A Temporary Farewell

For my readers who may occasionally look at postings on this site, I filled it "to the max." I'm in the process of putting things together to print a second volume of writings, and more will follow. I'm not sure whether I'll leave this site with all the present postings, or if I'll delete everything and start again.

In the meantime, I have another site I'm using for family postings. It's like watching someone's 8 mm movies about old vacations and other odd stories, but our family likes it.

I wish all of you my best.

Gardening Made Unpleasant By A Sweet Tooth

I have always had this thing about something that tastes great. It didn't bother me if it had a bit of tang to it like this Italian Raspberry Meringue Pie or even a traditional apple or cherry version. There was something comforting about it, something satisfying.

We really do become creatures of habit.

Sadly, things that come so easily in youth are relics that hang in no attic in the later years. They hang over your belt and even bulge over the sides of trousers or jeans.

Luck means you can wear those.

In most cases, I am like so many other shoppers in Walmart, who wear various versions of sweats.

I guess it's so you can feel comfortable about the culinary choices you make, especially when it comes to the nice things after you fill the needs of the basic food groups.

As a joke, I once said that Mild Duds and Strawberry licorice were two items that filled in basic dairy and fruit requirements.

After saying it so often, I wonder occasionally if I actually began to believe it, to accept it, to embrace it.

Then I received this mailing a week ago, one from Wisconsin--the land of people with Viking roots. Having watched Green Bay games on TV, I was comfortable with it. Besides, there are a lot of fat guys with cheese hats sitting in that stadium for the game.

But then I took a look at the catalogue. I began to worry that neighbors, in anticipation of the time I would be pulling weeds and doing yard work, requested that I receive this source of a cure for a sad commentary about my dietary choices. What can I say about the "Longtail T" other than it might be an advantage for me personally.

When you think about it, there is definitely a better way to get to know the neighbors.

Some Basic Family Principles

I only knew my grandfather for 3 1/2 years, but in that time, I knew he loved me.

Some people might find that incomprehensible, but I have a different opinion. He picked me up every day.

Mom often told me, how grandpa would knock on the door early each morning. "Where's that little boy," he would ask.

My mom still wore a grin when she told me decades later. She would occasionally look at him before answering. "Oh, I sent him up town for some things."

Grandpa wasted no time before picking me up into his arms and taking me with him to feed cows with my dad, to ride to the haylands in the southern part of Malad Valley near Cherry Creek, or simply to hold briefly. I was with him every day.

He never allowed anyone to "badmouth" Grandma Liza. Anyone who did, would have found themselves with a confrontation. There would be an unpleasant warning, but no one ever showed grandma disrespect.

My father was the same with my mom. I was that way with my sweetheart. I would defend her to my last breath, and yes, there have been a couple of times when "outsiders" dared to do that very thing.

However, there is one thing my grandpa emphasized, that I wish I had done more to do every day of my life. Whenever someone said something negative about another person, grandpa always had the same reaction: "Do you know that for certain? Did you see that with your own eyes, because if you didn't and you don't know it for sure, don't say it."

Grandpa Cles was very firm about it. Grandma Liza was a class act too. I want my children and grandchildren to know what incredible people they were. People with a sense of right and wrong.

And as proof of the advantage of having lived like they did, I have met very few people in my life, who didn't like them, although Grandpa Cles had a way of dealing with undesirable people. He warned them once.

Sometimes I regret having lived that way. My sweetheart laughs about one fact in my life. She often says she has never met anyone who knew me, who either really admired and liked me or who had a great dislike for something I did.

Funny thing about that fact is that I don't regret the situation. It was another thing I learned from my father and from my grandfather. If I had something to say, I said it clearly without hesitation. It won't win me any elections, and if I'm ever in a beauty contest, I won't get Mr. Congeniality, but I sleep well at night having lived without trickery and guile. And after 56 years since the passing of my grandfather, I still miss him deeply. Death takes away so many people, who made such a difference in your life: my grandfather, my dad, my grandmother, my mom. They all meant a great deal to me. Their lives shaped mine in so many ways.

Simpler Times

When we lived on South Main Street, the house was only a portion of the land that went with the place. There was a cinderblock chicken coop in the back and one other shed.

Ironically, we used the older building--also once used as a chicken coop, but the newer cinderblock coop was one we didn't really use. At least I think I remember it being cinderblock.

The land extended from the house eastward to the state roadway. There were corrals in the back and a stack yard.

On the other side of the state road was another good portion of land that touched the cemetery, which dad eventually sold.

It had a feedlot at one time, one that dad and I built with railroad ties and pine poles.

In the far northeast corner, there was a reservoir. Dad built it and tried growing some crops there before we began using the land to feed calves. The soil was poor. But in the picture on the right, dad has his pants he used for irrigating.

Grandma Liza took the picture. Aunt Janice is in the middle of the photograph. Dad always teased his mom about the fact that the pictures were not set correctly. In some cases, some people were at the edge of the photograph.

I like this next picture, because it shows the front of the old house. I have no idea who took it. The two picture windows face the water lane, where our range cattle could get access to troughs each day. I remember looking out that window, while we ate breakfast.

We had a lot of cats to keep mice under control on the farm, and kittens would play in front of the window. I also remember how we always had clover mix in the grass. If it began to die, dad would scatter a bit more seed around the front yard. I was always beautiful, and the trees in the yard also offered shade, relief from the hot summer days.

Days began very early, and I remember dad and a couple of hired men taking a short nap before heading back into the fields, where they remained until well after dark. Mom always had a large meal ready for them when they returned in the evening.

The old house wasn't fancy by any means, but it was the family philosophy. If it wasn't "farm-related," you didn't need it. The family took a very pragmatic view about life.

When I was young, I also remember eating beef that was very tough on occasion. Dad decided, that if he was going to raise them, we would eat a couple of them too. That began in the early 60's, but until then, a steak dinner was much different in those early days.

I remember on one occasion not being able to cut the steak.

Just behind Janice is a small partition of narrow wood planking. There was a walkway there, and for years, the family put pea gravel there.

It appears that this was very early in the years of grandpa and grandpa being on the ranch. There appears to be no grass, and trees were most likely not there either. Grandma Liza planted those.

There was also a lilac bush and raspberries. Dad took those out. Neither one was a good deal in rattlesnake country. I remember the lilacs. Dad took them out, just after we killed a snake there in the late 50's or very early 60's. It's a story I told at my mom's funeral during the biographical sketch, which is also an entry on the blog.

I have no idea where this picture takes place. The mountains don't look familiar to me at all, but Grandpa Cles was an incredible farmer. He taught everything he knew to dad. Dad taught those things to me.

Grandpa knew how to farm the land. He was honest. He paid his taxes.

I do know that grandpa was a staunch Republican. He called Truman Harry A$$ Truman instead of Harry S. Truman. I don't know how he felt about FDR. I do know, however, that my family survived the Great Depression through hard work and sound investment.

Grandpa did not like government interference in any form. He would not have liked the subsidy program, but who knows how he would have reacted. It was something very necessary to us, and dad used it to an incredible advantage to build things we needed for waterlines and other water storage. Soil conservation was also an issue, due to erosion problems.

Dad took care to ensure that those things didn't ruin fields.

The Fun Things Children Invented On Their Own: A Required Task During Simpler Times

This is a great portrait for Ann's family, although it only shows everyone as of Tim being the youngest member. Connie and Ned were new arrivals. I remember Ned and Connie, when they were in Junior Sunday School in Second Ward. Those were the days before Primary was on Sunday. Connie had the trademark Thomas haircut. She was always smiling. I was there to bless the sacrament on Ned's first Sunday there. He sat quietly. One tear formed in the corner of his eye, ran down his cheek, and others followed. He didn't make a sound. Connie followed and did the same thing, even though they didn't sit in the same spot.

I remember seeing Ann driving them in the car. They were always on their way to the Drive-In or somewhere. Ann seemed always prepared to do what she needed to do to help.

I don't remember much about Nancy, other than an argument she had with David in the store once. She maintained that Fabian and Ricky Nelson were as good as it would ever get in the Rock 'N Roll scene. David liked the Beatles.

Marvin, Dennis and David were fun to watch. I was a young deacon, and all of us in the neighborhood walked home from church one Sunday. Ben Call's place was near a creek. A rope swing was there. 

Ann's brothers took their turn. Each one took a turn, swinging back and forth until the stopped. They dropped into the stream of water, which in the spring was about a foot or more deep. 

I was horrified. They had leather shoes and slacks like I did, but I would never have done it--not unless of course I wanted to face the wrath of my parents for getting Sunday clothes dirty.

Ann's family always was fun. Marvin went with us on Scouting campouts. He always said things that made us smile. It was something he continued for years. It's another reason I still miss him. Even after Ann and I married, he would sit by me at any meal and tell me jokes.

What can I say about the 50's. Fun was what you did on your own, in a sand pile or in a tree or in a wooded area in the back of South Main Street we called The Jungle. It began at the northern end at Ben Call's--right where that rope swing was. We spent hours there. It was everything any child would have loved to have, yet we never worried about anyone drowning. I would never let my grandchildren play in a place like that. Maybe it's because I remember what it was like to walk across this tall culvert suspended some twenty to thirty feet in the air.

And even old tires became fun toys. They funny thing about these is that they were very old tires, ones that would have fit on my '29 Model A or a bit later. They were narrow and tall, which was a trademark of the older cars in the 20's and 30's.

And a tree was a great place too, any time of year. You often saw small boards nailed up the trunk, which looked like a sort of ladder. It was a way to get to the "crook" of the tree a second time, without scraping your arms and legs.

We truly grew up in a magical time and in a magical place. Where could a child have had so much fun.

They were simple times, full of simple pleasures.

You played games outside, sometimes involving an entire neighborhood. You created your own toys with a hammer, discarded wood and nails. You spent time lying on the lawn watching clouds and looking for familiar shapes sailing toward a distant horizon.

There's Something About . . .

There's something about Jack and Disneyland that bring out the best in grandma. It usually takes a day after our arrival for my Sweetie to forgive me for my impatience.

It's the "back-seat-driver" thing that sometimes gets the best of me at the very closing minutes.

Ann is my navigator. I depend on her to help me see the spots to turn, especially when we find changes we have found on the last two trips.

You never find the same path to the hotel or even the Disney Parking Garage--so much for the whole "all roads lead to Rome" thing when trying to hope it somehow relates to Anaheim.

This trip was a fun one. We stopped at The Mad Greek's in Baker. The food was mediocre, but Jack's hat was worth the stop, and don't worry Tommy and Anna, because I'll stop again on our next "flyby" to get both of you one of those too.

It's funny how quickly Annie begins to smile as we approach Disneyland, but I think it has more to do with grandchildren.

Jack was excited on this morning, just like he always was.

Even as a toddler, he would climb out of the car, get into his stroller, and looking up at us, he formed words I never forget: "Thank you." He always did that, always.

It's part of the Disney Magic they don't market, because they don't have access to cute grandchildren like I have. And in spite of how grumpy my Annie may be temporarily, she is still so much fun on these trips.

Embassy Suites in Garden Grove On An Earlier Trip To Mickeyland

There are times I wish I could read a person's mind, although when I have occasionally expressed that vain point of view, my Annie responds quickly: "No, you wouldn't want that."

Maybe it's the fact that it is between 6:00 and 6:30 a.m., the kitchen area at Embassy Suites in Garden Grove is alive with screaming kids and parents on the verge of screaming.

Or maybe it's just a question of knowing that regardless how tired I look at any point during the day, I will sit in that electric cart and refuse to return to the hotel.

The way I look at it, you're only there once, and to be at Disneyland with grandchildren--regardless how few or how many--is an incredible opportunity. It's like heaven.

But every cloud not only has a silver lining, but occasionally it growls a bit. In the West, it's just a rolling dull sound. In Minnesota it's a crack amid sizzling and popping sounds. But in the South, it's a mixture of a 21 gun shotgun salute and a roar that makes the hair on your neck stand upright.

To hear the sounds of Disney and the scent of cupcakes and churros, I'll put up with silver and whatever.

Bidding A Fond Farewell

For me, one of the things I learned was a connection with the land. My father taught me that. 

As long as I live, I will think of spring, a time when those tall yellow flowers--we called docks--would bloom on range ground; a time when those summer breezes tossed green fields of grain in twists and turns, making masses of tall plants look like an inland sea; a time when fall brought a hush to blue jays and even crows and dry grasses dominated the scene; and a time when a heavy snowfall left a coat of snow on cedars on the mountain near the old farm house.

These are things I remember. Things I will always remember.

It is time to move on at this point. My family owned that ranch since '26. We survived the Great Depression, a World War, drought, grasshopper infestations, frost, lightening fires. All of those things were obstacles that defined us. We survived, not because we owned the land. It was because it somehow enhanced the character we had as individuals. The process enabled us to keep the land. 

We took care of it. It took care of us.

Sometimes people feel owned by something--acted upon or even manipulated. There is a difference. A thing doesn't empower you. It's what it potentially may trigger, something you have deep inside. It's like this fire or drive you feel to succeed. 

Possession of that land by our family has now been a fact for 86 years. That's a long time for a family to have survived in a harsh environment, and farming in desert country was exactly that. It brought new meaning to the term "dry farm."

My grandfather succeeded and was extremely successful. He taught my father those skills.

Certain fields had to be dug a certain depth to maintain moisture to plant crops in the fall. You had to start early in the spring, and maintaining the land not only meant keeping the weeds off the cropland, but it was also about making sure that a hard crust on top didn't form and allow moisture to leave.

There was more than just working hard. That was a given. It was a feel about things, something that assured you that you had done the job correctly.

Dad would stamp through tilled fields, and he'd have me do it with him, until I found exactly the right feel. It was something he did with me for years. It's how my father taught me to farm the land. Most people just don't understand, that there is an art about farming. To have learned those things from him meant a lot to me, whether or not I used it on the job. Figuratively speaking, his daily lessons taught me much about succeeding in life on so many different levels.

But even as late as the summer of 1990 when dad and I talked, it was his plan for me to farm there. He was excited I wanted to do it. For me, I loved the connection with the land.

But the only inevitable thing about life is change. Nothing stays the same. Nothing offers a guarantee.

Who would have thought that my father would have had a serious bout with colon cancer? Who would have thought that dad's cancer would return five years after beating it initially?

Our optimism blinded us. The odds were against us from the beginning, but our entire family remained optimistic. We hoped for the best. And we did what we could do to get by at that time. Positive thinking is powerful medicine.

Dad understood I had to keep my job during winter months, and he looked forward to my working with him during the summers.

But dad's cancer did return in the late fall of 1990. It still is a dark memory. During that time, I drove almost every weekend to be with him during that horrible time--whether at the hospital, at the ranch or especially at home in Malad during the final days before his passing.

We bought a new car in the fall of 1990, purchase we made before we knew about dad's fight for life. In the next four months, I put 38,000 miles on that van. I was there for my dad, just like he would have been there for me.

The plans dad had to make came quickly served an important purpose. Dad couldn't afford to retire at his age, because it was important that mom have the financial support she needed. There wasn't enough money in farming to support more than one family, even thought he farm was large. It was the reason for my having to work at another job. 

Dad and I planned on my eventually returning to do what we had always planned to do. It never happened.

Things never worked like dad hoped. Crop failures, drought, frost all came with his cancer. It all made things impossible to continue life as it once was. 

Dad lost his fight in February of 1991.

Cancer took it's toll on me twelve years later. I survived against the odds. Sometimes tragedy masks an incredible blessing. Mine was being able to survive, being able to continue living for wife, children, grandchildren.

However, I was never the same after being seriously sick like I was, and only those who suffered with me every day understand those issues and those obstacles. For me, my mom had enough on her plate in the early years after dad's death.  

She coped. She oversaw the ranch. She ensured its financially stability.

Mom worked a miracle. Like my dad's passing, our farm could easily have gone to the bank after the difficult transition, but it didn't. 

The sacrifices she made emotionally were to keep things as dad would have liked them to be.

Then in 2011, twenty years after my dad's death, my mom found change looming. Just like it did for my father, fall brought a harsh reality.

The worst part was my inability to be able to care for my mom during this time. My immune system, my immobility, my other physical problems kept me from being there for her like I did for my dad, but mom understood the situation.

I am grateful for the memories, but I refuse to wallow in them. I refuse to think that the work I did for so long empowered me or granted me some sort of entitlement, because the only responsibility it granted me was to continue living as my parents taught me. 

They used the farm to teach me this important life skill.

Life goes on. This is how I view this farewell: if I somehow missed the lessons to learned while working the land with my father, or if I didn't realize that how the land affected me in life, then I wasted my time.

I worked long hours. It was not about money, because I didn't make any of that. It was not about ego, because there was no time to feel pride about ownership.

It was about knowing that I was there, when my father needed me. I did my best to do that for my mom as well. 

The ultimate reward was hearing dad tell me how much he missed me after our move, and most importantly, it was about hearing how much I meant to him. He showed it in his eyes in the final days of his life.

Our conversations will forever remain something I claim as mine. No one else needs to know what he and I discussed in terms of farm or family or future. He told me things no else knew. I am grateful for the connection we developed over the years.

It was about a conversation just before his passing, when he told me he would petition God for me to join him as soon as possible.

The last one is not a popular thing for my Annie. When I told her about that conversation I had with my dad in late January of 1991, she was not pleased.

This year has been another awful experience. I had a positive relationship with my mother too. She expected me to be strong and independent. Her having to support me financially, emotionally, or otherwise was not a fear, because she knew I could do things for myself in spite of difficulty.

She and dad raised me that way. It's another blessing of growing up on a dry farm.

I have had an incredible life, and this land was part of it, but it's time to move forward and use what I learned to continue living as my father taught me and as my mother taught me.

It's all the wealth you could ever ask for in life. It's something you take with you forever.

Jack The Viking

My family has interesting roots. Most of my ancestors came from Wales. That's the country and not the swimming mammal that shoots water in the air. The line has claim to poetry and music, but their warriors were fierce and formidable.

I have English roots as well. The Moon family lived close to London. My Great Great Grandpa Moon, buried on the Utah/Idaho border near I-15, lived in England in the nineteenth century. He and his family converted to the newly organized Christian Church and followed many other converts to America.

Great Great Grandpa Moon was aboard the Britannia. While still in dock, Charles Dickens is said to have commented about those onboard, when he said something about the quality of those sailing away to join Joseph Smith and other members in Nauvoo.

The Wards were there too, as much as I can determine. The Ward line were once Vikings. When you think of the term, you think of bearded guys pillaging and burning settlements just for fun, but they actually were just looking for additional farming land--a yearning that sent them as far as the New World with Leif The Lucky and as eastward into Russia.

Eventually, my Viking ancestors became Normans on the northern coast of France. In 1066 the invasion at Hastings as a pretty big deal. It changed Britain with a new surge of warriors.

The funny thing about the roots to farming explains some of the strange notions we learned as paradigms in our family. For example, my dad always maintained fall planting had to coincide with the growth of the lunar cycle. In my father's words, he said that we planted when the "moon was growing."

Planting happened as soon as possible in August, but we waited for that, and it always resulted in good crops. Some might believe it to be silly, but I've also known those who remain true to The Farmer's Almanac in terms of agricultural advice as well. There were also things my dad knew about the weather. He had a sense about things like that. What I learned is what he taught me.

I was in Reno working with a colleague to develop a Holocaust Seminar for teachers. The first day there, we arrive on site.

"It will rain tomorrow," I said. The cooperating teacher, who became a very good friend, reminded me that the weather was to be clear for the next four or five days.

When we started for the meetings the next morning, clouds hovered low in the sky and rain fell. He laughed when I told him about my father's teaching me about weather prediction on our farm. Reno's climate and everything else is so much like our ranch, and as far as the crow flies, it isn't really that far away--at least for my definition of far.

"Mare's tales tell of storm," my dad always taught me. Those clouds are the whispy brushstroke-type of clouds that are so high in the air, but there is a certain feel in the air as well.

The Wards actually received a name to replace the French one they brought with them to England, which was de Varde. The name Ward was one given to my family. It reflected their purpose, which was to be a protector.

The Wards, at least those in my family line, had tempers that rose quickly, yet I never knew any of them to be abusive. It was all about protecting loved ones, not allowing anyone to take advantage of you or your family.

My Welsh roots are partially connected to that same quick temper. Even Shakespeare talked about the tempestuous nature of Welshmen.

However, my paternal grandmother was 100% Welsh, and her mother spoke the language. My Grandma Liza never really exhibited that kind of quick temper. She stood up for herself, and she was outspoken, but her nature was very logical, very to the point. I never saw her out of control.

She once told my family that the Wards were all crazy, and the only thing that brought sanity into the family line was the genetic good natured characteristics of the Moon Family.

My Great Grandpa Ward and his brother were business partners in a very large farming operation. While in their 70's, they started fist fighting during an argument in a corral.

The Ward line was like that.

So the ultimate question is nature or nurture. I hope that my grandson will not have those tendencies. It took cancer to take away the abrasive nature that affected my life occasionally in a negative way, and even now, those things sometimes recur, yet I must admit, it is nice to have "the gift" at certain times.

My dad once said this: "You know son. There comes a time, when the only thing left to do is to tell someone to kiss your ass."

I learned that statement as my dad intended it to be. It was a tradition. It was something you said to bait an adversary. It was like this. OK, if that's how you want it, go ahead and come out and play.

Old habits die hard. I hope my grandson grows up to be a better man than I, yet I don't want him to take wooden nickels either.

Our Version of Carman Miranda Doesn't Wear a Hat With A Pineapple or Bananas

Since our dog's surgical procedure, he has done weird things--like having an urge to sit lie on your head. It happens every day, and he will bark when he needs a hug.

I guess losing your lucky charms leaves dogs with issues.

He started that last week immediately after the operation. Zero sat up on the large leather arm chair next to me, where he had rested mournfully for about two hours. When he wasn't snoring, he would look at me with these "Bambi" eyes.

Guilt seized me at times. His eyes screamed, "How could you let them do this to me?" But my heart had a response:

It's because you kept peeing occasionally in the house, obviously thinking you were someday going to be the 3612 Creekside Alpha Male. 

Now this dog hopefully will teach me something. Kristin stays up with him. Ann does too, especially on nights when Kristin has papers due the next day or when there is a test. Days like that happen often at ISU. Kristin takes care of things on weekends to give Ann a break, and sometimes during the week, when Ann obviously needs sleep, she does it again.


The fact of the matter is that we've spoiled this pup, who now is growing toward maturity. You can't really cradle him in your arms any more. He isn't a little pork chop, unless of course you think of the stack of ribs that Fred Flintstone gets at the Neanderthal drive-in restaurant in the 60's cartoon show.

The Yabba Dabba Dooooo! moment for me is seeing how much Ann loves this dog.

"Come on little boy," she said. I startled awake for a moment. "Let's take you outside to .  .  ."

I honestly felt fear for a brief moment as I woke up in my chair in front of the TV. I didn't want to pee outside in the backyard. That carries a jail sentence in the worst case scenario. And even at best, the neighbors will never look at you the same way again.

But then I realized Ann was talking to the dog. I sighed a long breath of relief. I never make it a habit to disappoint my sweetheart.

But all joking aside, I figure this dog can teach me something. It's an example how a new dog can teach an old one new tricks.

For example, Ann and I have been married for almost 40 years, and during the darkest, coldest nights, there is not a time when I could put my face next to her like this pup does with Kristin.

It's not like I haven't, but Ann startles awake. In the darkness I hear her gentle voice, "Bad Breath!"

So yes, I want to know how this dog manages this whole thing.

This dog has been tiring, but he is a loving companion, who looks for each of us every day. He prances, wags the stubby tail and even does this weird "goose step" thing--all the while shaking his booty and turning his head back and forth.

Zero is another example of something that makes life so much fun, even when it makes you tired.

California Adventure--No Disney Trip Should Miss The Chance To Spend Time There

One way I remember every early Disney visit with my grandsons is seeing a picture or map of Tower of Terror. The ride is something I would do to get the two small boys to calm down a bit. Both remained secure in car seats, but they both had this way of really getting on a person's nerves in traffic. When we neared Harbor Boulevard, I always made the task work doing as soon as I said these words: "The first one to see Tower of Terror and Matterhorn gets the first churro." Silence would then dominate the inside of the car. Both boys were competitive at an early age. And as strange as it often was, they usually saw it and shouted out at the same time. Ironically, it made them even more excited, which in turn created even more noise. We would turn into the entrance, waiting our turn to purchase a parking pass and continue toward the parking garage. Both boys were like static electricity. They reached for shoes. The giggled. The laughed. They squealed. By this time, the noise was no longer annoying. I welcomed it, because they were pleasant distractions to last just a brief time before we became exposed the the scent of cinnamon rolls, churros, and cookies, at the sound of Disney music, and the sight of the train, pulling into Main Street Station.

Tommy did "the annoying noise thing," which was a slightly more obnoxious version of Jim Carey's sound he makes in a movie. Yes, it's that one called Dumb and Dumber, where the two men ride with a hit man. The man endures it at that point in the film, although he then reaches for his gun at the high point of frustration.

We never get that frustrated. It was usually more of a question of just feeling the need to scream at bit. We didn't. That would merely have added to the distracting noises.

One of the first rides we would find in California Adventure Park is Monster's, Inc. The two boys always loved it, although sometimes I had the impression they liked playing and hanging on the chain partitions that separated the long lines.

Sometimes we would go ten times or more on this ride, especially during summers.

Anna always loved this ride, although her absolute favorite was The Adventures Of Winnie The Pooh. Seeing pictures of Anna, who at that time was younger than Sammy is in this picture, is fun for me. The second picture still brings back wonderful memories of those early years.

It was fun, when grandchildren were not in school, and we could take all of them to Disney adventures any time during the year without worrying about school absences. 

I've blogged this picture at least once before--and the next one too. But they have significance. "A Bug's Land" was perfect for our little ones.

We arrived in California, and Lydia and Jeff lived in Ontario at the time. I will always remember arriving late at night. Lydia waited for us under a street light in front of their apartment. Tommy held her hand at her side, and tiny Anna was in her arms. Tommy began jumping up and down, when he recognized our car. Ann would call, as soon as we passed through the security gate at the entrance, just minutes from their door, which gave Lydia time to go down the metal stairs to the parking lot. She always waited there for us.

We were up early the next morning. Lydia's apartment was some thirty to forty minutes away from the park. Ann and Jack and I were up early the next morning. I whispered to Jack.

"Don't tell Tommy we're going to Disneyland. It will make him feel badly."

I begin gathering things, and suddenly I hear Jack's voice in the other room. He's talking to Tommy.

"We're going to Disneyland," he said proudly.

Tommy wanted to go. He was still young, and we had never taken him alone anywhere before, but we volunteered to take him with us immediately. You do that, when you see the sad look in a little boy's eyes.

The day went well, until Tommy asked for his favorite thing.

"Can I have a churro?" Ann didn't have any change, and the little stands didn't take debit cards. Ann had to say "no."

It became one of those moments. To stop Tommy from feeling badly, we went to the water park at California Adventure. He was able to forget about it completely. Lydia arrived within an hour after that. Grandma found a machine to get money with her card. The world suddenly seemed like a better place.
 

During that trip or another one that year, Lydia dressed Anna up in an outfit I picked out for her for Christmas. I loved the shades of lilac and a light shad of green on her. In this picture, she and Lydia and the rest of us watched a parade in California Adventure Park. The Disney people know cute kids when they see them, and besides, Pop Pop’s backside would never have been able to fit into that yellow hoola hoop.

And yes, one year either in the fall or just before or after Christmas, we took pictures with the boys near the California Adventure decorations they used that year.

Sometimes the visit is extra tiring.

My favorite time at the park was when all my grandchildren were open-minded and not at a point, where something was a "little kid's ride." It was a magical time.

My only complaint was this ride, where I step into a ride, designed with snack baskets as "balloon baskets," and find I'm in the Super Snack Pack, which makes sense considering I am "the super snacker."

This last picture was all of us on our way for another ride on Heimlich's Chew Chew Train. Call it the little kid in me, but I love the scent of animal crackers at one section of the ride.

Pictures of Jack--School Photographs and Professional Moments In Ririe

We found a professional photographer in Ririe when Jack was still quite young. The moments there that fall were incredible, and she found some great poses to put into a book and give us some incredible memories.

The price tag was a bit expensive, but we figured it was well worth the trouble and the money to get a glimpse at a brief moment in time.

I love the way joy shines in the eyes of all my grandchildren. Jack was no exception.

When he was tiny, I called him Happy Jack, which was a reference to a 60's song by a favorite English blues band. In those years of Jack's life, they often ran a commercial on TV with a little boy racing a pinewood car. The child takes a shortcut and wins the race. 

Jack loved it. I liked the song. And I loved the way he was always so happy.

For the pictures outside, Jack wore this hooded sweatshirt we found for him during one of our Disney trips. Some people just don't get the whole Disney thing. They haven't seen little ones, just able to walk, run frantically to characters and hug them. Jack did that each time he saw any of the personalities from Toy Story. 

And then there were the school pictures. I love the ones very early in his experience, where he let his mom or grandma or Pop dress him for school. 

It doesn't take long for a child to voice outrage at having to wear a polo shirt on "picture day."

Adults prefer it. They love the picture, but children are cruel on the playground, and I figure from Jack's response, that he sometimes took "heat" for allowing adults to tell him what to wear.

From the second grade onward, polo shirts were not an option. Tommy was the same way.

But we do have those early pictures, where Jack and Tommy wore things we found in Old Navy or some other yuppie place for clothing.

Funny thing is my son Cles was the same way. He refused to wear a polo shirt, until he was almost 34 or 35.

 It was an innocent time. Jack told jokes.

"What does a banana peel say when you step on it?" His eyes would dance, and even before you could answer, he would tell the punchline. "Nothing silly. Bananas can't talk."

Jack's jokes were always interesting, mostly from those taffy candies with the "cheesy jokes," but I really don't mind. I just hope he never tires of being the kind of kid I see in these pictures.

But things change. No one ever stays the same. But there is a hope I have that my grandchildren will always make wise choices.

One thing for sure is that we did this compromise. He puts the Star Wars T-shirts away on picture day, and he chooses a jersey to wear. I like that, and I try to give my grandsons viable options.

Often their preference reflects my own favorite players as in these school pictures from last year.

One thing is certain, regardless what shirt my grandchildren wear, they make instant memories.