Being Fashion-Conscious Can Make You Tired

This particular year began in a difficult way. Doctors diagnosed my leukemia in August of 2003, just after I went through hip replacement surgery. It's not a good way to fight a new disease, and it's a certainty that it isn't the path to rehabilitation of a new hip. On both counts, it was a very difficult year.

The clinic, where I went through chemo, looked at me in awe the first day I arrived for treatment. I entered in a wheel chair, too weak to stand, and basically too unsteady to walk without crutches. A nurse, who later became a very good friend, told us they never thought I would survive two weeks.

Missing two full trimesters of teaching was unimaginable to me as a German instructor, but that is what happened that year. The year before, I had initiated "dual credit" classes, meaning that students earned high school and university credit for courses in German and English. I returned for the final trimester, and I was able to do those classes and earn a respectable stipend for the planning and work I had done the previous year.

English was easy, but the German classes required me to work long in order to help students catch up, but it worked extremely well. In fact, due to the speed of acquisition, they probably experienced the German class just like students at college did--fast paced and intensive. They earned the credit, and ISU administered an post exam. The people in Pocatello had a difficult time thinking I could do it after missing that much school. Most of my students performed at higher levels than those on campus.

Near the end of school, Ann and I took Jack to Hogle Zoo. The picture here shows Jack with his "shades." We bought him the lion hat he wanted, and the sun glasses seemed a necessary accessory, especially given the bright sun at the zoo that day.

It was a fun time in spite of the bad memories of my fight with cancer, and what made it even more fun was the fact that April meant we were approaching the end of school and the beginning of a trip to California that we may never again experience in the same way. The California resort hotel in the Disney Park area had just opened, and my Annie was able to get an unbelievable price for lodging and tickets. We booked it.

This was the view outside our hotel window. Staying in the California Resort Hotel was a once in a lifetime thing. We had a suite, and there was also the chance to go to a room in the evenings, where cookies and cheeses and breads were available.

For the boys, playing in the curtains was a lot of fun, especially when we first checked into our room and as well as when we returned from the park every evening.

The stipends I earned from my dual credit classes played for additional frills, like stopping by top shops every night and buying stuffed animals for the boys. I usually selected one of the characters we met in the parks during the day.

But for me, I will never forget the night before Ann and I left on that trip. We booked a flight for Lydia and Kristin and the boys, but Ann and I drove. This picture is one before our departure. Jack and Tommy are sitting together playing in a chair, and Jack is holding the orangutan stuffed animal I bought him when we went to Hogle Zoo just before Tommy arrived.

The night before Ann and I left, the boys as little as they were, knew something was "up." They sat in front of my feet, and someone would have to move them if I tried to get up out of the chair. The whole night was like this, except when they sat on my lap, one balanced on each leg with my arms around them as we watched an assortment of Disney movies.

Ann and I left very early the next morning, arrived in Vegas and stayed at Embassy Suites not far from the Hard Rock Cafe. We like that one, because you don't have the gambling machines, the smoke smell and the "seedy" clientele often seen in other spots. We called the girls, and they told us how the boys had been looking for Ann and me.

Ann and I arrived the next day at Disney resort, and we timed it almost perfectly. We had to wait a while, so we placed our bags in a storage area, picked up our tickets and other things we needed, and then we walked to the unloading area where Lydia and Kristin and the boys would arrive.

As soon as the van pulled into the parking lot, I saw the boys spot us and get excited. It was fun to see them, and we checked into the hotel.

On more memory of our two boys, who were just one at the time--Jack having turned one in February and Tommy having turned one early that same month in May.

It is an example of why you want to take toddlers to the park. They were both just one, and neither walked more than a few steps between a chair or something else, but they loved the experience, and no, they don't really remember it, but I do, and so does their grandmother and their moms. It's memories like this that make little ones so much fun.

We began on the It's A Small World ride. My son Cles always hated it, and during the 20 minute journey, I called him on my cell phone. The reaction of both Jack and Tommy was hysterical. They sat in our laps, their mouths agape and their yes wide, and they didn't miss a single doll singing and spinning about among the lights.

It's a trip we use to measure every experience at Disneyland since that time, and it was a short time of health before my cancer returned a second time.

Jack's "Basketti" Moment of Rapture

My earliest memories of Jack's emerging from the stage of Gerber bottles with content baby faces on gross food was a discovery of spaghetti or "basketti" in the words he eventually began to say. And he still calls it that as a six-year-old, although we will soon change that. He's in first grade now, and public school as a way of making sure that things like that go appreciated with laughter and derision.

I hope I can let him say it a bit longer, and although he likes the stuff from a can, he prefers Pop Pop's spaghetti with everything but mushrooms. He did those when he was this age, but suddenly he became disturbed when he discovered their strange texture.

Jack began using "basketti" about the same time Pop Pop helped him experience cartoons. He would stand at the door with his mom, ring the door bell, and as soon as I opened it or his mom opened it, I would hear his tiny voice scream one word: "Hartoons!"

He was just a bit older than one at the time, and he was just getting the whole talking thing down.

That's when we let him eat spaghetti like this, and we soon recognized the mistake, because when we took him to North Carolina, we were in an expensive restaurant, and he ate the same way: with his hands, besmeared with the stuff that also covered his face and legs and arms. People would watch in shock, and then smiles would spread across his face. He didn't make a mess, except for himself, and he sat quietly eating and enjoying and savoring every moment.

And do I feel guilt as a grandparent for teaching a child such a blatant lack of etiquette? Absolutely not! Why, I taught in a district, where an administrator never chewed with his mouth closed from the time he was one, and I know my Jack will never do that, because we'll teach him differently.

But how can you possibly deny a child joy like this?

Just In Case I Ever Meet An Ancient Egyptian

I did this blog once, but I could never figure out how to get the hieroglyphics onto the page, because they set it up without enabling a person to copy it in such a way. It was disappointing, because why would you want access to an online Egyptian hieroglyphics translator without being able to copy it to something, but I guess the actual question should be this: "Why would you want to do it anyway?

But just in case I ever meet an ancient Egyptian eunuch, who works in some rich Pharaoh's harem--you know, one of those who have been "fixed" and consequently smile a lot and are obese, here's how I'd give them the following compliment:

You don't sweat that much for a fat guy.

I'd smile after I drew it on a blank sheet of paper, and hope nothing was lost in translation. But the big guys were not suffering from any excess of testosterone, so I wouldn't have to fear for my life.

Or if I meet an ancient Egyptian who particularly liked George W. Bush and Cheney too, especially the latter's warlike tendencies to torture enemy soldiers and shoot aging Texas lawyers. I would have this snappy comeback to scrawl quickly in my notebook:

And I am the walrus, goog goog a joob!

The way I look at it, when in doubt, always rely on a song written by John Lennon and Paul McCartney as a smart @$$ remark. Somehow, it gives the whole thing a bit of European flavor and a 60's point of view.

Say for example, I decide to take this ancient Egyptian to a great rivalry football or basketball game. I will make a sign, but in order for my guest to understand the words scratched across the poster board, I will have to use my notebook again.

Here are the words:

BYU! BYU!

Where the girls are pretty

And the boys are too.

And say for example we're sitting in the stands in Provo, and a couple of Cougar fans are giving us the "stinky eye," because for my friend in his loin cloth and me--dressed only in jeans and not something from the Gap or some other snobby trendy clothing store--I will have this one ready to scrawl with magic marker on a large white poster board:

May the bird of paradise find you hatless!

Now, I'll have to explain to my newly found friend, that the bird of paradise is not an Ibis or any other kind of holy bird. It's just an obnoxious white creature that mostly hangs out near harbors or freshly plowed fields or lakes and now sails in the heavens looking for leftover cheeseburgers or anything else left from the tailgate parties before the game at cursed Cougar Stadium, named after an Aggie.

It might even be one of the same birds that measled our car with white blotches of goo during the game, or even narrowly missed us with their little Scheissbomben. But I figure as soon as my friend knows why I invoke the reference to this new bird, even in an act of senseless wrath, he'll smile a bit in understanding as he looks at faces sneering at us and other Aggie fans. But if I see any BYU fan, who meets the fated moment on the way to a vehicle after the game, I will smile even if my Aggies lose. It will be a day worth living in Happy Valley.

January 22, 1972

I was 19 in this picture, although I look like I could have easily passed for 15. The day was January 22, 1972--the day my family took me to Salt Lake City to the mission home. Jill was barely 15 and Ann was 11. It would prove to be a miserable day for all of us.

The plans were great. I knew there wouldn't be a lot of music I could listen to in the next two years, so I had a list of cassettes that my father put into the player on the way to Salt Lake City: Who's Next by the Who, Fireball by Deep Purple, Naturally by Three Dog Night, Bread, On The Waters and Manna by Bread, and a number of Neil Diamond cassettes. My dad loved Neil Diamond, and Deep Purple and The Who drove him crazy during a road trip, so we listened mostly to Neil Diamond. I'm sure it also reminded him of our family road trips we often took in the fall.

We planned to eat at Maddox, a favorite restaurant in Brigham City, where my family have done stops that began with my Grandpa Cles and Grandma Liza. Meals there were kind of a family tradition.

And a stop at Snelgroves in Salt Lake

City was a must. Dad always ordered

a double hot fudge sundae. I preferred hot caramel. The ice cream there was always fantastic. It was our tradition, but there wasn't enough time by the time we arrived in Salt Lake City.

Dad thought we would stop by the mission home, drop off bags and go for ice cream, but we were a bit uninformed with the whole thing of what would happen.

What happened next is difficult to understand, unless you are a Ward. What we understood in terms of the concept "it's ours" was something defined by a brand on the side, marked ears and a waddle on the side of the throat. All our cattle and horses had those markings.

The hallway we find ourselves in faintly reminded me of a spot near corrals where we worked cattle. We walked down this corridor, and we're talking nervously. I notice a black line of tape on the floor, and as I approach it, this obese obnoxious man grabs me by the collar and the shoulder of my jacket, looks at my parents and says, "He's 'ours' for the next two years."

My dad took his hands away before I could even respond, because I didn't like it either. He puts his arm around my shoulders and says, "Let's just go home."

I had wanted to do this since I was 12, so going home was not an option, even in light of the pest who loved a little authority. I hugged everyone and walked across the "dreaded black line."

Both my sisters cried. I think Jill's tears were more of joy than sorrow. And at that minute, I knew her mantra was I will seize his room and make it mine forever. And I'll play his favorite records every day too.

My mom cried. That was no surprise, because I saw my mom do that when horrible things happened, but what happened next was something I never saw in my life. Tears came to my dad's eyes, and he choked up leaving him unable to say a word. Like I said, it was a horrible day.

Given what I experienced, I'm glad that I fulfilled a commitment that I made when I was 12, but given what I know now, I would never have walked across that line, although the next two years were things that changed my life forever: I learned how to study, I became even more independent than I had ever been, I developed a lasting friendship and developed a love for my future wife Annie. We wrote every week, missing only a few times when my Annie had finals or when I had something very pressing that prevented me from sending a letter.

The lower picture of the two still has the holes in the corner, where my Annie tacked it onto her bulletin board in her dorm room at the university. I'm glad I didn't send the top one. The second one was what they used for my passport and German mission office identification materials, but both pictures show what I looked like, before I turned into the elephant man after chemotherapy.

I awaken in the night sometimes, dreaming that I scream the words: "I am not an animal!" For those reading this who aren't familiar with the film Elephant Man, that was the key line. And sometimes I have to say it aloud when I look in the mirror. Regardless, it is fantastic to be alive. At least no one says, "Gee, he they made him look almost alive."

Carley

Someone put on a "big hair" thing my sister once owned. The antique piece was easy to find, because we could hear it growling from the dark corner of a closet, where it was in a really, really large container. Donald Trump would be proud to have something like that perched on his mellon.

The picture is from the late 80's, maybe even before we moved to Idaho Falls. I had the "evil" beard that outraged school officials, who not only wanted us to be clean-shaven, but they wanted us in suits and jackets too. When we told them we couldn't afford that kind of wardrobe on the salary they paid us, they suggested we buy clothing from Deseret Industries. It must be fun for uneducated people in small rural communities to show those "teachers" a thing 'r two.

Something funny must have sparked my smile, because there was not much to smile about while working there. I will always feel a sadness about that, because I not only yearn to live in a small town again, but I also still love my hometown. Memories I have of living there during that time will never allow me to go back.

Carley, the niece I'm holding, is now in her early 20's. This has to be a Thanksgiving picture, and given the hat on my head, I'm still in my "red neck" phase. When it comes to Carley, I hold a Guinness Record in conjunction with holding her. One Thanksgiving a few years later, when her mom had just been getting Carley out of diapers, I would pick her up and tickle her neck. She would giggle uncontrollably, and then suddenly panic would spread across her tiny face.

Her mom would change her. It happened at nine times that day. And each time my sister Ann would damn me all to hell. It's another World Record I hold, although my wife Annie has come close to that record several times.

Nap Time For Jack and Pop Pop

This picture brings back memories. I would tell Jack a story every day before his nap and at night before he went to sleep, and sometimes he would request an additional one. I would play "tickle tickle" on his arm, a trick my grandmother not only used on me as a child but also used it to help my sisters fall asleep.

This picture is priceless, because sleeping with our arms over our head is how I remember my father sleeping, especially after a day like Thanksgiving.

Ann and I made a mistake with our first grandchild. You never think about it really. When he had trouble sleeping, we would have him between us with pillows on either side so we would give him enough space, and then he gradually grew.

When he was a year old, I suddenly noticed he didn't like my snoring, or at least I think that's what the problem was. In the middle of the night, Jack would raise both legs toward the ceiling, and then he'd bounce his heels off my stomach. I would awaken with a start, my throat dry from snoring. He'd do this at least twice during the night.

When I told my uncle about that story, he laughed first, and then he said, "Oh, you didn't!" He smiled and then explained how little ones never want to sleep alone after that. We paid that price, and only this year, now that Jack not only forced grandma out of our king size bed and pushed me out as well, did we finally get another option. I have an inflatable air mattress in the grandchild toy room, which once was a bedroom. And when all else fails, he sleeps downstairs, because his heels never seemed to get any softer. But at least he stopped kicking me when I snore.

Monticello

Monticello was a place I always wanted to visit, and until I went to see my son graduate from UNC Chapel Hill, it never happened. I rode with Cles and our daughter-in-law Leslie to Charlottesville and enjoyed every minute of it.

It was in December. The temperature was nice, just shirtsleeve weather. We spent several hours there, and then drove home. My only regret was not having my Annie there.

The chance came this summer finally to travel to Virginia again. My son Cles and Leslie live a short distance away, and I looked forward to the trip, but due to Ann's part-time work schedule, she couldn't make it. Kristin and Jack traveled with me, and it was an incredible time.

To see Monticello again was incredible. But on another visit, I plan to try to hear the Chinese gong, which chimes once every hour on the hour, but because of the age of the clock, it is no longer loud.

According to Charles Kuralt, when he did the Sunday Morning Show on CBS all those years ago, those who worked the fields could hear the gong below the hill where Jefferson's mansion appears. Not it's just a quiet "ding," which if you don't listen carefully for it, you miss it.

When Ann and I go back again together, we will hopefully be there at a time when it isn't busy, and we'll listen for it. The tour has been incredible both times. It was fun to watch Jack absorb everything as we walked through the mansion. I've now seen Monticello in winter and summer, and we only have two seasons left to finish up an incredible view of the valley, but next time I want to spend more time walking about the grounds. And that will be when Annie is with me.

The Jail in Williamsburg

Williamsburg is a city that I find intensely fascinating, and it's one I hope I can take Jack to see repeatedly as he gets older and understands the history in that area. Within a short distance, you can visit Jamestown and Yorktown, not to mention Busch Gardens Williamsburg, which has some incredible roller coaster rides. This trip not only didn't have the time for us to do that, but we also had to understand that Jack is too small to do a ride like that. Doing it too early means spoiling it and making it so it isn't something he will try later, like in a year or two.

The jail was an interesting spot to visit. When we arrived, there was a short wait for a guide, and a lady was so nice with Jack.

It gave us a bit of a break before we entered and began looking at the inside of the building.

The day was incredibly hot, so I sat in the shade for a while, and Cles took Jack on a tour of the munitions area. There were guns on display, there was a section of canon, and Jack enjoyed the play area.

At this point, Jack stands a short distance away and salutes Uncle Cles while he takes a picture.

And then there was the latrine area, which didn't really stink, but Jack enjoyed posing like this.

The trip to Williamsburg was an incredible part of our visit to Virginia.

Charlottesville--An Easy City To Love Immediately

In Germany they call places like this a Fußgängerzone or as city officials call it--a Fußgängerbereich. I noticed them when I lived in Germany during the early 70's while on my mission, and in the Ruhr District where I lived, it eliminated a lot of traffic and pollution. The one in Charlottesville had this long section of wall, made for people and children to write chalk messages. Jack drew scenes from Star Wars.

At several points, we took a break in the shade of trees along the way. Jack gives us his patent "thumbs up."

He takes a break with his Pop Pop and poses for a picture. We were waiting for Leslie to finish work that day, and I don't remember what restaurant we visited, but every one there was fantastic--the hamburger place, the pizza spot and the German restaurant, which was fantastic, other than one order was enough to feed an adult for at least two meals.

And to make me even more guilt-ridden about the chance of gaining weight again, they had an Italian spot that served gelato. It was fantastic. Here Jack is trying to get the spoon to stick on his nose.

One store I found to be hilarious was a little shop, whose name I forget. The sign on the front says the sell kitsch, which is a German word for tacky stuff--loosely translated of course. The thing that was funny about the shop, besides the fun things they stocked, was meeting Germans I could speak with in the store. I found it funny how embarrassed they seemed to be that someone speaking German or even worse--a fellow native of Germany--would find them in that shop. It added to the fun we had in Virginia and in Charlottesville in particular.

The Sergeant Who Worked Well With Kids At Williamsburg

The trip to Virginia was fantastic, and going to Williamsburg was something I really looked forward to doing. I thought I would have remembered the two previous trips there, but it has been ten years since being there the last time, and I recognized only a couple of things.

The stockade was fun, and Cles and Jack enjoyed posing for the picture at the left.

Humidity and heat were not things you don't expect for Virginia in August, and for that time of year, it really wasn't that bad, but it made it a bit miserable to get around in the last while we were there, but it was well worth the trip. I never knew how many things they had for young children. The clip below shows the part that Jack enjoyed the best.

There was an area around with tents and other things that Jack enjoyed. I'm not sure how tourists from England would enjoy this particular part of Colonial Williamsburg, but the kids really enjoyed throwning hatchets at a redcoat, and this clip was one where Jack did extremely well: not only saying, "Yes, sergeant!" but also making the throw. Jack loved it and tried at least ten times. This clip shows him at his best. The "sergeant" was very good with children, and he asked Jack about his Minnesota Vikings shirt and why Peterson was written on the back.

Cles took a great clip of this. We spent the day walking in the heat, and after we arrived back in Charlottesville, we went to a Thai restaurant. Jack loved the chicken.

A Stazi Adventure

Although I can't read the last word, the line of graffiti in white reads: "When will the guilty finally be punished?" I think the last word is bestraft, which is the inseparable past participle of the word bestrafen. This is a portion of wall near Stazi headquarters in Dresden. In 1989 when the communist regime was near its end, protests began in Dresden and Leipzig. Leipzig was no surprise, because after doing an exchange there, I came to identify how rebellious the people were, but under the conditions of the time at the end of the 80's, it took true courage to stand up and be counted as an opponent to what was going on at that time. Hundreds of thousands of people stood in public squares in those two cities, and on the roof tops the Stazi took pictures to identify them. At that point, it was beyond enforcing anything.

But in the public squares, Stazi people also roamed about with the crowds, cameras concealed under their shirts and coats, with which they took pictures documenting who was there. They actually designed the cameras, so that apertures had a glimpse through button holes in shirts and coats.

The reason for the hatred was how powerful this secret police force was. In most cases, they had the final say on anything, and they had the potential to destroy any one they liked. There actually is a very good German foreign film about the situation. And I met a couple of people like the "good" Stazi guy in the film, although I would have to have experienced much more with them to make a judgement like that.

On of the many reasons for the hatred felt by East Germans was how much damage they did to individuals and families. Stories exist, where officials offered rewards to spouses to submit damaging information about a husband or wife, after which the one deemed guilty paid a horrible price, interrogation and jail time at best.

With the end of the regime, citizens, now as Germans not East Germans, could access Stazi files. That's why there was so much graffiti painted on the walls outside that building.

I met two officials once, but I'm sure they knew me from previous years, and that has nothing to do with paranoia. It has everything to do with the little I do understand about their organization. After taking a group from West Berlin into the Eastern Sector to see a play at the Komischer Oper, we went to the station at Friedrichstraße. Arriving at the platform, I asked students to hold their passports in the air, so that I could see we were ready to go through security. My principal's daughter couldn't find hers. She lost things often during that trip, and I was angry and began a tirade.

Two men began laughing at the far end of the platform, and they wore uniforms of those worn by workers in the transit system. I walked to them, and told them in German how I was an American German teacher and how one of my students had lost her passport.

"We know," he said. "We've been following you all day to ensure that nothing was done to help someone get a pass illegally." He patted me on the shoulder, and the colleague shook my hand and patted me on the back. "We admire how well you've watched your students while in our city. Most of your colleagues don't do that and just let students wander."

The conversation was all friendly, like we had known each other for years, and they probably knew me from all my previous visits each year while doing exchanges for eight years in Berlin.

I explained how it was my principal's daughter, and asked if they had it, and they did. But they wouldn't give it to me.

"Don't worry. We won't hurt her, but we'll scare her so badly she'll never lose anything like that again. They took her into custody and interrogated her for 45 minutes. I could do nothing, and I could not go into the room. But they promised they would not harm her in any way physically. They both laughed, and then they walked with me to the group. They took her into custody, and our group waited outside a closed door near the security area for 45 minutes.

My student emerged, white as cornfields in Minnesota in winter. She said nothing the rest of the night. The next day she seemed alright, but one week later, she lost her passport and $150 in traveler's checks in West Germany. It's like Forest Gump once said, "Stupid is as stupid does."

Great Grandma Thomas

I never remembered Great Grandma Thomas when she was independent. By the time I spent time around her, she would become "forgetful" occasionally, and a couple of times, I went there with my Grandma Liza when she stayed with her mom overnight, yet there were days when she was extremely lucid, and she would tell us about historical things she remembered. One night, she and my aunts told about a solar eclipse, and how badly it scared all of them in the area, because they had no idea what was happening.
I remember their saying that animals were going in, because they thought it was nightfall, although it was in the middle of the day.

And I remember her having a wood stove that not only kept her house warm, but she used it to cook as well. I remember one breakfast that she cooked on that stove and how good it tasted.

Her bread in the oven was incredible.

Once while in Salzburg, we found a monk baking bread in a kiln in the city. I bought some of that bread, and I have never tasted anything so good. Regardless what people say, some old ways are still best, but cooking with a wood stove like that is an art that few today really can master.

The picture at the left shows Great Grandma Thomas and Maud Vaughan. Grandma stands at the left.

I remember my Grandma Liza asking my parents and me if I would be interested in learning Welsh. It was scary for me at that time to think about a different language, which seems so stupid now. I will always regret that decision, but I was very young, and it would have been so easy to learn the language like that.

Grandma Thomas was the one who cooked the breakfast biscuits that our family always loved to have in the morning. The Ward tradition was to have roasted cheese with them, and we also always liked putting jam on the cheese as well. I'm not sure, but I think the melted cheese thing is English, but the biscuit recipe came from Welsh roots.

My Dad On Horseback

This picture is in front of my great grandfather's house in Malad. I would never have done this without standing directly by the horse, and as funny as it is, my father would not have done it either, but my grandfather knew horses.

His spurs and all of his gear had metal decorative pieces of fine silver. He took his riding very seriously.

My grandfather was the real thing when it came to being a cowboy. My dad always told about them riding across the field we always called the Bottom, which was near the water troughs for our cattle. Grandpa left that as a 80 to 100 acre field of alfalfa, and they would cut and stack the hay in a large loose stack.

It was not a popular spot for my dad, because there were a lot of rattlesnakes, and they found their way into the hay while looking for mice, but one day my grandpa and dad were riding across that field of lucern or alfalfa. A coyote had been hiding, and when they rode upon it, it jumped and began to run. Grandpa chased it on horseback and roped it.

My dad always told about a California driver who saw what was happening. He jumped out and filmed it on an old movie camera, and my dad always wished he had a copy of it.

One Charles M. Russell painting shows a situation like that: a cowboy roping a coyote. When I found the collector belt buckle in West Yellowstone 20 years ago, I bought it immediately because of the story my dad told me about my grandpa's roping ability.

He was an excellent roper, and no horse ever threw him. He broke all my Great Grandpa Ward's horses to ride, and grandpa also roped wild horses from the large ranch west of us owned by Holgrens. The ranch is massive, and until the early 60's, there was a sizable herd of wild horses on that ranch. My grandfather would spend one weekend day a week doing that as a hobby. He'd rope and catch the horses, break and keep the best, and he'd sell the rest of them.

My dad told me about those animals. As a child, he would crawl to a safe spot on the other side of the fence to look, and when they saw him, they would lay their ears back, make a horrible squealing sound and charge toward him with teeth bare. They would strike at my dad with their forelegs and bite at him. The ones my grandfather broke were horses that no one else could ride.

He always said that raising kids was like breaking a good horse. If you broke their spirit, you ruined it, and he liked spirited horses, and he loved me as a child.

The Cheers

I couldn't resist adding the "Cheers" from my grandmothers Pep Squad book from 1923. It would have been her freshman year of high school.

"Whoo-oo AH"

Whoo-oo ah--

Whoo-oo ah--

Whoo-oo ah--

Malad High School--Rah!

"Sky Rocket"

Whistle or scream,

Boom ah, the team!

Railroad

Rah, rah, rah, rah, M. H. S.

(Repeat several times, faster each time.)

The TEAM!

Rah, Rah, Malad

(Boys)

Rah, rah! (long) Malad! (short).

Rah, rah! (long) Malad! (short).

(Girls)

Aye, aye, (long) rah, rah! (short).

Aye, aye, (long) rah, rah! (short).

Rah, Rah, Malad. Aye, aye, rah, rah!

Rah, rah, rah, rah, rah, rah, rah! Malad!

Three Rahs

Rah, rah, rah!

Rah, rah, rah!

Rah, rah, rah!

(Boys' names)

Rah, rah, rah, rah, rah, rah, rah! TEAM!

Fight 'em, Malad; Fight 'em

Fight 'em, Malad; fight 'em,

Fight 'em fair, fight 'em square,

Fight 'em, Malad; fight 'em!

TAR-A-TA-TIX

Who rah rah rah

Hip a ka ru, ka ra, da rah,

We're from Malad, yah-e-yah,

Rat a ta thrat, ta thrat, ta thrat.

Tar-a ta lix, ta lix, ta lix,

Kick a la lah; kick a la lah.

Malad High School,

Rah, rah, rah!

Rah, rah ----- rah, rah rah!

Rah, rah ----- rah, rah rah!

Rah, rah ----- rah, rah rah!

TEAM!

GIVE 'EM THE AXE

Give 'em the axe, the axe, the axe,

Give 'em the axe, the axe, the axe,

Give 'em the axe, give 'em the axe,

Give 'em the axe. WHERE?

Right in the neck, the neck, the neck,

Right in the neck, the neck, the neck,

Right in the neck, right in the neck,

Right in the neck. THERE!

WHAT's THE MATTER WITH MALAD?

What's the matter with Malad?

She's all right.

Who's all right?

MALAD!

Who says so?

EVERYBODY!

SPEED FORWARD

Speed forward, lose your guard;

Altogether, play it hard.

Hit 'em high, hit 'em low,

Ye, Malad, let's go.

Hi Ki

Hi ki wa hoo, Malad high go thru,

Hi ki zam bi, let's go.

Malad Hi!

RIFF RUFF

Riff ruff, stiff guff;

Stick to it, proper stuff.

What's what, why's why,

Got the game, Malad Hi!

RIPPETY

Rippety, rippety, russ; the point we'll not discuss,

But nevertheless, we will suggest,

There's nothing the matter with us!

1-2-3-4-5-6-7

1-2-3-4-5-6-7; All good lplayers go to heaven.

All the rest stay here and yell,

_________ plays like__________

1-2-3-4; who ya gonna yell for?

1-2-3-4; who ya gonna yell for?

Cannibal, cannibal, zip boom, bah,

Ma-lad High School, rah, rah, rah!

WE WANT A BASKET!

We want a basket

We want a basket

We want a basket

NOW!

Let's get a basket

Let's get a basket

Let's get a basket

NOW!

I wish grandma had shown me these when I was young, because I would have asked her about some of the things in the book. Were the things listed as songs sung to some sort of tune? And did the students participate in all of the songs and cheers?

At the top of the last page above the cheer "Hi Ki," grandpa wrote the words, "no body knows and no body seems to care." You can never judge from the line, because I don't know whether 1923 was a bad season with fans that were unwilling to do anything in the stands, or it could mean that grandma didn't like the material in the little book, which I can't believe, because she kept it with three yearbooks from 1924, 1925 and 1926. Her name--Eliza Thomas--appears on the front cover in pencil. On the inside of the back cover, it reads in pencil: Eliza Thomas yell book.

1923 Malad High School Cheer & Song Book

On the inside of the book, either grandma or someone else wrote different forms of her name: Lizzie Thomas, Elizabeth Thomas, Beth Thomas, and Eliza Thomas.

Grandma never felt comfortable with her name for some reason. I remember her talking about it once when we were young, but I do know why she felt that way. Personally, I always loved every form written on the inside of the small book, but I do know that grandma did not like the name Liza. And that was a form that did not appear, yet it's one I always liked, and I would have chosen that as a name for one of my own children, if we had had another daughter.

The book has a collection of songs and cheers. This entry will have only the songs.

MA*LAD MAN

I am a Ma * lad man, sir: I live across the green,

Our gang it is the jolliest that ever you have seen, We live up in the mountains, but we drive our

limousine,

And when we start our playing why you'll see one

real good team.

Chorus:

Who am I, sir? A Ma*lad man am I.

A Ma*lad man, sir, and will be till I die; ki yi.

We're up to snuff, we never bluff, we're game for

any fuss,

No other gang of high school men dare meet us in

the muss;

So fill your lungs and shout it out and shout it to

the sky,

We'll fight for dear old High School,

For a Ma*lad man am I.

Repeat.

In pencil two letters appear in grandma's writing: B.S.

M.H.S. For Me

All hail the school we love so well,

We'll e'er her praises tell;

Lift up our souls to meet her aim,

If in the class or game.

Our alma mater, we will be

E'er true as steel to thee,

For M.H.S. so great and grand

We will ever stand.

Chorus:

Yes, it's M. H. S., the school we love,

It's M. H. S. for me;

She's ever leading us above,

And here we love to be.

Yes, It's M. H. S. ,the school of schools;

Whose fame we love to see;

Whose work is full of glory,

Oh, it's M. H. S. for me.

We're From Malad

Oh, we're from Malad, yes, we're from Malad,

Where the team of five is ready to fight.

They've got the nip, and they've got the sip and,

We know they'll do it up right.

They're a gifty, difty, rifty, nifty, bunch of boys,

And to help them win we'll make a lot of noise;

Oh, we're from Malad, yes, we're from Malad,

And we'll fight to win this game.

Tipperary

Weston wrote a letter to our dear old Ma-lad high,

It takes a [good] tam that can go;

It takes a good team to play with Ma-lad,

For we have class, you know!

Rah! Rah!

So goodbye, Weston high school,

And don't forget the score;

It takes a darn good team to play with Ma-lad,

For we play the floor.

The Shiek

We're the team of M. H. S.

Can we play ball? I guess.

For when the whistle blows

You'll find us on our toes;

Our team both fast and strong,

Will speed the game along,

So on toward Victory,

The team of '23.

No Worries?

I have to write a short note to remind my children, that even though their mom and dad come from a small town, and even though both their dad and their mom have the Thomas name in their family tree, it is important to note that there were four or five Thomas families in Malad, and none were related.

Your mom and I are, however, related through the Morse line. My grandfather's mother was a Morse, and mom's family had a connection there too, so maybe you should worry after all.

But at least we're not first or second or third or even fourth cousins. It's not like we're from Arkansas or something, but we are from Malad.

The David and Ella Thomas Family

Grandma Liza sits at the left. Aunt Sara is standing in the middle, and Aunt Edith, the aunt I never met, was at the right. Aunt Ada is standing at the right at the rear, and an older brother, the oldest in the family, is in the middle at the back. He died very young of problems with his lungs. Grandma Liza had severe allergies.

I will always remember Grandma Liza repeating continually, it's not good to be too smart. Aunt Edith graduated from college when she was 19.

She was extremely bright, but some problems appeared that explained why I never met her. She refused to be around small children, because she was germophobic when it came to being around little ones.

Each time we were in Boise, my father would call, and she would say, "Oh, bless your heart, but that's OK."

I never met her, not even once. I'll always regret that, because I would love to have known what she was like.

Lewis Ambrey Thomas, who was the superintentendent of Malad City Schools from 1924-1927, signed grandma's yearbook and added "add more honors to the name of 'Thomas.'"

I found it interesting to read a bit about him. He graduated from Albion, which was what eventually became ISU, the University of Idaho and the University of Chicago.

Teachers at Malad High studied from various schools, the College of Idaho, the University of Washington, the University of Nebraska, the University of Colorado, the University of Minnesota and Northwestern. Besides civics, history and English, the curriculum offered band and orchestra, Drama, Farm Shop and Agriculture and Home Economics Physics, Chemistry and Latin. One teacher had certification in Spanish and French.

I remember my grandmother telling me she took Latin.

The certificate at the left is an elementary graduation certificate. During those times, many students did not continue their education past the eighth grade. Education was a luxury in the Ward line. Great Grandpa Jesse N. Ward purchased the largest land buy in Idaho's history in the 20's. They bought it before the Great Depression, and they worked the land like it needed to be done.

His sons did not have the chance to finish high school. His partner and brother, however, not only sent his sons to college on "company" money, but they also served missions as well from the same account.

That fact was a situation that festered and finally severed the partnership, and feelings existed between the families for generations. I still feel some of the animosity that existed, especially since that family would tend to drop a gate and let their cattle enter our grain fields. They maintained it was purely accidental, but it happened too frequently.

I also remember my Grandma Liza reminding me about this fact: she never missed school, and this certificate was an award she received after graduating from the fifth grade.

The award, signed on May 23, 1919, represented grandma's ability to be in school a year without a tardy or absence.

As a teacher during my past few years, schools suffered because of students who, with parental support, missed school regularly for hair appointments, lunch dates with friends or skiing or hunting. My senior year found my doing things during the noon hour break that were objectionable, and we were often late. Since I exhibited a lack of seriousness about school, dad had me take a few days and help him on the farm with spring work. He worked me very hard.

At the end of those days, he looked at me and said, "Now if you feel that you don't need to be in school or be on time, you let me know, because I can use the help." His point was not about work, because that would come soon enough on Saturdays or as soon as school ended in the spring, but he wanted me to know that I was to be punctual and in school. Anything less was unacceptable to him.

The last certificate was one Grandma Liza earned at the end of the sixth grade. Things were very pragmatic in my hometown. The person signing the certificate crossed out 191__ and replaced the second one with a two, so it could then read 1920. I guess they saved a bit on certificates, and at that time, there was no using a xerox machine or anything else to create them. You purchased them special for students, so if you had a bunch left over, you improvised and used old ones before ordering a new batch.

The only time I felt out of patience with Malad School District was when my wife and I taught school there. It was the 80's, and my wife's elementary science book made a statement that talked about a future time: "Someday when man reaches the moon. . ."

It was unacceptable. Students are important, and outdated books are not acceptable, especially when it comes to a science book that obviously is obsolete for 20 years or more.

The final picture shows Aunt Edith and Aunt Ada standing at the rear. Grandma Liza's older brother stands at the center. Aunt Sara and Grandma Liza sit left and right of Great Grandpa Thomas and Great Grandma Thomas. Uncle Dave stands at the bottom.

My great grandfather had a severe drinking problem that obviously embarrassed my grandmother, but she always told a family story about his sense of humor and about the cruelty that sometimes existed in a small town. Once he sat on a step in town at a business, and a group of men were laughing and looking at him. One approached.

"Dave," he said to my Great Grandpa Thomas, "where did you get such a big nose?"

"I keep it out of other people's business and give it a chance to grow," he said without hesitating.

The Ward Family in 1948

Grandpa Cles and Grandma Liza were 40 years old in this picture, taken in 1948. Dad was a freshman in high school. Dad was 14, and Janice was 10. Mom and dad graduated from high school in 1951, and they married in June of that year.

I was born in late October of 1952, and I remember my Grandpa Cles very well. This picture is only eight years before he died of a massive heart attack in February of 1956.

He taught me to recognize the sound of a meadow lark. I went for drives with him in his Oldsmobile 98, a navy blue car. I remember that he let me sit on his lap and hold on to the steering wheel. I focused on the emblem at the center, a jet with a vapor trail around a planet. With his passing in 1956, there was a vacuum that remained within me for a very long time. And when my father passed away at 57 in 1991, it became more intense.