Choices

One of the best choices I ever made in my life came naturally. I fell in love with a Welsh girl from my hometown. We went to school together. We went to church together. We lived in the same neighborhood as children.

Ann and I noticed each other at various times during grade school. In first grade, my friend J Verlo Rose and I exited the bus.

"Let's play kissing tag," he whispered. "I'll get the twins, and you get the other one."

The other one was Ann. When I kissed her, she screamed her protest into my mouth--her chocolate brown eyes sparkling with contempt.

Then high school came along. We dated the first time, and I wrote about that in a blog a number of times. Dating began like that. We went on to college. I served a mission in Germany, and we wrote to each other.

That's when we became friends. I returned in early January of 1974, around the eighth or ninth. We began dating, and weeks later, we began talking about engagement and marriage. By February is was a "done deal."

My only regret about that short engagement is the fact that I should have married her sooner, which was not possible. It was a time of my life with memories, that I will always treasure.

We spent this past weekend in Salt Lake City, and while Ann and Jack walked around Temple Square, I took pictures to celebrate our "beginnings" as a family and as a couple. The weather was warm. The skies were blue with etchings of feathery clouds. The air was crisp and clean, typical of any spring I remember.

Walking about the grounds was interesting. The first time I saw the quail, I thought that I must have been been mistaken, that I must have just seen a couple of birds, but when I asked a couple of sister missionaries, they told me about the quail there.

In spring, the eggs hatch and young ones follow the hens about the grounds--each chick only an inch in height.

Some things never change. Looking at things on Temple Square, I found parts that had not changed, but things that were different were incredibly impressive.

By the time I snapped this photograph, it was already approaching late afternoon. Clouds in the sky were omens of spring showers that began on our way homeward, but it would be a gentle spring rain--one that always brought me comfort.

It is a time of rebirth, a time of sweet breezes filled with the scent of spring.

You have to be a farm boy to understand a notion like that. It's not about flowers. It's about soaking ground gently so that wheat can sprout and emerge into the air, eventually becoming waves of green in gentle summer breezes.

And 37 years ago on May 31, there was another beginning. One that Ann and I chose to make hand in hand. It's one that never ends, one that seems to be just beginning, although years have passed and left us older and wiser for the most part.

It's what happens. Life is an incredible journey.

My Baseball Player

I always loved playing baseball, and it's something I would love to have been able to do, but wasn't an option for a farm boy. Occasionally, I would watch classmates play in Little League, especially during their summer tournaments in Malad. Baseball was a sport that Malad did extremely well. It was not a shock to see them win against one of the Pocatello teams, a city with two very large high schools--a city, which at that time had at least 30,000 people in it. Malad's population was under 2000.

My baseball time was during the school year in fall and spring. It was tough. For years, I would stand in a group as team captains would choose teams, and each time they would pass me over. Eventually, one bunch of classmates--with girls and boys on teams--played together. They used a tennis ball instead of a regular baseball, which in those days we could still bring to school. Now schools don't allow students to play "hard ball" on the school grounds for fear of injuries.

I could hit the ball extremely well, and some of the classmates lucky enough to play on the top recess team laughed about it and chided me, because it was a tennis ball I was hitting.

Other times we played a game where three boys would hit the ball, and a group would field the hits. A pop up fly was worth 100 points, and a grounder was worth 25. Depending whether you played 300 or 500, you added points to be able to hit the ball for a time. It was where I practiced fielding skills.

I never gave up standing in the group at recess, hoping to be chosen by a team captain, and finally one day it happened, but he told me it was just that one day. It was during noon hour, and we had a full sixty minutes to play. I was up to bat. There were two outs. The bases were loaded. I stood with a bat ready to go. The captain tried to go in front of me, but I reminded him that it wasn't his turn. I said it loud enough for the opposing team to hear, which would have forced the out in our playground rules.

The captain gave me the stink eye, and he whispered that I had better hit well, if I ever wanted to play again.

I stood at the plate. I waited for the right ball. It was an advantage to play with our rules, because there was no ump. On the third pitch or so, the pitcher threw a ball just right, a bit low. I swung the bat hard, and I felt it connect. You know it's a good hit when you hear it and when you feel it on the bat--just like you know when a bat breaks.

The ball sailed into the air. The fielder ran forward. The captain cursed for a moment, but then he noticed that the ball sailed ten to twelve feet over the boy's head. I had hit my first home run, a grand slam.

Being chosen was never an issue after that. The same captain chose me, and he had me bat as clean-up batter every day.

It's a moment I'll always remember, a moment of the feel of warm sunshine and the smell cut grass.

That's why I was so excited to hear that Tommy was doing well in baseball. When he was young, I said several times that this would be one of his sports, along with track and soccer. And by the way, I also mentioned that he'd make a great defensive back or running back, but I have problems seeing my grandsons play football: the sport that riddled my ankles, knees and hip and shoulders, yet if I were 15 right now, and if it were August, I would be ready and excited for two-a-day practices. Even knowing what it did to me physically, I would do it all again.

So Tommy, here's to you in your new sport. One day when you are famous and playing serious ball instead of the fun stuff like now, sign a ball for your Pop Pop.

Place it in a spot that will be fun to see.

And remember that regardless where I am, I'll be watching proudly and smiling every time I hear you make that sound, the one a batter and fans hear when the hitter feels the ball absorb the wood of the bat from a solid swing.

Today's Front Page News

I opened the hotel door this morning on the way to breakfast, and our copy of USA Today waited at the door. The headline appeared boldly--Poll: Nuclear worries rising. My attention was on that immediately. A short secondary headline appeared beneath it--Officials scramble to contain radiation; emperor offers prayers.

For a brief moment, I thought about the city where I lived and the soap magnate, who seems to control the political climate with his constant urge to pay for full page ads to promote his own views. In Idaho Falls, the man appears to view himself in some sort of Imperial role.

And since nuclear power is such an issue there with the the lab in the desert a short distance away, my thoughts still wallowed in the night's rest. My eyes squinted in the bright illumination of a hotel hallway.

The man is praying to prevent radiation fears, I thought to myself. For a moment, I actually believed that our local robber baron, whose soap--in my opinion--smells like kerosene, did something that was not self-serving, something that was not arrogant or even pompous. The man sounded almost . . . altruistic. He sounded noble and idealistic.

A flickering florescent light brought me back to reality, or maybe it was the scent of pancakes in the restaurant section downstairs that brought me back to reality.

I realized the whole article was about the horrible tragedy in Japan, and it didn't take me long to realize that the man I knew wouldn't pray for victims of any kind, unless of course he hoped someone might spend a buck on that soap he peddles, or unless there was profit as a bottom line or at least a tax break or even some sort of mention in the media to focus attention on that nasty scented soap with an ambiance akin with diesel fuel. At least that's the opinion I have of our local robber baron.

However, I have to agree about one thing: the man knows how to promote a product. I took some students to Prague in the mid 90's. It was a time, when the former Eastern European country was still making early political adjustments leading to democracy and economic change. Western ideas were new and seen only in television programs with subtitles. The characters appeared similar to what I remember seeing at least a decade before, but their voices were notably different and words came out of their mouths that I could not understand, yet in the shower room, there was a bottle of this man's shampoo. Someone left it there, and it amazed me to see it so far away from the desert plain of Idaho.

But it didn't mean I liked the man any better.

I like many of the people who work for him, and I hope things go well for these people. I respect them, because I could never work under the conditions they must find every day on the job--having a boss seeking to control my political opinions, having a boss treating other workers and me as pawns and "underlings." At least that's how I view those misfortunate people who work for the man.

So within minutes, I realized that it was the Emperor of Japan, who prayed for his people. And I refused to allow thoughts of the Schweinehund affect the taste of my stack of hot cakes.

Calling Pop Pop

When my phone rings before 7:00 a.m., for an instant I think it's Cles calling like he once did regularly. He would forget that he was two hours earlier in North Carolina or even Virginia, and sometimes we would get a call before our alarm sounded in the morning.

It was great hearing from him, regardless whether we fumbled about in the dark trying to find a phone.

Now it's different. We get calls again lately, but sometimes it's silent on the other end of the connection. "Sammy?" I always say automatically.

The caller ID shows that the call is coming from Lydia's cell phone in Florida. As soon as our little one hears her name, she squeals and then starts to talk to us, in some sort of language that only Sammy can understand, but I never quit trying to decipher the words.

When Jack was that age, he did the same thing, and I eventually could understand him, but this situation is different. We only get a chance to talk to Sammy once or twice a week when she hits the speed dial.

The first call was hilarious. It surprised Lydia as much as it did Pop Pop. I see the caller ID. "Lyda?" I say repeatedly. I can hear background noise. Lydia is at the computer keyboard. There are beeps occasionally.

Then I hear Lydia's voice. "Samantha, don't hit me with the phone. That hurts." Sammy starts to cry, but she puts the phone to her ear. She can her me. I can her mourning the moment.

"Sammy, this is Pop Pop." I start to growl into the phone, and then I do the Pop Pop Wolfman howl. Sammy stops crying. There us a click, and the line goes dead.

I call Lydia. She answers on the first ring. "Did Samantha call you dad?" We laughed about it for a moment, especially when Lydia said how she noticed the strange noise coming from the phone. She heard my growling and howling for Samantha.

Since that call, Sammy calls us by hitting the speed dial, but she called Cles this past week as well. This time she "texted" her uncle.

Ug appeared in the text. Cles, afraid that Lydia had a bad day or something called immediately. Lydia told Cles that Sammy had been doing her "thing" with the cell phone.

It's just another example of how simple things make life so interesting. I don't mind getting calls from Sammy or Anna or Tommy or Cles before 7:00 a.m.

But if the reader of this posting is selling a condo, or you if have some Third World family you want me to help by loaning them $2000 until their "fortune" arrives, don't call ever. Although I like those calls too. It gives me a chance to feel anger, to vent frustration, to voice vengeance. It has been over six years since my retirement, so I don't get a chance to practice being mean. I just don't see high school administrators on a regular basis anymore.

Saving Money In Charlottesville

I talked with my son on the phone this past week, yet saying that is not real news, because he calls me almost every day on his way home from work--so often, that when he says his cell phone is starting to lose a good connection, I picture this section of road near his house.

The Blue Ridge Mountains are in the distance. An old barbed wire fence adds character with each sagging wire and slanting post. They show that years have past, since they once were new.

And there are the coops on the crest of a small rise.

"I'm near the coops," Cles says. Sometimes it's on a different stretch, one that winds through hardwood forest. Deer sometimes graze along the road, especially at night.

The recent conversation reminded me of our last visit. While in Virginia in the fall, there were some problems with water on the floor of the basement, and as I remember, Cles believed it was a pressure tank for his well.

Ann, Jack and I flew into DC a day earlier. Cles picked us up, and we started for Virginia and arrived late one night. Being there was like being home again. We had been there a year earlier. It was August, just in time to hear cicadas at night. Visiting Lydia during the summer in Minnesota meant hearing frogs at night. In Virginia, it was about hearing these interesting locust-like insects and watching occasional fireflies.

We were excited to be in Virginia this past fall. The apple orchards had festivals that weekend, and the fall colors were just beginning to spread colors across the landscape, but I would be a hypocrite if I didn't admit enjoying the apple doughnuts and cider. You don't have to be a cop to know that a doughnut like that is hard to find.

The Blue Ridge Mountains are always pretty, but traveling closer meant seeing the beginnings of shades of red and yellow and orange. The trip was incredible.

The only downside was not being able to attend a Civil War Reenactment. A year earlier, the Confederate general pistol whipped the Union general on the steps of a local court house. What is there about our family line that somehow finds this ironic behavior hilariously funny?

The first night was interesting. I took a shower, and very little water would flow out of the shower head. I told Cles the next morning, and that's when he found the water: just a bit gathering on the floor near a pressure tank.

Locals replaced the tank. I thought the problem was something to be referred to only in past tense, but the recent call proved otherwise. But maybe I've forgotten some of the particulars of the story. It makes a difference, when you are not the one writing the check for repairs. I had other things on my mind like apple cider, apple doughnuts and apple and peach salsa and jellies.

Cles replaced the pressure tank, which took care of the water pressure in the house, but water still occasionally appeared in the basement. I guess the problem was more complicated than it appeared. That's what makes life interesting sometimes. In the words of John Lennon, "Life is what happens, when you've made other plans."

This past week, Cles had some people arrive to take a look. It seems that water seeped through a portion of the outside wall. At least someone found what created the water that pooled into a shallow puddle on the cement basement floor.

The bad news was having to dig down to expose a portion of the foundation, that needed a coat of tar-like sealant.

It was discouraging to Cles, because hiring someone with a backhoe to do the job would probably cost well over $1000, if not $3000 or even $4000.

My dad would have been proud. Cles dug the hole by hand, six feet deep.

In the 30's, my grandfather and his dad and brothers dug a trench that stretched for almost a mile. Portions of it were definitely that deep, especially through cropland. They had to let spring water flow into the trench to soak before they dug down deep through rock and clay soil. My dad and I rarely had to dig anything like that. Dad did, but I was too young to help at that time. I was probably eight or nine and too young to wield a pick or shovel.

An army buddy arrived to help Cles with his job.

Now, I have friends. In fact, one of my friends would have done the same thing years ago, but neither one of us are up to the task of digging a hole like this by hand at this point of our lives. I have issues with mobility due to past chemotherapy treatments, and my friend has a history of heart problems; however, I think it's great to know that I have a friend like that. He still would do anything to help me.

But even more important is knowing that Cles had one, who traveled a distance to dig a six foot hole: something few people would do. Traveling any kind of distance is the perfect excuse for most people, even for things that don't require a lot of physical labor. At least that's what I've found from many people.

Personally, I would travel and help. I've always been like that, except now that my health is an issue, sometimes things don't happen like I would like them to occur.

Life is interesting. It often places us in situations where you really begin to understand the definition of the word "friend." Semantics is such a cruel mistress. We tango with terms on a daily basis, but often men find that a dictionary really is not an indicator of reality. Sometimes a good cliche works to define a friend.

"The truth is in the pudding." That's something I remember people saying when I was young. In other words, it's all about what a person does.

I guess that's why people invent euphemisms. Sometimes we use them, because a good solid definition just doesn't fit, especially when it applies to "almost friends."

The notion is funny. When it comes down to it, the word almost is interesting. When you say someone is "almost a friend," it's like saying a person is almost a virgin. Either you are, or you aren't--so much for relative truth and something so subjective as indicating some sort of gray line between polar extremes.

I figure things this way. It's not so much about my trying to interpret who is really a friend and who isn't. It's about deciding that I am their friend. It's why I would have traveled a distance to help one. It's why I did it when the situation appeared.

It's how I see things. It's how my dad saw things. That's probably why I am like I am. My dad was like a shadow, always there watching and protecting me and assisting me in any way he could.

Writing this post made me realize how lucky I am.

I have friends, who were there when I needed them to be during times of stress, during times of sickness, during times of sadness.

And whether I discuss specifics referring to my dad, or a couple of high school friends or colleagues, or my wife and family. It doesn't matter. What matters is that my life is a blessed one because of having people like that who cared.

Thanksgiving 2010--A Chance For Jack's Winter Passion

We were able to visit Cles and Leslie in Virginia in September. It was a great time. Lydia and the kids arrived from Florida, and we spent four incredible days or more there. It was a time of seeing sights in Charlottesville, but most importantly, we spent a lot of time together.

A perfect Thanksgiving was dinner on Creekside. Kristin was there, and Cles and Leslie flew out from Charlottesville. There was snow, and Jack was ecstatic, because he knows that Pop Pop has trouble walking on carpeted floors. A winter slope is out of the question.

Some mutual friends came over for a while during that time. Scott Fowler was my son's very good high school friend--one of the few from this area, who actually flew out for the wedding and reception a few years ago. Patsy was a lab technician at the cancer clinic where I went almost daily for a while.

I set the two of them up on a blind date. Being a matchmaker is something I'm good at historically. I have a record of 2-0. Regardless of the age difference, Ann and I consider Scott and Patsy very good friends.

They all took Jack sledding during the days after Thanksgiving. It was a great day, but my favorite part was the New York-style pizza we in a new place in Idaho Falls. It was a fantastic day, and the holiday was incredible.

Thanksgiving is fun, and it was fantastic having Leslie here. She was able to see do the sledding, but most importantly, Leslie experienced "firsthand" the shopping madness people call Black Friday, and it was fun to see the expression on her face as she watched people in a

Bacchanal-frenzy fighting over socks and videos and other necessities, and even though I laugh now, there was one time near the Blu-Ray and Wii games, where people pushed so hard, that I thought I would fall to the ground.

Not since my days of high school football was pushing and shoving so much fun. Black Friday is definitely a contact sport.

The Class of 1971

What I find interesting about this picture is that I'm related to three of the six in this photograph.

Debby at the top is the granddaughter of my grandfather's first cousin. Now I never could really figure out how that whole thing about first and second and third cousins worked.

On the left is Pam Williams. She was the granddaughter of my Aunt Ida, the sister of my grandfather.

Aunt Ida worked in the Evans family store for a very long time. I always remember how kind she was.

And Dixie Pilgrim at the right, well, her mom was a Ward. I think her mom's dad and my great grandfather were possibly brothers or cousins. I don't remember for sure exactly.

Of the others, an uncle of Marie Jones told me once that my dad was his favorite cousin, but I'm not sure how or even if we were related.

I do know, however, that Marie and Dixie always watched out for me. I viewed them as my friends. They were like "mother hens" with people in our class, and I always felt they were my friends.

I lived in the same neighborhood, though our house was probably 400 yards from where this picture happens. It's fun to see a photograph like this.

The only two people in the photograph, that I don't say are related, are Dotty Thorpe and Ann Thomas. I married Ann.

After our engagement, I found out that we had common ancestry as well. Back several generations, there was a connection in the Morse family line, but we are very distantly related.

This irritates my children. It's that whole "Arkansas" thing. Cles and Lydia, my two oldest, basically say this: "Just don't tell me any more." They didn't grow up in a small town, where something like this could be a problem.

What I really love about this picture is seeing my Annie and the fun she has always been. It was no exception in this time: a time when gas was cheap, a time when life was simple, a time when we wallowed in friendships.

We knew each other from early times. When I was five, Dixie and I played together at each other's houses. The last time was just as we were in first grade. Both of us were opinionated, and during an argument, my mother interrupted us.

"If you two can't get along better than that, you can't play together."

And we didn't. Dixie found the friendships seen in this picture, and I had my friends, who also lived in the neighborhood, yet we always remained good friends. I view all my classmates that way.

I think it's because of the amount of time I actually spent on a ranch during the summer. So glad to see classmates in the fall, I enjoyed and savored every moment with them in school. It's why I love this picture.

It reminds me of good times. And it reminds me of one friend we lost to cancer in '05, which was the same time when I was so sick. The last time I spoke with Marie was briefly online. I had just finished chemo. Marie was also sick.

We commiserated and confessed how things always worked out for the best. Everyone who knew her misses her still, but the good news is that we still have a majority of the people in our class.

I hope it stays that way for a long time.

Duke--The Most Hated Team In America (By Those Who Know Them)

Good ol' Dick Vitale never was much for unbiased opinions--especially any time he was in the booth to announce a Duke game. He was like people, who can't really play poker. You don't have to listen very long to understand his fascination with the Blue Devils and Coach K.

And if you do any research on the web, fans from the East Coast agree.

I've had times, when it was either the choice between having a stroke or throwing a brick through the TV screen, all times when he aired his views during play by play, particularly whenever Duke plays UNC. He also reveals his dislike for the Tar Heels.

The best picture I found online of Coach K was this adaption, showing the resemblance between Coach K and Count Chocula, although the actual picture of the latter looks more like the Duke Coach in my opinion.

During one game in particular, some ESPN announcers talked about the attitude the Duke Coach had about Chapel Hill, referring to his answer to a question during a press conference about doing business in any eatery in Chapel Hill, but when I think about it, just imagine the fun that any cook with a Tar Heel Blue point of view would have with that potentially delectable plate, so I guess I understand why Coach K would never eat at Chapel Hill. I don't have to like him to understand that. The same announcers also talked about Coach K's views before UNC games, the man knows trash talk.

Personally, I like UNC's Roy Williams. He seldom curses during a game. I've never seen it happen--not ever--but the man on the Duke end of the court often lets his opinion be known in terms less than gentlemanly, less than classy.

If he's going to represent the university that trains future Wall Street slimes, ambulance chasing lawyers and silver-tongued politician dudes, he should do better. I mean, really.

When I see him often on the sideline, the word that spews from his mouth is not Coach K talking about those North Carolina blue fire trucks, and those trucks are a pretty sight to see any time of year.

And as emotional as I often get at a game, I never use that word or hear others use it--at least not since I was 18 years old and in high school, where cursing was an art form perfected by farm boys, but those agrarian youths had a lot more class while shoveling dung than what Coach K has on the floor during most UNC games.

His athletes mirror his behavior too. I think the word "ape" his behavior is the better word.

The picture at the left is my favorite Photoshop that my son found on the internet. Dahntay Jones, John Sheyer and Matt Christensen are obvious favorites of the fans of several different universities besides UNC.

Matt Christensen, however, has one last picture that is my favorite. Maybe it's because I always had a fascination with that old Disney film about little people and a young girl with an outrageous vibrato.

I think it's the pose of Matt attempting to hit that high note that is especially appealing. I'm sure that Disney Park authorities were on alert.

It's not often when it appears that a Disney character passes a kidney stone while entertaining guests.

But if you're going to pass a stone, why not do it passionately. I mean really.

The final Christensen picture is one entitled Mattzilla for obvious reasons. I like it, because I watched those Japanese Godzilla B movies during the 60's. Seeing the picture made me realize that if Godzilla fights the Dukey, I want the lizard to win.

The time, when I saw those Japanese B films in my youth, was a magical moment; it was when you could buy great popcorn, cheap treats and sodas. It was a time when no one knew what "super size it" meant, so no one ever purchased anything that would result in a 15 pound gain while watching a movie. There was, however, an option for requesting butter on popcorn during those interesting times, but the large size was the same as the small portion today. Those memories of the past were of real butter too, not the "almost butter" type of thing, that in most cases, has more calories in a large bucket than we we had in bag available when I was young.

It was a time when refs called a player for a technical foul when they didn't raise their hand after a foul, and any "naughty word" meant being banned from the court for at least a couple of games. Coaches could see more severe consequences.

But they were times, when I don't remember thinking, that a particular coach looked like Mini Me or Count Chocula.

I can't explain why I feel like I do about Duke, other than I listened to some wealthy, Duke students talk with Today Show hosts once a few summers ago. It was during the show when interviews happen with the crowd outside. These students were the ultimate examples of snobbery, of ego, of elitism.

It's difficult for me to tolerate, even if someone earns it because of ability, but those young people felt empowered and entitled before earning a degree. They were better than 95% of Americans, because they felt they were.

It was irritating to me. It was maddening to me.

Ironically, we have a local team that traditionally had the Tar Heel colors. I really disliked them too, and I still do. A fan told me that they viewed the school as the "Harvard of the West." Wow! I always figured that of two particular institutions in Utah County--the Utah State Mental Hospital and BYU--there was only one requiring an individual actually to show improvement before graduation or before introduction into society. I imagine the whole introduction process like a "catch and release" situation. You open the cage. The person makes a mad dash.

Once while sitting in the stands during a game against my beloved Utah State, the Cache Valley fans began chanting the traditional chant they used: "BYU, BYU. . . where the girls are 'perty' and the boys are too." It was the fall of 1971, and I found myself sitting among the Cougar faithful repeating the words.

I attended BYU because of a girl, and I married her too. For those who don't know her or haven't met her, I still think she's "perty," even "pertier" now than all those years ago, and following her to Happy Valley was the best thing I did in my life. The fact that I went to school there for two semesters meant that I "really" loved her.

I hesitate to mention following my Sweetie like I did in these times of political correctness. I guess someone might term that as stalking, but I was a hunter, and I beg to differ, I wasn't hunting my Sweetie. I was just . . .well, I was just waiting for the right time to begin dating her again.

It happened, and I married her, the best thing I did in my life.

I look to finish this post the way I started it: showing a great picture of Dick Vitale at the left and Coach K on the right. I'm not sure, what player sits between them, but it doesn't really matter, because I wouldn't like them anyway, so since I don't know the person's name, we'll just call the picture Napoleon Dukomite. Besides, the one in the middle looks dumb. IT fits.

Coach K is "creepy and he's kooky, mysterious and spooky," and all three are "all together ooky." They're the Dukomite Family.

Regardless what team you love, locally or nationally, what would sports be without rivalries like this?

I mean, really. "You gotta love it, baby!"