In April 1980 I made a 3 1/2 week trip to the Arab World and made the following entry in my Journal: I returned from visiting Egypt, Jordan, Syria, Iraq, Kuwait, Bahrain, Abu Dhabi, Saudi Arabia, Libya, Tunisia, Algeria and Spain. While I had traveled the Middle East before, this long trip was unusual in several ways. One thing for sure, it was long and lonesome.

All over the Middle East there are workers traveling from their homelands---Ceylon, Korea, Philippines, Yemen, India, Pakistan, Egypt, Sudan, Pakistan and Palestine refugees---to work in the oil rich nations of Kuwait, Libya, Iraq, United Arab Emirates and Saudi Arabia. They were garbed in their native attire, often squatting on their haunches or stretched out asleep, but always surrounded by great bundles containing their worldly goods. What a fascinating study in dress, physical appearance and language sounds! The Lord has certainly created a Babel of varieties.

"The love of money is the root of all evil" came to my mind several times. The trappings of great, and sudden, wealth in the hands of many Arabs has brought out many of the evils---pride, arrogance, condescension, immorality, etc. Formerly they were rather strict and devout, but have succumbed to the temptations of the flesh.

Consumption is paramount, almost as if prosperity and worldly goods will go away, if not enjoyed or consumed immediately. I'm sure most of them remember when they didn't have so much, and may fear that it will disappear again.

Despite huge differances in beliefs, backgrounds, etc., people are so similar in ways they express themselves, react to situations. Consequently they may be influenced in similar ways. People are basically the same everywhere, and always have been. If this is so, and I believe it is, we can learn much from history. Nonetheless, while we can learn, we probably won't, because the present is so overwhelming and dominant. It takes so much personal discipline, and faith, to forego consumption today, for later usuage. It makes the future for our children somewhat bleak. Only a strong, authoritative and trusted person, or group, can convince mankind to live for the future. This supports Joseph Smith's comment in his Articles of Faith---a religion that does not demand everything from its members does not have the power (ability) to save them.

A final observation: the eight children of our family are choice spirits. I'm convinced that the family life and mutual experiences and interactions are powerful training in righteous understanding and living. Each of our children has a good and strong comprehension of the Gospel. Doug's mission and comments have been a very positive influence on all of us. The children are positive influences on each other. Despite their different personalities and attitudes, they (we) have a common and close bond of friendship. Ellen and I need to stay on friendly and a dependable basis with each of the children to prepare them for independent lives.

I'm not sure we (I) know each of them very well. They are definitely individuals. Eventually they will do/act as they please, therefore we all can influence each other through being personal friends, consistent in our behavior (example). Since there are 10 of us, we have an advantage. Each has 9 friends who care what we do and say. In addition, we need to develop close relations with other righteous people, particularly church members, who will add to the group of interested friends who care about what and who we are. There is the genius of living righteously and happily.

Close Call at the Point of the Mountain

About 2005 I was driving the Lincoln Mark VII to Salt Lake City. As usual everyone was driving fast and the traffic was fairly heavy. For some reason I was in a hurry to make an appointment, so I moved over into the inside fast lane.

As we neared the top of the freeway going over the Point of the Mountain doing about 70 MPH, I looked down at something in my lap or the seat for just a couple of seconds. When I looked up my lane was stopped about 50 feet ahead. At 70 per there was no chance of my braking to avoid smashing into the cars ahead. My left hand grabbed the steering wheel and pulled it instantly to the left. There was just enough space between the cars ahead and the cement barrier dividing the freeway lanes for my car to whiz by all of the stalled cars. Within 50 yards I had slowed down so as to find a gap in the fast lane at a much reduced speed for the remander of the trip north.

In the minutes following this close call my mind was full of gratitude for survival for me and those in the cars I might have smashed with the heavy Lincoln. I attributed this miracle to my guardian angels.

Jump off the roof

Around the early fall of 2004 Ellen and I were staying in the house because there was a terrific wind blowing and rain was increasing. A good afternoon to stay inside. Then Ellen rushed upstairs to tell me that water was spilling through the light fixture in the kitchen.

My first guess was that the roof was leaking from the driving rainstorm. So I rushed outside to struggle to put up Dave's 20-foot ladder up to the roof on the back of the house. With the wind blowing so hard I was less than delighted to scale up it to the roof top. Carefully I moved around the roof over the kitchen and then all over the roof, finding no place that appeared to be taking rain. By this time I was completely soaked and chilled, since the temperature was probably around 40 degrees. Then suddenly a big gust of wind carried the heavy ladder down crashing to the ground.

Although I shouted as loud as I could, the noise of the wind drowned it. Perhaps Ellen heard its fall, because she came out on the back patio. She was going to lift the ladder back up, but I shouted to her that she could not do it because it was so heavy. I asked her to find a rope to throw up to me so that I could tie it on top and scale down the rope. While I stood up there shaking with wet and cold clothing, she finally come out with a rope. Needless to say, there was no way she could throw it up with the wind blowing so hard. Then she disappeared for what seemed a long time, so that I surveyed the roof top to see if there wasn't some way to get down. But it was almost 20 feet to the ground and I had no wish to jump.

While Mom was in the garage trying to fashion several poles together so the rope could be lifted up, I was really feeling desperate. I took another look at the pine tree in front of our bedroom window. It was at least 12 feet from the edge of the roof, but there were branches that reached to the roof. The branch was so small that I was certain that it would break easily. As I looked down, it seemed the ground was a long distance below. When Mom did not respond to my shouts in the back, I decided that I would have to somehow to get down via the tree.

My leather gloves were wet, which gave me added concern about being able to grab hold of the limbs. Then I decided to jump as far toward the tree trunk with my left glove on the limb. As my left hand started to slip, my foot hit another branch below and to the right, allowing me to lurch forward with both hands moving lickety split along the branch toward the trunk. When I got to the trunk, I grabbed both the trunk and the limb, holding on until I surveyed the branches available that would allow my descent to the ground. Terra firma never felt so good.

I ran around to the back to find what had happend to Mom, finding her with some poles tied together. We then rushed upstairs with a step ladder to get into the attic to see where the water was coming down. There wasn't any rain coming through the roof into the attic. Then I moved down to our bedroom which was above the kitchen. Ahah! Water was spurting out of a copper pipe in the shower, splashing over the carpet and on down through the light fixture to the kitchen floor. All we had to do then was shut off the water into the house, until a plumber could be engaged to put in some new pipe. Later we had a new shower installed.

But I thought then and many times since how my guardian angels carried me safely to the trunk of that tree. Just one of many miracles in my life.

Raking & Burning Tumbleweeds

David suggested that this escapade qualified for telling:

One of my most vivid memories of the farm was the time that I was raking up tumbleweeds in the field east of our home. Old Maud was pulling the big dump rake, on which I was seated on a metal seat. We would go back and forth to rake up the weeds that I would dump in a row so that we could burn them. The ground was hard and bumpy so that the big iron wheels would bounce around as we moved back and forth across the field. In order to fiinish this task as soon as possible, I conceived a plan to start a small fire in the tumbleweeds caught by the rake tines so that the burning could take place while I was raking, thus saving time.

The flaw in this plan became apparent when I tried to trip the big tines that held the weeds, but the weeds were so tangled that the tines wouldn't lift high enough to realease the weeds. There were two ways to raise the tines: by stepping on a round metal trigger with my foot; or by reaching back to a long steel handle and pulling it forward. Neither of these methods seemed to free the weeds that were burning right below my iron seat. The fire was very hot on my legs and the smoke was suffocating.

Since I was concentrating on trying to raise the tines, and to avoid the heat, I pretty much ignored Maud. With reins rather loose, Maud started to trot (maybe she felt the heat on her hind legs too) which meant that the rake was bouncing around. It was getting so hot on the metal seat that I couldn't sit on it and found it necessary to stand up, all the while stepping hard on the metal trigger and/or reaching back to pull the lever....with no success. Meanwhile Maud was trotting faster, in fact she even started to lope, so that I was fearful of being thrown off the rake in front of the metal tines. But finally the weeds were dislodged through our racing around the field in an area where we had already gathered the weeds.

Following my getting control of Maud and stopping the rake, I sat there contemplating my good fortune in surviving this crazy escapade and vowing never to try it again.

That Dad Blast It Cupboard!

The family home evening cupboard may have been my undoing, but Dad's downfall was another one of the cupboards in the kitchen at the Corydon Road house. To understand the situation, you have to understand the layout of the kitchen. The refrigerator was placed right next to the doorway that led to the side entry of the house and to the basement stairs. That junction was well used by the whole family. Over the refrigerator was a short cupboard that had two doors, which opened in opposite directions, and stuck out beyond the edges of the fridge when open. I don't remember what was kept in the cupboard because it was far too high for my reach, but Mom must have housed something significant in it because the doors were left open on a number of occasions, which coincided with Dad's entrance into the kitchen. It was a grand entrance, announced to anyone in earshot with a loud thud followed by what sounded like "Dad blast it, Ellen!". Dad was the only one in the family tall enough to have a problem with the errant cupboard door which he would run into pell mell as he bounded up the stairs into the kitchen. Usually it resulted in a temporary headache for him, but I remember once seeing poor Dad wiping blood from his forehead. I think that one of the selling points of the Fairfax Road house had to be the kitchen with no Dad Blast It Cupboard over the refrigerator!

The FHE Cupboard

Margaret's posting about the game closet prompted my memories about another storage space with a unique purpose. At our first house in Cleveland--the green house on Corydon Road--there was a window seat built over the radiator in the eating area off the kitchen. On either end of it there was a small cupboard. One of those cupboards was the "family night" cupboard, where Mom kept materials for lessons. I have two memories connected to that cupboard. For at least a year during the time we lived at that house we had spiral bound family night journals, in which we wrote or drew something each week--depending on our age and ability--in response to the family night lesson. I remember that my notebook was yellow and that I must have been in 1st or 2nd grade ( we moved from that house when I was in 3rd grade). In one of our lessons we apparently talked about the Holy Ghost, and took time at the end of the lesson to record something in our journals. I don't know whether we were invited to share what we had written, or if an older sibling was curiously looking over the shoulder of a younger one, but I remember the older kids laughing, and then Dad joining in, while Mom tried to keep her composure when they all looked at one of the younger kids' entry. Jon, David or I had shown our very literal comprehension of the lesson with a carefully drawn blob covered with spots--the "holey" ghost. Maybe Dad or Mom can remember who the artist was.

The other memory I have of that cupboard involves one of my naughty moments. Usually our breakfasts were structured and supervised, but one winter Saturday morning Mom and Dad were absent from the kitchen when a couple of us kids were eating breakfast. I had poured myself a bowl of my favorite Cheerios and was about to dig in when Brad or Doug brought out a pitcher of fruit juice from the fridge. They said something like " I wonder how this would taste on cereal". I loved juice and loved Cheerios, but had never thought about eating them together. Without Mom or Dad to intervene I became bold and poured the juice into my bowl, delighted at how the juice swirled into the milk. My delight turned into dismay when I tasted my cereal and discovered why juice and milk are not sold in a mixed product. It was awful. I was on my way to pour my disaster into the sink when I heard Dad coming up the stairs from the basement. I wouldn't be able to reach the sink before he got to the top of the stairs, which ended just past the sink. I quickly retreated to the breakfast table, anxiously looking for a way to hide my mistake. The family night cupboard! I hastily put the bowl in the cupboard and looked innocently around to see if anyone had noticed. I was able to get a new bowl of cereal and eat my breakfast without being discovered. I intended to retrieve my mistake out of the cupboard when everyone had cleared the room, but got distracted by something else and forgot. The radiator kept on working on heating the kitchen--and the bowl of Cheerios-- for the rest of the day and the next. On Monday night when Mom went to the cupboard for the journals at the end of her lesson, the sour smelling bowl was found, my naughtiness was revealed, and a second impromptu family night lesson was taught for my behalf.

Climbing the west face of Timp

Our family had climbed Timpanogas many times from Aspen Grove, so Brad and I decided to climb the west face of Timp. There is small canyon above Lindon that leads directly toward the saddle above the glacier on the east side of the mountain. We reasoned that it would be best to climb the ridges as they would have less foliage. As we made our way to the ridges, we were surprised that the growth turned out to be dense and difficult to climb even to get to the ridge.

So we struggled with frequent rest breaks, but we were finally about 200 yards from the saddle. Then we noticed that some dark clouds were moving in fast from the west. We would be lucky to reach the saddle by the time the rain arrived. So we decided to head down as fast as possible.

After about an hour of hurried descent, the rain came down in torrents and it began to be dark as well. We had hoped to reach the road that winds up the canyon from Lindon. But we were unable to find it. We were soaked and tired. To avoid the heavy underbrush, we stumbled down the bottom of a ravine. It was so dark that we could not see where to step causing us to stumble on large rocks and brush in the ravine.

I said to Brad that we ought to pray for the Lord's help so that we would not get injured and that we could climb out of the ravine to find the road. Soon the rain moderated and we were impressed to climb out the right slope to find the road. What a relief and to know that our prayer was answered.

JAPANESE EMPEROR'S PALACE STAMPEDE

After seven months in Korea, I was given an R&R week to visit Tokyo. On January 2nd 1944 two buddies and I learned that the public would be permitted to enter the palace grounds, since it was Emperor Hirohito's birthday. When we arrived at the huge parade grounds across the moat from the Palace, there were thousands of Japanese dressed in their finest clothing. I was particularly fascinated in the kimonos worn by the women and young girls. The huge crowd were pushing toward the stone bridge that crossed the moat.

My buddies became bored with the long wait and left, but I stayed to take pictures of the people and scenery. I was swept along by the crowd that was pressing toward the bridge. The pressure became intense and many women seemed greatly ill at ease. But there was no going back as the crowd pushed harder. Evidently they thought the bridge would be closed soon.

As I was a foot taller than the Japanese, it was easy for me to take pictures and see what was going on. When I was about 50 yards from the bridge, there seemed to be much excitement at the entrance. People were screamingand some were climbing up on the stone works. Eventually I could see people being pushed into a huge pile at the entrance. Then I was pushed onto the pile of people, but neither they nor I could escape due to the prssure from behind us. I was calm and confident that I was strong enough not to be injured.

The police had arrived from the other side of the bridge and were pulling the persons in the human barricade. Then those near me were able to break through and move on to the bridge. There were dozens of people laying all over the bridge entrance who had been trampled upon, some dead and/or injured. This was particularly true for the women in their tight kimonos and sandals.

I took a number of photos of this carnage. Then we were herded on across the bridge to walk past the Palace, although the Emperor was not there in the gloom to hear the people salute him with "Banzai." The next day the newpapers said that 16 had been killed and dozens injured.

RUNAWAY CAR HEADING FOR THE CLIFF

I had just flown from Tokyo to California and arrived at Camp Stoneman where I was being discharged. On the weekend I went to visit the Basingers in nearby Berkeley. Walt Basinger and family had lived at Grandpa Lundquist's house when he was Principal of Weston High School several years prior. They were great friends of our family.

Sister Basinger was a real estate sales person. On the Sunday afternoon after church, she had to go for a quick visit to a house that she was selling in a hilly neighborhood. Her daughter, age about ten, was seated beside her in the front seat and I was in the back seat.

As we pulled up in front of the house, Sister Basinger jumped out to run into the house. She apparently thought she had put the car in park, after turning off the ignition. After a few seconds, the car started to slowly roll forward down the street. When her daughter and I realized the gathering speed, she got in the driver's seat to do I don't what. By the time I got her to move over so I could climb over the seat, the car was heading rapidly down the street toward a drop off.

When I finally got behind the wheel, I found that the brakes wouldn't work with the ignition off. So I steered the car from one side of the street to the other running over curbs and then into small trees until we finally hit a large tree that stopped the mad dash for the drop off. My memory is that Sister Basinger was chasing us at a dead run down the street. We stopped not far from the dead end drop off. That was more dangerous than my tour in Korea.

BIG SCARE IN MADRAS, INDIA

When the plane touched down in Madras, I had been traveling in South Asia for almost a month. I was feeling rather blue due to the long time from home. So I decided that I would quickly check the local newspaper to see if there was an English-language movie playing. I saw that there was a Jerry Lewis movie, so I hopped into a cab and headed for the theater. As we neared the theater, the driver offered to wait for me, but I refused rather impatiently.

We were on the waterfront area, so I thought that maybe I should sit close to the door so as to be the first one out to catch a cab. I enjoyed the movie, but as soon as it ended I bolted out of the theater to find that there were no cabs. Everyone emptied the theater in a couple of minutes and headed around the side of the theater to their vehicles. In a few minutes everyone was gone and I was standing alone in an empty parking area.

Finally I looked down a street away from the waterfront and saw some cars crossing about 6 or 7 blocks ahead. So I walked rapidly toward the street in almost total darkness---there were no street or residence lights. Occasionally I would hear noises coming from the buildings along the way, which I ignored, and walked faster. When I got to the street , there were no cars to be seen.

Then I saw a theater marquee another couple of blocks away. When I walked in front of the theater, it seemed that it was an Indian movie. There was a bicycle rickshaw standing there, with the driver talking to a person. I leapt up into the seat, and he asked me where I wanted to go. Since I had only a few rupees and was sure that it wasn't enough to go across town to the hotel, I wracked my brain and came up with the train station.

So he wheeled away up a narrow alley. A thought came to me that maybe he was taking me into a trap, where I would be robbed and beaten up. I prayed for deliverance, while deciding if I would fight, run or give anything I had. After about ten minutes the alley opened up into a plaza that held the huge train station. I jumped out of the rickshaw and gave him half of the few rupees in my pocket.

Then I looked around the plaza that was filled with people sleeping on the ground. Finally I found a taxi whose driver was asleep, woke him up, and told to take me to the Connemara Hotel. I was surprised that he accepted the few rupees I had for the fare. Whew! What a hair raising adventure.

A CLOSE CALL ON MT. TIMPANOGAS

Since I/we had not climbed Mt. Timpanogas in 1998, Ellen and I and the Willises decided to climb it on the Labor Day weekend. Always in the past, we had climbed Timp from Aspen Grove. This time we wanted to try it from American Fork Canyon on the Tipanooke Trail.

Inasmuch as Steve and Margaret had baby Tyler in tow, we determined that Ellen and Margaret would cllimb up to the lake at the bottom of the glacier and wait for us. So Steve and I left them to scale the north ridge with Margaret's advice that we slide down the glacier in tandem.

When Steve and I reached the top, we observed that a thunder cloud was moving north from Y mountain with both rain and lightning coming down. Consequently we hurried south along the ridge toward the saddle above the glacier. About half way to the saddle, the rain started with increasing fury and strong winds. We tried some shelter on the lee side of the ridge, but were getting increasingly wet from the rain. Finally I suggested that we push on down and try the glacier. By the time we reached the saddle, we were soaked; and then the rain subsided.

When we got ready to slide down, Steve sat in front of the plastic garbage bag, and I prepared to sit immediately behind him on the sack. As we started to push off, I must have got my right foot caught in the snow, because the next thing I knew I was sliding pell-mell down the icy glacier headfirst on my back. I tried to dig my hands and arms into the hard, slick surface to slow me down, but I was sliding so fast that it was impossible. The surface of the glacier was pockmarked with ridges and small holes so that the back of my head and shoulders were banging hard at an incredible clip. My feet were thrown up by the banging of my hips on the rough surface.

Finally my slide slowed and stopped about 100 yards down the flacier, much to my relief. I can only guess that I may have been sliding faster than 15 MPH, certainly faster that I can rurn. While the wild ride occupied my concern to get control of my body, I had fleeting thoughts of dropping into some of the large potholes that dotted the glacier, which would have broken my neck or caused some other serious injury, or death. As I gained my feet and was able to review my wild slide, the awesome realization of the consequence of heading into one of the potholes on my back headfirst brought a rush of great relief and gratefulness to the Lord and guardian angels for my survival.

As I stood to view the scene above me where I had traversed seconds before, I was somewhat dizzy, due in part that my glasses were missing, as well as my hat. This situation was relayed to Steve who had stopped shortly after our aborted takeoff and had observed my dangerous journey. We scanned the trail of my slide without finding the glasses but did retrieve my hat.

Our descent of the glacier was made without much difficulty, despite my feeling some unsteadiness from the slide and the impaired sight due to the loss of my glasses. We caught up with Margaret and Ellen and reached our car after a seemingly endless trail with Steve and I taking turns carrying Tyler. Without my glasses, I drove home somewhat cautiously.

The following week I acquired some new glasses. About three weeks later Douglas came to a meeting at BYU and wanted to climb Timp during his stay with us. In part to overcome any residual fear of climbing Timp, I agreed to accompany him, again on the Timpanooke Trail. When we reached the top and then hiked down tot he saddle, we met a couple climbing up the glacier to the saddle. As we chatted with the young man, we recounted to him my near disaster previously. When I mentioned that I had lost my glasses, he said that he had seen a pair of glasses at the hut near Emerald Lake at the bottom of the galcier. When we reached the hut, I found my lost glasses, no worse for the icy stay up above.

Pick a Game, Any Game

The game closet in Cleveland was my favorite room in the house. It's door was about three feet high and it was situated under the staircase off the front hall. It was a cosy little room filled with our family games. It housed Funny Bones, Uncle Wiggly, Flinch and Rook, Chinese checkers, Shoot the Moon and Labyrinth. There was Old Maid, Concentration, Checkers and Go Fish. There were countless puzzles, many with 1,000 or more pieces.
I have always loved playing games with my family. With ten people in the Thompson house there was always someone to play with. On New Year's Eve I recall games of Risk and Monopoly that seemed to go on all night long. I could never last. Around the holidays there was always a puzzle out on the game table. I would sit and work at it for a while, usually aside Dad, and then come back to it in bits all week long.
I received my very own game of Sorry when I was about ten years old which my boys now play with. Although I never learned to play chess as a child, my boys taught me the rules as they learned the game during our travels in Europe.
In most recent years we have enjoyed going over to Mom and Dads to play Uno, Chickenfoot and Quiddler, although anytime we get together as family, any game will do. No visit from the cousins is complete without a night capped with the playing of games.

Plymouth car wreck

The summer following my junior year at West Side High School my pal, Lynn Neuenswander, and I dated two girls from Dayton---Alice Moser and Mary Lou Balls. After taking the gals home about midnight, I drove our Plymouth half a mile to an intersection at a T-corner. As I approached the corner, I tried the brakes but they did not slow us much. I was rather sleepy and did not hit the brakes again. So the car headed directly into the big ditch bank with a crash.

I was draped around the steering wheel, and Lynn who was asleep in the back seat was thrown forward over my head into the front door that had spring open, and then he bounced back near the left rear wheel outside the car. After I squeezed out from behind the steering wheel, I called to Lynn who lay moaning on the ground. He had a concussion and babbled words I couldn't understand, so I was really scared. I stowed him in the car and then sprinted non-stop back to the Ball's home. There I called home to let them know our disaster. After a couple of hours, Lynn's parents picked us up and took us home. After a couple of days Lynn recovered his senses.

The Plymouth was towed to White's garage in south Dayton, where it took a couple of months and $500 to repair. I earned all of the money to pay for the repair over the ensuing year. Our family was relegated to riding in our old 1935 Ford truck until the Plymouth was repaired.

Throw the baby off the wagon

Mom said I was a baby when this adventure occurred. We were living on the Taylor place west of Bear River. We had gone down to the banks of Bear River to get a load of sand, presumably for a sand pile for me. The wagon had a heavy load pulled by four head of horses. As we were going up the steep dugway from the river to the road at the top of the hill, the pin came out of the doubletree, so that the horses with Dad holding the reins went on up the dugway. The heavily loaded wagon first stopped and then started backward downhill to a steep drop off into the river.
Mom was sitting on the high seat with me in her arms. Evidently Dad yelled to her to jump because the wagon was headed straight for the embankment into the deep river. She probably did not feel she could jump with me in her arms, so she threw me over into the side of the dugway next to the hill.

I have never learned if she then jumped because the wagon veered into the side of the dugway. In any event, Dad came down with the four horses to hook up with the loaded wagon for the trip up and back to our home. Later I grew to love to swim in Bear River, but that was not the time.

John Deere Tractor Wreck

My closest call with death came in what I believe was the summer of 1945 (15 years old). Dad had bought a new John Deere tractor, of which he was very proud. It was green and tall and fast.

One day I drove it up the hill on the road to Weston to pick up our mail at the intersection beyond the canal flume. Then I drove it up the road to our neighbor's, Wash Thompson. I can't recall why I went there, but after a few minutes I decided to lead for home.

From their barn there was a long straight driveway to the Weston road, where you had to turn right or left onto the road. I put the tractor in high gear, probably to show off to the Thompsons. As I approached the road, the tractor was probably going 20 miles per hour. I didn't think to slow down, partly due to the fact that the mail, which was on the seat under my right thigh, was jostling loose. I reached down to secure the mail just as the tractor was entering the roadway. Since I needed to go left toward home, I quickly pulled the steering wheel left and more quickly let it go to reach back across to grab it on the right side and pull it across left again to make the turn. But as those will know who have driven tractors, they are engineered to very quickly return to front wheels to straight ahead. So I was rapidly heading for the barrow pit on the opposite of the road.

Then a flash came to my mind that I could touch the wheel brake on the left to slow the left rear wheel, thus swinging the tractor to the left. By the time my foot hit the brake the tractor was almost to the barrow pit. The only problem was that in my quick reaction, I hit the right wheel brake, not the left one.

The next thing I knew I was on my back in the barrow pit with the tractor upside down on top of me. Actually the tractor seat was across my groin, pinning me to the ground. The tractor was still running and the huge rear wheels were turning. The left wheel was on top of my right leg pulling it under the wheel.

The engine finally killed, about the time that the Thompsons came running up to see if they could help. After extracting me from the tractor, they pulled the tractor upright. The tall exhaust pipe was bent upright, and the engine started. So I drove off home with much dread over ruining the appearance of Dad's new cherished John Deere Tractor.

I don't recall what Dad said when I got home, but it seems that he was very kind to me and didn't punish me for my foolishness in ruining his prized tractor.

I have pondered many times this impossible survival of what should have been severe injury or death. The incredible speed of the tractor flipping over so fast that I was not aware of it, and slamming into the barrow pit, so that I was not bruised except for where the seat arm had pinned me to the ground is astounding to me. I can onlly assume that angels protected me.

The sweet sounds of music

It was important to Dad and Mom that their children be exposed to the cultural arts. Being a closet artist, Mom sought to grace the walls of our home with beautiful artwork, and keep a supply of art materials in stock for our creative outlet. Mom and Dad’s mutual appreciation for good music resulted in a state of the art stereo system, and a significant collection of musical recordings that ranged from the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and classical music to Big Band from the 1950’s and Broadway musical scores to the best of the Three D’s. Dad listened to Mozart, Wagner and Copeland while he read the paper. Mom listened to Vivaldi and Tchaichovsky while she did her housework, and to Christmas music when she was homesick. The girls danced many a private ballet recital to The Nutcracker Suite and The Waltz of the Flowers, and knew every word to every song from The Sound of Music. Although the boys professed to be less inspired by classical music I remember playacting with them to Peter and the Wolf (David especially liked to be Peter, while Brad was the wolf) and witnessing a spectacular three man sword fight to Edvard Grieg’s In the Hall of the Mountain King. All of our listening to good music, whether intentional or incidental, prepared us for the chance to attend professional musical events with our parents. Dad and Mom would invite, and sometimes cajole, us to be their guest several times a year at some of the many amazing cultural offering in the Cleveland area, including ballet, opera, Cleveland Orchestra concerts and plays. I remember attending the opera Aida and, although I didn’t understand a word that was sung, being strongly affected by the emotion of the performance. I’m sure that Doug’s interest in the guitar inspired our attendance at the classical guitar recital at the outdoor Blossom Music Center. Blossom was also the venue for a fantastic Man of La Mancha performance and several Cleveland Orchestra concerts. When the Broadway cast of The Wiz came to town I think the whole family attended that performance, and came home singing “Ease on down, ease on down the road. Don’t you carry nothin’ that will be a load. Come on and ease on down, ease on down the road”.

Geographically speaking

For many years we had subscriptions to the National Geographic magazine, whose pictures alone took us to far away places that we had to find on the globe. Often when we found an unfamiliar country name on the globe we would turn to the encyclopedia to learn more about it. Brad was particularly fascinated with far-off places and the trivia associated with them. Because he was the champion of all things geographic, he initiated the on-going globe competition designed to stump his siblings. The idea was to challenge someone to find a country on the globe, which was rather detailed with tiny print. Brad prided himself in finding the tiniest and most remote places to challenge his opponent. The rest of us tried to turn the tables on him by giving him exotic places to locate, but he always seemed to rise to the occasion. I remember once that Brad challenged someone—I think it was David—to find a country that none of us had ever heard of before. We looked for hours it seemed then cheated by consulting the encyclopedia, just to discover that it wasn’t listed even there. When confronted with this fact Brad was pleased to tell us that the African country had just recently experienced a coup, and that its named had been changed, but since the borders had not been altered the country was technically there on the globe, so he had won the competition.

Bedtime stories

I don’t know if Mom knew it instinctively, or if Granny Keeler had modeled it for her, but she seemed to follow Emilie Buchwald’s observance, that "children are made readers on the laps of their parents." I don’t recall when I began to learn to read, but I know that it was before my first grade teacher began reading groups. It seemed to be as natural as breathing to me, which I attribute largely to the considerable time I was exposed to reading and oral language from birth on. Mom was in her element when she put on her reading glasses, propped a pillow behind her back in the middle of her big bed, and let the pages fall open on the bookmarked page of the book du jour—be it The Tin Woodman of Oz, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, or Little Women. She’d flip back a page or two and recount the prior night’s adventure, then launch into the next chapter. Her penchant for drama would kick in, and soon she would transport her listeners to the Emerald City or the five little Pepper’s home or Aladdin’s cave. The natural vocal nuances in her oral reading drew in her audience so that, even when we were old enough to be well able to read ourselves to sleep, we would often sit just outside her bedroom door and listen with one ear while we worked on our homework. The fact that we all still enjoy reading and a good storyteller is likely a direct result of Mom’s efforts.

"You may have tangible wealth untold.

Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold.

Richer than I you can never be –

I had a mother who read to me."

— Strickland Gillilan

Dad also contributed to our love of words. Although we weren’t blessed to have him as our nightly storyteller on a regular basis, we occasionally enjoyed his reading as well. I remember him reading excerpts from Peck’s Bad Boy, Maori Tales and poems from the two fat Poems from Home volumes. My favorites were “The Raggedy Man, The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere, Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven, and the eerie Highwayman:

“ The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

And the highwayman came riding--

Riding--riding--

The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.”

Establish a house of learning

Although they grew up in different circumstances Dad and Mom both came from homes where learning and thinking were important. They took both their formal and informal education seriously, which spilled over into their marriage and child-rearing. Early in their marriage they joined a book club through which they began collecting the extensive family library that we remember growing up. Making the accumulation of books a priority, rather than any one of a number of other possible collections that married folks embark upon, says much about what was important to them and what they had in common from the start. Somehow in their ever-busy lives Mom and Dad found time to read, often very early in the morning or very late at night. On a number of occasions I found one or both of them asleep with a book in their hands, presumably after they had tried to sneak in some personal study or relaxation time between their parental responsibilities. Their mutual love of learning has been evident throughout their life together, and has had a profound impact on their progeny. They have sought to follow the counsel to “Seek ye out of the best books words of wisdom; seek learning, even by study and also by faith…Establish a house of learning” (D&C 88:118-119).

There was never a problem finding something good to read at the Thompson house. In each of the homes our family lived in, from Hamer Drive until the present, I have clear memories of bookshelves lined with books, and a variety of reading opportunities. One of my most distinct memories has to be of the study in the tudor home in Cleveland, which I always called the library. I loved to curl up on the window seat and read a book or listen to the stereo. The built-in bookshelves lining three walls of the room were brimming with hundreds of volumes Dad and Mom had collected, including the classics by authors such as Alfred Lord Tennyson, Charles Dickens, Jane Austen and Mark Twain. There were numerous church reference books, books on history, politics and philosophy, and a set of The World Book Encyclopedias. I remember perusing the titles on the book bindings wondering about books titled Jesus Was Married, The Last of the Mohicans, and The Naked Capitalist. Some of my childhood favorites from the “grown up” shelves included the beautiful origami coffee table book, the etchings in Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland, the Especially for Mormons series, and many of the nature and travel books produced by National Geographic. I spent hours reading the Childcraft set (the children’s companion to the encyclopedia), especially the volume titled “Things to Make and Do”. The wide variety of books exposed us to numerous wonders of the world, so we each had the opportunity to choose topics of interest to explore that appealed to us personally.

Of course we had a library of children’s books as well, some housed in the big bookshelf in the upstairs hallway, and some personal favorites that we kept in our bedrooms. There were several large volumes of storybook collections (like A Treasury of Children’s Literature), board books for the toddlers, Little Golden books (I remember The Poky Little Puppy), Disney classics, all kinds of chapter books, science and history-focused books, scripture story books, and paperbacks that Mom let us purchase through Scholastic book orders (The Borrowers series was one of my favorites). If I had an hour of undirected time Mom knew she would often find me curled up with a book in the library or in my bedroom. This was heaven for me because, like Jorge Luis Borges, "I have always imagined that paradise will be a kind of library."

A Brother I Could Always Look Up To

Barry is 16 years older than I am, so I really didn't know him until I was grown. And since he skipped TWO grades, he was away at college before I could even talk. But I do recall a few things about him from childhood: He was a "muscle man" who had a bar in the doorway for chin-ups and a really strange device made of metal coiled springs with handles on each end to expand his chest and biceps. And he was a "cool cat" who brought home 78 rpm records of Glenn Miller, Spike Jones, et al. PLUS...when he was at Columbia University, one of his neighbors was Harry Belafonte! He brought me silk pajamas with my picture painted on them from Korea, which I still have in my cedar chest, and I loved to hear of his travels when he became an international banker. His physical strength is legendary, and Ted and I were in awe as he scaled the giant trees on a waving ladder in their backyard, chopping them down foot by foot, while in his 70s. And when he and Ellen visited us this past summer and she was tentative about crossing our little creek, he just picked her up and threw her across with ease! Most of all, I've admired his spiritual strength and ethics. My brothers and I have all benefited from the examples of our parents, and Barry has stood tall in his faith and values. He is a great man who is having a great life, and I look forward to more stories of his prowess in the years ahead. Happy Birthday, dear brother, with much love, Margaret Ann

Life Size Playhouse

When I was probably around six years old, my dad built a playhouse in our backyard in Placentia, California. It was made of plywood and painted light blue. It rested upon cinder blocks, and had a linoleum floor, and a front step. It held a table, chairs, and mini play furniture. What a fun place we had to play. It must have taken many hours to make, and gave us even many more hours of fun! Thanks Dad!
Love,
Kathleen

The Best Thing a Father Can Do

I remember hearing that "the best thing a father can do for their children is to love their mother". I never doubted that dad loved mom for several reasons.
#1 He often told us that he did, and would tell us why.
#2 When dad came home from work in the evenings, he would frequently enter the kitchen and scoop mom up in his arms and whisk her around the room and lay a big kiss on her. Mom would pretend to protest saying, "Oh, Barry!!!!"
#3 When mom and I would have disagreements about what I could do, I would complain to my dad. He always showed understanding for my point of view, but never belittled my mother's position. He had total respect for her. I remembered one time dad saying something like, "Now I know your mother is a little straight laced, but she has only your best interest in mind..." He then arbitrated a solution that was acceptable to both of us.
These examples of Dad's love for mom provided a great sense of security for me as I grew up.
KATHLEEN

A Tight Squeeze

As a girl, being part of a large family was all I knew. I'm sure others had a more difficult time accepting it. Every couple of years we had our family picture taken at Olan Mills. When our family entered the door, and kept coming and coming, the photograper and assistant would inevitably need to change the set up to accomodate us.
As number seven of eight, and one of ten, my place in the car was on a lap or in the gunner seat of the station wagon. On long drives Martha and I were always facing backwards. We would make up games to play with the cars we were facing. Sometimes we would write notes to the drivers behind us, telling them to honk or smile. We were thrilled when they would comply.
A few times we would have an extra guest who came along with us on a drive. I recall one evening piled in the red Toyota along with Sister Ashley. Not one of us, except perhaps Dad, who was driving, had any wiggle room. I was so hot and cramped that by the time we got home I had a nosebleed that took what seemed like hours to stop.

Fashion--Barry Thompson Style

So much of my life, Dad was not only working all week at the bank, but then serving in church callings and teaching at BYU, all of which required him to wear a suit. It may have been the addition of new hiking boots with bright red laces that made the jeans and plaid shirts he wore when he was home on Saturdays stand out. Perhaps he hoped to make a quick trip up one of his favorite mountain peaks or repel off one of the poplars in the back yard or even the roof.

FHE, Family Prayer, and Scripture Study

Mom and Dad were determined to teach us the gospel and “raise us up in the way we should go”, including by holding regular Family Home Evening (FHE), family scripture study, and family prayer. It was obvious growing up how challenging this was with eight kids. We trickled in when called, sometimes “kicking and screaming”, and when some took longer than others to arrive, those who arrived first became frustrated and sometimes tried to leave. We all seemed to take turns grumbling as if we’d made up a schedule and divvied up the duties. We each took a turn praying, reading the scriptures, and handling the various FHE duties including prayer, song, lesson, game, and treat. Having been a parent for a few years now, I realize how admirable Mom’s & Dad’s valiance was in holding these activities regularly. I feel the way others do who have said I may not remember any particular FHE lesson or prayer offered, or any scripture read, but I do remember the pattern Mom and Dad set for us of spiritual learning, and of their valiance in doing that, and it is something to which I think we all aspire.

Related to this, I recall when I was eight years old we were challenged to read the Book of Mormon. I don’t recall for sure, but I believe it was a challenge issued to our ward, or at least amongst a few families. I know our family took the challenge to heart and we all to some degree or other began reading it. I got particularly excited and spent much of my free time reading the Book of Mormon. Most days I’d read many pages, it became a competition for me to try to be the first one to finish reading it. I recall the pride I felt as I finished reading the book and did so for me in what seemed like record time. I’m sure Mom & Dad stoked my fire by encouraging me in this effort.

The Johnson Farm

I (Jonathan) remember fondly the many visits we made to the Johnson Farm to help weed, harvest, or process some fruit or other. It seems like we must have made the hour or so one-way trip at least one or more times a year. We always went as a family, and Mom and Dad expected even the smallest of us children to work while there. Of course us kids had a different plan. There was so much to explore on the farm, the barn, the chicken coop, and other buildings on the property, the expansive farm fields and the forest, the occasional farm animal, the black top loop drive, and in later years the pond. It was always a challenge trying to weasel out of work either weeding strawberries; picking them, apples, peaches, and probably other produce; or processing the produce. I remember not being alone in seeking creative ways to sneak off, while Mom and Dad tried equally hard to keep us focused on the work. Service at the Johnson Farm was one of the ways Mom and Dad tried to instill in us the importance of service and hard work. Once the work was done - and those of us who had snuck off to play had been tracked down – we’d pile in the big old station wagon, or whatever vehicle we had at the time and made the trek back home. We usually left with a feeling of satisfaction for having provided valuable service, even on days where we played more than we worked. And as an added bonus, we often stopped on the drive home for ice-cream at our favorite roadside ice-cream stand. Ahhhhhh!!! What an end to the day!

Dream Big

I remember when Dad was pursuing his consulting business in Cleveland (roughly 1978?). Although Dad and Mom tried not to burden us with the details of our difficult economic situation, we could not help become aware as times grew lean.

Prior to this, as one of the middle of eight kids, I do not recall spending a great deal of time in casual conversation with Dad. He was generally at work all day at the bank, and traveled quite a bit. On Saturdays we were often doing chores (sometimes together), and Sundays he could sometimes be busy with various Church callings. Now, he was often at home, working in his office.

I became very interested in Dad's success; primarily, I suppose, because I was curious to know what the prospects were for us to be able to overcome our difficult circumstances. So, I began stopping by to ask how things were going.

Dad often seemed to have a rather exotic set of characters seeking his help financing their interesting variety of business of proposals. He may have attracted such because more traditional financing sources found them rather too risky. The need for a creative, non-traditional approach promised relatively high fees and profit-sharing arrangements.

I recall Dad telling me about the well-connected Venezuelan(?) fellow who was trying to sell multi-millions worth of confiscated oil-field equipment in Latin America, ...before it rusted away to worthlessness; who was very happy to share a generous (several millions of dollars-generous) slice of the profits with the guy who could arrange the financing; ...or the guys with a revolutionary technology to improve the dialysis process; ...or some high-risk, high-profit mining operation.

The projects were often interesting and varied; the profits were often dizzying. It seemed that succeeding in any one of these several projects would put us "on easy street." I would often sit in rapt attention as Dad would share his excitement for one of these opportunities (schemes?) And I think that perhaps he appreciated me taking such an interest in his efforts.

Although we never did hit one of the really big ones; and Dad eventually accepted the bank job in Oklahoma, this experience helped me find optimism during a rather difficult time. ...and even more importantly, helped me build a deeper relationship with my Dad.

After all these years, I still see that, when it comes to pursuing his dreams, my Dad hasn't lost that spark of optimism and a desire to work to accomplish "the big one." His example continues to help me to remember to "dream big!"

A voice from the past.

I received the 80th invite. Sorry we'll be in Baja then, celebrating a
neighbor's 85th down there on 12/31. Barry was my first boss when I got
out of highschool in 1962, I was 17 and he 33 when I became his
secretary. It was a great 6 years and his VERY STRONG work ethic taught
me to work at maximum capacity daily! But I loved the challenge. 

Diane Winkler McCament 

Toronto Mission Slide Show

Swimming Pool in Tulsa, Backyard Campouts, and Nighttime Dips

In the summer of 1979 Dad and Mom moved the family from Cleveland, Ohio to what was for us a very foreign Tulsa, Oklahoma. For most of us kids Cleveland (and to a lesser extent Placentia) was where most of our formative years were spent, so the move to Tulsa represented a significant change. The fact that our new home in Tulsa had a swimming pool made the adjustment a more palatable for sure though and we quickly put it to great use. As I (Jonathan) recall, Dad handled nearly all of the pool maintenance himself with help from us kids doing some of the more minor care such as vacuuming the pool and keeping leaves and other debris out of the pool. For a teenage boy, having a swimming pool meant loads of fun with family and friends. Having a close friend and member of the church in Steve Richins a few houses away who loved swimming as much or more than I, sure didn’t hurt. It led to proposals to Mom and Dad such as letting Steve Richins come over for a sleep out in the back yard, which on at least one occasion they obliged. Of course, the reason behind the request wasn’t so much that we loved camping outside, though we didn’t mind it, but rather that it was much easier to sneak in a midnight swim, and a post midnight run to the 7-Eleven store a mile away for some munchies, when we didn’t have to worry about being caught sneaking out of the house at those hours. Needless to say, having a pool was lots of fun, for the daytime and night time swims.

Dad, as Scoutmaster, Inspires us to Great Heights

Us Thompson boys (and probably even the Thompson girls) were well aware that Dad had been an exceptional scouter as a young man, earning his Eagle Scout and then three palms. Something that none of us probably considered, at least until he was called though, was that he would make an excellent scoutmaster. I vaguely recall not being overly excited when Dad was called to be the scoutmaster. There was nothing like having your father around when goofing off as a scout or trying to be cool with the guys. However, Dad’s status rose in my books, and probably in the books of the other scouts, when he inspired us to undertake and complete a major feat, that of hiking the four-day, 70-mile Emerald Necklace trek that circled the Greater Cleveland area. It was no insignificant undertaking for a bunch of young “tenderfoots” like us. No doubt it took a lot of preparation to ready us for the task. The journey surely was not free of whining and grumbling, but I recall us being encouraged and motivated by Dad and others to continue, to finish the course, and as we trudged on, and eventually completed that arduous four day hike, we felt a great sense of accomplishment and satisfaction, and because we had a leader who inspired us to great heights, we and I gained a greater love and appreciation for Dad, and for how he could help us attain great heights in our lives.

The Best Souveniers

One of my favorite memories connected with Dad was when he brought soaps, shampoos, candy, and the occasional shower cap home from one of his many trips. I loved to look through and sample the packages of food and presents sent to us at Christmas time from his friends and business contacts overseas. And I was fascinated by the dolls and other treasures he brought home from foreign countries, which we had on display. One time, he surprised Margaret and me with the latest Guess and Swatch watches from New York. We were thrilled and the envy of everyone at school, as they were all over the fashion and teen magazines, but wouldn’t be available locally for many months afterward.

A Haunted House to Remember

For Halloween one year, perhaps in '77 or '78, we created a spook alley in the big house in Cleveland. Viewers would enter through the back door, led slowly up the back stairs by myself as the guide. I was robed in black, seated in the creeping electric chair with a flashlight held under my chin. At the landing by the apartment entrance they were then turned over to someone else who led them up more stairs to the attic. They had to pass through black plastic strips and wet strings, I think. Upstairs Mom had a bowl of peeled grape eyes and spaghetti intestines. I recall there were shadow shows and halloween spooks lurking. The real thrill came when they entered the dark, musty attic room and were startled by dead bodies rising from coffins. There was a large trap door in the floor and a pulley suspended overhead from which an ancient looking rope and hook were attached. The participant would sit on the seat from the swingset and get lowered by the thick rope down into the apartment below as dry ice mist rose up through the trapdoor opening. Victim after victim were lowered down by Dad and his assistant, that is, until large Pete Gail had his turn. With much strain and difficulty, he was let down to safety below. The next person in line was Jon's friend, Tyler Yorgason, who couldn't have weighed more than 80 lbs. But, after the last oversized load, the old rope gave up and broke with Tyler on the swing. He only suffered minor injuries, but it sure was a scare. After that I don't recall if that part of the tour was closed or if another rope was used.
-Margaret

Dating Competition

Ralph Bozwell, a friend of mine from Provo, had become Barry’s roommate in Manhattan. We had double dated. Barry had asked Ralph if I was just a friend, or more, and would he mind if he dated me. Ralph was my good friend and had no objection. BT invited me to see a tennis match, to watch the Red Sox play the Yankees, to the Opera, to see the Rockettes at Rockefeller Center. And though he would occupy my weekends, I had other boyfriends whose company I enjoyed. He seemed a little annoyed when I wasn’t available. When he saw me at the art museum one Sunday, he chided me, "Do you do such things on the Sabbath?" (What was he doing there?)

Jack Laney had taken me to see My Fair Lady on Broadway a month or so earlier, and we were quite friendly. Barry seemed peeved. I thought,“Does he want to occupy all of my time?”

I was called to the Sunday School Board and traveled some to the wards as a teacher trainer. Brother Bennet of the Stake Sunday School Board wanted to introduce me to his brother, Bob, at the summer picnic. I was interested. Who should show up, but Barry Thompson. Of all the nerve!

In July, Janey Thompson prepared a program during which Barry and I were in a group of Square Dancers. He was good at it and so strong, as the boys lifted us off the ground during one part. He led me to believe he liked it. Actually he thought it was too hot for such things. I was disappointed. I loved Square dancing.

A friend of mine, who I had dated at the Y had returned from a mission and came to New York to visit me. Mel’s intentions were serious. He was a worthy man with high ideals. I was fond of him, but not sure.

I became ill and visited a doctor. After an examination, he asked,“Are you in love?” “I don’t know” I replied. He suggested I take a little vacation and think it over. My grandfather had just passed away, so in October I returned home for a few days. I needed to clear my head.

-Ellen

The 4th of July Parade

I don't know quite how it began, but my earliest memories of the 4th of July were participating in the neighborhood parade. It started in Placentia, California on Hamer Drive. All the neighbors met at our house. They could come and decorate their tricycles, bicycles, wagons, etc. We would use crepe paper and flags, etc. We also made hats out of paper plates and newspaper. Mom would often have special red, white, and blue clothing for us to wear. Then we would march around the block.
When we moved to Ohio, the tradition continued for a few years. Our first 4th of July in Ohio was in 1969 where the parade started at our house on Corydon Road. I believe the parade continued until 1972. That spring we moved to Fairfax Road and invited out old neighbors to join us. My recollection is that was our last year of the parade.
After moving to Fairfax Road, we began an early morning flag raising ceremony. The bird house was removed from its pole and a flag was raised while dad played his trumpet. Then we would have a delicious breakfast. These are some of my favorite childhood memories.

Kathleen

Christmas memories #4: Christmas Eve

Christmas Eve took forever to come for us kids, though I’m sure that it came quicker than desirable for Dad and Mom. After dinner we prepared for the Nativity. Although they adjusted over the years, the roles were reasonably fixed for quite awhile. We all knew that Kathleen would be Mary, Brad would be Joseph, and the cleanest doll in the house would be the baby. In later years Margaret and Martha took the part of Mary, and Jon and David tried their hand at Joseph. The littlest kids were usually the shepherds, wearing robes and towels on their heads. At least one year they tried to get Herman the cat to be their sheep. Doug was a dramatic and brooding Herod. I was the angel—probably because I had the speaking part memorized: “Fear not, for behold I bring you good tidings of great joy…”. Dad was the narrator, but it seems that he doubled as a wiseman. Mom was the director and costume coordinator. She was probably the only one who actually “watched” the pageant, as everyone else was in it, but that only seems fair when she did most of the preparation for the play, as well as the rest of Christmas. It was her small compensation for a daunting task.

After the play we gathered around the Christmas tree, for “as the wisemen brought gifts to the baby Jesus, and Heavenly Father gave us his Son, so we give gifts to each other”. Mom and Dad usually specified the one gift we could open on Christmas Eve—often new pj’s. Although I was young, I remember showing off my new nightgown on one Christmas Eve in California, only to be surprised that everyone else’s pj’s matched my red and white candy-striped nightie. Taking our first gift of Christmas with us, we lined up according to age and marched upstairs singing “Holly Bows Are Arching”

What happened after we went to bed remains a mystery to this day, for although I have been the parent doing the last-minute Christmas Eve prep, mine has been for a family of five, not ten. I don’t know how it was done in one night, and then how Dad and Mom managed to wake up and function the next morning.

Christmas memories: Christmas morning

There was a family rule that no one could go downstairs without the rest of the family, and that we couldn’t wake Dad and Mom til 8:00 or maybe it was 8:30. Brad and David volunteered every year to relieve our anticipation by running down about 7:30 to check that Santa had actually come. I have no hard evidence, but I am pretty sure that several years they made an early run at 6:00 or so, but made it back up before the rest of us knew. When we finally convinced our bleary-eyed parents to roll out of bed, we again lined up to sing “Holly Bows”, and to march downstairs. I don’t think that any of us kids ever knew the real lyrics in their entirety, but mom did so we sang back-up. We marched into the living room to view Santa’s generosity. I can’t speak for the whole gang, but I never remember being disappointed at his gifts. The presents were lined up in order of age so no one would get mixed up about whose were whose. After we had admired each other’s goodies, we sat down for a breakfast that would fuel us for the fun ahead. It didn’t do us any good to say we weren’t hungry. Breakfast was a must.

When we finally assembled around the Christmas tree our anticipation was at a fevered pitch. The first gift was handed to the youngest (lucky Martha), and the great unveiling began. Presents were opened one at a time, and in order—youngest to oldest, round and round—until every one of the hundred or so gifts were unwrapped. It was unreal. It was a thrill to open your gifts, but nothing matched the butterflies as family members opened the gift you had chosen for them. Would they like it? Would they feel the “righteness” that you felt about it when you bought it? I remember the year when I got a package of brads for dad at the hardware store. I hadn’t seen any nails of that size on Dad’s workbench. I worried that he wouldn’t know what they were, or that he wouldn’t understand how much he needed them. No need to fear. He looked so delighted when he opened the package, and even got how funny it was that the tacks were named after his second son. He deserved an Emmy for that performance. The wrapping paper melee continued, it seemed, for hours. The shed wrapping paper filled several large leaf and lawn bags.

When the paper and ribbons were cleaned up, the reveling began. Everyone chose a new favorite toy or game and put all their energies into breaking it in. I remember Kathleen trying out her first blow dryer—very cool. I can see the spot, straddling the doorway between the dining room and front hall, that Brad and David played the premiere game of Stratego. Martha was on fire the year that Santa left her “Loud-mouthed Singers” in China and brought her the pink rag doll instead. She ran around the house, entranced with the responsibilities of her new charge.

Christmas memories #3: playing Santa

One family night each December we loaded the family in our station wagon, along with several boxes full of oranges, apples, home baked goodies and other unknown wrapped items. We drove in the dark, singing Christmas carols, and stopping in strange neighborhoods at strange homes. Dad, Doug or Brad would sneak up to the house, place the box on the porch, ring the doorbell and dash back to the car parked down the street. It was the best kind of doorbell-ditching. Dad and Mom never told us who it was that was in need of some Christmas cheer, but a few times I remember seeing the silhouettes of those who came to the door, and could tell by their body language how excited and surprised they were. It always gave me a warm and grateful feeling to be able to help someone who I assumed was in need. These experiences became much more meaningful the year that our family was struggling financially. It was early December and we had not bought a Christmas tree yet. It didn’t seem like Christmas, and I think that all of us kids were feeling a little bit of concern. One night the doorbell rang. I think that Brad opened the door, but I was right behind him, and we were both amazed at what we found on the porch. My recall may not be precise, but I remember a Christmas tree and two or three boxes full of goodies and other items. What was in the boxes was really unimportant. I just remember feeling overjoyed that someone cared about us, because that meant that the Lord was aware of the worries of some of his children, and wanted to answer our prayers. In that moment I remembered the silhouettes at the homes we had visited other years, and then I understood that although it may be better to give than to receive, sometimes it was good to receive gifts of love with no ability to give back. That was a moment of pure joy.

Christmas memories #2:music, caroling & open house

Music was a big part of our holiday. The day after Thanksgiving, and occasionally before that, the Christmas albums moved to the spot adjacent to the stereo, and it seemed that they played most of the day. The Mormon Tabernacle Choir and Julie Andrews were our favorites. Now and then during other times of the year Mom would put on a Christmas album, and that’s when we knew she was homesick. Since all of us took piano lessons at some time growing up, every year there were a couple of us learning carols for our lessons, so there was disconnected background music each December afternoon that sounded vaguely like familiar Christmas tunes.

Christmas was about making other people happy. I remember the family going to a nursing home to sing carols. We weren’t real thrilled about singing to strangers, but mom insisted we go. The home looked and smelled strange inside. The senior citizens looked blankly at us, wondering why our horde had invaded, I suppose. But when we started singing, their faces brightened. Some smiled, some clapped their hands, and some tried to join us in raspy voices. After our performance we passed out oranges to the residents. Some of them grabbed for us and wanted hugs. I felt a little awkward, but couldn’t say no. I remember thinking that they really weren’t hugging me. They were hugging the people in their lives that should have been there for them, but weren’t. I was just the stand-in for their moment of pleasure, and that felt good.

Several years we hosted a Christmas open house at our place, inviting ward members, neighbors and the missionaries. It was chaos, but it was fun. Mom baked like crazy the week before to provide the refreshments. She made banana bread, light and dark fruitcake, and her heavenly lemon nut bread. I remember squeezing the citrus for the hot spice punch (the juice of seven lemons and seven oranges in each recipe). It had to have been a load of extra work for dad and mom, but everyone enjoyed the party. There seemed to be wall-to-wall people of all ages. I recall that one year Frances Whiting commandeered the grand piano and sang like an opera diva. Someone--probably Dad---hung mistletoe from the hallway light, and there was some strategic maneuvering by certain guests to avoid or congregate underneath it.

Christmas memories

Margaret's post about Christmas sparked a bunch of memories for me. I'll post them in digestible doses, and hope that everyone will correct or fill in the details I may have forgotten. Christmas was not just a holiday at our house. It was a season, a lifestyle, a state of mind. Although there were preparations and a lot of talk before, it officially began on December 1^st--Kathleen’s birthday. She always pulled the first figure out of the number one pocket on the felt advent calendar and placed it on the tree. We took turns, by age, decorating the advent calendar day by day during December. On the first, Kathleen also lit the wick on the first day of the Spirit of Christmas candle. It was lit at meal time and stayed burning throughout the meal unless we were less than civil to each other. We helped lick the stamps on the out-going Christmas cards Dad and Mom addressed, and hang the in-coming cards on the cord across the dining room.

It seemed that we had a tall Christmas tree every year, though that tradition may have actually started in the high-ceilinged rooms of the Fairfax house. I remember Dad putting the lights on first, which seemed to take forever while we waited to get started with the other decorations. The huge pinecones (from California, I think) went on next, and then the ornaments. Mom was so careful with the ornaments, and I felt like she was holding her breath while she let us kids help put them on. Hanging the icicles was the most fun of all, though the messiest. Everyone had their own style—some separated one icicle from the bunch and placed it carefully in it’s perfect pre-destined spot. Others impulsively tossed handfuls, watching them fall willy-nilly wherever they might, often in tangled clumps. Then the dining room lights would be turned out and we would be amazed at the artistry of our slipshod handiwork. Somehow, the next morning, the tree would be evenly covered with silver shininess and well-spaced ornaments, as if some fairy had rearranged the mess after we had gone to bed.

I loved the star that Dad made out of plywood and lined with outdoor lights. It hung on the garage at the green house in Cleveland, then over the front door at the Fairfax house. There were years that we put up other lights outside, but the star was always my favorite. It seemed to say, “There’s always room at this inn”.

The First "Not Really A Date"

In March, St Patrick’s Day is a grand celebration in New York. It is vacation time. All Barry’s roommates were away. He was lonely and called to see if he could come over. I would make him an Irish feast. I couldn’t find corned beef in a can. It only came fresh. I bought a brisket. I fixed cabbage and potatoes with a green jello salad for dessert. I didn’t know that one must boil the corned beef for a long time to make it tender and rinse out the salt. Barry didn’t seem to mind. We chatted as we waited. And eventually the meal began. Afterwards we went to an cultural exposition at the World Trade Center. I was impressed with BTs knowledge of the various countries represented.
-Ellen

Days of December

During this month, my boys remind me of the anticipation of Christmas I experienced as a girl. I smile, even now, as I recall the excitement of the days of December.

For weeks I would consider what gift I could give to each family member for Christmas. I never had much money, so it was necessary to be creative. Sometimes I decorated IOUs or made some other homemade gifts that I, perhaps, had made in school. At least once, Kathleen took me to Twigbees, a special branch of the department store Higbees which was around at Christmas time. It was stocked with gifts children could afford.

It was great fun to plan to fill the stocking of the family member whose name I had drawn. I loved keeping it a secret, while at the same time trying to figure out who everyone else had.

I tried hard to be good and kind so that when I put my shoes out on the stairs at night, I would find a mint or orange slice or some other sweet left in the night by Santa's elves. I recall a few times actually seeing elf tracks on the railing and window sill outside the sunroom. I kept my eyes peeled, but never got a glimpse of those sneaky little spies.
-Margaret

Crawfish Etouffee Anyone?

Family campouts are a staple of our childhood memories. One of my (Jonathan’s) particularly memorable campouts must’ve taken place in the early to mid-1970s. We were camping at a place with streams flush with crawfish which some of us kids exploited to the max. I don’t recall now the numbers, but it seems as if we caught somewhere between 50 and 100 clawed friends. Some were quite large. We brought the most prize specimens from our loot back to camp and stashed them at the base a tree nearby. Mom or Dad had boiled some water and had some left over. Not aware that us kids had established a “crawfish zoo” by that tree proceeded to dispose of the excess boiling water right where our prize crustaceans were, scalding them good. As young hunters and gatherers we were devastated. However, if our appetites had been a bit more sophisticated, we could've turned lemons into lemonade by asking Mom and Dad to serving up a delicious dish of crawfish etouffee.

The Boys Beer Can Collection: Who says Mom and Dad Were Always Strict?

Us Thompson kids probably all agree that Mom and Dad were pretty strict disciplinarians. Yet there were moments when they definitely gave us some leeway or at least chose their battles. One such occurrence was their allowing David and I (Jonathan), and I believe Brad too to keep vast beer can collections. In the 1970s in Cleveland, OH beer can collections were all-the-craze. Many of my friends were doing it and us younger Thompson boys did not want to be left out, so we began collecting empty beer cans, most definitely in a clandestine way at first. In time we worked to collect cans with exotic shapes, sizes, and brands. We had 7 ouncers, 8 ounce short stacks, 20 and 24 ounce cans, and even 32 ouncers. We had flip tops, pop tops, cone tops, and unopened tops. We had shiny, new, pristine cans, rusted out cans from decades gone by, and everything in between. We had cans from all throughout the country and even some from around the world. Unlike the other kids, our Mom and Dad didn’t drink beer, and we knew they’d never purchase full cans just so we could expand our collection, like some of the other kids folks did. Consequently, we relied on hunting and scavenging to find new exotic cans. We’d ride our bikes around town and on occasion rode to the outskirts of downtown Cleveland in search of rare finds. We searched for new labels on our vacations across country and even stashed them away on our rented RV. I wouldn’t have thought Mom and Dad would’ve let us keep the alcoholic beverage containers, even though they were empty, but they did. It just goes to show that they did grant of more leeway at times then we probably give them credit for, or at least chose their battles. I’m sure Mom and Dad were relieved, however, that we tired of the hobby before we developed drinking problems.