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.

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.

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.

Bringin' home the bees, part II

Another view of the queen box with the workers hangin' out.
















Here is a close up of the queen box.








The queen box is suspended inbetween two of the frames to hold it in place. Mom put a
marshmallow in a hole in the bottom where a cork was. The workers will eat the marshmallow to release the queen. Hmm-I think I have had fantasies like that.











Mom is getting the bees out of the way because she is going to invert the now-open bee box and put it in the hive. The bees should crawl out, release the queen and get to work making wax, collecting pollen, tending the eggs and larvae, keeping the hive spic and span clean, and, oh yes, making honey. The queen will spend her time laying eggs and giving orders.
The hardest part right now for us is to leave the hive closed and undisturbed for the next week while the buzzers settle in. It is now cold and cloudy again, so I don't expect to see many of them out foraging today. We did fill a feeder with sugar water for them to feed on until the nectar starts flowing.
The beginning of a new adventure for us! Yea mom for putting these bees in the box! More in a week or so.

Bringin' home the buggers.

So, the bees hit town yesterday. I had a full day of work, and mom had worked the night before. She did agree to go pick up the bees and bring them home.
Putting them in the hive was not part of the bargin, however.
The weather guesser said it would be nice for the first part of the day, then cloudy, windy and cold. Bees do not like cl0udy, windy and cold. I asked my honey sweetly if she would introduce the bees and their queen to the hive, and she did! I wish I could have been home to watch, but she left these picutres.

The first one is of the box o' bees in the back of the car. 2 1/2 pounds, or about 7,500 bees.





Here is the box of bees sitting on top of the frames in the hive. The can is a can of sugar syrup sent with the bees. I quess they need to snack while in transit. Kind of what I do all day driving around. Maybe I can start sluping on a can of sugar.....











Here is the smaller box with the queen. The worker bees are staying close. Notice the lack of gloves or other protective gear. Mom is brave.

Whoa! Where are the other pictures? Hmm-double post day.

Home Sweet Home

OK, so we get to invite about 10,000 honey bees (carniolans)-or however many there are in 3 pounds of bees-to our yard next week. In preparation, I put together the bee-gining bee hive. Can you bee-lieve it? I painted it a nice white, the the worker bees took over. The bottom box seems to be a floral theme. The top is a bit sunny, and the middle has depictions of bees in action. I like the Tolkien scene...

I have heard of army ants, but..... Perhaps these will all be in the Air Force.

The middle here has a bit of construction going on. It is quite amusing.

Here we have bees on the set. "Luke, I am your father."

And this one--bees on a journey. Didn't know there were Hobeets. Can you find the Golbeeum (Smbeegal)?

Well-there were actually a few more pics, but I will wait 'till the ladies arrive Friday. Can't wait! Sweet!

Some things never change

Mom worked the past two nights. I often dream about her when she is not here-always seem to wake up and feel disappointed when I realize she is not there with me.
So, this morning, as I was waiting to hear the garage door open signaling the return of my sweet baby-puller-outer wife, I was picking out the first notes of "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing" on the piano, I spotted this old photo.
This has been in Muma's house for the past 30+ years. I scanned it in and tried to adjust for the changes the years had made--don't I wish I could do that in real life some times--and here it is.
Mom was beautiful in this picture-stunningly so. But you know what? She still is. I am often amazed at her beauty and her goodness. And I am always grateful that she chooses to continue to put up with me.
So here is a picture of mom just before we got married. Yes, she looks serene and beautiful. She still does. I looked dazed and confused. I often still do.