food for one of my children, I noticed my plate was gone. It happened again when I checked things in the garage to ensure that my children were not doing anything to hurt the new house. Again my plate was gone. It happened five times.

The last time it happened, I finally found out what was happening to my food. Each time that Erma saw a plate unattended, she took it to the sink and discarded the food and put the plate in the sink. Erma was an incredible host, and she was just making sure that everything was tidy. Ann and I still laugh about it when we think about that day.

But the other thing are the things she made for us. The inside of the card that Kristin found talked about that very thing.

When Ann and I were in high school and both attending Second Ward in Malad, we had a Sunday School teacher we all loved and enjoyed. Brent Howard was incredible. He read the lesson and emphasized the main points we needed to know, and then we talked together. What made him so incredible is he listened to us. Brent was a fantastic teacher, because we knew he "liked" us, something not necessarily true with all those who taught our large group in Second Ward. It was our group that boasted having "run out" many teachers who did not care about us, or at least that was the impression we had about them.

Once a week during the summer, our class organized a swimming party at Downata Hot Springs in Downey, Idaho, which was only forty minutes away at the time on the Interstate and old highway. Our group would ask Ann to volunteer her mother to bake a cake for us each time, and she did. It was always a three-layered chocolate cake with rich, dark frosting.

This picture happened at least 12 years before those parties at the pool, but most of the group is here, except for me. My family lived on the ranch during the week, but when I was older, my dad always made sure we drove to Malad on those evenings when I had these parties. I rarely missed one, unless we were harvesting grain or some other major problems took place.

And like all of my peers at Second Ward, my children loved Erma's cakes too. She made one every week and had it ready for when we visited her on Sundays.

Oh, and Erma also made individual puddings and tiny bowls of jell-o for grandchildren too. They were always waiting in the refrigerator, just in case they were still hungry after cake and ice cream.

This is the last photograph I think we have with my Annie's family together like this. Things change so quickly. I still remember the jokes Marvin told me at the restaurant that day. They were not off-colored, but they were hilariously funny.

After Erma's passing, the only place in the house that showed carpet wear was in front of her fridge. And I am sure that the grandchildren will remember opening its door every time they visited grandma.

Christmas Morning

Jack spent the night at grandma and Pop Pop's on Christmas Eve. He opened two presents that night after a late dinner--a present with new Star Wars pajamas and a gift with some Star Wars Galactic Hero Cinema Scene figures. He was so excited that I was afraid that I wouldn't get him to sleep, but he dozed off as soon as he hit the pillow. It was busy for a while after that. I spent about an hour or two to ensure that he was asleep before I finished a few things and went to bed myself.

Grandma had him wake me before the excitement got out of hand on Christmas day. It was not too early. As a young one, I was awake at 2:00 a.m. Jack was much better than I in allowing the "old" people in the house to get a decent night's sleep. It was 7:00 a.m. or so when I felt a slight nudge on my arm. "Pop Pop! Santa's been here." He didn't repeat the words a second time. I heard his steps on the stairs. I came down immediately to see him excited about his new Millenium Falcon, Clone helmet and music maker.
We didn't open the large ship. We had to let his mom think about where to put it. It only took a couple of days to figure an option. We put the Queen sized bed in the room with his toys on Craig's List. Someone picked it up within 24 hours, and it left enough room for toys, his desk--an set of wooden desks we bought from the school in the 70's that were old when grandma and Pop Pop went to school--his clothes, and an air mattress that we could inflate when he and his cousin were in town. Sleepovers at grandma and Pop Pop's house would allow him to use the other bedroom when he needed it.
The music machine had his attention immediately. I had already decided to get him some violin lessons if his mom is willing. We have the small instruments for him and Tommy and Anna. But this machine was really fun. It teaches basic keyboard skills, singing skills, and as interesting as it was, there was a small recording device that made it possible to record his playing and singing that he does as he creates something. The small hand-held recorder is like an I-Pod. Jack spent the morning walking around playing his creations. At first he did it with his headphones, but then he became more confident and played it so everyone could hear it.

And then came the presents under the tree. Pop Pop enjoyed this part, knowing that
Tommy was opening the same gifts in Minnesota. Anna had her gifts too, but the fun part for grandpa was watching Jack's enthusiasm and knowing that Tommy was just as excited.
What makes everything worth it is the sparkle in a child's eyes, the same reason I enjoy taking my three little ones to Disneyland. It's the ritual we play the same way each trip that makes it fun, having a contest to see which child can see the Tower of Terror first before we enter the entrance for cars before preceeding to the parking garage.

And what childhood would be complete without receiving the game named after those creepy things you accuse other unfortunate children of having. Has a generation of children existed without saying, "He's got cooties!"

At this point, Jack must be wondering, another bug game? The name of this game--Ants in my Pants is interesting. I actually knew classmates my teachers accused of having had this problem. I knew it was not really so, because I had this uncle who said there was an elephant under the kitchen table who made bad noises too, but I always knew it was my uncle.Now in this picture, I sit mystified by the instructions that some Pakistani dude wrote for pennies an hour, and it did not read like Shakespeare in any stretch of the imagination. In fact, for all intents and purposes, it could have been a lawn mower manual, because it was not all that clear. I actually wondered at this point if the character cut and pasted the instructions for a mower in with the graphics of the instructional manual for my grandson's Clone helmet. And just in case both my grandsons continue their reading skills in Kindergarten ahead of schedule, the Pakastani dudes are the best of Santa's helpers at the North Pole. They are the ones who smell like curry. And did I say that Jack and Tommy like Star Wars. It's a family tradition. Pop Pop did the same thing with Uncle Cles. The toys are still fun for Pop Pop to play with when he is home alone with nothing to do and no football to watch on TV.

Buying Some New Ornaments

We arrived in Salt Lake City on New Year's Eve. We had a reservation at Rodizio Grill at Trolley Square, so we went there immediately. It had been years since returning. In fact it was my first time back there since the tragic shooting that occurred there a few years ago. Sadly, many of the shops are now no longer there, but there was this one place that had great Christmas decorations, and we bought five. As soon as we returned on New Year's Day, I had Jack help us place them on the tree. It is always difficult for me to take a Christmas tree down after the end of the holiday. Some years, I begin watching some classic holiday movies and listening to my favorite Christmas CD's in July or earlier. During my marriage, the main source of irritation for my Annie is this reluctance to take the tree down. The latest was February. It was one of the first years we had our first artificial tree, and it was quite heavy. I was working night classes, and I coaxed to keep it up until the weekend. The trick worked every week, until Valentine's Day was just around the corner. It was on that night that I foolishly turned the lights on as soon as I returned from one of the three nights a week of night classes. It was nine or ten in the evening. My Annie damned me all to hell and threatened to drag the tree out the front door the next evening if I didn't do it that Saturday. I never did that again.

I didn't do it again because she cursed me a bit, because that happens whenever I tease her, which happens as often as I can. It happened because the next year arrived, and it was late when we put the tree together. My Annie was not excited about having a tree so long. Late for me is the second week in December. When I said how badly I felt, my Annie piped up and said, "Well, it will be here until Easter, so there's nothing to feel badly about."

I took it down as soon as I could. And it was mid January, but I took it down. The only other year of a delay was when we didn't put one up at all. Our entire family spent Christmas on a cruise to the Bahamas. It was the year when Titanic came to theaters, and our family--exhibiting the bizarre sense of humor we have--spent the evening before our departure going to the theater to see the movie. I will never forget Christmas Eve. Cles and I were walking on a warm Florida evening to the motel's classy hot tub that was outside. We boarded the ship on Christmas Day. It was a fantastic trip, and it was the only year that I didn't miss our tree.

The Beginnings of Being A Bear Fan

The Urlacher jersey was something that made me smile when grandma found it in a TJ Max in Layton. Uncle Cles enjoyed it as well, and as for Pop Pop, it made the perfect addition to Pop Pop's Chicago Dick Butkus jersey. The numbers 51 and 54 merge the past and present like two bookends with two players: Dick Butkus, who Pop Pop enjoyed watching when he was in junior high, and Urlacher, who Pop Pop enjoys watching every time he can see a Bears game.After Cles and Leslie arrived, a few days before New Years Day, the two show off their jerseys. My earliest memories of the Chicago Bears were when I was in junior high. It was the defense I enjoyed watching, and yes, I was a fan of both Gale Sayers--The Kansas Comet--and Brian Piccolo, the running back from Wake Forest. The tandem was fun to watch, but I have to admit, I looked forward to seeing Butkus every week they were on television. The score never mattered. I liked watching him twist and wrestle running backs and quarterbacks to the ground. Years later I still enjoy hearing stories about his antics, like the time he bit a ref in a pile of athletes on the ground. Larry Csonka, the incredible Miami Dolphin back told the story on Monday Night Football. It was a home game in Chicago, and the commentators set Butkus up perfectly by asking him about what happened. Butkus then talked about how people embellish stories and make up things. Then they told Butkus that Larry Csonka had something to say. Csonka told about how a pile consisted of offensive and defensive players and one ref. Somewhere in the mass of humanity that gouged at each others eyes and hit and kicked each other, Butkus bit the leg of a ref. Without a doubt, it is my favorite story about the former standout.
It's not a story that I will tell to teach my grandsons about the joys of sportsmanship on the field, but it is one that I may tell to instill in them the passion that is the game of football. The passion I felt both watching games as a young junior high student and playing as a varsity high school athlete. I never bit anyone. I had a full-faced helmet, so that would have been impossible, but I used my fists, elbows, knees, feet with all the strength I had to give my opponents lumps.
And did I mention that this picture makes me smile the most.

The Millenium Falcon Present

Santa Claus does not always bring what grandma and Pop Pop would like to see, although Pop Pop not only was excited for Jack to have this addition to Jack's fleet of Star Wars ships, but he also intends on making sure that Tommy has one as soon as he returns to Viking temperatures in Minnesota. The bad part about this toy is the fact that it is too big for someone like Jack or Tommy to lift, yet it's a good thing too. By placing it on a card table, Jack plays with it for hours without pulling off any of the parts, which happens to the other toys when they fall to the floor occasionally. The toy has also been great by allowing Jack to use his imagination. I hear him talking to his Star Wars friends while playing intently, something that will only happen a year or two longer, and then, unless he wishes to be seen as eccentric, he will stop doing that. He already shows signs of reaching a point where this will not happen much longer.

One day while playing, grandma asked him about one of his imaginary friends. Jack looked at grandma and said, "They're not real grandma. They are just pretend." In my 25 years of teaching, I taught for supervisors who didn't have that firm a command of reality.

Clonetrooper Jack

Christmas is a special time--a time of opening presents and seeing the sparkle in a child's eyes, a time of watching little ones get something they have been wanting for months, a time of watching how creative children can be. Jack has wanted a Clone helmet for years, and every time we went into a store, he began to remind me and grandma just how badly he wanted that toy. Whether it was at a store or in the back seat of the Jetta or Bug, Jack played the role of a Skywalker--either Luke or Anakin. Meanwhile, grandma was always a princess. I was always Obi-Wan. I guess I just look older than grandma. And the blasters he has accumulated over the years also have been very useful after Christmas. It is probably why the house is almost like a vacuum whenever he goes home. The quiet is difficult for grandma and I to enjoy. We prefer to sit in an easy chair, light saber or blaster in hand, fighting duals with our young Jedi.

This new helmet is great, because it gives Jack a chance to speak through a tiny microphone. His little boy voice sounds differently in a galactic sort of way as only Jack and Tommy can do. When that is not enough, Jack pushes a button that automatically makes statements from any number of movies or other Star Wars production.

The game, however, ends for grandpa when Jack decides to use a storeage bin for a spaceship that is about to descend down a staircase. Pop Pop has a coronary. Grandma laughs while taking a picture. And Jack is traumatized by the screams of his Pop Pop before the bin can slide even a millimeter.

Mickey Does Fireworks Too

The last day for us on our November Disneyland trip was perfect: just like the previous four days there. In the evening, it started to get crowded before the fireworks. We wanted to see the artificial snow they used in front of the Disneyland castle, so we found a place to wait. It didn't work. And what made everything so frustrating was the fact that the massive crowd made it impossible to stay together.

I was lost twice. Finally I found my Annie and Jack and Kristin. One Disney worker told us to move, and after we told him how difficult it was for us to get anywhere to see, he took us to the perfect spot. This is a short clip at the end of the fireworks.

Buzz Lightyear

Ever since our February 2005 visit after my nasty fight with chemo, this part of the ride was always a fun spot. Both Jack and Tommy would stand and watch the cartoon character give them instructions about how to hunt Zurg and his rogue robots. The boys were always ready to man their stations and do their best to become galactic gunslingers.