Sammy: A Tough Little Cutie, Who Only Gets Emotional About Cupcakes

Sammy has passion. It sparkles in her eyes, sometimes joy and sometimes rage. It has nothing to do with the whole "Terrible Twos" thing. She just knows what she wants, and she knows what she expects from other people.

So when someone teases her, her response is varied.

A strange family trait in the Ward line is something only my dad and I shared, but on our last trip to Reno, I found that Sammy had it too.

I gently put my index finger between her big toe and the skinny next one, and hysterical laughter from her voice begins immediately. She spins. She twists. She squeals. The laughter is contagious.

And then the twisted into her mother's lap and bit Lydia on the arm.

No one found humor in that. But I did. It's about the whole passion thing.

If you can't be completely involved in something like that, why even be bothered? I mean really. Why laugh or twist? Sammy is consumed in the moment. I find my grandchildren fascinating, each one is different, and each has something I love about them.

Sammy has a classic type of single-mindedness, a type the ancients also possessed. Through time, most people don't have that kind of discipline of focus.

It's almost a Greek response, like those who became so caught up in a Bacchanal rite. Running wildly through woodlands and celebrating spring.


A week or so ago, Tommy hurt his arm. He cried because it hurt so badly, and that is not something Tommy does. It must have hurt.

Sammy came to console him. They communicated in simple terms, sometimes one or two-word sentences.

Sammy looked at him in the eye. "Shit," she said. Tommy began laughing immediately.

The hurt was gone. Sammy worked the wonder of a Shaman, working the healing wonder with her brother. In just minutes, tears of pain and sadness because ones of joy. Tears of pain are just as salty as those of sadness, but somehow, they don't sting your eyes as much.


Today, I talked to Lydia--just as she took her kids to the public library in the Reno area.

I had a call come through, while we were talking, and I had to take it. A call from an insurance company is not something you can pass on in today's situation.

I tried to call, but Lydia was most likely on the road.

Here Sammy works on a puzzle, while Tommy and Anna find books. We heard nothing until later that evening.

The next stop was at the Disney store. Sammy was just walking and tripped. It just shows how unexpected things happen, and how they occur so quickly.

I thought maybe she did the sport she loved so dearly to during mealtime, during playtime, during any time she is in a spot where she can get to the highest point possible by taking a series of steps at a time.

But she wasn't She fell after tripping on her foot, which is so strange, because she has been walking since before she was one year old. She is athletic, graceful. She doesn't often trip like that.

It's upsetting to hear about our little sweetheart feeling pain. It took eight stitches, but Sammy is a tough nut.

Her mom was as a child too. All our children were. I like to think I was as well. My Annie often has dental work done without having a shot deaden the gums in her mouth. And my granddaughters remind me of different things about Ann when she was little, at least how I remember her when we both were little and growing up on the same street and attending the same church on Sunday.

In my mind I see Sammy crying after the fall, not because she expressed a lot of pain, but because it scared her and because it probably made her mad.


But one thing for sure, ice cream or frozen yogurt is the way to go to rehabilitate a wound like this. A bandaid covers the spot, where I hope the doctor used fine stitches.

Because according to what I've heard so far, I did a better job as a kid sewing grain sacks that what the guy in the emergency room did.

I hope time heals the wound and covers any scar like it did for me.

Tomorrow will be another day, and hopefully Sammy will decide climbing is not as much fun as she thought, although it might be worth the ice cream. I know she didn't fall from climbing, when she hurt herself, but I worry. It's a parent thing-- a grandparent thing too.

I worry. Therefore, I am.

I know Sammy's Pop Pop would take a good fall for a hot caramel bowl of ice cream, like the ones we once ordered at Snelgroves in Salt Lake City.

But wait, that was a double double my dad and I always ordered, with extra small jugs of hot caramel. My dad liked the hot fudge.

Ice cream was always a weakness in our family. Grandma Liza loved Maple Nut or Banana Nut or Neapolitan ice creams. Dad loved Strawberry, although the first two Grandma Liza liked were my dad's favorites too.

Even when his sugar levels in his blood became too high, my dad would send my son Cles to the basement with several empty bowls.

"Fill 'em really full," he'd whisper. All the while, he'd watch for my mom and hope we could get the deal done, before she returned from some things she did in the next room.

Ice cream works wonders, and I'm glad it did that for Sammy today. I can't stand the thought of the little one's suffering pain like that.

For Lydia, we seldom had ice cream, so when she rode her tricycle down a short flight of stairs, there was no treat to smooth thing over.

And when Lydia as a toddler about Sammy's age crawled into a laundry chute and fell ten feet, there was no treat either.

Both times, miraculously she didn't get a bump. There was a blanket at the bottom of the laundry chute to cushion the fall. And the tricycle thing is still a mystery.

Lydia was a tough little nut too.

And for the record, the only thing that changed was her going on a parachuting adventure when she was in her late teens. I could have strangled the kid, who took her on that date.

Oh, and she jumped from bridges too. So Lydia, I'll tell you what my dad told me once about your dare devil antics.

"It's all about getting a taste of something you used to dish out." My dad was talking about karma and not ice cream, and he too worried about some of my adventures.

I will never write about them, because I don't want my children to relive them or think they have to do something more fun.

Anna--All Tangled In Cute

OK. I do have a bias, but I really do think my grandchildren are all highly intelligent, cute and perfect in every way. It's a tradition in my family. That's how my Grandma Liza saw me.

"You just perfect in every way." She would say those words, eyes sparkling and arms wrapped around me.

You knew where you stood with Grandma Liza. That's a family tradition too, and she never pandered me or embellished anything she said. She never pretended anything. Sometimes truth was difficult to hear, but I never found that with my grandmother.

She really meant it, when she said I was perfect, so I'm saying it now. My grandchildren are perfect.

Everyone needs a grandmother like that. Everyone needs someone in your life, who thinks you're perfect without saying it in a sarcastic tone of voice.

That's how I feel about my grandchildren.

My grandchildren have their Pop Pop. Granny Annie spoils them too, but even if they were perfect, I don't think she would say it.

My wife is old school. It's actually the way our parents raised us.

When you see the "Welcome To Malad" sign, It's kind of like this: "Reset your watches back fifteen years. It's always been that way. Old habits die hard. Traditions last even longer.


In some ways, it still is like that, although even Malad has changed.

We sent little Sammy an outfit from the Disney movie Tangled, which also included the trademark hair.

Anna sports it here, because it terrifies Sammy. It's not a bad thing for her. Donald Trump's hair scares the hell out of me too.

So until Sammy adjusts to the whole idea, Anna will enjoy it, and it looks cute on her too.

It's fun to see her smile like she does. In every way, my little Anna is a wonderful child.

A Great Picture During Rough Times

In 1997--or at least I think it was 1997--our family had another one of those years. Ann's mom suffered horribly through ALS or Lou Gherig's Disease.

It took a very long time for doctor's to diagnose it, which added to the frustration as Erma lost the use of her legs and her speech became slurred.

There were worries about stroke.

When Ann asked one doctor investigating the situation early during the problem, he asked her who Lou Gherig was.

I did an exchange during that fall. I had German guests, an entire family. Ann would take Kristin, and the two of them would travel to Malad to help Erma on the weekend.

I had mostly field trips with the exchange group on weekends, so it worked.

Then summer arrived. Erma was not well. The worst decision of my life was taking Ann and Kristin on that exchange, although I needed another chaperone desperately. There were many problems during that experience.

Ann was in Germany a week, and Erma passed away. Then came the second decision I made, that was catastrophic. I kept Kristin in Germany rather than having her return to the funeral.

Personally, I think it took years for Kristin to work with some of those issues about Erma's passing. This picture in the posting is a good one. It shows a family in the most positive way: strong, united, and committed to support one another in spite of the horrible experience their mother endured.

I have another picture I took of Ann in Germany after the funeral. I hope I lost that one.

It shows her pain and remorse at the time. Ann never shows things like that outwardly. She never complains. She never talks badly about anyone, which is another incredible influence in my own life.

I often want to fix things, making everything better immediately. Life never happens that way, not ever.

And for the record, anyone reading this should realize why I react negatively, when someone tells me how wonderful the German exchange trips were.

Yes, it was nice to be in Germany, but chaperoning students through the same places for that many years is not a pleasure trip, and that's before you consider the fact that I watched over 8-24 teenagers, who had no idea how dangerous some of their decisions were potentially.

I'm glad I did them for students, who would never have had the chance, but I recognize the sacrifices my family made for that opportunity.

Today and On this day 40 Years Ago

Now I'm nine minutes too late to count this for January 22, 2012, but my good intentions made an effort to do that. January 22 is a special day for two reasons: first, my granddaughter celebrated her birthday earlier today, and actually in Reno, it's still January 22; and second, I began my mission on this day 40 years ago.

The number 40 in that last comment makes me feel really old. In fact, I remember my youngest daughter giving me one of those weird little troll dolls with silver hair. The caption on its small T-shirt read this: Forty isn't old if you're a tree.

Somehow the "fun" gift seems to have been much funnier in 1992, a time when I was so much younger.

If Jack and Tommy and Anna and Sammy learn anything from their Pop Pop, I hope it's how to enjoy life during that magical time of youth and how to enjoy life during that incredible time of being "an old fart," when grandchildren make you smile with their eccentricities, with their passion, with their sparkling eyes.

So I hope my little Sammy had a great birthday today, and when you return to the North Country of the Snake, the Tetons and wacky politicians, I hope you'll remember this .  .  .

 The doughnut of your choice is on Pop Pop, although a cupcake might taste nicely too. We can do that.

But this entry is not just about Sammy's birthday, because it's also about what I began 40 years ago. But those additional pictures and comments will have to return tomorrow. It's time for an old coot to get some sleep.

So Sammy, good night and I hope you enjoyed my call tonight. The wolf howl and German birthday song is my style. And by the way, I loved your growl at the end of the song. It tells me you remember Pop Pop and the fun we have when we visit you or when you come to us for a quick visit too.

An Entry on Sammy's Birthday And A Tribute to Two Special Granddaughters

I have so many memories of the ride Monster's, Inc. All of them are with the grandchildren, which is why I love this picture of Anna and Sammy in the limo at the entrance. The first visits, when the ride was still very new, found us waiting in long lines--mostly during summer months. It was then that people zig zagged back and forth in a long line that wound it's way through a short space before finally entering the building.

Any given wait was a time of getting after the boys for playing or hanging on chains that separated the lines. But without exception, our grandchildren loved going on this ride. It was what we did each visit, and usually, it was something we did at least five to ten times per park visit. As the boys grew older, it was more difficult to get them to ride. It's sad to see how quickly certain things become "little kid" rides, but one thing for sure, this "little kid" still enjoys it and is grateful for granddaughters, who will most likely continue to ride on it with me. If nothing else, I'm sure I can find something as a bargaining chip. 

Monster's, Inc remains something fun and entertaining to see, especially the different variations behind one of the doors, where a number of filmed characters give responses.

And the final touch is the large supervisor, who looks like my fourth grade teacher and sounds like a secretary, who worked in one of the counseling offices of a high school where I worked as a teacher.

For me personally, it's fun to see the connection between Anna and Sammy. On one hand, you have someone once quite feisty, who now is quiet-spoken and overly sensitive, and on the other hand, you have Sammy, someone, who will always remain feisty and mischievous.

They are both precious granddaughters, two little ones making it so much fun to visit Disneyland in the area, where grandparents spoil them with princess dresses. 

Disneyland--The Time When I Could Be There Without An Electric Cart

The first trip to Disneyland, when we took both grandsons, was one I will never forget.

Both little ones were only one year old, and neither could walk. Some say it's too young an age for children to enjoy it, but that's only partially correct. A person would have a difficult time convincing me of that after hearing the excited voices of the boys as we stood in line each morning or their eyes sparkling on each ride during the day.

It was hot during that trip, which explains the redness in my face.

Having emerged from the first trial of chemotherapy, my hair came back before I returned to work that year, but it returned with a different shade. My hair, once somewhere between light and a darker brown shade, was now black---especially in the back.

The days were sometimes long, but I loved being in California. Toward the end of each day, Ann and the girls and the little guys would start back to the hotel for their nap. I walked much slower than I did each morning, but I did it without help of a wheel chair or electric cart.

And to be completely honest, I always sat out a bit once we reached Downtown Disney. I wanted to bask a bit in the sound of street musicians and the smells of the bakery and restaurants. It was fun to see people moving about so peacefully, so happy and absorbed in fun.

But I had another reason for hanging back each day.

During the last trimester, when I returned to work, I taught a larger number of concurrent education classes for ISU. I had several thousand dollars in my pocket, and I used it on that trip squandering it on the boys.

I would enter the room each day with a bag of stuffed animals.

Jack posed with those in this picture. And their moms did the same as well. The trip was one I will never forget: something that you relish in your thoughts, something you hope to relive.

But you can't always return to something that special. It's what new adventures are all about in the continual process of living day by day.

It was a special time--a time before my cancer returned and before any trip to Disneyland required me to get a small motorized vehicle to move from one end of the park to the other.

Da Boys!

The first grandchildren sometimes tend to be the ones that seem to dominate the pictures. You document every moment, every smile, every adventure. Then you become tired somehow.

I'm not sure if that is what happened, but regardless, I'm glad we took pictures like we did at the time.

I remember calling my mom when the boys were both one. They did the babble and goo thing when speaking, and raced about on all fours. It was what memories seem to be of for most parents and grandparents. What I said to my mom is this: it isn't that they are curious and into things continually. It's the fact, that they seem to be communicating with each other that is sometimes shocking.

The scooted about from adventure to adventure.

But there was always "down-time" in the evenings, when I held them on my lap and enjoyed the moment.

It's what you do only a few months after a doctor diagnoses you with leukemia and tells you to get your things in order.

He wasn't talking about cleaning the hospital room.

The picture still shows me recovering at the time, and it was a short period, before I made the attempt to return to work in my teaching career.

Lydia and Jeff were in Idaho Falls at the time. Jeff did work after medical school in two different offices, so it was a pleasure to have everyone home at the time.

I returned to work, and I'll never forget the day, when Lydia and Kristin surprised me at school by showing up with my two boys. I held both in my arms and strutted through the office area to show off my grandsons to the teachers.

It was a time when everything was so upbeat and positive. It appeared that I had beaten the odds and emerged victorious from the fight with the disease. Life is an illusion.

But there was still fun times to be had.

I had used all my sick leave days, so having applied to the "sick leave bank," I was positive that I had about a week or so to use, in case I needed them.

I often went to school sick and in pain.

When I mentioned that I didn't want to stay home, intending on using those days I "purchased" for the next year, if  I needed them, my principal told me I had better check with the district's policy.

A quick call at the district office was maddening. They told me that I automatically lost those days, without compensation. It was not good news. I was angry.

We had planned a trip to Disneyland just after school. I was to lose the days, so I used them. My classes had a number of senior classes in English, so I didn't have to worry about them, and as for German, we finished ahead of the final two weeks, so it wasn't a problem either.

I used those days I purchased.





Before Tommy and Lydia and Jeff arrived, we spent some time at Hogle Zoo in Salt Lake City, where we bought the stuffed animal. The boys loved it. We took pictures and had fun the night before Ann and I left for Disneyland.

Lydia and Kristin would leave a day later on a plane. The boys sensed something was happening. They sat on my feet in front of my chair the night before we left.

Ann and I drove as far as Vegas the first night. The next morning found us at Disneyland early.

Ann booked a suite at California Resort in Disney Park. It was new at the time, and we "scored" an incredible deal.

It was one of the best trips.

 And I will never forget the view from our room, which overlooked the pools and a bit of California Adventure Park.

The day the boys and Lydia and Kristin arrived in the van was fun to watch. Ann and I waited at the area for the shuttles. We spotted the boys immediately, and when they saw us, smiles swept across their faces.

Disneyland was new to them. Nothing had every happened to either of them like this before. And they shared the moments of the day together.

The girls had this "double" stroller by a company called Jeep. I'll always remember the boys and how excited they were to be there that day.

Each ride was an event.

Every new spot was an adventure.


It was a time when it didn't take a series of wrestling moves to get them on some of the children's rides in Fantasy land, although I have to admit that both have been good when it came to riding those rides.

They had favorites beside the horses. Peter Pan, Alice in Wonderland, Mr. Toad's Ride, and the little train ride near Dumbo were all hits.

The day began somewhere that would set the day. We took them on It's a Small, Small World. 


If I have already blogged this into a short description, a second entry is proof of this: the trip was an incredible time, a once-in-a-lifetime thing.

Both boys clamped their hands on the golden bars on these horses. They wouldn't let go--even after the ride finished and others begin filing off the small area.

Each picture brings back so many memories for me, all of which are positive.

I was a trip to remember.

 It was a simple moment in time, one where the favorite ride for the boys was playing in the curtains at the hotel. 

Cles: The Dude, Who Continues Tradition

Cles wears this Jethro Tull T-shirt in this picture. I bought one for him, when Ann and I saw the band play in Hamm, Germany. That concert happened during our last exchange there in 1999.

In 2003, our oldest grandson Jack joined our family. It was an incredible time, and from the beginning, he--like all of the grandchildren--learned about Cles.

In order to understand what happens here, you have to know about Aunt Connie. My wife's sister has this fun sense of humor, and one thing she always said to our children, when they were little was something that made Cles grin from ear to ear, even as a small child.

"Guess what?" Connie would wait for the little ones to listen intently.

"Chicken butt!" Lydia grinned this shy smile. Kristin was too young to understand what a chicken's behind had to do with anything, and even though it doesn't, she was too young to catch the joke.

Cles on the other hand would laugh uncontrollably.

Then there was the joke Ann's dad told each one of them.

"Whatever you do," he would tell them, once they were about nine or ten, "don't tell your mom I said this."

It's a study in human nature. "What's on the ground on Blueberry Hill," he would ask. I still imagine the smile that would spread across his face.

They would shake their heads before hearing the answer.

"Bird shit." Each one over the years would race to the house behind the store to tell their mom.

Now Cles retells most of those same things, although he has new ones too.

"What's abuttfer?" He'd wait to hear them shake their heads.

"Poopin,'" he'd say and cackle before his mom would remind Cles how the grandchildren would find themselves in trouble at school for sharing those family traditions.

It's part of what makes a family fun, or at least in our family it works that way.

This picture with Jack was an important one. He's wearing a shirt Cles wore as a little one.

Ann took this patch we found at a farm implement store and sewed it onto the shirt. Cles loved it. Before we gave the shirt back to Cles, we had to have this picture.

A Lesson Learned (But Not Completely)

The memories of my dad being sick often are reminders of the fact, that I still have not come to terms with his passing.

I wish I could say, that eventually I will embrace the reality of his death and grasp the religious faith that leads me through so many difficult times, but it doesn't ever seem to ease the loss I feel.

I actually makes sense, because I still sense the loss of my grandfather, who died suddenly in his late 40's in 1956.

Although I was only a bit older than three years old, I remember him vividly.

You just forget the sound of their voice, or at least you think you do. Both have talked to me in dreams during the past 20 years, and each time I recognized their voice immediately. Maybe it was my musical background or something, but I've always been able to recognize the voices of old friends--or at least most of them. Exceptions are those, whose medical conditions altered the sound somehow.

It's interesting how old photographs say so much to me. The first one is of me and my mom in the late fall before my father's passing in February. I would travel to be with my dad on weekends. They spent time on the ranch, a favorite place. There was a connection we had with the land in a place, where my father and I spent so much time together.

But during those visits, my dad was just like he always was. He had a list of things that bothered him: specific chores that had to be done, nailing down the tin on a roof of a shed, finding various things he truly loved like the sleigh bells he once had hanging in the shed. Dad wanted those placed in the house, where in the next five to ten years someone stole them. I did the list of errands.

That fall of 1990 was a horrible year. Dad had been sick all summer. In late September, he called me to ask me if I couldn't please come and help him with some projects he was finishing.

I was under contract at Rigby High, and to make matters worse, I had a German Exchange at the time.

It was yet another example how those month-long experiences--one happening in the fall and the other int he early summer--were an horrible drain on my family, both emotionally and financially.

Within a week, I lost a transmission in our Ford Taurus, which only had 80,000 original miles. That was not much considering how we took care of our cars. I asked dad if there was anything I could use to get to work, while I had the transmission repaired. He didn't, and he seemed out of character. He had much on his mind, that he didn't tell me about in that phone call.

We bought the blue Chevrolet van, a Lumina, which basically is no longer something you see on the road.

The good news is that the engine and transmission had over 250,000 miles on it, before we sold it to someone else. Doors were the problem. We fixed the passenger and driver's doors at least 20 times each, the cost of a single repair was $100. We would wait for the last minute.

During Christmas shopping one year, the sliding door and front doors were out of commission. We actually had to arrange the packages, so that we could crawl through the hatchback at the rear. I hated that car.

But it was the one I purchase when my father was so sick. We drove every weekend to be with my father. In six months, I had almost 40,000 miles on that car, miles I never regret. It was an incredible blessing for us to spend as much time with my father as possible.

When I see this pictures of our family farm, it reminds me of that time.

Dad always took care of the ranch. He had reached a time, when he knew his cancer had returned. He just didn't tell us until the last minute. We figured there was no rush to repair it, since it would break again within weeks.

Like I said, it was a bad year.

I went deer hunting with my dad that fall. My son Cles went too, and that's when I noticed something was wrong. Dad was in extreme pain on the dirt roads on the farm. Every bump was something that drained him physically. He didn't get out of the truck, and even shooting his rifle hurt him.

He went in for surgery late that fall, and a doctor in Brigham City told us the news. In spite of any hope we had, the surgeon assured me there was only a short time left. His prognosis was correct, almost to the day. Truth is realizing that what they say about the messenger is true. I still hate that surgeon.

It's part of the irrational list of things you do, when you try to cope with tragedy.

Things are in constant change. The yards, in which my dad took so much pride, now are a collection of fallen trees that died in the last 20 years. Only a few remain. The lawns no longer appear as they once did. Fences are down.
The tin I secured during those weekends for my dad still remains intact, but other sections are no gone--tossed away by wind and storm. The roof buckled at some point.

Twenty years passed. In the fall of 2011, my mother had a massive stroke.

She speaks to us. She tells stories occasionally about life on the ranch, about life during those magical years, about chores and doing things at home and on the farm.

What remains is an incredible legacy. The love my mother has for my father is still evident in the sparkle in her eyes. He visits her in her dreams now and beckons her to join him.

They taught us to cherish our spouse, our soul mate. They taught us how to work, how to be honest, how to remember the importance of living according to the name we inherited from honorable and upright people.

LIke those dark days in 1990 and 1991, when we spent time with my father, we try to be as much with my mother as possible, but things change.

I now am two years older than my father, when he passed. My cancer affected me physically, limiting my ability to spend time at the hospital like I once did. It was a time, when we all slept in chairs in my father's hospital room, a time, when we were all in our 30's, a time, when our children were all at home. Grandchildren now live all across the country.

But our thoughts are always with our parents, and our prayers are with my mom at this difficult time.

So at this point in life, I find myself in a moment, where I find that I not only learn from lessons, but I also make some of the same mistakes.

I bought a horrible Ford and turned to two terrible General Motors cars. I spent a great deal of time with my father, and wished I could have spent more meaningful moments. I now realize that things are the same regarding my mother, except for the fact that I dropped in for a visit days before her massive stroke. She and two of my aunts were there. I was an evening I will always remember.

The Thing about Dogs

When we first moved to Idaho Falls in the late 80's, the first thing I felt unbearable was not having a dog.

We had had an English Springer Spaniel since May of 1971. It was a dog I truly loved.

Then we bought several Blue Heelers. They were not only faithful, but the two of them also became quite protective in spite of their small size.

After being in Idaho Falls for less than a month, I found a sign on the wall of a neighborhood grocery store advertising Springer pups.

I immediately bought one. We didn't have a lot of money at the time, so the $100 was a bit of a hardship, but we did it anyway. We had a doghouse outside, so everything went well, and it went that way for 13 years. Then one night, I heard the dog outside making horrible noises. Without a doubt, having a vet put that dog down was truly one of the worst moments I have ever experienced.

My wife hated watching me that night, broken-hearted over the loss of that dog. A few years passed. One morning at Rigby High, one of the staff members dropped in with an English Bulldog pup.

I loved the dog. I would never have thought, that I would have taken to another pup so quickly, but I did.

That night, I told Ann about the whole thing. She was not thrilled about the idea, especially at the thought of having a dog inside, in spite of the fact that once when our Springer had been sick as a pup, she had suggested making him an inside dog.

In the guise of going to the mall, I took Ann to the pet shop, where the staff member and her husband operated a small business. Ann fussed over the dog a bit, but she began this mantra: "We're not buying a dog."


Then the owner placed the little pup in my wife's arms, and he licked Ann on the face. When we climbed into the car, Ann began talking about how we had to have the dog.

We brought him home during Christmas break, and I spent the entire vacation cradling that pup in my arms.

His name was Guido Maximus.

The first bulldog I ever experienced was one we saw at Mack's Inn in Island Park.
Ann and I were first married, and a family was there with the dog. When I told my father how we should get one, he asked why.

My father loved dogs, but his approach was a neo-pragmatic one. "Why would we want one?" he asked.

"He can't hunt." My dad didn't even consider it. The dog either had to hunt or help chase cows. There was not thinking about anything like that, and as for having a dog inside a house, that just wouldn't happen.

Then we had this encounter, over 20 years after I saw that dog in Island Park. He became an instant companion. He played with us. In fact, the dog loved to wrestle with me on the floor, running furiously in circles around the room getting momentum before jumping into my arms and pushing me to the floor. I still remember house guests laughing about the dog.

He had a few things that were annoying. From the time he was a pup, he had a shedding problem: something that some of his breed have. Others don't. It's not a universal thing.

However, he snored, he passed gas. It was like having a reincarnated version of my fourth grade teacher in our home, except for the fact, that I really loved that dog.

One thing I remember is that he also had another annoying personality trait. He fell in love with people's legs, gripping them with his front paws and doing that horrific "red-neck dog thing."

When Cles first brought Leslie to our house around that time, we had Guido. Cles would take him outside, and the dog would--in the words of my son--do that "damn thing" again.

Finally one day, Cles and Leslie, our future daughter-in-law sat in our house.

"Dad, why does he do that?" Cles seemed perplexed and annoyed.

I looked at him for a moment before answering. "It's because you're so damn cute," I said.

I still remember how Leslie laughed at that. I remind Cles of it from time to time.

It's stories like this that make memories. Guido was a great dog.

I cried when I had to give him to another family because of my fight against cancer. I couldn't risk the infection, that I might get from a scratch or anything else. Guido was another example of a great dog. He loved us, and we loved him as well.

And 2011 was a great year, because we finally were able to get another bulldog. My grandson named him Zero. It's kind of cute really, a character in one of my grandson's favorite movies was Jack, and his dog was Zero. It makes sense really, in spite of the fact that I wanted to have a few other options.

It's better this way. My grandson will have the same connection with dogs, that I grew to love and appreciate.

The Curse of the Quaking Aspen

Having loved the mountains all my life, I found there was only one other thing that could have a similar effect on me, and that was the sound of water.

There were multiple ways of imagining the sound of water.

That's what you do when you grow up on a dry farm in desert country.

Massive poplar trees with their leaves in summer were a substitute. When I was young and had never heard the ocean, I decided that ocean waves had to sound something like that. It's not an adequate way to hear the tide, but it works when you are in high plains desert, where trees grow if you water them.

Although the real thing is much louder and more inspiring, the sound of wind blowing through those poplars still works, if I shut my eyes. The sight of green wheat--just weeks away from beginning to turn golden--gives a visual image. These were things that satisfied my yearning, until I saw the real thing.

Quaking Aspen were something else entirely, their sound was more like the drizzle of a spring rain or the song of a mountain stream. I loved haring the sound too, so when we moved into our new house, I had to have several small groves in the front, side and back. Poplars were out of the question. They have too many leaves that turn orange and gold and yellow. Yea, they have a great sound in summer, but raking leaves does not offset the silver lining I loved to hear.

I loved the "quakies," until I began having trouble with my sprinklers. It began simply, a $100 or a bit more repair each spring, but when I was sick in '03, it was a time when we didn't have a lot of money.

The bill that year for sprinkler repair was $400. Those doing the repair said that the next year's news would be two or three times as bad. The common root system of the trees in the three different small groves became a web beneath the ground, wrapping and constricting the water pipes. Pipes burst; sprinkler heads shattered. Entire sections had to have major repair. It was not a difficult decision.

I miss the trees, but I don't regret having to have someone remove them. The removal was $750, which is much cheaper than replacement of the entire sprinkler system the next year.

These photographs are what happened just after the removal and work in the yard to cover up stumps and other odds and ends.

Besides, the trees are much finer to see in their natural surroundings with songbirds and the scent of wildflowers.