Favorite Christmas Memories

The combination of Dad's teasing and Mom's creativity genes and influence resulted in some interesting nicknames and phrases from the boys. One of my favorite memories of Christmas-time with our family, which are many, is of the year Brad put on his wish-list something along the order of "Red Bird-Dog Peanut Skin Cheese". Possibly the same year, Dave asked for "Black Fungus". I had recently aquired familiarity with how to make a cheese ball, and was able to make one for Brad that I covered in red peanut skins and labeled with a picture of a "bird-dog". I think I remember that Kathleen found a package labeled "Black Fungus" and put it in Dave's stocking. Another favorite memory was the first year? I had a "real" job and was able to purchase something for each member of the family that they really seemed to like and appreciate. I learned that it is much better to give than receive! That didn't take away from the enjoyment and wonder I experienced from Brad's present to me one year of a Polaroid camera, the fruits of which I still have to remember our Christmas gatherings. Trying to figure out gifts for each member of the family, and our caroling or drop and run with fruit baskets to needy or lonely ward members and neighbors, always lent a spirit of love and giving to the Christmas season that I want my children to experience and remember. Inspired by an older couple playing the guitar at the grocery store, my two oldest daughters and I sung Christmas carols together as we rang the bell for the Salvation Army last year. It was precious!

What about Mom?

I know this is Dad's blog, but you can't have bread without butter, and you can't have the great man without the woman standing beside him. What about Mom? This post is for a big lady in a little body. This is the poem I wrote for her for Mother's Day in 1997. It seems even more appropriate now than then, because her shoes have grown a lot since then. We love you, Mom!

Little Feet, Big Shoes

My mother’s feet are tiny,

My mother’s hands are small,

And when she talks you might not hear

Her quiet voice at all.

But Mom will be a giant

Until her dying day

For she never does a single thing

In a little way.

She always is the first one up

And last to rest her head.

There’s far too much to think and do

To waste her hours in bed.

Her days are full of motion:

She’s never still for long.

And when the rest are resting,

Mom’s still going strong.

Mom’s family’s always growing,

Spreading out through the years,

But her adages and stories

Still ring inside their ears.

She taught with great intensity

(Her lessons were dramatic):

Once learned, not soon forgotten—

On that she was emphatic.

There’s no such word as “average”

In Mom’s vernacular.

A simple plan in Mother’s hands

Soon turns into spectacular.

We had no minor holidays—

Each one a main event.

And all Mom’s work so fast enjoyed

For her was time well spent.

Mom’s talents are considerable

(She’d be tough to out-do).

It’s good she had so many kids

That she could pass the on to,

For though Mother’s hands are tiny

And her feet are smaller still,

Somehow her shoes are far too big

For any one of us to fill.

Pass It On

This is something I wrote for Dad in 1994 for Father's Day. It's meant to be read in the tone and rhythm of "The Raggedy Man"--that old poem that he and Mom read to us now and then. I hope it provides a glimpse of the energy and love he put towards being a husband, father, and decent man. He has always been a great example to all of us of facing life with a positive attitude and lots of passion. Thanks so much for that, Dad!

Pass It On

When I was just a little girl

I had the best dad in the world.

He was young and handsome and strong.

He taught me what was right and wrong,

that we should seek to understand

the world in all its beauty, and

whatever good life brings to you

it’s your sacred duty to pass it on.

Pass it on.

When Daddy was a little boy

He learned that hard work was a joy.

When he came from work his dad would say,

“Did you earn your wage today?”

He taught us kids to do our best:

“Only with sweat you’ll meet the test.

Love your work and earn your pay.

Come home with honor every day”.

Pass it on. Pass it on.

Daddy really liked the girls.

He made them laugh and pulled their curls.

He’d hold their doors, their errands run—

he always was a gentleman.

He loved to wrestle with his sons,

and boasted them as “number ones”.

They learned to take the bolder stride

and bear their family name with pride.

Pass it on. Pass it on.

Daddy like to joke and tease.

He’d tickle us silly til we begged “Please!”.

He’d razz the girls about their dates—

blink the lights when we came home late.

He’d challenge the boys to any sports,

and usually won on field or court.

Work was work, and fun was fun.

He believed in both ‘fore the day was done.

Pass it on. Pass it on.

Daddy loved his married life

and thought Mom was the perfect wife.

He used to sing her “sweetheart” songs

(We thought he kissed her much too long).

Sometimes they’d clear the kitchen floor

and dance the Lindy, Swing, and more.

When Mom was mad he’d make her smile.

He loved his girl with charm and style.

Pass it on. Pass it on.

Daddy loved to help another:

He knew how to love his brother.

Always ready with a hand,

always there to understand,

he learned to listen and was wise

about the best way to advise.

Help your neighbor. Serve your ward.

Teach your family. Love the Lord.

Pass it on. Pass it on.

One day when Dad’s a hundred-and-seven,

like all good men he’ll go to heaven.

His mom and dad will likely wait

to ask him at the pearly gates,

“What have you done with our good name?”

and he won’t hide his head in shame.

“I helped my neighbor, served my ward,

taught my family, and loved the Lord.

Just like you—I passed it on.”

Barry the Mountain-Goat: Cimbing Mt. Nebo

{this is a bit of a rough draft, I'll have to return to edit it soon}
In [about] 2005, I was in Utah.
I had been interested in climbing Mount Nebo, the highest peak on the Wasatch front {I believe} for several years.
Dad said he'd like to join me. I believe that he had climbed up to the South Peak a few years earlier with Margaret, Steve, ..[a few others]. They agreed that it had been a rather challenging hike. This report whetted my appetite all the more.
I do not remember all of the details of that march at this moment [I may have some notes on it in an old journal-I'll plan to check that before the final edit.] But I recall that the weather was rather favorable, though a bit windy as we gained altitude.
Though it was a bit of a long grind, everything was going well, except that it began to become clear to us that our water was likely to run out before the miles did. We began to ration our dwindling supply.
Eyed trickle from out of the hillside thirstily; though at the time I/we still rather wary of contracting [water-borne..] Giardia [since that time/or shortly thereafter..because of this..risk =exaggerated, at this height, & little likelihood of many animals [prime carriers]..
finally could see the peak above us. a long slow, fairly steep, windy haul. By now,the altitude and thirst were slowing our steps. We finally arrived about 7 or 8 others were arriving or resting at the peak. congratulating one another on successfuly completeing the climb.
enjoyed the view; but (now almost completely out, our thirst was insisting that we begin our descent.
)
I looked North there were two other peaks evenly spaced, stretching along the summit line much of it connected by a knife-edge, with shear cliffs on either side, perhaps a quarter mile between each. On the far end was the North Peak ofNebo, the highest by a mere [? 26 feet]
I looked at the North Peak for several seconds, then back to Dad. " I have to do it, you know." I said. " From my point of view, that's the peak' and I didn't come this far to turn around before reaching the peak."
He shook his head, but I don't recall him really trying to disuade me. He told me to be careful. I told him to hurry down, that I'd catch up to him on the trail.
When I headed out some of the others there looked rather incredulous
...a bit tricky, and quite windy; it was not much fun really. Relieved to get back to the South Peak. , then raced down to catch Dad.
Caught him in 25min ?
We were very thirsty..trudging; finally had to take a few sips from those little rivulets, cold and delcious! Trudged on down. a little worried about Giradia, but after another mile, wished I had drunk more deeply, and filled my water bottle.
Finally made it back to the car shortly after dark; headed for a store to find a drink! Wow, a great climb!
People are invariably amazed when I brag about my father, the retired banker,
climbing 5000 vertical feet at age [75?]!

Foul Fowl

I believe it was in the summer of 1978 when a truckload of chickens arrived at the house. These were laying hens that were past their prime and, therefore, ready for slaughter. They were contained in burlap bags. Since I was too young to be of much help I moved from station to station observing the process.
Outside the garage in the space between the driveway turnaround and the fence, Dad and Brad had placed a couple of tree stumps where the heads would be lopped. On each chicken was placed a little fabric hood which Mom had made. I'm not sure if it was to shield the victims from the descending hatchet or to keep Dad from having to look the chickens in the eyes as he chopped off their heads. It seemed humane.
In the garage were placed the large canning pots filled with hot water. I think Kathleen was in there dunking headless chickens, which were then plucked of all their feathers. I will never forget the steamy stench which permeated that space and the wet feathers that stuck to everything they came in contact with. I can hardly think of a worse memory.
Up the stairs in the kitchen, my mother disemboweled the now bare fowl. It was so interesting to me to watch her do this. She would extract an egg, almost ready to be laid, followed by a shell-less egg, then a whiteless yoke, then a smaller pea-sized yoke. Each egg removed was less developed then the one before. I had no interest in the rest of the process, for the smell which overtook the kitchen, as in the garage, turned my stomach.
Mom divided the meat and put it in the freezer. There was a lot of food stored that day. But after that, every time chicken was on the dinner menu, I refused to eat. The smell overwhelmed me and brought back the memory of that day. It took many years before I could enjoy chicken again.
Margaret