Ron – Page 9 – storyteller

Wondering of My Real Value

During my high school years, I tried to mix a little extra curricular with my academics and home/farm responsibilities. Along with my involvement with the musical department (choirs, musicals, and a little pep band), I tried my hand at wrestling. My wrestling career lasted about two and one-fourth years.

During this time, I watched a steady stream of fellow wrestlers who for one reason or another decided to throw in the towel. The pattern was always the same. When our coach heard the news, he would take that wrestler into his office and close the door. Thirty minutes to an hour later, the wrestler would emerge with the coach’s arm around him, giving him some final words of encouragement. Usually the wrestler remained on the team and all would be well.

I knew that my abilities as a wrestler wouldn’t merit this same treatment when I finally decided that wrestling wasn’t as important to me as doing my fair share back home on the farm. But as I slowly came to this decision, I didn’t say anything to any one about quitting. I only said that I was needed at home on the farm for a few days. Two days later, after I was sure that I would drop the wrestling, I went into the wrestler’s locker area to get my things and to tell the coach my news.

Most of the wrestlers were already upstairs in the wrestling practice room when I arrived. The first thing that hit me was that the contents of my locker were on the floor in the corner. As I looked closer, I could see that my locker had a different lock on the door. As I stood and stared, and tried to figure out what happened, our manager (a fellow student) filled me in.

“That locker has been reassigned. Since you were gone for two days, we figured that you quit.”

There have been a few times in my life since, which I have thought about that experience and the lessons it has taught me. The coach wasn’t interested in the young men on the team. He was only interested in who could give him the most wins. I knew at the time I was no great loss to the team. But I will always remember the tactless way they sent that message to me. The image of my wrestling clothes strewn on the floor is still bright.

So here I am at a point in my life when I can relate to that high school wrestling experience. My work has become like my wrestling experience. The long days at work leave me many long hours to wonder, “Where is the support from Corporate? Why are the corporate lawyers so slow to respond to our requests? And when they do respond, why do they only tells us what we CAN’T do to solve our labor problems, and never tells us anything we CAN do?

Sunday evening we were still struggling to finish a very long miserable weekend of processing. My crew was overworked and tired. Some were sick but trying to tuff it out, because we needed the help so badly. After sending one more person home, who had worked far too long and hard on that weekend, I had to slow down the production line and shut down part of the machine. We simply didn’t have the personnel to run the whole plant. This was demoralizing to the rest of the crew. It meant the workday/night would go even later. I couldn’t do more. Tomorrow would only be more of the same. Finally something snapped.

I stopped the production line and went in to make some calls. Of course being a Sunday evening, I couldn’t talk to anything except a voice mail. My message on that voice mail was loud and clear. “I NEED HELP OUT HERE, NOW!!!”

It’s now five days later. I have visited at length with three of my bosses, including two corporate officials who flew out here from back East. Today I will get another manager, on loan from another location, for almost two weeks to help with the work load. We are still talking about what those corporate lawyers will let us do to remedy our labor shortage. (At least those lawyers are really good at talking.) I hope some good will come of all of this feather ruffling (That’s a pun if you know the business I’m in.)

But I have also had some very frank conversations about whether I want to stay and work for this company. My salary and work hours have been discussed, and are still being discussed in the corporate circles. It has been a very S-T-R-E-S-S-F-U-L week for me.

So this morning, as I approached the processing plant, I thought of my wrestling days back in high school. And I wondered if I would see my personal things from my office dumped out on the side of the street. As I approached the door, my key in hand, I wondered if it would work, or if corporate had changed the locks. There was no one out there to tell me “We figured you quit.” So I came on in to work as usual.

Today I have met the same problems, and performed the same duties. Everything seems to be business as usual. We are still running the plant with an inadequate crew. And corporate is apparently still talking about what they will do to help us.

But they have said nothing to me personally yet. They still have me wondering, what is my worth to them? Do they think of me as a trader for asking for more money for my crew? Are they busy finding someone to take my place? I will be here again this weekend. (At least unless I come in tomorrow morning and find that my office was cleaned out during the night.) But I will be wondering now, until they get back to me on our negotiations from earlier in the week, what is my value to this company? Will they take me into “the coach’s office” and give me a pep talk and make an offer I can’t refuse? I half expect to see a new lock on the door instead. WHAT IS MY REAL VALUE? I’m not sure I want to know.

Blood is Thicker Than Money

This past Wednesday, my 15 minutes of fame was kind of fun. As Msn featured “A Father of Nine Blogs about Death & Peace”, the visits on my “stats” took off like a Geiger counter in a nuclear melt down. It feels funny, though, to be described as “A father of nine.” I merely think of myself as a father of some really wonderful children… and there happens to be nine of them.

A large family is a lot of work and very expensive. My Beautiful Wife and I aren’t pushing for anyone else to do the same, but it has worked for us.

When our 9th baby was born, 6 years ago, a fellow I worked with asked why I would have so many children. “Do you consider the impact all those children will have on our world?” he asked. I have carefully considered it, and I am pleased to say that so far, without exception, the impact has been very positive. The world is a better place because of my nine children. Each one has a brilliant mind (more brilliant than mine). And the contributions each one makes in the part of the world they live leaves it a better place. Perhaps some of them will even take on some of the major world problems, discover an inexpensive and renewable type of energy, or develop an innovative cure for disease, or find solution to world conflict.

I was once involved in a business discussion, where the owner of the national company which I worked for defended a business decision which hurt us financially and helped his competing nephew.

“Blood is thicker than money.”

His statement negated all other arguments and ended the discussion. I have thought about that statement many times since. Family relationships certainly are more important than any financial consideration.

I’ll always remember a local news story of a fellow who, while exploring an old abandoned mine shaft, fell out of sight and sound of his companions and to his likely death. The full resources of Search and Rescue were put to use for almost a week in trying to find him and retrieve the body. Finally, they announced that the mine shaft was too deep, too unstable, the hazards to daunting. And so the rescue was called off and talk of sealing the mine shaft ended the news report. The next morning, a surprise announcement was broadcast all over the news. “The young man’s body had been retrieved from the mine shaft.” With search and rescue out of the way, secretly during the night, the family went into the mine shaft and brought the victim out. When questioned by the news media, “Do you resent the Search and Rescue, with all their equipment and training for not being able to do what you have succeeded in accomplishing?” The answer sounded a lot like my old boss’ response to the business deal.

The reply was, “No, you are willing to do for your own family what you wouldn’t expect others to do.”

That’s how this “father of nine” feels. Sometimes our time and money are s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d, and occasionally we are viewed as a little odd for having such a large family, but the credit card commercial says it all. “Some things money can’t buy.”

Serenity

Gary Kent, Dad, and I

For the Upper Snake River Valley of Southeastern Idaho, the weather was wonderful for this time of year. It was shirtsleeve weather. Back when I lived here, I would have called this an Indian summer. The clear blue sky and warm sun offered the finishing touches to the picturesque scenery of the Rocky Mountains displaying the Teton Peaks. The beauty of it was just one more indication that God was watching over us as we gathered at the Cemetery. No one from our family had ever been buried here, even though our family had called Rexburg home for almost 49 years.

As family began to arrive, most were happily visiting and greeting one another, because some of us had come in from out of town. Many of my nephews and nieces were setting up their musical instruments. Two flutes, two violas, a violin. An electronic Keyboard would serve as the piano. Two of my sisters were standing toward the back, visiting with my mother. I moved about the group and handed out programs.

My dad sat alone in the middle of the front row of chairs which were set up close to the tiny casket. The effects of his cancer had him seeking a place to sit down and rest.

Time seemed to warp for me. At first everything was in slow motion. I stood as if in a trance. The image of my dad facing that tiny white vault which held the original casket burned into my memory. Though his eyes glistened, I wasn’t sure they were tears of sadness. My dad displayed this same face anytime someone in his family really pleased him. It was his proud look. I wanted to know his thoughts. I imagined that his memory had taken him back over fifty years.

His third son (and the older brother I never knew) was spirited and aggressive. He could keep his two older brothers on guard. If the three started fighting for a toy, the brotherly tussle likely ended with the toy in Gary Kent’s hand, and the two older brothers crying.

I studied the pictures on the program once again. Yes, Gary Kent was a happy baby who loved life… until he was 18 months old. Very early in the morning, before doing chores, my dad went into check on him. Gary Kent’s eyes were open; as if he were staring up at the ceiling… his little body was cold… they called it crib death.

My thoughts were now back at the cemetery as my dad stood up and stepped forward. He placed his hand on the casket and held it there. This was another good-bye, fifty years after the first one. Not long after Gary Kent died, my parents had moved. They wanted him close again. That’s why we were here today.

One of my older brothers conducted the short service. Another brother, and myself offered prayers. The sweet music added to the peaceful feeling. I was thankful to be there for the Re-internment. But what I will cherish most from that short visit back home, was what I observed in my dad.

Like everyone who has ever lived, my dad has had his share of trouble and turmoil. He’s made his mistakes and suffered disappointment. But in the face of the storms of life which are billowing on his horizon, my dad is at peace with himself. Since returning back to my own home, and returning to my challenges and turmoil, the image of my father’s serenity shines in my mind. He is like those Teton Mountains which grace his landscape. They stand firm, majestically, as inspiration to anyone who will take the time to look at them. They are the same even if storms are brewing. Even if they are so covered in clouds that no one can see them. My dad is that way. I want to be like that too. More than anytime in my life, I want to be like my Dad.

Early Memories

Another blogging friend, Zeynep Ankara, told in one of her blogs of a very early childhood experience. She said of that experience, “I remember that night like today.” Then later, when she was in college, she told one of her psychology professors the story. But the professor told Zeynep that she “can’t remember for the first five years.”

So that got me thinking about my early childhood memories. Like Zeynep, I can clearly remember many things from my first five years. Some are good memories and some not so.

I love the peace and security I still feel when I remember laying in my crib in the early morning hours. I heard my father leave the house to go do chores. And then I stuck my feet through the bars of the crib and played footsie on the wall and listened to the birds begin to chirp as the sun welcomed another day.

Another happy memory was at the drive-in theater. Our whole family was in our Rambler station wagon. I was in the far back where the seat was folded down to make a bed. The movie playing was “It’s a mad, mad, mad, mad, mad world.” I remember listening to my Dad laughing so hard at that movie that it made me laugh, even though I couldn’t figure out what was funny in the movie.

Compared to what Zeynep wrote of, my bad early memories weren’t really that bad. I remember things like long boring church meetings, being picked on by bigger kids, and witnessing the cruel treatment of others. I also have some early memories which give me little reason to wonder why I became such an introvert.

I know some of my early experiences have made me a better person. One memory I have was when I was either three or four (depending on which younger sibling was the baby in my story.)

I walked into Mom’s room to ask her something. As I started into my question, “Mom, can I…?” Mom sent me out of her room abruptly, telling me she was trying to get the baby to sleep.

I felt “put out” by her, so I went into the kitchen where Linda, my two years older sister, was and said, “Mom is a Nincompoop.” Linda looked at me in shock and said, “I’m telling Mom.” She quickly ran to tell, and I was immediately struck with fear. Nincompoop was the meanest, ugliest word in my vocabulary. I ran upstairs and hid under my older brother’s bed.

Soon, though it seemed forever, Mom started calling my name from the bottom of the stairs. At first, I didn’t move. But as the sternness in Mom’s voice increased, my fear of the repercussions for disobedience exceeded my fear of facing punishment for my verbal disrespect. And so I was soon timidly standing at the top of the stairs.

I was compelled to make a confession of what I had said, and then I was taken to the bathroom where my mouth was washed out with soap and water. Mom then sent me out to help Dad. I was glad to go. I think that was what I was trying to ask Mom in the first place. As I stood out in the snow watching Dad work, I thought, “I’ll never call Mom any names again.”

To this day, I have always had complete respect and honor for both my mom and my dad. I’ve seen quite a few people who needed their mom to wash their mouth out with soap. I feel sorry for them.

While pondering my early memories, and how I now might be influenced by those memories, I have wondered about my Great grandma, Anna Christina Holm Haroldsen. She was still a small child when her father died. The harsh realities of survival in the American West of the 1860’s forced Anna’s mom into a marriage that wasn’t good. Like most men who lived in that area and era, Andrew Jensen had a nickname which everyone including family used. Andrew Jensen should have been known as “Wife and Kid Beater” but Brickmaker was the name which stuck.

Brickmaker was so brutal, even with his own children, that Anna’s mother sent her children away when they were only ten or eleven years old. She thought that facing the cruel world alone as youngsters would give them a better chance at survival then staying at home and within the reach of Brickmaker.

Anna worked for several other families in the area. Some treated her well, and others not. Wherever she stayed, the work hours were long and the pay amounted to little more than room and board. Later on, in her teen years, she worked for a cooperative dairy, milking, and herding cows in and out of the pasture.

Anna’s adult life was more normal as she married, raised a family and even kept her own small dairy herd, so she could make and sell butter to the folks in town.

Senility settled in on Anna in her later years. As time passed, she seemed to revert to her bitter childhood memories. She would sit in her rocking chair and twitch and flinch while muttering the hated name… Brickmaker… Brickmaker… Brickmaker.

So now I wonder, in my old age, will I become a total hermit, because of my early memories which I consider socially traumatic? I hope that my happy memories of life on our farm will be on my mind when I’m old and feeble. Maybe I can lie on my bed in some rest home, and put my feet on the wall through the bars of the guard rail, and watch the sunrise though my window while thinking that I can hear my father get up and quietly go out to do chores.

What are your earliest childhood memories?

And the story goes, on and on.

My workday, last Friday was going as usual. Sometimes peaceful, with time to think and reflect on what I choose to think about. And then out of nowhere, I am bombarded from all directions.

I was in the bombardment stage with three different people coming to me with six different problems needing immediate attention. I needed to hurry out in the processing plant to change something on the pack list for a rush order. While I was still out in the plant, the USDA inspector wanted to review the preoperational inspection which he had performed that morning, and one of my vendors (a salesman) stopped in to see me, and one of my new shipping guys had questions on loading a truck.

Of course with all this going on, the phone starts to ring. The first page (a call over the PA system) “Ron, telephone line 2…Ron telephone line 2.” I wasn’t even headed toward the office to answer the phone before the second page sounded. “Ron you have a phone call on line 3, Ron you have phone calls on lines 2 and 3.” While heading to my office, I answer my shipping guy’s question and tell the processing supervisor what changes to make in the production line. And then I hurry into my office, hoping that the calls are conformations from trucking companies that they can pick-up on schedule.

As I sat down at my desk and reached for the phone… I could now see lines 1 through 4 all flashing. “Which lines were mine?” I couldn’t remember, so I took a guess.

“Hello, this is Ron.”

“This is … Harris.” There was an awkward pause, like he expected me to make a response to his name. And even though he stated his first name, I didn’t hear it clearly enough to make it out. Before I did say anything, he spoke again. “Do you know who I am?” Now, I knew that I had heard that voice before, but I hear many familiar voices on the phone. I figured that this guy was another trucking concern trying to win my business. (I hear from about one new cold contact a day in this way.) So my answer reflected what my brain was still thinking at that point. “I know I’ve heard your voice before. Are you with a trucking company?”

I now heard a nervous laugh. “No, I’m dating your daughter.”

I’ve never had such a fast paradigm shift. Instantly, I was no longer at work (Mentally at least.) Now I DID know who I was talking to. Bryan Harris! Jessica had brought him home months earlier to meet us. And just like the rest of my family, I loved this guy. I was very glad he was dating my daughter. I felt comfortable around him, and I had the idea that the feeling was mutual.

So now I was very embarrassed that I hadn’t recognized his voice or even his name. Also, I knew of only one reason he would be calling ME. I had heard rumblings from others and I knew that Bryan and Jessica’s relationship was now serious.

Well, we had a nice little chat. In the chat, Bryan had a question for me and I gave him the answer he was looking for. That phone call was a wonderful respite from my hectic workday. At the end of the conversation, I hung up the phone and just sat back in my chair with a big smile on my face. I was now ignoring everything else that wanted my attention. That was a cool experience. I’ll now have two son-in-laws. And both of them are really great guys. In fact they are perfect for my two oldest daughters. I went about the rest of the day thinking about that phone call. Another wedding… Wonder when it will be? I thought of their future plans. They still have school… and work … they will find a place of their own… and live where?

As they usually do, my thoughts wondered to my progenitors. They too had dreams… found love… got married … started a new life together. We are the products of their dreams. My thoughts now centered on my Grandpa George Haroldsen. He is the one person of all my ancestors that I have the recorded story of him having the same little chat with the dad.

It was 1909. George drove (his horse and buggy) to the south of Ammon, Idaho, where the Adam Smith dry farm was located, to talk to his perspective father-in-law. This is where Adam and his sons spend most of the summer as they cared for their crops. It would have been about a two hour horse and buggy ride to get there from George’s home. He tried to get Adam off by himself to talk, but George later related, “I couldn’t get close enough to the old man to talk without big ears listening.” He was referring to Kate’s brothers who apparently surmised what was afoot. After a bachelor supper at the dry farm (there were no women around), George finally got Adam to sit in the buggy and talk. Adam gave George some daddy-in-law advice, and George drove back to St. Leon (where he lived) that night.

As I think of poor George, who was all scared and nervous to talk to “The old man” as he put it, I can’t help but smile. “The old man” Adam Smith was once young too. He too was once a suitor. He had his awkward moments as well. When he came courting his future wife, Helen Everett, at first she was afraid of him and so she’d go and hide, leaving him only to visit with her mother and father.

I guess one way or another, everyone who gets married has to find their way into the lives of another family. I think that just adds to the magic of love. I am very happy to see my family now growing in this manner. I won’t lose a daughter, but rather gain another son. Congratulations Jessica and Bryan. Your anticipated future is the product of my dreams. And the lives we are living now are the product of our progenitor’s dreams. And the Story goes, on and on.

Carl

Carl Fredrick Heinrich Von Dietrich

Is it environmental or genetic? Either way, I’m hoping that some of my 2 Greats Grandpa Carl is now a part of me. Though the details are a little sketchy, his life seems so incredible that I wouldn’t dare make up fiction like this. If I did, my critics would call the story too far fetched, to be believable. But since it’s a true story, I feel the obligation to tell the story. As I have studied his life, I have envied his strong character. His strong will to stay true to his personal convictions and beliefs regardless of consequences. Just as I hope that part of Carl is in me, I hope he’s in my children too.

In the Prussia of 1813, five year old Carl was placed in a Cloister to be raised as a Monk. I can only speculate two possible reasons for his parents to send their small boy away like that, never to see him again. Perhaps it was considered a great honor and opportunity for their son to become a Monk. Or maybe family circumstances were dire, and it was a matter of survival.

What ever the reason for being there, Carl was now living with and taught by the monks of this Prussian Cloister. Undoubtedly, his growing years were spent doing the many remedial tasks of living life in the early 1800’s. But besides the cooking and cleaning, along with gardening and tending flocks, came the tutoring and teaching. Carl likely learned to read and write in more than his native German tongue as he was taught the doctrines of the church from their Latin documents. Carl was artistic, and this talent was likely nurtured in his early years.

Problem was, somewhere along the way, as Carl was taught the church doctrine, he found conflict inside with what he was being taught. Ultimately, he did not believe the teachings. Because of how he felt, he chose not to become a monk, and he tried to leave the Cloister. But the Monks would not let him leave.

Carl then lived for many years in this Cloister as a prisoner and slave. Because he now refused to go against his conscience, he was now relegated strictly to a role of servitude. No more teaching and training in Latin. Gone were the opportunities to further develop his artistic and other talents. Now life consisted of doing the heaviest and dirtiest labor of the monastery.

Carl exchanged his imprisoned thoughts for physical chains around his hands and feet. Carl felt it was a good trade. For many years, he continued in this condition. His mind and integrity were free as the birds which thoughtlessly flew over the high stone wall of the monastery. But he body was physically chained down as a retaliation from his captors for not believing as they did. If they couldn’t blind his mind, they’d at least bind his body.

Now it wasn’t that Carl didn’t believe in God. On the contrary, he was very religious. Today, I don’t view the religious denomination that held Carl prisoner, bad or evil. I’ve seen enough ungodly behavior from people in my own denomination. So I know not to blame the church what the people in the church are doing wrong.

Carl was in this Cloister/Monastery for about 37 years before he finally managed to escape. He later told of hearing the bullets flying past him as he ran. He then made his way to Berlin just when there was a revolt against the Kaiser. Carl now suddenly found himself facing another choice. Should he follow his conscience and help the Kaiser, or would he think of his own personal safety first. Carl immediately did what he felt was right, placing himself in great danger once again. He was in the right place at the right time to help the Kaiser escape the mob. So in this way, Carl met William I, the Emperor of Germany.

Showing gratitude for his help, William made him the artist to the Imperial Palace. So in a matter of a few days or weeks, Carl went from the life of a dungeon slave to a revered hero living in the palace and mixing and mingling with royalty. Here in the palace, Carl painted many of the royal family portraits. He was also present for the many state and social events. Back then, the royal artist would have been present to record all such things with his brush and paint.

It was in this environment where Carl found love. Caroline Gustone Friedericke Ludwige Lisette Junnius De Junge was a baroness. She was 39 years younger than him. They were married and had 5 children. But this part of Carl’s life didn’t begin until he was in his old age. His children were all still small when he became ill. He was now 75 years old. My Great Grandmother, Freida, was 7 years old. She remembers how sick he was and the sadness when he called his two girls to him to tell them goodbye before he died.

So as I have researched Carl’s life, as I learn of the political climate he was thrust into soon after he found his freedom from the monastery, I wonder what I would have done in the same situation. Would I have helped save the Kiser from the mob? Or would I go along with the crowd just because that’s what the crowd was doing? And what of the first half of his life living as a prisoner only because he wasn’t afraid to disagree with the establishment? The man had integrity. In face of all most certain annihilation he stuck to his guns.

Like I said, I hope a piece of Carl came though to me. I hope that regardless of what the establishment believes, I can think for myself. I hope that even if my personal safety were threatened, I would follow my conscience and do the right thing. I hope these same things for my children. So I don’t know if it would be environmental or genetics, but I hope a little bit of Carl is in us.

Work

For this past month, and especially the last two weeks, my work has dominated my wakening hours. It has also reduced my sleeping hours as the work days stretched on. One work stretch went from 5:00am last Friday to 3:00pm Saturday. 34 hours with no naps, no lunch hours, just the “Got to get this plant up and running and catch up the production line… this is costing us over a thousand dollars a minute to be down.” kind of pressure. Personally, I don’t know how my “Beautiful Wife” works around the clock like this so routinely. I am hopeful that my labor and maintenance problems at work have diminished to the point that I can begin to resume some kind of life outside of work.

These past few days, while in the thick of battle (hiring new employees, catching up the production line, shipping out the orders, and plowing through the stack of paperwork which has been on “ignore” for much too long for Corporate’s liking), my pondering time thoughts have been on work in general.

I love my memories of working on our farm. With no child labor laws applying to family farms, I can’t remember NOT working. But for the most part, I didn’t think of it as work. I was just out helping Dad, and my brothers on the farm. Much later, when I was about 12 years old, I got my first paying job from another farmer. For 6 cents per 40 foot pipe, every morning at 5:00am and again at 5:00pm, I got to move sprinkler irrigation lines across the field to water the crops. Other outside jobs followed. I was a movie projectionist, a lights and sound man at the local college, along with many other personal projects I did in my spare time. Mechanics, photography, electronics, you name it… I always had something going.

In the years since, as a manager, I have hired and worked with hundreds if not a thousand or more people. I am always intrigued with how an individual reacts to a job. Generally, a new hire (whether they are new to the workforce, or just new to that particular job), said all the right things in the interview and is happy and excited to GET the job. It takes about as long as it takes for them to really learn how to do the job, and how they fit into the organization, to separate the wheat from the chaff. It doesn’t matter if they are entry level (first time ever employees), management, or something in between, there is plenty of chaff mixed in with the wheat when it comes to workers.

I am thankful for the strong work ethic in my childhood home. The very stringent child labor laws have done many children a disservice just as no child labor laws disserved the children of my ancestors. As I watch many young adults, fresh out of school, trying to make it in the world, I wonder what makes a few workaholics, while many experience work culture shock.

Because I have studied my family history, I know where my strong work ethic comes from. Samuel Webster and John Smith in the British coal mines. Harald, Christoffer, and my other Norwegian ancestors out on the oceans of the world battling for their lives in leaky ships. John Everett, my Prussian ancestor who at the age of 13, left home never to see his family again to work as a sailor. Johann Tillack who was a farmer from Prussia, who chased after the gold fields of Australia in 1855. Jorgen Jensen, my Danish ancestor who always was a farmer, even when he immigrated to America. Frank Rubbra, who at the age of 16, left his Eastern Canadian home, joined the Canadian Mounted Police, and ended up going to South Africa to fight in the Boar War. All these and the many more that were not mentioned have given me a legacy of work. If it’s in the genes, then I should be an all time classic workaholic. I should look into the ancestry of my “Beautiful Wife”. There must be some awesome untold work stories from her genetic past.

Obviously, the key to a happy work life is to do something that you love doing. Like too many others, economics and a changing world has forced me to trade what I loved to do (continuing our family farm), to something that I like to do. Too bad I can’t get paid for storytelling. Then I would be a workaholic comparable to my “Beautiful Wife”.

Blogging

Since I discovered the world of blogging a few months ago, I have traveled the world, made a few friends (a rare thing for me), I’ve enjoyed a wide variety of talent and personality (visiting the spaces of my new friends), and I’ve even recieved some really good advice and encouragement. And all this right here in cyberspace. Thank-you my friends and visitors, for giving me one more thing that I love to do in my spare time. However, problems at my work will see to it that I won’t have any spare time for awhile. I’ll be back when I can… though it may be a week or more.

Pedaling

I can’t seem to get more than 3000 miles out of my bike tires. I guess that’s what I get for buying the cheapest I can find. Bad bike tires have had me on foot (or behind the wheel) for a few weeks, but finally a few days ago I got back on my two wheels again. Oh, it felt soooo good to get out and stretch my legs and feel the wind in my hair again.

Hey, that’s the only way I’ll feel wind in my hair. I’d love to be able to afford a nice mid-life-crisis red convertible, but if I could afford it, I’d spend it on my family instead. So even with money, I guess I would choose to be out pedaling.

My love of bikes started when I got my sister’s little blue bike as a hand-me-down. I can tell from the pictures now, by the style of the frame, that it was a little girl’s bike. But since it wasn’t pink, back then I didn’t know the difference.

Out on our farm, I learned to ride by rolling down the hill in our yard, crashing in the rocks and dirt at the bottom for the first twenty or more times. Training wheels would have been of no use on the rough roads around our farm. There was nothing like sidewalks or pavement anywhere in my five-year-old world. But once I got my balance, riding my bike was my favorite past time.

As I got older, and could venture out farther, my bike became my ticket to adventure and travel. A neighbor’s potato cellar had dirt mounded just right to make a bike ramp. That’s where I learned to “Catch Air.” Once on a borrowed bike, while in town for school, I discovered how wonderful paved roads were to ride bikes on. Even while still attending elementary school, I began bicycle commuting the four miles to school. Actually back then my mom wouldn’t let me take the main hi-way, so it was more like 5.5 miles to school.

My childhood bike memories include, rides after the farm work was done in the evening with my dad. Once I was in a family bike race with my brothers and my dad. It was fifty six miles long. Less than an hour after that race, I got back on my bike and rode it the three miles to work, where I moved sprinkler pipe. Then of course I’d ride it back home. My bike was transportation to town to go to the movies, or even just exploring the big city (of about 5000 people).

During the summer before my first year of Jr. High, I rode the four miles to summer Band class, carrying my trumpet the best I could while still holding on to the handle bars. I don’t know why I didn’t use a back pack for that. Maybe they hadn’t been invented yet. As far as that goes, I have never had any of the special bike equipment that I see the serious cyclists decked out in. I’ve never owned one of those form fitting and aero-dynamic jersey and bike shorts. My helmet is just a basic bike helmet with no fancy style and venting. I pedal with regular shoes and pedals… not the latest and greatest road shoe which snaps into special pedals for maximum efficiency and speed. my bike itself is made of steel, instead of the light weight carbon-fiber frames. There’s nothing special about my seat, or gears, or wheels, tires and so on.

Maybe someday, when oil is discovered in my backyard, I’ll know how I would stack up next to Lance Armstrong with all the same fancy equipment and training. But most likely I’ll go on enjoying my pedaling as a physical fitness hobby. Come wind, rain, or sunshine, cycling is my preferred method of travel.

During my adult life, I have bicycle commuted to work depending on my circumstances. I drove truck for a year, and I had my bike strapped on waiting for an evening ride away from the truck stop. Often, my bicycle commute was no big deal because I lived only a few miles from work. But when we lived in Colorado, our home was 20 miles from the processing plant that I managed. It was here that I enjoyed my biking on a whole new level. Most of this daily commute was down I-76, between Roggen and Wiggins Colorado. It was common for cars taking other commuters over the same road every day as well, to stop and ask me what I was doing. Why would I ride my bike that far everyday? One of these concerned neighboring commuters asked me if I had lost my drivers license to a DUI conviction or something. Many offered to give me rides. But those forty miles of biking everyday became a few hours of great thinking time everyday. And I didn’t want to give it up for mere comfort and rest.

I could tell many stories of my ride down I-76. Biking along in the dark and narrowly missing stalled cars which were parked along side the road. (I didn’t have very fancy lights either.) I saw and almost ran over a rattlesnake and other little critters scurrying along the side of the rode. Sometimes I could help a stranded motorist by making a cell phone call for help. But I think I’ll end this ramble with one short story of my winter biking.

Maybe it’s from my Norwegian genes. But the cold doesn’t bother me. It’s not that my hands and feet don’t get cold out in the snow and ice, but like I say, I just don’t mind it. So naturally, I wouldn’t stop my bike commuting for something as trivial as the onset of winter. Well, my wintertime biking was troubling to the general manager (my boss) at the processing plant. He thought it was unsafe for me to be out on the dark winter roads on my bike. (He was probably right, but that wouldn’t stop me.)

So on this one morning, Northeastern Colorado had one of its famous winter ice storms. The snow and ice were inches thick covering everything. Power poles sheared off under the weight of the Ice. Power lines snapped from the load, taking out power for several days in some areas. And of course the roads were covered with ice as well.

So early on this morning, the general manager was standing in the front offices with one of our truck drivers. They were undoubtedly discussing whether anyone would be able to make it in to work at all that day. I heard afterward that the truck driver started making jokes about if I would be crazy enough to ride my bike that day. Well, apparently the joking became a discussion, which turned into a debate, which led to a wager. The truck driver told me later, that no sooner had they shook hands sealing the bet, they could see my red flashing bike lights reflecting against the ice and snow. As I carefully rode across the rutted parking lot, dismounted and tried to brush the ice and snow off, and then carried my bike inside the front door, the general manager just glared at me and then he walked away without saying anything. I guess it wasn’t hard to see who had won the bet.

George and Kate

Over a week ago, Jessica http://jazziejewel.spaces.live.com/default.aspx?owner=1asked the questions, “What is love? How deep is love? What is true friendship?” Well, I’m not much of a philosopher, and I couldn’t come up with a great answer for her, but it did get me thinking about such things. And my thinking usually leads me to my family stories. This time, my thoughts are on my Grandpa, George Haroldsen. I don’t know why questions of Love would lead me to thoughts of George. He couldn’t be described as a “Don Juan” by any stretch of the imagination. In fact most of the love stories that I have heard about him center on his blunders.

Oh… it makes sense now. I can relate!!!

George was a hard working, no nonsense sort of guy. Back in 1905, when my family moved from Hyrum, Utah to Idaho Falls, Idaho, 19 year old George was working up in Montana. In fact his earnings provided the earnest money for the new family farm.

A few months later when the neighbor girl, Kate Smith, came over to invite the new neighbor kids to her 16^th birthday party, George wasn’t around to meet her. Later, when he got back into town, he asked his younger siblings lots of questions about the birthday girl.

Over the next few years, they “both did a lot of looking at each other” as George put it, but like I said, George was very slow and calculated in his love live. Nevertheless, Kate made sure she was frequently within his gaze, like when George was leaving on a train to accompany a shipment of cattle to Portland, Oregon, Kate was there to “wish him a good trip.” So eventually, George and Kate started to see each other a little bit. Kate thought they were getting serious, but then George made a big blunder.

He had just bought a beautiful new buggy. So here is a 23 year old eligible bachelor sporting around his new ride, and there was a dance coming up on Saturday night.

The town flirt decided that she wanted to go to the dance in style, and before George knew what happened, he had agreed to help her out by giving her a ride to the dance.

When Kate found out, she was furious. George really had to scramble to make amends with Kate again. And by the time he was back in her good graces, George was thinking of the future. Later in his life while recalling that time in his life, he philosophized, “Life without a mate, without a partnership, would be a flop.”

They were married June 9, 1909 in Kate’s family home and the next day, they were on the train to Salt Lake City, for their honeymoon. It was on this honeymoon trip in Salt Lake, that another George Haroldsen “blunder” happen.

One of George’s female cousins, who lived in Salt Lake City, showed them around the city. One stop was at the Photographer. George didn’t know until it was too late that Kate wouldn’t want his cousin to stand in the picture with them for their wedding photo. I have that picture of the three of them. It was their only wedding photograph.

Dumb guy… certainly not the Don Juan type with all the slick moves and right lines. But no woman experienced more loyalty or devotion than Kate did in her married life. George was a slow learner when it came to properly showing his love, but no one beat him in staying in love with his life’s partner. Unlike the new buggy story and the wedding picture story, no one and nothing got between George and his love for Kate. By his own definition, his life was not a flop.

I was 8 years old when after 59 years of marriage, Kate died within a week of discovering cancer. It was on leap year day, February 29^th, 1968. George was devastated. But he tried to carry on. Along with continuing to do his farming (he was now 82 years old), in honor of Kate, he tried to keep everything in the home the way she had always done things. When I came to visit, I remember he still had cookies in the cookie jar (they weren’t the good ones Grandma had, but…) And like Kate had done before, the toys for us, the younger grandkids, were cleverly hid around the house so I could go searching for the “cool” toy truck, and my sisters would find the doll. One of my aunts reported that he did pretty well (with his daughter’s help) learning how to cook certain meals just the way Kate had done it, but she did catch him watering Kate’s plastic house plants.

June 7^th, 1974 was a sad day I will never forget. George had been admitted into the hospital only a few days earlier. At the age of 86, it was his first hospital stay. With my father, I had visited him a few hours earlier, but he was sleeping for the whole visit. They said he died of a stroke. I really felt the loss. I hadn’t spent nearly enough time with him. But my sadness was sweetened at the thought, “Grandpa is with Grandma again. Now he is happy again.”

As I think about it, what my grandpa said fits in perfectly with my own philosophy. “Life without a mate, without a partnership, would be a flop.” I would consider my life a flop without my partner… without my “Beautiful Wife.”