A Reference to Narnia at Halloween In Reno--The Cowboy, The Witch & The Cheerleader Wardrobe

In most high schools, where I taught for almost 25 years, cheerleaders were sometimes witches--or maybe it was the other way around. I try to forget the faces and names of people, who really irritated me, but then again, I try to watch my weight too.

We all know that song.

I like cheesecake and ice cream and Krispy Kremes and steaks and gravy. Well, let's just say I watch what I eat. I like ambiguity.

There's nothing vague about how I feel about my little ones.

Yes, Tommy and Jack and even Sammy did the E.T. walk, which imitates how I strut with two bad knees, two bad ankles and buns of titanium. They didn't realize what they did.

Now the 17-year-old high school girl at an Idaho high school was not like that at all. After treacherous contract negotiations, our union representative warned the male employees about what often happened: young adults walking into a room and accusing the teacher of misconduct.

"Keep your doors open, and if a young student enters your room, either make sure you have a witness or leave the room."

The very next morning, I began doing grammar drills. A former cheer leader, one the students disliked for being rude and brash and snobby, which says as much about the stereotype as it does about the bi--oh, I mean rude girl--rose her hand at the back of the classroom.

"Mr. Ward," she says. A smile slithers across her face.

"Oh, hell. OK, what is it?"

"I hear you're pregnant," she says.

I didn't hesitate with a response. The girl was a member of the dance team now, a member of the group many called "The Marching Mothers." (And I'm not talking about some Frank Zappa tribute band here.)

"Well now, I guess that would qualify me to be a member of the dance team here in the high school."

The confident smirk on the girl's face turned into something hateful. A smile spread across my face.

My class erupted into laughter. One student almost fell from his chair, and many others had tears in their eyes.

By the end of that day, every member of the drill team came to my door. "Are you the one who 'inferred' that we were the Marching Mothers."

Before answering yes, I taught her the difference between the word implied and inferred, and yes, I smiled all day long.

Some people talk about gifts that just keep on giving. That gift continued for the next six or seven years, always in the early fall. One or two girls would look in my door with the old question. I gave them the same old answer, and the same old grin swept across my face as they stormed into the hallway.

The only way it could have been better is using quotes from Conan the Barbarian. "Go to the library and contemplate this on the Couch of Woe!"

I am, however, talking about my granddaughters--a timid innocent little blond in a purple costume and a feisty almost terrible two in a Tar Heels Cheerleading costume. Both girls will never be that stereotype, even if they do become the thing that makes we awaken in the night, screaming these words: "Say it ain't so!"

My daughter and son-in-law would never allow their daughters to talk to an adult like that, even if they had a little bit of belly over their belt, and at that time, it was just a bit.

Besides, an old German once told me that a man without a belly is only half a man, which now makes my at least twice as much German as anyone living within those Teutonic borders.

I wish I could have been walking with my three little ones in Reno on this night. We saw them in Salt Lake City the day before Halloween. We laughed and played with all three Zollinger little ones, and Jack joined in the fun. By the time they left, the kids were--in the words of my parents--"stirred up to a frenzy." For good measure, I saw that all three were secure and buckled into their seats. Then I began tickling them. It's what you do when you're a Pop Pop. "Stirred Up" is just an understatement in reference to what the three were as they left.

My son-in-law pulled out of the parking place and began driving. My daughter Lydia opens the window. Sammy screams loud enough to startle "sound sleepers" on the California coast.

"Now the fun begins," Lydia said. The window slid shut, but we could still hear Sammy.

My son Cles left that morning too. I always get sad, when my children and grandchildren leave. It was not a good weekend for positive vibes: watching children and grandchildren leave for home and seeing my mother cope with her massive stroke.

Every dark cloud has a silver lining, or at least some say it happens that way. I guess after a weekend like this, you get plenty of rest.

Experiencing grandchildren and children, however, made the sadness not as painful. My mom also mentioned how much the visit helped her.

I watched her improve slowly this past weekend, and hope it continues during the next weeks and months.

Not Just A Birthday Card

My mom and paternal grandmother both had something in common--neither ever forgot a birthday, and most importantly, neither ever chose a card to celebrate it, that didn't show relevance and meaning for the receiver.

It was something that I admired, because I have never been much for cards. I seldom miss a gift, and I often call someone on the phone, but cards were not that big a deal.

However, it was a big deal getting one from someone who took that much time to select it, from someone who took that much time to seek out something that said so much about your wishes, your hopes, your desires.

My mother knew about my love for the coast, especially California. There is something about water that seems purifying. In summer, I sit and listen to leaves of quaking aspen. They sound like the gentle flow of a mountain brook. Massive poplars, however, are something else entirely. The massive branches filled with leaves make a sound like the ocean.

I turned 59 on October 27, 2011--just four days after my mother's massive stroke. The Saturday before that happened, I stopped in for what was intended to be a quick visit, but I stayed for almost four hours, and I am so glad I did.

Life changes. Nothing is ever the same, yet my mother remains the person she always was. There is a sadness about her, a coming to terms with a medical problem. But at the same time, her strong-willed nature presses her to work so hard to regain mobility and independence.

My mom's presence was always there for all of us, and it always will be. Just like the picture above, where we were dressed and ready to go with my dad to feed cattle in the hay lands south of Malad, my mom's influence will be ever-present.

When I visit her now, she tries so hard to focus her eyes, and I see her thinking of the past. She tells stories about my youth. Each one reminds me of the good times.

There were times when my family lived on a ranch with basic things. There was a roof over our heads. There was a stove. There was a shower.

The toilet was in a small separate building about 75 feet from the house.

I felt shame about that fact, when I was young. However, our farm had the best machinery on any farm in the area. Indoor plumbing do not make a farm profitable.

We had a new home in Malad. The ranch house, although primitive, was where we spent summers, and for me, I was never there that much during the day. We had meals. We slept.

And although the old house was primitive, I still dream about the summer nights, a breeze from a mountain hollow billowing white curtains in the night amid the blue shades that faded to black. It was an easy sleep there, one without concerns or worries. It's the way you hope life will always be.

October 24, 2011--The End of an Era

October 24 of 2011 was another moment that changed the lives of everyone in my family. Sometime between 10 and 11 in the morning, my mother tried to get out of bed and collapsed on the floor.

No one found her until seven o'clock that evening.

I received a call from my sister in Ogden. Ann and I were on our way to Boise for some important  educational meetings. I was going along for the ride in a way, mostly because I drove.

The trip to Boise is one that lasts three hours and thirty minutes, and beginning the trip late in the evening meant knowing there would be deer on the highways. It's that time of year. Hunters begin brushing them out of mountain hollows, and they appear where you least expect them.

Just before we reached Blackfoot on I-15, the call arrived from my sister.

At first, I told her I had to be in Boise. I was nervous about the trip for Ann, and besides, she had been sick for several months. I figured I could bring her home if she was not feeling well.

Plans changed. We turned around and returned home, packed the VW Bug, and I left in the Jetta with my bags. Ann left for Boise with Kristin and Jack. It was nice to know that someone was with Ann during the week she was to be in Boise.

The next several hours were difficult. I spent time thinking about the past, and playing music my dad loved didn't help me avoid the nostalgia. Mostly, I wallowed in the sadness, the realization, the melancholy. Nothing would be the same now. Not since my father's passing in 1991 did things seem so dark, so crushing.

My mother, devastated and affected by a massive stroke, also embraced the past.

Memories are things that support us during times like this.

Things were so different in the 50's and 60's. Sunday was a day for the family. It started out going to church at 10:00 a.m., and then we were home in the afternoon for dinner.

In the early years, we often would either have my paternal grandmother at our house for dinner, or we went there.

The staple was potatoes and gravy.

My mother's ability to communicate improved in the next days, and one afternoon, she shared a story with me.

One family, whose friendship was important during those years, had a different set of traditions. My mom told me about how they had fried chicken twice a month on Sundays. Mom immediately asked my father.

"Hell no," he said. "We raise beef." I smiled when my mother mentioned it.

My father once told me the key to success in a good marriage: "Let them think they're boss, even if they're really not." He winked at me when he said it.

Mom never questioned the whole concept of fried chicken. We ate it once or twice a year, mostly on The Fourth of July with my mom's potato salad.

My mom continued to spin the story. She told me how dad never had much of a chance to sit with us during those years. He was always on the stand, and that began soon after his baptism.

"Dad always was there early, and he stayed late talking to everyone." Mom was serious as she thought about the memory.

She told me how one Sunday he walked up to her and whispered in her ear. "Make plenty of gravy."

Mom probably smiled, her eyes twinkling like they always did.

A woman who saw dad whisper talked to my mom. "Is Jon whispering 'sweet nothings' in your ear?"

Mom was serious as she finished the story. Her response was simple. "He told me to make plenty of gravy."

The woman laughed, but mom didn't see any humor in it. She told me, that dad was never much for public displays of affection. His feelings for my mom, while very strong, were private. It's how my parents saw things. It's how my mom still sees things.

My parents shaped my life in such a positive way. It was where I learned about character, about honesty, about hard work, but most importantly, it was where I learned how to treat someone you love.

Doin' The ET Moonwalk

There is something about grandchildren I find so fun. Only my wife gets away with teasing about certain things. Anyone else would catch "it" for doing something like that. Even my own children never were able to tease about the way I walked or other various things.

When Jack and Tommy were about two, both boys followed me down a hallway. Being where they were, I failed to understand family members laughing themselves silly.

After asking, Ann told me they were walking like ET.

"What?" I asked. Then Ann shuffled along, leaning to extremes from side to side as she walked. Suddenly both boys did it again. I joined in the laughter.

What can you do? I mean--it's easy to take something personal from an adult, but children have this pure heart that makes it impossible to see anything vicious in what they do, especially when it comes to your own grandchildren.

The my youngest granddaughter did it one morning. I did my morning howl, growled and chased her down a hallway. She ran quickly toward the kitchen and living room, where she stood my everyone.

Suddenly, she extends her arms, and opens her mouth widely. I expected her to growl, but she leaned from side to side. Yes, another grandchild did the ET thing.

And it's OK, until she reaches the age of seven or so. Then I won't laugh as loudly.

The Day We Left For Home

Saying good-bye is never an easy task. The last visit was the first time that little Sammy understood what waves meant. As we drove away, it was if a tiny cloud passed across her face.

This visit was different. What makes it so is the realization, that we can visit any weekend, especially the long weekends--ones that mean that we have Friday free and possibly the following Monday too. Those are the super weekends.

Not seeing these little ones for an entire year, while they were in Florida was more than difficult.

So saying good-bye is not hard now like it was last year. When we said farewell last October, we were in Virginia.

It meant that not only was I saying bye to three grandchildren for an entire year, but I would get back to Virginia any time soon either.

It's interesting what difference a year makes. We will see Cles and Leslie in the spring. We'll see Lydia and Jeff and the little ones on some long weekends.

And Kristin and Jack are still in Idaho Falls. There is comfort knowing these things. It's what makes life enjoyable, and more importantly, it's what makes time enjoyable. I can withstand Idaho winters knowing that springtime and open roads means travel to see family

Visiting Grandchildren--Doctor's Orders

In the week before we traveled to see family, I saw my oncologist. I've had so many problems since late July, and it seemed like after a six week situation, where Wound Care in Idaho Falls treated something that wouldn't heal on the front of my right lower front calf, I feared my doctor would recommend we stay home. It didn't happen. 

The trip seemed like it took forever, and even though they visited us the week before in Idaho Falls, I couldn't wait to get there. It's ironic that before the birth of my oldest granddaughter, I sat up nights without being able to get to sleep. For me, it was a concern that my new little one would never remember me. My grandsons were two at the time, and I thought my magic had been enough for them to think of Pop Pop at Disneyland and other spots, where we had so much fun together, before the second fight with leukemia AML began. 

I asked both grandsons a few years ago, if they could remember those incredible trips we took to Southern California when they both were so young. Neither remembered. 

It's funny how things never quite work like you think they will. Now they are both eight, and they have spent more than just a little time with me. My oldest granddaughter is the same. She just began going to school this year.

Kindergarten is the age that my youngest daughter was, when my father died. She remembers little about my dad. My oldest two children remember so much, but Kristin doesn't. That's what haunted me about my little ones.

At least I know the three oldest will remember me, but I'm working on memories with the youngest. 

While visiting, I howl like a wolf. I do animal sounds. I even resort to the peek a' boo thing at times, shaking my cheeks and making strange sounds. Our little one giggles. "Pop Pop's funny," she says.

Without exception, my sweetheart adds her take on the subject. "Sammy, grandma's known that for a very long time."

I can do funny--ha ha or other wise. As long as these little ones have fond memories of me and what I was to them, it's what matters. There is nothing as priceless as the smile on one of their faces, unless of course it's the love in their eyes they show me when I hold them.

Their grandma has shown me that look for decades. Knowing someone loves you like that is a priceless gift.

The Trip to Mammoth Hot Springs

What can I say more about this day. It was full of beautiful clouds amid a sea of  blue. The temperature was comfortable. Grandchildren are always fun to be with on a road trip, even if a bit of teasing occurs occasionally. It gives adults something to laugh about years later.

Jack's comments, Tommy's annoying noise, Anna's timid voice are all things that make each one interesting. The fun they have together is evident in how much noise eventually resounded in the car just after arriving at Mammoth.

What made the day complete was hearing elk bugle. Our day in Yellowstone on Friday September 30 was one to be remembered. We didn't try to see everything, but what we find was so much fun, so breathtaking.

Rock Climbing

I could not go to Blast Off! the day Lydia took this picture. For me, it's fun to see grandchildren enjoy something so much, but it was also important to take care of some nagging problems I've had with my legs.

My physical condition is not what it was when I was young, not even like what it was when I was moderately old and in between.

For me, it's difficult to climb out of a chair in front of the TV.

It's fun for me to watch something like this vicariously. I know it's not like seeing Tommy do it "live," but it's better than just trying to imagine it myself.

I have no common reference. Tommy doesn't have to struggle to get to his feet, push himself up to a standing position, and then wait until knee joints stop makng the Rice Krispie sound: snap, crackle, pop.

Even then, I wait and stagger above the large leather chair, knowing that if I fall, I plunge into a large piece of leather furniture. It's like the way I sit down, just a different direction.

So Tommy, my hat is off to you, and it's fun to see you climb like this--as long as you don't do any of that free climbing without the harness and spikes I saw on 60 Minutes tonight.

Just thinking of someone climbing up a rock cliff 2000 feet straight into the air made me ache, but I ache pretty much all over anyway.

Road Trips

It's always interesting how Yellowstone affects me. After I arrive, I forget all the irritating things of the normal day--drivers with cell phones, extremely old people in motor homes.

Sometimes even conversation becomes difficult, so grandchildren invent something.

"He's touching me!" There's an annoyed tremor in the voice, and when I turn around, a grandson is tickling my granddaughter on the neck.

We correct it. Suddenly, my grandson's voice appears: " "Tell Anna to stop hugging me." Tommy's eyes fill with mischief.

"I'm not." Anna's voice quakes a bit, and then she starts to cry. Jack feels indignant and has to make things right. He wants justice.

"Tommy's just saying that."

I understand. I had sisters, and when I wasn't saying or doing something to irritate them, I said or did something to get them in trouble. They learned the skill well, and they often found the tactic to be a weapon--especially on long road trips.

My dad understood classical conditioning. We'll let you listen to your music Jon, but you can't tease. My heart pounded. I handed a cassette of Deep Purple or The Who. Midway through the fist song, one of my sisters would cry out, even if I didn't say or do anything. I could feel them smiling at me first. Anger swept across my face.

"I'll get you good," I'd say. I always mouthed the words clearly, just so they could not mistake my meaning. But they knew they had me. Dad gave me one warning without saying anything. He hit the eject button. My next movement was almost involuntary. I felt the need to put my arms behind my head to stretch. I would slap both, just to get the right sister.

He's going to hit us dad. My father would give a brief stare. I recognized the look. It meant my dishing out karma would have to wait. We drove in silence. Then he would put in something he liked.

I always had "chick music." They were cassettes from bands like Bread or music of Neil Diamond. Dad liked all that. I preferred Neil Diamond. My dad's singing the words "Jeremiah was a bullfrog" was too much for any road trip. And besides, he teased me too. As soon as he noticed it bothered me, he began singing. He missed the words on purpose to.

These are things you think about when you experience a road trip with grandchildren. Maybe it's karma. I like to think my dad is sitting next to me in spirit, enjoying me grit my teeth when little ones begin to become restless.

It's why I think of Neil Diamond and Bread when we drive to Yellowstone.

Being Young Means Learning About Absolute Truth

Adults always talk about the sunset, bathing the sky in tones of orange and reds and yellow with brushstrokes of blue and purple and pink on edges of clouds. Distance is sometimes the thing, because age teaches you to note the scene in memory. It's about remembering something like that, but more importantly, it's about hoping that rediscovery is just around the corner.

I remember having to wait for the right pose, sitting on steps or on a gravel driveway. There you stand for minutes that seem like hours. And people ask you to smile, while looking into the sun that still seems so blinding, so imposing, so threatening.

But you do it anyway.

It's about having a picture, and even that concept is one you never understand until you smell like old people. You arrive at a time, when suddenly you wish there were things to remind you, when you you able to run without getting tired or without finding something like arthritis pain.

Pictures are tokens. But if you're lucky, you keep them. It's like being on a toll road, except you keep the coin for ice cream, and the picture is a way of taking into account the whole trip.

Yes, looking into the sun is not a fun thing, but that's what being young is all about in situations like this. They say "Smile!" A young mind suddenly wonders just what is so funny or so interesting--especially looking into that distant star.

But then suddenly one might stop. A sober look spreads across their face, and suddenly they say this: "Hey, we're like Luke Skywalker, except we're only looking at one sun instead of two." Luckily, my three little ones didn't think they had to smile half as much, since their experience was only half of what Skywalker saw on that desert planet scene.

Flying in Darkened Skies

Puffs of Michelangelo wander across a summer sky
like old friends. They cast no reflection
earthward, just shadows. Beauty has consequences.

I heard a small clutch of sparrows flutter toward
branches of scrub brush. Nature's niche
became their sanctuary. Joy in their song seemed complete.

Beauty has consequences.

Feathers whisper, then shout the secret
in rhythmic retreat: a vision upon
an open hillside at dusk. Their flight bounces
effortlessly. They seek. They find.
Fading light frames the picture.


Beauty at dusk begins what midnight finishes. A gentle rain
softens light in fingers that extend from clouds. Stacatto voices
abound in small puddles.

Islands appear amid a sea
of dusty summer soil. Raindrops dimple maiden faces
with tiny domes.

Beauty has consequences.

I dream of the blanket of night sky to come
when time
allows me to wallow in moments. Hear the sound
of breezes in isolated hollows. I look
in a rearview mirror
nature hands me. Visions of the past appear.

A wise man once hold me to keep my eyes forward. Those behind me
watch my back. I recognize
an old friend, when I hear familiar music. They guard solitude like the lights
in the night sky--far away
yet starlight helps
by being there
by giving a gift in darkness
by watching in times of need.

Sing me songs. Dance the night away. Don foot's garb
and prance the role
of merry andrew. Bells and laughter help me
in moments of change: times when flight
meant going on, walking a winding path
one step at a time.

Beauty has consequences.

Sometimes it takes a friend to help you see trees in a forest
fish in a sea
because there's nothing like a friend who understands the difference
between drawing your name in the sand
and doing the same on an electric fence. Youth is about learning
things the difficult way.

Just plain "pissin' in the wind" never brings contentment. Bernard
Shakey
taught me that fact.

Beauty has consequences. I find myself on desert paths
when I seek the magic of youth. No one wants
to eat
honey and dried locusts. Illumination has its price.

Living means more than participating vicariously. Life is a gift
you never expect. Serendipity glides and soars
circling ever so gracefully overhead. Feathers seldom mark
ascent or descent. Why spoil the surprise
with crass expectations?  Life is full
of disappointments
but like stumbling through shale and loose rock
eventually the chiseled edge of a mountain ridge appears.

I always love blue-hazed distances
because you never know what hides behind
the cobalt blue shroud
maybe the comfort tones of a stream
or the rage of a river's torrent passing over misty falls.  Music begins
and solace spreads across my face.

Sadness blooms
like a desert flower. Only those
with well-trained eyes decipher beauty
find solace amid musk
of sage
of cedar
of scrub brush. Life is like that. Love lost
is unfortunate. Never having loved is tragic. Lucky ones

know the difference. Beauty has consequences.

You've never lived, until you find a friend
who shares the worst of times
who walks
the Valley of Death with you. My love shares my path. She hands me
a sandwich and a cold soda. We share
moments
without measuring when they turn to parts of years. Wisdom teaches not
to waste love with red swollen eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

There is music on a dark night in the desert. Silence has strength.
Notes appear
not strummed
by fingers on strings. If you find
passion a stranger
walk
life's path alone. Don't possess
something you can never understand.

For me alchemy made the difference. A woman loves me
in spite of what I am
in spite of what I suffer
in spite of what humors me. She conjures me

into something bright
something beautiful
something sparkly. She never lets me stand alone.

It's a way of finding flight. She flutters like the mountain blue jays I see
in memories, chasing the day
from branch to branch toward sunset. I feel
carried, supported, strengthened. I hear
birdsong laughing in her eyes. It warns me
of omens

hidden amid desert hillsides. She leads me from harm's way
toward peace of mind. Her flight
is sure--never lost, never faint, never anxious. My love
takes my hand
cradling my heart
in unconditional love.

Beauty has consequences.

First Day of School

Jack was so excited to be in school today. I know, that given the look on his face, desire and excitement for learning are not a credible possibility; however, although he enjoyed everything about summer, he was not able to see friends every day: something he missed. Jack was in bed early last night. I was up before my alarm sounded this morning, making Cream of Wheat.

For one of the very few times I've done it, I lied to my grandson. I made it like I always did--milk, Cream of Wheat cereal, brown sugar and honey. Today he looks at me with these big baby blue eyes, piercing into my soul.

"Did you put honey in it, Pop Pop?"

Now came the ethical dilemma. If I tell him I did, there is not enough milk to make another batch. If I tell him I did, there is not the time to fix something else on the first day, without driving everyone into a frenzy.




"No, I said innocently. I fixed it just like I did last year. It has brown sugar in it to sweeten it, so you don't need sugar." The answer swept contentment across his face, but with the next taste came a look into my soul one more time.

It was not a complete lie. It was the way I made it last year for him every day during late December and January.

By the way, Jack has learned the initial lessons of sarcasm from Pop Pop. Just look at the smile below.

The shower was the next thing this morning. His clothes, the Ghostbuster T-shirt and shorts, were already set. He needed only underwear, the word you don't say in front of him, even if no one else is in the room. It's as if he is afraid that someone can hear me say the words. But maybe he's right.

That last Stones concert left me with buzzing and ringing for three days before everything simmered done to a ringing sound. Ann always complain that I talk loudly. Actually, I don't think she likes me talking at all, but maybe she and Jack are right about it. I do rock the house, whenever I watch a Blu-Ray. The Bose system is incredible. You have to feel it to enjoy it.

It's not that I'm hedonistic or anything. I just like feeling my chair shake when explosions hit the screen, and given the weight of me sitting in the chair, I must admit, the TV must be a bit loud. It sounds OK to me.

But in TV viewing, as in all almost all things, truth is relative.

Hopefully, I don't fit the form of a stereotype, which some accept as absolute truth: old dude with vision, hearing and mobility problems. Well, I do still drive without glasses occasionally, but I always enjoyed living on the edge.

I had a dental appointment this morning with a new office: one that doesn't begin to salivate, when they hear my diesel engine shut off in their parking lot. Ann had to take me there by 8:30 a.m. Jack's bus was to arrive about the same time. We're hurrying this morning.

Can we schedule just one more thing? OK, I have a great idea, let's take the VW Bug to the mechanic. Ann remembered she didn't want it to look too dirty. It was just going to the mechanic to have the A/C checked. But grandma chose to clean off the bugs. I mean, really. It is called a Bug. I keep my sarcasm to myself, but I see beauty in her eyes every time I see her, so I take her picture too.

I only took two pictures. My camera is a Nikon, and I didn't want to get water on it. I know it would have to come from a hose. I was standing at least ten feet away, but with the use of a finger or thumb, my Annie can work magic with a hose like that.

It has not been a great day. I missed Jack. Dental appointments never work into a great day. I feel guilt overindulging in Chinese food for lunch. And last but not least, the mechanic just told me that it will cost $1000 to repair the air conditioning. I'm glad it's September. I figure we won't have to worry about it within two weeks, and then we won't need it until late July of next year. We can wait for that repair. Besides, I think I'll shop around a bit for better services on the VW.