Prayers Requested

Beak found out last night that Uncle C's Grandpa is declining rapidly and he will probably not make it to Christmas. Please take a moment and offer up a little prayer for their family. I'm sure it would be appreciated.

I know how hard it is to lose a Granddad. When mine died I remember thinking that if I were twice the man I am, I wouldn't be half the man he was.

We'll pray for ya.

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Update:

Beak called earlier tonight and told me that Uncle C's Grandpa passed away this evening. It is always difficult to lose someone we love for a time, no matter the length of the life that was lived. Beak has always had a sensitive spirit and she and her family are feeling the pain sharply now. The problem with this kind of pain is that there is no acclimation to it. No matter how often you experience the death of a loved one, it's always a fresh experience.

That is why I am grateful for the wisdom found in the Savior's plan. When we keep an "eternal" view, it is easier to recognize the need for emotions like pain, grief, and separation. I think that I will try to find some way to post a story I wrote shortly after my little brother (Motor's Daddy) was killed. Having the experience of writing that really helped me to realize that time moves so quickly. We think that 60, 70, or even 80 years of separation through death is such a very long time but it isn't. It moves at a blink.

When R died, the hurt was hardly bearable and it didn't seem like it would ever end. And even though I think about him every day (and more so on Wednesdays) I have a hard time believing it has been three years already. The days drag by, the years blink past. And I know that the harsh shock of losing a grandfather will give way to thoughts of good days and better memories; as well as a continued commitment to living worthy to see him again, and have his blessing and admiration for continuing as he would have you live.

Not long after my Grandpa died (Geez, that was nearly a decade ago. WOW!) I found a poem by one of my favorite Irish Poets, Yeats (If the Irish are good for anything it's good funerals and better poems). I love this one, because I loved the "pilgrim soul" in my Grandfather, and I like to think of him watching over me from the stars.


When You Are Old
William Butler Yeats


WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face among a crowd of stars.

Love ya, Beak. You need me, You call.

One of Them Kind O' Days

As you can see, I got a little time on my hands this morning, and did some exploring around the old Blogger customization machine. First I Christmased up the page with some color changes and switched to the most "whimsical" font they offer. I've always been a "Times New Roman" kind of guy, so this is actually a big step in artistic merit for me. It's still pretty sad.

I wanted to center the title and add wreaths on either side, but I couldn't figure out how; so I did what I could. I've said it before and I'll say it again, I hate Techno-crap. My favorite change is that I found out that the response boxes (which is how I tell if anyone is looking at this nonsense) don't have to stay default. "Funny" was alright but "cool" and "interesting"? I have a degree in English with minors in sarcasm and wise a..cre. I am obligated to do a little better that "cool". If there is a response you want me to add (I almost used "There's Ten Minutes of My Life I'll Never Get Back) please tell me, and I can add it now. But I still hate Techno-crap. Told you I'd say it again.

Yesterday was one of those days when plenty happened, but the only recurring theme seemed to be the constant reminders that I'm a pathetic bum. First off, the kids went upstairs to "Play Music" again. I quickly downed some Advil and sat down to watch "Sportscenter" with Squizzle (Sign #1 I'm a bum: Watching a 9:00 AM sports center in sweatpants and a dirty t-shirt).

Against all odds, Squizzle fell asleep almost instantly. Morning Nap two days in a row? I thought my birthday was in July!

So after making sure the toy room still had a roof, I decided to pull out the old XBOX and try to accomplish my latest goal (Sign #2: My goals include XBOX achievements).

I popped in Rock Band, fired up solo guitar tour and proceeded to beat my head against the brick wall that is "Green Grass and High Tides" on expert. For about a month now I've been dying in the 90 something percent completed area. Not yesterday. I warmed up with a few songs, then started GGHT. Dang me if I didn't finally beat that sucker. 187,505 points and 4 stars. 82 % of notes hit. I snapped a picture with my cell phone and sent a text to Beak and the Boss.

"Who Rocks? I ROCK!!!"

And I did. Until I noticed Signs #3,4,and 5 that I'm a worthless bum. #3 is that I have played enough Rockband to beat GGHT on Expert. Talk about time you can never get back.....

Sign #4? I actually thought that winning Rockband was pretty cool (until I thought about #3).

And #5, I took a picture and sent someone a text BRAGGING about this colossal waste of my life. It was about thirty seconds after I hit send that I discovered signs 3 and 4. So all that time isn't the only thing I'll never get back. My dignity is gone for good as well. (I wonder how the Man Academy feels about this? I smell a future poll question...)

For a bonus I now give you Sign #6. I recorded the whole thing for posterity on a blog.


Later, I took Bub down for his every other hour mandatory potty break (he's getting really good about no accidents). I sat down on the edge of the tub, put the seat down for him and watched him wet his pants before I could help him with his drawers. U N B E L I E V A B L E! He couldn't hold it for five more seconds? REALLY?

Beak and the Boss both got here about the same time, and they made fun of me for a while before the Boss and I got ready to take the kids to Thanksgiving Point to do the drive through lights. They were nice, but considering that I can see (metaphorically speaking) a lot more lights at Temple Square for free, 8 bucks a carload seemed like a nifty little cash grab on the Point's part.

Well, enough for now. Squizzle is taking another nap, the kids are back on their instruments, and Rockband 2 is calling my name.

Merry Christmas!!

Be Vewy,Vewy Qwiet, I'm Hunt'n Wudolph

Beak told me a fantastic story the other day, and I'm begging her to get the picture so I can scan it in.

Reagger's Daddy, Uncle C is a dedicated and ferocious hunter. Remember Gaston from Beauty and the Beast? The Dude that uses antlers in all of his decorating? That's Uncle C (If he was built a little more like me). Walk into his house and the first thing you see is a big ol' Honkin' bison head on the wall. Right now, it is festively attired with a large Santa hat. 'Tis the Season, after all.

In my vast experience with 4 year olds, I find that when they are not unintentionally destroying your sanity, they are trying desperately to please you.


*****We interrupt this regularly scheduled anecdote to bring you the following spontaneous migraine headache.....

Beak just walked in with Reaggers and Bub. She says to me "Reaggers asked on the way over if I thought they'd get to play music again today. Thought you'd like that." Then she left. Quickly. I don't blame her. It's her birthday today.

Reaggers Bub and Peff are now upstairs "playing" improvisational, Post-Modern jazz with baseball stadium and hockey rink influences.

At 8:30 in the A.M. Full blast.

Critically magnificent. Disturbing to the audience. Where the #$&! is that Tylenol?....Oh, yeah. Happy Birthday Beak. You are OLD!!!!!OLD, OLD, OLD!!!!!

We now return you to our regularly scheduled posting*****

As I was saying, the typical 4 year old is desperate to please their parents.

When the mood suits them.

Now Reaggers, like many children her age is something of an art prodigy. Her proclivities for modern cave-wall art are familiar to regular readers of this forum and do not need to be rediscussed here. And as the Holiday season approaches, her thoughts and inspirations seem to have turned to Christmas themes.

With this in mind, the tyke presented her mother with an Opus Magnum depiction of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.

"Check out all the points on him, mom! I gave him an extra big rack!"

Beak assures me that she's talking about antlers. I, for one, am disappointed. But Uncle C, hunter that he is, should be smiling proudly. You gotta love a kid who loves what you do. If I get a lithograph print of the original, I'll copy it for all to enjoy.

Time to go. It's baking day and we are making sugar "plum" cookies. More later.

A Pretty Good Trade, Huh?

I got Squizzle to take a rare morning nap, and after a sick day at home for Reaggers and Bub, they have joined forces with Peff to get up to their usual tricks.

Last week, we did our annual pre-Christmas purge, going through the toy room with a snow shovel (I'm not kidding). It was an overdue chore that makes the house feel a thousand times better now that it is done. Since I have no access to a pickup truck, I had the city deliver one of their neighborhood clean up dumpsters to the drive way. They are free and you can schedule them twice a year. We opened the end of the dumpster, lined the kids up and gave them things to take out, one a time.

They thought the dumpster was the neatest thing since sliced bread. They should have found it the neatest thing since gamma-globulin shots, because I'm fairly certain that they all have tetanus, hepatitis, and possibly cholera for their efforts. But now that it is clean, the kids are up there playing. Peff is pounding on the organ, Reaggers is puffing on a recorder and Bub is hitting a bucket like a drum and playing a harmonica.

In the paraphrased words of Clark Griswold, "Hallelujah! Holy Crap! Where's the Tylenol?"

On a sad note, during the purge, I found yet another box in the storage room that had been destroyed by the great flood of '08. If you haven't heard the story, last summer, our 20 year old hot water heater sprung a leak. Since it is in a closet in the garage, it took who knows how long to discover it. The water dripped down a pipe access hole in the wooden floor of the closet and into the storage area in the basement. We didn't find out about it until the carpet in our bedroom got wet. About half the stuff we had in storage got ruined, including the Christmas decorations. It put a sour note on an otherwise very nice Christmas last year. The kids letters to and from Santa, all their school made ornaments, and some sentimental knickknacks were all destroyed (including my Simpson's Christmas village that we had spent years and more money than I care to think about collecting).

Fortunately the tree and Mom's knitted Christmas socks were in a box that miraculously did not get wet. Now I bring this up for two reasons. First, I found that other box during the purge (and I will get back to that, I promise). Second, just last week, the Boss and I were at the store looking at decorations. The subject of the lost ornaments came up; in particular one little Pillsbury Dough Boy riding a spatula that the Eldest picked when she was not quite one for her first Christmas ornament. It broke the Boss's heart that it was gone, and I tried, rather lamely, to convince her that what counts with those things is the memories they represent. The times from early in our family when the Eldest was small, the kids first Christmas's and the like. "It's gone," I said "and there's nothing we can do about it. We just have to keep the memories and forget about the things." The Boss agreed and we dropped it.

Until the next day when we pulled out the decorations box. While the kids were hanging ornaments, I found a little knickknack box in the bottom. It was hidden by some Christmas table cloths. Guess what was in that box?

I'm all in. Whatever you want, Lord. No one can tell me that Father in Heaven does not answer the prayers of a mother's heart. Moses didn't part the red sea, no one walked on water or healed the blind (yet), but you can not convince me that the silly little Dough Boy ornament was not a miracle on par with any of those. It was quite the thing to experience, and I'm grateful for it because it steeled me for the rest of the week.

Which brings me back to the box of destroyed stuff I found. When I cleaned up the storage closet after the flood, I wound up tossing about half of what was in there. I checked everything else and put it back into storage. I must have missed this box, because it was pretty well destroyed. And it contained the bulk of my mission stuff. Two or three photo albums, my Chinese scriptures, my discussions, my language cards, and of course, my journal. I'm still not sure how I feel about that. On the one hand, I have to (and want to) keep the advice I gave the Boss last week. It's the memories that are important, not the physical representation of them. On the other hand, a journal is recorded memories.

For years, I have said that I am grateful for my mission, but if I never see any of those I served with again, I'll be ok. I don't miss them. I learned what I needed to learn, and I moved on. It has not escaped me that none of them has tried to hunt me down, either. More importantly, I'm not that guy anymore. If someone were to read those pages (and trust me... no one could read them now if they wanted to), the man writing this post and the kid writing that journal would have no clue as to who the other really was or has become. So while I may have lost a memory of what I was, I have lost nothing of what it made me.

And this leads me to two conclusions. First, I prefer a blog to a journal. Now if the house burns down, a flood rises up, my computer crashes, the apes take over or whatever; I can't lose the next chapters of my life the way I lost the first (Even Nephi lost a few pages off the front of his record, that's not bad company, is it?).

And second?

I'd trade every picture, letter, journal and souvenir of Taiwan in order to see the Boss light up again like she did when that Dough Boy fell out of the box. It was a fair trade I'd take any day of my life. Thanks again, Lord.

Merry Christmas!!

Soap Poisoning

Ahh, I love Christmas. That time of year when we celebrate the birth of our Lord. I love most everything about the Holidays, from Marshmallow Popcorn to spending time with family. From giving gifts to acts of service. But my favorite thing about Christmas has to be Christmas movies. I love 'em. All of 'em.

I think this has a great deal to do with the fact that I have lived a good deal of them. Every Christmas for the last four years, every wise-acre who knows me suddenly becomes a board-certified eye surgeon who is convinced to their inner most core that Kerataconus is a fancy Latin term for soap poisoning. And I suppose that may be it. Though I was never allowed a BB gun (Even with good eyes, would you want a somewhat less mature version of me with a semi-lethal firearm?), I did want one.

And I admit that my language has been, shall we say, "J. Goldenesque" (If I wasn't home, I was in a locker room). But I sure knew better than to cuss in front of my mother. And on those occasions when I did mess up, nobody bothered with soap. I just got my teeth rattled. So no, fans of Ralphie; I don't have soap poisoning.

We did get a flat tire on the way to a Christmas party once and I was tempted to call the eldest out to help me change it, but thought better of it. And that same year we had a Grinch steal Christmas right out from the locked trunk of our car(The only person who knew there was anything in there was the mechanic who replaced the tire. Hmmm....). Whoever the Grinch was must not have heard our "Who singing" (Puzey does a fine Cindy Lou Who impersonation), because we never got anything back. Oh well.

And I know what it feels like to be both Cousin Eddie ("The gas money gave out in Gurney, we coasted into town on fumes") and George Bailey ("I wish I had a million dollars..."), as in recent years the Boss and I have been the undeserving objects of many of Santa's best honorary elves. I can't really explain what it feels like to be thirty five years old and find yourself re-evaluating your belief in the Head Elf.

A few years ago, it was like one of those cartoons when Elmer Fudd chases Buggs Bunny behind a door, and when he opens it there is nothing in the closet, then he opens it again and there is something, and he takes it and closes the door and when he opens it again, there are two somethings, and then four somethings, and then eight. Every time I opened the door we found that someone had been thinking about us at Christmas time. All of it was anonymous, and it was plainly the work of several people working independent of one another. They had to be causing a traffic jam in front of the house. It was (get the soap ready) the damnedest thing I have ever been blessed with. When the Lord says he will open the windows of heaven and pour out a blessing that you won't have room enough to receive it? I get that now. So I get George Bailey. I really do.

It occurs to me that some of you loyal readers probably had more than something to do with that, and if so, thank you. You'll be glad to know that this year, the Boss and I are square with Santy Claus, and things are a little more "White Christmas" around here. But I look forward to being an Elf again soon.

Merry Christmas!