A Place Where I Learned About Life

It doesn't seem possible that I am already older than my dad was, when he passed away. It doesn't seem possible that this place is such a faint memory in my mind, yet memories are so vivid.

That is what is so important.

I remember the starry nights, a time when I could see the stars clearly and find both the Big and Little Dipper without my glasses, a time when you could hear the sound of a barn owl at night, a time when coyotes mourned the rise of the moon, a time when mourning doves sang at night and robins and king birds and kill deer welcomed the dawn.

The door of Rulon's shed below the house was where we eventually kept many things we needed each day: grease and oil to lubricate the machinery and diesel for the tractor.

On the right wall were leaf cutting bees. Dad bought them with the hope of getting some alfalfa seed, and although it worked, there was never really the time to reset the combine to cut a small section of alfalfa for seed.

It was just easier to buy it, and it was probably cheaper to do it that way too, when you consider wear and tear on machinery and the cost of fuel.

I find it interesting to re-examine the family paradigm. My grandfather taught me father that a farm needed important things to be successful: sheds, machinery, fuel and other things for the farm.

The sheds my dad and grandfather built still stand. They just need a bit of paint.

The old grease shed is at the left. It once held buckets of grease and dozens of fifty gallon drums we used to haul fuel to the fields. A 500 gallon tank was at the left, and at one time, it was enough for us. The D-6 Caterpillar only had a 50 gallon tank. The newer tractors, however, had larger demands. Our last tractor's tank held 250 gallons of fuel, and we used that much every day, if not every other day.

The taller grain shed in the background is one that my grandfather built in the 30's, at least I think that's what my father told me.

There was an elevator. Grandpa Cles could sit at the very top, hang to one side and grease a pulley there. My dad and I had a horrible fear of heights, but dad still made his way to the top.

He stayed on the ladder, but he greased the same part.

It's funny how each of the three of us had things, that made us unique--our strengths, our fears, our character. The first two were vastly different for each of us. The first time I climbed the ladder to the top of that old elevator, I only made it part way to the top of the shed. I panicked and my hands slipped. Dad caught me, and we went back to the ground.

Dad did what he always did for me. He watched over me and made sure I was alright.

Sometimes I still sense him doing that.

The family paradigm went like this. A house never makes you any money. It's the machinery. It's the land. It's the things that keep the farm going.

We lived in the house in this picture until the summer of 1971. We bought Rulon Ward's place that next fall.

I still remember dad calling me at school. I drove up from the university, and I sat through the meetings with the lawyer.

It was an introduction to what would become my life.

Things change. No one ever thinks that their life will end abruptly. Dad planned everything in detail, and who would have known that someone so strong would pass away so quickly? Who would have guessed that all those lofty plans would end so abruptly?

One thing never changes. That is what I learned on that farm. I will discuss most of it in my other blogs on these pictures, but I want to mention one thing now.

Dad told me this: "You have a good name that men have earned after lives living honestly doing hard work and gaining the respect of others. Don't do anything to diminish that. Live so that your name means something."

This was something that this farm taught all of our family.

The Offset Disk

This blog is going to seem strange, because this plow, that is still on the farm, reminds me of several things.

In the spring of '67, The Beatles released Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, an album that set the mark for every 60's rock band that hoped to be successful. Many tried to produce something comparable, but although some created some incredible things, nothing was like the music that the Fab Four created.

The music, however, still haunts me. That spring marked a time, that changed everyone in Malad--especially those, who knew Paul Jones.

Paul played in a small hometown garage band that did cover songs of great music from that period, but more importantly, everyone liked him. One day I remember him walking home with us from school. He laughed and listened to me and my friends, who were two years younger than he.

There was a "field day," that the high school planned. There were track and field events, a flag football and baseball games. Everyone had a lot of fun. During lunch, the class of '69 went to a local reservoir. I'm not sure, but I think Ann's brother Marvin swam with them. The four--Alan Hall, my cousin Stan Palmer, Paul Jones and Marvin--tried to swim to a floating dock. It appeared not far from the shore. They did it fully clothed, and they also swam with their canvas shoes on their feet.

They swam out to the dock without a problem, but then they tried to return. Paul grew tired and began to sink. He panicked. Alan was a strong swimmer, and he tried to help Paul, but it appeared that both boys would sink below the surface. In the hysteria of the moment, Paul sank below the murky surface of the water. The class joined hands and tried to wade into the water to find him.

I remember praying as a eighth grader and hoping everything was just a mistake, and that someone would find Paul sitting on the shore of that reservoir. One minute he was walking home with us on the way home from school, and days later, he was gone.

They found Paul a day or so later. When his body sank to the bottom, it rolled into some weeds and moss. Divers found him. I'll never forget how badly I felt, how badly everyone felt.

That spring found steady rain showers. It was dreary. The times were sad. When school ended that year, it was the first time that dad hadn't been able to finish the summer fallow.

Volunteer wheat and weeds grew almost a foot high in the fields, and the ground was still soaking wet after school ended.

We had a D-6 Caterpillar tractor. The job we began took two weeks of steady work.

Dad would have me begin. Mom cooked me breakfast, and I was on the tractor and plowing by six in the morning. I plowed until dad arrived with lunch. He would take the tractor, and I would eat what mom sent with him: all hot food wrapped carefully by my mother in old newspaper to keep it warm. She wrapped the soda for me that way too. Salad or vegetables were in a bowl, sometimes wrapped if needed. There was nothing simple about the meal. It was something well-planned, something designed to fill me and give me the energy to work.

I would drive the tractor until well after dark. Dad would arrive at 10:00, sometimes a bit later. I would see the headlights of the '64 Chevrolet two-ton truck. Dad would walk out to me in the field. I drove home, and dad stayed and plowed until two or three or later in the morning. He would then drive home, sleep for a few hours, and then he would begin work the next day. Dad did things that needed to be done at the ranch.

He brought 50 gallon barrels of fuel. He fixed things. He worked with cattle. Dad did things we did all summer, while I did work on the tractor. There was never a time for either of us, when there wasn't some to do: rocks to haul, fences to fix, cattle to brand or doctor or move into new grazing areas.

Arriving at the ranch at night, mom would have this incredible dinner for me--steak or roast beef and potatoes and gravy. I would eat quickly, shower and get into bed. At five or so the next morning, it began again.

Dad and I did that for two weeks. We finished the summer fallow. The fields were in order, and the next year's crops looked very good, until frost took the bottom portion of the large field of fall grain in '68 in the fields we called 19 Holler.

I wish I knew, where dad kept all his old books. We noted how many trucks of grain we took from each field during a year's harvest. It was a way of ensuring that no one was dishonest about the truckloads of grain they hauled to market for us. That actually happened one year.

Dad never did business with that man again, and his having a record of the grain we had, and his noting how many loads the operator took out of our grain storage was also critical in ensuring that they were unable to take advantage of us.

The small plow at the top of this page is the one dad had and used during that awful spring. It was a year that began with a tragic death of a hometown favorite son, and it continued with weather hampering the work on farms in the area.

Whenever I hear a song from Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Heart's Club Band, I think of that young man, who died so young. I think of the work I did with my father, and the chance to see how important it was in life to do what it took to get a job finished.

The Holocaust Museum honored me with the chance to do a fellowship during the 90's, and much later after my bout with cancer, I did volunteer work for them. My supervisor, who became and remains a very good friend, once told me that he knew I would be successful, but I approached tasks with passion.

Dad taught me that. Mom taught me that. Whether it was farm work or enjoying a meal to give me the energy needed to work, they taught me this: if there is something worth doing, it's worth doing well.

It made all the difference in my life.

Rulon's Barn

It's fun to remember stories about these places. Siding is on the old barn now, but when I was on the ranch, it was still the original wood boards. The smaller door was not as secure either.

In the area where the large red implement is right now, there was a time when it was vacant. A large piece of metal siding was on the barn floor, probably left from the newer shed that dad built on the south side.

We spotted a skunk.

My dad picked up his twelve gauge shotgun, and we returned to the shed. "Jon, you go flip the siding to one side and run--really fast."

I did it. The skunk came at me, and I ran looking over my shoulder. I saw the animal run a few steps toward me, lean forward on his front legs and a cloud of mist approached. As quickly as I ran, it didn't make a difference. I ran to one side down the hill toward the house. That way I was out of the way for dad to shoot the skunk.

Dad shot the skunk, but we both smelled that awful smell on us the entire day.

The corral on the lower side of the barn is where we often placed cattle that needed "doctoring." But once dad placed a horse colt there.

He had me wait for the vet, who would arrive in the afternoon. The young horse would become a gelding that afternoon.

The colt had a halter, so I thought that dad had broken him to lead.

The vet arrived. I walked up to the colt with a halter rope, thinking I would snap the rope into the place and lead the animal to a spot, where the vet could do his work.

When the colt heard the metal click of the rope fastening to the halter, the animal broke and ran and pulled me around the corral, which was filled with loose soil. It was like having a horse pull me on a pair of skies. The double lines of my boot heels trailed all around the inside of the corral--back and forth and around several times.

Dad returned later that afternoon and walked with me to the corral. "What's the marks on the ground?" My father had a funny look on his face. "The colt drug me back and forth," I answered.

I remember dad laughing. His eyes twinkled. I didn't think it was funny at all. It was like the time he sent me to the hardware store in Malad to ask for a straight shovel handle. "Be sure and look down it. Make sure it's straight," he told me.

The store owner and his brother watched me. The looks on their faces was disbelief. When I arrived at the house, I told my dad how they responded.

"Oh, you didn't," he said. His eyes twinkled. He laughed. And he laughed even more, when he saw that it made me angry.

That afternoon at the corral, his eyes had the same look, and he laughed the same way, but he hadn't played a trick on me. He just forgot to tell me that the colt wasn't yet broken to lead.

Just below the barn was an old spot, where there once had been a corral or spot where Rulon fed cattle. I figured he had tried his hand at a small number of milk cows.

The soil was very rich. The manure had long since broken down into the soil, and Ann and I planted a garden there our first year of marriage.

We lived on the ranch, and it was great having fresh vegetables.

Dad was not thrilled. He told me once that he had to hoe the garden, when he was young, when he did something that irritated my grandmother.

The garden, though small, gave us lots of produce. When dad and I worked at the ranch in the fall, I would turn on a sprinkler on the corn on nights, that seemed to approach low temperatures. We were lucky. The corn stayed green until mid October. The beans were fantastic too, and they produced throughout the summer. Carrots and beets were fun to have too.

The best thing was having new potatoes. When dad and I dug them in the fall, we had almost 700 pounds of potatoes--plenty to last through much of the winter.

After that year, the family all looked forward to having a garden, and it became larger. It's something I still miss. The potatoes were sweeter than anything we've ever had anywhere, and in the fall, we had some of them that were larger than a softball.

May 14, 2011--A Day of Reflection, A Day of Memories

For a very long time, I've wanted to take a trip to the ranch to show Jack, where I grew up, where I was when I was his age, where my family made a connection to the land.

I have told him a lot of stories about growing up on the ranch, so today was important. Behind us is the old house. It had a large kitchen. In the back to the left was a TV room with a refrigerator/freezer and an oil stove. Occasionally, we used the stove during times in early summer, when it was cold at night.

There was a couch that made up into a bed, and that was where I slept.

My parents and sisters slept in two large brass beds in the bedroom. All the beds were comfortable. My memory of summers were watching the night wind, which came out of the canyon in the direction of the spring, toss the curtains gently.

The kitchen was extremely large. A large sink was near the entryway. A wood stove was at the opposite end of the room. We only used it when nights were cold in early summer. Dad sometimes was on the ranch in the spring, and he used it occasionally when it was cold at that time. I remember staying out with him for a couple of days, and it had to be cold to "fire up" the stove. Usually, the blankets were enough.

There was an electric stove with an oven for cooking. The wood stove was something very complicated, and only old timers understood the art of baking with it. Cooking was basically like using an electric stove. You put a pan on top. At least that's how I remember it, but we never really used it for cooking, except on occasions, where there was a power outage. That didn't happen often during the summer, and when dad was on the ranch, mom had lunches for us, although I also remember taking care of dinner on the ranch two different ways.

Dad would set the table. He and I would cover the plate with a wax paper. We used the utensils, but we just threw away the paper, so we used the same plates the entire spring when we were on the ranch doing work. I'm not sure, but I figure dad only cooked when I was there, and often, he'd have me cook dinner, while dad worked on something in the shed.

My mom didn't like the whole thing of using wax paper on plates instead of just using a dish and washing it. We rinsed the utensils, and each of us used the same ones each time. We did it to save time. Dad always made sure we put that arrangement away, before mom moved out to the ranch after school was out, but occasionally we became busy and forgot. We'd catch "hell," but dad would always grin, while mom cussed us for it.

There was only one door. A small entryway was where dad had someone build a "make-shift" shower. Earlier, there was a tin tub. His family heated water to fill it, and taking a bath was mostly an outside affair after dark.

An outhouse was eventually relocated in the back amid the trees behind the house when I was older, but as a child years earlier, it was in the front of the house--not far from the cinderblock chicken coop, that my dad eventually transformed into a shed to store the grain drills.

That building is easy to see at the left in the second picture at the top. I placed another picture of it immediately below.

All of these pictures show what my family called "The Old Place." It was the first land that our family cultivated. The bottoms was a part of the farm that sometimes was under water--especially if the spring weather produced a lot of rain. Occasionally during the summer, unexpected storms would fill it too.

Wheat crops there were always thick. The yield was usually heavy. When my grandfather was alive, prior to 1956, it was a field of dry-land alfalfa. An old loose stack at the opening gate, probably about where the Interstate is right now.

Deer would come into the fields at night. Dad and grandpa would call his brothers, and everyone came out to get meat. My dad always said that deer tasted far better when they ate hay instead of bitter brush and sage.

I figure, that given the fact that that happened over 50 years ago, and since every person who shot deer illegally and out of season at that time is now in a better place, no one can really assess a fine. Not one person is alive, who enjoyed those night hunts.

Our family figured, since we fed them, we could eat them too.

This blog is only the first part of a number of entries that show the ranch. It was an important day for me to be there, but it was also a difficult one. I still have a connection to the land, something my father taught me, something my family has had since Viking times--men who eventually became Normans, who invaded Britain in search of farm ground in 1066.

That connection remained in our family. Dad taught me to watch skies to predict storms, and what he taught me was accurate.

I did a Holocaust seminar in Reno, and a colleague and I were walking into the building. "It's going to storm tomorrow," I told him.

He assured me that it wouldn't happen, and I told him that "mare's tails" in the skies predicted storm. The colleague laughed, until it rained the next day. He was impressed.

Dad taught me to plant wheat as the moon grows. It always was something that worked.

He taught me to develop a sense of how tilled land felt as we stomped through newly tilled soil behind a tractor and plow. There is a feel you begin to understand.

But the thing that was most important about life on that ranch was understanding the importance of hard work, the value of quality labor, the necessity of needed responsibility. There was a time to do things, and putting something off was not to be tolerated.

You did what you had to do to succeed. The principles, that my father taught me led to my success as a professional. He died. The dream of continuing the family tradition died too.

There was no way for things to work differently. John Lennon said this about such situations: "Life is what happens, when you least expect it."

I am the sum total of what I learned on that farm, and that is what is important--nothing else matters now. Bitterness or regret is a waste of time, a waste of life.

The summer before my dad's passing, he and I talked about my eventually running that farm. Sometimes, the dream is still so clear to me, I still know what specific jobs my dad wanted to complete. It was a checklist, a timetable.

Then cancer played its role. When I talked to my dad shortly before his death, the purpose changed. Mom's security was most important, and he knew that no one could provide that security and still make a living on the farm. Farming is an expensive hobby, and it's also important to realize that you never really own the land. It owns you.

Dad wanted the family to work together to provide that security for my mom. For years, he did that for his mother. He wanted the same for his sweetheart. That was what was most important.

You can't change the course of life. It's like this river you run. The water is in spring runoff, and you ride it out the best you can. You meet challenges. You determine what you will do with your life.

My dad gave all of us in our family the ability to succeed. Those things he taught us is what will make us strong, what will help us create our own lives, what will enable us to do the same for our own children. It's about teaching them to be strong, to be hard-working, to be successful.

I owe what I am to what I learned in my youth in this beautiful place, even though it isn't what I remember it to be.

Williams Reunions: Memories of the 60's and early 70's

This is how I remember my grandmother, my aunts, my uncles. We had reunions every summer, and I looked forward to them.

My cousin Randy Culver would be here, and the two of us spent a lot of time on the ranch and in town on weekends. It was great.

It was different having someone in the fields doing work with me. Dad was there too, but I was alone when I did field work. Dad spent time doing other things. This way we were able to accomplish everything we did on such a large acreage.

I was mean in terms of playing practical jokes. During harvest, Randy and I were at a field on the Jules Harris place we bought in the early 70's or so. It was hot and dusty. At the end of each day, I would drive the truck from the field, after running the combine during the day.

I would stop at least 30 years away from the gate. There was a thick layer of dust in the wheel ruts out of the field. Randy would walk to the gate. I would rev the engine. After driving through the gate, it would take at least three or four minutes for the dust to clear. I did things like that every day, but in spite of everything, Randy and I had fun together.

One day, while getting sacks of rolled barley for the calves in the pasture behind the house on Bannock Street. I would drive through town. I'd stop.

"Randy, I think we left the endgate down on the truck."

Randy would get out of the truck and walk to the rear. I would drive off, Randy chasing behind me trying to catch up. I'd drive 200 yards and stop. He'd almost get to the truck, and I'd tear off again.

Randy was like having a little brother. In spite of my jokes, we had so much fun together. He did, however, on occasion do a few tricks of his own.

I remember after getting home from my mission, I lined Randy up with a blind date. Ann and I and Randy and one of Ann's friends went to Logan. I don't remember, whether we went to a basketball game at USU or a movie, but when we went to a restaurant, we waited for our food.

"I'm just too hungry to wait." Randy looked around. Some students next to us had french fries on a plate. Randy walks up to them and takes a couple of fries from the plate. It was hilariously funny. Only Randy could get away with something like that.

It's just a small sampling of the fun Randy and I had in those years of growing up in Malad. It was a reason I looked forward to summer and the Williams reunions.

Spoiled Pop Pop--Having Grandchildren Within Driving Distance

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

Tommy jumped up and down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Worn To A Frazzle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cedar trees and other scrub vegetation represent the western side.

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

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

The place was peaceful, serene.

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

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

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

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