storyteller

A Moving Story

 

            These past several months have sapped all my extra time and strength, energy and interest, in what it takes to move.  Of course prior to even listing our old house for sale, an inordinate amount of energy went into the spruce it up preparations.  Then came the keep it up routine needed for showing it to potential buyers.  After we made a deal and our old house went under contract, our lives revolved around the pack’em up, move’em out responsibility.  Incidentally, finding our new home, the perfect one for us in the perfect place for us, was absolutely the easiest part of the whole move. 

            Well, now that I am mostly unpacked and organized with the things that I have sole responsibility for (my Beautiful Wife was unpacked and fully organized with EVERYTHING ELSE within hours of unloading the moving truck.) my thinking time has been spent marveling at what a big job this moving thing really is.  You’d think I’d already know what I’m in for.  We’ve moved ten times just since my Beautiful Wife and I were married.  But somehow each move is it’s own experience and has it’s own personality.  Now that I can stand back , sigh, and wipe the sweat from my eye brow, I have taken time to wonder and ponder about some other moving stories.

            Oh, the tales that could be told, if they were still here.  For example, my two greats grandpa, Jock Smith.  Generations of Smiths had lived in the same Scottish village of Dumfermline, in the parish of Perth.  It had been the law for generations, no one who lived there could move away from the mines.  Back then, the continent of Europe didn’t have a monopoly on the use of serfs.  But the law was finally changed.  Jock first moved about twenty miles, further up the Forth of Firth, to Alloa.  After marrying and beginning his own family, in 1849 they brought what little they had and came to America.  It took three years of work in St Louis before he could outfit for the trek west.  Once in the untamed west of what is now Utah, Jock moved his family four more times that I know of, maybe more.  Some of these moves were hundreds of miles apart.

            My two greats grand father, Samuel Webster, did something similar.  Only difference was, he left his wife and children back in England while he went ahead and earned enough to bring them to join him.  Later, Samuel decided that new opportunities awaited up in Canada, and my great grandma, Sarah, told of walking along side the narrow rail train, which moved them up north, because the train moved so slow that she could just walk along side it.

            As far as a life time of moving goes, I think the grand champion of all my progenitors were my two greats grandparents, Johann and Mary Sophia Tillack.  Both were born in what is now Germany.  Johann’s family had farmed for generations in Prussia.  But Johann and his family wanted no part of Otto Bismark’s ambitious plan to conquer Europe, so their only other option was to leave.  In 1855, the Australian Gold Rush was in full swing, and Johann caught the fever.  It was in the region of Melbourne that Johann met Mary Sophia and they had their large family.  Life was good as the family fruit farm prospered, but the itch to migrate once again came this time from their new found religious faith.  Life in Utah was good in the 1890’s.  It would have been a nice place to settle for Johann’s declining years, but because their children had mostly moved on again, Johann and Mary Sophia made the additional trek up north to live their final years in Canada with their children.  Back in the 1800’s, not many simple farmers traveled the world, but Johann not only traveled but established himself and lived on three continents and in four different countries.    

            We are now happily settled in our new home in our new community.  My Beautiful Wife is happy, and I am happy.  So as I reestablish some of my normal routines, including telling my ancestor’s life stories in the novel I’m working on, I have a renewed appreciation for what they went through to make life better for themselves and for their children, and ultimately for me.  

“Dad, I want to be just like you!”

 

            They already had their family, three sons and a daughter.  Then six years later, another son was born.  The Great Depression was in full swing for Norman’s earliest memories.  But the optimism of the late 1920’s, when he was born, seemed to embed his personality for life.   This characteristic optimism in the face of hardship still carries him through life. 

            Lost for hours.  Asleep on the bank of a ditch.  Two year old Norman was feared drowned as the frantic search intensified.  He thought he was in trouble when he heard his name intently and repeatedly called. Then he saw the tears in the eyes of his panicked family.  Instead of reprimands, the small boy, Norman, received the hugs of rejoicing.  Today we are rejoicing that we can still hug him, in spite of his battle with a devastating illness since last fall.     

            Norman’s innovative mind started with little things, like a string stretched tightly across the driveway of his childhood home.  Earl, Norman’s oldest brother, had to run quickly back to the house for something he had forgotten.  His littlest brother’s innocent prank got under his skin (or was it just the cement finish of the driveway, which flayed certain parts of his face, hands, elbows, and knees that got under his skin?)  Throughout the years, Norman’s innovations improved as he developed a successful family business specializing in the production and distribution of eggs in the much of southeastern Idaho, and parts of Wyoming and Montana.  Norman’s people skills blossomed from the snot nosed little brother, who brought down his towering big brother in the driveway, to a man who is beloved by all who know him. (The staff of oncology lights up with happy smiles and greetings when they see him coming.)

Norman’s sense of adventure took him far.  Too far for his other brother’s liking.  His next older brother, George, was the inventor of the family.  George had built a bicycle with an out-rigger to fit on the railroad tracks.  This allowed the 1930’s rural bike rider to experience the unbelievably smooth and fast ride to distant places.  Norman tried it out, but he went too fast, and too far.  When he finally returned from his adventures in Ucon (a neighboring village), he found his concerned father and distraught brother standing at the farm railroad crossing, waiting for his return.  His dad said the railroad bike was too dangerous.  It was broken up.  But his interest in the world wasn’t broken up.  And on numerous trips, Norman has seen much of the world.  He always planned and traveled independently and never part of a tour group’s agenda.  This is one area where his people skills are legendary.  Many stories could be told of how good he is at making the world his friend, one person at a time, but then this would be a book instead of a blog.   

            A life long love of learning for Norman began in a two room school house.  Grades 1-4 were in one room.  And grades 5-8 were in the other.  Norman’s cousin Ray, was almost like a brother to him.  After 8^th grade graduation from from St. Leon, Ray describes how and why the Haroldsens became involved in high school band.  Norman loved band, and even became a band officer when his City Girl opponent campaigned against him by saying, “We don’t want our band run by a bunch of country hicks do we?”  Thanks to the backlash from her speech, Norman was a shoe-in for the position.      From band music, Norman’s inventor brother, George, introduced him to Classical, which has become a life long love. 

            One damper in his high school experience was an explosion in Chemistry class.  Though the resultant eye injury has left life long effects, it didn’t blur his vision of the future.  And it didn’t stunt his zeal for learning and life.  Norman graduated college with a bachelors’ degree in agriculture, but through out his life, including today, he continues to read, learn, and study.  He was always the speller that I am not.  And he knows world geography like no one else I know.  (Of course he does, he’s been to most of those places.)

After college, newly wed Norman passed up other opportunities to come home and run the family farm.  His dad, though, seemed to only be interested in a free hand.  So after eight years of free servitude, and with his father’s critical word’s still ringing in his ears, “All you care about is chickens and church”, Norman struck out on his own, and started his egg business.  This phrase illustrates what ever his present focus is.  It could be repeated for everything he does in life.  “All you care about is politics.”  “All you care about is helping other people.”  “All you care about is home and family.”  “All you care about is visiting and getting to know other people.”  The list could go on and on. 

            I love and look forward to my daily phone calls with my mom and dad.  My conversations with them inspire me to want to be a better person.  Often, I hear humors stories of their day.  Because of his illness, I also hear of his frustration and feebleness, of his struggles and sorrow.  

As I contemplate who my father really is, on this coming Father’s Day, one phrase I’ve heard him say more than once in these past months of illness will ring in my ears. 

“Shame on me.” 

Yes, anytime he has actually gotten emotional or expressed his weariness from enduring, he always follows up with “Shame on me.”  He feels that with all he is blessed with, he has no right to allow himself to feel down about his troubles.  I wonder what a great world we would live in, if everyone’s shame was comparable to my dad’s self imposed shame of ingratitude when he is feeling a little down.               

            So this Father’s Day, I’d like to borrow another phrase from my memory.  This one came from my two year old son, Joshua, about twenty years ago.  He had spent the day riding along with me as I delivered eggs up around West Yellowstone, Montana.  We were just finishing up the last delivery before the hour plus drive back home in the delivery truck.  I had decided to buy some soda pop for the ride home.  After making my selection, I asked Joshua, what kind of pop do you want?  Bubbling with the enthusiasm that happy two year olds can possess, Josh said, “I’ll have what you have.  I want to be just like you.”  That was a contemplative ride home for me.  Do I want my son to really be “Just like me?”  That comment inspired me to strive to be better than I was.

            I think if I could go back home to visit my dad for Fathers Day, I’d bring his favorite soda pop, and another of the same kind for me.  As we sipped our drinks, I’d try to muster Joshua’s two-year-old enthusiasm and say, “Dad, I want to be just like you.”  

Memorial Day Haroldsen Style

 

            I have devoted all my free time and energy to our premoving preparations.  So right now my blogs and visits are few and far between.  However, this weekend is an exception.  I have taken a break from my storting and packing duties to go with my Beautiful Wife and children to visit our other children (who have preceded us in moving to Provo.)   This visit, of course is tied into our celebration festivities of Memorial Day weekend. 

It all started with a very spoiling birthday dinner (for me) on Friday.  Saturday morning, we got up early and headed to Provo.  The Pirates movie was fun, because of my wonderful companions.  The picnic dinner, which followed was great, because all the food was prepared by my Beautiful Wife and by my daughters (who learned to cook from my Beautiful Wife.)  I gained ten pounds this weekend.  Visiting with old friends at a wedding reception that evening was icing on the cake.  My daily phone call to see how my dad is doing and our attendance at church and visit with My Beautiful wife’s mother and husband rounded out our weekend of family visits and family associations.   

However, all thorough this weekend of family and friends, the magic of movies, and of food and festivities, I have been thinking of Memorial Day proper.  My understanding is that Memorial Day was conceived as a time to remember the fallen soldiers of the American Civil War.  By World War I, May 30 was designated as a day to remember all of our fallen soldiers.  From those beginnings, Memorial Day has come to include all of our loved ones who have passed on, and is now celebrated on the last Monday of May.  

So this weekend, in my idle moments when my mind can wander (mostly while driving the 400-500 miles of our travels), I was thinking of the diverse places many of my loved ones are buried.  I have visited the graves of loved ones in Canada, Idaho, Utah, and California.  I know of others far away which I haven’t visited.  My parents are visiting our Idaho Cemeteries today, decorating the graves and remembering with fondness.  I wish I lived closer so I could participate.  My children grew up far from where any of our loved ones were buried.  So they don’t know of our family tradition.  I wish we could have passed on this tradition to them, but it didn’t happen. 

So today, I am mentally back in my childhood home observing Memorial Day, "Haroldsen style”. 

Memorial Day wasn’t always observed on a Monday.  Traditionally it was on May 30^th, no matter what day of the week it fell on.

            When I was growing up, our Memorial Day routine was always the same.  We only did the bare necessities on the farm, which would take us until about 11:00 am.  By that time, we had feed everywhere it should be and all the eggs gathered that we could by then.  While Dad and us boys were doing the farm work, Mom and the girls were packing away a first class picnic lunch. 

As quickly as possible, we would come in from work, get cleaned up and head for Idaho Falls.  Our first stop was always at Rose Hill Cemetery.  Although I wasn’t even born when he died, Gary Kent was the main thing on my mind.  As I stood looking at his grave marker, I could learn little bits and pieces about his life and how he died as I listened to Mom and Dad make comments.  But Mom was always very emotional and Dad unusually quiet as we visited Gary Kent’s grave, so I didn’t ask too many questions.  Even though I didn’t ever know him in this life, I missed Gary Kent and have always felt an empty spot deep inside, caused by his absence.  I always thought of the fact that Gary Kent’s birthday was the day after mine, and that Memorial Day (when we went to visit his grave) was only four days later.

            After our visit at the Cemetery, we would go to Tautphaus Park, for our picnic.  Tautphaus Park almost adjoins Rose Hill Cemetery.  So it was kind of like spending the day with our loved ones who had died. 

            No one could do a first class picnic like my Mom.  There was always more food and more variety than even a hungry boy could possibly hope to conquer.  Besides first class picnic areas, Tautphaus Park also had a nice playground area, a carnival ride area and a small zoo.  So we had plenty to do, even as kids, for the rest of the day.  Even though we would have to pay for our playtime by how early our next morning of chores on the farm would start, our Memorial Day picnics were always a highlight for me as I grew up.

            So now I’m here at home, reminiscing about all those good Memorial Day memories and wishing that my children could have the same experience.  We live hundreds of miles away from Rose Hill Cemetery or any other cemetery where family members are buried, so with the distance and my immediate family responsibilities, it won’t happen.  Maybe next year.  We’ll live a hundred mile closer to my childhood roots.  Yes, next year I’m going home for Memorial Day.  Children! Next year would you like to come along and help me celebrate Memorial Day Haroldsen Style?

 

Celebrating My Mother’s Birthday

 

I’m a winter sort of guy.  I’ve always loved the snow and blow, the ice and cold, the short days and long nights.  Frozen fingers and toes don’t bother me.  The coziness of home and hearth is even nicer after I’ve spent the day out in the winter wonderland. 

But there is something about the springtime of year which thaws my heart to the idea of the summer sun.  I like to see my loved ones happy, and anyone who knows my Beautiful Wife knows that a warm sunny day will brighten her like magic.  But there is another woman who I have watched bask in the warming sun of May as long as I can remember. 

My mother was raised on the British Colombian coast.  Her happy childhood memories include the sun and sand of the beach.  It was love and romance that brought her to the snow and blow of Southeastern Idaho.  I’ve watched her endure our Idaho winters year after year.  And then usually in May, even in southeastern Idaho, the sun stretches higher in the sky and Mother Earth below responds accordingly. 

As a child, I always thought that the emerging flowers were simply the earth decorating for my mother’s birthday which is in early May.  In my young mind, Mothers Day celebrations were simply everyone celebrating my mother’s birthday which was sometimes very close to that second Sunday in May. 

My mother has always been a quiet force for good.  She is content to work in the background, making sure that those around her are successful and happy.  She has literally been the woman holding the ladder while my father climbed his way to success in life.  She is still holding the ladder for my dad while he climbs his way through a devastating illness. 

My mother is the same way with each her seven living children. I know that all of my other siblings could tell their own stories of her support and what she’s done for them in the past, or even now in the present.  I think a story of my high school days is good example of how she is always there as a support and help when we need it. 

One of my extra curricular activities in high school was choir.  It wasn’t just any old choir, but I was a member of what I felt like was the best select high school choir anywhere around.  The Bel Cantos even back then had a legacy of excellence as we performed all over the area.  We even went on tour to other places. 

This was our school’s homecoming week back in the fall of 1977, and I was one of the officers of the Bel Cantos.  In line with our determination to be the best at anything we did, we had designed a float for the homecoming parade which was more than ambitious for busy high school students.  I can’t remember the theme of the float, but I’ll never forget the design. 

We started with a Volkswagen Bug, made a thirteen foot ball over the top of it out of construction rebar (the steel reinforcement that goes in concrete), and covered this steel rebar with chicken wire.  We then attached two 12 foot carpet tubes end to end for a 24 foot quarter note staff out the back, and cut an 8 foot panel into an eighth note flag.  Our giant eighth note on wheels had a clever slogan (which I have now forgotten) on both sides.   

The problem with the Bel Cantos was that these were the kids who were in EVERYTHING at school.  So when it came to making our clever plans a reality, I was left holding the bag.  Most of my fellow Bel Cantos were also in every other club and group who were also making floats for our big parade.  So the reality was, I had the lion share of actually building that float. 

Construction of the under frame went very quickly.  We had purchased 15,000 napkins from a paper products wholesaler to stuff the 13 foot chicken wire ball. But only a few others came along that night to help me stuff all those napkins.  After a few hours of work they went home, and I was left looking at one fourth beautifully napkin stuffed, three fouths bare chicken wire ball fastened to that Volkswagen.  Now my reputation for following through was at stake.  I didn’t stop working all night.  The only break I took the next day was to go in to the school for my Senior Picture. (My glassy eyed stare in that picture still reminds me how tired I was that day.) 

It was about 8:00pm that night, (starting into my 2^nd night of no sleep) that I realized we would run out of napkins.  I went home and told my mom that it was a hopeless cause.  We wouldn’t have a float in the parade the next morning after all.  Now up to that point, I hadn’t even been aware that my mom had paid particular attention to this project.  She had remained in the background as my fellow choir members came and went and the work progressed slowly.  But the moment I walked into the house and declared defeat, she sprang into action. 

“You’re NOT going to quit now!  Not after all the work you’ve put into it.”

“But I have no choice.  We are out of napkins and the paper supplier is closed now.”

Before I could even spell out just how hopeless the whole thing was my mother was steering me back on course.

“Let’s go to all the grocery stores in the area and buy all their white napkins… Take down those small signs on the sides and make BIG ones to cover up more bare chicken wire… It’s time to call in the rest of the choir.  It’s their float too.” 

By midnight that night, our beautiful float was ready for the parade and I got a good night sleep before driving it to town where we won an award for most original float. 

Yes, my mother doesn’t really like to be out on stage any more than she likes the snow and cold, but she sure knows how to make those of us who are on stage, look good.  Obviously, this is just one of the many ways she has always showed her love for us.  When it comes to loving us, my mother’s actions always spoke louder than her quiet spoken, soft words.  So this year as Mother Nature gives my mother the same birthday gift of warmth and beauty of late spring, I’m thinking of the gift of support and encouragement that she always gives to us year around.  As I see Mother’s Day advertisements, it reminds me that people everywhere are still helping me celebrate my mother’s birthday.  Happy Birthday Mom.  I love you back.    

Part of the magic of love is when it brings two families together through marriage.  We are now involved in the wedding festivites in which our son, Joshua is marrying the love of his live, Sarah.  Tonight, both of our families came together as we became better acquainted with each other.  In this setting I gave the following synopsis of Joshua’s life.

Joshua

It was a cold day in Idaho… -47 degrees Fahrenheit. The hospital was small and ill-equipped for a preemie with under developed lungs. That small town nursery was the first but not the last thing Joshua revolutionized. Life Flight was grounded because of the extreme cold. So out of necessity, Madison Memorial Hospital had to improvise a newborn ICU. From that precarious beginning, Joshua’s zest for life is leaving an increasingly wide wake of enthusiasm.

He’s always been a fast learner… sometimes too fast. When he observed how his mother nursed a younger sibling, he mimicked the action with his older sister’s doll.

His first year of school didn’t even qualify as a good review for what he already knew. So similar to what he did to Madison Memorial Hospital, out of necessity, Joshua revolutionized how the Haroldsen Children were formally educated, and Haroldsen home schooling began.

Part of that homeschooling included basic music lessons. But Joshua set the beginner books aside when he heard a neighbor playing Beethoven. He went next door and borrowed the sheet music and started playing Fur Elise, memorizing it within days. As a 10 year old, Joshua was the ward primary pianist. He also began playing the prelude music on the organ before Sacrament Meeting began.

He was also doing well in business by this time. The Mower Man, was a thriving lawn mowing business with crew of three siblings all equipped with lawn care equipment pulled by bike trailers. Ten year old Joshua also taught piano and held a recital for the proud parents of his six students.

In his spare time Joshua got hold of his mommy’s video camera. The product of his imaginative filmmaking has left his family wondering if he is crazy or genius.

As he grew and matured, Joshua has continued to plow a wide wake with whatever he does. When he out grew the Mower Man business, he formed a company centered around his most current interest. His Computer Genie business was a great success back when today’s Geek Squad were still in diapers.

Along with these successful enterprises, Joshua has worked for many other business, gaining experience and helping him formulate what kind of career he wants to pursue next.

At the age of sixteen, Joshua started College with two scholarships to University of Northern Colorado. In the middle of his college education, Joshua spent a wonderful two years as a missionary. For all the good he accomplished there, he might be known by some in that country as the "Good Tsunami" that hit Thailand.

Since returning home just over a year ago, Joshua has put as much thought and care into choosing a marriage partner as he has in everything else in his life. As I watched this process, I have no question that he has found the love of his life. Based on my own experience with another certain "Red Head", in the area of spunkiness and having a zest for life, I’m guessing that Joshua has met his match.

Glimpses

 

            I don’t travel often.  It’s one of my future dreams to go on long trips where I can see the world and learn about other places and cultures, first hand.  I had just a taste of it when I was a teenager and my dad took me half way around the world where we spent a month traversing the continent and country of Australia.  Since that time, I have always thought that someday I’d do a lot more of that of that sort of thing.  But, for a common guy like me, a family man, the limited time and means requires that some dreams have to wait in line behind more pressing responsibilities.  So since that May in 1977, my traveling away from home has mostly been on business.

            Like I said, travel doesn’t happen often for me.  Corporate wants to keep me in the processing plant as much as possible, minding the day to day details of our business.  But every year or two, I am sent on a pilgrimage back to corporate headquarters, along with all the other processing managers, for recalibration in our company’s way of doing business.  This isn’t a blog about those meetings I just returned from.  It’s about my thoughts and impressions while traveling to and from my corporate meetings.

Since I love “people watching”, airports are cool places to hang out.  As I sat in the terminal, at my gate, waiting for the call to board, my people watching skills quickly sharpened. 

The amalgamation of language and looks, customs and culture, features and facial expressions, complexion and countenance, hats and hairdos, habits and habitats, soon began to describe to my eyes how diverse the population in airports really are.  As I sat, with book in lap, pretending to read, those around me portrayed little pieces of their lives for me.

A cute couple sat across, facing me.  It appeared many years of living together had given them a similar manner and dress.  Even their physic was now blended to the point that they looked almost like brother and sister rather than husband and wife.  They were slumped onto each others shoulders as they peacefully slept. 

I loved watching the children, of all ages, who were traveling with their parents. Whether they were four years old or fourteen, they seemed to reveal more of their family life then their parents would want. 

A lady quickly stepped into our row of chairs and scanned the floor along the adjoining wall.  She turned back to her husband and said, “There’s one here.”  I knew they wanted the rare power outlet next to my seat.  I offered to give up the seat to them.  It was a chance to change positions for more people watching anyway.  Soon three children were huddled on the floor in front of my old chair watching a movie on a portable DVD player.

An Asian couple was my new subject.  Each time the PA system sounded, they both looked skyward like God had just spoken from the heavens.  Between themselves, their language was something oriental.  I wondered if they understood the English which bombarded them.  I wondered the purpose of their travel.  Now days, most traveled on vacation or business.  They didn’t seem to fit either category.

As I sat there pondering the many mini human dramas before me, I had a glimpse of yesteryear.  In my mind’s eye, I could see my widowed 2 great’s grandma, Inger, traveling with her small family into everything unfamiliar.  In June of 1876 they sailed from Kragero, Norway for Denmark.  They then crossed the North Sea to Hull, England and crossed England by train, and then boarded the Steamer, “Idaho” for crossing the Atlantic Ocean.  For most of this trip, language was a barrier.  No one in the family spoke English.  This made things even more terrifying for the small Norwegian family who were huddled in a cattle car, on display like a freak show slowly crossing England.  My great grandpa, Christian, was just a boy.  He told of how they were gawked at them and jeered.  Some of the Englishmen spit on them and poked and prodded them.  Since they couldn’t understand their English yet, they didn’t understand the meaning of the unruly catcalls which were thrown down at them.  From this experience, Christian hated the English for the rest of his life.            

            Over the PA, boarding my flight was announced.  I watched this Asian couple looking around at the sudden shuffle of people.  As I passed by them, I hoped their American experience didn’t feel like my Norwegian family’s experience in England.  

While boarding the plane, I passed through 1^st class which had already boarded.  In the corner of my eye, I caught glimpse of an important looking business man leaning over his laptop computer.  As I glanced back, I noticed instead of business, he was really playing the same computer game I had seen my teenaged son playing at home.  I moved back to coach, found my seat, stowed my bag in the overhead, and slid into my seat. 

Then my mind caught a glimpse of Inger and her little family on her voyage.  Several levels below main deck, as a tall woman, likely she couldn’t even stand up straight on the steerage deck.  I realized that by comparison, I was traveling 1^st class.  Inger was very sea sick for her voyage. 

Soon after we reached cruising altitude, the flight attendants moved through the cabin passing out snacks and offering drinks.  I thought of the sea biscuits which Inger received as part of her rations.  These were mostly saved for their rail travel across the American continent to the West.  They made this crossing during the 100 year celebration of American independence.  I wonder what they saw on July 4^th, 1876?

As we landed in Atlanta, Georgia, a little over three hours after leaving Salt Lake City, Utah, our pilot joked that we were early but that we had to pay full fare anyway. 

My next mental glimpse was of Inger, with her little family, standing at the side of the new railroad line.  Some one was supposed to meet her there to bring her the final 20 miles to town.  But this was July 24^th.  A territory holiday celebrating the first arrival of the religious pioneers twenty-nine years earlier had distracted her wagon taxi.  She sat on the side of that rail line that day and cried.

As I sat in my taxi, traveling to my fancy hotel room, anticipating the extravagance lavished on us over worked managers for a few days every year or two, I was somber… thinking of Inger, and what she went though so life could be so good for her children… for me. 

I don’t mind putting off seeing the world a few more years while my Beautiful Wife and I strive to give our children the best start in life possible.  I wonder… in a generation or two will one of them will look back at us, thinking that we had made a sacrifice for their benefit.  Did Inger think that what she did was some noble sacrifice?  I’ll bet she felt just like me.  We are not doing anything special.  We’re just doing what we think is best for our family.  But, I love Inger for what she did for me.

 

A Gamble

            I have never put any money into a slot machine nor done any of the other gaming that is commonly associated with Las Vegas.  I’ve never bet on a race or other sports event.  I have not purchased a lottery ticket nor even joined in the office betting pool that they do around the Super Bowel.  But I have done my share of gambling. 

            I know that depending on who you talk to, even getting up in the morning and walking outside to meet the new day is a gamble.  But my past gambling has included bigger risks.  I think most farmers and ranchers should enroll in Gamblers Anonymous.  It’s quite a thrill to look at the futures markets in commodities and try to determine how to buy corn and other feed ingredients, along with investing the high dollars in equipment, livestock, and real estate required to produces a perishable food product, knowing that the actual value of that product will have nothing to do with the expense incurred in producing it.  In the end, the selling value all comes down to supply and demand at the moment of the sale.   If the same dollars I’ve lost in such an endeavor were wasted on the crap tables in Las Vegas, anyone, except the casino management, would say I had a gambling problem. 

            This month there are several things which have got me thinking about another big gamble taken in life. 

First, is the research and writing I’m doing on my family history novel.  I am doing a little walking in my 2-greats Grandma, Inger’s shoes.  Inger was raised in a well-to-do family in Norway during the mid 1800’s.  The caste system of the European wealthy was alive and well in that day, so when Inger fell in love with a common sailor, her choice was between the love of her life and her family.  She couldn’t have both.  Perhaps Inger knew all along that the choice she made would result in a life of hardship and struggle.  But I can’t help but think that the young men and women of their day were as eternally optimistic as our youth today.  So I’m sure Christoffer and Inger’s dreams of the future included a nice home, plenty of food and other necessities, and at least some leisure time to enjoy it all.  At least some of Inger’s dreams were quenched when Christoffer was killed in a work accident and she was thrown into severe poverty.  In remembering those hard years of survival when she washed laundry for others, she lamented later in her life, “If I had only had a washboard!” 

Besides loosing her husband, Inger lost one of her daughters while living in Norway.  It wasn’t too many more years before she managed to move with her remaining three daughters and one son to new opportunities in America. 

I have also been anticipating my son’s wedding at the end of this month.  It appears to me that the love of his life is almost as spunky as my Beautiful Wife.  (She even has the red hair.)  She is a great gal and I think that his gamble on love is a safe bet. 

And that takes me to the biggest gamble I have ever made in life.  Twenty-five years ago this month, my beautiful wife and I were married.  (The truth be told, she’s the one who REALLY took the gamble.) 

She is everything that I am not.  Spunky, impulsive, high spirited, adventurous, and magnetic are a few words that begin to paint her portrait.  She gave up much of her world to become part of mine.  She moved from the warm sunny climate of Southern California to live in the cold artic climate of Southeastern Idaho.  She has spent most of our married life living in the rural setting of farm life instead of the convinces of city life where she would prefer.  All of her personal dreams have been put on hold for these entire twenty five years while she does a magnificent job doing her part in fulfilling our joint dreams of raising a large wonderful family.

Yes, with all my gambling losses, this is one time when I won the mega lottery.  Instead of a lump sum payment, I’ve opted for the benefits to last a lifetime. 

So on this Friday the 13^th, symbol of bad luck, I am thinking of the risk we take when our otherwise good judgment is overshadowed by the intoxicating influence of love.  We take a gamble when we devote our lives to someone else.  But for me, marrying my Beautiful Wife 25 years ago turned out to be a very good bet.        

Dreams

 

            I am taking a few days off from work right now.  It’s a use ‘em or loose ‘em sort of thing.  So I am not really going on vacation, sight seeing, or other wise spending my forced “take them now” vacation days wisely.  To do what I would want to do with my vacation time, it would take money.  But it has given me a little more leisure time to relax and ponder the realities which make up my life.  Yesterday, I got a glimpse into my “Beautiful Wife’s” realities.  She took the 100 mile drive to Gary’s doctor appointment with him, and I got to pinch hit for her as a school teacher. 

For the most part, my three children (who are homeschooled) were nice to me and did everything they should.  Most of that would have happened whether I was there or not.  They are very well trained by their “Beautiful Teacher/Momma.”  But my youngest, (I call her “Baby Bug”) is first grade age (doing second grade work) and does need lot’s of one on one for her math and reading.   In the process of teaching Baby Bug, I learned a little more about my Beautiful Wife’s daily life. 

I am not over worked right now, and since it was a vacation day from work, I even slept in a little longer, and didn’t do much when I did get up.  But after my Beautiful Wife left, and I found my self teaching 2^nd grade math and reading, lazy drowses set in and I had to fight to stay awake in the slow paced tutoring.  It left me wondering, how does my Beautiful Wife routinely work all night, and then come home and run the house for a large family, teach homeschool, and pursue her own dreams like she does.  I know that she has just decided she needs to “do it all.”  Because if she doesn’t, the part she misses out on are her own dreams. 

My Beautiful Wife stayed up in Provo and Gary came home to trade places with me.  The Vacation Part of my vacation day was taking my Beautiful Wife around the city she wants to live in, looking at neighborhoods and houses, furniture and electronics, and the other things that would make this particular dream a reality for her. 

Thanks to a Christmas present, which we were slow to cash in; dinner and a movie capped our night, compliments of our daughter Jessica and her husband Bryan.  All in all, it was a very nice day with my Beautiful Wife, spent dreaming of our future. 

Twenty-five years ago, our dreams together were centered on a life together and having a family together.  Those dreams are wonderful realities.  So there is room to expand our dreams.  But today reality sets in as I look at next week’s family calendar, and I see 5 of our children with orthodontic appointments all on the same day.  I guess some dreams (involving money) are still a few years away.  

Walking in Someone Else’s Shoes

 

            It has been my experience, all too often learned the hard way, that if someone in my processing plant is having trouble doing their job well, my approach to dealing with the problem is different, and more favorable to that employee, if I first step into that particular work position and see what they are seeing, rather than standing back and dissecting the work performance from a distance. (Wow, how is that for a run-on sentence?)  But my point is, no matter how well I know the job, and regardless of how much I have worked that position in the past, if I put myself into the worker’s shoes at that particular moment, seeing how the machines, material, and even co-workers are working at the moment, my management of the situation is always better.  I believe that no one in the egg industry understands the egg processing environment better than I.  But I have learned that I just can’t see the little things that are causing the problem I’m trying to resolve, unless I’m in their shoes.  So, to make myself a better manager, I make it a point to work all the positions from time to time.  This also has the added benefit of showing my employees that I do know what I’m talking about, and that I am not asking them to do anything that I can’t or won’t do myself.  But like I said, after walking in their shoes I often approach changes and improvements in a totally different way then I had intended.

            I am learning this same lesson as I seek to understand and write about my ancestors.  I don’t think that anyone in my extended family has a better grasp of our family history than I do.  In preparation for writing our history into a novel, I have spent many years gathering everything that is written on our family. 

I am not the only member of our family who has researched and recorded our story.  In fact, there are many in the previous generation who have gathered the facts, recorded our family stories, and even visited around the world at our ancestors’ homelands, interviewing distant relatives and touring original hometowns and farms.  The foundation of my research has had a vast amount of information as a starting point.  I have thick files on most of my grandparents, back two or three generations.  Even a couple books have already been written on some of their lives. 

But this week, as I prepared to introduce one more “character” into my story, I have studied the real life of my great great grandmother, Inger.  Like most of the ancestors which I am writing about, I have a few pictures of Inger. I have spent years reading everything anyone has ever written about her. I have studied her pictures to the point that I can look past the “stiff photographs of the 1800’s of old people” to where I can “see” Inger as a child full of wonder, as a young adult full of dreams and plans for the future, and as a mature adult who carries a life full of experiences. 

So I thought I really knew Inger as I began my new chapter which introduces her into my novel.  But then I started writing… not about her, like everyone else has done, but for her… seeing life though her eyes.  I see things differently when I attempt to put words into her mouth.  Her shoes aren’t comfortable to walk in, but it is already an experience that I treasure. 

So that’s got me thinking about the here and now.  How many people do I think that I know?  As I size up and judge my neighbor, my coworkers, my friends, from my point of view, it’s easy to judge.  It’s easy to know what they should do and how they should feel.  But it’s a different experience for me when I truly get into their shoes and take a few steps. 

I can visit with my father every day.  Asking how he is doing and how he is feeling, as he endures a lingering illness.  But I feel like the processing manager who “thinks” he knows what his workers are going though by just standing back and watching from a distance.  My mother is so quiet and unassuming that few, including myself, really know the personal burden she carries as she supports my dad in his illness. 

So now I am wondering about my Beautiful Wife, who I have a close and personal association with.  How well do I know how she feels inside?  What burdens does she carry that I just can’t see from my position?  In that sense, I’m like a processing manager, who smugly stands back and watches from a distance?

I think I need to learn from my work place.  I am a better manager by walking up to an employee in my processing plant and giving them a break while I step in and really see what life is like for them at work.  I think I would be a better son, husband, and father if I did the same thing for my family that I do at work.  It’s just something for me to think about… to work on.

 

Now, if you don’t hear from me on spaces for a few weeks, you’ll know that I am having entirely too much fun telling the story of Inger, as I write this next chapter.