Real Heroes

I borrowed, or maybe I should say robbed, this photograph from a facebook site of a former high school student. While with his wife in Scotland, they took this picture.

The sign is what caught my eye, identifying real heroes as leukemia victims fighting for their lives. It read as follows: "The true Bravehearts are leukemia victims."

I couldn't resist posting this on my blog. I've already talked enough about my adventures, and I refuse to think about it in the present, although I realize the miracle I'm living every day.

As an oncologist at Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota told me, "There is no explanation for your being alive."

He is supposedly, one of the best oncologists in the world. At the same time, he's also the biggest @$$h*le. I have, however, this bias. A former classmate and friend went there just months before her death from cancer. She left without any hope. He wasn't what you call Mr. Happy. I hated him, and I kept thinking about our dear friend and classmate. She lived close to the same neighborhood as Ann and I, went to Malad Second Ward just like Ann and I, and graduated in '71--just like Ann and I.

Her battle was courageous. We talked briefly a short time before her passing. She was on MSN Messenger, and one day when I was still quite sick, I checked the computer briefly. The IBM compatible we had then made the chiming sound it makes when someone on messenger logged in at any time. We wrote back and forth, occasionally it took a bit to add the sentences. I could tell it was an emotional time for her. Both of us were doing poorly at the time, but her concern was about me. She was a dear friend and a hero.

Jack's Fall Soccer Experience

The photographer came to practice Monday afternoon, and after handing her my check and form for pictures, I began taking a few of my own during the shoot.

The photographer was nice, because I've seen some who took it personally, even when you tried to click a picture with a cell phone. I would never be a good quality photograph, but the result is great to remind a person of that particular moment in time.

She did, however, stand in front of me several times just before I clicked the

picture, but she was too nice to have done something like that intentionally.

I just hope that I wasn't in her way at all.

It was a fantastic day for me to take some photographs.

One thing about Jack's smile is this: he lost both front teeth, so he refused to flash the Arkansas grin, even when I pleaded.

My argument didn't work either, being cute is not something that a little boy over the age of five will do, especially when peers are standing near.

Fall Soccer 2010

You never notice just how immobile you are as an old coot--the term I use instead of the tasteless term Old Fart--until you suddenly encounter a group of kids.

You marvel at their energy levels, their contortion abilities, their tolerance of freaky, geeky sounds and motions.

I figure the person, who originally developed the concept karma, stood in the midst of a large group of young children. This poor old wretch, while watching the mass of wiggling, laughing, shouting, scratching, teasing, hitting, kicking, jumping and doing everything else they could do with excess energy, stood with this sort-of Elvis twitch.

If you are over the age of 25, you know what I'm talking about. I say sort of, because your lip suddenly begins to quiver, and then it slides into a sneer. It's a grotesque look, somewhere between Elvis, Forrest Gregg and Dick Cheney. It's the look you get, because you know that it is not politically correct to scream "SHHHHUUUUTTTT UP!!!!!"

So you sneer, and make these quiet muttering sounds as you clench both fists. Your head and hands may even begin to quiver a bit, ever so slightly. It's what you find yourself doing, especially if it's been one of those difficult days that occasionally happen, or it may have been a glorious day: birds singing, sun shining, clouds sailing across a blue sky toward a distant horizon.

It doesn't matter, because the noise and the motion is real, real irritating. And then you get this epiphany. First, you think something stupid. I could never have been that obnoxious.

Then it happens. It's called enlightenment. Either you remember doing or saying or shouting something you now watch helplessly, or a friend standing by you reminds you when you did the same thing and worse.

Karma, that's what they call it. Others say, "What comes around, goes around." But I always preferred to use that phrase just before I did something as a reaction to someone's doing something bad to me.

And then I became an old coot. I stand, trying to portray the ultimate picture of serenity.

The sun sinks deeply into the sky, staining the edges of clouds with a taste of red and orange and yellow. Azure sky begins to fade a bit. It's what it does before turning cobalt blue.

Serenity! That's the ticket. I breath through the nose and exhale through my mouth.

I do it slowly--eyes shut slightly, mind focused on a pure calm moment of ecstasy.

You begin to realize how much fun it was to be young, to be tireless, to be obnoxious. You remember times when you could dance with arms flailing and legs prancing, as you moved in a circular pattern to the sounds of Iron Butterfly or The Doors or Creedence Clearwater.

Now my arms flail only when I trip or stub my toe.

I've never figured why I do that. Even if I had wings, it would take very large ones to get a body like mine into the air. And even at that, someone would eventually watch me fall after a short distance out of sheer exhaustion.

"Oh, the humanity," bystanders would say, as they watch me fall plummet toward the hard ground.

But when I see the picture of all these little ones, I remember teammates, who once played with me on the field so long ago, and I remember doing everything I saw today and more, but most importantly, I remember just how fun it all was.

Pictures of the Great Grandparents of my Grandchildren

Time passes so quickly. Late in my junior year of high school, I sat in a class, and like occasionally happened, the class grew quiet for a moment--just as I said something very funny. The class erupted into laughter, and the teacher flashed storm clouds in her eyes. There was a knock on the door.

It was my dad. I know that reason should have told me that the events were not in a sequence. Not even on a bad day would my father have been able to appear spontaneously to discipline me for being the class clown, but it worried me.

"Grab your things. Let's go." That's all he said. I was sure I'd done something, and I started to think about it too.

We get into the car, and my dad drove to the eastern edge of town on a main street, where some old plumbers lived. We walked into the back, and there was this pickup truck. It was to be my Model A Ford. Cars like the one above, where Ann's parents Stan and Erma posed were not all that common by the time I was in high school. Granted, it's not as old as my Model A, but that situation was also rare. I love the picture of them in front of this classic car. They were classic parents from our era, just like I had and just like all of my classmates had. There were a few friends, however, who were not as lucky as Ann and I were. We had the type of family, where you came home from school to the smell of cake or cookies or homemade bread.

It was a beautiful time.

The picture at the right is how I remember my parents. They were just a bit younger than Ann and I are right now, which is staggering to comprehend sometimes.

My dad and Ann's dad Stan had something in common. They worked very hard their entire lives, something they never complained about to anyone, and when it came down to their passing, they had no visible signs of pleasure of having generated wealth or lands or assets.

Their family was what counted. And when you think about it, it's what really is most important. The store was what provided Ann's brothers with work with their dad, a place where they learned important life lessons that basically helped them understand what it meant to put in "an honest day's labor." Our family had the farm. I know it did the same thing for me. I can only answer for myself about the lessons learned there. I worked for years at the side of my father, and what I learned is something I internalized. I became what I beheld--someone who fought for family fiercely when necessary, someone who worked hard to support family, someone who tried to live the best life possible.

I remember riding with my father, like I always did, and although I don't remember whether it was a delivery Stan made to his mother or mother-in-law, who lived near the store, but he had a large sack of groceries as he knocked and entered the home. After Ann and I married, I knew how Stan took care of those two important women in his own family when they became old and in need of necessities like that. Like my father, he was an incredible man.

For Ann and me, our mothers were much the same in the way of what they did. I remember when I wrestled as an athlete, I starved myself to make weight each week, and before a match, my mother would broil me a rib steak for lunch. I would come home during the hour-long noon break, and there would be a full course dinner at the counter for me, steak and vegetables and dessert. The dessert part came only if I had pounds to spare before the match.

My parents, like Ann's parents did, showed me a glimpse of what it was like to have a companion for life, someone you trusted, adored, honored. Both my father and Stan were examples of men who treated their wives well, and our parents showed us the importance of having a marriage that was intact and secure.

Life is so precious and at the same time so fleeting. I look at pictures, whether it's my parents standing together holding hands while in high school or sitting at a spot in Yellowstone Park, and I realize just how important it is to savor each moment of life.

Funny Video From MSNBC's Keith Olbermann

This video clip is funny, but what I find disturbing is how Glen Beck mixes his silliness with implied links to religious references occasionally. I guess he thinks it gives him credibility. Anyone seeking to mislead the public with an emotional argument used that same ploy. It's why I dislike TV personalities like Beck and the rest of his friends on FOX News.

The Recent Passing of my Mission President

This was a ecclesiastical ID that my first mission president issued all missionaries, and it actually kept a zone leader and me out of jail once. We were going door to door in a residential area in the city of Essen, and someone called the police. They arrived, we showed them the passes, they left without us.

President Kindt was my first mission president, and I met him for the first time in March of 1972.

I was new in Germany. It was a time of transition. He was monumental in helping me grow as a missionary.

My first companion shows a couple of things that were important to understand about President Kindt. When he arrived sometime in 1969, the mission was going through a difficult time.

There was a president there, who was very strict. Missionaries all wore black suits, white shirts, even more conservative ties and black shoes.

President Kindt's first message, according to those heard it, was this: either get some color into your life and stop looking like undertakers or go home. He transformed the mission, and everyone started baptizing.

You'll notice my first senior companion wore this particular light blue suit. He always told me that story, especially when I went looking for a German suit after my initial arrival. In the picture above, Wolfgang is the young new member we baptized first in Oberhausen. My senior companion did that, but President Kindt phoned and told how important it was to involve me in the process. I had the chance to do the confirmation. It was incredible, and Wolfgang's sister Delia became a member only a few weeks later. She was at Wolfgang's baptism, and what she experienced during that confirmation was what was motivated her to become a member.

President Kindt had a sense of humor, and his repoire with missionaries was incredible. He made a connection with them.

In this picture at the left, he wore this cookie you found in Germany. It was available during certain times. I just can't remember now when we saw it. But as I remember, it had a citrus taste to it, kind of like Lebkuchen, which is something I still crave during Christmas.

He would put something like this on during a talk at a mission conference. Everyone would laugh, and then he'd teach us how we could be more effective. He was positive. He was always happy. I remember Sister Kindt meeting us at the airport.

"What's your name?" Everything was so new to me in Germany, that it took a minute to respond.

"Jon Ward," I said. My Southern Idaho dialect was strong. She had me repeat my last name three times and then spell it.

Sister Kindt fell ill a year ago during the winter months, when so many were sick with severe flu. She passed away at that time. President Kindt joined her this week.

It's difficult to imagine that time has gone so quickly, and then I realize that I'm almost 58.

President was always a classy dresser, and as a businessman, he knew how to motivate people. He made such an incredible difference in my life at that time when things were a bit difficult.

I adjusted to a foreign culture, lived in a Turkish ghetto in the Ruhr Industrial District, noted for severe smog and large sprawling cities. It was during that time when I had my best times, teaching a lot of interested people, baptizing three converts, working with a favorite companion, who not only remains a friend but who was also one of the two people who stood as Best Man at Ann and my wedding reception.

This was the apartment in Oberhausen, where I lived during those first months in Germany. It was on 498 Duisburger Str. And yes, it was in an area, where most were there as Gastarbeiter or "visitor workers." The Germans always had a way of creating interesting euphemisms, especially this one which made the "visitors," appear so important, although they worked horrible menial jobs in the city.

This was our district in the best of times in Oberhausen. My friend and companion "caught wind" of the two other members of our district having tickets to a soccer match: Bayern versus Rot Weiss Oberhausen. Craig did a "trade-off" to prevent them from going, but I was in the dark about the whole thing and especially about their area. I'll never forget the look on his face when we arrived at the apartment. I had a soccer flag with me. It did not go over well that day, but it was a great memory, something to laugh about almost 40 years later.

What is so interesting about my two mission presidents is the fact that they were also mission companions in their youth.

President Poecker and Sister Poecker also made a difference in my life. In early 1973, he told me that the second half of my mission was to convert missionaries. I had a difficult time with that, because I wanted baptisms. I was immature and viewed success in Germany at the time as collecting baptisms like you filled a deer tag during the annual fall hunt.

The job of converting a small minority of people who didn't really want to be in Germany was difficult, and what made it even more impossible was trying to motivate them to work every day. I forced them to do that. There were some who--plain and simple--didn't go to serve. I guess I'm not really sure why they chose to be missionaries, but for a while, I was angry about my "wasted" time, until I realized how important it was for me to help those few make a commitment to serve.

I never realized that until years after my mission. I hope that my determination and desire to work hard didn't act as a further example of a person who forced them to go on a mission. One told me this: "My parents made me fill out my papers. My bishop made me send them. My stake president made me go. And you make me work every day."

Before he left for home, he spoke in Sacrament Meeting in the chapel in Herne, and he gave an excellent talk. His attitude was better than when he first came to me, but I'll never know whether I really did what President Poecker wanted me to do. Like I wrote earlier, I felt success was something different.

But as difficult as it was, President Poecker only sent me a problem every other time. In between, I had some incredible workers, who became good friends like Dave Palfreyman and a few others, whom I lost track of years ago. That's the other sad note about old friends. You sometimes just lost touch with them.

President Poecker and I became friends, and we talked every Christmas. I would call him in the weeks before Christmas, and Sister Poecker would be so excited to hear my voice and to tell President Poecker I was on the line to talk to him. In one conversation a few years before Sister Poecker grew ill, we talked about the tough year we both had had. And then there was Sister Poecker's passing.

I couldn't make the call, and I regret it now. President Poecker and I had a lot of great visits, both on the phone and once or twice in Orem. He loved showing me his paintings, and they were incredible--so reminicient of the farms I sometimes found in Germany, even in the massive industrial area of the Ruhr.

Then he had his stroke.

I saw him one more time before his passing. I attended a mission reunion, and we sat and talked for a while. He told me Sister Poecker came to him in his dreams and beckoned him to join her. We laughed and enjoyed the short time I had to spend with him.

At that time, I had reached the magic part of my life, when a man suddenly no longer looks slim and in shape, and he teased me, which horrified his daughter, because she chided him for being mean, but we both laughed together. When he knew me in Germany from '72-'74, I weighed less than 150 pounds, which was less than the weight I wrestled for a time my junior year of high school. I starved myself to reach that weight. In Germany, we just walked a lot.

The picture at the right shows how thin I was. This was just a few weeks before I returned home from my mission. My mission companion and I spent Christmas there.

I miss him now. And I miss President Kindt too, but they will remain in my memory as I will always see them--motivating us to be better and to serve more effectively.

Its so hard getting old. My "greenie" died last September. I had a chance to talk with him over the phone and to see him about three weeks before his passing. He was fun, and he was a hard worker. It's difficult to cope with the idea that not only are all of us, who once were so young and strong, getting older, but some have already passed away. Others suffer from various things you get when you begin to reach those magic years. Whoever called old age The Golden Years was very optimistic, or maybe they just didn't feel the need to be narcissistic enough to look at themselves in the mirror that often.

This is Dave Palfreyman on one of the streetcars we rode every day in Bochum.

This second picture shows him on a bridge in late November or early December. I often would crave a visit to the southern part of Bochum, an area rich with farms and open fields. During summer months, there were wild blackberry bushes we occasionally loaded with ripened berries while knocking on doors and talking to the people who lived there. Even though it was strangely rural near a city of over 200,000 people, there were a lot of homes in the area, and we did some great teaching there.

Here is a photograph of the mission reunion I missed in April. Four months later, my last mission president, sitting in the middle on the front row, is now gone too.

But these people who made such a difference in my own life still live in my memories, and they made a positive difference in the type of person I became. Although some people have no idea of my deep religious faith, it will be nice to meet those old friend again, and to appear once more like we did during those confident days of youth, when we thought we knew everything--even if we really didn't. By that time, however, at least I will realize that I'm still doof when it comes to understanding a changing world.

I traveled back to this site where my friend Craig Walker and I posed in front of the apartment in Oberhausen's Marktplatz, where we had church meetings on Sunday, and where the tolling bells of the Protestant Church shook the windows each Sunday during the Sacrament. They have a large meeting house there now. All of us who served there made a difference.

Joining the Ranks of Old Coots

Without a doubt, a person looks at things differently after age 55--especially when things are at a point when you just can't move as quickly as you once did. Life is frustrating enough.

I knew I was old when people began began calling me "hon," which is something I complain incessantly about. Recently a clerk at a register at Home Depot set a world record by calling me that six times in less than four minutes at checkout.

It was the one time I didn't say anything, because I was so pi$$ed, and I had been the entire day any way, so I figured why ruin a beautiful summer day for everyone, but my Annie, however, enjoyed the moment.

She left my side, walked a few yards away, and turned her back to me. She held her hand over her mouth, and I could tell she was laughing. It was one of those moments people try to retell, and when everyone in the room sits with uncomfortable looks on their faces, you rely on the classic cliche: "Well, I guess you had to be there."

Interesting You-Tube Glimpses of My Favorite City in Germany--Dillingen an der Donau

This is a spot called Blau Topf, a natural spring with beautiful blue water. It's not far from Dillingen, my favorite exchange site. Rural Germany was my ultimate experience, not the large cities with sprawling streets, heavy traffic, enormous buildings blocking the view of anything on the horizon.

I was fortunate enough to have been their twice for exchanges before taking another job at a school. The new position was also a German job, and the German exchange was also a benefit for students that was available, but they already had a German host city. My memories, however, will always turn to Dillingen and the incredible summers there in the late 80's.

The fact that I could no longer take students there was a disappointment, but high school students just don't like this kind of vibe. They wanted something else entirely: shopping opportunities, excitement, fast-moving environment.

That just doesn't happen in small towns, but it was something I loved immediately. I would have thought the same way when I was that age.

But the memories here will always be clear in my mind. It is a place I want to visit at least one more time. I want to see my old friends there. I want to see the city again, but hopefully it will be in springtime or early summer.

That's a time when snow is not a factor. Besides, I would like to experience everything as I remember it. Occasionally in the large jogging park at sunset, I could hear the sound of a cuckoo.

It's as if I can't hear that in Idaho Falls. One cuckoo in our area lives down the street. He cranks his dirt bike and races through the neighborhood without looking for small mammals or toddlers. I call him a cuckoo when my grandson is with me. It saves me the guilt of calling the person a crazy ba$t@*d and then hearing my grandson repeat my mistake when he thinks I'm not listening.

And there are sirens occasionally at all hours of the day in Idaho Falls. Just like any city in America, there are lots of "cuckoos." I prefer the one I heard evenings in the park in Dillingen. The city for me was magical, although I'm sure they had their fair share of the folks I often think are too cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.

And even though the last picture isn't actually in Dillingen, it's in a city not far away from my favorite place.

Even the dialect of German there had a musical sound to it.

My New Favorite Picture of Samantha

I remember reading A Tale of Two Cities as a high school sophomore, and at that time, our English teacher--an excellent one with an incredible sense of humor--told us how fascinating one particular line of the book was for an opener.

She was serious when we discussed "the best of times" and "the worst of times," and although I didn't understand what a big deal it was then, I certainly do now.

And more importantly, after the summer of 2010, I understand it even more clearly than ever.

One thing for sure, "the best of times" included moments like this one with each of our four grandchildren, and it included visits from my son, even if it was only a few days, and from my daughter. Lydia stayed for three fabulous weeks, but ironically, the weeks went by so quickly, that it almost seemed to be only a few days.

I remember my dad. He never ceased to coax me to stay another day, whenever I was home from college. It worked, even though it was difficult to get back to classes on time, and that was when my school was a two hour drive away, at least under normal conditions.

That was also the best of times. There were no radar guns for officers to monitor car speeds, so I could make the trip in 90 minutes on a good day without any bad weather to make the road slick. Gas was cheap. And I was young. It's that time, when you think you're invincible. I never thought about the dangers of driving like the young crazy generation of today, but I probably drove as recklessly as the worst I see on the road any given day.

All things considered, the times this summer with family were still the "best of times." They were moments that will always make me smile, although some of those drives in late '71 and early '72 were kind of fun too.

But there have been some awful things too. I wish it didn't happen like that, but life takes strange twists and turns. At least it wasn't like the mid 80's for me.

I had a year where I had surgery. Two former students hit me in separate driving accidents, one incident bent the frame on our car just after I had the engine redone. That one was dangerous. A student "T-boned" me in the car after he ran a stop sign. The second one "side-swiped" me on a rural road, damaging the entire length of my car from bumper to bumper.

During one year, my principal manipulated me into adopting this impossible set of rules. The punishment for any infraction was severe. And contrary to what I had been told, the board not only didn't want it, but they preferred the way I dealt with problems. I sent two students home that year. In a small town, that is not a positive thing--especially when one is related.

I had two brushes with near accidents on the farm, one involving a huge door of a shed and another with a rattlesnake in that same shed on the same day.

And my dad's doctors diagnosed his colon cancer. That was a horrific year. I had another one like that in the 80's too.

It's been a tough summer.

One of the Worst Days of My Life

This was a good day. It was a chance to see cousins come to visit us on the ranch, and since we seldom saw people during the week, unless someone ran out of gas on the Interstate or had mechanical problems, seeing members of the family like this was great.

My cousin Kim is at the far left. His sister Penny is between him and my sister Jill.

The worst day of my life was getting home from my German mission in January of 1974, being home a short time--just long enough to feel comfortable with English--and have to speak at his funeral.

I'll never forget the viewing. He served in Nam, and shortly after he returned home, he wrecked his new vehicle while driving late at night with some friends.

The worst part was seeing him, all bruised like he was in the casket. He never caught a break. It was a bad day during that winter day when I spoke at his funeral in Samaria, Idaho.

This picture was another day I enjoyed with cousins at Power House Canyon. The family had a Sunday reunion.

Years later my dad reminded me why this picture was a sad one. My grandfather had died not many years before this, and my father was still coping. "I felt sorry for myself," my dad explained, "and I wasn't fun to be around for a while."

This day was difficult for my mother too, because my father's relatives didn't like Mormons much. When my dad joined the church, it was devastating for them. One aunt in describing something terrible that happened to another relative said this: "At least he didn't become a Mormon."

When you're young, you don't understand the things that happen at a family reunion that are unpleasant. But the picture speaks for itself. It reminds me of my grandfather's passing and the time coping with that loss. It was difficult for my dad, and it was difficult for me too.

Over 54 years later, I still miss him and feel the loss. I can't imagine what my father felt. He was very young at the time, and to make matters worse, he had the responsibility of running the family farm alone.

In what should have been a glorious family trip, I was a miserable little snot. Not only did I insist on having my father play Deep Purple, The Who and Grand Funk Railroad for music, but I teased my sisters mercilessly the entire time on the road.

However, my dad played the great rock with one stipulation: I couldn't tease or make things miserable for my sisters. And they took advantage of that. One squawk was all it took.

My dad loved Neil Diamond, and we listened to my Neil Diamond cassettes most of the trip.

I had been at odds with my parents for a short while. They didn't like the things my friends and I were doing and had been doing since January of 1972.

In spite of my cockiness and arrogance, my dad organized everything so that we could go on a lengthy trip that took us through Yellowstone, Glacier and into Canada, before I took for Canada. The entire trip, I thought only about a girl I dated once, and I wanted to return home to see her. What is funny about that whole scenario is that I only dated her once, if you don't count the twenty or thirty times we went for drives in my Model A in the weeks before and after the family trip. That friendship fizzled and ceased as soon as I was in college.

This was the only trip we ever took that lasted more than two days. It was incredible, in spite of my acting stupid and unappreciative the entire time. Karma happens when you go through the same thing with your own teenage children.

A few weeks later, I was getting everything ready to leave in just a few hours. Everything was in a few boxes and one larger suitcase.

My mother had been upset the entire day, and years later she told me how difficult it was to see her oldest son leave for college. My friend honked his horn, and I started to leave. My mother said something and seemed stressed.

The only thing I remember saying was this: "I'm so damned glad to be out of this house."

Saying stupid things is human, but it happens more when you're young.

So here I am today, one of the worst days of my life given everything that has happened. But then I realize that my health seems fine, I have family members who love me, I have a devoted wife who smiles at me even when I still say something stupid, but I see a glint in her eye.

We spent three days cleaning my grandson's room. It was small, but there are enough Star War toys to fill a good portion of the galaxy. I just bought him a new Galactic Hero At-At. Jack was talking about it at the dinner table. Ann is putting a plate of food near us. I say this to Jack while looking at my Sweeties eyes: "You know Jack, just like the imperial attack on the Hoth planet, I might have to buy another At-At for your battles." Jack's eyes sparkle with excitement, and he dances in his chair.

My Annie looks at me, her eyes half shut and her teeth clenched as tightly as her pretty little fingers.

"I wish I could read the words going on in your mind right now." I smiled at her teasingly.

"No you don't," she said.

There was a look on her face, that Clint Eastwood look. You know the one: "Do you feel lucky--well, do ya punk?"

I only laughed on the inside.