An Anxious Ride

The blazing afternoon sun sucked what little moisture was left out of the air.  The blast of highway wind did the same to my skin. I knew if my puckered lips straightened, they would crack and bleed.  My dry throat ached for a drink, but I didn’t care.  I had four hundred miles to go before I wanted to stop for anything.  Only common sense held me back as I straddled my motorcycle which was capable of so much more speed than I had ever dared to try.

I thought of Frederick, who a few generations earlier, was also traveling in the hot summer weather.  He was on a train.  It was the fastest mode of transportation available in 1914.  I imagine back in 1914, he got a telegram that started his journey.

For me, it was a phone call.  A few hours earlier, I had been sitting in church with my family.  When my cell phone buzzed in silent mode, I thought it would be another problem at my work.  I looked down at the display expecting to see “DEF”, the work abbreviation.  Instead “LAURIE” flashed at me.  This can’t be good.  My dad was back in the hospital.  I bolted from the meeting so I could answer the phone. 

 “Mom wanted me to call and let you know what was going on.”  With that, my sister started right into the report.  The news was not encouraging.  In Dad’s condition, any infection or virus could be life threatening.  After the call, pieces of the report still rang in my head.

“Throat swelling up… A new lump… hard to breath… he can’t talk… they will do an x-ray looking for pneumonia.” 

Now my Beautiful Wife was standing next to me and I tried to relay the information.  As she asked, “Don’t you think you should go?”  I was already trying to figure out the logistics.  I had brought my company pickup truck home that weekend.  But I couldn’t take it to Idaho.  My work was a hundred miles in the wrong direction.  I decided to take the truck back to work trade for my motorcycle.  By comparison, I was lucky.  I was only a half a day away. 

I thought again of Frederick.  Living in Chicago, for him it was a three days journey to Southeastern Idaho.  He must have left almost immediately when he heard that his father, John Everett, had suddenly taken ill.  The frequent stops the steam locomotive must have made to take on water, fuel, and passengers would have been frustrating for Frederick.  Since his siblings knew when he would arrive, it is likely he had left several telegrams informing them of his progress along the way.     

            As I rolled from side to side, taking the hilly curves a little faster than usual, I added it up in my head.  “It would be about 6:00pm when I arrived at Rexburg.”  I wondered if there were any more updates.  There was no cell service through these hills.  When I stopped for gas, I checked my phone for missed calls.  Nothing.  That was good I think.  I didn’t take the time to make any of my own calls. 

Back on the road, my mind raced from one thought to another.  I thought of my dad.  He’d had set backs like this before.  He had always pleasantly surprised family and the medical people alike at his resilience.  However, in the two days since he’d been admitted to the hospital, new developments and complications seems to combine against him.  It was now starting to sound like the worst case scenario.     

Then another image came back into my mind.  I thought of my Great-Great Grandpa, John Everett.  In 1914, he was 93 years old.  The summer heat of the day gave way to night time.  John saw the reflection of the setting sun on his bedroom wall for the last time.  He was on his death bed, and he knew it.  He had been sick for three days.  Seven of his eight living children were at his bedside with him.  The only one missing was Frederick, a doctor who lived and worked in Chicago.  He was traveling back home as fast as the steam locomotive would carry him.  John Everett had lived a full life.  In 1835, at the age of 14, he left his Prussian home as he became a cabin boy on a sailing ship.  At age 28, sailor John Everett claimed to have visited every major sea port in the world except the American West Coast.  This was the year he gave up the sea for another love.  The love of his life was Hellen Tanser.  They pioneered west by ox team and covered wagon.  Now the sailor was a farmer.  John and Hellen had ten children and raised eight of them.  Hellen had died in 1900, fourteen years earlier.  So with seven of his children at his bedside, John had only one thing left in this life to wait for.  He knew that he had asked before, but time had lost it’s relevance to him. So he asked again.  “Where is Frederick?”  “Papa, Frederick is still coming.  He just hasn’t arrived yet.  He’s coming as fast as he can.”   

The thought sent me spurring my motorcycle like Pony Express rider, as I leaned a little more forward and twisted the throttle a little bit more.  Rexburg was close now.  I slowed as I took the exit and started up Main Street.  Madison Memorial Hospital is up on a hill on the other end of Main. 

As I impatiently waited for a red light to change, I thought again of John Everett’s final words.  It was now between midnight and 2:00 am.  John asked one last time, “Is Frederick here yet?”  “No Papa, he’s not.  But he will be here tonight.”  John let the unwelcomed answer settle for a moment and then he said, “Well it is too bad.”  After that, John Everett lost consciousness and soon past from this life.

I now had tears in my eyes when the light finally changed to green and sent me the final few blocks to the hospital.  I was kicking myself now, “Why didn’t I leave earlier, when I first heard Dad was in the hospital?”

When I arrived, I found Dad gravely ill, but alive and surrounded by family.  I spent the night with him, as well as the next day.  His condition continued to worsen for a time and I was very thankful that I had made it when I did.

Numerous doctors, nurses and other medical people have admitted since that they thought we were going to lose Dad that time.  But he pulled through and is doing very well these six months later.  Maybe it’s a throw back to his egg farm days but Dad is now known as “A Tough Old Bird”. 

I’ve been back to visit my parents once since that time, and I look forward to all my visits back home.  In fact, I’ll be headed back this weekend for another short visit.  I thank modern communication, modern transportation, modern medicine, and the God who gave them all to us that I can still visit with my parents as I do.  I am truly blessed that my outcome that day was vastly different than Frederick Everett’s was almost a hundred years ago.    

It’s my space and I can do what I want with it, right?  Well today, I want to use it to send a message to my Beautiful Wife.  So please pardon me, everyone else, while I get a little bit personal. 

The Reason I Love You

It’s not because you’re beautiful.  Although you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. 

It’s not because you’re smart.  Although your intellect challenges me to keep up.

It’s not because you’re perfect.  Although you can do not wrong in my eyes. 

It’s not because you’re ambitious.  Although there isn’t a lazy bone in your over-worked body.

It’s not because you’re the mother of my children.  Although they, each one, all nine, are beautiful inside and out, just like you.

It’s not because you’ve stuck with me all these years, and through untold tears.

I love you because you are you.  I love the whole package that makes you, YOU. 

Albert Einstein once stated his theory of relativity in terms that even I can understand.  I read that he once said, “If you sit on a hot stove for a minute, it will seem longer than any hour.  But if you sit next to a pretty girl for an hour, it will seem shorter than any minute.  That’s relativity.” 

So I’ve known you for only a moment.  But I hope to be with you for a long, long time.

Thank-you for being YOU

It Tastes Like Puke to Me

Some of my more sour childhood memories seem to have sweetened with time.  Among those were the very earliest I have of being sick.  Like all large families, we learned to share and share alike. 

I think we took this “large family culture” to the extreme when we got the stomach flu.  We seemed to pass it around like the mashed potatoes and gravy at Sunday dinner. 

Mom would set up sick bay in the girl’s bedroom, downstairs where it was convenient to her “makeshift nurse’s station” and the one bathroom in the house.   My clear memories of those bouts with stomach flu included the associated stomach cramps and diarrhea, which were treated with Paragoric.  This stuff was among the nastiest stuff my 6 year old taste buds had ever experienced. 

Our family doctor had also prescribed that Mom give us Pepsi to sip.  This was intended to help settle our stomachs.  I am sure I had had a few soda pops at other times as well.  But never a cola like Coke or Pepsi.  My early youth soda pop memory had Shasta pop like orange or grape flavor as the choices.  Our very conservative family values didn’t have room for the caffeinated pops that we were told could be addictive.  So literally the only time I tasted one of those colas was when my Mom was following the doctor’s orders to give us some for our sick stomachs. 

Of course, in the height of stomach flu, after sipping on the Pepsi for awhile, I’d get that burning deep down in my stomach, followed by the watery mouth.  As soon as I realized what was happening, the heave spasms would start and it would all come up.  I think that the Pepsi tasted about the same coming back up as it did going down.  That is really the only time in my life that I intentionally drank colas.  So even now I associate the taste of them with having stomach flu and puking my guts out.  

In my ‘formative years’ of around 8, I discovered my life long love of a soda pop flavor.  In 1967 I attended the Haroldsen Family reunion.  This was a Saturday afternoon gathering for all of Christian and Anna Haroldsen’s posterity.  Although they had both been gone for decades, I believe that all nine of their children were present.  My Grandpa, George Haroldsen, was the oldest of the nine children.  Of course I saw more aunts, uncles, and cousins than I could shake a stick at.  Even with games for the children, visits for the adults and a very nice program including my dad’s cousin, LJ Cook playing a mean accordion (I couldn’t understand why a Cook was at a Haroldsen reunion), the long buffet tables of food were the highlight of our get-together. 

The absolute best part of that reunion for me was the discovery of the brew happening on the end of the long buffet table.  I watched as the sugar was splattered with some sort of dark potion.  The next thing that got my attention was all of the steam or smoke or whatever it was that was pouring out of that barrel.  I stepped in close and put my hand out to try to touch the mysterious cloud as it slipped over the edge and drifted toward the ground as it disappeared.  I could hear the full rumble of the brew boiling inside the barrel.  When I could finally get a cup of the brew, I fell in love with the best tasting pop ever.  That day the brew master kept it coming.  And I kept coming back for more.  From that time on, I kept my eye open for anything that said Root Beer on the label. 

This was also the time that I had joined the Cub Scouts.  We were out at the local lake for one of our summer time pack meetings when they passed around the bottles of soda pop to go along with the hotdogs.  My den leader asked me, “What kind do you want?”  “Do you have Root Beer?”  I was handed the chilled bottle with the name “Frostie Root Beer” in bright red and white letters.  This was years before Wendy’s Restaurants came along and named their chocolate ice cream treat “a Frosty”.   I think this was the first time I got to drink a whole bottle of pop by myself.  (Of course I’m not counting that family reunion when I drank 10 gallons of the dry-ice root beer, one paper cup at a time.)

My next favorite Root Beer experience was the occasional stops our family made at the A&W stand.  The contrast of sitting in the over squished rambler station wagon on a hot summer day, watching the car hop fasten the tray to our half open window, and then Mom or Dad handing back the frosted mug, filled to the brim of my favorite treat was dramatic to my senses.  It was so cold that the edges of the inch thick mug would stick to my lips as I took my first swig.

Those happy memories hooked me on my favorite drink more than the cola’s caffeine would have.  It is no wonder to me that all through my teenaged soda pop guzzling days, I chose whatever kind of root beer was offered over any other kind of soda pop.  My Grandpa Tillack made a mean bottled Root Beer using yeast.  And I learned how to do that dry-ice brew I first discovered at the 1967 Haroldsen reunion.  I’ve never even tasted some of the other varieties of soda pop offered.  I don’t know what Dr. Pepper or Mountain Dew or any of that new stuff they call soda pop today even tastes like. 

Occasionally, when ordering a Root Beer with my meal, they mistakenly serve me a Coke or Pepsi.  I’ll take a sip and immediately think of my childhood days with stomach flu.  Yup, it tastes like puke to me.  So if they don’t have a Root Beer to offer, I’ll just settle for a cold glass of water like my Beautiful Wife does.   

Zeitgeist - The Movie, 2007 – My Spin On It

I was asked my opinion of this movie which is displayed on You-Tube.  So here it goes.

The Merriam – Webster online Dictionary defines the word Zeitgeist as: The general intellectual, moral, and cultural climate of an era.

Zeitgeist - The Movie 2007, is clearly more of an attempt to influence rather than report the general intellectual, moral and cultural climate of our era. 

I would like to make the point that I see a lot of factual details in this movie.  But I am very wary of all the speculation or down right lies that are carried along with the facts.  The whole packaged deal is portrayed as “obvious truth.”  I learned along time ago about sorting out irrelevant facts.  So first let me tell a story from my childhood.

During my years of elementary school, my lunch hour was usually spent standing in a school cafeteria lunch line.  The school cafeteria provided lunch for four different elementary schools, the Jr. High, and the High School.  So the lunch line usually came out of the basement cafeteria, up the stairway, down the school halls, and then outside and down the sidewalk in front of the school. 

It usually took most of the lunch hour, standing in line waiting for lunch.  There was always a lot of talking, horseplay, and even fighting in the lunch line.  I preferred to just blend in the crowd and eaves drop on all the conversations going on. 

One day I listened to a boy I knew to be what I later termed a “Know it all”.  He was standing right in front of me, poking fun of the boy who was right in front of him. 

The boy being made fun of was mentally retarded. “Know it all” told him that he was a retard.  He said he could tell that he was a retard because he had a zit behind his ear. 

“Know it all” then started looking at some of us by standers.  He then said to me, “You’re a retard too”.  He then pointed to my ear.  I touched my ear and sure enough, I could feel a small zit right behind my ear down by the ear lobe. 

I was surprised.  I hadn’t noticed it before.  This started me thinking, “Had it been there my whole life?  Was it just starting?  Would that mean I was just now becoming retarded?”  It was a small zit.  “Did this mean that I was only a little retarded?”  I did notice that the zit behind the retarded boy’s ear was quite large.  And he was obviously retarded.  I kept thinking to myself, “That zit behind my ear would explain all those dumb things I had done”.  I no longer paid any attention to my heckler.  I was deep in thought about my newly discovered miss fortune. 

It was a few days latter as my zit behind the ear was going away that I started to wonder, “How did he know all that stuff about zits and mental retardation anyway?” 

It finally sank in to my brain that he was using an ear relevant fact.  That is, that zit behind my ear was only relevant to my ear. 

However, he had succeeded in convincing me of a lie by pointing out a fact that I hadn’t realized before.  Even though it was not related to the point he was trying to make.

In the years since the zit behind the ear incident, I’ve learned to recognize irrelevant facts as such.  I’ve found that irrelevant facts are used everywhere.  They are used to explain why we should have small families, how we descended from apes, why it is beneficial to drink & smoke, and etc.   Nevertheless, the fact remains, when a truth is told with a lie, that lie is still a lie. 

Now as I, as everyone is, am bombarded in all forms of the media with information which is presented as fact, I watch for “The zit behind the ear” facts (facts that I hadn’t realized before).  And when I see them, I can more easily see the lies those facts are trying to hide.

The message of the movie is clearly intended to open the eyes of the American Christian public, to see a great conspiracy which has duped us all.

Their position –

They make the case that there is no god, or higher power that created the universe. They declare that a select few who really know the truth use religious myths to gain power and control over the general population of the world. 

My response –

          First of all, I would like to say that for a movie which is presented by “Intellectuals” who are trying to make an “Intellectual” out of me by winning me over to their way of thinking through their reasoning, I found it extremely tacky to play the voice of a stand up comic routine making fun of the way religion is always asking for money.  

I am paraphrasing because I only watched the movie once (several weeks ago) but the comic says something like, “God is all powerful… but he’s always asking for money… can never get enough money… can do everything else but he can’t seem to manage his money… always broke.” 

This attack on my Christian values ignores the Christian belief that God did create Heaven and Earth, and all things that are on Earth including me.  If God did create all, then when I tithe, I am only giving back a small portion of what already belongs to God.  I am indebted to him even for the air that I breathe. 

That stand up comic wouldn’t have gotten any laughs if he was trying to make fun of a landlord in the same way. “He comes back every month for more rent… he never seems to get enough… that landlord must not be able to manage his money…”

All the while, they make no mention and give no credit for all the good church related donations do in the world.  The amount of dollars spent on church related charities everywhere from a small local church helping the neighbor in need, to the many rescue missions to famine struck third world countries is immeasurable. 

Their position –

          They made the case that all religions are based on astrology and the zodiac.  I listened to the narrator make the case that ancient man studied the sun and stars thousands of years before the dawn of Christianity.  And that these myths and legends were the basis for the story of Jesus Christ and his Earthly ministry thousands of years later. 

My response –

I wondered, If God Created the stars of the sky, and the rotation of the sun, and everything else astronomical, as I believe he did as the creator of Heaven and Earth, then it was he that placed those symbols in the heavens millions of years before he came as the Savior of the World.  Symbolism is a great teaching tool.  I believe that even the stars in the night sky testified to ancient man of Jesus Christ’s promised coming.  And to modern man, it is a testimony that the creator of heaven and earth did come to save all who wanted saving. 

Their position –

They make the claim that Jesus Christ couldn’t have been a real religious figure two thousand years ago because of the similarities this story has to the much older stories such as the Egyptian Sun God, Horus, and Greece’s Dionysus.  

My response –

Again, I am wondering if my belief that God created all things, and that his prophets, such as Isaiah, told of what was going to happen… that they told of a Promised Messiah… then who is copying whom?

I have seen this same pattern of trying to discredit a story many times before.     Anti-Mormon writers use this same tactic. Only the Zeitgeist writers used as their source, writings published by the secular humanists organizations such as American Atheist Press, and Prometheus books.  They scavenged thorough volumes of literature, searching for any simile, any story or legend from anywhere that has any similarities.  And then they claim that the Christian era is simply a literary copy of what they found.  They say “he’s got this little detail from here and that little detail from there…” until they have buried the religion under attack with their carefully puzzled together fables.  This they call proof that the story is false. 

I’d like to give an example which I think illustrates what they try to do and how flawed the reasoning can be.  Using this same reasoning, I can prove that John F. Kennedy didn’t really exist.  That he is just a fabrication of modern literature.  You see, so many key details of John F. Kennedy’s life were just copies of an earlier President of the United States that he was obviously just made up as part of American Folklore.  Here is the proof.

Abraham Lincoln was elected to Congress in 1846.
John F. Kennedy was elected to Congress in 1946

Lincoln failed to win the Vice Presidential nomination in 1856.
Kennedy failed to win the Vice Presidential nomination in 1956.

Abraham Lincoln was elected President in 1860.
John F. Kennedy was elected President in 1960.

Lincoln defeated Stephen Douglas who was born in 1813.
Kennedy defeated Richard Nixon who was born in 1913.

Both were particularly concerned with civil rights.
Both wives lost children while in the White House.

Both Presidents were shot on a Friday.
Both Presidents were shot in the head.

Lincoln's secretary was named Kennedy.
Kennedy's secretary was named Lincoln.

Both were assassinated by Southerners.

Both were succeeded by Southerners.

Both Presidents had Vice Presidents named Johnson.

Lincoln's Vice President was called Andrew Johnson who served in the House of Representatives in 1847.
Kennedy's Vice President was called Lyndon Johnson who served in the House of Representatives in1947.

Both successors (their Vice Presidents) were named Johnson.
Andrew Johnson, who succeeded Lincoln, was born in 1808.
Lyndon Johnson, who succeeded Kennedy, was born in 1908.

Both assassins were known by the three names.
Both names are composed of fifteen letters.

Lincoln was shot at the theatre called "Ford."
Kennedy was shot in a car named "Lincoln", made by Ford.

Booth ran from the theater and was caught in a warehouse.
Oswald ran from a warehouse and was caught in a theater.

Booth and Oswald were assassinated before their trials.

Source:  http://www.meilach.com/samscorner/president.htm

        Using this same argument, in a few hundred years, our great grandchildren could “prove” that John F. Kennedy never really existed.  I’m not taking the time to really research this out like the big boys have.  I have many other things that are much more important to me to spend my time on.  But if I spent the time, I believe that I could find documents from the past and use the same line of reasoning to “Prove” that the secular humanists who have produced Zeitgeist never really existed either.

Their position –

            They purport that religion is only a tool, used by the few who know and control, to rage war, death and destruction.  This gives them the power to increase their control and increase their wealth. 

My response –

        They claim that religion feigns peace while raging war. But it ignores the billions of peaceful acts of kindness and help which has been inspired by religion throughout the centuries.  Of course, the effects of faith and any thing spiritual is not even mentioned in the movie.  No mention is made of the many studies which show that patients who have religious faith have an advantage in recovery from sickness than those without faith.  No mention is made that religious faith inspires people to live better, happier lives than they might without their faith.  No mention is made about the millions of people who are inspired to be kinder to their neighbors because their faith. 

Aside from the academics of understanding everything related to religion, to its origin, and its place in society.  I feel an undeniable spiritual connection to a higher power… to God.  I am a better person because of this connection.  I am a happier person because of this connection. 

Their position –

It is their position that those select few who control the world’s money system, have used financial crises such as the Great Depression of the 1930’s and the many wars including The Great War, WWII, Vietnam, and our present wars in Iraq and Afghanistan to amass their financial fortunes and to take away our personal freedoms and rights.

My response –

            As I watched this movie, much of it was not new to me.  I am very familiar with the conspiracy theory boldly declared in the 1970’s through the John Birch Society, and Gary Allen’s book, “None Dare Call It Conspiracy.” 

There is one man from my hometown that I watched with interest as he took every precept taught by the “John Birchers” to heart.  He declared the income tax illegal and refused to pay or file the tax forms.  He wouldn’t have a bank account or anything else that the IRS might track or seize.  Life was conducted by cash only for him.  I wondered how much of his life he spent looking over his shoulder, trying to hide his livelihood from the government and those conspirators he despised.  I always thought that it was ironic that this man’s day to day freedom seemed to be more restricted because of his passion to preserve his freedom. 

            Over the years, I have come to the conclusion that at least some of what they purport is true.  I am disgusted with what some of our trusted politicians have done in the past to propel us into war.  One example is what “Washington” knew about the attack on Pearl Harbor, They knew what was coming but did nothing.  It was a chance to get into the European war with the whole country’s support. 

The more I learn and know about these kinds of politics the more I’m disgusted with them.  But I also know that there is nothing new here.  The same kind of treachery has been going on throughout the ages.  That is a big reason why I am not at all excited to find “Royalty” in my genealogical research.  Back in the dark ages, it was kill or be killed.  Clans formed for protection.  The petty kings were those who were most aggressive at conquering a territory.  The bigger kingdoms were formed by those who were even more power hungry (and more cunning).  They were also the most skilled at war and treachery. 

I see some similarities today.  But I do think that we are better off today then my ancestors were.  I am watching the conspiracy theory with interest.  I don’t know what more I can do. 

It’s like global warming.  I know about it, but I don’t know what more I can do about it.  I don’t think anyone living in a developed country tries harder to consume less, use less energy resources, and impact the earth less with waste than I do.  But unlike Al Gore and all the Hollywood types who have jumped on the band wagon, I have lived my whole life this way, long before anyone said we were heating up our planet.  I can’t see that living like my “John Bircher” friend did, will help me or their cause.

Their position –

And finally, as part of this great conspiracy, they claim that the terrorist attacks on 9-11-2001 were devised by those who really control the US government as a means of setting up our “war on terror” which our nation is now waging.  They say this also set the stage to further erode the balance of our constitutional freedoms in the name of stopping all terrorists.     

My response –

            I started this blog with a personal story, so I think I’ll end with one as well.  I think this story illustrates how I feel about their claim that our government actually set up the 9-11 attacks. 

            Anyone who has read many of my past blogs already knows that I was born in the egg business and have been actively involved in the egg business for almost all of my life.  My dad was an early innovator who bought a yesteryear chicken farm and transformed it into an early version of what the egg business is today. 

I know more about the development of the egg industry than I can find in any series of books to read about it.  Very few people who are still in the egg business have made a living from it as long as I have.  Obviously included in this life long study and knowledge of the egg industry is a deep and long understanding of how eggs are marketed throughout the nation (actually even throughout the world). 

So this story takes me back to many years ago.  My beautiful wife and I had been introduced to a nutrition program.  This company selling these food supplements and vitamins had their experts going around promoting their product and teaching all about the importance of food supplements and nutrition in general. 

As part of this instruction we learned many interesting and helpful tidbits of information.  I was taking it all in, listening to every detail.  “This product will help you if you have this condition, or that product will help with that condition.”  We had a large three ring binder with even more information. 

I was on the fast track becoming a nutrition expert myself.  And then it happened.  The lady conducting a certain segment of this training started giving off statistics about how bad the food we buy in the stores really is for us.  In this stage of her presentation, she made the statement that “On average, fresh shell eggs in the store are 6 months old.” 

As she continued to carry on with her rant about how much nutrition is lost because fresh food isn’t really fresh, I zoned out.  She had made a big deal of eggs as the example, stating it several different ways, so I knew she had meant what she had said. 

I knew that on average back then eggs in the store were less than thirty days old.  (Now it’s even less.)  Even when they tried to cold store eggs by heavily oiling them and keeping them just above freezing, what you got after 90 days was so bad that it was almost never tried, especially in the retail markets. 

I didn’t hear anything else that woman said.  I didn’t care anymore.  She had lost her credibility with me.  She had stated as a fact, something that I knew to be false.  This was something that either she either knew was a gross exaggeration or she wasn’t the expert that she purported to be.  So now I didn’t trust anything else she would have to tell me. 

            That’s the way I feel about what was presented in this movie about a 9-11 conspiracy.  They have lost credibility with me so I don’t trust the other “facts” that I don’t have inside information on.  I heard enough miss information in the religion segment, like when they said, “Jesus Christ was born of the virgin Mary on December 25^th.”  Any student of early Christianity clearly understands that we celebrate Christmas on an ancient pagan holiday, and it’s not considered to be the actual date of his birth.  But this little detail was very important to the point they were making.  They knew better… this is a lie they are passing off on to us.  I don’t trust them.  And so I can’t believe the message because the messenger has no credibility with me.  So I’ll have to get my 9-11 conspiracy theories from another source.     

All Alone

In my mind’s eye, I can hear the wind whistle through the poorly built bunkhouse.  Christian sat all alone on his bed, staring blankly at the rough cut board wall.  His mind was far from this farm in Barshaw Alta, Canada, where he was a hired hand. 

            Sunday was his only time off from work.  No one else was around the farm now.  And he still had several hours of daylight to kill.  He picked up the weathered envelop which had been addressed to him, and reread the letter inside.  His son, Oliver, laboring as a missionary, had sent it to him months earlier.  Like Christian, Oliver was now living away from family and loved ones in his field of labor.    

            Christian set the letter down, and pick up his own pen and a blank post card to make his reply.  Ever so carefully, to write clearly but small.  He has a lot to say in such a small space.

            April 28, 1918 – Dear son, I recieved your welcome letter some time ago and should have answered before but something always comes in the way.  Hope you will excuse me. Am glad to hear from you and to here you are getting along all right.  Can say I am well I am working on a big farm.  We have got in over 300 acres wheat all ready but that is only the beginning.  I am running a gang plow every day.  We are having fine time.  I still have to wear cap and overshoes.  My bed fellow got sore at the boss and quit last week so now I have to sleep alone again.  I see by your letter that you are a stranger in a strange land.  Well I have been that many times so I know about how it is.  We have to feel our way like I call it for a while.  But you have a good home to go to.   That is more than I can say.  I don’t supose I will have a home till I get a little room under the ground.  I intend to try and get along as best I can.  I had a letter from Eleanor the other day.  They are well but I understand Reuben in not very well.  That is too bad.  I supose he works too hard.  I get a letter from your Aunt Mary once in a while that is about all.  Here is a fine lake close to the ranch but I don’t know how long I will stay here.  I may stay all summer and I may not.  Hope you and companion are getting allong  fine and doing some good.  I find good and bad people wherever I go and I supose you do the same.  I have left my trunk with all my best clothes in Edmonton over 100 miles north of here and I can’t go anywhere on Sunday and it gets kind of lonesome for me sometime.  I don’t know of anything particular to write about and am allways a fraid I shal write any thing that would make you feel bad.  Hope you will excuse these few lines with best wishes to you and Elder Spencer.  I remain your Father…C.J. Haroldsen… Please write a little when you have the time.

This letter, written on a postcard 90 years ago has a haunting tone for me.  Some of the phrases whisper from the past to me when I feel those same emotions.  “… a stranger in a strange land…  it gets kind of lonesome for me sometime… am allways a fraid I shal write any thing that would make you feel bad…” 

I watch people.  I try to read their thoughts, their feelings.  I believe we all have similar feelings at some time or another in our lives.

My work gives me lots of opportunity for lonely introspection.  Late at night after the processing crew is gone, my paper work is complete, and the cleaning and maintenance crews are busy doing their thing, I try to write.  Often the work on my family history novel is slow and frustrating as I struggle to really understand how my ancestors felt so I can put it into the words of my novel.   In this contemplative state, I often give up for the night and go to bed.  There, all alone like my Great Grandpa, I lay waiting for another hard day of work to come to once again occupy my mind.  The wind howls around the buildings.  I can hear a dog bark, or maybe it’s a coyote.  The dust kicks up as a storm front moves through the desert waste land I call home at work.  And somewhere in the darkness of the night, I can feel Christian’s emotions as he waited for another day to put him back on the gang plow.  That’s when I need to get up and write his story.  But I’m fearful of having enough strength to make it through the next day on MY OWN gang plow.  As I plow through my day, I think of my family, past and present.  I watch those I work with.  Not everyone sleeps alone in a far away bunkhouse.  Most have family and associates around almost all the time.  But I am learning that if I see someone who doesn’t suffer from loneliness to some degree, I just don’t know that person well enough to see it.  I am learning that it is a rare and precious gift to find someone who understands me.  They don’t have to think like me, but someone who truly understands and respects me in spite of my flaws, is the ultimate friend.  

To me, the most heart breaking line Christian penned that day was, “I don’t supose I will have a home till I get a little room under the ground.”  I don’t believe Christian was really thinking of a physical place as his imagery suggests.  In his subconscious, home was a place where he wanted to be, where he was understood, and accepted in spite of his flaws.  The more I think about this, the more I want to be that haven, that home… for my family, my loved ones… those who have passed on, as well as those presently around me.  And if I can truly feel that way toward those I know, then I will never be all alone either.

Inherited Wealth

           My 6 year old fingers held the nickel at the coin slot of the school’s candy machine.  I wanted so badly to release it and pull the lever for the candy bar.  I knew that I shouldn’t do it, because the coin was a refund from over paid milk money that my 1^st grade teacher had given me to take home.  I wasn’t really going to put the money into the machine.  It was just my way of drooling over the candy while waiting for the school bus to take me home. 

Suddenly my friend, Austin, smacked my hand and the coin tinkled down into the machine.  I was frozen in shock as he pulled the lever which dispensed the candy bar.  I couldn’t have felt worse if I had just robbed the local bank at gun point.  I knew that the money should have gone back to my parents.  They were the ones who had provided the milk money in the first place.  As I stood and held that candy bar, I wanted nothing else but to put it back into the machine and to get my nickel back… my parent’s nickel.  I wouldn’t let Austin have any of the candy bar.  I didn’t eat it either.  I didn’t want it anymore.  I just stood and tried to figure out how to get my money back. 

I had a long wait for the bus because first grade got out much earlier than the older kids but we all rode the same bus home.  I was still sitting next to that candy machine when a man came and opened it up to refill it.  He thought my glum demeanor was because I wanted a candy.  So he offered to give me one for free.  As I held up my own candy bar, I told him that I didn’t want the candy, I wanted my money back.  I think he thought I was greedy and unthankful.  He was obviously disgusted with me.  I didn’t care.  I was still feeling full remorse for stealing that nickel from my parents.  Clearly, they had done a wonderful job teaching me honesty by the time I was 6 years old and going to school. 

In spite of my parent’s policy of strict honesty, over the years we had seen many examples of dishonesty on our small farm.  One of my earlier memories of it was when one of Dad’s loyal employees, Wanda, came to him and warned him about some of the other ladies who worked on our egg candling crew.  Dad had made it an employee benefit to “just take the eggs you need for your family, home.”  Wanda told Dad, “They’re robbing ya blind.  They must be taking eggs for every relative they have.”  But Dad seemed more concerned with honoring his promised “egg benefit” than he was about some of the employees taking advantage of him. 

In our little farm egg store, we had an old (even back then in the 60’s it was considered old) cash register.  This cast iron monster must have weighed 200 pounds.  At night the till was locked, but I guess at least sometimes the money was left in it.  One night, the whole cash register was stolen.  Investigation showed that the thief walked in the half mile through the back fields leaving light foot prints in the snow.  The foot prints back out through the fields sank into the snow much deeper as he carried his loot to his waiting get away car.  The thief made off with several hundred dollars.  Several weeks later, the sheriff found our broken open cash register where it had been dumped off along with some checks.  Of course, all of the cash was gone.

Once a farm employee, Greg - a college student who worked for us part-time, reported that one of our egg delivery money bags had been stolen.  In the ensuing investigation he finally admitted that he had taken the money.  Dad got the money back, and he didn’t press charges.  In fact, he even let Greg continue to work for us, just not around any of the money.  Dad wasn’t in a hurry to condemn someone who had made a mistake.

Another employee was one of many who ran home delivery routes for us.  She had worked for years when there was a disagreement over loading her delivery van in the morning for the day’s route.  I was too young to know the details of what her grievance was, but when she quit, we started getting calls from customers that we had no record of.  She had many cash only customers on her routes who were delivered our eggs as she pocketed the full amount of the payment. 

Our little farm store also sold a few other things along with the eggs.  Milk and other dairy including ice cream was a logical tie in.  We also had a nice display of candy, which was popular with the neighborhood kids.  Once we discovered that certain candies were disappearing along with the coin in our cash register.  (We now pulled all the currency out of the cash register every night, but left maybe 5 or 10 dollars of coin in the open drawer.  Dad said if someone broke in to steal the cash, he wanted the drawer open so they wouldn’t destroy the cash register trying to get to the few dollars that might be inside. So we always left it open at night.)  So we tried to stake out the farm at night to catch our thief, but he had been so inconsistent that it took a week or two to get any good leads.  One night while out on patrol, we found a neighbor kid in our yard.  Allen would hang around a lot anyway, so when he said he was just out for a walk (1/2 mile from his house and in our farmyard at 10:30pm) we were suspicious but didn’t have any real evidence that he was our “cat burglar.”  Then finally, we found where he must have been getting through our “Fort Knox” nightly lock-up.  Our egg processing building had a small freight door rather high up on one wall.  This 2 foot square door was our obvious “Achilles heal.”  We took great pleasure in blocking the door from the inside including a sign that Allen would read by flashlight when he tried to enter.  “Ha, Ha, Ha Allen.  No more free candy.” 

Down inside, Allen was a good kid who finally got it right.  He actually came to my Dad several years later with an admission of guilt, an apology, and several hundred dollars in restitution. 

My dad had been burned so many times that you’d wonder if his occupation was firefighting.  I was once using an old shovel to clean the floor in one of our chicken coops.  Dad was there helping with a push broom.  He said to me, “Be careful with that shovel.  I paid $1300.00 for it.  I look down at the old rusty shovel in shock.  He then told me that he had loaned a friend the money and had received the shovel as collateral.  Obviously, he knew he’d never see the money again.

Dad learned from these experiences and made adjustments.  One thing I remember him always saying was to keep the temptation for people to be dishonest to a minimum.  “Keep it out of sight.  Lock the doors.  Help keep the honest people honest.” 

As I reflect back on my childhood days on our farm, I want nothing more than to continue the legacy my parents perpetuated from their parents.  We always had enough money to meet our needs and once in awhile even a little extra for some fun, but we were never considered wealthy.  But the wealth of learning how to live honestly in spite of dishonesty all around me is a great treasured gem I received as a child.  It’s what made a six year old recognize whose nickel it really belonged to at the candy machine so many years ago.  My subconscious rings with maxims like, “An honest days work for an honest day’s wage.”  Like my dad, if I say I am going to do something, my honor is at stake.  So, “My word is my bond.”   

Truly, I have inherited a great wealth from my family.  The best part of this wealth is that no matter how trusting or gullible I am with other people who might want to steal my treasures, they can’t steal this one from me.  If I lose it, it’s my fault only.  More than money, land, or jewels, I want to be able to pass this treasure on to my children, and theirs.                

My Thankful List

In this traditional season of Thanksgiving, I’ve been thinking about how thankful I am for my Beautiful Wife.  Then the thought occurred to me that in all my years of researching and studying the lives of my ancestors, I’ve read very little of them recounting what they were thankful for.  To me, their “Thankful Lists” would be fascinating to read. 

Verbally, my parents freely express to me their gratitude for their many blessings.  And my sister, known in Spaces as Mitchowl, makes her “Thankful List” a regular monthly feature on her space.  So I thought it was time that I take a stab at making a thankful list.

I don’t know if it were how the stars were aligned back in September of 1981, or if Cupid was on vacation in Southeastern Idaho when his bow slipped and the arrow struck an unsuspecting Ricks College coed, or what… Actually I do know, it was a wonderful, gracious, gift… straight from God to me.  Nothing else could have enamored such a beautiful, fabulous, dame, to the all time socially klutzy guy.  But I am ever so thankful that it happened.  I’ve been continually thankful for this blessing for over 26 years now.

My childhood home was a charmed setting for my growing years.  Our big family living on our small farm, near our small town, has left me with big wonderful memories and higher values.  I am thankful for the life I lived as a child.  I could write volumes of stories of the character building experiences I learned in my youth.  I am also thankful that our small town college brought a Beautiful Redhead from Southern California into my life.   

I am thankful for the nine stunning children that my Beautiful Wife gave me.  Each one, bright, unique, talented, with a touch of my Beautiful Wife radiating from them.  The next generation, now two strong, have shown me that being a grandpa is also a wonderful experience.  Having my Beautiful Wife beside me as the Grandma makes it even better… our two little girls really, really love their Beautiful Grandma.  I rate pretty high just by association. 

Over the years, I have always had good enough work opportunities to support my growing family.  Even though it wasn’t always exactly what I loved doing, I am very thankful that I’ve always had work and the associated income to provide for my family.  But I am afraid that my work has come home with me too much, and even worse, I have brought my home to the work too much.  My Beautiful Wife has had to deal with many of my work problems and many times she has had to live where she didn’t want to live, because of my work.  I am thankful that she has been willing to do this for me… for us… for our family.  She is as Beautiful on the inside as she is on the outside. 

I have taken good health for granted for most of my life.  Even today, I can work guys half my age into the ground with no problem.  Most of them have no idea that I’m twice as old as they are.  But my secret to such good health and strength is who’s been taking such good care of me with her always healthy lifestyle for the last quarter century.  I am thankful for my Beautiful Wife.

Music… I love all kinds of music (since rap isn’t really music) I even learned to love country when Sammy Kershaw came out with his song, “She don’t know she’s beautiful” – guess who I think of when that song is playing?

I’m thankful for today’s communication.  With my cell phone, I can talk to my parents daily no matter where I am.  Emails keep me in touch with friends and family and the internet connects me to family I am meeting all over the world.  Someday I might even try texting so I can talk to my teenaged daughters again.  My favorite communication blessing lately is my Beautiful Wife’s space.  When I am away at work, I am her most faithful visitor to read her diary style entries, watch her video blogs, and to look at her beautiful pictures. 

Food… no one likes, or is as thankful for good food as I am.  But then no one gets to eat my Beautiful Wife’s cooking as I do.

Home… I’ve lived in many, many houses in the past.  No matter what the circumstances, my Beautiful Wife has made each one a home, and a place I wanted to be.  But our new home is more special to me because it is where she wants to live.  I am very thankful for it. 

This essay style list is very incomplete but already too long.  Next time I’ll try to just do a simple list like my sister Mitchowl does.  Did I mention that I am thankful for my Beautiful Wife?   

Dreams – An Introspective

Prussian born John Everett started out as a sailor at the age of 13.  He loved traveling by sea and had plans of visiting every major sea port in the world.  At the age of 28, he had almost accomplished this dream.  The United States West Coast contained the only major sea port he hadn’t yet visited.  This was now 1849, in the middle of the California Gold Rush days.  There was no hotter destination for any ship then was San Francisco.  But then John got distracted by a pretty face.  Helen Tanser was on the ship, traveling from Liverpool to New Orleans.  That was John Everett’s last voyage.

Johann Tillack was also Prussian born.  His family had worked the same small farm for many years.  32 year old Johann, along with his mother and three brothers, set their sights on the Australian Gold Rush, which was in full swing in 1855.  Johann had high hopes for this new dream.  And to some degree, he was successful.  He told of picking small gold nuggets right out of the stream with his pocket knife.  But Johann liked to spend his free time in the saloon.  The combination of drinking and gambling had soon left Johann as broke as a poor Prussian farmer.

Not long after emigrating from England to Eastern Canada, 16 year old Frank Rubbra and his brother set out looking for adventure.  Soon, they were both down in South Africa, fighting for Great Britain in the Boar War.  His adventure was cut short when he contracted Yellow Fever.  He lived about 8 years longer, but he never really recuperated from his illness.   

These three men, all of whom are my ancestors a few generations back, were then young and full of anticipation as they pursued their dreams of adventure and success.  As I have studied their lives along with my other ancestors, preparing to tell their life stories in a historical novel for my children, I have seen the pattern repeatedly.  The youth have ambitious dreams for the future.  Then they find interruptions and obstacles to those dreams, postponing their fulfillment.  Then subtly, compromises creep in, stealing away the original dreams and offering something else.  Eventually, realization dawns that life isn’t happening as was anticipated when young. 

The lives of these three men, all of whom are my grandfathers a few generations back, have become a symbol of my own failures and disappointment.  Like John Everett, the sailor, I had goals when I was young that probably won’t be realized.  There are other things, more important, that now require my limited time and money.  Johann Tillack, the gold miner who lost it all in the saloon reminds me of my own weaknesses and of the many mistakes I have made (and do make).  If I could do it all over, I would be so much closer to realized dreams.  And Frank Rubbra’s lingering sickness which eventually took his life makes me think of the obstacles in my life that I have no control over.  Circumstances in the past and present that seem to dictate the future.

Now I’m watching my own children maturing as they enter this same phase in their lives.  I hear of some of the dreams and plans that they are formulating.  I watch their successes and set backs.  I give advice when I can.  I want them to find their dreams more than I want my own.  When I hear of their successes it makes my day.  And when I learn of problems, I think it troubles me more than them.    

I think my father said it all, when he told me at my latest visit, “When it comes down to it, the only thing that really matters in this life is our relationships and family.”  I have pondered that statement a lot.  

When John gave up seeing San Francisco Bay to marry Helen, I think he thought it was a pretty good trade.  Then when their children came along, his “sea legs” grew roots even further down into terra firma. 

Amidst all his mistakes, Johann did one thing very right.  He found the love of his life, Mary Sophia.  Anything to do with drinking and gambling became a thing of the past, as they raised a large family. When Johann died in 1904 at the age of 81, he was surrounded by a large circle of family and friends who loved him.  That was worth far more to him than all the gold in Australia.  He died a very rich man in what really matters.    

            Even Frank Rubbra, returned to Canada, found the love of his life and started his own family before his untimely death.  He called his little girl, who was my grandma, his “Little Blue Bell.”  His sickness robbed him of much, but it didn’t rob him of what my dad says really matters in this life, family and friends… loved ones who will always remember and miss.

I have thought about my Beautiful Wife and my own children.  My Dad’s words ring true to me there as well.  I would trade any of my own goals and dreams in a heartbeat if it would help them realize theirs.  But the truth is my big wonderful family is the realization of my fondest dream.  It’s is no wonder to me, that some of my less important dreams of yesteryear have been put on the eternal back burner.  I guess from that perspective, in some ways, I might even be part of the fulfillment of John’s, Johann’s, and Frank’s best dreams.

Landmarks

            A childhood memory from back in the 1960’s has resurfaced to the front of my mind today.  At the time, I had just learned about the Lewis and Clark Expedition in my grade school class.  Partly because of the continuous responsibility we had with our egg farm, it wasn’t often that we as a family would travel very far from home.  So even an over night trip from our home in Rexburg down the six or seven hours it took back then to travel to Salt Lake City or Provo, where my Uncle Ed lived, was memorable to me. 

            This particular visit was made in the cold of winter.  I can remember that because we traveled in what we later called our old blue van.  It was cold in  the back of that van.  An animal cracker box looked very close to its actual shape, and the motor was under metal lid literally between the driver’s seat and front passengers seat.  At the time, this was our best home delivery egg van.  We could bolt in bench seats (which more resembled benches than seats) to accommodate all us kids. To a nine year old, a 6 or 7 hour car ride seems more like days long.  I remember lying on the cold floor of that van, the only place where I could stretch out, and stare out the windows at the mountain range as we slowly made our way back home. 

As I lay there, I remembered the story of Sacagawea, who as a small Indian girl who lived in the Pacific Northwest, was stolen by another warring Indian tribe and was taken by them to their homeland back to the east.  As she traveled with her captors, Sacagawea looked for and memorized landmarks so she could eventually find her way back home.  Of course that is why she was so valuable to Lewis and Clark as their Indian guide into the Pacific Northwest.

So while thinking about this story, my nine year old mind wondered if I would be able to find my way back home.  As I stared at the Wasatch Mountain Range, I studied the shapes and tried to memorize landmarks so I could find my way back home too. 

Today, we traveled along this same place to attend a family reunion for my Beautiful Wife’s family being held North of Salt Lake.  As I drove, I looked at those same landmarks of the mountain range and remembered my childhood thoughts when I had first studied them.  Those landmarks have become some what of a symbol to me showing me the way back to my childhood home.  Tomorrow morning I’ll travel that same path, only this time all the way to my hometown of Rexburg.  As I ride along, I’ll be looking at those mountains and I be wondering about other landmarks which can lead me back home.  I’m looking forward to a great visit with my parents and other family who still live there. 

But besides the contour of those mountain ranges which I memorized years ago, I wonder what other landmarks are leading me back home.  Certainly, number 1 on my addenda is to get lots of quality visiting in with my parents and other family.  But something else draws me.  I’m not sure what.  Memories… reminiscing… walking the streets and traveling the roads I grew up around.  Maybe I be visiting the remnants of our old egg farm.  Maybe I need to secure more landmarks back to my past… to my memories… so I will never forget… so I can accurately write about the wonderful family I descend from.     

A Moving Story

            These past several months have sapped all my extra time and strength, energy and interest, in what it takes to move.  Of course prior to even listing our old house for sale, an inordinate amount of energy went into the spruce it up preparations.  Then came the keep it up routine needed for showing it to potential buyers.  After we made a deal and our old house went under contract, our lives revolved around the pack’em up, move’em out responsibility.  Incidentally, finding our new home, the perfect one for us in the perfect place for us, was absolutely the easiest part of the whole move. 

            Well, now that I am mostly unpacked and organized with the things that I have sole responsibility for (my Beautiful Wife was unpacked and fully organized with EVERYTHING ELSE within hours of unloading the moving truck.) my thinking time has been spent marveling at what a big job this moving thing really is.  You’d think I’d already know what I’m in for.  We’ve moved ten times just since my Beautiful Wife and I were married.  But somehow each move is it’s own experience and has it’s own personality.  Now that I can stand back , sigh, and wipe the sweat from my eye brow, I have taken time to wonder and ponder about some other moving stories.

            Oh, the tales that could be told, if they were still here.  For example, my two greats grandpa, Jock Smith.  Generations of Smiths had lived in the same Scottish village of Dumfermline, in the parish of Perth.  It had been the law for generations, no one who lived there could move away from the mines.  Back then, the continent of Europe didn’t have a monopoly on the use of serfs.  But the law was finally changed.  Jock first moved about twenty miles, further up the Forth of Firth, to Alloa.  After marrying and beginning his own family, in 1849 they brought what little they had and came to America.  It took three years of work in St Louis before he could outfit for the trek west.  Once in the untamed west of what is now Utah, Jock moved his family four more times that I know of, maybe more.  Some of these moves were hundreds of miles apart.

            My two greats grand father, Samuel Webster, did something similar.  Only difference was, he left his wife and children back in England while he went ahead and earned enough to bring them to join him.  Later, Samuel decided that new opportunities awaited up in Canada, and my great grandma, Sarah, told of walking along side the narrow rail train, which moved them up north, because the train moved so slow that she could just walk along side it.

            As far as a life time of moving goes, I think the grand champion of all my progenitors were my two greats grandparents, Johann and Mary Sophia Tillack.  Both were born in what is now Germany.  Johann’s family had farmed for generations in Prussia.  But Johann and his family wanted no part of Otto Bismark’s ambitious plan to conquer Europe, so their only other option was to leave.  In 1855, the Australian Gold Rush was in full swing, and Johann caught the fever.  It was in the region of Melbourne that Johann met Mary Sophia and they had their large family.  Life was good as the family fruit farm prospered, but the itch to migrate once again came this time from their new found religious faith.  Life in Utah was good in the 1890’s.  It would have been a nice place to settle for Johann’s declining years, but because their children had mostly moved on again, Johann and Mary Sophia made the additional trek up north to live their final years in Canada with their children.  Back in the 1800’s, not many simple farmers traveled the world, but Johann not only traveled but established himself and lived on three continents and in four different countries.    

            We are now happily settled in our new home in our new community.  My Beautiful Wife is happy, and I am happy.  So as I reestablish some of my normal routines, including telling my ancestor’s life stories in the novel I’m working on, I have a renewed appreciation for what they went through to make life better for themselves and for their children, and ultimately for me.  

“Dad, I want to be just like you!”

            They already had their family, three sons and a daughter.  Then six years later, another son was born.  The Great Depression was in full swing for Norman’s earliest memories.  But the optimism of the late 1920’s, when he was born, seemed to embed his personality for life.   This characteristic optimism in the face of hardship still carries him through life. 

            Lost for hours.  Asleep on the bank of a ditch.  Two year old Norman was feared drowned as the frantic search intensified.  He thought he was in trouble when he heard his name intently and repeatedly called. Then he saw the tears in the eyes of his panicked family.  Instead of reprimands, the small boy, Norman, received the hugs of rejoicing.  Today we are rejoicing that we can still hug him, in spite of his battle with a devastating illness since last fall.     

            Norman’s innovative mind started with little things, like a string stretched tightly across the driveway of his childhood home.  Earl, Norman’s oldest brother, had to run quickly back to the house for something he had forgotten.  His littlest brother’s innocent prank got under his skin (or was it just the cement finish of the driveway, which flayed certain parts of his face, hands, elbows, and knees that got under his skin?)  Throughout the years, Norman’s innovations improved as he developed a successful family business specializing in the production and distribution of eggs in the much of southeastern Idaho, and parts of Wyoming and Montana.  Norman’s people skills blossomed from the snot nosed little brother, who brought down his towering big brother in the driveway, to a man who is beloved by all who know him. (The staff of oncology lights up with happy smiles and greetings when they see him coming.)

Norman’s sense of adventure took him far.  Too far for his other brother’s liking.  His next older brother, George, was the inventor of the family.  George had built a bicycle with an out-rigger to fit on the railroad tracks.  This allowed the 1930’s rural bike rider to experience the unbelievably smooth and fast ride to distant places.  Norman tried it out, but he went too fast, and too far.  When he finally returned from his adventures in Ucon (a neighboring village), he found his concerned father and distraught brother standing at the farm railroad crossing, waiting for his return.  His dad said the railroad bike was too dangerous.  It was broken up.  But his interest in the world wasn’t broken up.  And on numerous trips, Norman has seen much of the world.  He always planned and traveled independently and never part of a tour group’s agenda.  This is one area where his people skills are legendary.  Many stories could be told of how good he is at making the world his friend, one person at a time, but then this would be a book instead of a blog.   

            A life long love of learning for Norman began in a two room school house.  Grades 1-4 were in one room.  And grades 5-8 were in the other.  Norman’s cousin Ray, was almost like a brother to him.  After 8^th grade graduation from from St. Leon, Ray describes how and why the Haroldsens became involved in high school band.  Norman loved band, and even became a band officer when his City Girl opponent campaigned against him by saying, “We don’t want our band run by a bunch of country hicks do we?”  Thanks to the backlash from her speech, Norman was a shoe-in for the position.      From band music, Norman’s inventor brother, George, introduced him to Classical, which has become a life long love. 

            One damper in his high school experience was an explosion in Chemistry class.  Though the resultant eye injury has left life long effects, it didn’t blur his vision of the future.  And it didn’t stunt his zeal for learning and life.  Norman graduated college with a bachelors’ degree in agriculture, but through out his life, including today, he continues to read, learn, and study.  He was always the speller that I am not.  And he knows world geography like no one else I know.  (Of course he does, he’s been to most of those places.)

After college, newly wed Norman passed up other opportunities to come home and run the family farm.  His dad, though, seemed to only be interested in a free hand.  So after eight years of free servitude, and with his father’s critical word’s still ringing in his ears, “All you care about is chickens and church”, Norman struck out on his own, and started his egg business.  This phrase illustrates what ever his present focus is.  It could be repeated for everything he does in life.  “All you care about is politics.”  “All you care about is helping other people.”  “All you care about is home and family.”  “All you care about is visiting and getting to know other people.”  The list could go on and on. 

            I love and look forward to my daily phone calls with my mom and dad.  My conversations with them inspire me to want to be a better person.  Often, I hear humors stories of their day.  Because of his illness, I also hear of his frustration and feebleness, of his struggles and sorrow.  

As I contemplate who my father really is, on this coming Father’s Day, one phrase I’ve heard him say more than once in these past months of illness will ring in my ears. 

“Shame on me.” 

Yes, anytime he has actually gotten emotional or expressed his weariness from enduring, he always follows up with “Shame on me.”  He feels that with all he is blessed with, he has no right to allow himself to feel down about his troubles.  I wonder what a great world we would live in, if everyone’s shame was comparable to my dad’s self imposed shame of ingratitude when he is feeling a little down.               

            So this Father’s Day, I’d like to borrow another phrase from my memory.  This one came from my two year old son, Joshua, about twenty years ago.  He had spent the day riding along with me as I delivered eggs up around West Yellowstone, Montana.  We were just finishing up the last delivery before the hour plus drive back home in the delivery truck.  I had decided to buy some soda pop for the ride home.  After making my selection, I asked Joshua, what kind of pop do you want?  Bubbling with the enthusiasm that happy two year olds can possess, Josh said, “I’ll have what you have.  I want to be just like you.”  That was a contemplative ride home for me.  Do I want my son to really be “Just like me?”  That comment inspired me to strive to be better than I was.

            I think if I could go back home to visit my dad for Fathers Day, I’d bring his favorite soda pop, and another of the same kind for me.  As we sipped our drinks, I’d try to muster Joshua’s two-year-old enthusiasm and say, “Dad, I want to be just like you.”  

Memorial Day Haroldsen Style

            I have devoted all my free time and energy to our premoving preparations.  So right now my blogs and visits are few and far between.  However, this weekend is an exception.  I have taken a break from my storting and packing duties to go with my Beautiful Wife and children to visit our other children (who have preceded us in moving to Provo.)   This visit, of course is tied into our celebration festivities of Memorial Day weekend. 

It all started with a very spoiling birthday dinner (for me) on Friday.  Saturday morning, we got up early and headed to Provo.  The Pirates movie was fun, because of my wonderful companions.  The picnic dinner, which followed was great, because all the food was prepared by my Beautiful Wife and by my daughters (who learned to cook from my Beautiful Wife.)  I gained ten pounds this weekend.  Visiting with old friends at a wedding reception that evening was icing on the cake.  My daily phone call to see how my dad is doing and our attendance at church and visit with My Beautiful wife’s mother and husband rounded out our weekend of family visits and family associations.   

However, all thorough this weekend of family and friends, the magic of movies, and of food and festivities, I have been thinking of Memorial Day proper.  My understanding is that Memorial Day was conceived as a time to remember the fallen soldiers of the American Civil War.  By World War I, May 30 was designated as a day to remember all of our fallen soldiers.  From those beginnings, Memorial Day has come to include all of our loved ones who have passed on, and is now celebrated on the last Monday of May.  

So this weekend, in my idle moments when my mind can wander (mostly while driving the 400-500 miles of our travels), I was thinking of the diverse places many of my loved ones are buried.  I have visited the graves of loved ones in Canada, Idaho, Utah, and California.  I know of others far away which I haven’t visited.  My parents are visiting our Idaho Cemeteries today, decorating the graves and remembering with fondness.  I wish I lived closer so I could participate.  My children grew up far from where any of our loved ones were buried.  So they don’t know of our family tradition.  I wish we could have passed on this tradition to them, but it didn’t happen. 

So today, I am mentally back in my childhood home observing Memorial Day, "Haroldsen style”. 

Memorial Day wasn’t always observed on a Monday.  Traditionally it was on May 30^th, no matter what day of the week it fell on.

            When I was growing up, our Memorial Day routine was always the same.  We only did the bare necessities on the farm, which would take us until about 11:00 am.  By that time, we had feed everywhere it should be and all the eggs gathered that we could by then.  While Dad and us boys were doing the farm work, Mom and the girls were packing away a first class picnic lunch. 

As quickly as possible, we would come in from work, get cleaned up and head for Idaho Falls.  Our first stop was always at Rose Hill Cemetery.  Although I wasn’t even born when he died, Gary Kent was the main thing on my mind.  As I stood looking at his grave marker, I could learn little bits and pieces about his life and how he died as I listened to Mom and Dad make comments.  But Mom was always very emotional and Dad unusually quiet as we visited Gary Kent’s grave, so I didn’t ask too many questions.  Even though I didn’t ever know him in this life, I missed Gary Kent and have always felt an empty spot deep inside, caused by his absence.  I always thought of the fact that Gary Kent’s birthday was the day after mine, and that Memorial Day (when we went to visit his grave) was only four days later.

            After our visit at the Cemetery, we would go to Tautphaus Park, for our picnic.  Tautphaus Park almost adjoins Rose Hill Cemetery.  So it was kind of like spending the day with our loved ones who had died. 

            No one could do a first class picnic like my Mom.  There was always more food and more variety than even a hungry boy could possibly hope to conquer.  Besides first class picnic areas, Tautphaus Park also had a nice playground area, a carnival ride area and a small zoo.  So we had plenty to do, even as kids, for the rest of the day.  Even though we would have to pay for our playtime by how early our next morning of chores on the farm would start, our Memorial Day picnics were always a highlight for me as I grew up.

            So now I’m here at home, reminiscing about all those good Memorial Day memories and wishing that my children could have the same experience.  We live hundreds of miles away from Rose Hill Cemetery or any other cemetery where family members are buried, so with the distance and my immediate family responsibilities, it won’t happen.  Maybe next year.  We’ll live a hundred mile closer to my childhood roots.  Yes, next year I’m going home for Memorial Day.  Children! Next year would you like to come along and help me celebrate Memorial Day Haroldsen Style?

Celebrating My Mother’s Birthday

I’m a winter sort of guy.  I’ve always loved the snow and blow, the ice and cold, the short days and long nights.  Frozen fingers and toes don’t bother me.  The coziness of home and hearth is even nicer after I’ve spent the day out in the winter wonderland. 

But there is something about the springtime of year which thaws my heart to the idea of the summer sun.  I like to see my loved ones happy, and anyone who knows my Beautiful Wife knows that a warm sunny day will brighten her like magic.  But there is another woman who I have watched bask in the warming sun of May as long as I can remember. 

My mother was raised on the British Colombian coast.  Her happy childhood memories include the sun and sand of the beach.  It was love and romance that brought her to the snow and blow of Southeastern Idaho.  I’ve watched her endure our Idaho winters year after year.  And then usually in May, even in southeastern Idaho, the sun stretches higher in the sky and Mother Earth below responds accordingly. 

As a child, I always thought that the emerging flowers were simply the earth decorating for my mother’s birthday which is in early May.  In my young mind, Mothers Day celebrations were simply everyone celebrating my mother’s birthday which was sometimes very close to that second Sunday in May. 

My mother has always been a quiet force for good.  She is content to work in the background, making sure that those around her are successful and happy.  She has literally been the woman holding the ladder while my father climbed his way to success in life.  She is still holding the ladder for my dad while he climbs his way through a devastating illness. 

My mother is the same way with each her seven living children. I know that all of my other siblings could tell their own stories of her support and what she’s done for them in the past, or even now in the present.  I think a story of my high school days is good example of how she is always there as a support and help when we need it. 

One of my extra curricular activities in high school was choir.  It wasn’t just any old choir, but I was a member of what I felt like was the best select high school choir anywhere around.  The Bel Cantos even back then had a legacy of excellence as we performed all over the area.  We even went on tour to other places. 

This was our school’s homecoming week back in the fall of 1977, and I was one of the officers of the Bel Cantos.  In line with our determination to be the best at anything we did, we had designed a float for the homecoming parade which was more than ambitious for busy high school students.  I can’t remember the theme of the float, but I’ll never forget the design. 

We started with a Volkswagen Bug, made a thirteen foot ball over the top of it out of construction rebar (the steel reinforcement that goes in concrete), and covered this steel rebar with chicken wire.  We then attached two 12 foot carpet tubes end to end for a 24 foot quarter note staff out the back, and cut an 8 foot panel into an eighth note flag.  Our giant eighth note on wheels had a clever slogan (which I have now forgotten) on both sides.   

The problem with the Bel Cantos was that these were the kids who were in EVERYTHING at school.  So when it came to making our clever plans a reality, I was left holding the bag.  Most of my fellow Bel Cantos were also in every other club and group who were also making floats for our big parade.  So the reality was, I had the lion share of actually building that float. 

Construction of the under frame went very quickly.  We had purchased 15,000 napkins from a paper products wholesaler to stuff the 13 foot chicken wire ball. But only a few others came along that night to help me stuff all those napkins.  After a few hours of work they went home, and I was left looking at one fourth beautifully napkin stuffed, three fouths bare chicken wire ball fastened to that Volkswagen.  Now my reputation for following through was at stake.  I didn’t stop working all night.  The only break I took the next day was to go in to the school for my Senior Picture. (My glassy eyed stare in that picture still reminds me how tired I was that day.) 

It was about 8:00pm that night, (starting into my 2^nd night of no sleep) that I realized we would run out of napkins.  I went home and told my mom that it was a hopeless cause.  We wouldn’t have a float in the parade the next morning after all.  Now up to that point, I hadn’t even been aware that my mom had paid particular attention to this project.  She had remained in the background as my fellow choir members came and went and the work progressed slowly.  But the moment I walked into the house and declared defeat, she sprang into action. 

“You’re NOT going to quit now!  Not after all the work you’ve put into it.”

“But I have no choice.  We are out of napkins and the paper supplier is closed now.”

Before I could even spell out just how hopeless the whole thing was my mother was steering me back on course.

“Let’s go to all the grocery stores in the area and buy all their white napkins… Take down those small signs on the sides and make BIG ones to cover up more bare chicken wire… It’s time to call in the rest of the choir.  It’s their float too.” 

By midnight that night, our beautiful float was ready for the parade and I got a good night sleep before driving it to town where we won an award for most original float. 

Yes, my mother doesn’t really like to be out on stage any more than she likes the snow and cold, but she sure knows how to make those of us who are on stage, look good.  Obviously, this is just one of the many ways she has always showed her love for us.  When it comes to loving us, my mother’s actions always spoke louder than her quiet spoken, soft words.  So this year as Mother Nature gives my mother the same birthday gift of warmth and beauty of late spring, I’m thinking of the gift of support and encouragement that she always gives to us year around.  As I see Mother’s Day advertisements, it reminds me that people everywhere are still helping me celebrate my mother’s birthday.  Happy Birthday Mom.  I love you back.    

Part of the magic of love is when it brings two families together through marriage.  We are now involved in the wedding festivites in which our son, Joshua is marrying the love of his live, Sarah.  Tonight, both of our families came together as we became better acquainted with each other.  In this setting I gave the following synopsis of Joshua's life.

Joshua

It was a cold day in Idaho… -47 degrees Fahrenheit. The hospital was small and ill-equipped for a preemie with under developed lungs. That small town nursery was the first but not the last thing Joshua revolutionized. Life Flight was grounded because of the extreme cold. So out of necessity, Madison Memorial Hospital had to improvise a newborn ICU. From that precarious beginning, Joshua’s zest for life is leaving an increasingly wide wake of enthusiasm.

He’s always been a fast learner… sometimes too fast. When he observed how his mother nursed a younger sibling, he mimicked the action with his older sister’s doll.

His first year of school didn’t even qualify as a good review for what he already knew. So similar to what he did to Madison Memorial Hospital, out of necessity, Joshua revolutionized how the Haroldsen Children were formally educated, and Haroldsen home schooling began.

Part of that homeschooling included basic music lessons. But Joshua set the beginner books aside when he heard a neighbor playing Beethoven. He went next door and borrowed the sheet music and started playing Fur Elise, memorizing it within days. As a 10 year old, Joshua was the ward primary pianist. He also began playing the prelude music on the organ before Sacrament Meeting began.

He was also doing well in business by this time. The Mower Man, was a thriving lawn mowing business with crew of three siblings all equipped with lawn care equipment pulled by bike trailers. Ten year old Joshua also taught piano and held a recital for the proud parents of his six students.

In his spare time Joshua got hold of his mommy’s video camera. The product of his imaginative filmmaking has left his family wondering if he is crazy or genius.

As he grew and matured, Joshua has continued to plow a wide wake with whatever he does. When he out grew the Mower Man business, he formed a company centered around his most current interest. His Computer Genie business was a great success back when today’s Geek Squad were still in diapers.

Along with these successful enterprises, Joshua has worked for many other business, gaining experience and helping him formulate what kind of career he wants to pursue next.

At the age of sixteen, Joshua started College with two scholarships to University of Northern Colorado. In the middle of his college education, Joshua spent a wonderful two years as a missionary. For all the good he accomplished there, he might be known by some in that country as the "Good Tsunami" that hit Thailand.

Since returning home just over a year ago, Joshua has put as much thought and care into choosing a marriage partner as he has in everything else in his life. As I watched this process, I have no question that he has found the love of his life. Based on my own experience with another certain "Red Head", in the area of spunkiness and having a zest for life, I’m guessing that Joshua has met his match.

Glimpses

            I don’t travel often.  It’s one of my future dreams to go on long trips where I can see the world and learn about other places and cultures, first hand.  I had just a taste of it when I was a teenager and my dad took me half way around the world where we spent a month traversing the continent and country of Australia.  Since that time, I have always thought that someday I’d do a lot more of that of that sort of thing.  But, for a common guy like me, a family man, the limited time and means requires that some dreams have to wait in line behind more pressing responsibilities.  So since that May in 1977, my traveling away from home has mostly been on business.

            Like I said, travel doesn’t happen often for me.  Corporate wants to keep me in the processing plant as much as possible, minding the day to day details of our business.  But every year or two, I am sent on a pilgrimage back to corporate headquarters, along with all the other processing managers, for recalibration in our company’s way of doing business.  This isn’t a blog about those meetings I just returned from.  It’s about my thoughts and impressions while traveling to and from my corporate meetings.

Since I love “people watching”, airports are cool places to hang out.  As I sat in the terminal, at my gate, waiting for the call to board, my people watching skills quickly sharpened. 

The amalgamation of language and looks, customs and culture, features and facial expressions, complexion and countenance, hats and hairdos, habits and habitats, soon began to describe to my eyes how diverse the population in airports really are.  As I sat, with book in lap, pretending to read, those around me portrayed little pieces of their lives for me.

A cute couple sat across, facing me.  It appeared many years of living together had given them a similar manner and dress.  Even their physic was now blended to the point that they looked almost like brother and sister rather than husband and wife.  They were slumped onto each others shoulders as they peacefully slept. 

I loved watching the children, of all ages, who were traveling with their parents. Whether they were four years old or fourteen, they seemed to reveal more of their family life then their parents would want. 

A lady quickly stepped into our row of chairs and scanned the floor along the adjoining wall.  She turned back to her husband and said, “There’s one here.”  I knew they wanted the rare power outlet next to my seat.  I offered to give up the seat to them.  It was a chance to change positions for more people watching anyway.  Soon three children were huddled on the floor in front of my old chair watching a movie on a portable DVD player.

An Asian couple was my new subject.  Each time the PA system sounded, they both looked skyward like God had just spoken from the heavens.  Between themselves, their language was something oriental.  I wondered if they understood the English which bombarded them.  I wondered the purpose of their travel.  Now days, most traveled on vacation or business.  They didn’t seem to fit either category.

As I sat there pondering the many mini human dramas before me, I had a glimpse of yesteryear.  In my mind’s eye, I could see my widowed 2 great’s grandma, Inger, traveling with her small family into everything unfamiliar.  In June of 1876 they sailed from Kragero, Norway for Denmark.  They then crossed the North Sea to Hull, England and crossed England by train, and then boarded the Steamer, “Idaho” for crossing the Atlantic Ocean.  For most of this trip, language was a barrier.  No one in the family spoke English.  This made things even more terrifying for the small Norwegian family who were huddled in a cattle car, on display like a freak show slowly crossing England.  My great grandpa, Christian, was just a boy.  He told of how they were gawked at them and jeered.  Some of the Englishmen spit on them and poked and prodded them.  Since they couldn’t understand their English yet, they didn’t understand the meaning of the unruly catcalls which were thrown down at them.  From this experience, Christian hated the English for the rest of his life.            

            Over the PA, boarding my flight was announced.  I watched this Asian couple looking around at the sudden shuffle of people.  As I passed by them, I hoped their American experience didn’t feel like my Norwegian family’s experience in England.  

While boarding the plane, I passed through 1^st class which had already boarded.  In the corner of my eye, I caught glimpse of an important looking business man leaning over his laptop computer.  As I glanced back, I noticed instead of business, he was really playing the same computer game I had seen my teenaged son playing at home.  I moved back to coach, found my seat, stowed my bag in the overhead, and slid into my seat. 

Then my mind caught a glimpse of Inger and her little family on her voyage.  Several levels below main deck, as a tall woman, likely she couldn’t even stand up straight on the steerage deck.  I realized that by comparison, I was traveling 1^st class.  Inger was very sea sick for her voyage. 

Soon after we reached cruising altitude, the flight attendants moved through the cabin passing out snacks and offering drinks.  I thought of the sea biscuits which Inger received as part of her rations.  These were mostly saved for their rail travel across the American continent to the West.  They made this crossing during the 100 year celebration of American independence.  I wonder what they saw on July 4^th, 1876?

As we landed in Atlanta, Georgia, a little over three hours after leaving Salt Lake City, Utah, our pilot joked that we were early but that we had to pay full fare anyway. 

My next mental glimpse was of Inger, with her little family, standing at the side of the new railroad line.  Some one was supposed to meet her there to bring her the final 20 miles to town.  But this was July 24^th.  A territory holiday celebrating the first arrival of the religious pioneers twenty-nine years earlier had distracted her wagon taxi.  She sat on the side of that rail line that day and cried.

As I sat in my taxi, traveling to my fancy hotel room, anticipating the extravagance lavished on us over worked managers for a few days every year or two, I was somber… thinking of Inger, and what she went though so life could be so good for her children… for me. 

I don’t mind putting off seeing the world a few more years while my Beautiful Wife and I strive to give our children the best start in life possible.  I wonder… in a generation or two will one of them will look back at us, thinking that we had made a sacrifice for their benefit.  Did Inger think that what she did was some noble sacrifice?  I’ll bet she felt just like me.  We are not doing anything special.  We’re just doing what we think is best for our family.  But, I love Inger for what she did for me.

A Gamble

            I have never put any money into a slot machine nor done any of the other gaming that is commonly associated with Las Vegas.  I’ve never bet on a race or other sports event.  I have not purchased a lottery ticket nor even joined in the office betting pool that they do around the Super Bowel.  But I have done my share of gambling. 

            I know that depending on who you talk to, even getting up in the morning and walking outside to meet the new day is a gamble.  But my past gambling has included bigger risks.  I think most farmers and ranchers should enroll in Gamblers Anonymous.  It’s quite a thrill to look at the futures markets in commodities and try to determine how to buy corn and other feed ingredients, along with investing the high dollars in equipment, livestock, and real estate required to produces a perishable food product, knowing that the actual value of that product will have nothing to do with the expense incurred in producing it.  In the end, the selling value all comes down to supply and demand at the moment of the sale.   If the same dollars I’ve lost in such an endeavor were wasted on the crap tables in Las Vegas, anyone, except the casino management, would say I had a gambling problem. 

            This month there are several things which have got me thinking about another big gamble taken in life. 

First, is the research and writing I’m doing on my family history novel.  I am doing a little walking in my 2-greats Grandma, Inger’s shoes.  Inger was raised in a well-to-do family in Norway during the mid 1800’s.  The caste system of the European wealthy was alive and well in that day, so when Inger fell in love with a common sailor, her choice was between the love of her life and her family.  She couldn’t have both.  Perhaps Inger knew all along that the choice she made would result in a life of hardship and struggle.  But I can’t help but think that the young men and women of their day were as eternally optimistic as our youth today.  So I’m sure Christoffer and Inger’s dreams of the future included a nice home, plenty of food and other necessities, and at least some leisure time to enjoy it all.  At least some of Inger’s dreams were quenched when Christoffer was killed in a work accident and she was thrown into severe poverty.  In remembering those hard years of survival when she washed laundry for others, she lamented later in her life, “If I had only had a washboard!” 

Besides loosing her husband, Inger lost one of her daughters while living in Norway.  It wasn’t too many more years before she managed to move with her remaining three daughters and one son to new opportunities in America. 

I have also been anticipating my son’s wedding at the end of this month.  It appears to me that the love of his life is almost as spunky as my Beautiful Wife.  (She even has the red hair.)  She is a great gal and I think that his gamble on love is a safe bet. 

And that takes me to the biggest gamble I have ever made in life.  Twenty-five years ago this month, my beautiful wife and I were married.  (The truth be told, she’s the one who REALLY took the gamble.) 

She is everything that I am not.  Spunky, impulsive, high spirited, adventurous, and magnetic are a few words that begin to paint her portrait.  She gave up much of her world to become part of mine.  She moved from the warm sunny climate of Southern California to live in the cold artic climate of Southeastern Idaho.  She has spent most of our married life living in the rural setting of farm life instead of the convinces of city life where she would prefer.  All of her personal dreams have been put on hold for these entire twenty five years while she does a magnificent job doing her part in fulfilling our joint dreams of raising a large wonderful family.

Yes, with all my gambling losses, this is one time when I won the mega lottery.  Instead of a lump sum payment, I’ve opted for the benefits to last a lifetime. 

So on this Friday the 13^th, symbol of bad luck, I am thinking of the risk we take when our otherwise good judgment is overshadowed by the intoxicating influence of love.  We take a gamble when we devote our lives to someone else.  But for me, marrying my Beautiful Wife 25 years ago turned out to be a very good bet.        

Dreams

            I am taking a few days off from work right now.  It’s a use ‘em or loose ‘em sort of thing.  So I am not really going on vacation, sight seeing, or other wise spending my forced “take them now” vacation days wisely.  To do what I would want to do with my vacation time, it would take money.  But it has given me a little more leisure time to relax and ponder the realities which make up my life.  Yesterday, I got a glimpse into my “Beautiful Wife’s” realities.  She took the 100 mile drive to Gary’s doctor appointment with him, and I got to pinch hit for her as a school teacher. 

For the most part, my three children (who are homeschooled) were nice to me and did everything they should.  Most of that would have happened whether I was there or not.  They are very well trained by their “Beautiful Teacher/Momma.”  But my youngest, (I call her “Baby Bug”) is first grade age (doing second grade work) and does need lot’s of one on one for her math and reading.   In the process of teaching Baby Bug, I learned a little more about my Beautiful Wife’s daily life. 

I am not over worked right now, and since it was a vacation day from work, I even slept in a little longer, and didn’t do much when I did get up.  But after my Beautiful Wife left, and I found my self teaching 2^nd grade math and reading, lazy drowses set in and I had to fight to stay awake in the slow paced tutoring.  It left me wondering, how does my Beautiful Wife routinely work all night, and then come home and run the house for a large family, teach homeschool, and pursue her own dreams like she does.  I know that she has just decided she needs to “do it all.”  Because if she doesn’t, the part she misses out on are her own dreams. 

My Beautiful Wife stayed up in Provo and Gary came home to trade places with me.  The Vacation Part of my vacation day was taking my Beautiful Wife around the city she wants to live in, looking at neighborhoods and houses, furniture and electronics, and the other things that would make this particular dream a reality for her. 

Thanks to a Christmas present, which we were slow to cash in; dinner and a movie capped our night, compliments of our daughter Jessica and her husband Bryan.  All in all, it was a very nice day with my Beautiful Wife, spent dreaming of our future. 

Twenty-five years ago, our dreams together were centered on a life together and having a family together.  Those dreams are wonderful realities.  So there is room to expand our dreams.  But today reality sets in as I look at next week’s family calendar, and I see 5 of our children with orthodontic appointments all on the same day.  I guess some dreams (involving money) are still a few years away.  

Walking in Someone Else’s Shoes

            It has been my experience, all too often learned the hard way, that if someone in my processing plant is having trouble doing their job well, my approach to dealing with the problem is different, and more favorable to that employee, if I first step into that particular work position and see what they are seeing, rather than standing back and dissecting the work performance from a distance. (Wow, how is that for a run-on sentence?)  But my point is, no matter how well I know the job, and regardless of how much I have worked that position in the past, if I put myself into the worker’s shoes at that particular moment, seeing how the machines, material, and even co-workers are working at the moment, my management of the situation is always better.  I believe that no one in the egg industry understands the egg processing environment better than I.  But I have learned that I just can’t see the little things that are causing the problem I’m trying to resolve, unless I’m in their shoes.  So, to make myself a better manager, I make it a point to work all the positions from time to time.  This also has the added benefit of showing my employees that I do know what I’m talking about, and that I am not asking them to do anything that I can’t or won’t do myself.  But like I said, after walking in their shoes I often approach changes and improvements in a totally different way then I had intended.

            I am learning this same lesson as I seek to understand and write about my ancestors.  I don’t think that anyone in my extended family has a better grasp of our family history than I do.  In preparation for writing our history into a novel, I have spent many years gathering everything that is written on our family. 

I am not the only member of our family who has researched and recorded our story.  In fact, there are many in the previous generation who have gathered the facts, recorded our family stories, and even visited around the world at our ancestors’ homelands, interviewing distant relatives and touring original hometowns and farms.  The foundation of my research has had a vast amount of information as a starting point.  I have thick files on most of my grandparents, back two or three generations.  Even a couple books have already been written on some of their lives. 

But this week, as I prepared to introduce one more “character” into my story, I have studied the real life of my great great grandmother, Inger.  Like most of the ancestors which I am writing about, I have a few pictures of Inger. I have spent years reading everything anyone has ever written about her. I have studied her pictures to the point that I can look past the “stiff photographs of the 1800’s of old people” to where I can “see” Inger as a child full of wonder, as a young adult full of dreams and plans for the future, and as a mature adult who carries a life full of experiences. 

So I thought I really knew Inger as I began my new chapter which introduces her into my novel.  But then I started writing… not about her, like everyone else has done, but for her… seeing life though her eyes.  I see things differently when I attempt to put words into her mouth.  Her shoes aren’t comfortable to walk in, but it is already an experience that I treasure. 

So that’s got me thinking about the here and now.  How many people do I think that I know?  As I size up and judge my neighbor, my coworkers, my friends, from my point of view, it’s easy to judge.  It’s easy to know what they should do and how they should feel.  But it’s a different experience for me when I truly get into their shoes and take a few steps. 

I can visit with my father every day.  Asking how he is doing and how he is feeling, as he endures a lingering illness.  But I feel like the processing manager who “thinks” he knows what his workers are going though by just standing back and watching from a distance.  My mother is so quiet and unassuming that few, including myself, really know the personal burden she carries as she supports my dad in his illness. 

So now I am wondering about my Beautiful Wife, who I have a close and personal association with.  How well do I know how she feels inside?  What burdens does she carry that I just can’t see from my position?  In that sense, I’m like a processing manager, who smugly stands back and watches from a distance?

I think I need to learn from my work place.  I am a better manager by walking up to an employee in my processing plant and giving them a break while I step in and really see what life is like for them at work.  I think I would be a better son, husband, and father if I did the same thing for my family that I do at work.  It’s just something for me to think about… to work on.

Now, if you don’t hear from me on spaces for a few weeks, you’ll know that I am having entirely too much fun telling the story of Inger, as I write this next chapter.