SPRING...THE CRUELEST SEASON?

I love living in Utah. I'm a mountain guy and living in the mountains brings four seasons. I do a lot of musing about the seasons, the virtues and blessings of each. I love them all and welcome the arrival of each and to a lesser extent, mourn their passing.

My relationship with spring has been the most ambivalent. For many it brings the excitement of a new birth, a fresh start, an awakening, a coming out after a long, cold winter, longer days, more daylight. Easter brings the promise of the of the resurrection which adds to the symbolism of the season.

I've found the reality of spring to be much different. Sure, we have our warm sunlit days in spring here, where the bulbs begin to sprout and the birds sing. But just as often, spring brings blustery cold winds, rain, snow, mud and lingering cold. It baits you, tempts you and then quickly abandons you.

Spring in the east, where we have had the privilege of living two different times seems to be a little more predictable than here in the Rockies. It certainly is more colorful, with it's tulip trees in early spring and azaleas and dogwoods coming later. Here, we often go from cloudy and cool to hot with not much of a pleasant transition in between, without an abundance of color to show for it .

This year I've decided to change my attitude about the season and embrace all of it's unpredictability and look more closely for it's unique beauty. I've not been disappointed. I'm in no hurry for it to go. I'm savoring it (well, except for the wind).

Below is a short video I took today of our deck and trees in a spring snowstorm. What you're really seeing is here is me experimenting with the video feature of a new camera.

JOE RETURNS AND SAMMY PAYS A VISIT

I'm proud of my four sons, all faithfully serving in their respective fields of labor. And I love my grand kids. Sammy is the latest.

"O wind, if winter comes can spring be far behind?" -Percey Shelley

Well, the wind came this week. Three straight days of the cursed stuff. Howling during the day, moaning at night until finally it blew in the blessed snow and stopped. Something about the wind just leeches the juice right out of me. Dries me up like a prune.

Wind has been on my mind of late and came to the forefront of my orb this week. My daughter in law Melissa recently proclaimed her love of the wind and we discussed it one Sunday evening as a family. Her husband and my son Sam and I along with some friends, took a desert hike in a strong wind a few weeks back and loved the hike in spite of it.

On day two of the blast this week, I took my usual walk on a trail above Salt Lake City. This wasn't a cooling, dancing summer breeze, mind you but a stiff steady 30mph 'er with gusts up to 50. Part of the trail goes right beside a busy freeway and I imagined drive by chuckles at Jerry-at-an-Angle, bracing and trying to walk at the same time. Dust kicked up, blew in my eyes and air borne debris stung my face. I was mildly amused at articles flipping and gyrating in the air, out of control and worried about their future. I watched an unleashed kite dive and pitch by on its way to Kansas, plastic bags looking desperately for a fence, and a long piece of tp twisting like a snake in very strong current.

The valley below was cloudy with with dust, the mountains above me blurred. Walking with the wind at my back was also a show as I lurched forward trying to negotiate through the gusts.

Driving home, I got to thinking that it wasn't all that bad. I walk in all four seasons, am a nature lover and thus should appreciate all she has to teach me. Re-thinking Melissa's wind love, I pulled in to the driveway and was confronted with three overturned trash barrels spewing their contents all over ours and the neighbors yards and to the dusty sky above. As I chased I changed my mind back again.

I made a snowball as
perfect as could be.
I thought I'd keep it as a pet
and let it sleep with me.
I made it some pajamas and
a pillow for it's head.
Then, last night it ran
away.
But first-- it wet the bed.

--Shel Silverstein

Happier times on the slopes a few years ago



I was skiing by myself at Deer Valley on Friday. I enjoy skiing with others, especially my family, but I also don't mind spending time alone doing things I love like fly fishing and skiing.

It was a beautiful sunny day, the snow was good and the pre-holiday crowds manageable. I skied hard in the morning and was moving over to some easier slopes to cool down before going home. On one of those easier runs I was skiing faster than most on the hill when a young girl turned unexpectedly into my path. To avoid hitting her, I went down....hard. I did the splits and immediately knew I'd pulled or torn a groin muscle. The swelling and bruising indicate it's a tear.

So I'm hobbling around the house feeling sorry for myself today. I read online that groin tears are slow to heal. It's the end of the ski season for me this year and I hope I heal up enough to ump again come spring!

The Wave






Me and my son Sam, my friend Bob Nydegger, and his brother Fred took this hike yesterday. It's not far out of Kanab, Utah, right on the Utah/Arizona border. It was chilly and windy, but the chill, wind, and the snow the previous day meant we had this very popular little trip in paradise all to ourselves. I've taken many hikes in our red rock country and lived in it for a month with nothing but an army blanket when I was in college. This ranks right up there with the most beautiful spots I've ever seen.

These little monsters have the run of the house this week (except when confined to "the cage"). Oh sure, they look cute and innocent enough when the camera is focused on them. Cristie and I have watched parts of Cinderella, Finding Nemo and Nanny McPhee this morning and you know, they're not bad. Not bad at all.

You're looking at the front and back of a Hamilton 992b railroad watch. It was made in the 1950's and some consider these watches to be the finest ever made in America. This model was introduced in 1940 and was in production until the 1960's.

This was my dad's watch, one of his prized possessions. He always looked up to my mothers father. Grandpa Ed was a Mason and carried a Hamilton pocket watch. My grandfather worked for the railroad and used a pocket watch like many railroad men did. My dad became a Mason in 1955 and to honor his new membership, my mother bought him his own railway special.

The watch is now one of my prize possessions. I told my dad years ago that I would like to have it after he was gone and he gave it to me sometime after that. I don't typically carry it, but I do wind it once or twice a week to keep it in good running condition. Occasionally I take the back off and admire the movement and listen to the precision tick that I used to hear much better when I was a child.

I heard a lady interviewed on the radio last week who had queried famous chefs from all over the world asking them what their last meal would consist of. She wrote a book listing what each chef's ideal last supper would be. They ranged from the most elaborate to the very simple.

I've read about those condemned to death who, just before they're executed are granted their request for a last meal. If I were in those circumstances I can't imagine wanting anything at all to eat. I can picture being served my last meal in a sterile room with glaring florescent lights buzzing overhead. No thanks.

But let's say you knew you were checking out of this life, not sick, with full capacity to enjoy one final dinner. What would yours be like? What would you eat? Where would you be? Who would you dine with?

My last supper might go like this:

I'd of course have my sweetheart with me, all my kids and grandkids old enough to enjoy a night out. We'd be in a small adobe style restaurant in Santa Fe, New Mexico. It would be in October, maybe the first or second week where it's still nice outside, but the evenings come with enough chill for a nice mesquite wood fire. We'd all be seated together outside with a view of the city below and the mountains above us.

Our appetizer would be deep fried oysters from the Blue Bell Inn in Blue Bell, PA, complete with their sauce. My entree would be a marbled prime, aged rib eye steak from the TPC Restaurant at the golf course in Scottsdale. The steak would be medium, charred on the outside and juicy on the inside. Garlic mashed potatoes from Flemings on the side with good sourdough bread from Pierre's in Salt Lake.

Dessert would simply be a fresh batch of my grandmothers chocolate chip cookies, made with love.

How about you?

This is an ad from the 1930's. It sums up my new year resolution!

Happy New Year. Happy January. I wrote this poem several years ago about the first month of the year:

January, why do I hold you in contempt at your birth?
Why do I shudder at the thought of you?
You. With your silent shroud so serene,
tiny stars in the sunlit air, your breath so pure, so quiet.

Your black dressing gown conceals radiant skin.
We gather against your dreariness.
And find fellowship.

You whisper in your harsh infancy, not a babble.
And as you grow, will we not rejoice you have taken root?
Will we not hail you in your youth?

There will be time for salutation, then for brilliant, hasty farewells.
Child, I do not tremble.
I do not look past you to meadows and butterflies.
You have no nectar.
Tell me your secrets.

Ed's 10th birthday party. I can't believe the kid is 10 years old. Like I told Sam and Melissa as they were leaving, they're half done with him in their home, and the second half is a real roller coaster ride. It was nice to have my mother in town to help us celebrate (she was a little subdued and tired after her trip that same day), but we missed those of you in distant lands.

Proposition 8 in California. A choice on a ballot in a democracy. And voters chose to not call a union between a woman and a woman or a man and a man a "marriage." Demonstrations at LDS temples have followed the vote and vandalism at LDS chapels has been reported. And I'm sad.

I'm sad because my church and my beliefs are under attack. I'm sad to read of my church being accused of "hate speech." For the official stance of the church on the issue, with all the background, see http://newsroom.lds.org/ldsnewsroom/eng/commentary/the-divine-institution-of-marriage. In reading and re-reading the articles, I see no "hate speech". I do see a clear statement of the church's beliefs on the issue. And I see clear direction to it's members to approach the issue with "respect for others, understanding, honesty and civility." We are also counseled to posses "...love, kindness and humanity to all people."

Anyone who knows me, knows I embrace dialogue and debate as long as it is conducted with civility and respect. I try hard to listen to beliefs that differ with mine, although I do occasionally slip into a raised voiced bulging eyed backup debate style when I feel passionate about an issue, and I'm later embarrassed at myself for acting that way.

I guess what I'm saying with this post is, I support the church's position on the issue. In my life, the church has only brought me joy. By following it's tenants I have developed a deep and abiding faith in my Savior and have learned to trust in Him. I feel no malice or ill will for any who believe and live their lives differently than I do, and I love many who do.

It was an eventful weekend in Chicago. I joined Bob and Marge there on Saturday night. On Sunday, Isaac was confirmed after his baptism the previous day, little Samuel was blessed and Danny, newly called to the bishopric in their ward, was ordained a high priest by his dad. This old grandpa was honored to be a part of it all.

Sixth generation (that I know of) fisherman.

A September afternoon hike with my grandkids visiting from Idaho:











The scenery was spectacular;














We saw (well, heard) wildlife;














The going was steep;













Some got very tired;






















But the destination was worth it.

This girl here is a piece of work. She has been since she could walk. We could never quite figure her out and still can't. She can double you over in laughter, wrench your heart, make you angry with a word, talk your head off, try your patience, and really surprise you. She has been the subject of more family councils, fasting and prayer than any other family member. She's on our ward leader's prayer list every Sunday morning and her name regularly appears on the temple prayer roll.

There have been times when we haven't known where she was or if she was safe. She's spent nights on the street, bummed a ride to Sacramento and lived there homeless for a few weeks, and has spent much of the last 4 years behind bars. She's run amuck and been out of control. Often we were grateful she was in jail because at least we knew she was safe and was getting three squares a day.

Through all this, we've been incredibly blessed. Our Father has heard our petitions and has blessed us and her. I know she was often protected from herself and others. Cristie and I have learned patience, unconditional love, total reliance on our Heavenly Father, and perhaps most of all, our faith has grown.

Currently, Laurel is in the best situation she's been in years. She shares a very nice apartment with two other disabled women. She is expected to show up at a job doing yard work every day (if you know Laurel, you know "work" might be stretching it). She has aides at her side and in her apartment 24/7 keeping an eye on her. If she were to take off or participate in any illegal activity they would immediately call the police and she would be tracked down and sent back to jail. Right now, she ranges from being very happy to being frustrated and "stressed" but that's Laurel.

I post all this to thank you. Thank you for your prayers, your kindness and generosity, for witholding judgment, for being her cheerleaders, and for being in this with us. Your support and love has lifted us in the dark times and strengthened us in the weak times. Laurel indeed is a treasure and a blessing to us. Most of all, we glory in the Lord. His capacity to love all of us is boundless. He sees all and knows all. His is the Great Plan of Happiness.

We've been home from Carpinteria for a week and Cristie says she'd head back for another week in the sand and sun tomorrow. I think I would too, though I suspect if she and I were to go without our kids and grand kids we'd get a little lonely. It was a great week, in a great campsite we'd like to try for again. We had Uncle Jim and his family there, Joanna and her kids for awhile, Chris Carter and his family, and five dogs. We missed Joe, Laurel, and Katie and her family. My sister and brother didn't make it so the drama factor was reduced significantly.

Some of the grandkids had fun playing on an unused lifeguard station until they got kicked off and that got me to reminiscing about my own career as a very young lifeguard at Carpinteria. I started at around ten years old as, well, a pretend lifeguard. I always thought the lifeguards looked so great in their faded red swimming trunks, tans, and bleached hair, especially on their arms and legs. So when the state beach built newer, bigger and better stands for their lifeguards, I decided to hire on at one of the older, shorter abandoned stands which stood about 20 yards from one of the newer ones.

I'd get there first thing in the morning ready for a busy day of saving, well ahead of my authentic neighbor guards. I would stay all day too, not daring to leave my post for fear I'd lose out on an opportunity to be a hero or worse, that some other kid would steal my nest. My brother Tom joined me for the first day or so but he never had the staying power I did and wandered off to much less glorious persuits, leaving me to scan the beach for swimmers in distress myself, which I preferred anyway. My ever concerned mother would send either my brother or one of my younger cousins with my lunch so I didn't starve.

Alas, during my weeks employ, as far as I could see there never was a need for rescue either by me or by my neighbors. Not even a riptide warning. But I was faithful to my duties nonetheless, talked shop with the other lifeguards, worked on my tan, and my red trunks got a little more faded. And I even enjoyed the welcome admiration of a couple of younger girls who happened by and hung around my tower for awhile. For a ten year old, what could be better than that?






Speaking of ten year olds, my oldest grandchild Abigail (who has just turned 11) wandered off one day on the beach and had several of us adults out looking for her. Turns out she was walking on the tar rocks a little ways down the beach, as evidenced by this pic taken by her mom. I've been going to Carpinteria since I was a kid and have seen my share of tar spotted feet in my day, but never in well over 50 years on this beach had I seen this much tar!

Umping is over for the season, youth conference and the YM super activity are history and so is my calling in the YM organization in our ward. It's been a busy summer thus far, but I anticipate a slowing through the dog days of August. A welcome slowing, and a re commitment to regular posting. It's just not right that summer race by.


This weekend, our family is headed to Carpinteria State Beach, situated between Ventura and Santa Barbara on the coast in California, my home state. I've been vacationing at this beach since I was a kid with my parents and grandparents keeping an eye on me and cousins tormenting me. We've now come full circle; my mother will be celebrating her 82nd birthday in September and will show for a few days. All my kids except Katie, who is big with child, Laurel (out of jail and in a great environment, but that's another post) and Joe who is serving on "da rez" in Northern Arizona will be there. I'll have ten grandkids beaching it under the watchful eyes of their parents.

The place is a tide pool of memories for me: exploring the "bamboo jungle" with my grandmother, sitting with our heads only feet from the track under the trestle as a big freight train passed over, exploring spooky abandoned buildings with my brother, hanging out on and under the decrepit pier, trying to reach the milky way on the old swings, and later, futile attempts to lure cute girls to our evening bonfire on the beach. And those are just for starters. We almost always come home with a memorable family story for that year which will be told and retold. We hope to add to the treasure this year.

Which is your fancy? The premium stuff, like Henry Weinhard's, or your basic A&W? Our ward recently had a root beer tasting party where they blinded the flavors and asked everybody to pick their favorite. They had the gourmet micro brews as well as the less expensive mass marketed brands. A&W won the contest.

Root Beer was about the only soft drink I liked as a kid and I really like it as an adult. It's about as American as baseball and hot dogs. There was a root beer shop not far from our church where I grew up in Reseda, CA and after mutual, we'd beg our leaders to take us by for a brew after an activity. They served it in frozen mugs for a quarter and it went down cold and smooth.

When our older kids were in high school we had a french exchange student spend a summer with us. The poor kid had a hard time adjusting to the casual American palate. He developed a real fondness for hot dogs, but couldn't take root beer. He said it tasted like medicine.

Summer wouldn't be summer without an ice cold root beer now and then.