storyteller

Another Ski Story

 

            As I was talking to my father the other day, and telling him about my most recent ski adventures with Thotman and some of my family, he told me his own ski story.  After hearing him describe his skiing experiences, I now don’t wonder he didn’t take us all out skiing when we were young.  His story goes like this.

            Back in about 1948, my dad’s (Norman) recreational experience had to rotate around the family farm.  My Grandpa, George, didn’t take much time out for such frivolousness.  Almost any recreational temptation, which he would succumb to, had to with fishing in the summer time.  In fact my favorite photo of Grandpa Haroldsen is of him sporting his catch along side the riverbank, while on a rare fishing trip to Island Park, Idaho. 

            My dad tells me that as for skiing, his experience amounted to standing in tow behind a car on the poorly plowed county roads around his home.  So when his big chance to really go skiing came up.  Norman got bold and asked for the unthinkable, a day off from work.  That might not have been so unreasonable, but he had been away, going to college for the fall semester, and he would only be home for a few weeks for the Christmas break.  His father, George, thought that his youngest son needed to pitch in and make up for lost time while he was home for the Holidays. 

            Norman’s buddies were headed to the ski slopes.  A place one or two hours away (depending on the roads), called Pine Creek Basin, was the closest ski resort.  As ski resorts go (by today’s standard), it wasn’t much to look at.  They had a rope tow to pull the skier to the top of the slope.  Like I said, the only thing nineteen-year-old Norman had ever done on skis before was to tow behind a car on the snow covered roads around his home.  So when the rope tow had finally done its job and Norman was looking down the treeless opening of the mountainside, he didn’t have a clue what to do next. 

            Peer pressure is an amazing thing.  It can cause an other wise normal healthy individual to risk life and limb.  Norman had to keep up with his buddies, so when they pushed off at the top, so did he.  Not only did he keep up to them, but he passed them the first time they turned to switchback across the slope.  Norman didn’t have a clue how to turn on skis, nor did he realize that switching back and forth across the hill side was how to control his speed going down.  So while his buddies were cutting diagonally across the top of the hill, Norman headed straight down the middle.  Now the only thing slowing him was the wind drag as his speeding bullet body hit speeds of 10,000 miles per hour (as he describes it). 

            Now all that is bad enough, but Norman had one more disadvantage on this his début on the ski slopes.  Ski equipment in those days was nothing to brag about anyway, but what little break away protection designed into the ski bindings were apparently broke.  Normans fantastic high speed ski run down the mountain paled by the even more fantastic high speed crash at the bottom of the hill.  Legs, arms, body, and skis flew everywhere, but when all came to a stop, those skis were still nailed to the feet of this now human pretzel.  Ski patrol came to pick up the pieces with their toboggan.  And Norman was just thankful to still be alive.  Or was he?  Now he’d have to face his dad while on crutches.  There would be no extra projects that he could help with during this Christmas vacation.  No help feeding the cattle or other winter chores.  He couldn’t do anything but lie around the house and wait to go back to the winter/spring semester of college.  And that would be on crutches of course.

            Dad said, that was the last time he ever went skiing.  I wonder why?  A little thing like a brush with death and then months of pain and suffering while his legs healed… followed by years of ridicule from his dad as he mocked Norman’s original request. 

“Just let me have this one day to go skiing and then I’ll help you everyday after that.”

It’s a small wonder I my dad didn’t take us skiing when I was growing up.     

 

            I’m not the storyteller tonight.  My Beautiful Wife, Treasurechest, and Thotman, have both done a wonderful job telling the story on my mind today.  I’d like to relate a few of my observations which neither one mentioned though. 

            Prior to rendezvousing at our designated meeting place, Thotman phoned me to tell me he’d be just a few minutes late.  He needed to make an unexpected rescue mission.  He had found someone stranded, out of gas.

            After meeting up with us and while we were fitting my children’s boots to skis and getting everything packed up in Thotman’s “Ski Van”, I noticed the tow rope permanently attached to his vehicle.  Other rescue items are stashed away as well.  He was equipped and ready to help anyone along side the road in need.

            I loved how comfortably Thotman engaged my young children in direct conversation.  They loved the obvious respect and attention he gave them individually.  Once we were on the slopes, for several hours, his whole attention was focused on making this new experience, a great experience.  Just one example is when he took Cory up on the ski lift and then skied down backwards while leaning forward and holding Cory’s ski’s in the right position to teach the “Snow Plow” method.

            I would have to say that Thotman’s energy level during the whole day was on a “Super Hero” level.  His energy seems to build as he interacts with others like a snow ball growing as it rolls down a hill. 

            We had enjoyed the fabulous ski lessons, and engaging in meaningful conversation all the way down the mountain (telling and listening to jokes with the children).  After our Chucky Cheese extravaganza, and while driving back to our original rendezvous point where our car waited, we were now quiet thinking about our just completed adventure. 

Thotman was now busy on his phone.  He had many more friends to check on… kind words to leave… help to offer… plans to make. 

I thought back to a comment he made to me up in the mountains while we were loading our equipment back into his ski van.  First he laughed, it was an under your breath teasing sort of laugh.  Then he jabbed at me with his words.  “A rich man’s sport huh?”  He was referring to my blog back a month ago when I had used the excuse for never trying skiing.  I had written that, “I knew that skiing was a rich man’s sport.” 

This was the second time I had gone with him.  This time I had many of my family with us.  Thotman had extra ski equipment, and he knew where and when to go so we could learn and practice without ever buying a ski pass.  The cost was gas to drive up the mountain. 

            Earlier in a comment to my first ski blog, Thotman quoted the classic Christmas movie, “It’s a Wonderful Life” … ‘he who has friends is truly rich…  so maybe it is a rich man’s sport’ he had commented.

            I’ve learned that Thotman is a rich man.  But that has nothing to do with money.  I’ve also learned that I am much richer than I ever thought I was.  And that has nothing to do with money either.  Yes, skiing is a rich man’s sport.  But that has less to do with money than I had ever thought.                     

So as the year 2006 comes to a close, and as I look back at how life went for me this past year.  I have to say, it has been a very lucrative year for me.  I feel very rich.  If I have a goal for this new year, it would be to increase my wealth.  Blogging has added immensely to my fortune in 2006.  Thank-you friends.  I am a rich man.

Gremlins

 

            In my sister’s blog, “The Greatest Gifts” at mitchowl,  she tells a family story which I have to respond to.  In her story, she tells about doing something for our father, which she describes as a wonderful gift to him.  But she probably doesn’t realize that it also became a “Greatest Gift” to me as well.

            Like everyone else in our American culture, I love the many Christmas movies which have replayed from year to year.  From “It’s a Wonderful life", with Jimmy Stewart to the more modern “Santa Clause” and “Elf”, Christmas movies are fun to watch as part of the festivities of the season.  But my all time favorite Christmas movie is a short story told in a BYU production which was made in 1978. 

The movie, “The Gift” is only 18 minutes long.  Set in the depression of the mid 1930’s.  A twelve-year-old boy who has very little money decides to get up early on Christmas morning to do the farm chores for his dad. 

I love this movie because it tells the story of my sister and I, when we lived on our family egg farm a decade earlier (than when I first saw the movie). Like my sister said in her blog, it didn’t happen at Christmas time, and we didn’t even intentionally start out thinking, “Let’s do this as a gift for Dad.”  But that’s how it turned out, and in the process, it has become a lifetime favorite memory for me.  So I am the one who really received a gift back then.  Thank-you, sister, for hating early mornings, and pulling me into what became one of my favorite night time pastimes. 

Here is my version of the story.  

Sometimes Dad had problems, so when we got home from school, we found that we were way behind on the work.  On these “bad days” the last thing to be done was the egg gathering.  Sometimes part of it wouldn’t get done at all.  Then we would have to get up by 4:00am to gather before school the next morning.  We didn’t like this very much.  In fact on one such occasion my sister told me that she’d rather do it herself the night before.

So that’s what we did.  After coming in late one evening, after one of “those bad days”, and after having supper, we told Mom and Dad good night and went downstairs to bed.  Then we went out the basement door and back to the green house.  (We called it the Green house because we originally used green flats to gather the eggs in that particular chicken coop.  We also had chicken coops named the Red house, and the Yellow house.  But the name Green house was the only name that stuck.)  The lights were off now in the coop but we had a flashlight. 

It took hours to gather that building in the dark with just the two of us, and with only a flashlight to see what we were doing, but we worked harder then ever at it, and we finished sometime in the middle of the night. 

At 3:50 AM, Dad came down to get us up to help gather the green house.  We got up and went down to the farm with Dad to get started.  As we went inside the coop, Dad looked at all the eggs on the carts in front, and at the empty gathering trays under the chickens with amazement.  We reacted just as shocked as he was, not admitting to any knowledge of how the work had been mysteriously done during the night.  After a minute of looking around, Dad shrugged his shoulders and said, “It must have been gremlins that did it.”

That was so fun to do that frequently after that, “Gremlins” worked at night unexpectedly.  One time was a major undertaking.  One of my older brothers, Keith, was married with a family of his own.  He worked part time on the farm along with his college job.  We were buying egg cartons by the railcar load out of Macon, Georgia.  But the nearest railroad siding, where we could unload was in town, about four miles away.

One Friday evening, Dad spotted our rail car load of egg cartons parked on the side rail.  There were between 1000 and 1500 bundles of cartons to unload.  On a truck we could get about 100 bundles.  Dad took my older brother, Keith, my younger brother, Warren, and me over to load up a truckload just before dark.   It was a lot of work to unstack the cartons from the rail car, carry them over to our truck and restack them in the truck.  We then drove the truck home and we were then only half done handling that load of cartons. 

Unloading was harder, because every bundle had to be lifted up into the second floor of the green house, which was now used for carton storage.  After getting back with this first load, it was getting dark and too late to unload it.  So Dad arranged for Keith to come back at 4:00 AM to help us finish unloading the rail car. 

In no time Keith, Warren and I were making plans.  Dad finally went to bed at 10:00 PM.  At 10:30 PM we felt it was safe to start.  We went to the farm and unloaded the truck that Dad had brought in.  Then we took two trucks back to town.  As we went past Dad’s open bedroom window we shut off the trucks and coasted so Dad wouldn’t wake-up.  In town we loaded both trucks by Lantern light, working like mules as fast as we could. We then went back to the farm, coasting past Dad’s bedroom window with lights and engines off. We unloaded and went back to town to load up again, and then back to our farm again. 

All night we worked like our lives depended on it.  At 3:30 AM we still had 2 trucks to unload.  Finally we finished and Keith split for home.  Warren and I slipped back in the basement door and to our rooms.  We could hear Dad moving upstairs.  I didn’t have time to get undressed as dad approached my room, so I just got under the covers to hide my dirty work clothes.  Dad came in to wake us up.  I followed Dad down to the farm and was shocked along with him that everything was already done.  Again, Dad said, “Gremlins must have done it.”  As always it made a dreaded job fun. 

            So what started out as a way for my sister, who hated early morning chores, to not have to get up at 4:00am, became a pattern of giving our dad a needed break from his “Bad days” on the farm, and of giving us children a feeling inside that can only be experienced by giving of ourselves.  Thank-you Sister, for including me while learning a wonderful lesson of life. Because I watch that Christmas movie, “The Gift” every year, I always think of those Gremlins of our youth.  And I realize that we, the givers, were really the recipients of the gift.  And It is a gift which I will cherish my whole life.

Here We Go Again

 

Tonight when I went into town to pickup Amelia and Brittany from work, I had a flash back to the summer of 1999.  Amelia has her driving learners permit, and this was my first chance to scoot over and let her get behind the wheel.  I enjoyed the ride home very much.  It reminded me of when I taught my first daughter, Meagan, to drive my old pick-up truck back when we lived in Colorado.

That was during the summer of 1999, over seven years ago.  But I remember that I had made a journal entry about that experience.  So when I got home (and after I quit shake from fear), I pulled out my old journal entry and reread (and relived) that first experience.  The memories brought smiles to my tired face, so I thought I’d go ahead and post that journal entry of seven years ago here.

 

 

An Important Lesson

Written Aug. 30, 1999

 

            This past summer, Meagan was able to come to work with me for awhile.  She had just received her drivers learners permit in time to practice driving me back and forth to work.  She seemed excited to be able to really drive, until the realities of driving my old broken down pick-up set in.  I didn’t think that me or my poor pick-up would survive her jack rabbit starts, grinding gears, miss shifted gears, and all the times we slipped out of gear while she tried to shift into my temperamental 5^th gear.  For a while, these rides really took a toll on me, my pick-up, and Meagan. 

            At times she begged to not have to drive again.  She said she wanted to learn on mom’s car because it has an automatic transmission. 

            During these rides, after the traditional pop the clutch, stall out, grind the starter motor, jackrabbit start, all intermingled with my cross instructions and her cross looks back, I couldn’t help but think back on my youth. 

Then suddenly Meagan pops it out of 5^th gear and races the engine, followed by our tempers racing again.  Finally we’re on I-76 with a straight 16 miles to relax before any more gear shifting.  So my thoughts drift back to when I was learning to drive back on our egg farm. 

            I started out driving farm equipment.  My earliest memory is of driving a farm truck out in our field.  I don’t remember why I was driving it, but I do remember having to stand on the seat to see over the dashboard.  Also I remember having to jump off of the seat and push on the clutch and wait for someone to get in the truck and put the transmission in neutral.  Anyway, by the time I have a clear memory, I was a pretty proficient driver.  It was all on our farm, and in everything, except the family car.  So by the time I was about 12 years old, I thought I was the best.  It was about this time that I found that I still had a lot to learn. 

            I happily got the job on our farm, early one spring, of running the Honey Wagon.  We had large manure pits at the back of our chicken coops.  Our Honey Wagon was the nickname for our liquid manure spreader.  The term was quite descriptive of the manure we had, but not very descriptive of the smell.

            Anyway, I was happy to do this job because I would get to drive the tractor, pulling the Honey Wagon all over our field and even several of our neighbor’s fields.  The only hard part of the whole job was hooking up the 8-inch wide suction hose used to fill the tank of the Honey Wagon.  This hose was very stiff, heavy, and awkward for me to handle. 

            I would have to back the trailer (the Honey Wagon) in just perfectly, or I just couldn’t hook the hose on to the tank for loading.  To further complicate things, this was in the early springtime and the dirt roads around our manure pits were muddy and slick. 

            As I would try to back the Honey Wagon in, it would slide sideways or jack knife into my tractor.  One day as I worked my job, everything seemed to be against me.  I struggled for up to an hour each time I came back for another load just to get that Honey Wagon in the right position, so I could hook up the hose.  I could feel the frustration level increase, and then my driving ability decrease.  At times I was near swearing, and then I’d be crying.  By the end of the day I hated the job.

 That spring, I had no choice but to keep doing that dreaded job.  Over a period of several weeks, my skill of backing that Honey Wagon increased until I could hit my target first time regardless of what the conditions were.  It was then, that job was fun again. 

Well, Meagan just turned on the turn signals, so in two more miles we will exit I-76 and go on in to Wiggins. 

These rides with Meagan back and forth to work every day was a summer of ’99 highlight which I’ll remember just like learning to back a trailer was a highlight the spring of ’72. 

At the end of her summer job, Meagan made a comment, which started me reminiscing again.  She was pleased at how well she could manage driving my temperamental old stick shift.  She said that none of her friends know how to drive a stick.  So in that one thing, she was smarter than any of her friends. 

Interesting how our strengths can be born out of necessity.  I thought back to the blessing it was to me to have to learn to back a trailer.  I think nothing of it anymore, but I see grown men who struggle with this like I did when I was 12 years old.  At times in my life this talent has been a real lifesaver for me.  Like when I pulled mobile homes after we closed our farm.  No one I worked with was any better at parking a mobile home on the exact right spot than me.  It makes me wonder about the other struggles I go through in life.  From this perspective, they are all blessings in disguise.  In that perspective, sometimes I feel really, really blessed.  I want my children to be blessed also.  I guess the trick to learn is to be happy and enjoy life even when we are so “Blessed” that we don’t have room enough to contain them.  Thanks Meagan, for teaching me an important lesson of life.

 

 

So now after remembering this time I spent with Meagan, teaching her to drive a stick shift, and learning a few lessons from her in the process, I wonder what profound insights I’ll gain while teaching Amelia to drive.  I love these memories of my children.  And I’m looking forward to making some new ones now with Amelia.  So watch out all you other drivers.  Here we go again.

           

            Never in my 25 year career of managing processing plants have I ever been faced with such a daunting problem.  I now work with cutting edge technology.  We have the best processing equipment in the industry.  We are located strategically to deliver our perishable product to many major markets literally overnight.  Our parent corporation has us well funded as it gives us the experience and clout of the largest company in the industry.  Our suppliers run to our beck & call.  And our competitors carefully watch what we do, but otherwise stay out of our way so our wake won’t capsize their smaller boats.  So the only thing lacking in this formula for success is our local work force.  The man in the trenches, or more accurately described, the man in the plant.

Because of the nature of our business, the facility is located VERY rurally.  Even the small town of 3000 people, which we claim in our mailing address, is fifteen miles from our plant.  And the closest larger cities are about 90 miles away.   

Since moving here, four and a half years ago, I have struggled to maintain an adequate staff.  The pool of potential full time permanent workers just isn’t very large here.  Along with working closely with our government employment agency both locally and state wide, we have worked with all the temporary employment services who offer any service to our area.  Anyone, far or near who can appropriately show that they can legally work are given opportunity with us.  We found some success with an international employment company who could fill the arduous government paper work requirements allowing a workforce from Asia to come fill our man power deficit.  The problem with that government program was that it was only allowed on a temporary basis. 

So now for the last three months, we have been back to square one, and struggling to find the manpower to keep the plant running.  Corporate officers and management have spent many hours brainstorming for a solution.  Any innovative thinking “outside the box” is quickly squelched by our corporate lawyers and personnel experts. 

While all of this is going on, I have been forced to work my undersized staff to the breaking point.  An average work day has been extended to twelve plus hours.  Those who are willing are encouraged to work extra days in the week.  Some have not logged less than 70 hours a week for four months.  When I do find someone to add to the workforce, they are so quickly overwhelmed with the long days that they won’t stay.  This vicious cycle forces my core of “superhero” workers, who have stayed with me through all of this, to continue on with the long days and longer weeks.

“What else could I do?  I have tried everything that corporate will let me try.”

“No you haven’t.”

“What?”  I didn’t know my Beautiful Wife was really listening to my rant.

She continued, “Why do you have to work them soooo long?”

I knew what she meant by the question but I had no choice.  “We HAVE to run that long BECAUSE I don’t have enough help.”

“But they just quit anyway, so why don’t you break it up.   Instead of having one new hire working the whole shift, have two share one position.  One could work in the morning, and then have the other one work that same position for the afternoon.  Why do you have to hire only people who are available to work 7 days a week, or even a full 40 hours a week?  Why can’t you hire people who want or can only work a few days a week?  Hire enough part time people fill out your full time positions.”

We were driving to town as she described to me the one obvious thing I hadn’t tried.  It was something that no one from all that corporate level experience and talent could think of.  And it hit me so hard that I almost ran off the road.  I had been so buried in the forest that I couldn’t see the trees anymore.  

The next day, I took out large a newspaper ad offering my new policy of part-time flexible positions. 

I have now worked for about a month with my part time work force and I have discovered an unexpected bonus.  Not only have I added to my available man power and taken the punch out of the long days by splitting the shifts up, but I have found some wonderful workers who really do want to work but wouldn’t have considered the full time job because of family responsibility.  Like my Beautiful Wife, there are many ladies who are more than capable of handling the job, and who plan to be around for a long time.  Work performance is up.  Morale is up.  And I give credit to my Beautiful Wife, who isn’t just another pretty face.   

            As I do occasionally, I have given my two “high school” daughters several rides to school in the last week.  They seem to like the White Bus (my pick-up truck) over the Yellow Bus.  And so any excuse gets them the preferred ride to school.  “I need to be in early to take a test.”  Or “My hair is taking too long.  I’ll miss the bus.  So can you give as ride today?”  The requested ride to school is always followed by some sugary phrase.  “I love you daddy!” is most commonly used.  They somehow think that I’ll drop everything and run to do their bidding anytime they start acting sweetsie with me.  They are right.  So I make a lot detours to the school on my way to work. 

            Well, last week as we headed out for an early school drop off, nothing I could do or say would persuade Amelia to put on a coat.  I knew she would be at school and then work from 7:00am until after 10:00pm. 

            “Aren’t you going to wear a coat today?  It’s 10 below zero out there.”

            “I am wearing a coat.”

            She showed me her thin fashionable sweater that she had on over her short sleeved shirt. 

            “That’s not a coat.  You’re going to freeze today.”

            “I don’t have a coat.”

            Not true.  Her mom told me that she just won’t wear it because she wants to look cute, and wearing a coat isn’t.  So off we go in the dark predawn artic air, to the high school where her early morning make-up test is waiting.  She IS willing to huddle in MY coat while we drive the 7 miles to the school.  As I’m driving along, I wonder if I should have forced her to take a coat anyway.  But I know that if I did, she would ditch it in her locker or worse in some hall, never to come back home again, and she would never wear it anyway.  So I wait to make sure that the empty looking school is unlocked and she can in fact get inside, so she doesn’t freeze to death, before I leave to go to work.  As I drive away, I’m wondering, “Why are they so stupid when it comes to dressing warm in winter weather.  I know that my Beautiful Wife is a perfect example of burrowing into warmth before venturing out in the cold.  So where do they get it from?” 

Then my memory takes me back to when I was first going to college.  I lived at home and went to the local college which was only 5 miles from our farm.  At the time, I worked for the school’s electronic services.  The job included everything from setting up sound systems for large classes on campus to running the lights and sound for the big performances and concerts that came to our college. 

On this particular morning, I had to go in early to do class room setups before my own classes.  I drove an old drafty delivery van, which barely put out enough heat to keep the windshield defrosted.  As I left the house at 5:00 am that morning, I remember thinking, “It feels a little cold out today.  Maybe I should go back and get a jacket.”  I looked at our yard thermometer, which read -25.  Then I thought, “But I will be inside warm buildings all day, and I don’t want to have to carry around a jacket.  Besides, I’m sure it will warm up to around zero when the sun comes up.”  So I continued on with shirt sleeves only.  

That afternoon, after my classes were finished, but before I could get back home, I was asked to stay and help run the lights for a show that night. It was the largest stage set up I had ever seen come to our college.  Along with the bus load of performers, they brought two semi tractor trailers loaded with their own equipment.  The set up before the show began took about four hours.  This was back when the eight foot long super-trooper spot lights the college had, ran on carbon rods similar to welding rods.  I loved running those big lights while following the instructions from some unseen show director as he told us what to do through the intercom system. 

The show ended about 11:00pm.  And I still hadn’t been home yet.  But now, they needed help putting all that equipment back into their two semi-tractor trailers.  It wasn’t until about 1:00am when I started to realize how foolish I had been in going to school that morning without a coat or even a jacket.   Instead of warming up some during the day like I thought it would, it had turned colder.  I worked outside loading that equipment until about 2:30am.  The campus thermometer now registered -40.  I couldn’t stop my shivers.  Hard work wasn’t enough to generate body heat anymore.  One of the fellows from the show had pity on me and gave me a pair of gloves to wear. Nothing had ever felt so good to me.  I wondered if I would ever be warm again.  Finally the job was done and I could go home.  Once at home, I stirred the hot coals in our fireplace and then piled on the wood.  While waiting for the flame to generate real heat, I found blankets and made myself a bed in front of where the fan blasted out the heat of the fire.  Then for the next three hours, I lay there and shivered uncontrollably.  By the time my shivers subsided, it was time to get up and go back to school for another day.   This time I took a coat. 

I came back from my memory as I pulled into my parking space at work.  I have to suppress a smile as I think, “I don’t have to wonder where my children get their stupidly from when it comes to under dressing for the cold.  I hope they will somehow survive like I did though.”

The stalker, like a smelly old fart who comes intruding (and stinking up our home) is trying to smear his version of "I’m better than you are."  If his attacks were against me alone, I’d leave them posted for all to read.  His words degrade himself just fine without any help from me.  But I am not who he really wants.  So his verbal attacks against me are mixed with insults to my Beautiful Wife personally.  So until the air clears of the foul smell and the stalker goes back into his cyber hole, my Beautiful Wife’s space will be private, and I’ll restrict my comment section once again.    

            I have mentioned many times my love of the snow and cold.  And that love is genuine.  Some of my earliest memories include being out with my dad while he worked outside in the wintertime.  I can remember feeling the cold of winter creeping in past my gloves and boots to nip at my fingers and toes.  It wasn’t long before I learned that the best way to stay warm was to get busy and go to work.  (Of course the worse thing to do was to huddle down and shiver.)  Back then, I really liked being outside even though I was cold, more than I liked to be inside the house where it was warm.  So after the work was finished, often even at night, my playtime was out in the cold. 

            One year we were hit with an especially hard winter.  To me it was a really fun winter.  The snows just kept coming that year, and the winds kept blowing.  It wasn’t long before our half mile long lane from the main road was drifted in deeper than I had ever seen it before (or since).  That road was snowed in for weeks.  Along with the snow and blow, came the Artic air.  The sustained -40 Fahrenheit gave the drifted snow such a hard crust that we soon could drive our cars and trucks up over the drifts.  Our station wagon parked on a snow drift in front of our house.  The car was as high as the eves of the house. 

Finally, the snowplow came to open our road once again.  It took that massive plow many hours of backing up and ramming that crusted snow to plow down our half mile of road.  Left in its wake were the largest snow boulders I have ever seen.  Many of them were as large as our cars and trucks.  Some were even larger.  I could climb up on this ice age snow bank and look down at the cars and trucks as they passed on the newly opened road.  I remember thinking that I shouldn’t touch the power lines running along the road, which were buried so deep in the snow bank that I could have touched them easily.  I spent the rest of this winter’s playtime exploring the many ice caves created along the roadside snow bank.        

            During this time, I always wished I had skis to get around on.  The snow was so crusted that I could walk on it anywhere as if I were walking on the solid ground, but the idea of playing around on skis was intriguing.  I watched a friend once waxing his wooden skis and wished that I had a pair of skis to use.  I knew back then that skiing was a rich man’s sport.  So with all my love of playing out in the snow in the wintertime, until last Saturday I had never actually gotten on a pair of snow skis.

            Thotman and I had been talking about my “Never done list”.  In referring to my statement that I had never kissed anyone except my Beautiful Wife, never smoked or drank, never gambled and never gone snow skiing, He said that he didn’t think he should lead me into immorality, or make a drunk out of me.  And that I had actually been gambling my whole life anyway… so the only thing left for him to offer, was to take me skiing. 

            The thought was very intriguing to me.  At this stage of my life there were two reasons why I would just put it on my “Never done it” list without giving any thought to actually doing it.  First, I am now just an old dog.  I don’t know the first thing about the equipment, where to go, or what to do once I got there.  And then secondly, I still knew that it was a rich man’s sport, and I’m not rich. 

            Well, to shorten my story, let’s just skip to last Saturday.  I found myself up at a mountain ski resort with Thotman.  I learned that day that if the name Thotman had been taken, he could have assumed the name Skiman just as well.  I’ve read his blog “A Dance With The Mountain” and as good as he is with words, he still doesn’t fully convey his passion for skiing. 

            I loved every minute of that afternoon.  Thotman is a great ski instructor, and my clumsiness on skis didn’t seem to discourage him a bit.  I was hoping  that before the day was through, I would be able to ski down the gradual slope next to the rope tow and learn enough to stop myself using the snowplow (instead of the headplow) technique he was teaching me.  But before I knew it, we were on the lift headed up the mountain.  That ride up the mountain alone was a thrill.  As a spectator down on the ground those lifts don’t seem to be going that fast.  I don’t want to contradict Thotman too much, so I won’t detail how awkward and clumsy I was going down.  So let’s just say, I sure made the ski patrol nervous.  But by the time I got to the bottom, I was wishing we had more day left, and I was just a little bit more proficient on those skis.  Yes, I had put skiing in the right category on my spaces list.  It is an addiction just like the smoking, drinking and gambling.  Now I’m wondering when I can get my next fix. 

Thanksgiving is an exciting time of year for me.  For one thing, I like to eat.  It’s also when the weather seems to switch into the winter season, my favorite time of year.  Even hot weather fans, like my Beautiful Wife, have to like the beauty of the first snows of the season.  Along with the changing weather, and emerging holiday season, humanity in general seems to refresh with the theme of “Good will to all.” 

            As a child, I remember that my Grandparents, who lived up in Canada, celebrated Thanksgiving over a month before we did down in the USA.  Now it is interesting to me how these traditions began.  Our North American tradition of celebrating Thanksgiving certainly got its roots from the various European harvest festivals.  The earlier timing of the Canadian Thanksgiving probably has something to do with the fact that in that more northern country, the harvest is earlier in the year than in the USA. 

            I wonder about my own family Thanksgiving traditions.  How much of what we do to celebrate this holiday has been handed down from generation to generation?  As I have studied my family history, I realize that much of what I do and say is in fact a tradition, sometimes unknowingly handed down from earlier generations.  I have no written record of how my ancestors observed Thanksgiving, so I am only left with my imagination of what traditions were past down to me.  But I see the pattern as I remember Thanksgiving as a child, as I think of how my Beautiful Wife and I celebrate it as a family, and now as I observe what my grown children think is important to perpetuate into their own families.

            When I was little, I remember that Thanksgiving day started early like any other day.  We had the farm chores to do like always, but on this day, we tried to have everything done early.  Most of the day was spent being lazy around the house.  This was one of the rare days when we would actually get out a board game, like monopoly.  Yes, Monopoly was definitely one of our Thanksgiving Day traditions.  Football games on TV was not a tradition at our house.  If we weren’t entertained by playing games inside, we’d be outside playing in the snow.  Sledding down a hill, or being pulled behind a tractor or some other vehicle in our large yard was ever popular.  To this day, I have never gone snow skiing.  That was just something the rich people did.  That may change soon though.

            After our wonderful dinner, we usually played both in doors and out until it was time to do chores again.  I didn’t mind going out to work for a few hours after dinner.  It was a good way to rework the appetite so I could go another round at that great dinner. 

            Other good memories include when we went to Colorado to my Aunt and Uncle’s place for Thanksgiving.  I probably wouldn’t still remember that trip but our car lost the windshield defroster on our 500 mile ride home, and we had to take that winter ride with the windows rolled down. 

For several years, our family participated in Thanksgiving services as a community.  All the denominations participated as well as anyone else from the community who was willing.  Music and prayers of Thanksgiving were offered.  That was a good experience to do something like that with the whole community.

            I think my favorite Thanksgiving memory is of when My Beautiful Wife and I were just starting to establish our own traditions.  This was our first year as a married couple celebrating Thanksgiving.  We lived on the family farm, about a quarter mile from my parent’s home.  Because of her wonderful abilities as a cook, we offered to bake the pies for the extended family gathering at my parent’s home where our big feast would take place.  I have lost track of how many different kinds of pies we made, but it was a lot.  Banana Cream, Chocolate cream.  Cherry, Apple (my favorite), Lemon Merguine (my other favorite), Pumpkin (my other, other favorite), were all on the list.  I think we made about a dozen pies that year. 

            And then we had to transport all those pies down to my parent’s house.  This shouldn’t have been a hard task, but it had been snowing and blowing that day.  So the lane between our houses was drifted in.  I’ll never forget seeing the look of disbelief at how much snow there was, on my Beautiful Wife’s face as she tried to struggled to wade through all the snow that hadn’t been there only hours earlier.  It was quite a change for this Southern California girl who was now wondering what she had gotten herself into.  All turned out well as we arrived safely and then enjoyed the Thanksgiving dinner Haroldsen style. 

            Well, today Thanksgiving dinner is even more stylish as my Beautiful Wife has brought her best family traditions to join with my best family traditions, and we have created our own unique brand of Thanksgiving at the Haroldsens.  There is still no football at our house, but the food is better than ever, with her brined turkey, homemade dinner rolls to die for, potatoes and gravy, salads, and vegetables fixed for a king.  And of course for desert there will be at least a half a dozen different kinds of pie, including my favorite, my other favorite, and my other, other favorite.   

It’s a rare thing for me to be home alone.  It always has been.  I grew up in a large family.  I was a middle child, and my mom’s work was always at home.  So someone was always at home.  The same is true in my own home now, we have a large family of our own, my Beautiful Wife did all of her work at home until last spring, and so there is always someone at home when I am there.  Until last night that is…

            I almost already feel like an empty nester with only six of our children still living at home.  But then yesterday, my Beautiful Wife took our five youngest children with her for an over night stay in Provo.  That would leave only me and my teenaged son left at home.  Well, teenaged son couldn’t see the sense in sitting at home with only the old man to entertain him, so he wanted to go spend the night with one of his friends (I could see a late into the night Halo computer game coming on).  So that left just me in this big house for the night.

            It was a very hard day of work, I was late leaving work, and I just wasn’t up to doing much when I got home to the quiet house.  I found some leftovers for my dinner and turned on the TV so there would be noise in the house.  The noise helped make it feel like home to me.  I was too weary to be productive at anything, so I didn’t fight the drowses. 

            The next thing I knew, it was 12:30am, everything was dark and quiet (except the wind outside was howling).  I got up to go get ready for bed.  Dumb, huh?  I probably should have just slept in my clothes and left my bed made.  Because when I actually went to bed, I just lay there awake.  Not surprising, since I had just finished a four hour nap. 

            So then as I lay there staring out in the darkness, and listening to the wind and rain pound the outside of our house, my mind wondered to my 2 greats grandfather, Jock Smith, to my great grandfather Christian Haroldsen, and to my grandfather, George Haroldsen.  I thought of all the years they lived alone. 

            Jock’s life with Catherine ended when she died while they still had small children living at home.  We don’t have any details, or even the exact year she died, but it was somewhere around 1862.  That would have been when Jock was only about 44 years old.  He lived another 30 years.  Undoubtedly, many of these years were spent home alone.  The nights must have been long, as he thought of his beloved Catherine… of his children who were now out on there own, raising their own families.  I’m sure as the winds and rains of a night time storm beat against his small farm house in Hooper, Utah, his mind replayed the storms of his life… the real storms.  Twelve children born but only four lived to grow up… the hard life of a Scottish coal miner… and then later the hard life of a Mormon pioneer… losing his own beloved wife, years before her time… then the many injustices from his fellow neighbors… fellow Mormons… his farm was stolen by a neighbor, a claim jumper who could read the notices of the homestead act.  Jock couldn’t read it.  In the end all he could do was to take his animals and tools and find a new place to start a farm again.  That’s why he lived in Hooper now instead of Riverdale.  During these long stormy nights, in his old age, he must have lay there and replayed the bitter memories of his life.  I hope with the rising sun, the sweet memories of life warmed his thoughts.

            Christian lived alone for many years.  Drinking ruined his family life.  He lived alone from about 1909 on.  About 34 years of living alone.  Much of this was spent many miles away from any family.  He worked on large ranches up in Montana and in Canada.  A glimpse of his loneliness is recorded in a letter to one of his sons.  “I probably won’t have a place to call home until they dig a hole 6 feet in the ground.”  In his later years, when he couldn’t work anymore, one of his sons built a small shed in back of his own home, where Christian could still have his independence, yet the close care of family.  I have looked at this shed, now turned into a tool shed for the present generation.  And I have wondered, what were Christian’s thoughts in his old age?  Did he think of this as a place of his own?  Or did he still think of that 6 foot hole in the ground as the only place he could call home?   

            I remember many small details of my Grandpa Haroldsen’s home.  George lost his dear Catherine very suddenly.  They had grown old together and then suddenly she was gone. 

Though they were never used, all the grown children’s bedrooms were still made up and ready to live in.  As grandchildren, we loved to play up stairs in those bedrooms.  I remember that those beds were bouncier than my own bed.  An old fashioned sewing machine was fun to operate by turning the foot peddle.  It was very hot in the upstairs in the summertime, and cold in the winter.

After Grandma had died, I remember going with my dad to visit Grandpa.  The large house was always dark, except for a reading lamp or some other light where Grandpa had been spending his time.  Heat radiated out of his coal stove but no where else in the house.  He dressed warm, flannel shirts and such, and then he just seemed to be comfortable in the cold house.  I’d do that too if I lived alone. 

It took me over an hour to drift back to sleep.  That was good thinking time for me.  I thought a lot about these three grandfathers of mine.  I loved the glimpse into a part of their lives that no one (including themselves) ever really wrote about.  Most of my thoughts were on my grandpa (George), because I knew him personally.  I thought of those last six years of his life, after his wife died.  I wondered of the thoughts in his head… of his memories.  He would have remembered when wiring a house for electricity was cutting edge technology.  Back then a small dim light in the main room of the house was all that was offered.  He knew the time before cars… before airplanes… and radios.  I remember that he listened to his new transistor radio when I was a small boy visiting.  His tube radio was still there, but this tiny (about the size of today’s desktop computer) radio sounded much better.  Grandpa scoffed at those who were putting the new tv antennas up on their roof tops.  His black and white tv had rabbit ears with tinfoil wrapped around them… I suppose to try to get the snowy picture to come through.  Jackie Gleason… and that news man who said, “And that’s the way it is.”  Those are faint memories of visits to Grandpa’s house. 

Grandpa must have spent a lot of that thinking time, marveling at how much the world had changed from his boyhood memories of the 1890’s to putting the man on the moon and watching it happen on his “snowy” tv.  I wonder if I’ll spend the ending years of my life living alone.  Probably not, my Beautiful Wife is already hard to keep up with.  But if I do, what will I think about in those lonely hours of home alone?  Will I like my thoughts?  Will I marvel at how much the world has changed in my lifetime?  Will I like the changes?  I wondered about these things last night while I was home alone.