The Lesson I Learned About Life

I truly believe that coping with death--both that of loved ones and that of the looming reality that waits for each of us--is a benchmark that will define us as individuals. The picture at the left was from the situation at Christmas '04.

In the weeks before my release, my oncologist, who is one of the best in the country in my opinion, struggled helping me overcome a deadly infection. And in order to treat it, they needed a biopsy.

They had this cuckoo of a dermatologist in Idaho Falls do the procedure, and when the doctor took it from my chest, he carved chunks the size of the tip of a finger, which may not have been a big deal for most patients, but I was not only suffering from the after effects of chemo, but I was also taking doses of Warfarin, a blood thinning medicine.

For days, they couldn't stop the bleeding. I remember my oncologist expressing to the PA, that they were losing blood as quickly as they could give me transfusions. And I heard him say, "I don't know what we're going to do.

It wasn't a good situation at all. In fact, one member of the class of 1970 from our high school bled to death from a nose bleed they couldn't stop, and this was much worse. That night, my oncologist had a dream that gave him the idea to stop the bleeding, which I won't go into particulars, because most males don't like to admit that someone wrapped a wound with an article of feminine hygiene. But it stopped the bleeding.

I could have died from the infection. I didn't. I could have died from the bleeding. I didn't.

And then about a week after this picture happened. I lost the use of my legs, and I lost the ability to reason. My doctor feared the cancer had spread to my spinal cord and brain. They did tests.

It was a week of struggle. No one knows what a dark place it is when an individual is going through such a fight.

So knowing my background, I responded to an article on the Internet, which described a dilemma. A woman had a young child. The father abandoned them while she was still pregnant years before, and suddenly now, the man wanted to establish a connection. He was dying.

The article talked about the sad situation concerning a child struggling to think about a father dying, and it described the little boy looking for his father in rooms and other places, so the interview and article posed a question: what should a person do in a situation like this?

This is my response that I typed and submitted:

This article is so complex. No one should advise another person in their business, because regardless what might appear in print, readers do not know the story. I feel for the mother, who tried to accommodate her son's wishes, in spite of the fact that her ex-husband abandoned her. She has to make the decision; however, the little boy will have issues with this.

My paternal grandfather died when I was three. I still remember him, almost 54 years later. He taught me to recognize the sound of a meadowlark, to enjoy toy trains, to savor afternoon rides with him in his dark blue 98 Olds. I will never forget him.

And yes, after he died, I searched for him in my grandmother's basement. Once during a holiday dinner months later, my grandmother asked me what I was doing down there. My answer brought her to tears. I also would call out to him while looking at the sky.

At 57, I am a product of having come to terms with this. Doctors diagnosed my leukemia AML in 2003. I fought. I survived. But I wondered just what I should do--distance myself from my grandchildren to avoid their sorrow at my passing or savor every moment with them. I did the obvious, and I enjoy every minute with them.

The day will come when the child will come to terms with what happened. None of us stand insulated from the fact that death looms in some way on the horizon. Escapist methods will not work, because years later, this little boy will emerge as a man who also will have confronted the situation.

By the way, I will never regret having had the memories with my grandfather, before he passed away in 1956 at age 49--the result of a massive heart attack.

I only hope my four grandchildren, two grandsons and two granddaughters, will remember me for making them breakfast, taking them frequently to Disneyland, watching children's movies with them, and finally, driving on a long trip with my Sweetheart and their grandmother through Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, South Dakota and parts of Minnesota.

I hope they remember me, because I was not afraid of death, and because I savored life.

I will never regret making contact with my grandchildren, because I want them to remember me as the Pop Pop, who bought them blue T-shirts with mastodons and sharks. And I want my granddaughters to remember me as the Pop Pop, who bought them pink things, even though I hate the color pink.

My opinion doesn't matter, nor does it matter that I felt the same way about Disney Princess dresses. I see they have them too.

And as for my grandsons, they will never wonder about any dinosaur or prehistoric mammal or train or Star Wars toy that seemed difficult to find, because their Pop Pop found them.

You just can't have enough light sabers or appropriate other helmets and battle gear.

And one thing for certain, Disneyland will always be a place where my grandchildren will remember me and think of the laughter and smiles and churros.

So the lesson for me, which I didn't mention in the article was this. Yes, I coped with death on many levels--losing close family members, friends and colleagues. But when it came to the lesson, which is the "Lesson" rather than "lesson," it's about learning how to treasure every moment of life.

It's not about the miracle of my survival, because I should have died many times, and very gifted doctors and nurses have told me so, both here locally and at Mayo Clinic, that there is no logical explanation for my being alive. I don't worry about that, and I don't worry about when this magical time will end.

The lesson is savoring every moment, realizing how full my life is on so many levels. I guess I learned what was most important--family.

Spiderman and The Princess Go Trick or Treating

Halloween was once my favorite holiday, and in my hometown, I knew where the best things were to find. Miss Harrison, an elementary teacher, made homemade rice balls every year. And a couple of people actually gave complete candy bars.

Then grandchildren arrived on the scene, and I began enjoying it all over again, although it was more fun when you could dress them in costumes of frogs, panda bears, and bumble bees. But no child likes things like that once they reach the age of three.

But the real reason for my loving the weird holiday was that my parents always hid the Halloween candy in the large broom closet, and in the same spot each year. They always bought tiny Butterfinger and Babe Ruth candy bars, and at that time, they were a complete miniature version of the larger one. They were about three inches in length, and were about the same diameter as the little orange fingers you can still buy in stores, that by the way, is still something I try not to see when I go grocery shopping. The little bars my parents always stocked were incredible, and because of their small size, they actually had more filling in both. I was extremely careful about how many I discovered, and I also made sure that I requisitioned them by a little handful every couple of days randomly. That way no one suspected a child of being that clever. I think my mom thought my dad was eating them, and I thought my day thought my mom did. Either way, they kept stocking up before Halloween. The infamous kid's day lasted at least a month, and at that time with a young child's energy, I never worried about the extra calories.

Karma is a strange mistress, because my own children played this same trick on me occasionally, both with eating hidden treats I brought home from Germany and things I would find at the German Deli in Salt Lake City. But the real hard punch in the face from karma was the "sweet tooth" I nurtured and developed as a child. Even now, I can sense German cheese cake at least two miles away.

Anna's Schwarzenegger Imitation

I don't need an additional excuse to get me to Disneyland, because I already have enough to draw me there as often as we can make the drive. Anna has all of the princess dresses now with matching accessories. With the exception of a couple of "da boys" that occasionally attend the red shirt day at the park, Anna has the largest collection. On our next visit, the polka dot Minnie Mouse dress is a must.

It's fun to feature grandchildren, because each one has something different that I love about them. Each has a sense of humor that is different. Anna and Jack have outrageous yet infectious laughter that makes me smile every time I hear it. Tommy's smile reminds me of his mom, and the twinkle in his eye when he teases Jack or Anna reminds me of family members too.

Anna and Tommy have the incredible disposition of their dad, who is so patient, yet Anna also has the little spark of feistiness that I sometimes see in both her mom and Grandma Annie, which--by the way--also makes her so fun to tease occasionally, but Anna holds grudges. If I tease her once, she will not come near me for days, so I avoid it. Although I sometimes can't resist. Anna loves Hello Kitty stuff, and like her grandma, she is not a fan of dogs. When she wears a Hello Kitty T-shirt, I ask her if she likes her Hello Doggy outfit, and she gives me the look. Then I howl. When I'm in Minnesota, she laughs hysterically, but over the phone, she remains deathly still. Either my howl is too loud in the phone, or she no longer thinks my joke is funny. My Annie doesn't think most of my jokes are funny any way, but I laugh at them every time. Her thinking they're not funny sometimes creates a paradoxical situation, actually making it the joke that makes me smile.

Anna's Schwarzenegger imitation was something her dad taught her, and we had films of it on our Canon camera, the one I lost on the trip to DC in August. We were excited to get the clips that Lydia sent this past week.

Bubbles!

This was a magical time. We embraced optimism at this point. I suffered through rounds of chemotherapy that turned me into a human version of one of those ugly hairless cats. A beard was something I never sported after an eventual second ride on the chemical roller coaster ride. But it has its upside: you don't have those ugly hairs on your back or in your ears or even in your nose you always found yourself trimming, and your chest doesn't look like the Michael Myers version of a 007 spy satirical movie. Oh, your skin doesn't became scaly like a lizard either. Those are only a few of the many wonderful things that confront your ego during this time, and then you discover that all of it doesn't matter. The alternative is much worse.

E. E. Cummings wrote a poem called "The Worm Farm" about the other option. As crude and repulsive as the mental picture is that I conjure up with that reference, it is necessary, because some people just never understand the whole thing, until it's too late of course, and I almost did that very thing.

My wife changed after the second trip to the whole cancer fight, but it's important to understand why that would happen. She remained at my side during both fights, and during the first one, she administered chemo to me at home through this little machine the size of a portable cassette player. In the middle of the night, her alarm she set would startle us awake, and she would disconnect the lines connecting the bags of horrific stuff that would eventually make me better, and then she would flush the lines with saline. The lines looked like garden hoses that appeared out from under a clear plastic bandage on my chest, covering the hole a surgeon made to connect it to my main artery in my neck. I still have scars on my chest and neck from those fun little things. But my Annie has the emotional scars from having to watch me endure it and having to administer all that stuff, but she did it because she loved me. She still does.

So, you would think that I would suddenly have some epiphany, allowing me to realize what was most important to me: my wife, my children, my grandchildren. But it took another ride on the merry-go-round to learn that one.

Because at the end of the summer in 2004, and after spending a glorious time with two little grandsons and my daughters at Disneyland, and after making a trip with my Sweetie to Mt. Rushmore, and after not being able to see my son graduate from UNC or even marry his soulmate, I reverted back to what I did before the dark times of cancer.

In August, just four months after these pictures, I'm in my classroom preparing everything for the new year. My room was a small version of Germany for my language students, and I put new things up for display as often as possible, but I also researched and found new things to teach in order to keep me interesting. The worst part, however, was how much time I spent working other jobs. I even had an excuse for it, and it was a good one, because as idealistic as the teaching profession is, it doesn't provide enough money to survive. I sat at the computer completing an application to begin work with yet another university teaching night more classes, which meant more time away from where I needed to be.

Cancer isn't such a bad thing. The disease taught me what was really important: going to Disneyland with children and grandchildren was more important than buying "things," but most importantly, making bubbles was more important than anything else. It only costs 89 cents for a small bottle, but the magic was the same for Jack as it was for me when I was little, and it's fun to see my Annie's flash smiles like she always did and will always do in the future.

Jack's First Hobby

There are things that you learn to accept when you get older--your car becomes a site for future archaeological finds regarding fast food toys and papers and crumbs; your precious things with delicate pieces either rise to higher places or they become just precious memories of things with delicate pieces; and your toilet paper no longer appears in a neat roll.

Jack would crawl on his hands and knees to any bathroom, and as soon as he stood up, he would securely rest one hand on the lowered seat, which we found had to remain closed to keep tiny hands dry and sanitary, and the other one he would spin the toilet paper so rapidly, that even having trained an ear to know what was happening prevented you from stopping the entire roll from not facing the ultimate test of gravity.

It would rest in a pile near Jack's feet, and our little playmate would look at us ever so sweetly, proud of what he now could reach and confident of what he now could do with his own two little busy hands.

The important thing to remember is this: five or six years later is when you realize that toilet paper doesn't have to rest in a normal spot for a brief time, not because it isn't the acceptable way but because remaining that way would not create pictures for a blog like this. Besides, the little ones are only small for such a brief period of time, and suddenly problems become so much more complex. And besides, a pile of TP on the floor is not something that will alter Western Civilization as we know it.

An Early Road Trip

Jack learned to love riding with grandma and Pop Pop. Even at an early age, we would plug in a portable video player, and he'd watch Disney movies the entire way, and he loved hotels. He smiled like this as soon as he saw us packing bags.

When he was two and three, he began coaxing to return to Disneyland, especially when Tommy was in Ontario. When I put him down for his nap, I would tell him two stories: a Disneyland story recounting things we did on previous adventures with sounds and descriptions of the rides, and a Star Wars story with sounds and descriptions of spaceships and his favorite characters. I could never do the Chewy howl like Uncle Cles, but I could do a R2-D2 whistle very well, and Jack loved those stories. Before we went to sleep, he would ask me about any upcoming trip.

"When you see my bag packed and resting by my closet, you'll know we're going the next morning." He watched for the bag every day, and when it finally appeared, he would get so excited, that it was impossible to pack the car.

Another thing about Jack that still has not changed is his hatred of socks. I began calling him Huckleberry, after Twain's character, because he never liked shoes or socks.

In this picture, it shows him pulling one off. It was always a hunt to find his shoes and socks before we began a trip.

On this day in April of 2004, we were getting ready to get in the car to make a trip. It may have been the day we drove to Salt Lake City to pick up Lydia and Tommy. They stayed with us, while Jeff was doing some intensive stuff during those early years of medical training in Ohio.

Tommy was still unsure of how to take his Pop Pop. During that early stay, Tommy eventually learned to enjoy his tickling, his teasing, his playing.

When we stopped at Grandma Ward's house in Malad, Tommy crawled beneath a chair, and I crept on all fours toward him while growling and showing my teeth. He'd point at me, his eyes defiant. But eventually I won him over. Watching his reaction made his mom and my mom laugh, but my Annie, like her own mother, never appreciated my teasing.

One thing for certain, those years with the boys at this age were magical, and the same is true about the time with Anna. The thing I always think about is the resentment I sometimes have about not spending time with my own children like I have with grand kids, but my own father complained about that same situation.

During this past summer, we stopped at Fort Abraham Lincoln midway through North Dakota, and at a recreation of a Mandan Indian village, one guide told about that people's belief system, which recognized four phases of life. Like the seasons, there were four: childhood, adolescence, parenthood and grand parenthood. Each one teaches us and shapes us as individuals.

I agree and don't resent something I can't change. Not only that, I figure those ancients were kind of smart in their view of life.

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."