I have shared some thoughts of past Christmases-from when I was a youngster and a brief mention of a Christmas far from home. I haven't yet shared memories of early Christmases with our own little family. There are also tales to tell of Christmas times of disappointments, and others of times of great hope.
But, for today, on this Christmas morning, I want to let you all know of my love for that Child whose birth we celebrate today. Yes, I love him because He is our Savior. His atonement gives me a foundation on which I can build a life. But His mortality gives me hope. Not hope that I can live free of sin, as He did, but hope that, because he came as One of Us, He understands me. He has Empathy because He lived a mortal life. When I suffer the normal mortal experiences of temptation, illness, grief, or anguish, I know that He understands, because He experienced this things as well. And He experienced them to a much greater degree than I ever will. He also know how I feel when I want to shout for joy or when I feel contentment in having served someone or created some small thing.
Because He was born and lived as One of Us, He knows perfectly well what we need and when and how He needs to succor us (rush to our aid). And that gives me hope. Every day.
So-give glory because this King and Son of God was born and we celebrate His birth. But also give glory because He is One of Us-our Brother, both spiritually and in the flesh. I believe that His experiences as he lived and experienced what we all do are integral to His infinite atonement. He is able to provide a way for us to become "at one" with Him and our Father because He became One of Us.
(Orson Scott Card recently wrote an article about Christ being On of Us on http://www.mormoninterpreter.com/-- it is worth a read)
Thursday, December 25, 2014
Wednesday, December 24, 2014
Ready, Aim, Go!
Despite the title of this post, it is not about me getting a Daisy BB gun and shooting my eye out. Not to say that I haven't felt the sting of a few BBs in my life. I did grow up in the middle of 3 brothers, and we did have several BB guns around, and...well, another time. And I don't want my grandchildren engaging in some of the dumber activities my brothers and I did on occasion.
This is about a change of trajectory (ask your parents to point you in the right direction to find out what this big word means) and my first Christmas away from home. So it isn't from my early childhood, more from my middle childhood.
When I was 19 years old, I was a sophomore (good word to look up, parents) at the University of Utah. I went to the U to study, play football and not get too far away from home. My first year, as a freshman, went really well. My freshman class was not allowed to play varsity ball, so we were the "Papooses", not the "Utes". We only got to play four games, traveling as far a Mesa, Colorado! We won all of the games, including the last one against BYU. I was a team captain, one of the leading tacklers, and had a grand old time. I played linebacker, was about 6'2 and 220 lbs. I mention this, not to impress anyone with my physical prowess, but to try to pain a picture of a young man in, what he considered at the time, a very good fit with great potential. I was going to end up playing in the NFL. For the Green Bay Packers. And make tons of money-linebackers made 30 or 40K back then. A Wonderful Life ahead (not the movie-mine!).
After a very rigorous off season of sweat box, re-teaching us how to run, weights, weights, and more weight training, psycho intense handball and basketball games-oh, yes, and school, the defensive coordinator called me in to tell me that I would be switched from linebacker to defensive line for the next year. I had put on a whopping 10 pounds or so of muscle, scored 2nd on the team in overall strength in the weight room, and had worked very hard. Very hard.
My response was typical for me (middle child-pleaser of authority types). I said, "sure coach, whatever I can do to help the team". Inside, however, my response was "Stink!". I love playing linebacker. I get to run around, fill holes, stunt, defend passes and let the defensive linesmen take care of the heavy lifting up front. My second thought was "Stink!" Now I was going to be doing the heavy lifting up front. I didn't mention that my position was going to be nose tackle. No, that is not what you grandkids do with your fingers and your schnoz several times a day. It meant that I would now be lined up in the middle of the line every down. And-I would have at least 2 Big Uglies (offensive linsemen) hitting me in the head every stinkin play. Oh joy! Also, I would have to learn a new position. I thought, no big deal, I can bulk up, learn the job and do it.
Well, I did work hard in spring ball and over the summer. Bulked up clear to 232 pounds! Whoo-hoo! But then I realized the gentlemen I would be playing against were all going to out size me by about 40-60 pounds (think a couple sacks of flour worth of muscle and meanness). All was good-I would do fine.
And I did. I won the starting job from a senior. I started the first 4 or 5 games of the season. But it wasn't nearly as fun for me as my freshman year. And I was not as good in this new position as I was as a linebacker. I ended up second string mid season. That meant that I played a lot on special teams, and I would play about a third of the game as nose tackle (get that finger out of there!) as well. I was on the field for the second half of the Arizona game-in which we (the Utes) made the biggest comeback in NCAA history at the time (another story). But, as I said, I had to learn a new position, practice playing it, work to get bigger, faster, stronger, and so on.
At this time, I had several good friends on missions for the LDS church. We had not yet had the instruction that "every worthy young man should serve a mission", my parents were not members/active in the church, and I had all but promised my freshman coach that I would not be going on a mission. My mission was to finish school and play football. For the Green Bay Packers.
Imagine my confusion when my brand-new home-ward bishop asked me to come in and talk. He asked me when I was going on a mission. Didn't he know that I had Other Plans?! Of course he did. the whole ward knew that I indeed played Division 1 football (first athlete from Brighton High to do so) for the University of Utah.
My best friend, Ken R, also was asking in his regular letters to me about my mission plans. I knew that Ken knew better! No mission in this boy's plans. Even though it sounded like Ken was working hard, growing and even having some fun. Well, Ken always finds a way to be amused.
I had no family push, encouragement, instruction, or expectation that I would serve a mission. My 20th year (when I was 19-ask your parents to explain this to you-again-and listen this time) was quickly waning. Then I thought about it. And asked about it. And decided that I should go.
I called bishop Stan, met with him, and got the process in motion. I will relate another time, perhaps, of the the discussions with parents, friends and coaches about leaving my schooling and football to serve a mission. Suffice it to know for now that I did get a call and left in May of my sophomore year to the Sweden mission.
My first months in the mission field were Difficult. It was good that I was as far away as as was, because I was still in pretty good shape and thought about playing again as fall came around.
When December came, I was transferred to an area in Goteborg. I didn't know anyone, having been up North most of my first 5 months, had no member relationships, and was a newly assigned Senior Companion (yes, I had worked hard-I knew how to do that) with a Junior Companion who needed a bit of work. And it was dark almost all of the time (Sweden, remember?-way up north).
I had not been away from home ever at Christmas time. Some Christmases were good, some not so much, but there was always family and comfort foods and home. I was a bit lonely, and we worked very hard so we could not think about Christmases past (no spooky ghost visits for us).
Then we got invited to Christmas Eve at some members' home a 45 minute train ride outside the city.
Once we got on the train, the magic began. We traveled through picture-postcard scenes of snow and small farms and woods until we got to a small train station. We were met by Brother W, who put us in his car and drove us to their large rustic home. It was filled with wonderful aromas, laughter, light and love. And there were a bunch of kids there! Christmas!
I think this was the turning point for my mission, as I felt the warmth and love that comes from good people being together celebrating the birth of the Savior. I had worked very hard up to this time, but now I think I started to smile much more as I continued to serve.
Now, the trajectory. Sometimes things that we don't understand or agree with happen to us. Sometimes we get put in positions that we think aren't the best for us. That happened when I was told that my football position was changing. I think, at the size I was and with my work ethic, that could/would have continued playing through my 4 years at the U, at least, had this change not happened. I may not have considered serving a mission. My mission still serves as a significant piece of my life's foundation. I may well have had a wonderful life. But I don't know that it would have been a Wonderful Life (again, mine, not the movie). Also, I played ball at a time when the U (and BYU, as well) did not know how to handle players leaving on missions. When I got home, I got a call the first week from the new coach at the U asking if I planned to return and play. I told him that I was going to get married and work on school. Yes, that was a quick decision, and it merits its own story another time.
I know that the things that "happened" during that time in my life helped push me in a direction that I should continue to travel. And I have been greatly blessed for it. No, no Packer's jersey in my past, but a life and blessings for which I am very grateful.
The "Christmas" part of this post? Well, it was that first Christmas on my mission when my heart softened and I knew I was were I was supposed to be, doing the work I was supposed to do.
And-I did get to eat Lutefisk for the first time!
This is about a change of trajectory (ask your parents to point you in the right direction to find out what this big word means) and my first Christmas away from home. So it isn't from my early childhood, more from my middle childhood.
When I was 19 years old, I was a sophomore (good word to look up, parents) at the University of Utah. I went to the U to study, play football and not get too far away from home. My first year, as a freshman, went really well. My freshman class was not allowed to play varsity ball, so we were the "Papooses", not the "Utes". We only got to play four games, traveling as far a Mesa, Colorado! We won all of the games, including the last one against BYU. I was a team captain, one of the leading tacklers, and had a grand old time. I played linebacker, was about 6'2 and 220 lbs. I mention this, not to impress anyone with my physical prowess, but to try to pain a picture of a young man in, what he considered at the time, a very good fit with great potential. I was going to end up playing in the NFL. For the Green Bay Packers. And make tons of money-linebackers made 30 or 40K back then. A Wonderful Life ahead (not the movie-mine!).
After a very rigorous off season of sweat box, re-teaching us how to run, weights, weights, and more weight training, psycho intense handball and basketball games-oh, yes, and school, the defensive coordinator called me in to tell me that I would be switched from linebacker to defensive line for the next year. I had put on a whopping 10 pounds or so of muscle, scored 2nd on the team in overall strength in the weight room, and had worked very hard. Very hard.
My response was typical for me (middle child-pleaser of authority types). I said, "sure coach, whatever I can do to help the team". Inside, however, my response was "Stink!". I love playing linebacker. I get to run around, fill holes, stunt, defend passes and let the defensive linesmen take care of the heavy lifting up front. My second thought was "Stink!" Now I was going to be doing the heavy lifting up front. I didn't mention that my position was going to be nose tackle. No, that is not what you grandkids do with your fingers and your schnoz several times a day. It meant that I would now be lined up in the middle of the line every down. And-I would have at least 2 Big Uglies (offensive linsemen) hitting me in the head every stinkin play. Oh joy! Also, I would have to learn a new position. I thought, no big deal, I can bulk up, learn the job and do it.
Well, I did work hard in spring ball and over the summer. Bulked up clear to 232 pounds! Whoo-hoo! But then I realized the gentlemen I would be playing against were all going to out size me by about 40-60 pounds (think a couple sacks of flour worth of muscle and meanness). All was good-I would do fine.
And I did. I won the starting job from a senior. I started the first 4 or 5 games of the season. But it wasn't nearly as fun for me as my freshman year. And I was not as good in this new position as I was as a linebacker. I ended up second string mid season. That meant that I played a lot on special teams, and I would play about a third of the game as nose tackle (get that finger out of there!) as well. I was on the field for the second half of the Arizona game-in which we (the Utes) made the biggest comeback in NCAA history at the time (another story). But, as I said, I had to learn a new position, practice playing it, work to get bigger, faster, stronger, and so on.
At this time, I had several good friends on missions for the LDS church. We had not yet had the instruction that "every worthy young man should serve a mission", my parents were not members/active in the church, and I had all but promised my freshman coach that I would not be going on a mission. My mission was to finish school and play football. For the Green Bay Packers.
Imagine my confusion when my brand-new home-ward bishop asked me to come in and talk. He asked me when I was going on a mission. Didn't he know that I had Other Plans?! Of course he did. the whole ward knew that I indeed played Division 1 football (first athlete from Brighton High to do so) for the University of Utah.
My best friend, Ken R, also was asking in his regular letters to me about my mission plans. I knew that Ken knew better! No mission in this boy's plans. Even though it sounded like Ken was working hard, growing and even having some fun. Well, Ken always finds a way to be amused.
I had no family push, encouragement, instruction, or expectation that I would serve a mission. My 20th year (when I was 19-ask your parents to explain this to you-again-and listen this time) was quickly waning. Then I thought about it. And asked about it. And decided that I should go.
I called bishop Stan, met with him, and got the process in motion. I will relate another time, perhaps, of the the discussions with parents, friends and coaches about leaving my schooling and football to serve a mission. Suffice it to know for now that I did get a call and left in May of my sophomore year to the Sweden mission.
My first months in the mission field were Difficult. It was good that I was as far away as as was, because I was still in pretty good shape and thought about playing again as fall came around.
When December came, I was transferred to an area in Goteborg. I didn't know anyone, having been up North most of my first 5 months, had no member relationships, and was a newly assigned Senior Companion (yes, I had worked hard-I knew how to do that) with a Junior Companion who needed a bit of work. And it was dark almost all of the time (Sweden, remember?-way up north).
I had not been away from home ever at Christmas time. Some Christmases were good, some not so much, but there was always family and comfort foods and home. I was a bit lonely, and we worked very hard so we could not think about Christmases past (no spooky ghost visits for us).
Then we got invited to Christmas Eve at some members' home a 45 minute train ride outside the city.
Once we got on the train, the magic began. We traveled through picture-postcard scenes of snow and small farms and woods until we got to a small train station. We were met by Brother W, who put us in his car and drove us to their large rustic home. It was filled with wonderful aromas, laughter, light and love. And there were a bunch of kids there! Christmas!
I think this was the turning point for my mission, as I felt the warmth and love that comes from good people being together celebrating the birth of the Savior. I had worked very hard up to this time, but now I think I started to smile much more as I continued to serve.
Now, the trajectory. Sometimes things that we don't understand or agree with happen to us. Sometimes we get put in positions that we think aren't the best for us. That happened when I was told that my football position was changing. I think, at the size I was and with my work ethic, that could/would have continued playing through my 4 years at the U, at least, had this change not happened. I may not have considered serving a mission. My mission still serves as a significant piece of my life's foundation. I may well have had a wonderful life. But I don't know that it would have been a Wonderful Life (again, mine, not the movie). Also, I played ball at a time when the U (and BYU, as well) did not know how to handle players leaving on missions. When I got home, I got a call the first week from the new coach at the U asking if I planned to return and play. I told him that I was going to get married and work on school. Yes, that was a quick decision, and it merits its own story another time.
I know that the things that "happened" during that time in my life helped push me in a direction that I should continue to travel. And I have been greatly blessed for it. No, no Packer's jersey in my past, but a life and blessings for which I am very grateful.
The "Christmas" part of this post? Well, it was that first Christmas on my mission when my heart softened and I knew I was were I was supposed to be, doing the work I was supposed to do.
And-I did get to eat Lutefisk for the first time!
Sunday, December 21, 2014
A New Bike! and a broken heart...
OK--So I haven't written another old Christmas tale for a few days. It has been a bit hectic. Grandma and I went up to the cabin Friday after work. One family was thinking about coming up on Saturday after a wrestling tournament. It snowed more than comfortable (but we love the snow-need the H2O and to refresh the sledding hill), and we ended up coming home Saturday afternoon. The aforementioned family came to our home instead of the cabin, and we have had some Cousin Time for the past couple of days. As the grandchildren get older and larger, it seems like our little home gets smaller. Those youngsters can also eat! It is wonderful having them here. But I did not get any old-man reminiscing done.
But now I am!
I always loved having a bike to ride. One of my earliest memories is taking my neighbor's granddaughter for rides on my old, giant tricycle. She would stand on the platform between the rear wheels-the old tricycles were actually designed to allow you to give rides to your friends-and around the block, up and down the sidewalk we would go. Ah, the freedom of the open road. Or, at least of the sidewalk. I wasn't allowed to cross the road. But-it was still the feeling of wind in my hair and drool down my chin! (Come on! I was on a tricycle. I must have been, what, 2 or 3? I bet you did a bit of drooling yourself when you were that age!)
Later, I acquired a blue Schwinn two wheeler. The Blue Bomber. That bike was my freedom, my friend, my escape for several years. It had "husky" balloon tires that could go over and through anything! Mud, dirt, grass (but not on the Bourne's yard, unless I wanted an angry phone call to my mother because I "ruined" their perfect lawn), ditches, wet concrete,....well, maybe not the concrete. At least not on purpose. I don't think anyone saw, so you can't prove anything. Those tracks could have been made by any bike.
It also did a good job of knocking out my younger brother, Steven, one time. Or was it a couple of times. Don't worry, there was not significant brain damage. That we know of. He was only unconscious for a little while. Another story for another time.
Anyway-I loved my bike. But, as I got older and bigger, and my friends got bigger, cooler bikes, and my younger brother was eyeing my Blue Bomber (looking for revenge?), I started to hope and dream about a newer, faster bike. I never thought that I would actually get one, however. New bikes were for the rich kids. Like my cousin, Danny. He had a new Stingray with a banana seat and high rise handle bars. It was pretty cool, but I wanted a full-sized, fast bike with Speeds. Danny's older brother had a Racing Bike. It had a cool lever on the right handle with a lever that let you shift through 3 speeds! Can you imagine?! You could make the pedaling easier to go up hills,and shift to a higher gear when racing down Vidas Avenue with your friends.
Alas, I knew I would never, ever get a bike with Speeds (gears to you all).
It was with wide-eyed wonder when I got up on Christmas morning in my 11th year (meaning I was 10 1/2), and there, in our little living room, next to the tree, were not 1, but 2, brand-spankin' new bicycles. A blue one and (obviously for me, since my favorite color was red) a red one! They hadn't ever been ridden by any other kids. We were the first owners-unheard of! Oh, the blue one was for my older brother Randy, which meant that Steve could now start plotting his revenge using my old Blue Bomber, that he would now inherit.
Now, bicycles were not Christmas-time presents. First, we couldn't afford them. Second, it was typically winter-meaning snow and ice and not a lot of bike riding. Also, my birthday is the 19th of May. (Yes, you may want to remember this for future reference). And the 19th of May is a much more reasonable day for bicycle receiving. Nonetheless, I was happier than a 10 year old boy in a burping contest after a quart of root beer! A New Bike! Red! And-best of all-it had Speeds! 2 of them, to be exact. It had a magic rear hub, so, when you pedaled backwards slightly, it would shift to either High Speed or Low Speed. Now, this was a bit of a bother, because it would shift every time I hit the brakes, but shifting again, if needed, was easy to do. I put a lot of miles on that bike that winter. But I never rode it to Madison Elementary. It was easy to walk to school. I could stomp the ice over the puddles on the sides of the roads with my logger boots. And-most importantly-my bike would not be stolen from the bike rack at the school.
I Loved That Bike (maybe not as much as the Blue Bomber, but the Bomber and I had had much more time to bond). And it was fast. I don't recall loosing any races down Vidas Avenue (except to Barbara B, who was a few years older, and was the toughest kid on the block...) on my new steed.
Then, in early summer-so around my birthday, my older brother and his friend (the bishop's son) wanted to ride bikes to Grand Central. Grand Central was a big store way down on State Street.
Now, my brother's friend did not have a cool 2 speed bike, and my brother wanted me to let his friend ride mine. I had a bad feeling about this, but, being the good younger brother I was, agreed. I told them to be careful and not wreck, lose, abuse my mostly new bike. I am sure what they heard was "Blah, blah, blah".
Down 3rd East toward 27th South they rode. And, as they turned the corner at Farrer's Market, I had the last look I would ever have of my beloved new bike.
Yes, you guessed correctly. Some slime ball stole my bike from in front of Grand Central. Low life bike lifter! Randy and his friend came home pushing Randy's bike and without mine.
I did shed some tears. My dad and I drove around the area over and over for the next couple of weeks, looking for a shiny, red 2 speed Schwinn. Alas, we never did find it. We called and went down to the Police station, looking at bicycles they had picked up and giving them the description and serial number of my bike. But it was never found.
Now, I know the loss of my bike was not at Christmas time. But I connect my bike to Christmas because that is when I got it. It did hurt my heart when I lost my bike, but did it make Christmas any less of a time of happiness and joy and excitement? Maybe it did for awhile, I don't recall.
Christmas was and is a time for family and giving (and getting) and eating and feeling good that Heavenly Father gave us His Son. Even if I didn't know what that meant. I felt it was important. And it is more important than a new, 2 speed, red bicycle. Much more important.
Many things we get at Christmas will break, be lost somehow, or lose their luster.
The things that don't are those things given from the heart and those things our loved ones sacrifice to share with us.
We will share presents with others that come from the heart, involve a degree (sometimes great) of sacrifice, are given with the hope that the recipient will have some idea of the love and care the gift represents, and are the Best we can do.
When we give the Best we can, even if it is small and unimpressive by the world's measurements, we share our love. My Mom and Dad sacrificed and thought and cared to get us our bicycles. Even if my bike was stolen and gone, I know my parents had given me their love and a part of themselves in what they had to do to get me that bike.
Heavenly Father gave us the Very Best. His Son. That is what we celebrate-and this is great cause to celebrate-at Christmas time. And, in return, He asks us for our Very Best. For our kindness, caring, love and service to our brothers and sisters. And our hearts. He gave us His and continues to do so.
(Yes-I did return to the blue bomber, but I did not run over my little brother any more (that I remember). Actually, I think we shared the grand old bike and had an understanding that we would not do each other bodily harm with the old beast. Talk about your brotherly love!)
But now I am!
I always loved having a bike to ride. One of my earliest memories is taking my neighbor's granddaughter for rides on my old, giant tricycle. She would stand on the platform between the rear wheels-the old tricycles were actually designed to allow you to give rides to your friends-and around the block, up and down the sidewalk we would go. Ah, the freedom of the open road. Or, at least of the sidewalk. I wasn't allowed to cross the road. But-it was still the feeling of wind in my hair and drool down my chin! (Come on! I was on a tricycle. I must have been, what, 2 or 3? I bet you did a bit of drooling yourself when you were that age!)
Later, I acquired a blue Schwinn two wheeler. The Blue Bomber. That bike was my freedom, my friend, my escape for several years. It had "husky" balloon tires that could go over and through anything! Mud, dirt, grass (but not on the Bourne's yard, unless I wanted an angry phone call to my mother because I "ruined" their perfect lawn), ditches, wet concrete,....well, maybe not the concrete. At least not on purpose. I don't think anyone saw, so you can't prove anything. Those tracks could have been made by any bike.
It also did a good job of knocking out my younger brother, Steven, one time. Or was it a couple of times. Don't worry, there was not significant brain damage. That we know of. He was only unconscious for a little while. Another story for another time.
Anyway-I loved my bike. But, as I got older and bigger, and my friends got bigger, cooler bikes, and my younger brother was eyeing my Blue Bomber (looking for revenge?), I started to hope and dream about a newer, faster bike. I never thought that I would actually get one, however. New bikes were for the rich kids. Like my cousin, Danny. He had a new Stingray with a banana seat and high rise handle bars. It was pretty cool, but I wanted a full-sized, fast bike with Speeds. Danny's older brother had a Racing Bike. It had a cool lever on the right handle with a lever that let you shift through 3 speeds! Can you imagine?! You could make the pedaling easier to go up hills,and shift to a higher gear when racing down Vidas Avenue with your friends.
Alas, I knew I would never, ever get a bike with Speeds (gears to you all).
It was with wide-eyed wonder when I got up on Christmas morning in my 11th year (meaning I was 10 1/2), and there, in our little living room, next to the tree, were not 1, but 2, brand-spankin' new bicycles. A blue one and (obviously for me, since my favorite color was red) a red one! They hadn't ever been ridden by any other kids. We were the first owners-unheard of! Oh, the blue one was for my older brother Randy, which meant that Steve could now start plotting his revenge using my old Blue Bomber, that he would now inherit.
Now, bicycles were not Christmas-time presents. First, we couldn't afford them. Second, it was typically winter-meaning snow and ice and not a lot of bike riding. Also, my birthday is the 19th of May. (Yes, you may want to remember this for future reference). And the 19th of May is a much more reasonable day for bicycle receiving. Nonetheless, I was happier than a 10 year old boy in a burping contest after a quart of root beer! A New Bike! Red! And-best of all-it had Speeds! 2 of them, to be exact. It had a magic rear hub, so, when you pedaled backwards slightly, it would shift to either High Speed or Low Speed. Now, this was a bit of a bother, because it would shift every time I hit the brakes, but shifting again, if needed, was easy to do. I put a lot of miles on that bike that winter. But I never rode it to Madison Elementary. It was easy to walk to school. I could stomp the ice over the puddles on the sides of the roads with my logger boots. And-most importantly-my bike would not be stolen from the bike rack at the school.
I Loved That Bike (maybe not as much as the Blue Bomber, but the Bomber and I had had much more time to bond). And it was fast. I don't recall loosing any races down Vidas Avenue (except to Barbara B, who was a few years older, and was the toughest kid on the block...) on my new steed.
Then, in early summer-so around my birthday, my older brother and his friend (the bishop's son) wanted to ride bikes to Grand Central. Grand Central was a big store way down on State Street.
Now, my brother's friend did not have a cool 2 speed bike, and my brother wanted me to let his friend ride mine. I had a bad feeling about this, but, being the good younger brother I was, agreed. I told them to be careful and not wreck, lose, abuse my mostly new bike. I am sure what they heard was "Blah, blah, blah".
Down 3rd East toward 27th South they rode. And, as they turned the corner at Farrer's Market, I had the last look I would ever have of my beloved new bike.
Yes, you guessed correctly. Some slime ball stole my bike from in front of Grand Central. Low life bike lifter! Randy and his friend came home pushing Randy's bike and without mine.
I did shed some tears. My dad and I drove around the area over and over for the next couple of weeks, looking for a shiny, red 2 speed Schwinn. Alas, we never did find it. We called and went down to the Police station, looking at bicycles they had picked up and giving them the description and serial number of my bike. But it was never found.
Now, I know the loss of my bike was not at Christmas time. But I connect my bike to Christmas because that is when I got it. It did hurt my heart when I lost my bike, but did it make Christmas any less of a time of happiness and joy and excitement? Maybe it did for awhile, I don't recall.
Christmas was and is a time for family and giving (and getting) and eating and feeling good that Heavenly Father gave us His Son. Even if I didn't know what that meant. I felt it was important. And it is more important than a new, 2 speed, red bicycle. Much more important.
Many things we get at Christmas will break, be lost somehow, or lose their luster.
The things that don't are those things given from the heart and those things our loved ones sacrifice to share with us.
We will share presents with others that come from the heart, involve a degree (sometimes great) of sacrifice, are given with the hope that the recipient will have some idea of the love and care the gift represents, and are the Best we can do.
When we give the Best we can, even if it is small and unimpressive by the world's measurements, we share our love. My Mom and Dad sacrificed and thought and cared to get us our bicycles. Even if my bike was stolen and gone, I know my parents had given me their love and a part of themselves in what they had to do to get me that bike.
Heavenly Father gave us the Very Best. His Son. That is what we celebrate-and this is great cause to celebrate-at Christmas time. And, in return, He asks us for our Very Best. For our kindness, caring, love and service to our brothers and sisters. And our hearts. He gave us His and continues to do so.
(Yes-I did return to the blue bomber, but I did not run over my little brother any more (that I remember). Actually, I think we shared the grand old bike and had an understanding that we would not do each other bodily harm with the old beast. Talk about your brotherly love!)
Thursday, December 18, 2014
As I have whined about in previous posts, we did not expect or get much by way of extravagant Christmas presents when we were young. A new pair of leather logger boots was a wonderful gift. We did get some small toys every year as well. My older brother got a big Erector Set one year. He made cool things with it. We got a large leather working kit one year to share between the kids. Mom was working part time at Tandy Leather at the time, and I assume she got a good discount.
And sometimes I was surprised.
When I was 9, I awoke to find a real, flying model airplane under the tree. With "Ricky" on the tag! How cool was that! It was a WWII fighter of some sort-I did not know all the WW II planes and models-even though my generation was still greatly influenced by WWII when we were in elementary school. It had only been a decade or so before, after all.
My plane was made of fairly sturdy plastic and had a real gas engine that ran! On real model airplane hobby fuel! And-it had a duel-line control attached to it. That meant you could really fly it.
Now, it was not a cool RC model plane like they have now. This had an engine that you would have someone start while you stood 20 feet away holding onto the control handle with the lines from the handle to the plane.
When the engine got up to speed, you would start turning in a circle holding your arm outstretched to the plane, keeping up with the plane's speed. As it got to take off speed, you would tilt the control handle back slightly and the plane would nose up and become airborne!
It was wonderfully cool. We would go (with the biggest kid-Dad-of course) to Madison Elementary playground-a large expanse of asphalt-to fly the plane. While the plane was in wondrous flight-going around in circles at the end of the line in my hand, I could make it climb and dive by changing the angle of the control handle.
One thing to be careful of-you always wanted to land before you ran out of fuel, so you could control the descent. An uncontrolled descent into the asphalt surface of Madison Elementary would not be a good thing for the airplane.
Of course, my brothers wanted to fly my plane as well. Having Steve, my younger brother, fly it was totally out of the question. He was a whole 1 year, 364 days younger than I. No way would I let such a youngster fly my plane. Steve was also the most accident-prone of us, and I didn't him to inflict this disorder on my wonderful flying airplane.
Now, Randy, my 2 1/2 year older brother, was a different story. He was the natural mechanic in the family-could build and fix things. So it was assumed that he was always good with mechanical contraptions. But I knew better. I knew he could be a bit unfocused at times. Except when watching our old TV. Another story for another time.
Randy convinced me to let him fly my plane one day. I cautioned him, as much as a younger brother can try to caution an older one-so not much-to be careful with his climbs and dives, because it was easy to overdo either one, and to be sure to land before he ran out of fuel. He assured me that he knew what he was doing. He was, after all, the oldest brother.
I got the plane filled with fuel and started the little engine, then watched as my older brother started slowly turning in circles until he got the plane off the ground.
It was a wonderful sense to have that plane tugging at the end of the line, knowing you were flying it up and down, in control. Almost as good as the feeling of a fish on the end of your fishing line.
I watched as Randy flew my months-old plane up and down, his face a picture of enjoyment as the little airplane engine whined and the plane soared.
Then he started climbing a little higher than I was comfortable with-and diving a little too steeply for my stomach. I believe I hollered at him (we did a bit of hollering back then) to be careful. Just as he took it into a too-steep dive.
I don't recall if the little engine ran out of fuel, or if the dive was just too steep, but the end result was a smoking pile of plane rubbish on Madison Elementary's playground between the monkey bars and the four-square grids. OK-maybe it wasn't smoking and flaming, but it was.....broken. Beyond repair. And we did not have the luxury of being able to replace such an extravagant gift from Santa.
As I have aged (sounds like fancy cheese), I have grown to realize that all the "things" we get for Christmas-even the best, most wonderful "things" won't last forever. Or we won't be awed by them forever. Some will be broken-beyond repair.
But those things that matter most, like kindness and caring, can last forever and not be broken. And can "awe" us (I know that is not a verb...) (I think) all of our lives.
And, when we have parts of us that we think our broken beyond repair, when we are discouraged or disappointed, or lonely, or left out, or feel forgotten--when our hearts seem broken-and there seems to be times in life for all of us when these things happen-we can be repaired! And we can be repaired to be Better Than New!
Because of the Gift we all have access to. Him who Father gave to us, and we celebrate at this time of year. What a wonderful arrangement. We give Him our heart, He fixes it, better than new, and then we are able to help Him serve and bless those around us. And it doesn't take "things". Time, caring, effort, reaching out, empathy and love will do.
I hope we can remember, at those times when we crash into the asphalt, to look with Hope to Him whose work and life it is to heal us. Especially this time of year.
And sometimes I was surprised.
When I was 9, I awoke to find a real, flying model airplane under the tree. With "Ricky" on the tag! How cool was that! It was a WWII fighter of some sort-I did not know all the WW II planes and models-even though my generation was still greatly influenced by WWII when we were in elementary school. It had only been a decade or so before, after all.
My plane was made of fairly sturdy plastic and had a real gas engine that ran! On real model airplane hobby fuel! And-it had a duel-line control attached to it. That meant you could really fly it.
Now, it was not a cool RC model plane like they have now. This had an engine that you would have someone start while you stood 20 feet away holding onto the control handle with the lines from the handle to the plane.
When the engine got up to speed, you would start turning in a circle holding your arm outstretched to the plane, keeping up with the plane's speed. As it got to take off speed, you would tilt the control handle back slightly and the plane would nose up and become airborne!
It was wonderfully cool. We would go (with the biggest kid-Dad-of course) to Madison Elementary playground-a large expanse of asphalt-to fly the plane. While the plane was in wondrous flight-going around in circles at the end of the line in my hand, I could make it climb and dive by changing the angle of the control handle.
One thing to be careful of-you always wanted to land before you ran out of fuel, so you could control the descent. An uncontrolled descent into the asphalt surface of Madison Elementary would not be a good thing for the airplane.
Of course, my brothers wanted to fly my plane as well. Having Steve, my younger brother, fly it was totally out of the question. He was a whole 1 year, 364 days younger than I. No way would I let such a youngster fly my plane. Steve was also the most accident-prone of us, and I didn't him to inflict this disorder on my wonderful flying airplane.
Now, Randy, my 2 1/2 year older brother, was a different story. He was the natural mechanic in the family-could build and fix things. So it was assumed that he was always good with mechanical contraptions. But I knew better. I knew he could be a bit unfocused at times. Except when watching our old TV. Another story for another time.
Randy convinced me to let him fly my plane one day. I cautioned him, as much as a younger brother can try to caution an older one-so not much-to be careful with his climbs and dives, because it was easy to overdo either one, and to be sure to land before he ran out of fuel. He assured me that he knew what he was doing. He was, after all, the oldest brother.
I got the plane filled with fuel and started the little engine, then watched as my older brother started slowly turning in circles until he got the plane off the ground.
It was a wonderful sense to have that plane tugging at the end of the line, knowing you were flying it up and down, in control. Almost as good as the feeling of a fish on the end of your fishing line.
I watched as Randy flew my months-old plane up and down, his face a picture of enjoyment as the little airplane engine whined and the plane soared.
Then he started climbing a little higher than I was comfortable with-and diving a little too steeply for my stomach. I believe I hollered at him (we did a bit of hollering back then) to be careful. Just as he took it into a too-steep dive.
I don't recall if the little engine ran out of fuel, or if the dive was just too steep, but the end result was a smoking pile of plane rubbish on Madison Elementary's playground between the monkey bars and the four-square grids. OK-maybe it wasn't smoking and flaming, but it was.....broken. Beyond repair. And we did not have the luxury of being able to replace such an extravagant gift from Santa.
As I have aged (sounds like fancy cheese), I have grown to realize that all the "things" we get for Christmas-even the best, most wonderful "things" won't last forever. Or we won't be awed by them forever. Some will be broken-beyond repair.
But those things that matter most, like kindness and caring, can last forever and not be broken. And can "awe" us (I know that is not a verb...) (I think) all of our lives.
And, when we have parts of us that we think our broken beyond repair, when we are discouraged or disappointed, or lonely, or left out, or feel forgotten--when our hearts seem broken-and there seems to be times in life for all of us when these things happen-we can be repaired! And we can be repaired to be Better Than New!
Because of the Gift we all have access to. Him who Father gave to us, and we celebrate at this time of year. What a wonderful arrangement. We give Him our heart, He fixes it, better than new, and then we are able to help Him serve and bless those around us. And it doesn't take "things". Time, caring, effort, reaching out, empathy and love will do.
I hope we can remember, at those times when we crash into the asphalt, to look with Hope to Him whose work and life it is to heal us. Especially this time of year.
Tuesday, December 16, 2014
POP! goes the Christmas Morning!
I was in the middle of 3 boys. We did have a sister, but she didn't come around until later. Christmas when she was here involved dolls, Easy Bake Ovens and stuff like that. It is surprising how many things you can melt in an Easy Bake. But I digress.
So, I was in the middle of 3 boys-I think I said that. When we were of the ages that my older brother, Randy could read, or at least thought he could-we found out that cursive was not yet his strong suite-I could help unwrap things-a skill I was honing at the time, and younger brother Steve was starting to be useful in our adventures, instead of just a pain. I would guess that Randy was about 7-old enough to think he knew way more than he did, I was around 5-parents did not try to make super kids back then, reading at 3 years old, so I was still illiterate, and Steve was 3, his birthday being exactly 1 year and 364 days after mine.
We were excited for Christmas morning to come! Imagine a tribe of 3 little boys being excited about Christmas coming! Can you even imagine?! It was such a long wait those last few days before Christmas, but we made it.
Christmas Eve we all went to our beds-in the same room. We either shared beds or had bunk beds. I don't recall, but, either way, I am sure we spent hours quietly discussing what Santa was going to bring us. And we had to be quiet, as there isn't much excited chattering that can't be heard in a 750 square foot, two bedroom track house. I think our parents wanted/needed to get to sleep themselves.
We must have fallen asleep, because we all awoke the same time. Whispering to one another, we figured it must be Christmas Morning! Meaning that Santa had come and gone and probably left us stuff! What were we waiting for?! Up and at 'em!
So we shuffled out of our room. Young as we were, with Randy in the lead, we did not know the Rules of Christmas Morning yet.
Rule # 1--No stinkin' kids are to leave their beds/room until given official parental approval.
Well, since we didn't know the Rules, we assumed that some gift gathering and unwrapping would be in order.
But wait. Mom and Dad were still asleep-snug in their beds while visions of sugar plums and all that.
So we decided to be Thoughtful Young Men and quietly close their bedroom door so they could continue their sleeping (and snoring-both my parents snored....).
After our kind consideration, we eased into the living room to see what Santa had brought. To help explain what followed, you need to know that Santa would bring us each 1 gift, often something needed instead of the desired toy. I do not recall what Santa left us that year, being 5 years old and all, but my point is that discovering the Santa treasures would only take us a few minutes.
When we were done with that, we noticed that Mom and Dad were still not up. So, considerate youngsters that we were, we decided to go ahead and open the gifts under the tree, sorting them into separate piles for the members of our household.
Randy, being the oldest, smartest, and the only one who could read at all, had the task of reading the name tags on each gift. Then we would open them and put them in a pile corresponding with the name. Alas, cursive (you kids ask your parents or grandparents what "cursive" is) proved my big brother's downfall. But that did not stop our diligent present opening and sorting.
We had a grand time. Nothing like tearing open presents. Every. Present. Under. The. Tree. Mine, Randy's, Steves, Mom's, Dad's, the relatives'. And did it really matter that our three piles of stuff were the largest? I just figured the folks planned that I would grow into the very large socks (I'm not sure how Randy mistook "Bill" for "Ricky"-the curse of cursive!)
When we finished our task, we looked around and realized-Still No Mom and Dad!
So we decided to "invite" them to our Christmas morning party.
Randy had got a pop gun for Christmas-at least I think it was his. It might have been intended for me. This was not one of those little things with a cork and string. No, it had a spring mechanism like in a Red Ryder BB gun. You cocked it, air was magically stored somewhere, you pulled the trigger and POP!!. A LOUD explosive sound. Great fun! Well, we quietly snuck into the parents' room. Yep, still asnooze and snoring. Randy cocked the pop gun (the noise of cocking the gun was the only chance our parents had to awaken un-startled, but they did not stir), held it kind of near Dad's ear (I wonder if this was the start of his hearing loss), and POP!!
My dad would imbibe a bit on holidays, and, looking back on it, I think he was probably quite sound asleep at the time. And then he (and Mom) weren't. In fact, they became wide awake quite quickly. Funny how a loud pop gun near your ear will do that.
I remember some colorful language from my father about 3 AM, and we better get back to bed or Santa would NOT come, and....
I guess he then realized that the pop gun, at least had been discovered.
Well, my parents were not overly thrilled with all the work we had done in opening and sorting the Christmas parents. In fact, I remember feeling kind of bad because Mom was kid of sobbing about us three hellions (again, ask your parents. Or look in the mirror) "ruining" Christmas.
I remember that we eventually got everything sorted out, cleaned up and there were eventually smiles from all family members. Mom even cooked us breakfast.
And a memory was created (grandchildren, please do not get any stupid ideas-there are much better ways to go about memory-creating).
As a parent, there seems to be some pressure to make Christmas Special. Every Year. For Everyone.
Want to know a secret, you young parents? YOU CAN'T DO IT! Not with ribbons and tags and boxes and bags. Not with Who Hash or roast beast. Or even with a Sonic Screwdriver ("who" gets that?)
Christmas is already Special because-well you all know why. Because of The Gift. And because of what we can give Him. And there is only one thing He wants from us. Our hearts. When we learn to love Him and everyone around us, learn how to care, how to love and how to serve, then we "get" Christmas Presents. From Him. To share with others.
No, the three little Edge boys did not "ruin Christmas". The real Gift of Christmas cannot be ruined, it can just be sought for, cherished and shared.
Even way back in 1950 something, I had a sense that Christmas was more than pop guns and Santa. I felt it in family and in the sacrifices my parents made to take care of us. Christmas was an opportunity for them to show us their love for us by scrimping and going without so we would have a sense that a greater power cared for us. I'm sure they did the best they could. And I love my parents for that.
I hope you kids and grandkids can feel our efforts to share this Love with you.
So, I was in the middle of 3 boys-I think I said that. When we were of the ages that my older brother, Randy could read, or at least thought he could-we found out that cursive was not yet his strong suite-I could help unwrap things-a skill I was honing at the time, and younger brother Steve was starting to be useful in our adventures, instead of just a pain. I would guess that Randy was about 7-old enough to think he knew way more than he did, I was around 5-parents did not try to make super kids back then, reading at 3 years old, so I was still illiterate, and Steve was 3, his birthday being exactly 1 year and 364 days after mine.
We were excited for Christmas morning to come! Imagine a tribe of 3 little boys being excited about Christmas coming! Can you even imagine?! It was such a long wait those last few days before Christmas, but we made it.
Christmas Eve we all went to our beds-in the same room. We either shared beds or had bunk beds. I don't recall, but, either way, I am sure we spent hours quietly discussing what Santa was going to bring us. And we had to be quiet, as there isn't much excited chattering that can't be heard in a 750 square foot, two bedroom track house. I think our parents wanted/needed to get to sleep themselves.
We must have fallen asleep, because we all awoke the same time. Whispering to one another, we figured it must be Christmas Morning! Meaning that Santa had come and gone and probably left us stuff! What were we waiting for?! Up and at 'em!
So we shuffled out of our room. Young as we were, with Randy in the lead, we did not know the Rules of Christmas Morning yet.
Rule # 1--No stinkin' kids are to leave their beds/room until given official parental approval.
Well, since we didn't know the Rules, we assumed that some gift gathering and unwrapping would be in order.
But wait. Mom and Dad were still asleep-snug in their beds while visions of sugar plums and all that.
So we decided to be Thoughtful Young Men and quietly close their bedroom door so they could continue their sleeping (and snoring-both my parents snored....).
After our kind consideration, we eased into the living room to see what Santa had brought. To help explain what followed, you need to know that Santa would bring us each 1 gift, often something needed instead of the desired toy. I do not recall what Santa left us that year, being 5 years old and all, but my point is that discovering the Santa treasures would only take us a few minutes.
When we were done with that, we noticed that Mom and Dad were still not up. So, considerate youngsters that we were, we decided to go ahead and open the gifts under the tree, sorting them into separate piles for the members of our household.
Randy, being the oldest, smartest, and the only one who could read at all, had the task of reading the name tags on each gift. Then we would open them and put them in a pile corresponding with the name. Alas, cursive (you kids ask your parents or grandparents what "cursive" is) proved my big brother's downfall. But that did not stop our diligent present opening and sorting.
We had a grand time. Nothing like tearing open presents. Every. Present. Under. The. Tree. Mine, Randy's, Steves, Mom's, Dad's, the relatives'. And did it really matter that our three piles of stuff were the largest? I just figured the folks planned that I would grow into the very large socks (I'm not sure how Randy mistook "Bill" for "Ricky"-the curse of cursive!)
When we finished our task, we looked around and realized-Still No Mom and Dad!
So we decided to "invite" them to our Christmas morning party.
Randy had got a pop gun for Christmas-at least I think it was his. It might have been intended for me. This was not one of those little things with a cork and string. No, it had a spring mechanism like in a Red Ryder BB gun. You cocked it, air was magically stored somewhere, you pulled the trigger and POP!!. A LOUD explosive sound. Great fun! Well, we quietly snuck into the parents' room. Yep, still asnooze and snoring. Randy cocked the pop gun (the noise of cocking the gun was the only chance our parents had to awaken un-startled, but they did not stir), held it kind of near Dad's ear (I wonder if this was the start of his hearing loss), and POP!!
My dad would imbibe a bit on holidays, and, looking back on it, I think he was probably quite sound asleep at the time. And then he (and Mom) weren't. In fact, they became wide awake quite quickly. Funny how a loud pop gun near your ear will do that.
I remember some colorful language from my father about 3 AM, and we better get back to bed or Santa would NOT come, and....
I guess he then realized that the pop gun, at least had been discovered.
Well, my parents were not overly thrilled with all the work we had done in opening and sorting the Christmas parents. In fact, I remember feeling kind of bad because Mom was kid of sobbing about us three hellions (again, ask your parents. Or look in the mirror) "ruining" Christmas.
I remember that we eventually got everything sorted out, cleaned up and there were eventually smiles from all family members. Mom even cooked us breakfast.
And a memory was created (grandchildren, please do not get any stupid ideas-there are much better ways to go about memory-creating).
As a parent, there seems to be some pressure to make Christmas Special. Every Year. For Everyone.
Want to know a secret, you young parents? YOU CAN'T DO IT! Not with ribbons and tags and boxes and bags. Not with Who Hash or roast beast. Or even with a Sonic Screwdriver ("who" gets that?)
Christmas is already Special because-well you all know why. Because of The Gift. And because of what we can give Him. And there is only one thing He wants from us. Our hearts. When we learn to love Him and everyone around us, learn how to care, how to love and how to serve, then we "get" Christmas Presents. From Him. To share with others.
No, the three little Edge boys did not "ruin Christmas". The real Gift of Christmas cannot be ruined, it can just be sought for, cherished and shared.
Even way back in 1950 something, I had a sense that Christmas was more than pop guns and Santa. I felt it in family and in the sacrifices my parents made to take care of us. Christmas was an opportunity for them to show us their love for us by scrimping and going without so we would have a sense that a greater power cared for us. I'm sure they did the best they could. And I love my parents for that.
I hope you kids and grandkids can feel our efforts to share this Love with you.
Sunday, December 14, 2014
Christmas from long ago.
I don't know a specific Christmas as the "first" Christmas I remember. I have memories of the years we lived on 3rd East in Salt Lake. I understand we moved there from an apartment near downtown-I think it was on 5th North-when I was about 2 years old. The first memory-the earliest?-is of the ornament we had on top of our Christmas tree when I was young. I don't know if this is a direct memory or if it was planted by photographs with the said tree-topper on a Christmas tree in the background. I guess it doesn't matter. The top of the tree ornament was a star with Santa's face on it. My parents/family was not an overly religious family as I was growing up. Circumstances of life brought my parents together, and they were from quite diverse backgrounds. That is a story for another time. As a result, Santa played the major role in our home from Christmas time. At least it did in my young boy's mind.
As I consider things now, having the Jolly Old Elf's face on a plastic star, which I'm sure was to represent the star over Bethlehem, was not really counter to the spirit of the season. When I was a young kid, Santa was an old, wise, trustworthy adult who rewarded children for being good. Even in our lower middle class circumstances (of which I knew nothing, other than we were just another regular family), Santa gave me hope. And I think I tried to be a better, kinder kid because of his influence. I don't remember feeling greedy as I tried to qualify for Christmas gifts from the old Saint. One thing we children did know-Santa loved us. Not necessarily the Santa's helper at Sears, but the real Santa loved all the children. I was not a deep enough thinker at that young age to consider those who got nothing, or next to it, for Christmas, that perhaps they weren't as loved. Maybe that was because, when we were young, I don't recall many friends getting much less than I did. I also don't remember, at least through 4th or 5th grade, doing any comparing of Christmas hauls. Things start to change about then.
There were a few constants in my early Christmas memories. Our stockings seemed to always have oranges and Christmas candy in them. My mom always made fruitcakes for Christmas. And I always ate as much as I could. Or as much as I was allowed. Yes, I did wear Sears "Husky" jeans...
We often drove downtown to see the lights. "Downtown" was much smaller. I don't recall ever going to Temple Square. I don't know if they did the Christmas lights in the late '50's. We would drive up and down State and Main to see the lights. Sears always had a window display that we would stop and look at. I don't recall ever going to ZCMI to see their windows-but then we were Sears shoppers-not ZCMI.
We spent time with cousins. There were several of my mom's siblings in town, and we would visit them over the holidays. We also made fudge and divinity at Christmas time. Both confections required just the right amount of cooking and then lengthy serious beatings. And they were delicious treats. I'm sure we did not consume nearly as much sugar as kids do now, so any sweet treat was a treat indeed, and Christmas was the best time of year for them.
My brothers and I-I'm the middle of three boys-would sit with our legs over the floor heater grate and consider what we might ask Santa to bring us. New boots, a small toy, or even-could you imagine-a new bicycle!
We always had a Christmas tree. Dad would find a tree that needed branches moved. Every year. We would bring home this unbalanced, scraggly tree and dad would cut off some of the lower branches, drill holes where there were blank spots and plug in the cut off branches. I thought our trees were always wonderful. And inexpensive! With ornaments hung with fishing line. I would sit and spin them, watching my reflection revolve for hours it seemed like. We also always hung leaded, shiny icicles one the branches. One by one. It only took forever to get enough on to please mom and dad.
My father was from Florida. He made an operator-assisted long distance phone call to his mother every Christmas. That was one of 3 calls I remember him making to his mother each year. The other 2 were on Mothers' Day and her birthday. That was special because of the time, effort and expense involved. We rarely were permitted to spend any time on the phone listening to grandma Edge's lovely southern drawl because it cost too much to spend much time on such a phone call.
And then there were times when our family had our struggles at Christmas time. The time of celebration was often celebrated a bit too much. Another tale for another day.
Underlying all of this was a sense that there was something more-something deeper-supporting and causing the increase in love and kindness that we felt at Christmas. Increasing our tenderness. We did sing "spiritual" Christmas songs in school. Manger scenes were proudly displayed. I knew, at least once I was in Madison Elementary, that Christmas was about Christ. That knowledge was supported by my primary and junior sunday school teachers-valiant sisters who worked the best they could with the material they had. I know they are blessed for sharing their love and touching the hearts of those of us who didn't have much Gospel teaching in our homes. I am grateful that they helped start a spark in mine when I was young.
Some specific Christmas yarns to come.
As I consider things now, having the Jolly Old Elf's face on a plastic star, which I'm sure was to represent the star over Bethlehem, was not really counter to the spirit of the season. When I was a young kid, Santa was an old, wise, trustworthy adult who rewarded children for being good. Even in our lower middle class circumstances (of which I knew nothing, other than we were just another regular family), Santa gave me hope. And I think I tried to be a better, kinder kid because of his influence. I don't remember feeling greedy as I tried to qualify for Christmas gifts from the old Saint. One thing we children did know-Santa loved us. Not necessarily the Santa's helper at Sears, but the real Santa loved all the children. I was not a deep enough thinker at that young age to consider those who got nothing, or next to it, for Christmas, that perhaps they weren't as loved. Maybe that was because, when we were young, I don't recall many friends getting much less than I did. I also don't remember, at least through 4th or 5th grade, doing any comparing of Christmas hauls. Things start to change about then.
There were a few constants in my early Christmas memories. Our stockings seemed to always have oranges and Christmas candy in them. My mom always made fruitcakes for Christmas. And I always ate as much as I could. Or as much as I was allowed. Yes, I did wear Sears "Husky" jeans...
We often drove downtown to see the lights. "Downtown" was much smaller. I don't recall ever going to Temple Square. I don't know if they did the Christmas lights in the late '50's. We would drive up and down State and Main to see the lights. Sears always had a window display that we would stop and look at. I don't recall ever going to ZCMI to see their windows-but then we were Sears shoppers-not ZCMI.
We spent time with cousins. There were several of my mom's siblings in town, and we would visit them over the holidays. We also made fudge and divinity at Christmas time. Both confections required just the right amount of cooking and then lengthy serious beatings. And they were delicious treats. I'm sure we did not consume nearly as much sugar as kids do now, so any sweet treat was a treat indeed, and Christmas was the best time of year for them.
My brothers and I-I'm the middle of three boys-would sit with our legs over the floor heater grate and consider what we might ask Santa to bring us. New boots, a small toy, or even-could you imagine-a new bicycle!
We always had a Christmas tree. Dad would find a tree that needed branches moved. Every year. We would bring home this unbalanced, scraggly tree and dad would cut off some of the lower branches, drill holes where there were blank spots and plug in the cut off branches. I thought our trees were always wonderful. And inexpensive! With ornaments hung with fishing line. I would sit and spin them, watching my reflection revolve for hours it seemed like. We also always hung leaded, shiny icicles one the branches. One by one. It only took forever to get enough on to please mom and dad.
My father was from Florida. He made an operator-assisted long distance phone call to his mother every Christmas. That was one of 3 calls I remember him making to his mother each year. The other 2 were on Mothers' Day and her birthday. That was special because of the time, effort and expense involved. We rarely were permitted to spend any time on the phone listening to grandma Edge's lovely southern drawl because it cost too much to spend much time on such a phone call.
And then there were times when our family had our struggles at Christmas time. The time of celebration was often celebrated a bit too much. Another tale for another day.
Underlying all of this was a sense that there was something more-something deeper-supporting and causing the increase in love and kindness that we felt at Christmas. Increasing our tenderness. We did sing "spiritual" Christmas songs in school. Manger scenes were proudly displayed. I knew, at least once I was in Madison Elementary, that Christmas was about Christ. That knowledge was supported by my primary and junior sunday school teachers-valiant sisters who worked the best they could with the material they had. I know they are blessed for sharing their love and touching the hearts of those of us who didn't have much Gospel teaching in our homes. I am grateful that they helped start a spark in mine when I was young.
Some specific Christmas yarns to come.
Blog slogging again?
My current calling in the ward is to work with Mom and another sister in the Black Hole-known as the nursery. We have a baker's dozen of 18 month to 3 year olds for two hours every Sunday-from 2 to 4 PM. Otherwise known as nap time. Or the Cranky Hours for most little knee biters. We are responsible to provide spiritual Gospel instruction, nutritious and tasty snacks, model and teach acceptable social skills and be comforting and loving. On my weeks to teach, we have a 27 second lesson, snacks often include Swedish Fish (fish is good, no?), acceptable social behavior is anything short of the sweet little hellions inflicting emergency-room level harm on each other. I also try not to dislocate any elbows as I hurry the little stinkers to their parents when they become toxic.
Anyway, my opportunities to share my deeper Gospel thoughts with anyone older than 3 are now limited. I have been in the routine of preparing lessons for young men, adults and somnolent old guys for a number of years, and my mind still kicks in to the "wouldn't that be a good thought to share and see what insights the class may have" mode. My current class's insights are limited to such things as which is the fasted hot wheels (it's the purple modified model A), how much glue can I put on the page before one of the leaders steps in to assist, which of the little kids need a diaper change (or is it just a case of the toots) and if I can take my neighbor's Swedish Fish before he notices.
So, as I have been thinking about this since last general conference, I have had promptings--at least I think that is what those were-instead of a bit of mustard-to find a way to share with family some of the thoughts I have had about life, the Gospel and what is important. (this morning I have decided it is important for me to feed the birds and watch them for awhile). So, short of trying to keep up on journal entries-the last one was about a dozen years ago-I am going to try to blog (just what kind of a proper verb is "blog" ?!) about some thoughts more often. I can see the two family members reading this just jumping for joy! I think this also counts as at least a token effort to contribute to my Family History Responsibilities. Or, at least to assuage my guilty feelings for not putting more effort in searching out ancestors.
We were at the cabin a few weeks ago-after Thanksgiving (thanks for having all of us, Meg and Reed). We took the two older Tanners and the two older Rhodes with us. We had fun sledding, looking for animal tracks and eating/drinking. Grandma also had them make gifts for each other-this involved hammering nails, using the drill and some painting-for "Christmas", which we celebrated that night. I cheated and magically drew my own name for gifting, so I didn't get to hammer, drill and paint. I told the youngsters that my gift to me was a gift of time to spend with grandchildren-like having those four at the cabin with us. I then took time to share with them some stories from my Christmases when I was growing up. They seemed to listen-almost as well as when we made up the story of the Zombie Snowmen around the campfire the evening before.
Grandma told me that I need to write some of those stories down so the kids, grandkids could have them. Hence the Family History connection. And the opportunity for me to inflict (voluntarily, of course, since one needs to read no more of these ramblings than one wishes) some Gospel related thoughts on those to whom I will be regarded as an "ancestor". Remember-as you find mistakes in grammar, punctuation, syntax, structure and construction-they are the mistakes of man, or, of this man. And I am man enough to own them.
OK-enough words for this time. I will attempt an introductory entry regarding my Christmases Past-what a ghoulish thought-in the near future. If I can figure out how to get into my blog again.
To my family members who may be reading this-know that you are deeply loved.
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