There is one thing that I inherited from my grandfather that my wife doesn’t appreciate.  My eyebrows aren’t necessarily thick, but they have some wild hairs.  Now that I’m getting along in years, the ones that are out of line are silver and more noticeable.  Nan thinks that the hairs that seem to grow and stick up or out without having to conform to the rest of the eyebrow, should be cut or plucked or worse yet, YUCK, she’ll lick her finger and paste them down as a temporary fix.

            A couple of years ago we made a deal.  She would dye her hair when the silver roots started to show, and if she did it on a regular basis, I would trim the long hairs from my eyebrows.  This worked fairly well and she even bought me a little trimmer to trim them with.  Even better, when I would go to the salon to get my hair cut, “Purple Hair” who cuts my hair the best, would also trim the eyebrows.

            A few weeks back, I was at the store, and found a hair trimmer that looked like it would do a better job.  This trimmer was like the small trimmer that “Purple Hair” uses to trim around the ears and neckline.  This was an enhanced version and was on closeout.  It had an adjustment that was attached that replaces all the other attachments that you would normally put on a trimmer to adjust the depth of how long or short you wanted to cut.

            The other day, Nan was mentioning that the eyebrows needed trimming.  To emphasize the point, she even dyed her hair.  She did paste the stragglers a couple of times and that’s yucky.

            I thought of the new trimmer that I bought and decided to give it a whirl.  I made sure the battery was charged and adjusted it to what I thought was a good length.  I started with the right eyebrow and whoa!!...I set them things too short.  With my thin brows, short means nonexistent.  It was gone!  I couldn’t go around with one long and one short, so naturally, I buzzed the other one too. 

            Next time I decide to trim the brows, I think I’ll try it on the dog first.

            We took a little trip this week.  On the way to our destination, we drove through Aurora Utah.  It’s a little town a few miles South West of Salina.  A flood of memories came to me as we passed along the main street past the house where Louise used to live with her family.    

            The little dilapidated house they lived in has since been remodeled and has more modern siding on the outside.  I’m not sure if it is still inhabited because just a few yards behind it is a new two story house.

            This is the house they lived in when her first husband, Pete, was alive.  This is the house they lived in when Pete worked in the coal mine.  This is the property where they raised hogs, rabbits, milked goats, and learned to live in and love a rural community.  This is the house they lived in when they would go to the auction and bring home lambs, baby goats and other creatures that were doing so poorly that no one would buy them. This is the house they lived in where they nursed those poor hapless creatures back to health.  This is the property where they worked as a family to rebuild the bridge across the canal so they could again, access their property safely.  This is the house where they took in a Navajo girl on the Indian placement program so she could get an education.  This is the house where they lived when we joined with them in going to the forest to find a Christmas tree.  This is the house where they lived when Pete got sprayed by a skunk.   It was a cold winter day and Pete needed to work.  The bus ride to the mine took a while.  He didn’t smell pleasant from his skunk encounter and they put him in the back of the bus and opened all the windows. Everyone else rode in the front of the bus.

            This is the house where the cat was bothering some of the chickens and Louise decided to pepper it with bird shot in the 22 rifle, but mistakenly put in a regular cartridge and unfortunately, killed the cat.

This is the house where they lived when I came to go pheasant hunting with Pete.   One of Pete’s neighbors offered to let us hunt with them and their dogs.  When I got there, Pete informed me that the offer didn’t work out.  We hunted the fields around their home, but didn’t find a single bird and never shot our guns.  We did have a nice hike and enjoyed the day.

 This is the house where I picked up Pete, drove to Santa Clara near St. George, then back to Aurora and home in Sandy…all in one day.

This is the house where a little girl wandered off while her mom was visiting Louise.  Louise immediately ran to the canal and saw a little hand clutching to a clump of grass.  She pulled a cold, wet and scared little child to safety, handing the child to a scared mother.

This is the house where they lived when Pete came home from work early, still in his black, coal dust covered clothes, having not showered and cleaned up,  having been injured. Working in the mine, a cable snapped and hit Pete in the back of his neck.  It cracked a bone, and over the course of time, the injury accelerated the effects of diabetes for which Pete was afflicted. Before the age of 45, Pete passed away, his body that of a 90 year old man.

This is the house they had to move from, so Louise could go to work to support the family.

Although things didn’t work out, a divorce was in the works when Pete died.  I had worked with Pete for years and loved him like a brother.  His was the first funeral I ever spoke at.

In Aurora, the little dilapidated house with the sagging roof brought back memories, good and bad.  This is the house that will forever bring back memories of a sister, dear to me.  Each time I pass by that little house, a feeling of nostalgia, a feeling of melancholy, a feeling of the years creeping bye, brings back a feeling of love for days/years gone by that can never be re-lived…only appreciated.

            I have blogged about and often stated that spring is my favorite time of year.  I love to watch the world around me as it emerges from the dormant and desolate throes of winter, changing into something beautiful, something glowing with color…something of promise.

            Just because I so much enjoy springtime, doesn’t mean that I don’t enjoy the other seasons.  Following spring is my next favorite time of year.  I do, so much, enjoy summer.

            This summer has been as good as any I can remember. Of course, as the years go by, my mind isn’t as sharp and I probably forgot others that were outstanding. 

            We’ve been able to spend time with our family on a trip to Yellowstone.  Nan and I have been able to visit our daughter and her family in Idaho.  We visited our daughter in Tooele and enjoyed a nice lunch with her and her family.  We are taking one last summer outing to Fish Lake next week, spending time with our dear friends, Charlie and Joyce.

            So it is that today I felt a little reticent about letting go of summer.  There was a change in the air over the past week, leaving me feeling a little melancholy.  The early dawn has surrendered to the darkness, the evenings, watching the sun set over the Oquirrh Hills to the west, have given way to evenings watching the stars appear.

            To put it mildly, this summer has been unique, like no other in my adult life.  From May through most of July, I was out of work.  I had to lay off all my employees, spend all my time looking for work, and of course use up much of my cash reserves to survive.  With all this extra time, I was also able to spend more than the usual amount of time, tending to my garden and yard.  My yard is no show piece.  We have trees, shrubs, flowers and lawn.  I know they look nice, but they aren’t going to take any prizes in anyone’s book…this I know.  They are pleasing to Nan and I, and that’s what is important to us.

            Because of the extra time on my hands, my garden is one of the best I’ve had.  I was able to cultivate it each week, weed and water it, and I even talked to it a few times.  All of this attention has resulted in a lot of produce.  We had radishes and spinach that were used and gone as soon as the weather got hot.  We had peas to eat fresh, froze enough for the next year, and gave half the crop away.  Nan canned beets and pickled beets enough for the next year, gave some away, and we still have some left.  We bottled beans enough for the next year, and continue to give them to friends and family, free for the picking.  We had apricots as large as small peaches.  Nan made apricot leather for storage, but most of it gets eaten by the grandchildren.  We also did the same with plums, and will have more when the rest of them ripen.

            I don’t necessarily enjoy fresh tomatoes, but most of the family does, and they are doing well this year.  I raise a lot of sweet corn.  We love to eat it on the cob, and cut it off the cob and freeze enough for the next year.  Our corn is doing well this year.  My favorite thing to do with corn is to give it away.  I like to pick a couple of dozen ears of corn, then drive around one of the neighborhoods near here, and when I see someone in their yard, stop and give them enough for supper.  One man suggested that he could help me sell it, but I declined…it would take away the joy I receive, making people happy.

            We will soon have other veggies as well.

            Our orchard is loaded with apples this year.  My guess is that we’ll get somewhere around forty bushels.  We have one really early apple tree.  It always has nice fruit, but because it ripens so early, we have to pick the apples before they fall on the ground.  These apples make a really good green apple pie.  I made one today.  It’s pretty tart, but a little ice cream on it makes it better.

            We also harvested some honey this week.  It’s possible that we might get a little more later on, we’ll just wait and see.

            In a couple of months, the fatted calves will also meet the measure of their creation.

            I have watched with interest, as a couple of my children have some game they play on the internet.  It has to do with farming.  They don’t understand that in the real world, the planting, cultivating, harvesting and preserving crops are a lot of work, not just a push of the button.  I’ve encouraged my daughter to help in the “real” garden…sort of “the little red hen” principle, but she doesn’t get it.  She’s more than willing to harvest, but that’s as far as it goes.

            So it is, that as the weather changes, I bid farewell to summer, and greet the fall with hopes of continuing a great and bounteous harvest.  I couldn’t feel more blessed…the necessities of life are still mine in abundance.  Sure, I have worked hard, but I can’t for the life of me take any credit without thanking my God for his mercy and blessings.  Without Him, I am nothing! 

            Years ago there was a movie called “Eight Seconds” about a cowboy named Lane Frost.  Lane Frost was a bull rider and a good one.   In 1989 after a really good ride on a really tough bull, he was on his hands and knees in the mud when the bull hit him twice.  With broken ribs and a torn artery, he regained his feet and sprinted towards the gate but collapsed and died before reaching it.

            Last week I saw my neighbors herd of cows in the alfalfa field behind my house.   I climbed the fence to push them into the adjoining pasture.  Seeing the one ton bull with the cows reminded me of what bull can do.  Abruptly, I climbed back over the fence and retrieved a pitch fork before returning to herd them back where they belonged.

            A bull, identical to the one in the alfalfa, was one time acting a little protective of his harem.  Being the cautious type, I had warned my neighbor not to turn his back on the critter.  While separating a couple of cows from the heard, somehow, the bull took offense to someone messing with his girlfriends.  Before my friend could react, the bull, although with no horns, was pile driving him into the ground and fence.  We humans are no match for a 2000 pound bull.  As this attack began, another neighbor’s dog started to go crazy and distracted the bull enough that with some encouragement, the dog’s owner was able to coax my friend into consciousness enough to get himself to a gate where he was rescued.

            When I was small, perhaps six or seven years of age, while my sister and I were in the front yard of our home, there came a rather large bovine creature.  He was probably twenty feet from us, and he lowered his head and was pawing the ground with his front feet.  We were really scared.  I sprinted to the front porch which was perhaps ten feet away.  I didn’t need the stairs…I just ended up on the porch.  Turning around, to my amazement, my sister was so scared that she had frozen in place.  Her feet wouldn’t move, she just stood there with a horrified look on her face.  I jumped off the porch, grabbed her by the hand and dragged her out of harm’s way.

            Today, this sister is facing a bull of a different kind.  His head is lowered and he is pawing the ground.  She is facing him head on, full of courage.  Her feet are not frozen in place, she is sprinting towards the gate and she has the inner peace to face what is coming.  I wish I could grab her by the hand and drag her out of harm’s way, but it isn’t to be.  Cancer can sometimes be a horrible, menacing bull.

            Life can get Crazy.  This past couple of weeks have been enough to put me in the loony bin.  A week ago today we drove to West Yellowstone.  It was a quick trip with all the kids and grandkids.  Unfortunately, we were short one kid, her spouse and some grandkids.  Still we managed to have a good time, visited Yellowstone Park, drove a lot, hiked a lot, ate a lot and slept a little.  I woke up on Friday and had a sick stomach.  It kind of messed with me for the whole trip.  We had to be home for Sunday as I had some obligations I needed to do.  As soon as I walked in the door on Saturday evening, the phone rang and someone was having power problems.  I went to do a service call and got back late in the evening.  My irrigation turn was from 10:00 PM Saturday til 2:00 AM Sunday.  I got most things irrigated and at a little after 1:00 AM  I was just too tired to continue, I sent the water down the ditch, went in and went to bed.  Sunday started early as I had a 7:00 AM meeting and it went until nearly 9 when I had to be to another meeting as the speaker.  After that, I relaxed until Nan was ready to leave with her sisters for their yearly outing.

            My computer crashed twice.  Both times while I was trying to finish a form requesting mediation/arbitration for our property that the state is taking for the new road.  I messed with the computer for a couple of days and suddenly, after a repair program and a restore to an earlier date, it started working again.

            I’m still trying to find work, as I haven’t picked up anything new in quite a few months.  I had to do a punch list on a job I completed, and am now done with that job.  Now I’m down to no jobs.  I do have a couple of jobs that I bid, that look like I’ll be doing them.  I’m even hopeful that they’ll start in about a week.

            I seem to be getting pressure from all sides.  If it isn’t someone pressuring me about work, it’s the Red Cross wanting to do a summer blood drive…which I haven’t time to handle.  I have a deadline to meet, filling out a roster of youth to work with Special Needs Youth.

            I have a truck in the shop needing a repair and I am just worn out. 

            My highlight for the week was a tee shirt that made me laugh.  It said “I childproofed my house but the kids keep getting in”

            Sitting on the rostrum behind the pulpit sometimes has its advantages and disadvantages.  About half the time, my church calling requires me to sit up front.  Sometimes it’s embarrassing when I’ve had a late Saturday night and struggle to keep my eyes open and my head from bobbing, as I fight to stay awake.

            This past Sunday I was really glad that I was sitting up front, as I was able to observe a remarkable experience.  One of the deacons who happened to be  passing the sacrament to the audience had a moment of clumsiness.  He tripped and fell flat on his face.  The fact that he was carrying a sacrament tray and it hit the floor with a bang didn’t help his cause.  A couple of people helped him up and helped him pick things up.  He was the last one to finish, so the other deacons were already waiting for him.  It was obvious that he was very embarrassed by the situation.

            The sacrament finished, the deacons sat down.  The Bishop got up to announce the rest of the meeting and excused the deacons to go sit with their families.  As the deacons filed out of their row, I noticed one of the older deacons put his arm around the young man and then pat him on the back.

            I was truly touched by this act of compassion.

            My thoughts went to previous times in my life when I have figuratively stumbled.  Perhaps my actions were careless or insensitive and others were hurt, embarrassed or offended.  I can remember feeling really low for doing something so stupid.  It was at these times that I felt His arms around me.  It was as if He was patting me on the back and letting me know that it was OK.  That he knew what I was feeling and was there for me.

            So many times, when one stumbles as happened this past week, others would tend to make fun of him, rather than show compassion as happened in this instance.  I’m a better person for the example I observed.  It gives me confidence in the upcoming generation.

            There was a time when I would spend every Saturday, late in the fall, duck hunting.  It was something I started doing in my late teenage years and continued for several years after I was married.

            My first experience duck hunting was when I was too young to carry a gun.  My father had hunted ducks on and off for many years, and I finally reached an age where I guess he thought I might enjoy tagging along.  We got in the truck and drove to one of the many marshes that surround the Great Salt Lake.  This area is in the migration path of many species of birds and ducks.  We hiked for a ways, waded through the marsh and finally came to a place where there were cattails and grass high enough to hide in.  The season in those days began at somewhere around 10:00 AM.  As soon as the season opened, everybody started shooting at the many ducks that were flying around in a panic not knowing where to land safely.  Most hunters would bag a couple, and of course, the next day, being Sunday, we’d have roast duck for supper.

            I don’t remember too many hunts where I came home without at least one bird.  Each year, I would buy a case of shotgun shells.  When the case was gone, my season was over.  I couldn’t afford more.  I would take two boxes of shells with me each week.  Some weeks I would use them all and not have much to show for it.  Some weeks I would use less than a box and have my limit.  I can honestly say that I’m not too good at hitting ducks.  Those little suckers fly fast.  Mostly I just shot holes in the sky.

            We found “our spot” where the ducks always flew over us.  We hunted there for years.  There were the years where we took our flat bottomed boat and went out for the hunt.  There were years where we loaded up and road bikes out on the dike roads to “our spot”.  There were the times when we hunted on snowy days and would hide under white sheets until the ducks flew over.  We even bought decoys and got a good laugh when we spotted a hunter sneaking up on them.  There was the year when Roger went to retrieve a duck and stepped in a hole.  I remember how mad he was as he was soaked clear through.  I remember watching him disappear and then come up coughing and spitting that nasty marsh water.  There was the year when I couldn’t find anyone to go with me, and took the neighbor kid with me.  I couldn’t hit anything that day, so in desperation, I gave him the gun for one last shot before we went home.  Wouldn’t’ you know it, his only shot and he bags a Mallard.  I made him clean it, and he was proud of his prize.  I wonder if his mom cooked it for their Sunday supper.

            There was the fateful year, probably around 1975.  It was the opening day of the season and it began at 8:00 AM. Of course there are those hunters that begin shooting early, but the wardens have spotting scopes and are generous with their citations.  That being the case, I always waited until the appointed hour.  I really tried to follow the letter of the law.  I was having a hard time hitting anything.  All morning, I had only had small Teal flying over, and was wishing for a Mallard or something substantially larger.  I was watching a flock of birds approach where I was hiding and when they were within range, I lifted my gun for a shot.  It was another flock of Teal but there was a larger bird in the bunch.  I took aim, let it fly, and that big bird crumpled up mid air and landed in the road on top of the dike.  The warden was driving up the road and my bird nearly hit his truck.  I went up to claim my prize and the warden watched me pick it up.  It was then that he approached me and said “do you know what you just shot?”  I answered honestly that I didn’t.  He then said “what you just shot is a protected species”.  I thought to myself  “oh *$*#%”.

            My heart dropped to my toes, knowing that I was in trouble.  The warden was actually kind to me.  He explained that even with ducks, you have to identify what kind it is before you shoot.  He put my prize in a plastic bag, confiscated my license and told me that I could continue to hunt but that I needed to stop at the warden’s office on my way home.

            When I stopped by the office, I was issued a citation and ordered to appear before a judge in Farmington in the near future.  He gave me back my license and said “have a good day”.  A couple of weeks later at the appointed time, I appeared before the judge.  He wasn’t as kind as was the warden.  He wasn’t as kind in giving me the same advice about identifying what you shoot.  He asked if the warden had confiscated my gun.  I answered that he had not.  He then turned to the warden and asked why not, as it was common to do so with this kind of infraction.  The warden stood up for me and said it was an honest mistake.  The judge was respectful of the warden’s evaluation of the situation and allowed me to keep my gun, but fined me fifty dollars.  All for one bird…a Cormorant.  They had frozen it and saved it as evidence.  I shot it fair and square, they saved it, but they didn’t give it back.  I never did find out what Cormorant tastes like…but if it’s anything like duck, it doesn’t taste all that good.

            “Our spot” was always good.  Even when hunting was slow on the rest of the marsh, the birds flew over us.  We continued week after week in the fall for several years, when we discovered that other hunters weren’t deaf.  They could hear our shooting and over a couple of year’s time, converged on “our spot”.  We would have to get there earlier and earlier each week, and even then, they began to crowd us out.  We would hide in our places and they would move up next to us, making it uncomfortable if not unsafe.

            At last, all good things come to an end.  We would eat our ducks or give them away and we finally got tired of meat that tasted like marsh mud.  We tried all sorts of things to make it taste better. We tried stuffing it with apples, onions, marinating it in all sorts of different concoctions, but to no avail.  We finally just got tired of eating it.  We gave it to family and friends until we didn’t have any…ducks or friends.

            It’s been many years since I’ve hunted ducks, eaten ducks or wanted to do either.  If I want to eat something that tastes like that, I can go to the canal down the street, mix some moss with the mud and have a mud pie. 

            Ducks may be birds of the same size but they don’t “taste like chicken”.

            I noticed a spot on the internet that said that today is “national donut day”.  I didn’t know we had to have a day to celebrate donuts. 

            According to my years of reading Louis LaMore, back in the days of the old west, donuts were a treat and because of their shape and size were referred to as “bear sign”.

            Growing up, my mom used to make homemade drop donuts.  I’m sure these were similar to the ones referred to by Mr. LaMore.  Even the memory of those donuts brings about pleasant memories.  Because of the time and effort required to make them, it wasn’t an everyday treat.  The times we did have them were special.

            While living in Denmark, we had something that was similar in size and shape but cooked differently and surely not the same recipe.  These were called ableskivers.  The translation was apple slice.  With these Danish delights, a little slice of apple was cooked in the middle and they were rolled in sugar or powdered sugar.

            I know some people that travel a long way to get the special brand of donuts they like.  For me, I’m perfectly fine with a chocolate cake donut as long as it’s fresh cooked, not from a package.

            The only donuts I like packaged are the baby donuts.  I don’t eat them often, but when traveling, they are good to munch on.

            I had one supplier that used to have donuts on the counter every day.  It seems that some contractors would have all their employees there almost every day.  I’m sure they lost many hours of work while their employees stuffed themselves.

            As it is, I have one supplier that has donuts on Fridays.  Sometimes I eat one, sometimes I don’t. 

            Since it is national donut day, I suppose I really should support the system and partake.  I know my cholesterol is already in the shape of little donuts, but one more can’t hurt…or can it?

            Almost all my life I have lived in a house that had a piano.  As a child, I took lessons and didn’t particularly take it seriously.  Perhaps I could learn now, but the desire isn’t upon me. 

            My parents purchased a piano when I was a child.  It was not like the tall upright ones, but was shorter and had some kind of wood with a blond finish.  That piano remained in their house until the house was vacated two years after mom passed away.  One of my sisters has it now.  There have been many pianos that I have seen, played on and cursed throughout my life.

The other day, as I drove down the road, there next to the curb was a piano.  At least, it was what was left of one.  There were some kids walking down the street and they were walking around and examining it.  From the looks of it, it had probably fallen out of a truck and because of the damage, been pushed to the side of the road and abandoned.  The keys were missing, the legs were broken, and it was a total wreck.

            The memory came back to me as if it was yesterday.  I was driving towards town, and in the middle of the intersection of 39^th South and 7^th East, two men were trying to lift up one end of a piano while a third was trying to back a truck under it.  This piano was also wrecked beyond repair, but at least they were going to haul it off.  There was a lot of traffic and I’m sure they were risking life and limb to get it off the road.

            I remember a large and very heavy piano that belonged to my sister.  For some reason, she and her family moved several times a year…or so it seemed.  The first time we moved it, we sort of lost control of it as we were going down the stairs of her split entry home.  I don’t remember who had to patch the hole in the wall.    Each time they moved, we had to pick up that doggone heavy thing, load it into a truck and move it again.  Since my sister had a brother-in-law that was tall and strong, it was a running joke that we would have four of us on one end of the piano and him on the other end.   It was a happy day when they finally sold it, except for the fact that they offered to move it for the people that bought it.  We had to deliver it to a house way up on the avenues.  When we got there, they wanted it put in the basement.  We had to carry it down a narrow path and stairs around the outside of the house and into the basement.  We almost didn’t make it.  I’m certain that if the people ever sold the house, the piano would have to stay with the house.

            My mother had a cousin, or some relation, that was helping move a piano and he was riding in the truck to steady it as they drove along.  When they went around a curve, the piano tipped over on him and crushed him.  He expired before they could get the piano off of him.

            We have a similar piano.  Years ago, Nan’s dad was doing a demolition job for a music store owner.  He traded some of the work for pianos for his kids that were married at the time.  The one we got had been refinished with wood grained Formica.  It must have been a lot of work for somebody.  We’ve had it probably close to 30 years, and it was old then.  We’ve had some people play it that think it has really good sound.  Now that the kids have grown and moved away, the only sound that comes from it is when someone is visiting.  If it isn’t one of the kids, then it’s one of the grandchildren, most of whom don’t know how to do much but pound on the keys.

            I once casually mentioned to Nan that we might want to get rid of it.  My, was the wrong thing to say!  As a gift from her father, it has too much sentimental value for her to ever part with it.  I’m thinking that when she gets old and passes away, they will have to make a coffin big enough to fit in the piano too.  Perhaps we could use it as a coffin.

            I just know that someday we’ll have to move, and I don’t think any of my family is strong enough to move that dang heavy thing.

            Don’t get me wrong, I like piano music.  I just think that for the amount of time it gets played, we could be better served by a xylophone or an electric guitar taking up the space in the living room.

            Through the years of raising our children, it was not uncommon for me to walk out the back door of our house and trip over a bicycle.  Also, it was not uncommon for me to be found repairing a flat tire on a bicycle.  We used to buy   tire repair kits by the case.  I think the children would deliberately head for a thorn patch, just so I could fix the tires.  Usually, when I was fixing a tire, there were multiple holes in the tube that needed patching.  Sometimes, I think I was putting patches on top of old patches.  As the children grew up and moved away, these particular problems also disappeared.

            As a youth, I learned to ride a bike on an old girls bike that belonged to one of my older sisters.  It was light blue and unlike most bikes today, had fenders to keep the water and mud from splashing up on you when you rode it.  I took a couple of nasty spills on it as I learned to ride on the playground behind Oakwood Elementary school.

            The first real bike I owned was one given to me for a special occasion…I’m not sure if it was for Christmas or my birthday.  It was brand new and made by J C Higgins.  I will always have a fond place in my heart for that bike.  I spent many hours riding it around the neighborhood with my friends.  It was a dark red, more the color of a ripe plum.  I loved to race along at top speed, then jam on the brakes and skid the tire.  This particular bike was once partially crushed because I left it in the driveway.  My father ran over one of the wheels with his truck.  I’m sure my father didn’t have money to repair it, but somehow, it was accomplished and it looked brand new again.  I don’t recall what became of it.

I eventually came into possession of a Schwinn bicycle that had belonged to my brother-in-law Carl.  While he was attending college, it was his mode of transportation.  I don’t know if it was paid for or if it was given to me.  I just remember that at that time, Schwinn was the most popular and expensive brand.  It had hand brakes and three different gears.  As I was getting used to this bike, I wasn’t used to hand brakes and as I was making good time going down the sidewalk, I turned into the church parking lot, only to find a car exiting.  We had  a minor collision with the car getting the best of the deal.  I forgot that the bike had hand brakes.  Bikes are no match for a car, and even though the driver saw me coming and stopped, I didn’t even slow down and hit him head on.  I flew over the handle bars and landed on the car hood.  Shaken up but uninjured, I couldn’t find any damage to the car or the bike, and got back on the bike to go home.  It was at this time, I discovered that the front forks had been bent back a little, and when I went to turn, my feet would rub on the front tire. 

The next bike I remember in my life was the one I purchased on my mission in Denmark.  I had just arrived from the States and it was my first major purchase.  It was my primary mode of transportation.  My companion and I rode bikes everywhere even though it was winter.  On Sundays we would lock our bikes in the bike parking lot at the rail station, ride the commuter rail to another town for church services, and then late Sunday evening, return and ride our bikes back to our apartment.  On one of these trips, when we got back to the station, my bike was gone.  Apparently, somebody wanted a new bike and acquired mine.  We looked through the lot, over and over again, but it was not to be found.  Of course it had been locked, but if someone wanted it bad enough, locks could be cut.

There was a man and wife that we spent a lot of time with.  They were an older couple and never had children.  We would eat at their house several times a week.  Frank owned a bicycle shop, and his wife Esther helped him and spent her days with him. Esther had a bad heart, and was quite feeble.  I was able to buy a used bike from them.  This bike wasn’t new, but Frank made sure that it was in good shape.  I used this bike for the remainder of the two years I was in Denmark.  I sold it to another missionary when I was ready to return home.

My companion and I decided to take a bike trip on one of our preparation days.  We wanted to see the sites on the Southern end of the Island.  It was many miles away, and took us many hours to get there.   From where we lived in Naestved to Mons Klint, as near as I can figure, one way was about thirty miles.  At Mons Klint, high on the cliff looking over the ocean, one could, on a clear day catch a glimpse of land…Germany.  It was a clear day, but I don’t remember if we were able to see Germany or not.  The ride home was long and tiresome. We had been gone since early in the morning, and had a long way to go.  Finally, unable to ride any further, we came to a town and caught a commuter train back to Naestved.  Very late at night, we took our bikes off the train and rode to our apartment.

I had some interesting experiences with bicycles during the two years in Denmark.  I had one companion that had very poor eyesight.  I remember riding in a snow storm and pulling up to a stop under an awning in front of a store, only to watch in dismay as my companion ran into the curb and fell over in the wet slush on the side of the road.

I had another companion that had just bought a new two pant suit.  As we were riding along the side of the road, a car came a little too close to me, and I edged over a little too close to my companion, clipped his bike, and sent him tail over tea kettle in the grass.  There was a nice green stain on his blue suit and If my memory serves me well, there was a hole in one of the knees.  At least it was a two pant suit and he had one more pair of pants.  He kind of got even with me, as this particular town had a bike path along the edge of the bay that we rode on to get to town from our apartment.  One time, we were riding side by side, and as someone approached from the opposite direction, he returned the favor, nudging me, accidentally of course, off the path and into the bay.

Another companion and another town:  This particular town had a draw bridge that we had to cross in our daily travels.  We were living on one side of town and working on the other.  One day there was a big storm, and a tug boat sank in the fjord next to the draw bridge.  A couple of days later, there was a large boat with a crane lifting the sunken boat.  As we were coasting on the downhill side of the bridge, we were standing on our bikes so we could see over the side of the bridge and look at the boats.  My companion was ahead of me and he drifted a little too close to the railing between the sidewalk and the bike lane.  He snagged a pedal on one of the posts of the railing, stopping his bike short.  I heard a big clang and looked up in time to see him sailing off his bike, spread eagle in the air.  He probably flew for about ten feet before hitting his head on the railing.  I ran over his wrecked bike with mine, but stopped just short of running over him.  He wasn’t unconscious for long, but it rattled his marbles, and he had to get a nasty gash in his head stitched.  A few weeks later, on his repaired bike, we rounded a corner in town, and we happened to be going across the trolley tracks.  This time he dropped his front wheel into the grove in the pavement next to the track.  Unable to steer, he biffed it again.  This time, he just got some road rash and one cut he had to have stitched.  I wonder if he still remembers those  times.

Well, things have kind of gone full circle around here.  My wife and a couple of daughters have expanded on their running and marathons and half marathons and 5K and 10K races.  They have decided to participate in triathlons.  This consists of swimming, riding a bike and running.  Now we have in our garage a couple of expensive bikes.  These bikes have many gears and little skinny tires for road racing.  It’s back to tripping over bikes when I go into the garage to get something.  If that weren’t enough, I’m back to fixing tires.  In the last month I’ve had to fix three flats on Nan’s bike and one on Leslie’s bike.  I put a thorn resistant tube in Leslie’s bike, but they don’t make them in the size that Nan has.  Nan is good on a bike and loves to ride.  I know Leslie knows how to ride a bike, but she just had to have the special shoes that clip into special pedals.  She hasn’t biffed it for a couple of weeks, but that’s because she has been sick and hasn’t ridden in a couple of weeks.  I keep telling her that she won’t be able to type on her computer at work if she breaks something.  But who am I to say.

I’ve come to the conclusion that when this life is over and I show up at the pearly gates, I’ll be ushered through a door and will trip over a bike with flat tires.  I can imagine it having flat tires that I’ll have to repair daily, and instead of a set of wings, they’ll look at me and say “you get the bike”.

            My favorite time of year is here again.  With the winter storms ebbing, and the spring rains washing over the fields, I can’t help but thank my Creator for this beautiful earth.  The mountains around our valley are still snow covered and beautiful in their magnificent grandeur, as they peak through the storm clouds passing bye.

            The leaves in the valley are beginning to grow.  My globe willow tree, that I  pruned to a stump, already has new shoots on it that are covered with the brightest green you can ever imagine.

            The peas, spinach, radishes and beets that I planted are all sprouted, and I spent a couple of hours killing the wicked weeds that plague their struggle to survive.

            My bees survived the winter and are about, pollinating anything and everything that is blooming.  I fed and nurtured them, medicating them against diseases and mites, and I am doing my best to be their friend.  I know they don’t appreciate what I do for them, but in my quest to help them, I have grown to love them.  It is a hobby that costs me money, but the pleasure I derive from it is immense.

            My most favorite thing about spring, however, is something pleasing to the olfactory senses and easy on the eyes.  How do you describe something as beautiful as a blossom.  As soon as the apricots finished a spectacular year of blooming, the plumbs began their turn, transforming my orchard into something that even a picture can’t adequately encompass.  Now that the plumbs are finished, the cherries are blooming and nearly complete, and the apples are in the middle of one of the prettiest and most proficient blooms that I can ever remember.  I took Nan out to the orchard just to gaze at them.  My daughter from Idaho was impressed, lamenting that she forgot her camera.  Not only is it beautiful, but even with my sinus problem this last week, I could smell the fragrance that mother nature provides.  Our hedge of flowering plum bushes are ablaze with deep pink flowers that overtake your imagination when you walk out the back door.  The sweet fragrance nearly bowls you over before you even realize what it is.

            I realize that we’re at the mercy of nature.   Even though the bees have been doing their thing, and there are apricots on the trees, and plums on the plum trees, and most assured, there will be apples on the apple trees, a cold spell with freezing temperatures could take away all this fruit.

            Still, with all this beauty, I would thank God, for I have been adequately rewarded.  More blessings, I could not ask for.

                It’s only sheetrock.  You know, the plaster board kinda stuff you put on walls, patch the joints, nails and screws, then paint it to make it pretty.  It’s been around for a long time.  As little kids, we used to take little pieces of it and use it as chalk to write on the sidewalk or driveway.

            This past weekend I had two things that reminded me of an incident that happened many years ago. 

As I was entering my teenage years I worked for my dad as an electrician.  At that time, my father mostly wired homes for a living.  We had a project not far from home where we were wiring an entire subdivision for a contractor.  These were not large homes, and it would only take a day for my brother-in-law, Homer, and I to wire one.  For some reason, before we were done with this particular house, the drywall contractor had the house stocked with sheetrock.  They had a stack leaning on the living room wall and another stack piled on the floor in the living room.

Not sure that the outlets were finished on the wall behind the stack of sheetrock, I pulled on the stack to look behind it.  This stuff is heavy, and as the stack started to move, I couldn’t stop it.  In my rush to get out of the way, I stumbled on the stack of sheetrock on the floor and that’s as far as I got.  The falling pile pinned my left leg against the pile on the floor. 

My father was there, and he along with homer tried to lift the pile, but it was just too much weight.  A couple of workers from the house next door heard the noise as the sheetrock crashed down, and came over to investigate.  With the two men and my father and Homer, they were able to lift the sheetrock just enough for me to get my leg out.

My leg was sore but probably not broken.  I went back to work and helped finish the wiring on the house.  I never went to the doctor for it.  I did have a spot on the side of my leg that was numb for years afterward, and the leg hair didn’t grow on that spot.

A few days later I also learned that a couple of the floor joists below the pile of sheetrock had cracked.  Between the pile on the floor and the twenty or so sheets that slammed down, it’s fortunate the entire floor didn’t cave in.

Since that time, I’ve always been wary of sheetrock…Don’t ever pull on a pile leaning against a wall, It’ll get you if you don’t watch out. 

            Safety comes first.  In my line of work, it pays to be careful.  I am continually talking safety to my employees.  As electricians, there is always something to be learned about safety, working with tools, ladders, equipment and then there’s the others trades that we are working with.  We have to be vigilant, constantly on the lookout for hazards that can harm somebody.

            I’m the first to recognize that accidents can happen to anyone.  I’ve had my share of falls, broken bones, cuts and scrapes.  I know what it’s like to be hurt and to worry about feeding a family while recuperating from an injury.

            A few years ago, I had a big project installing a large duct bank of conduit for communications.  Over the course of a summer and fall, with someone else doing the excavating, I ran a little over forty thousand feet of four and five inch PVC pipe on a military facility.  This project included adding some underground vaults with manholes for their access.  The prime contractor hired a new safety officer to oversee the project. 

            I don’t know how many people have had a chance to lift a manhole cover, but they are very heavy.  With the right tool, a little steel handle about three feet long with a hook on the end, the manhole cover can be pulled out of the hole and manipulated, although not easily.

            The first day the new safety officer was on the job, he wandered over to where I was getting ready to remove the cover from a manhole.  He stood to the side as I inserted the hook in the hole on the edge of the cover, and as I flipped the cover off the hole, it landed squarely on his toe.  Who would have thought a safety officer would wear cowboy boots to work!  He didn’t miss too many words when he began to cuss, but did miss a few days of work.  When he came to work, he was wearing a bandage on his broken toe and a protective boot to keep the foot immobile.  After that he kept his distance.  Another representative of the contractor took over the duties overseeing the manhole operation.  Although I wasn’t present for his accident, he came to work minus part of a finger, thanks to a manhole cover.

            The only accident I personally had involving a manhole was where someone left the cover off of one.  Not watching where I was going, I stepped into the hole with one leg, and was very surprised to find myself at ground level with one leg dangling in the hole.  Fortunately, no harm was done, other than there were other people there and my pride was damaged. 

            Anyhow, I talk safety constantly, trying to prevent the obvious, and trying to be proactive about the unseen.  Unfortunately, sometimes the only way we learn is by experience. 

            A couple of weeks back, I got a call from the wife of a friend.  They were in need of some help in their yard.  They had purchased a boat and were going to store it in their barn.  The drive from the road to the barn was probably only about forty feet long, but because of recent rains, was pretty much mud.

            My friend had started digging at the barn, and was removing the top five or six inches of mud.  He had been working for a while, and had a place about three feet out from the barn door that was cleared.  I should mention here, that it was Saturday afternoon and he had ordered a load of gravel that was to be delivered on Monday morning.  Recognizing that it wouldn’t be possible to dig this out by hand and be even close to done by Monday, His wife called me to see if I could bring over my skid steer and help out.

            I just happened to be home, and was looking for something to do.  I hooked up the trailer, loaded my machine and was there in just a few minutes.  When I got there, I found that it was indeed muddy.  Only the top was muddy, but with the clay soil out there, it was really slick.  They had a small trailer that they needed to move. They were unable to get a vehicle near it without getting stuck…they had tried.  I pulled the trailer out and proceeded to clean off the mud.  They had a place that I stacked and spread out the mud and dirt.  In the matter of an hour I was finished.

            Now I’m not a stranger to “biting off more than I can chew”, having been in many situations that required help from others.  I wasn’t judgmental about it and was more than glad to be of service to them.

            With my equipment loaded, I was getting in my truck to leave when this good man came and handed me a check.  I wasn’t expecting it and didn’t want to accept it, just wanting to be a helpful neighbor.  He insisted, commenting that even in this economy, he and the company he worked for were doing very well.  The check was more than I would have charged if I were going to do this job for even a wealthy client.

            The interesting thing is that he didn’t know it, but I really needed the money.  That week, work hadn’t gone too well and the money he paid me represented almost all I had brought in.

            I have learned to trust in a higher power.  Many times, our prayers are answered through other people.  I only hope that I’m listening to the promptings when I need to be there for others.  The regrets I have are when I have had promptings and have ignored them.  Perhaps, by the time I’ve grown up, I’ll understand and recognize these things.

            I’ve also learned to say “Thank You”.

I have been negligent in my driving on occasion.  I haven’t caused any accidents or been involved in any.  I have not had a ticket for any moving violation in over thirty years. (knock-on-wood)  There have been a couple of times when my mind hasn’t been on my driving and I have spaced off some things, but not to the extent of distracting other drivers or giving them cause for road rage.

            I have been a supporter of our local fire department for many years.  I have even been a recipient of their services on a couple of occasions.  I wouldn’t want to ever do anything to change how I feel about them or that would affect the services they offer.

            Yesterday as I was driving with my son-in-law to look at a job, we hadn’t gone far when we saw a fire truck with its lights flashing and siren blaring.  We were on a large road with a straight stretch ahead of us and I naturally pulled off the road into the emergency lane on the right hand side and stopped.

            Watching the fire truck in my rear view mirror, to my horror, it began to drift into the emergency lane where we were stopped.  This truck was really moving, and the dust was flying as it drifted further into the emergency lane.  Eventually, it was totally in the emergency lane, and I began to take my foot off the brake, with the hope that I could accelerate a little and cushion the blow.

            I don’t know what happened, but in the last couple of seconds, before an impact occurred, the driver swerved back onto the road and missed us.  There were no other cars that were in his way to cause him to drift off the road, so I can only assume that he was looking somewhere other than where he should be driving…perhaps at the upcoming intersection a couple blocks ahead.

            These are public servants, out there putting their lives on the line, saving lives and property.  I hope they realize how close they came to causing a situation, probably similar to the one they were responding to.

            In the meantime, my heart with its sometimes irregular heartbeat, has not settled down.

            Oh Yeah, my son-in-law and I nearly had to go home and change our shorts.

            Authors note:  I sent a copy of this to the local fire chief.  He immediately responded and asked the time and place that this happened.  He said he would look into it and get back to me.  It’s been two days and I haven’t heard a word, but I would presume that the firemen involved will probably deny the incident.

            I’m not looking for anyone to get reprimanded or disciplined, but I think they should be aware of this so they can be a little better next time.

            I’m also aware, that as the firemen respond to emergency situations, many times, they have to deal with drivers that don’t move out of the way, or that actually move the wrong way and impair their progress.

            In this case, I was following the law!

  April 6th          Today I received a response from the batalion chief for the fire department.  They actually did follow up on the situation and diciplined those responsable.  They also said they would follow up with a telephone response.

In the early 1990’s, we bought a camper.  It was old and a friend of mine had it stored on a lot out in Heriman.  I went and looked at, and although it wasn’t in the best of shape, for the price of $250.00, I felt it would be a good fixer-upper.  It didn’t have a toilet, but had a little closet for a portable potty to fit in.  I had learned that with a family of mostly girls, a potty was a necessity.  It had a fridge and a stove with a cook top and oven.  There was lots of sleeping room.  Although the table lacked enough space for all to sit at once…we learned to rotate shifts when eating.

            The family was excited to have such a fine sort-of-RV.   After fixing it up, we had one problem…we needed to find something to haul it on.  A contractor friend of mine had an older pickup that he was trying to sell, so I bought it.  It was running good and he explained that the transmission needed a seal, so I should always have a quart of transmission fluid with me in case it ran low.

            We had my oldest daughter paint a little picture on the back.  It was a copy of one someone had sent to me.  It was a really skinny cow with its ribs showing, eating a couple of blades of grass in the desert.  The caption read “where non-fat milk comes from.”

            Finally finished, Nan and I decided to try it out.  We went up on some private property above Wanship and camped for a night.  It was a nice place, no one else up there.  We hiked around, had a nice meal, sat outside on the lawn chairs and even heard an elk bugle.   Just as it was getting dark, a couple of porcupines came over to our camp.  We tried to scare them away, but they just climbed the tree next to our camper. The next day, after a nice breakfast and a short hike, we headed for home.

            Over the next couple of years, we had a delightful time with our family.  We didn’t use the camper as much as anticipated, but did take a couple of long trips.  Once, the truck broke down outside of Flagstaff AZ.    We nursed it along until we got to town.  A new carburetor and three hundred dollars lighter, we resumed our journey.

            We once camped for a week near Jacobs Lake AZ.  We met my sister and her family there and had a great time.  We went to the Grand Canyon, and to Lee’s ferry.  We were camped in the deep forest, not any organized campground. 

            One year when my neighbor Don and I took the camper elk hunting, we did it a bit of damage.  Going through a creek, the step that was built onto the back of it snagged a rock and sort-of ripped it off.  Along with the step, a piece of the plywood flooring and the threshold at the bottom of the door ended up getting ripped off.  The weather turned off bad, and we didn’t stay as long as anticipated.  We spent nearly a day getting out of the back country, and due to some generous people, got pulled out a couple of times when we became stuck.

            Upon returning from this adventure, I spent a day and repaired all the damage.

            In 1995, my son and I took the camper far into the mountains to stay overnight and to fish.  We got there in the late afternoon and fished, set up camp and cooked supper.  After supper, I had a bad feeling about the place and mentioned it to my son.  He said that if it didn’t feel right, we should leave.  Retracing our route, we got home late that night.  I don’t know what would have happened, or if anything would have happened, but I’ve since learned that we need to follow those gut feelings.

            The memory of “the camper” brings back some intense feelings of longing for the good times of the past with my children.   I hope they have such fond memories as the ones I have.

            Oh, to be young again!  It would be nice to relive those experiences of life and raising a family.  Although the years have taken their toll on my body, and my mind, sometimes, doesn’t allow me to think as I would wish, I cherish the memories of the laughter of little children, the singing, the smiles and the good times we spent together as a family.

            Did I do enough... did I spend enough time with my family?  Probably not!  I do know that I did the best I could.  Was it easy, were the times always good?  Of course not!  Still, If I had it to do it over again, I would in a heartbeat.

            One of my granddaughters is in a play “The Aristocats”.   This is being presented by a local community theater.  I don’t know if it is an abbreviated version because it lasted less than an hour.

            We were told to be there 30 minutes before the production started.  This was easy as it was just down the street, less than a mile.

            About fifteen minutes before the production started, there began to be the most horrible putrid smell surround us.  Because of all the young children attending, I just figured some kid probably had poor sanitary habits.  Nan told me it was probably someone’s baby with a loaded diaper.

            As the play started and continued, the smell seemed to get worse and worse until I was about ready to puke.  By this time, the production had been going for a half an hour.  I was ready to walk out when the person directly behind me got up and left with a toddler.  Relief at last!  Instantly the horrible smell subsided and I could almost breathe again.   Through the remainder of the play and even after I got home, just the thought of that smell made me sick.

            I don’t know what they fed that kid, but it sure did stink when he loaded his diaper.  I can’t imagine the parents not noticing the stench and still staying in there for at least forty five minutes.  I’m sure we weren’t the only ones to have our olfactory senses offended.  The barnyard smells out back with the animals were mild compared to that kid.

            The play was good, my granddaughter was wonderful.  The evening stunk!

            In the late 1940’s my father finished the house and the family moved in.  A year later I was born and lived there until I married.  My mom lived there the rest of her life, and dad lived there until he moved here with us for his last two years.             

            I got to thinking about the closets that were in that house.  Each was probably five feet wide with bypass sliding doors.  The closets didn’t go all the way to the floor, as there were two side by side drawers below them.

 In my room, I used one drawer to stuff my school papers in, and the other was used to put toys, parts of toys that I disassembled, electronics that I took apart and couldn’t get back together and a lot of other insignificant stuff.  In the bottom of the closet were my shoes and boots.  Other things such as my Boy Scout equipment eventually found their way in there too.  When I was a little older, I acquired a couple of guns, and they also found a place in the back corner of the closet.  Needless to say, the closet was crowded and left little room for the clothes it was intended for.

My parents shared a closet that was the same size as mine.  I’m not sure how they both managed to fit all they had in such a little space, but they basically did just that for the longest time.

When I built our house 24 years ago, Nan and I shared a closet that was a small walk-in type.  Of course, Nan’s clothes took up about 75% of the hanging space.  There was a shelf that went around the top, and it contained boxes of things, some good, some junk.  Eventually, I put in a couple of portable cabinets that I bought at K-mart to organize our shoes.  This was a great help, as we didn’t have to trip over all of the shoes, 75% Nan’s and 25% mine.

As we talked about remodeling and adding on to our house 2 years ago, the one thing we both agreed on was that we needed more closet space.  With the remodel, we built a larger and more comfortable walk-in closet.  It had shelves in 3 corners, and three closet rods on which we could hang our clothes.  I also moved the shoe organizers into a space in this closet. I put a four foot wide mirror on the wall above the shoes and I bought a little piece of furniture that sits in the middle of the floor.  It’s nice to sit on to put on your shoes, trip over or fall off of.

What got me thinking of this was, that as I was looking for something the other day, I realized that with the expanded space, it just left more room for Nan to spread out a little.  Of course, my clothes are there, and not so cramped and wrinkled.  But as I looked it over, Nan has about two thirds of the shelves filled with her things, and about two thirds of the clothes hanging in the closet.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to let her have most of the closet as long as I can have a place cramped in the corner for my things.  In the corner, on a hanger is a shirt that must have shrunk, because it seems to get tighter every time I use it.  It isn’t worn much, as it was the last birthday present my mother gave me.  I choose to keep it for sentimental reasons.  Also, on the end of the rod where I have my clothes is a cane.  I’m not keeping it for the day when I might actually have to use it, but it came to me after my father passed away.  He needed it to help with his walking and balance as he became elderly.

I’ve worked in construction all my life and have helped build closets in many large and spacious houses.  Some homes had separate closets for each spouse, some with a lot of special features.  What I’ve come to determine is that closets are like our income…we spend what we make.  In the closets in our lives, we fit into what we have regardless of the size.  My large one seems a little cluttered at times, and I wish it was larger, but then, I never once heard mom or dad complain that they couldn’t fit what was important to them in their modest but small closet.

I really can’t complain, I’m blessed with clothes to put in the closet, shoes to put in the organizer, and a mirror to look in and watch myself get older. With this ageing, I hope there grows some wisdom and gratitude. Only time will tell.

There was a quote from a sign in a shoe shop that read, "I complained because I had no shoes until I saw a man who had no feet."  May we be grateful for the things we have, perhaps even a home, that it might have a closet.

            During these difficult economic times, I have often thought about what my father used to say.  “If your neighbor is out of work, it’s a recession.  When unemployment knocks on your door, then it’s a depression”. 

            My parents lived through the “great depression” in the last century and had to adapt to live in such difficult times.  Families pulled together, pooling their funds and resources to help one another.  At one time, my father was able to find work for a dollar a day, and was glad to have it.  They learned not to waste anything.

            Are we heading into such difficult times?  Only time will tell, but I think that we all need to be cognizant of what’s going on around us, keeping an eye on our family, friends, neighbors and especially the elderly who are usually on a fixed income.  When times are tough, sometimes our pride keeps us from asking for or accepting help.  It’s almost easier to “go without” rather than have anyone know of our difficult circumstances.

            Having gone through some difficult times in years past, I wonder how we will weather this storm.  At one time, having been injured on the job and unable to work, I struggled to find a way to feed my family.  I found that it’s important to communicate, so that everyone knows of the needs of each family member.

            I also found that it is much more difficult to accept help, than it is to be on the giving end.

            The children need to know that money doesn’t grow on trees.  Perhaps the family can go shopping together so they understand “economics” a little.  I remember my wife having a conversation with one of our daughters.  This daughter was a little indignant that we were using toothpaste that wasn’t stamped with the ADA approval.  This same daughter was giving Nan a hard time because the cans of tuna we bought didn’t say “dolphin free” on them.  We were raising eight children on a tight budget and trying to afford the necessities of life.  We bought what we could afford.  Our children were shocked when we had a family council and told them what the monthly bills amounted to.

              A sister of mine was going through a difficult financial time many years ago.  I remember her telling me that if one of the kids needed a pair of socks, she and her husband would skip a meal to be able to afford them.

            A little belt tightening can go a long way in keeping food on the table.  Of course, we should all have a little put away for hard times, but for some, the hard times have been a reality for quite some time, and what was stored up has long since been used up.

            The government economic stimulus may help some in their needs, but the little guy, the one with just a few employees, small cliental, small businesses…where’s the help for them?  The job market has nearly collapsed.

            In the construction industry that I’m involved in, large projects are overloaded with people trying to bid them.  It gets to the point that the one that gets the job is the one that made the biggest mistake.  When I go to buy supplies, the distributors that I patronize look almost deserted.  Lately, when I’m there, perhaps one or two other people are also there.  It used to be that all day, the parking lot was full.  Now it’s one or two, wait a few minutes and then another one or two.

            I don’t have all the answers, but feel that the best thing for each of us to do is to not panic.  There is still enough to go around if “some” don’t get greedy.  I know it’s asking a lot.  It’s a time to try to get bye, rather than to expand. 

            I have a friend who lost his job more than a year ago, and he’s still out of work.  If he would accept any kind of work, perhaps not making the big money he was used to, at least they would be off the welfare rolls and his wife wouldn’t be donating plasma twice a week for extra cash.

            I can’t begin to predict where I’ll be a year from now, but I do know and understand that if I don’t work at it and keep trying, I won’t succeed.  Tightening my belt is sure to help.  To get out of debt is something I’m working hard to do.

            Tough as it is, I feel greatly blessed.  When I look at many people around the world and even here in our own land, many are spending all their energy just trying to obtain the bare necessities, food, clothing and shelter.

There is a scripture that says:

 And again, I say unto the poor, ye who have not and yet have sufficient, that ye remain from day to day; I mean all you who deny the beggar, because ye have not; I would that ye say in your hearts that: I give not because I have not, but if I had I would give. (Mosiah 4:24)

            May we be generous in our donations to help the needy, may we have compassion towards those with less than what they need.

 I think we’ll have to face our Maker some day and answer for what we did or didn’t do to help.  Personally, I would prefer to have Him smile on me, and rest assured, knowing that I did all I could in serving my fellow man.

A few days prior to Christmas 1970, I returned home after serving a two year mission for the LDS Church.  Nan had written me letters fairly often for the entire two years.  Before I left for Denmark, we had been close, but I chose not to ask her to wait for me.  I was always hoping that she would be there, but I always expected her to date and enjoy life rather than to sit around missing me.

            After our first meeting upon my return, I recognized that the feelings we had for each other had not changed.  Sure, she had dated and attended college, but we both felt the same, even after two years.

            We shopped around for a ring, and after finding one that she liked, I later returned and purchased it. 

            My friend Mark, a year younger then I am, having just gone through a divorce, counseled me to not get married.  He was serious, and I could tell that he was still smarting from the heartache.

            I was a little shy about asking Nan’s dad for her hand in marriage.  Still, she insisted that to be proper, I needed to do it.  It was the night of her family’s Christmas party.  We were up at their cabin, and if you knew her family, it was a large group.  Somehow, we managed to get her parents up in a small little balcony that overlooked the cabins main room.  There, nervous and shy, I asked her father for her hand.  He said yes, and promptly went to the edge of the balcony, where he called for everyone’s attention.  There, to my embarrassment he announced to everyone present, that he was going to get a new “son-in-law.”

            Nan’s dad had a large station wagon.  It was a Chrysler as that is what he always had for his large family (12 kids).  On our way home, Nan and I were sitting in the back. Packed in pretty tight, we couldn’t help but cuddle up to stay warm.  When we reached my parents circular driveway, I leaned over to give Nan a goodnight kiss.  Her dad must have been watching in the mirror, because he drove through the circle to the street and around again without stopping.  I’m thinking it was three times.  He was not only buying me more time for the goodnight kiss, but to embarrass me in front of the other kids.  He had a wonderful sense of humor.

            Another night not too long after that, I presented Nan with the ring and we officially became engaged.

            Nan belonged to a sorority at the University of Utah.  They had a tradition of “passing the candle.”  What this consisted of was that the person who got engaged would leave a candle outside the sorority director’s door.  Having found the candle, the director would, within a few days, call a meeting for the candle ceremony.  The girls would sit in a large circle, sing some kind of romantic song, and as they were doing so, they would pass the candle around the circle.  After the candle had gone full circle, the girls would pretend to blow the candle out, but only the one who was engaged would finally blow it out.  This was their way of announcing the engagement to the others.  Then to my chagrin, I had to come in and meet all the other sorority sisters.

            After all these years, that night seems like a life time ago. 

            Four months later, Nan and I were married…still are.  My friend Mark eventually married again too…still is.

            All of these years with Nan have been a wonderful blessing.  She has already passed the age of her mother when she passed away.  A couple of years and she will pass the age of her father when he passed away.  It makes me think of the poem my father used to share:

            Lord, May there be no moment in her life,

            That she regrets that she became my wife.

            Keep her dear eyes just a trifle blind

            To my defects and to my failings kind

            Help me to do the utmost that I can

            To show myself her measure of a man

            But if I often fail as mortals may

            Cause that she may never see my feet of clay

            So loving all our children she may see

            Sometimes a remnant of the child in me

            Since time must bring to all its load of care

            May we together every burden share

            When death beacons one its path along

            May not the two of us be parted long

            Anon