Motivation

When I was an undergraduate at ISU in the late 70's, it was a curious time. Like all of Idaho, trends were a bit slow arriving or maybe leaving, so unlike most of the rest of the world who dived into diva and disco madness after 1973, ISU still languished in the hippy world. One professor had a class entitled Dreams, Visions and Musings. It was a 300 level course, but I knew to stay away. First, the reading material was not as important to this instructor as the ways he helped students achieve dreams, visions and musings through the use of mushrooms and some other pharmaceutical and herbal helps. Not only did I not like him or his curriculum, but some friends told me to avoid anything he taught at all costs, because he hated Mormons and "family-type" people. Although I loved the music of the 60's and even some of the charm of wanting a society that did not define itself with money or class system, I despised the drug culture and felt the loss of those deeply affected by excess.

I was in my mid twenties at that time. I had short hair. I had a wife and two children. And I was as devoted to my faith as I am now.

There was another professor. It was a class I had to take, since I was going to become a foreign language teacher. Dr. Greenwood was her name, and she introduced us to some interesting ideas. First, there were potential teachers from three language areas--Spanish, French and German. Each student had to teach the class basic grammar and cultural lessons to the class of different backgrounds and goals. I was an irritation to me. I was young, and I viewed it as a waste of time. Students not only had to present subject matter, but each student also had to adjust to the demographics--teaching people who had little if any knowledge of what we were presenting. It would be a task I would have to do every day as a public school teacher. The assumption that everyone sits in a classroom ready for learning is a silly notion.

One day in class I complained about French being too difficult. Dr. Greenwood looked at me, her hands on hips, her brows separated by a deep crease, her voice silent as she measured what she would say: three things that only happened when something really annoyed her. "It is because you are stupid," she told me.

For anyone who has ever enjoyed the steam and stream of a very hot shower shortly before someone threw a large glass or mug of ice water over the curtain or door, you know how I felt briefly. Her comment shocked me. But it was that kind of thing that motivated me. It did then, and it still does. However, it only works if that kind of thing only happens once. If massive amounts of negative vibes and rhetoric coming my way were a postive thing in my life, I would have become a rocket scientist immediately after my fourth grade year, the nine months from hell.

She threw everything from my desk onto the floor in a large heap one day. Some small spaceships I made from notebook covers and paste were at the top of the heap. The teacher waited for the class to return from recess, and then she gave this soliloquoy to embarrass me, while wadding up some of my creations in her hand and spiking them into the trash can. I only remember two words she used to refer to me, stupid and retarded. Oh, I and I almost forgot the word "lazy."

I met her immediately after finishing my graduate degree in '79. It was an absolute thrill to tell her that I had been on the dean's list every semester, and as a parting word, I told her how I graduated with honors.

In the late 80's I met her after finishing my MA in English at Utah State. And I could not contain my joy at informing her of graduating with a 3.97 grade point average.

While at Mayo Clinic, my PT or physical therapist, whom Ann and I enjoyed and liked very much, used Dr. Greenwood's method in motivating me to improve my life. The swelling on my legs is a factor, but she used the word "fat." It was not mean. I needed to hear it, so that I can get my body in shape to do a cruise early next summer in Italy and Greece.

My motivation is not just travel. It is about being with my Annie as long as I can, living long enough to spoil my grandchildren even more than they are now, seeing my children continue to do so well. That is why I started the blog with my three grandchildren on the hill. A person would have to have Prestone in their veins not to feel the need to continue to live for grandchildren. The sparkle in their eyes, the bounce in their step, the music in their laughter are all things that are important to me, but I would like to see that in my Annie too. And when I am brave enough to look in a mirror, I want to see it in my eyes. That's where Italy and Greece come into the picture.

Pop Pop's Princess and Her First Day of Pre-School

Anna started school just before we arrived in September. Jeff and Lydia had to be in California for a few days, so we had the chance to have the children--Anna, Tommy and Jack--for a few days. I worried that things would go a bit rocky, but though hectic, everything went very well. But it was Ann who did the leg work while I watched her work the miracles with the three little ones and me, the largest of the three children.

Lydia had directions written for us. In traffic on Friday, we decided that Minnesota drivers suffer from that psychosis people get from not having enough sunlight. You engage a turn signal, and they speed up defiantly and crowd you out of the lane. They did it repeatedly. Finally, just before we needed to turn at an exit, a woman in an SUV did it again. We missed the exit. My Annie damned her all to hell. I was angry too. We heard silence from the two boys in the backseat of the car, but Anna spoke.

"Grandma, say dang." It didn't make us feel any better about the rude driver or about missing the exit, but it made Ann and I smile. It was another adventure and another story about our little ones.

Hoping Alaska Decides To Become A Sovereign State

Things to Help Me Cope With Needles, Wraps and Other Fun Things

Just when I thought I had experienced all the ways that I could live in the interesting world of cancer and post-cancer, I start having problems with swelling legs. Luckily, our son-in-law was able to suggest an alternative, and although it was not comfortable, my three little ones made everything fine. Here Tommy, Anna and Jack watch a movie with Pop Pop. Life could only have been better if my Annie were sitting on my lap too. When life hands you lemons, you drink lemonade with loved ones.

Other Interesting Sites in South Dakota

You might think that Mt. Rushmore is the only thing to see in South Dakota, but I beg to differ with anyone with an argument like that. Just when I thought that my yard was too small to have a John Deere riding lawn mower, I made an interesting discovery at one small town. In addition to having at least two or three satellite dishes, the men living in this town found a way to maximize their viewing pleasure: having a large riding lawn mower to do a lawn in less than 10 minutes. I figure people like this must really do some serious television viewing--football, basketball, baseball, golf, squash and even the chance to look at the "B" movies Arnold did before his stint as governor of California or Conan the Barbarian. That is someone who really takes television seriously. These homes were estates in red neck heaven: a grill, a riding lawnmower, access to soft core porn, and a pick-up in the yard for good measure.

And if a guy in this town of no more than a hundred people felt boredom, there was always another fine place to bask in the ambiance of small town charm, The World's Smallest Biker Bar. There was even room for the whole family on picnic tables outside so you a guy wouldn't even have to worry about hiring a baby sitter or anything.

Our First Trip To Minnesota In '08

Ann and I spent this incredible stay with Lydia, Jeff and the grandchildren in late July, but little did we know what cultural awakening was in store for us on the way home in August. Ann and I had always wanted to see the motorcycle gathering in Sturgis. We had seen a segment on the CBS Sunday Morning show, and both of us had also seen news clips on our local station and on CNN. But to be in Sturgis is to experience it better than anything else. It is face of a community that launches thousands of motorcycles every summer, sometimes approaching 400,000 people. Nothing can really give you a lasting impression like actually seeing it with your own eyes.

Just when I thought the younger generation was what was taking our country down to hell, I stopped in Sturgis. First, only the finest cuisine was available there. I had heard of people actually eating this stuff on a dare, and occasionally I heard about red necks raving about the wonders of this uniquely Western dish, but I never--other than in a movie once--saw a place where they actually cooked and sold it to people who actually wanted to eat it. But then again, those who walked about the streets were so stripped of normal inhibitions, human dignity and general taste, that it took more than a month before I could put the situation in context and try to understand what we saw there a month later. Even now I still have difficulty not trying to find this fast food trend from hell out of place somehow, even after having experienced 60 minutes of the bizarre atmosphere there.


Ann and I followed thousands of Harley Davidsons through town. There were a few other types of bikes, but to be in Sturgis on a Honda is like ordering a hot dog in a Sushi bar in Tokyo. At least that is the impression that I seem to have. I have never seen so many strange looking people on such beautiful bikes. And to be honest, I think that you could get away easier as an obese middle-aged white male with an equally obese female rider behind you if you rode one of those American masterpieces of chrome thunder. And occasionally, some people appeared who actually would not trigger a gagging reflex, wearing shirts or blouses that did cover large stomachs and fractured navels.

I can't imagine riding a bike like that, not because I would not want to, but because I would have to have extensions on my arms to reach the handle bars. Modern culture terms a set of fit stomach muscles as a six-pack. I have stomach muscles that represent four cases and several two liter bottles. It has been at least four years since I being able to see my own toes.


I drive small Volkswagens, a new Beetle and a Jetta. And if I ever have to exit quickly, Ann will have to dial 9-1-1 to have specialists help me get out of the car with the ultimate tool, the jaws of life.


But the miracle of Sturgis is the fact that other white males with my problem sit on chairs or ride bikes with my same problem too, and sometimes without shirts. I felt comfortable there for a short time. We drove down the main street. People sat on lawn chairs looking at everyone cruising Main Street. Some even held up cards like judges once did at the Olympic Games where they held up ratings from one to ten. But then suddenly, Ann and I realized we were about to become part of the parade, and driving a foreign car in a red neck state in a town where people want to see uninhibited, naked people riding motorcycles was not where we wanted to be.
We turned down a side street. Suddenly a group of five men stood in the middle of the road taking pictures. I stopped and waited patiently, and then Ann said, "You are not going to believe this!"

I could see this woman with a skin-tight flesh colored T-shirt with a large eagle painted on the front, but then I realized the T-shirt was not what the 50-year-old woman wore. She held it up over her head. The eagle picture was on bare skin. The artist had so skillfully painted over band aids that I did not notice the shirt held above her head. It was like the world moved in slow motion. A voice spoke to me through the driver's side window.


"I hope you didn't mind us blocking traffic to get a picture."
"No," I said, "you can stop me any time you want." All four men laughed so hard that they almost dropped their cameras. I was too flustered to realize that what I said sounded like words from the mouth of a lecherous old man, and Ann was so flustered that she didn't hit me when I asked her if she took a picture.


We finally drove to the end of the street, turned the opposite way, and reentered the Interstate. We traveled in silence for a while, before we both expressed the same thing. We were glad we stopped, but we would never do that again. It's like eating at a Mongolian Buffet, a once in a lifetime thing.


So given the information I gave, you know how proud I am--as an American--that John McCain and his wife visited Sturgis a day or two after we were there. He even told a group of supporters that he thought about having his wife enter the topless contest. At least a newsman said that. I am so glad that McCain is getting some news coverage, and I am equally grateful that this visit will restore the lack of respect that the world has for our American leaders. We need someone with a taste for Rocky Mountain Oysters, someone with a wife who smiles with a grimace on her face like someone just shut her hand in a car door, someone with good judgement to lead a Super Power. Sturgis defines John McCain and his bid for the presidency. But just in case he falls short, when his Alaskan governor returns home, maybe she can continue Alaska's bid for independence as a sovereign state. McCain could become a king there, in a land where Sturgis will make them all proud.

Chicago Blackhawk Fans

Some people choose a team because of the city or the players. Choosing a sport is a similar process. With me, I know little about hockey. I like to watch adults hit each other, especially when they struggle to gain balance on skates while doing so. But not only do I know little about hockey, but I have not watched a game since the Olympics when the U.S. team beat Russia in a classic upset victory.

Hockey jerseys, however, are the best, and Chicago's team quickly became my favorite, even if I can't remember a time when they actually won the Stanley Cup. When Jack and Tommy were just little, my Annie found a place online that sold boy's jerseys. We bought them and then signed up with a photographer for a picture. In my opinion these pictures are the best since the invention of mayonnaise.

Back in the Days When My Mother Dressed Me

In the fall of 1961, a school photographer took this picture. I knew the day was coming, and my mother watched this soap called As The World Turns. One character had this massive uni brow that looked like a weasel attached itself to the old man's forehead. That was the only thing I remember about that soap, and I still occasionally dream about the horror of that image, because my eye brows or eye brow somehow is a rerun of that old black and white image.

The day before that picture, I took my school scissors in hand and trimmed off my eyebrows. For years that is the only thing I remembered when I saw this picture, but as I see it today, something else occurred to me, Holy s!#%! I wore a polka dot shirt and a bow tie. And A BOW TIE?

But then again, I was only beginning the second grade. Had I been in high school, I would have been beaten up ten times that day. And someone would have pulled my underwear waist band up over my head too.

The Recipe for Morning Biscuits

In a Welsh community like Malad, there are certain names that seem to dominate the pages of the phonebook, or at least when the majority of the town had that ethnic background it was the case. There are still a lot of traditional names in Malad, but since the last 10 years, many people have enjoyed the rural atmosphere there and decided to move to Malad. They enjoy the hunting. They enjoy having a horse pasture. They enjoy the quiet of a small town. The fishing and the hunting are great, and trails for either bikes or snowmobiles are not used like they once were.

As late as the 70's and 80's, the old names were still quite dominant. One thing for certain, all my children are going to begin having panic attacks, since I had a part of my family with a last name of Thomas. There were four different lines in Malad, and none of them were relatives. This is a Christmas post card showing a picture of my Great Grandma Thomas. I knew her only when she was older. At one time, she offered to teach me a little Welsh. I wish I had done that. She was very quiet, and I never remember her saying anything. But I do remember what a good cook she was. It was a recipe from Great Grandma Thomas where we eventually learned how to make the breakfast biscuits we always had at home. My grandmother cooked them in an old wooden stove, and I occasionally hear my mother talk about what an incredible cook she was, especially her bread.

It is sad that most of my memories of my grandma pictured here are when she began to lose her memory. Once while she stayed briefly in a nursing home in Pocatello, our family stopped by to visit her after a trip to Yellowstone. I bought this green sweatshirt with the rear view of a horse, its head turned and looking backwards with a teasing smile. In large letters at the bottom was the word "Horseshirt." A similar form or the word with one letter omitted was something you heard often in Malad, particularly when someone said something that another person questioned vehemently. When grandma saw my shirt, she smiled immediately. She kept spelling the word repeatedly, and she would laugh each time she said it. It was fun. It was a part of my Great Grandma Thomas I had really never seen before. I knew her as very serious, like the picture on the Christmas card.

Breakfast Biscuits

The night before:

1) 2 cups flour
2) 1 cup warm water
3) ½ teaspoon salt
4) ½ teaspoon yeast

Put lid on and let rise on cabinet overnight.

The next morning:

Just run knife around edges and don’t work dough. Melt butter in Pyrex pan. Pinch off pieces. Put dough in butter and allow to rise ½ to 1 hour. Bake in greased tin at 450 degrees for 20 minutes.

Our family always ate them with melted cheese and jam or jelly.

My Annie and I, Two Bob Dylan Fans

It is now funny how clueless I was as a high school student. And even more interesting is the way a person's taste changes over the years. When I was young, Bob Dylan annoyed me. The voice was something I could not get a handle on at the time, and when I eventually discovered the poetry in his lyrics, I was in my 30's. It was then that I realized that my Annie used a Bob Dylan song two ways our senior year: once in our senior yearbook in the first pages, and secondly in her speech as valedictorian of our senior class. The song is one that Ann and I often listen to when we drive in our car. An Ipod is a wonderful thing.

I love the lyrics to this Dylan song.

Bob Dylan's Dream

While riding on a train goin' west,
I fell asleep for to take my rest.
I dreamed a dream that made me sad,
Concerning myself and the first few friends I had.

With half-damp eyes I stared to the room
Where my friends and I spent many an afternoon,
Where we together weathered many a storm,
Laughin' and singin' till the early hours of the morn.

By the old wooden stove where our hats was hung,

Our words were told, our songs were sung,
Where we longed for nothin' and were quite satisfied
Talkin' and a-jokin' about the world outside.

With haunted hearts through the heat and cold,
We never thought we could ever get old.
We thought we could sit forever in fun
But our chances really was a million to one.

As easy it was to tell black from white,
It was all that easy to tell wrong from right.
And our choices were few and the thought never hit
That the one road we traveled would ever shatter and split.

How many a year has passed and gone,
And many a gamble has been lost and won,
And many a road taken by many a friend,
And each one I've never seen again.

I wish, I wish, I wish in vain,
That we could sit simply in that room again.
Ten thousand dollars at the drop of a hat,
I'd give it all gladly if our lives could be like that.

Some Interesting Benefits of Going To Germany

You have not lived until you have entered a German bakery and seen the miracles to be found there.

Universal Truths Learned At The State Fair

Just when I thought I knew so much about semantics, I learned some things while at the Idaho State fair. First, Americans are brave. Only in the home of the brave would people weighing over 300 pounds wear bare mid rift clothing, and this decision seemed to involve their own personal choice of fashion.

Secondly, I learned not to feel so badly about being large like I am because of the effects of chemo and the pharmaceuticals I used even before my cancer. At close to 56, I saw larger people half my age. And these examples were eating turkey legs, scones, corn on the cob, fried candy bars and large burgers and corn dogs. I was so happy about the revelation, that I began looking for fried Twinkies.

And last, I learned a new euphemism. Walking is great exercise for me, because although my legs hurt while I am doing it, I can tell the next day that it is a good thing. However, while I do my thing about the park, people walk in front of me.

"Sorry," they would say looking up at me with these puppy-dog eyes. As soon as I saw a teenager with a chip on his shoulder and tattered Rock 'N Roll T-shirt of a band I did not recognize, do the same thing, I immediately drew a connection. Because a minute earlier, another teen wearing the latest Led Zeppelin wore the same demeanor on his face, and he walked in front of me too. I guess sorry is a new way of saying "Get the hell out of the way." But what is so nice about this new euphemism is that you can stay positive while using it. You must need to whine while you utter the simple two syllables.

Some Clowns I've Met In My Life

1. This nice man, whom Ann, Jack and I met at the state fair, walked on stilts and posed for pictures for everyone. He was nice, smiled and seemed to put himself at risk trying to do things for people.

2. All principals I worked for in the public school system were like snake oil retailers of questionable credentials. Interesting enough, some even dressed like used car sales people. There were, however, three exceptions--Lana, John, and Craig, all people with character from a small district north of Idaho Falls. All three exceptions, like the one at the fair, put themselves at risk to help a teacher with a problem, just like the guy on stilts did; however, because they viewed their job as one that had little to do with pandering or entertaining, they were not clowns. The others, however, were more similar to the clown I met. They were goofy. They posed for pictures, especially for media events. They even put themselves at risk for people, if those people had enough money and influence. These were definitely clowns. Tragically enough, even those they entertained and pandered did not respect them. Karma is an interesting concept.

Fun Family Stories From the Past

The rifle my Grandpa Cles used was interesting for a number of reasons: for a beginning, his initials--J.C.W.--appear in the wood, and secondly, drips of paint used to paint the old house entryway at the ranch appear in running stains on both the metal and the wooden parts of the gun. It was this rifle that grandpa used once when he heard a noise at the ranch in the chicken coop. He shot a coyote. And it was this gun that he used during a deer hunt when he and my dad were riding through some brush. The two of them rode up to a deer that lay hiding, and grandpa pulled this rifle from the scabbard and shot the four point buck while in the saddle.

I shot my first deer with this gun too, and my dad laughed, because he maintained that the rifling in the barrel was so bad in the old gun, that the bullets came out end over end. But this blog is not about my grandpa's gun.

My grandfather was very particular about his horses and his tack. Dad told me that there was a young man who loved to ride my grandpa's horse and use his things. Grandpa warned him once. It happened again the next day. When the boy entered the barn the next time for another ride, grandpa was waiting for him with his lasso in hand. He threw it over a beam, and looking at the young boy he said, "You know what I do with horse thieves?" After a hasty exit, the young man never returned again. But this blog is not about my grandpa's horses and tack, and it's not about horse thieves either.

My grandparents bought a house in Malad, because they didn't want my dad and Aunt Janice riding the bus. I can understand that, even though my bus ride in Malad was less than two miles. For me as a first grade student, the terror began while waiting for the bus to arrive. Jimmy, the son of a telephone repairman, filled a squirt gun with lighter fluid and then rigged it to shoot flames when he squirted the thin stream through the flame of his lighter. Buck just intimidated us and was mean, and for a first grader, that was absolute terror. When I stepped onto the bus, the real adventure began. Before sitting down, a high school student would pick me up and throw me, and after landing on another high school student, he would pass the favor on to someone else. I was a human volleyball, except the white piece of sports equipment, that was me, cried and screamed obscenities and used nasty hand gestures that only made the older students laugh and enjoy it even more. The ride from hell lasted at least 40 minutes, if you don't count loading more perpetrators and victims. As a first grader, you hoped someone else could take your place, but this blog isn't about my bus ride either. It's enough to know that riding a bus was justification for living in Malad close to school.
In the late 40's, my Annie's family moved to Malad and into the house next door to my grandparents. At that time, David and Dennis were about the age of Jack and Tommy. One day my grandpa heard the chickens making a lot of noise, and given my grandpa's history of knowing what that meant, he ran to see what the problem was. He swung the door open, and found David and Dennis, one squeezing and choking the neck of a chicken, the other looking at the panicked bird's butt. They put the hen down. "What are you doing," my grandpa asked.

"We just wanted to see where the eggs come from," answered one of them. Dad told me how grandpa enjoyed David and Dennis, because they were "fun" little boys, who were full of life. Dad told me how my grandpa laughed over what they were doing that day.

The photograph at the right shows my Annie's family while having fun. The 50's were a great time to grow up in Malad. Fun was about being outside and enjoying life, whether fishing at a local reservoir, playing hide and go seek on a summer evening with neighborhood friends, or just having a simple picnic somewhere in the foothills or at a campground at Power House, the canyon in a range of mountains overlooking Malad on the northern side. There was always something to do, not because there was never anything to watch on the three channels of black and white television, but because being outside was simply more fun.

This picture shows David and Dennis, at least seven years after "chicken thing" happened. They still had that "fun" glint in their eye.

Just after moving to Malad, my Annie's family had an encounter with my dad. At the conclusion of each fall, those who "lettered" in a sport went through hazing that then was not only legal, but it also had a name: "M" club initiation. The traditional ritual dictated that the "master," who was already a member, gave the "goat," who was about to be tested, the choice of what house to visit. The task was to knock on the door, and as soon as someone answered, the "goat" was to enter the house, find the bathroom and shut the door and flush the toilet before leaving the house. It was against the rules to say even one word to the person who answered the door. You walked in silently. Breaking the rules meant not becoming a member of the school's club. Dad chose his new neighbors for the toilet flushing thing, thinking everything would be alright. It happened shortly after Stan and Erma's move to Malad from Northern California.

My Annie's family had just moved from California, and Grandma Erma was in the late stages of pregnancy while carrying Marvin. When dad knocked on the door, she called the local police.























Dad told that story for years, but I had no idea who the neighbors were, until Ann and I were at dinner one Sunday with Stan and Erma, my Annie's parents. Ann's dad brought up initiations, and I told my dad's story, explaining how horrible it would be to have to do that. Erma immediately told how frightened it made her when that happened after returning to Malad from California. I will always remember the smile Stan had on his face while watching me seeing Erma's reaction.

Once while riding in a car with Stan and Erma in California while attending David's wedding in LA, we were in a rural area. Stan ran a red light. Erma was riding in the back seat. Erma spoke up immediately. She shook her head in disgust. Stan ran three more, and each time Erma became more disgruntled and referred to Ann's dad as "Stanley." I glanced out of the corner of my eye and saw his smile, just like he did at dinner that day. It was fun to watch him tease Erma, just like I do my Annie, although I am more of a nuisance. They were fun people, and I wish my children could have known Stan as well as they knew Erma. Both were so much fun. My children enjoyed visits to Erma's house to find a fresh chocolate cake and puddings in the fridge in individual bowls. They would have loved Stan's "Thomas" sense of humor.

Memories and Music

The first time I heard this band was on some television show where they did a "battle of the bands." After all the hype, they introduced the East Coast band, The Four Seasons. The applause was loud, and I remember sitting stunned when Brian Wilson's The Beach Boys was not the one representing the West. They introduce this band with an incredible sound, and they were all dressed in animal skins, moccasins and leather, and one wore a beaded vest. For What It's Worth was the song they played, and I became an instant fan.

After my knee surgery in the fall of '68, I lay in bed at home in pain. Mom and dad played the radio through an intercom system we had on Bannock Street into the room I was in at the time, and I remember hearing a DJ say a new album was coming out. What came next was disappointment. It would be their last. This album was my favorite. At a dance my senior year just after my birthday, I picked my Annie up in my parent's car. My dad bought me the "state of the art" car stereo of the day, a cassette deck. It thrilled me, but what excited me most was that when I turned on the tape when I started the car, my Annie not only recognized the band, but she also knew the names of all its members. I knew she was the woman for me.

Simon & Garfunkel's Bookends reminds me about he first rock concert I attended. My dad took to see them at the beginning of my junior year. It was just before the release of Bridge Over Troubled Water, and they played every song on every one of their albums. The concert was incredible. I still enjoy listening to their music. I always enjoyed folk music, and this band was truly exceptional. Their albums always seemed to have a late release date, or maybe that is when I purchased them. It seemed that it was always winter or late fall when I had them, and although having beautiful harmonies and incredible muscianship, their music was melancholy--not like Leonard Cohen, whom I also like to listen to occasionally, but it definitely was melancholy.

I spent my first five months of my mission in Oberhausen, the final four with the best companion of my mission. Just before his transfer from Mülheim to Oberhausen, which was only a distance of a twenty miles or so and in the same branch where we attended church each Sunday, my companion and I were at my future co-worker's apartment. They were playing America's self-titled album. It was new, and when I asked if he was listening to Buffalo Springfield, Craig Walker's eyes sparkled. The Springfield was my new companion's favorite band too, and we both liked American. Craig was also a Neil Young fan, so in addition to all the hard work we did in Oberhausen, we had a lot in common. We saw a lot of success there. Listening to this album reminds of that, but it also reminds me of my dad. He loved this album too, and what is interesting, he told me the songs on it reminded him of me while I was away for two years.

My dad loved to listen to Pink Floyd. Dark Side of the Moon and The Wall were his favorite albums. He would tease me when I came to visit. My dad would play it loud enough that the entire neighborhood could hear the words, "We don't need no education." When I did the exchange in Dillingen the second time, it was when I taught German at Bonneville High in the late 80's. As soon as I heard that Pink Floyd was in concert, I had to have tickets. Willie drove me to Stuttgart, and I purchased train tickets for the return trip after the concert. I had some ear plugs, because the tickets posted a warning that hearing loss could happen while in attendance. The speakers were enormous. At the end, people were walking to the train station yelling loudly, not because they were angry but because they could not hear how loudly they spoke. Even with ear plugs my ears rang for a while. A huge pig on a tether went back and forth between the stage and the opposite end of the stadium. It had headlights for eyes, and given the cultural opinion of pig, the audience laughed every time it moved. A Momentary Lapse of Reason was the recording they featured in that concert, although they played all of their classic material too.

One of the worst things you can call a person in Germany is a Schwein or pig. One step worse would be to call someone a Schweinehund, a pig-dog.



These were my first three albums: Rubber Soul, If You Can Believe Your Eyes And Ears, and Younger than Yesterday. I was in junior high at the time.




The Poco album, Head Over Heels, was the first LP that my Annie bought me. Just before I turned 23, Ann and I were living at the ranch, and I was looking through some boxes in the store age area for something we had placed there.




"What are you doing?" Ann had this perplexed look on her face, and by that time I knew what was wrong. I had found her present for me that she bought while seeing the doctor in Logan. It was almost time for Cles to be born. I found it in September. "Well, you might as well play it, since you've already spoiled the surprise." We played it immediately, and the record soon became one of our favorites.

Everyone listened to The Beatles during the 60's. Their music had an effect on society and on the minds of youth here and abroad, but Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Heart's Club Band was the one LP that changed rock music. It took me a long time to warm up to it. First, it was different that the usual ballads and pop songs they did, but secondly, it reminded me of a horrible tragedy in my home town when a member of the class of '69's sophomore class drowned in Deep Creek Reservoir. The memory still haunts me, and although he was not a best friend, I still remember him clearly. Even now when I listen to the music on this album, it reminds me of the sadness that enveloped the entire community.


I never purchased a copy until after Ann and I had been married for some time. By the time I bought it in the late 70's or early 80's, there were songs I really liked, but the memories I associated with it are not happy ones. After listening to it for decades, I now think more of that particular spring when The Beatles released it. There was so much rain, that dad could not do any plowing before the end of school. The ground was too wet. And when they were dry enough to work, the fields in 19 Hollow had weeds almost a foot high. We had to use an offset disk plow, which only covered an eight foot swath. My day would start on the tractor well before six each morning. Mom would make me breakfast, and I would drive the white '63 pickup to the field, about 15 miles away. Dad was sleeping for a bit, because he would plow all night. At noon, dad would bring my dinner. I would sit in the truck and eat as quickly as possible, and dad would run the tractor. At 10:00 p.m. or later, dad would arrive at the field in the Blue '64 Chevrolet two ton truck. I would drive to the ranch, shower and eat a late dinner that my mother had ready. This continued until dad and I finished the summer fallow. I once knew exactly how much land was in 19, but now I can only guess that we plowed about 600 acres like that. It took us at least ten days, but we kept going until it was complete. We were able to keep the moisture that year, which ensured having a good crop in the summer of 1968.

The white album at the left was one I never appreciated until I was in my 50's. I liked it, but it was never one of my favorites until I was much older. The first time I bought it was in the late 60's. My Annie's family had a store in Malad called Stan's IGA. Although they only had a few records, the ones the had there were incredible, a sampling of all of the "must have" albums of the 60's era. As soon as I saw The White Album, I bought it immediately, a two record set. When I played it, it had a warp making it skip. I took it back immediately. I was all set to argue why I should get my money back. I waited to talk to Ann's dad, and before I could even finish a sentence, he placed the cash in my hands and smiled. It was the first time I ever had known him, but even when Ann and I dated, he scared the living "bajeebies" out of me, which was interesting, because he was such an incredible man, and he always liked me. After returning to Malad from California, he and Erma lived next door to my Grandpa Cles and Grandma Liza in the home Gordon and Betty Crowther would live in for a time until they tore it down and built the home that is there now.


Abbey Road reminds me of my Grandma Liza. She lived down the street, and she bought this incredible stereo. By the time I bought this album, our home stereo was out of commission. At least once a week, album under my arm and two sisters in tow, I would walk to grandma's house. There we would sit on the couch and listen to the incredible LP. "Don't you love this music?" I would wait for my grandmother's answer.


"It's only important that you like it, Jonie," my grandma would answer. The album not only brings back memories of sitting in her front room listening to that album, but it also reminds me of how much she cared about me and my sisters. She doted on us every second she could. I had an incredible family, and she was a fantastic grandmother. This Christmas was magical. It was my senior year, and my parents bought a Magnavox stereo just like my grandmother had. It was an incredible surprise, and I played it continuously at the highest volume possible when my parents were out of town. There was a Sony recorder inside that would tape albums, something I had never thought possible.

The D-6 Cat

This is the old Caterpillar I wrote about in earlier blogs. My mom and dad and Ann's Brent are in this picture. With Brent's jacket, I am guessing that it is an October afternoon during the deer hunt. Although I stayed a few years and hunted, most generally we made the trip to Disneyland during that time.

This tractor was the one I talked about that had the option of canvas curtains to be used to keep the driver warm.

I learned to operate machinery on this tractor. Dad had me drive it with him sitting on the cushion during the summer after my fourth grade year. The next summer I drove it alone. Working with my dad was the most incredible thing in my life. He became my best friend. And I depended on him, just like he depended on me. I learned more about life and character working long hours on that ranch than I could have done any other way.

Assumptions You Can Never Make

My Annie and I stayed with some people in Germany once. They were so nice, but there was thing about names. Each person in the family went by a different name. It was like the father's name was Herbert, but he went by Charlie. The wife's name was Ulrike, but she went by Suzie. I was so confused by the end of the month, I couldn't remember my own name. And to think that one of their children drove a Smart Car. You think that people like that enter the gene pool when the lifeguard was not on duty, yet they seemed so smart.

It didn't take long to give up on learning names. I always found it easier to refer to people I didn't intend on knowing any longer than I had to by "Hey You" or "Yea, you." During that trip, I kept thinking it was important to bring a Cuckoo Clock home. After 18 trips to Germany, I hesitated. Knowing how Germans hate the whole stereotype thing, I resisted until the bitter end of that four weeks. But then my Annie and I decided to get "the thing" done during a trip through the Black Forest. The trip was beautiful. Traditional homes and the woods are so pretty there.


Everything there is so typically German to me, and I will always find the thatched roofs of the older structures truly beautiful, like the picture below. I saw a film once from the German Information Bureau that showed an old German who lived in house with a roof like that. The fireplace in the home let out enough smoke that it preserved the thatch, and in terms of things being very practical, the man smoked hams that he would hang from the upper parts of the high ceiling. Had my Annie seen that film, she would have said, "That man has to be single." And I would have agreed. I am eccentric, but this old man in the film with a huge silver beard looked like how I imagine one of the guitar players for ZZ Top thirty years from now in some old folks home.

And did I say how beautiful those old homes were. There is nothing like it anywhere I have ever been, and in this photo, which I referred to earlier, the thatch, about a foot thick, also has moss growing on the outside. I knew a friend at college 37 years ago who had mold on his flip flops. There was nothing beautiful about it, but somehow in this picture, it is not the same.



My Annie and I finally bought a clock of the Cuckoo kind for an encounter for grandkids of the Grandma and Pop Kind. We shopped for it at this huge store which boasted
having the largest clock of its kind in the world. But we went to an entirely different store a mile down the road, because not only did they have the largest clock in front, but they also had the highest prices. That trip was my last view of Germany. It was my last chance to buy our clock. It was a defining moment. For a time I thought there was a divine hand in persuading us to buy such a clock, but looking back on it, it was all about living with people who were too Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.