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.

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.

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.

Photo of the Day - Our New Computer Desk

This desk is what I did all day today.  Actually it's what I've done three of the last four Saturdays.  It's done now though, and I'm sitting at it this minute, typing away.  Painting will have to wait for warmer weather.

I just realized I should have put the doors back on for this photo.  It turned out pretty good for being built entirely of scrap materials.  Except for two sets of drawer guides and a drill bit, I didn't spend any money on materials. 

Almost all of the lumber has a history.  I used to build quite a bit of furniture for family, friends and clients, but haven't built anything worth noting for about two years.  But we needed a new desk to keep us better organized so I cleaned out the shop and went to work. 

Because all the lumber was left over from other projects, some of it has a history worth noting:
 - The frame is old reclaimed pine I got from my neighbor, Jim, across the street.  He salvaged it years ago from an old Boy Scout office and gave it a few years ago to me. 
- The white parts are left over melamine from two winters ago when I built bookcases downstairs.
- The base trim is left over from when I changed all the base in the house about five years ago.
- Beadboard on the sides and in the doors was left over from a wainscot in my daughter's room, which was finished with the rest of the basement about 18 months ago in anticipation of a new baby.  
- The front edge of the keyboard drawer was salvaged maple from a shop where a friend works.
- Parts of the cabinet and door frames are alder, left over from the trim I made for my uncle and aunt when they remodeled their house several years ago. 
- Last, but most meaningful, is part of a large, thick, glued up spruce panel.  I glued the boards together about 12 years ago, intending to use them in a headboard for my brother Kris. 

I never built the headboard.  Later, he needed a table for his kitchen.  But, this too, I never got around to making for him.  When he died, I hung onto the piece of wood, and always considered it his.  I never could, until now, bring myself to use it in a project.  Even included as part of a desk for my family, it took me a long time to finally break down and use it. 

While I stood and tried to decide if I was going to finally use this particular board or not, I brushed off years of accumulated sawdust, and thought about my little brother.  I stared a long time at the old board, and talked out loud, in reverent tones to it, as if it were actually Kris with me, and not just a piece of wood.  

The Little Guy

First posted January 24,2009

This past week I visited a small furniture store downtown. I didn't even know anything about the store until a friend told me the business might be for sale.

This place was the real deal; a family owned, little guy, furniture store. The kind of pre-big box, good old days, Main Street kind of place your grandfather may have worked when he was young.

I was met at the door by the son of the original proprietor, now in his 70's, and still working the showroom floor. This guy was old school like no other. I don't think he uttered a single sentence without a hard sell at the end. Also there in the store was his daughter, who currently owns and runs the business side of things. These were wonderful, chatty, lovable, people. I liked them immediately.

They talked about the old days, about business and furniture, and, of course, about the state of the economy. I mostly listened.

After a few minutes the daughter jumped up and pointed to a big, framed copy of an old black and white photo. It showed a tiny corner furniture store with two adults standing in front, a toddler standing beside them. "See that little guy there? That's my dad here." She proudly pointed at her father, sitting on the barstool next to me. What a legacy. Now, after 90 years, they are willing to entertain offers and sell it all.

After a while, I stood up to go and the old salesman asked if I wanted a tour. "I absolutely want a tour," I said.

The big box stores have a lot to offer: fancy web sites, big sales campaigns, huge showrooms, and walls of flashing television sets. Not to mention dozens and dozens of nicely dressed, smooth talking sales people. But what they don't have, they will never have.

Some days I have a million things to do before the day ends. This day was no exception. But here, for an hour or so, I enjoyed a piece of history, some good company, and being sold wing chairs and end tables by a 75 year old man.