Waiting

Some people hate the TSA.  I personally think they do a pretty good job and have only one complaint, Why?  Why do I have to get to the airport so dang early?  TSA suggests you be at the airport 2 hours prior to your flight.  This is so if everything goes wrong and you get stopped or delayed at every possible checkpoint, you can still make your flight.   But what about the 5 out of 6 times when everything goes perfectly, or close to it?  That’s my problem not theirs.

Last week, I was leaving Ontario, California.  I left the hotel a couple of minutes late.  Then the GPS would not accept the address to the car rental location.  Okay, I can do this.

Once I calmed down and started moving, and thanks in a great part to some well-placed signage, I made it in just a few minutes.  At the car drop off, I got directions to the airport shuttle and, less than 8 minutes later, I was walking through the terminal, looking for some place to kill almost two full hours.  But that was my problem, not theirs.

I survived and got some important work done but couldn’t help thinking about how I could still be laying in my comfortable hotel bed, sleeping.  Again, my problem.

When I was younger, and there was no TSA and you kept your shoes and belt on when you passed through security, I would get to the airport 30 minutes or less before the departure time.  Never once did I miss a flight (though one time I did cause a friend to miss a flight).

I’m not as young and carefree as I was then.  When the TSA says 2 hours, I do what they say.  For now I’m obeying this rule and spending some time sitting, and working, and writing, and thinking in air terminals.   It’s not a terrible problem.

First Class

Last week I flew to Chicago in style; Non-stop and first class all the way, baby.  I was living large with the heavy hitters on the front of the plane; Full meal service, hot towel to clean my soiled hands, and, best of all, leg room, ah, leg room. 

This week I’m riding in the cargo hold with the rest of humanity.

I haven’t flown with this particular airline since Nancy and I were just married.  I remember showing her how to use her elbows, like Carl Malone used to, by holding them out to the sides and roll-jabbing them slowly but decidedly from side to side.  

I can see already, sitting here in the terminal, that flying with this airline is still not going to work for me.  I know I’m hard to please, but this seems ridiculous; Hundreds of people crammed at the furthest end of the airport terminal, waiting to stand in line - by their assigned number - so they can be crammed into a full airplane.     

Contrast this with leaving Chicago’s O’Hare Airport on Friday afternoon where, with a priority seating pass, I was the first person on and off of the plane.  Not that this is normal for me; normally I don’t travel this much.  And when I do, I usually drive.  But, this time I got lucky and found a little trick that allowed me, for a mere $5 per ticket, to upgrade from cabin class to first class.  I had no idea I had stumbled onto such an amazing find until I was sitting on the plane.  Oh, it was glorious.  And, sadly, I fear, for the rest of my life, it will make flying any other way a sad and sorry, counterfeit, experience.  Now I know better.  This isn’t always a good thing.

For Hire!

It's over.

I found out about two weeks ago that my time at Fieldstone Homes was at an end.  12 years of sweat, of tears, and yes, blood too, gone.  They gave me a week to clean things up and pass of the critical information.  My department has now been completely eliminated.  

I'm okay though.  It's been a great run and I'm thankful for the 12 good years I had.  Now I'm excited for new opportunities. 

I've been on the hunt now for about a week and have seen some success.  Two good interviews and lots of support from friends. 

My biggest concern is that there are only about three or four jobs like mine in the market.  So I'll need to focus on my skills and abilities, my history and my potential more than what my job title has been for the last six years. 

Here's my resume. It's an odd post, but its what I'm focused on these days.

Clark Graff

  linkedin.com/in/clarkgraff

Summary

Construction Professional with extensive experience in residential home building and warranty management. 

Worked for several small to mid-sized, privately held, homebuilding companies.

Strengths include: problem solving, eye for detail, cost containment, and systems streamlining.

Experience

Fieldstone Homes

Warranty/Customer Service Manager 2004 to 2010

Responsible for win/win resolution of all homeowner complaints. Also responsible for department budgets.

• Reduced yearly cost per home from $620 to $280 in three years.
• Cut request for service cycle time from 14 to 8 working days.
• Improved customer satisfaction rating from 90% to 98%.
• Trained and developed strong warranty team over three year period.
• Introduced time and cost saving procedures later implemented by entire division.

Customer Service Representative 1998 to 2004

Responsible for maintaining customer satisfaction rating and keeping within allotted budget. Managed homeowner requests for service for multiple subdivisions. Scheduled and supervised subcontractors making repairs.

• Implemented computer and quality control systems.

Shadow Mountain Furniture Company

Co-owner / Production & Office Manager 1997 to 1998

Managed production, scheduling, quality control and delivery of furniture and wood railing products.

Responsible for bookkeeping, contract bidding, research, design and development of new ideas.

• Managed the construction and delivery of $900,000 in product over two years.
• Participated in business planning and forecasting.
• Supervised 10 craftsmen and 2 office staff.

Augusta WoodWorks

Owner/Operator 1996 to 1997

Managed company, bookkeeping and construction of custom furniture, as well as sales, estimating and bidding of contracts. Concentrated efforts directed toward craftsmanship and customer satisfaction.

McArthur Homes

Field Superintendent 1995 to 1996

Responsible for all scheduling related to subcontractors, suppliers, and inspectors. Supervised construction and quality control of new homes. Managed customer service related to neighborhood.

Education

Salt Lake Community College - Studied Business Administration & Construction Management. 1992 to 1996

Spencer Real Estate School - Passed State of Utah Real Estate Exam 1995

Other Interests

• Boy Scouts of America Woodbadge Certified 2010
• Recipient of the National Philanthropy Day Heart and Hands Award 2003
• LDS Church Service Missionary, Chicago, Illinois 1989 to 1991
• Interests: writing, photography, architecture, woodworking

I Remember

In September of 2007, I took a few days off of work.  I was going to stay home with my three younger children while my wife, Nancy and our oldest daughter went out of town together.  The three days happened to be the 10th, 11th and 12th.

On the morning of September 11, 2007, still in my pajamas, I went out to the garage to pull out the flag.  I slowly unrolled it from around the pole and put it out for the day.  As I came back into the house I thought, "Six years today." 

With that single thought, the flood gate of memory was torn completely away.  Vivid thoughts of that morning rushed through my mind.  Intense feelings of fear and surprise soon gave way to the familiar anger, pain, sorrow and frustration I had felt then.  The overwhelming immensity of the whole thing, the rush of Patriotic Pride, the freshly minted brotherhood of a nation, and the frustration of a strong political stalemate.  Each emotion came, one after another as the pounding waves of memory washed over me.

Back in the house my children played together in the next room while I sat for few minutes and remembered.


My mom can tell you exactly what she was doing on the day she heard JFK had been shot.  She was a Junior in High School.  She can remember in full color detail what she was wearing, what class she was in, who was there with her.

Her own mother remembers a December afternoon in 1941 with the same clarity and vividness. 

On the morning of September 11, 2001, I was at home in the backyard.  It was a Tuesday.  I had gotten up early to work on a playhouse for my children, a project that had consumed my evenings and mornings all summer.  The radio was on.

One of the strongest memories I have is of listening to the details of the morning unfold on the radio.  The first tower had been hit, then the second.  The Pentagon was next.  Then there was an airplane accident in Pennsylvania.  No one would say they were connected events, but it was so obvious that it made me angry.  The speculation, the bad information, the contradictory statements, the confusion.  It all made me more and more angry.  Finally, in a moment of childlike frustration, I yelled at the radio.  I wanted them to just shut up.  "Stop it," I yelled.  "Shut up!  Just shut up."

I kept wondering what was next.  How big was the attack?  How soon until the attacks covered the country?

Fighter jets kept flying over my normally quiet neighborhood and every time I would think, "Here we go."  It seems silly to me now, but I really thought the first four crashes, in fairly rapid succession, were just the beginning.  I thought the attacks would reach every major city and eventually even this small, out-of-the-way, city would be hit.

Of course this was not to be.  And I was naive to think such a huge nation-wide plan could be pulled off.

Naive.  A fitting word that perfectly described our beloved nation before that morning.  We had no idea of what was out there.  We thought we were untouchable - no, we were untouchable.  Who could hurt America?  And more than that, why would they want to?  But who cares if they want to hurt us, we thought, they can't touch us.  This is America.


I think it's good to remember these things.  I think as a nation we are forgetting too much too soon.  I think we need to talk about it more.  We need to feel it again.  We need to remember anew the pain and the pride and the anger and the unity we felt then.

So that morning, six years after September 11, home from work for a day with my children, outside of the rush of a typical week day, I sat, I remembered and I wrote.  I sent my thoughts to a few friends and, within an hour, many had responded with their own memories.  By the end of the day I had a good collection of memories from friends and acquaintances across the nation.

Since then I have asked many more to share their memories of that morning, that day, that month of September 2001.  Something about me asking them to share their ideas has opened that same flood gate for many other people.  Americans want to remember September 11, 2001.  And they want to share those memories with anyone who will listen. 

How about you? What are your strongest memories of September 11?  If you care to share, I would love to hear your thoughts and memories.  Please click the link to find a place to share your story.  Remembering September 11.

Clark

The Chickens Have a Home

Except for the roof and some of the wire, almost all the materials were reclaimed.  The nesting box door is an old one I have been storing for 10 years or more.  The trim was wood from old pallets.

Our oldest daughter came home one day early this summer with three baby chickens.  No warning, no permission, just, here they are.  Okay, now what?  Fortunately there are lots of people out there that love to share information about chickens.  We found websites and lots of books on the subject and after a while had a plan drawn up for a chicken coop.
 
In the mean time, we lost one chicken to the neighbors dog.  We then went to buy a couple more and came home with five.  Two of those died from unknown causes and were also replaced.  The last death was a tiny little cute chick named Pepper.  Nancy held her and softly rubbed her as she took her last breath.  The girls buried her on the side of the house near the others.  For several days afterword, they would scatter fresh flower petals on the spot. 

The little boys checking things out

It took me about 40 days of consistent work to get the coop completed, but its finally done and the chickens moved in earlier in the week.  Here are a few photos of the finished product.

Looking in the front door.  The green window trim was from an old army crate.

The older kids checking out the spacious interior and vaulted ceilings

Looking in one of the windows, salvaged from my dads house when his were replaced

Mr. checking out the new pad

Someday the middle child will be a Veterinarian

Vaulted ceilings, spacious interiors, three bedrooms, lighted, heated, passively cooled, open, airy, lots of natural light, and daily maid services to boot.  Makes you almost wish you were a chicken yourself.

The finished product

Grandpa Kyle

I'm still occasionally migrating posts from my blog that is no more.  This one was first posted June 25, 2009.

Today I happened to drive past the cemetery where my grandfather is buried.  I haven’t been there since the funeral, now almost 18 months ago.  I’ve thought a lot about him lately, nothing in particular, just random memories and stories.  I decided to pull in and spend a minute.

For the past few weeks, I’ve toyed with the idea of posting the talk I gave at his funeral.  In the end, I decided to wait until one of the two dates on his headstone.  As I stood there at his graveside and thought for a few minutes about this man, I figured today was as good a time as any.


Kyle Ballard Sorensen

December 1, 1922 - January 11, 2008

Hello, for the benefit of those of you who don't know me, my name is Clark K Y L E Graff.  I am the oldest of Kyle and Leone's grandchildren.  My mother, Kyleen, was also named after her dad.  Accordingly, she often refers to herself as his oldest son.  I too have followed this family tradition by giving my oldest child the middle name of Kylee.

This past week, I have reflected often on the intertwining of each of our lives.  Each of us share strands that bind us together.  These shared ties and strands may include: a family name, common ancestors, or a common faith in Jesus Christ and His restored Gospel.  In this group there are many of these intertwining strands.  Today we celebrate the life of Kyle Sorensen, a man known and loved by each of us, whose life connects us and brings us all together today.

One of the first of the many ties, binding my heart to my grandfather, happened when I was 19 years old.  My family was living in Reno, Nevada and Grandma and Grandpa drove out for my mission farewell.  Later that night, I was set apart as a missionary and entrusted to the care of my Grandparents, who drove me the next day to Salt Lake City.  The way things worked out, I ended up spending about 10 days with Grandma and Grandpa before entering the MTC.  I assure you, Grandpa took his role as my first companion VERY seriously.  By the time I got to the MTC, I was thrilled to get a rest from all the studying.  

During this same ten days before my mission, I needed to buy some white dress shirts and a pair of dress shoes.  Grandpa volunteered to take me on what ended up being one of the longest days of my life.  We must have hit every men's clothing store in all of the downtown area.  We shopped all day and bought nothing.  Just when I had given up, Grandpa causally suggested we stop by Mr. Macs.

While I tried on shirts, Grandpa went to work on the salesman.  "Now, if we buy five of these shirts, what type of discount will you offer?  What if we buy seven?  What's your best price on this pair of shoes?  How about this pair?  How about this?  How about that?  What if we pay with cash?"  And so on.  He was relentless.  I was amazed.

By the time we were finally ready to go, the salesman's smile looked a little unnatural.  He gave us the grand total, including the discount Grandpa had already negotiated.

Grandpa replied with a simple question, "Is Mac here?"

Is Mac here?  I had no idea there was even a real Mac.

The clerk looked back at him, paused, and affirmed that Mac was indeed in the store.

"Tell him, Kyle Sorensen is here."

"Holy cow," I thought in amazement, "he is not done making deals yet."  Forcing back a smile, I stared at my grandpa.  He quickly smiled back at me and turned to watch as the salesman headed toward the back of the store.

The clerk was gone about a minute.  He stepped to the counter with a pleased smile on his face and announced an additional 10% off.  "My grandpa was a hero!"  Happy as could be, I pulled open my wallet.

Never taking his gaze from the salesman's eye, my grandpa reached over to me and put his hand over my open wallet.  He then repeated his last sentence, only, this time he carefully emphasized the two, most important words.

"Tell him,   K y l e   S o r e n s e n   is here."  He was cool and collected.  I about fell over.

The clerk was clearly flustered.  He paused, looked down, took a deep breath, and nodded.  Without a word he again headed to the back of the store.

After what seemed an hour, the salesman returned, the forced smile again on his face.  "Twenty-five percent?"  He was both making a statement and asking a question.  My grandfather paused thoughtfully, and nodded his approval.  The clerk relaxed a little.  And I quickly handed over the money.

As the clerk handed me the change, I glanced up at my grandpa.  He had a look I had never seen before.  His head was high, his gaze firm.  A very pleased expression had washed over his face.  His eyes were full of satisfaction, pride, and a hint of delight.  Together, Kyle Sorensen and I slowly walked from the store.

There were many qualities that made him a great negotiator and salesman.  But, some of these same qualities often made it difficult to get to know and love him.  In fact, I was pretty nervous around him for most of my childhood.  For me this started to change when I was in high school.  I was about 17 when I made my first unannounced visit to my grandparents’ home.  Through the years and the many visits that followed, I have come to think of my grandparents as friends, and, especially my grandpa, as a mentor.  I could always count on him to listen and to understand me, and also to share his wise and sound advice.  Sitting on the living room couch, with Grandma between us, a big bowl of ice cream on each of our laps, he would advise me on matters such as education, car purchases, marriage, business, church callings, and life in general.  The advice was always good and their support was something I could always count on.

It was also through these visits that I discovered that, like many people in this family, I am a lot like my grandpa.  Through the years, as I have explored the similarities between our personality types, I have learned much, not only about myself, but also about this man who has had, and will continue to have, so much influence on my life.  Because I am like him in many ways, it gives me insight regarding things he wasn’t good at showing.

Yes, he was tough and demanding, sometimes distant, and cold.  Yes, he always expected nothing less than perfection from himself and from those around him.  But, there were also times when he could be loving and even gentle, and at times would say or do something that made me realize he had very strong feelings for his family and for his Savior.

Now, this softer side did not show itself very often.  It was always a bit of a surprise, but, it was always welcome, and insightful.  Some of these experiences include: seeing him once sneak a kiss from Grandma, when he thought no one was looking.  My own children have fond memories of giggling and laughing as he hugged and tickled them.  Others for me were when he, more than once, caught Jake and me digging a huge hole in the back yard and came out, not to reprimand, but to offer engineering advice and ask if we had the correct tools for the job.

And my grandpa had lots of tools.  More tools than most men could ever need.  He loved his tools.  But, I think he really enjoyed giving them away as well.  One or two at a time, he gave them, through the years, as gifts to his visiting sons, grandsons and neighbors.

The day he died, it had snowed at my house.  After hearing the news, I came home and decided to clear some of the snow off our back deck.  Looking to the spot where I keep the snow shovels, I found two there, one with the name "Sorensen" the other with the initials "KBS" engraved on them.  Two, old, metal shovels that once belonged to him, that now belong to me.  Two simple ties that bind him to me.  I grabbed one and got to work.  I shoveled, and thought about my grandpa and some of the many other ties that bind me to him.  I would like to share two more of them with you.

When I went to the Temple for the first time, it was my Grandfather who sat beside me.  He was my escort, my teacher, my helper, my example.  Grandma was also there, and after the session, in the Celestial Room, the three of us talked quietly near the stairs.  Grandpa bore his testimony to me there, weeping openly as he spoke of the Savior.  I always knew he believed, but I did not know until then how strong his feelings were.  This experience, this memory, this tie between us has stayed with me all these years, and I hope to never forget it.

Another of these moments, that ties me to him, happened just two weeks ago.  I went to see him in the hospital.  He was looking pretty rough.  Not only that, he was talking and talking, but not really saying anything.  I could understand most of his words but none of the words made sense when used together.  I pretended to understand and, as best as I could, answered what seemed to be questions.  He was very agitated and frustrated.  He was telling me something, but I couldn’t tell what it was.  Three separate times I told him I was going now, and headed for the door.  But, so urgent was the tone of his speech, each time I came back again to his side.  His rambling continued with gestures toward the door or the television or whatever else happened to be directly in front of him at the time.

I'm quite sure he had no idea who I was.  In fact, I'm not sure he even knew where or who he was.  But one thing he did know, one thing he was willing and ready to share with any person who would listen.  That thing was his testimony.

And, it was then, there in the hospital, when it happened.  Three words.  Unmistakable.  Clear, and full of meaning.  "Church is true," he said, and was again immediately rambling on and on about nothing in particular.

So, while he physically seemed unsure or unaware, deep down, spiritually he knew exactly who he was.  Kyle Sorensen was a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.  My grandfather was, is and will always be a disciple of Him who's church he belonged to.

No, my grandfather was not a perfect man.  But he deeply loved and faithfully served that One who is perfect.  Countless hours of my grandfather’s life have been spent studying, writing, praying about and researching topics related to his religion.

There is a verse of scripture in Moroni, chapter ten, in the Book of Mormon, which I think is applicable here.  Verse 32 invites us to . . . come unto Christ, and be perfected in him . . . and if [we] . . . deny [ourselves] of all ungodliness, and love God with all [our] might, mind and strength, then is his grace sufficient for [each of us].  The scripture continues by saying, "that by his grace ye may be perfect in Christ; and if by the grace of God ye are perfect in Christ, ye can in nowise deny the power of God."

I am so thankful for this man I call Grandpa.  I am thankful for his life, his friendship, his help, his advice, his leadership, his example and his love toward me and my family.  Above all of these, his personal testimony, shared with me on several occasions, ties us firmly together and is of far more worth than anything else he ever did for me or gave to me.

Through the years there will be many, many opportunities for me to remember my own connections to this man.  Perhaps someday I will actually need a two foot long monkey wrench and find his initials engraved on it.  Or maybe I will be self-consciously and ineffectively backing out of an extremely difficult driveway, or shoveling an extra 6" of snow off the grass at my house, instead of just stopping at the edge of the concrete.  No matter the connection to my grandfather, I will think of the man I am named after and I will know that he was a believer, a true disciple of our Savior, Jesus Christ.

_ _ _

My Grandpa Sorensen was my mentor, my cheerleader, my sounding board and my friend.  Today I realized I will miss him more than I thought I would.


When I got home, the kids were playing a game on the computer.  It was a simple game, with a bottle tied to the end of a balloon.  As the balloon floated up into the sky, it pulled the bottle past flowers, floating in the air along the way.  The goal was to collect as many flowers as possible.  The game ended when the balloon slowed, and the bottle, now heavy with the collected bouquet, rested gently next to a gate, high up in the heavens.  A small gift for someone who now lives there.

The Links

One of the last jobs I had while still in college was as a construction superintendent for a small semi-custom homebuilder.  The company was run by three brothers and their dad.  Each had very different skills and aptitudes that seamlessly harmonized with one another.  This was a well-run business and I was fortunate to work there for a time. 

My job involved building houses in a small subdivision of about 40 or 45 lots called, The Links.  Never much of a golfer, it took me a while to make the connection between the name of the subdivision and the golf course directly behind the neighborhood.  

My boss was one of the three brothers.  He was the technically-minded contractor of the team, a man’s man, intense, highly motivated, and obsessed with the details.  I didn’t like him.  Maybe I could have liked him if he wasn’t my boss, but he was, and things there didn’t work out well for me. 

Being a superintendent is a tough job.  You are responsible for building several homes at the same time, managing the schedule, and working with a million variables like subcontractors, homeowners and the always changing weather.  At the time, the job proved to be too much for me, and my boss began micromanaging my every move.  Even today, the memory of his truck, pulling slowly into the neighborhood, its lights peering eerily through the hazy calm of early morning, still conjures up thoughts of a bad, low budget, horror film. 

I can’t blame anyone but myself for the way things turned out.  They took a chance on a young and untested superintendent, and I just wasn’t ready for the job.  All too soon, that fact became painfully evident to everyone involved.  In time, he asked me to move on.

Even now, 10 or 15 years later, I think about that place all the time.  Not so much about my old boss, but more about the little things that happened while I was there, the people I worked with, and the things I did.  As examples, I include just two of the most recent memories from this past week. 

Saturday, while I was roofing a small shed with my son.  I told him about a roofer I once knew, who could hand-nail shingles almost as fast as someone using a nail gun.  He could pound a nail with two hits of his heavy hammer, and then have another nail in place, ready to be pounded, all in about a second.  In his left hand he held as many nails as he could manage.  His fingers would quickly roll one nail into place, where the first strike of the hammer would tap it down.  Immediately this hand would pull away and begin rolling the next nail into place as the hammer came crashing down to finish off the first nail.  By then, held loosely between the calloused fingers of his left hand, he would have another nail ready to be started.  The memory of the dull, thudding sounds, coming from somewhere in the neighborhood, “bam, BAM . . . bam, BAM . . . bam, BAM . . .,” rings even today like music in my memory. 

Also recently, I was telling some friends about how I would often have to take cover when a stray golf ball would fly unexpectedly over a house and into the street.  This last memory came just a few days ago, after I got invited to attend a golf tournament for work. 

The tournament was today.  I haven’t golfed for a couple years and was kind of rusty.  The memory of stray golf balls again found its way into my consciousness, only it was me now who was pounding them out of bounds.  Fortunately for my team, the format we played was to move to, and hit from the best ball of each shot.  So even though I was the weak link on the team, no one suffered too badly. 

Even with that, and a couple strong players on my team, we still ended up with the highest score of all the 36 teams.  As we handed in our score card, with teams still coming in off the course, the man who took the card read it and said, “Oh, you will be getting a prize for this one.”

It was there in the clubhouse, waiting in line for lunch, that I saw him, my old boss, from years ago.  He looked exactly the same: tall, blonde, confident, smiling, and loud.  He was talking with some friends, and I decided not to interrupt.  After the lunch and awards, I caught up with him and shook his hand.  I reminded him of my name and said I had worked for him a few years ago.  We briefly caught up and then talked for a few minutes about nothing in particular.  In the conversation, I mentioned something about him letting me go.  He stopped me and kindly said he didn’t let me go, but, “encouraged me to find other work in another field.”  We both laughed.

Near the end of the conversation, I mentioned his old truck, “the one with the yellow lights on top of the cab.”

“My old Dodge!” he beamed, turning to the man standing next to him.

“Yes,” I affirmed.  “For several years after I left your company, whenever I saw a truck like that one, I would get the hugest knot in my stomach.”

He looked surprised.  “My old truck wasn’t that bad, was it?”

I laughed.  He laughed.  His friend laughed.  I don’t remember him having such a quick sense of humor. 

He then asked me, with real interest, “We didn’t part ways so terribly, did we?” 

Standing there in the clubhouse, with this man I once hoped I’d never have to see again, I realized I’d finally dealt with the pain.  Somewhere along the way, I had reconciled the frustration of that episode of my life.  I had put the past behind me.  I had forgiven.  And now I can forget. 

“No,” I lied, “No, of course not.”

Give Them Rocks

Today and yesterday were spent with my son at Cub Country day camp.  With us were some of his friends and another father/fellow Cub Scout leader from the neighborhood.  The camp is located in a stunning, narrow, rugged, mountain canyon near my home.  It’s one of the most beautiful places I've ever been.

The first thing we were told when we arrived at camp was that all rocks and sticks should be left where they are so that other people can enjoy them.  “But,” we were told, “we have a Trading Post in camp, where you can purchase other great souvenirs to remind you of your time here.”  I suggested to my friend that over the span of 100 years, if every boy that ever came to this camp went home with a pocket-full of stones, you wouldn’t be able to tell at all.  Later in the day, I told him about a dinosaur track I had recently seen on a trip to the San Rafael Swell.  The track, millions of years old, is being damaged by people who cover it with rocks to hide it and ‘protect’ it from vandals.

Just the day before I went to camp, I found myself in a related, but much more intense conversation with a group of friends from work.  Someone commented on how out of control the government is with taking away lands and establishing them as protected areas, thus rendering them useless to industry.  As the topic rolled quickly through the group of six people, I found that I was on my own on this one and cautiously disagreed.

One big problem I have with arguing about big, emotionally charged subjects is that you seem to have to pick one side or the other.  I don’t know why this is the case.  It seems ridiculous to me that there can be only two sides to every argument.  Some things, like preserving lands over industry, or vice versa, are so ambiguous and multifaceted that there can be as many ‘sides’ to the story as there are individuals and experiences related to the subject.

One thing I do know is that normally the people facing off are not too far apart on the facts.  For example, most people agree that keeping Americans working is a good thing.  Most people also believe that protecting natural wonders and ancient artifacts is also important.  But, depending on your personal experience or beliefs, you may have to decide between one or the other of these two issues.

I personally believe that as the current tenants of Earth, preservation is our duty.  We each have a moral obligation to protect the world for the use and enjoyment of future generations.

But I disagree that preservation means leaving every rock or stick exactly the way you found it.  For example, a road to an amazing location, opens it up to being appreciated by more people, thus making preservation more likely.  That same road, if used appropriately, also keeps the viewer from straying too far, and unintentionally damaging the thing they came to see.

For my entire life, I have been a collector of rocks.  It is a pastime I learned from my father’s uncle, who spent his life collecting beautiful rocks and artifacts in the deserts and hills of Southern Utah.  He now is gone, but his collections still inspire everyone who sees them.  For me, collecting is essential to preservation.  Without collections, there would be little inspiration for, or interest in preservation.  I’m referring only to the legal, non destructive collection of small, naturally broken off pieces.

The rocks I have collected, all through legal and non-destructive means, tie me to the place they are from.  They remind me of amazing things and of my desire to see and experience them again.  And, when I do go again, I will take someone who has probably not seen the place before.  They in turn will hopefully grow to appreciate these things for themselves.

So I say, pick up those rocks, boys.  If you love them, fill your pockets.  If you want them, take them home.  But, remember where they came from, and always do what you can to keep this place special for anyone who follows you.

June 22nd

 Today is Kris’ birthday.  He would have been 31.  On the morning he was born, I was staying with my grandparents.  My grandma had to wake Jake and me up to tell us we had a phone call.  I held the phone up to my ear as the sun shined through the kitchen window.  It was good news.  I remember the moment as if it had happened this morning. 

We get together every year on his birthday for dinner.  When we were all kids, pizza was how we celebrated every birthday.  For several years after Kris died, we kept this pizza tradition going.  This year we are changing things some and going to a centrally located park for a picnic and games for the kids.  The weather should be perfect with partially cloudy skies and temperatures in the 70’s.  Everyone is planning on being there. 

This year we almost had a major scheduling conflict with Nancy’s family.  Fortunately everything worked out when the other event was moved.  Actually, I didn’t even know about the conflict until it had already been resolved.  Even so, I was pretty frustrated about it and glad I wasn’t forced to make a choice.  This was a bit of a jolt that gave me some time to think about this yearly tradition with my family and what it means to me. 

Over the years, and for several reasons, the gathering has evolved to represent more than just Kris’ birthday.  The biggest reason is that most of the people coming tonight never met Kris.  When he died, almost 10 years ago, our family consisted of 10 people, including six adults, one teenager and three grandchildren under the age of three.  Now there are 11 grandchildren, none of whom have memories of their uncle Kris.  Additionally, the teenager, now 25, will bring along his girlfriend and her young daughter, bringing this year’s total up to 20 people. 

Since most of the people attending know or remember Kris only from stories and photos, change is inevitable.  Additionally, this is often the only family event everyone makes an effort to attend, and because most of my mom’s sons have birthdays in the summer, this celebration is almost as much for all of us who are there, as it is for the one who is not. 

That is not to say that Kris’ birthday will be pushed aside or forgotten in any way.  Oh no, my mother will never allow that.  She will have a big sheet cake with candles for the grandchildren to blow out.  She will have balloons for each child to release into the heavens at the end of the day.  She may even make everyone sing the happy birthday song, though this is less likely as the years roll on. 

In reality there was no scheduling conflict at all.  Tonight, like last year, and the years before, like next year and every year following, I’ve already chosen what I’m doing on the evening of the 22nd of June.  Regardless of what the weather is like, or what else is going on, or who else is there, I will be at dinner with my mother and brothers, celebrating the birth and life of my brother Kris. 

This isn’t an obligation for me, nor will it ever be an event I will just make an appearance at before quickly heading off to something else.  I go because I want to go and because it is important to me.  I go because I want to remember my brother’s birthday and because my other brothers will be there too.  I go because, well, even if there is no pizza, I like birthday parties.

Simple Ties

 
This is a repost from my old blog that is no more.
First posted 06-17-09

Last week we had the opportunity to tour the brand new Oquirrh Mountain Temple, prior to its dedication later this summer.  As we walked through, I pointed out to my daughter how the base molding changed subtly as we went through from room to room.  I have always been interested in the simple symbols used in architecture, used to demonstrate the importance of one area in relation to another.

In almost any building you can find simple things, like vaults or intricate flooring or larger windows, designed to accentuate and bring attention to an important area or room.  In our house the nicest molding is in the dining room.  It is still simple, but layered and painted in a way that gives the room prominence.

When we first moved into this house, we ripped out all base and casing of almost the entire upstairs.  We replaced the old, 2 ½”base with a simple, tall, flat molding that has a routed bead at the top.  Tonight as I sat in the baby’s room, rocking him to sleep, I noticed again how good it looks and thought about how well it fits us and this house.  Next to the original, single panel doors, it looks especially good, like it has always been here.

Like all out of control home improvement projects, we made this as complicated as possible by doing the trim a little different in almost every room.  Some rooms have wainscot, some rooms have crown molding or chair rail, and some rooms have bead board, etc.  To tie everything together, we always used the same 7 1/2” flat baseboards with the same 3” casing around the doors.

Earlier this evening, before dinner, our oldest son had been sent to his room for the night.  Later, Nancy decided he should be allowed come up to eat dinner with the family.  Her reasoning was that dinner is the only time we spend, sitting and eating together.  She is worried that this daily tradition of eating dinner as a family is losing its important place as our only time each day to come together and share the stories of our busy days.  In time, she persuaded me and up our son came to spend an hour, eating with the family.

This dinner together was nothing unusual as far as dinners go: always good, always loud, always entertaining.  Tonight we enjoyed a large loaf of delicious bread from a new recipe.  While we ate, one child told of his visit to Nana’s house, another child, dressed in her dance leotard and tiara, told us about her first day at piano lessons, and one child, wanting the dinner to last as long as possible, ate very, very slowly.

Though this meal together could be considered fairly typical, it can also, in very subtle ways, be considered a new beginning for us.  What it lacked in originality, it made up for in resolve.  Tonight was, in fact, history in the making.  Though we have eaten together thousands of times before, today it was forever set, no matter what, each day, as a family, we will always enjoy at least one meal together.

Once, a long time ago, and years before I had a family of my own, I saw a billboard in Chicago.  The message was clear to me then, and still rings just as true today.  It read, “A family that prays together, stays together.”  Yes, giving thanks, with and for your family, is essential because it, among other things, creates bonds that help to hold, or tie us together.  And it is to these ties that we can add depth and variety by stopping once a day, and sitting for a time in one another’s company, by telling stories, worries, and experiences, and by daily, with the ones we love, breaking and sharing a warm loaf of bread.

Letting Go

It was dark when I came in the house from working in the yard.  I was dirty and went immediately to the shower.  We have an old tub with an afterthought shower setup.  It includes a long chrome pipe, sticking out of the top of the tub faucet.  Normally, on newer houses, this runs inside the wall.  Ours is outside the wall, inside the shower.  Near the bottom is a second shower head on a hose.  To use one or the other, you turn a little valve.

Ever since we moved here, I have typically been the only one that uses the upper shower head.  Most everyone else uses the tub faucet or the shower head on the hose.  Lately though, one of my children has gotten into the habit of using the upper shower head.  This wouldn’t be a big deal except for he always changes the setting to massage, only the massage setting doesn’t really work.  Mineral deposits inside the shower head have locked the moving parts in place.  So instead of an alternating spray out of six holes, three at a time, the water shoots out in three laser beam streams. 

Okay, not a big deal.  I know this.  But I’m still bugged.  Maybe I’m bugged because I have asked him to change it back when he’s done, and still he doesn’t.  Or maybe it’s because he has to stand on the sides of the tub to reach the shower head and could easily slip or fall.  Or it could be that I get sprayed all over, trying to figure out which way to spin the little dial, returning it to the setting I like.  Lame as it sounds, the most likely answer is that the upper shower head is just mine, it’s always been mine, and I don’t like people touching it.  Like I said, I realize its lame.  

Tonight, as I reached up to change the head back to my setting, I thought about how it really isn’t a big deal, and maybe I could just let it go.  Suddenly, memory took me instantly to my high school days, when my old truck was in the shop, and my mom let me take her car once in a while.  She hated it when I adjusted the mirror in her car, and let me know about it whenever I forgot to change it back.  Eventually, it was easier to just stop adjusting it and use the other mirrors instead.  The mirror adjusting issue is so ingrained in my psyche that I still think about it almost every time I adjust the mirror in Nancy’s car. 

It was so strange for me to suddenly make this connection between these two seemingly unrelated events.  It’s also interesting that I didn’t make the correlation until I was actually reaching up, the way you would reach up to adjust a mirror, and at the same moment, I told myself to just let it go, the same way I wished my mother would have done for me.

Sometimes this boy and I don’t see things quite the same way.  He makes a lot of noise and has a hard time staying on task.  These two things are sometimes hard for me to deal with, especially when he should be clearing the table or going to bed.  I try so hard to be nice and to listen and to understand.  I constantly remind myself that his actions and behavior are all age appropriate, but, all too often I am just complaining about how he does this or that wrong, or how he could have done this or that differently or better. 

My own mother didn’t like a few things about me and tried to correct what she could.  But it was very rare for her to find fault or get on me about every petty thing.  She loved me, and I knew she loved me.  No matter what, I never questioned that about her.

She never let her frustrations with me get in the way of the relationship.  Or if she did, I never knew about it.  I honestly don’t know if my son can say the same thing about me.   

Today, when I got home, he ran up the stairs yelling, “Daddy’s home!”  He said it the same way all the kids did when they were younger, and grew out of saying when they reached the age of six or so.  I gave him a hug and rubbed his back for a minute.  “That feels good,” he cooed. 

I thought about how he doesn’t get much attention like this anymore, at least not from me.  I believe it’s time for that to change.  It’s time for me to change.  He is what he is.  He doesn’t know any other way.  I’m the one who’s wrong.  I’m the one who needs to let it go. 

“Daddy’s home.”  The words keep echoing in my mind.  Maybe I’m not completely there, but I’m working on it.  And I will keep working on it until the relationship is right, until I have let it all go, and until I can fully accept him for the person he is. 

I’m coming home.  And yes, that does feel good. 

Welcome to Summer

This is a repost from 06-04-09

Tomorrow is the last day of school for the kids.  After that, everyone will be chillin at home, going on bike rides, reading books, playing rock band, and sipping lemonade in the yard – all while I’m at work.  Don’t get me wrong, I would much rather be employed than have the summer off without pay.  No question about that.  But, the first few days of summer are always kind of tough for me.
 
This year it seems to be a little harder than years past.  It might be partially because we don’t have much planned this summer as far as vacations.  Last year at this point I was planning on being out of town seven weekends before school started up again. 

It was not only a very fun summer, it was very expensive.  And this year we don’t have a ton of money saved up for going out of town.  So the vacations we do have will mostly be around the house.  I have tons of projects to finish in the yard.  So if I can get some of them done, I will be happy because we will be improving things around here. 

One of the biggest projects is the playhouse.  It would be nice if I could get it done before the kids move away.  I started it four years ago and got a ton done the first year.  But it hasn’t progressed much since then.  It turns out projects around the house are more expensive than vacations.  What seems like a simple need for gravel or mulch, eventually turns into an addition on the back of the house and a new roof too.  Oh, and our driveway is shot and desperately needs to be replaced.  

So, while it would be fun to take the summer off to travel, work in the yard, or spend a little time screaming into a microphone in the privacy of my basement, I guess I'll go ahead and keep the day job this year.  It does pay the bills, and it keeps food on the table.  And, ironic as it seems to me now, it’s also my best option for supporting my many home improvement habits.

Enjoy your summer kiddies.  I’ll see you at 5:30.

Old, Red, Brick House

 
About seven years ago my next door neighbor at the time told me they were moving.  He wondered if I knew anyone who wanted to buy their house.  I told them I could think of a few people and asked them to keep us posted.  About a year later, they finally got around to actually moving.  My neighbor asked if we wanted to take a tour of the house.  We agreed, thinking we could tell our friends about it.

Upon finishing the inspection, my neighbor tore a sheet of paper from a notebook.  “This is our offer to you,” he said, handing me the sheet.

“What are you talking about?” I asked, laughing.

He continued with his speech.  “We are giving you a good deal and won’t negotiate on the price.”

“But we aren’t in the market to buy a house,” I insisted.

“If you want the house,” he said with conviction, “this is the price.  Let us know your decision in the next few days.”

I was stunned by the odd conversation.  “Okay, thanks,” I replied, shaking my head.  “We will look this over.”

We went home but didn’t think much about it.  Nancy did make a comment about how the kitchen was bigger than ours.  And I may have wondered aloud a few times as to what they were thinking.  But we were definitely not in the market to buy a new home – at least not for a few hours anyway.


The very next day, I walked past the house and it seemed to call out to me.  “Look over here,” it whispered.  I turned my head to look and suddenly got a strange idea.  I pulled out my phone and called my dad in Oregon.

“Hello.”

“Dad, do you want to live in my house?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to rent it or buy it?”

“Buy it.”

“Okay, I’ll call you back later.”  Click.

The next day I called my next door neighbor and said we’d take it.


About four weeks later it was a done deal.  After closing, Nancy and I walked through the house and talked about what we would do with each of the rooms.  I had been in the house several times over the years, but this time was different.  Most recently, I had helped carry numerous armloads of stuff out to the moving van, parked out in the driveway.  In all those trips in and out of the house, I didn’t really think about it being mine.  I guess the superstitious part of me didn’t want to jinx things by getting too wrapped up in it before it was official.

But now the house was ours, and this gave the familiar spaces a different feel than before.  We ended our tour of the house in the kitchen.  I realized there how pleasantly satisfied I was with the purchase.  Without really thinking about what we were getting ourselves into, we had actually stumbled on a great find.  “I like this house,” I said.

Nancy gave me a look that I understood roughly as, “We just bought a house, before you were sure you liked it?”

“It’s a great house,” I said.  “I think we did pretty well.”

“Yes we did,” she agreed.  “I can’t believe you are just figuring that out.”

“Everything happened too fast,” I suggested.  “I just went with the gut on this one, and it turned out to be a good thing.”

In reply, she just gave me another look.


Years later, I have come to realize this whole thing was less about the choice I made to go with the gut, and more about our good neighbors, who were really looking out for us.  They knew the house was better for our growing family, they understood prices were going up faster than most people could afford, They knew we loved the neighborhood, and they also knew we would take care of the old place like they would approve.  I suspect they decided months, if not years earlier, that we were the ones for the house.  It turns out our good neighbors were right.  They slowly made things happen, and in time, we finally fell in step with the way they had things planned.

And by the way, it has been, and still is a great house.

Grampa Next Door

This is a repost from my old blog, dated June 7, 2009.

Today my dad took a couple of the youngest children for a walk.  Not ten steps past our driveway, still in front of our house, the preschooler fell down.

I was sitting in the kitchen nook when it happened, watching them head slowly up the street.  An overgrown flower bed blocked my view so I didn’t actually see him hit the ground.  My dad quickly leaned down and helped him up.  By the look on my sons face, it was easy to tell he had gone down hard.  He stood there, red faced and crying, while my dad brushed the dirt and bits of gravel off his clothing.  5, 10, 15 seconds passed while my son stood sobbing.  All the while, my dad knelt beside him, brushing his clothes.

Eventually the crying ended and the red in my son’s face subsided to its natural color.  As they continued on their journey, hand in hand up the road, I considered the relationship between this unlikely pair of neighbors and friends.

For most of my life, my dad has lived hundreds of miles away from me.   For the most part, our time together could be counted in hours, days or weeks, with an occasional month long visit at summer time.  My son was just barely born when my dad moved into the house next door.  This was a big and welcome change for all of us.  While it may have been new and unusual for most of us, to my son, who has lived his entire life in a house next door to his Grampa, this arrangement is perfectly normal.

Ever since he was old enough to let himself out of the house, my son could be found hanging out at my dad’s house.  The first few times he got out, we panicked and ran out into the yard and street, calling his name and thinking the worst had happened.  Each time, we eventually found him at my dad’s house, working in the yard, eating a snack at the kitchen table, or listening to my dad read a book or play the guitar. 

Even now, at least once a day, he will slink away next door for a visit or a treat.  And, since those first scary experiences, my dad has learned to let us know where the little guy is as soon as he gets there.   

Recently, my dad took a week off work to get his yard in shape.  My son would spend hours over there every day, chatting with Dad and working in the yard.  When my dad finally went back to work, his preschooler buddy was very distressed and sulked around the house for several hours.

Lest you think this relationship is all one sided, listen to this.  On several occasions, my dad, who will be 65 this week, has mentioned how much he enjoys having my son come and visit him.  Of course it’s great to get a visit now and then from a grandson.  And yes, clearly one is in charge, while the other is aimlessly following him around (but, even these rolls change from time to time).  All said, they really do seem to enjoy one another’s company as good, old friends should. 

I suspect the enjoyment of one another’s company is most of what makes this friendship work – or any friendship for that matter.  It’s the spending time with someone you like – and who likes you back just as much – that makes a friendship a friendship.

If all goes as planned – and of course things rarely go as planned – I imagine we have about 15 years or so until this four year old son heads out into the world on his own.  It will be interesting to watch his relationship with my dad as it evolves over those 15 years and beyond. 

As a very young boy, my dad and his mother lived for a short time with his own grandfather.  Now, over 60 years later, he often talks with great fondness about this period of his life.  He very much loved his grandfather and is thankful for the many firsthand memories he has of him.  I am thankful as well, that my children will have similar memories of growing up next door to their own Grampa.

The Tooth Fairy

 

Twice last month, the tooth fairy forgot about my kids.  Twice!  Once is bad enough, but twice?  That’s ridiculous.  Once is an oversight.  The second time was unforgiveable. 

The first time happened about two weeks ago.  I got the terrible news when my six year old came in, crying about how the tooth fairy had not come.  I was livid.  How cold!  How uncaring can this individual be?  I explained to my daughter that perhaps the tooth fairy was extra busy last night and was still on her way.  “It’s still pretty early,” I suggested.  “Maybe she had to pick up so many teeth last night that she is running behind.”  (Note: I use ‘she’ herein as a general reference term.  Because I have never met the tooth fairy face to face, I cannot be sure what gender he, or she is.  I did almost see her once, when I was a boy, but it was from behind and kind of dark in the room, so I wasn’t able to come to any decisive conclusion.  But, that thought assumes my children have the same tooth fairy as I did, which, I suspect is probably unlikely.  In any case, please substitute ‘he’ for ‘she’ if you feel so inclined.)

Of course telling my daughter the tooth fairy was busy was a lie (something I very much dislike about being a parent and avoid whenever possible).  Obviously, the tooth fairy just fell down on the job and misplaced the information about coming to our house that night.  But that was way too crushing for my sweet daughter to hear, and way too complicated for me to explain when I had just woken up. 

In the end, everything turned out okay because the tooth fairy came through while everyone was gone from the house.  In addition to the traditional one dollar bill, she even threw in an extra ten cents for having messed up so bad. 

You would think she would have learned her lesson.  And you would think she would want to try harder to hang onto her extra ten cents.  But no, like a week or ten days later, it’s the same old, same old around here.  This time it was my son who was ripped off.  But he’s a little older, and tougher, and I think also a little more forgiving.  He seemed to be okay with it and nonchalantly mentioned the incident at breakfast that morning. 

“Again?” I shouted.  Maybe it wasn’t a big deal to him, but I was infuriated.  “This is an outrage!  Who does one complain to about these things?”  I gave him the same old, worn out speech about the tooth fairy being busy.  He seemed to be okay with that.  Besides, I think he was excited about the possibility of an extra dime. 

Later that night, as he went to bed, he casually asked, “Is the tooth fairy a man or a woman?”  Without giving us time to answer, he mentioned that if we saw the tooth fairy tonight, maybe we could remind him or her that he had lost a tooth.

“I don’t know if it’s a man or a woman,” I said.  “And we probably we won’t see him or her before we go to bed.  But, if we do, we will let him or her know.” 

Fortunately, without any prompting from us, the tooth fairy did make it to our house that night.   And again, he or she left a little something extra for my son’s troubles. 

Last month, all totaled, the tooth fairy came to our house four times.  Twice she caused a stir and twice she did her job flawlessly.  I’ve had a thought that makes me reconsider my position on the whole thing.  In baseball, a 50% average gets you instantly inducted into the hall of fame.  So maybe it’s not as bad as it could have been.

Come to think of it, it’s probably a tough job keeping track of all those kids and teeth and dollar bills.  And it’s got to be hard trying to never get caught, and then never getting any credit for all that sneaking around and stuff.  I suggest, everyone just forgive the tooth fairy for a little mistake here and there.  Maybe she’s new to the job or maybe it’s just a second job to help make ends meet.  Whatever her problem is, please forgive if you can.  But, if that’s too much to ask, maybe we should all just cut her a little slack. 

Clark

Photo fo the Day - Tree in a Snowy Field and a Pair of Eagles

I've been driving a lot for work lately.  Today I had to stop for a minute and take a few photos of this tree.  

Today I'm also going to do a bonus photo.  Not a great shot but definitely a great subject.

 
A few minutes before I took the photo of the tree in the snowy field, I saw a Bald Eagle, with what I assumed was a juvenile Bald Eagle.  Before this, I took a few photos of the adult as it flew around.  After I got home and downloaded the photos, I found a third Eagle on a fence post that I hadn't even noticed before. 

Clark

Feel the Fear

First I have to say this photo doesn't even remotely do this waterfall justice.  My daughter is about 40 feet above the pool at the bottom of the fall and about 50 feet away.  She's roughly at the same height as the big, red rock on the other side of the gorge. 

So the election thing didn’t work out quite like we had expected.  To avoid sounding bitter or discouraged, that’s all I’m going to say about that part of it.

But, I will mention a bit about the great kids who ran in this election.  There were six girls and six boys that made it through the primary election.  On Friday, this was narrowed down to three girls and three boys.  The kids found out right at the end of the school day.  After the announcement was made to the school, the six girls – the three that won and the three that lost - all went out together for a Hawaiian Ice and a movie.  I think this showed some good character and sportsmanship on the part of the girls that lost the election, as well as the girls that won.

Before our daughter came home from the movie, we wrote her a quick letter, telling her how proud we were of her for going after this lofty goal.  Earlier in the week, while she was preparing for her speech, we had talked with her about some of the great speakers of the past.  In the letter after the election, we quoted Winston Churchill, who said, “Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.”

This has led me to consider the changes in our family over the past couple of years.  For a while now, we have been trying to do more things outside our current comfort zones.  It’s the old idea of feeling afraid and still doing it anyway.  These opportunities can be as small as making a phone call we are uncomfortable with or diving into a swimming pool.  Or they can be big things, like starting a business or writing a book (or a blog).

One of the more recent and dramatic of these was last summer in Yellowstone National Park.  Before we left for our vacation, we heard about a waterfall that you can swim through and hang out behind.  We easily found the place and decided to give it a try.  Everyone put on their life jackets and we trudged down to the water’s edge.

For some reason, I had pictured an easy swim under a thin, clear sheet of smooth water.  This waterfall was anything but; at the bottom of the trail we found a thick wall of turbulent white water, thirty feet tall and twenty feet wide, crashing into a deep, dark pool of swirling, green water.  In addition to that, it started raining and hailing just as we got there.

After the storm passed on, we decided to go for it.  I went first, to see what it was like.  In a few words, the journey through the pounding wall was horrible, amazing, terrifying, thundering, disorienting, and hugely satisfying.  Once on the other side, I swam to the back of the shallow cave and stood on a rock for a minute.  I could not see out of the wall of water and couldn’t hear anything but the roar of falling water on stone and more water.  The spray coming off the back of the waterfall was so intense, I couldn’t face into it for more than a few seconds.  After catching my breath, and regrouping my courage, I headed back out.

On the other side, I found my children, excited and terrified by what was in store.  One at a time, I took them into the deep pool, explained how it would feel, what they would see, and what we should do once we got inside.  No one was forced to go, thought I encouraged each with the understanding that they would either regret not going or feel good about it if they did go.

Two more times I went through the crashing wall into the cave, first with the oldest, then the next oldest, and two more times I came back out.  Finally, it was time for the last run.  My six year old daughter cried as she told me she did want to go.  I could see the noise and the cold water were starting to break her down.  We stood, our eyes at about the same level, her on a rock in knee deep water beside me.  I explained again what she should expect and do as we swam.  Finally, exasperated, she cried out above the thundering noise, “But I’m afraid!”

I leaned close to her and whispered in her ear.  “I’m afraid too,” I confided, “but I just do it anyway.”  She looked me in the eye, amazed by what her dad had just said.  Then, as if something had just clicked into place, I watched her face change suddenly from fear to determination.  She immediately gripped my hand and stepped off into the deep water.

That was a win for her, and for every one of us.  On the other hand, the election this past Friday was not.  One experience makes it easier to try next time, while the more recent example could have just the opposite effect.  Each of us, and especially our jobless politician, will have to dig a little deeper the next time we decide to step again out onto a limb.  But, I’m pretty sure she’ll be just fine.  Besides, she’s already told me she’s running again next year.

Clark

Election Day

I don't have a ton of these reposts left, but I want to get them back on the internet.  So thanks for your patience.  This was first posted on May 29, 2009.

Today is the big day at the elementary school.  Who will be on the next Student Council?  More specifically, will our daughter be among them?  She has her speech all ready and she has practiced it plenty.  She seems confident and has been filled with enough tips and positive mental attitude stuff to last her a lifetime.

Last night, after she went to bed, I was thinking a little about what she has to do today.  For the first time in my life, I got butterflies for someone other than myself.  It was kind of an interesting experience, and reminded me immediately of the first time I remember getting them for myself.  I have had the butterflies many times since then and don’t think about it much anymore.  But that first time, I had no idea what was going on and had to ask my mom what was happening to me.  Now, all these years later, I wonder the same thing.

I know I just wrote the other day about how she is so wonderful and special and means so much to me.  And, of course, she is all of these things and more.  But it amazes me that someone can be such a part of me, of who I am, and of what I feel and think, that I actually get butterflies when she is taking the stage.  Wow.  That’s incredible to me.

I actually don’t like the butterflies.  I don’t hate them or anything, but it’s definitely a feeling I don’t love.  At the same time, it’s a feeling I wouldn’t ever avoid.  For me the butterflies are a way of knowing I’m alive and that I’m doing something that will help me grow and learn more about myself or the world.

Today it won’t be me standing in front of the audience, but the butterflies are still letting me know I’m alive.  I’m growing as a parent, and as a person.  And it’s nice to also recognize that my capacity to love and feel for another human being is also growing.

So this morning I think I’ll sneak into the school during the assembly.  I’ll stand in the back doorway of the auditorium and watch her speak.  I’ll feel some of what she feels and experience for myself some of what she is experiencing.  My first baby is growing up and I want to be there to feel it.

Clark

Rock Rock Chair

Sleep-eating a carrot in the rock rock chair

This was first posted May 30, 2009 on my other, now dearly departed blog.

I slept most of the night in the baby's room, sitting awkwardly in the big rocking chair.  The baby wasn’t feeling well, though we never did find out what was going on.  He would cry every time we set him down in bed so it was just easier to hold him.  We did try letting him cry for a little while to see if he was just messing with us, but it was hard to listen to his crying.  Because he’s such a good baby, and normally so great about just plopping down in bed and going to sleep, we figured it must the real deal.

Normally the chair rips my back or neck apart and after one night of sitting there, I pay for about four days.  But this morning I actually don’t feel too bad.  As I sat there, I thought about when we first bought that chair, just over nine years ago.  Our oldest was a bad sleeper and needed to be rocked to sleep every night.  This is a luxury reserved only for the oldest child.  I’m not sure if that’s because you don’t have as much time with the second child, or if you just learn your lesson and get better at saying, no.  Probably a bit of both.

Every night I would settle into the chair and she would lie across my lap.  She would use one armrest as a pillow and the other for her feet.  Most nights I would get up within 30 minutes or an hour and drop her in her bed.  But some nights I would fall so deeply to sleep that I would end up spending the entire night there, sitting in the chair.

We bought this chair a few months after Kris died.  My mom got some money in an insurance settlement and gave some to each of her boys to buy something to remind us of Kris.  With part of the money, I bought a nice watch at a pawn shop.  Kris spent a lot of time in pawn shops, so I thought it would be a good way to connect with him.  I found a store near his home, one I assumed he had been in from time to time, and there found just the right watch for me.

With most of the rest of the money, we bought a big, blue, rocking recliner chair.  I remember standing years ago at his grave, crying and telling him how we would rock our children to sleep in the chair and tell them stories about the uncle they never met.  If not perfectly, this is a promise I have tried hard to keep.

In many ways, this chair has come to represent, or even take the place of my brother.  It has become literally, his contribution toward raising some of his nieces and nephews.  Bought with the most precious money I have ever held, this chair has served our family well.  And all these years later, it’s still fairly nice, though a little dated, and showing signs of those many, long hours service to our family.

It won’t be long until our baby doesn’t need to be rocked each day for a few minutes at bedtime.  And eventually the long nights of rocking a sick child in the chair will only be a memory.  But, even when the old chair’s productive years of service have passed, we will still keep it around for a long, long time.

Clark

Snowy Parking Lot

He left his wife in the crowded doorway and stepped into the snowy night.  On the slushy, slippery path, a long-time friend from work walked a step or two behind him.  He pointed his elbow back toward her and offered that she take it. 

“No,” she said, more out of habit than pride. 

He slowed his pace and allowed his elbow to linger there, where she could easily take it when she changed her mind.

"Maybe I will,” she said, and grabbed, more onto his coat than his arm. 

At that very moment her footing slipped, and he felt a firm tug at his coat.  AI guess, at times, I do need a man to lean on," she joked as she quickly regained her balance.

An awkward silence lingered a moment in the wind and snow and cold. 

“Where are you parked,” he asked, slowing his pace again. 

“I’m parked way out there,” she said, gesturing with her free hand toward the back of the parking lot.

“Good,” he answered, “I’m parked way out there too.”

They walked and chatted with each other like the old friends they’ve always been. 

“It was a nice party, don't you think?”

“Yes,” he responded.  “But I was thinking just today that no one throws a company party quite as well as you do.”  He meant it too.  It had been three years since she was responsible for this annual party, but he thought often, especially at this time of year, about when the company was smaller, and things were somehow easier.  Of course things weren’t easier back then.  But, he sometimes imagined they were.  The recent parties were always nice, but not like in years past.

She thanked him and quickly moved the conversation away from the subject.  “I apologize for the way my staff acted tonight.  They’ve obviously had too much to drink.”

“You aren’t their mother,” he said.  “I think they’re funny to watch.”   

“Since they’re too drunk to drive home, they’re all going to crash here tonight at the hotel.”  She paused a second and then continued, "Three of them have to be at work in the morning."

“That should be fun for them,” he said, thinking of a long, snow-packed drive in the early morning, followed by a long day at work with a well-deserved hangover. 

“Yes,” she agreed.  "And, it doesn’t look like things will be letting up anytime soon."
He smiled, not sure if she had meant the snow, or the party, or both.

She slipped a few more times before they reached the row of cars she was parked on.  She didn’t say anything more about it and he did the same.  Maybe she wouldn’t have fallen, but, maybe she would have.  Either way, he was glad he had offered to help. 

“Here we are at my car,” she said, again gesturing.  “Thanks for your help.”

They were still not close enough to the car that he thought he could just let her go.  He wondered if the comment was her way of letting him off easy. 

But, he also sensed that in the comment there seemed to be a hint of test:  Would he let her go now, or would he follow through to the end?  It was as if she was trying to find out if he really wanted to help, or if he was only performing some act of chivalrous service just long enough to say he had. 

Just as easily, it could be her finely tuned sense of self reliance, coming again to the surface, and forcing her to shake off any sign of weakness or dependence. 

He decided the correct response to all three was to continue on, and turned decidedly toward her car, her hand still gripping tightly to his coat. 

When they reached her car, she loosened her grip and slipped away.  He thought about offering to clear the heavy covering of snow from the windows, but quickly decided he had already done more than she was comfortable with. 

“Well, have a good weekend,” he said, moving back the way they had come. 

"You too,” she said, already brushing snow from the car.  “Thanks for walking me.  I appreciate your help.” 

“No problem,” he said.  “See you soon.”  And turning away, he walked slowly back to his own car.

Clark