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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.    

 

 

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 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. 

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”.    

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. 

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.”

I love this music on my space of Neil Diamond singing Morningside.  It’s a story of an old man’s forgotten legacy using the metaphor of a strong table built with pride, gone unclaimed by his children.  It could be the theam music of my space.  I guess for a few days, it will be.

It’s been a while since I have been to a dance.  I’d like to blame that mostly on fact that I live in the middle of a desert waste land and there’s little opportunity.  But my lack of attendance at a dance also has something to do with my lack of dancing ability (See my list titled “I wish I could”). 

However, this past Saturday night, I found myself at a community dance.  We went as a family to this town of about 300 – 400 people called Oak City.  The outdoor dance, with a live band (Lawrence Welk style) was the culmination of “Oak City Days”, their annual celebration. 

After we arrived, and before I knew it, I found myself out in the middle of a hundred other people with my cute daughter, Clarissa.  We were facing another couple in our “Square” of four couples preparing to do the Quadrille. 

So as I stood out there under the stars, without a clue of what I was doing, I thought of my 2 Greats Grandpa, John Smith (Jock).  On a full moonlit night back in the summer of 1852, he too stumbled into a square dance, the Cotillion, as the pioneer company he was traveling with showed this Scotsman how to dance American style.  In spite of the fact that I was as clumsily as ever, Clarissa showed me a good time as we stumbled through to the end of the dance. 

I was so intent on trying to follow the voice of the “caller” that it wasn’t until the dance was over that I thought of the occasional school and church dances I had attended as a teenager.  Back then my awkward dancing combined with my paralyzing shyness made me a big klutz with the young ladies.   Quickly, I shut out the memory of those poor girls dashing for the bathroom when they saw I finally had gotten up my nerve to ask for a dance.  I wonder how Jock fared out on the dance floor?  Maybe that’s where I inherited my two left feet. 

I watched my younger children as they struggled to “enjoy” themselves at the dance.  Besides the intimidating crowds, the Big Band era music wasn’t what they had expected.  Mommy (my Beautiful Wife) encouraged our young children to be brave and to go ask someone to dance.  I watched as Cory searched the crowds for the right one to ask.  First he had a false start.  The song was almost over when he was ready to make his move. 

Momma was his coach… “Now you will have to wait for the next song… You need to get your nerve up and ask right at the beginning of the song.” 

In his reply, Cory’s voice sounded timid to me, but his words had the confidence I would have wished for at any age.  “I have my nerve up… It’s just taking me that long to find the right girl to ask.” 

Then it happened.  Cory was off winding through the towering crowd of mostly adults, like a cat closing in its prey.  I have never seen a little girl’s face suddenly turn happier.  Those two owned the dance floor for the rest of the night. 

I couldn’t be more pleased.  If it is hereditary, Cory gets his dancing and ladies skills from his mother. But I’d like to take credit for something, so maybe he gets his good luck from me.

 

This morning we took two of our daughters to the high school for their first day of classes for the year.  Actually for one of my daughters, this is her first day of public school ever. (But that is another story for another time.)  As I watched my two “High School” daughters, get up extra early on their own, I could see the anticipation in their eyes of what they might expect on the first school day of the year. 

 

Now, I know that I am a guy, but I’m not that stupid.  (I do have other daughters who have been through this as well.)  They are certainly more interested in the social aspect of a new year than they are in the academics.  But I have studied the history of education and schooling as it pertains to our family, and I don’t take the opportunities for a good education, which my children have, for granted like they do.  

 

My 2 Greats Grandpa, John Smith, or Jock as he was called, had no education.  In the Scottish coal mining community of the 1820’s where he grew up, family survival necessitated another strong back to carry the coal out of the pits.  So Jock was cheated out of the few meager years of schooling that was offered to the Scottish children.  Throughout his life, Jock was reminded what a disadvantage he was in because he couldn’t read or write.  Once, after working for years to satisfy the requirements of the Homestead Act, Jock missed the posted filing date, and his neighbor jumped his claim, leaving Jock with only a notice of eviction from his own farm.

 

Jock made sure the schooling for his children in the 1850’s and 60’s was better than he had… a little better any way.  But public schools didn’t exist in the Utah territory of the mid 1800’s.  So only those who could afford too, sent their children to school.  Jock could afford to send only one of his children.  Robert, Jock’s oldest son attended.  When he couldn’t make it for some reason, his next younger brother, James would take his place for the day.  My Great Grandpa, Adam was 3^rd in line.  So it took him a few years of substituting for his older brothers before he learned to read and write.  But Adam learned to write very well.  His handwriting was beautiful.  It puts mine, and most handwriting I have seen now days to shame.

 

The story is the same with many of my other ancestors.  My 2 Greats Grandpa, Johann Tillack had immigrated from Prussia to Australia.  He donated the land and petitioned his Lutheran Church to get the first school started where he lived outside of Melbourne in 1873.  That school still exists and thrives today, and is called the Bayswater Elementary School. 

 

So with the new school year starting, school stories from my family are on my mind.  Parents raiding the cellar for vegetables to send with their children as their part of the teacher’s salary… a Baptist church from the South setting up free schools in the poor Utah communities as a way to proselyte among the Mormons…  school teachers boarding with the families of his students as part of his salary. My dad said that changing from 4^th to 5^th grade was a big deal.  He said that instead of just moving over a row in the same class room, you got to change rooms to the older class in the school. Grades 1 through 4 in one room, and 5through 8 in the other room. 

 

So I will watch my two “High School” daughters boarding the school bus each morning, while thinking of my Grandpa, George Haroldsen, hitching up the sled and going around the rural neighborhood on the cold Idaho winter school days to give them a ride to school. 

 

While listening to my children complain about how hard their school work is, or of how much homework they have, or of the many other problems caused by the school or teacher, I will be thinking of my parents, and their parents, and theirs… on back as far as I have information.  They wanted their children to get a better education than they had…(and we got it), to have better opportunities (and we got that too.)  That’s the same thing I want… for my children to learn more… to get more education… to be able to have more opportunities than I have.

 

Yes… the start of a school year is exciting to me as well as to my children.  It’s not only a time to look forward to new beginnings and new opportunities.  It’s also a time to look back, with thankfulness, for the opportunities that I now have… a fulfillment of someone else’s dreams… my parents… and their parents… and theirs.