Spoiled Pop Pop--Having Grandchildren Within Driving Distance

When Lydia and Jeff were only 12 hours away, it was not difficult to attempt the trip to see grandchildren at a moment's notice, and getting there was something that seemed to be as exciting as the trip itself--seeing Lydia with Tommy in hand and Anna in her arms. Both little ones waved their hands enthusiastically.

Tommy jumped up and down.

Eventually, the trip to Minnesota was a bit longer. It always involved an overnight stay, but the trip was fun too.

The ride through Montana and Wyoming and the Dakotas offered scenic views of

open grassland, and the sound of killdeer and meadowlarks and frogs at stops along the way was something I enjoyed.

However, it was never about the trip. The anticipation, the excitement, the joy of seeing family after a long period of time was what made things so fun.

Tommy and Anna would sit for long periods of time in front of a picture window, lined with pterosaurs and sauropods and other carnivorous model dinosaurs I sent him.

Anna collected things while we were there or while she visited us--pretty rocks, pine cones--anything that seemed to catch her eye.

It was fun for me to find things like that, either while we visited them or after they visited us.

Almost a year after their last time in Idaho Falls, Anna's imaginary friend's name still stands on a small chalkboard note accessory by the kitchen phone.

"What's Ema?" I looked at Ann when it first happened last summer, and my Sweetie smiled. She whispered the answer in my ear, and the name still is on our board. It will be there for a long time, but just in case someone erases it, we took a picture to remind us of the moment it represents.

The only thing I regret is knowing that children change so quickly. Once Anna's change in clothing happened four or five times daily.

Pink was her color, and she was like a tiny rainbow. Granted, sometimes things didn't match, but it was fun to see her pick and choose things--not to say she didn't have a sense of style or colors.

When I bought Tommy a cowboy hat, Anna was trying one on too. And yes, it was pink. She also found matching boots. Luckily, Ann talked some sense into my ear, because I would have bought those $85 boots in an instant. They not only completed the outfit she had on at that moment in the store, but the boots also matched the hat perfectly in every way--style, cut, mood. Anna will be a shopper, and she will always look beautiful, not just in Pop Pop's point of view.

Spring has suddenly arrived in Idaho, and each year it suddenly became the time, when we anticipated the drive to see the Zollinger crew, but this year is out of the question. It's just too far, not that we couldn't do it. Our cars are at a point that driving that far would not be wise.

Besides, we are excited, that in just a little over four weeks, Lydia and Tommy and Sammy will be out here for a visit. Yes, suddenly we have another little one, just as fun and just as exciting and just as creative in every way as Tommy and Anna. And then in a few weeks, Jeff and Anna will join us for a short time.

Worn To A Frazzle

We tried to pick Jack up from school early. He had a "fun run," which I always thought was an interesting term.

As an athlete, I ran. It was something you did to build endurance, to build strength, to enhance quickness. There was nothing fun about it.

We had cattle on the farm, and occasionally one of our cows would crawl through a fence and begin feasting on the delectable fields of neighbors. There was no tolerance of that in our family. We didn't like anyone allowing their cattle into our fields, and we refused to think, that we would allow ourselves such an outrageous exception.

One day, my brother-in-law Keith and I loaded four Blue Healers into the truck. They were all great on a day like this. The dogs could drive a cow back onto our property, and in most cases, it didn't happen again. A cow that made a habit of this made her way into the school lunch program.

Keith and I drive quickly to the cow. We get out. We run to get ahead of the cow, but she still runs a bit further. We run about three hundred yards, and the dogs are with us. They circle her. She lowers her head once, and then twice, and at that point, we knew what came next. Four dogs ran by us. The cow was in pursuit, but we were next in line.

Wearing boots is not for a sprinter, but when chased by a angry bovine, we only have to be second slowest on the field. I ran, extending my hands so my brother-in-law couldn't get around me. We made it back to the truck, three hundreds yards away. The run was in cultivated ground too, which made the workout more intense. Wearing cowboy boots that slipped and offered poor footing didn't help either.

I thought the whole thing was funny. Keith failed to find the humor in it, which I find funny in a way, but then again, I have a twisted sense of humor, yet I also realize that on that day, if I had been there with my metal walker, I wouldn't have found humor in it either.

To understand my enthusiasm for slapstick, when I'm not the one getting slapped by Moe, Curly or Larry, you have to understand, that I was the child, who sent the dog chasing after salesmen and the Utah Power & Light meter reader. Those situations made me laugh as a child--grown men screaming like little girls before then fell and rolled into a heap on our grassy lawn, but slapstick is only humorous when someone else gets slapped.

But this blog isn't about slapstick humor or chasing cows or my warped sense of humor. The point is this: whether in sports or on the farm, I have to admit, there was nothing fun or "funny" about running.

Jack and his school walked around an area of about three or four hundred yards. Ann and I watched for a moment, and as he approached, Ann went to get him. He refused to come with us. Missing juice and cookies at tents along the way was what made the run fun for elementary students. And I have to admit it, when it comes to cookies, I would walk a mile for anything with white chocolate chips and macadamia nuts. For a cinnamon roll, I'll talk marathon, but it would be a negotiation issue.

After the run, we pick Jack up from school, load the car and begin the drive to Salt Lake City for the weekend. Before reaching Blackfoot--only about 25 miles away--Jack was sound asleep. He had voiced his opinion for a healthy dinner. "Eat Fresh" was his suggestion, and Subway is his favorite.

I celebrated his nap. We drove to Salt Lake City. There we went to Gateway Mall, waited in The Apple Store, while grandma bought some technology for her contract job she does for ISU, and then we found a better way to eat "fresh." There was this Thai place. Jack was not excited at first, but after his meal came, he was enthusiastic. I think he is almost over the whole notion of fast food. At least that is the wishful thinking I am hoping for at this point in time.

We drive to the hotel. At midnight, Jack is wide awake. "I'm really not tired, Pop Pop." He sat in bed, headphones on and I-Pod in hand. There were countless movies on it for him to enjoy.

I checked one more time at 2:30 a.m., and again an hour later. There was the sound of a television at 5:30 a.m., and I looked into the room where he was.

"I told you I wasn't tired," he said. He wore this "I told you so" look on his face.

I went back to bed. At 9:30, I decided I'd go for breakfast. Ann was trying out her new I-Pad. Jack was sound asleep.

I finished breakfast and returned. Jack woke up, but he was grumpy. The fun part was that it didn't last long. We began a second day of walking in Salt Lake City.

It was an incredible day for pictures, and more importantly, it was a chance to see the roof of the new building, where the church does General Conference and other meetings.

The planters have trees in an interesting order. One side represents the vegetation on the eastern side of the valley. "Quakies" and pines appear with other grasses and plants.

Cedar trees and other scrub vegetation represent the western side.

The final section consists of meadow land, a few trees, abundant grasses and wild flowers.

It was a peaceful spot. Sitting there let you forget the sounds of traffic on the streets below. It's kind of a figurative way that healthy people view life. Distractions never affect them enough to make them bitter or angry.

The place was peaceful, serene.

A reflecting pool is near the entrance at the top of the building, and the sound of running water is another thing that made it the experience it was. There is nothing like the gentle sound of water, reminding me of a mountain stream or meadow brook.

A portion of the stream flows over the front side of the building. The cascade is beautiful.

Few buildings have the effect that this one had on me. I loved the FDR Memorial in Washington D.C. for similar reasons. There was massive stone, running water. The memorial was one that commemorated an incredible national leader, who helped our country at a time, when things were dire, when tyrants threatened the freedom of the world. I found peace there too: peace in knowing what that President did historically.

But this was different. It brought me peace, because it's a part of an important belief system that affected many in my family for generations. It didn't change what I already knew. It did however leave a lasting impression.

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.