Sleeping Giant

It was on a beautiful Sunday morning just like today sixty-seven years ago that the bombing of Pearl Harbor took place. This event that marked American history had been in the planning for many months. The element of surprise was essential for the successful completion of this mission by the Japanese Navy. It also required the pre arranged ultimate personal sacrifice of many pilots of the Japanese Air Force. As reports of the success of the mission were radioed back to the aircraft carriers where the fighter planes and bombers had been launched, there was great celebration and elation over what had been accomplished. The American fleet had been destroyed and the threat of American forces playing a vital role in the war was significantly diminished.

In sealed documents later made public, there were officers of the Japanese military who expressed concern that the bombing of the Hawaiian Islands would only serve to “awaken a sleeping giant.” And that was a prophecy that was fulfilled over the following months and years of the war. No other single event in American history since the war for independence had galvanized the American people more than this unprovoked attack.

By the end of the war many soldiers and civilians had lost their lives. Most of those who died had been ordered into combat by their governments and commanding officers. They were ordinary people leading ordinary lives with hopes and dreams. They were husbands, fathers and boyfriends with great anticipations of living long happy lives.

As the war waged on year after year, a callousness settled over the people. When the weekly news reports were released giving the estimated total dead of the enemy, great jubilation took place and when the numbers of allied deaths were reported, great mourning occurred. Whether mourning occurred or rejoicing took place was solely based on which side of the war someone drew their allegiance. Their perceptions were based on personal experiences, family dynamics and exposure to information regardless of whether that information was true or false.

As I have grown older, I have become more aware of the fallibility of my own perceptions and have endeavored to examine them more closely before arriving at a conclusion. “Are my perceptions defensible?” I ask myself. Notice I used the term “defensible” and not “defendable.” Defensible means capable of being defended, well founded: whereas, defendable means to maintain an unbending position under hostile criticism. It is human nature to want to be right and some will go to any lengths to defend a decision or idea long after common sense has suggested otherwise.

Being willing to actively listen to different viewpoints broadens understanding. And with a broader understanding comes the ability to better examine what occurred in the past, learn from it and hopefully make better decisions about pending challenges today. I’m grateful that I do not rely on the perceptions I had as a child to make decisions today. I am equally thankful that my perceptions I had as a teenager do not govern the decisions I make today. As I reflect on this topic I am reminded of a quote from the movie “First Knight” when King Arthur of Camelot said, “God grant us the wisdom to discover the right, the will to choose it, and the strength to make it endure.” I know of no better formula for evaluating a situation and making a defensible decision that will stand the test of time.

Just like Pearl Harbor awakened a “sleeping giant” in the American population, just being aware of and willing to examine our own perceptions will awaken a sleeping giant within each of us. We will be better husbands and wives, better mothers and fathers, better neighbors, whether that neighbor lives next door or across the border or even the broad expanse of the ocean.

Wiser Than Me

My heart is full as I anticipate gathering as a family for another day of Thanksgiving. My eyes become moist with tears when I realize that each and every day should be a day of thanksgiving in my life.

Reflecting on my blessings helps me better understand how easy it is to get wrapped up in the blanket of ingratitude. One thing that has helped me peel off that blanket is the study of the tragic and sad parts of the history of the world where men have treaded upon the rights of their fellow men with impunity. I am humbled as I think about the pain, heartache, and suffering that millions have endured because of the greed, pride, and selfishness of a few. While there is sadness in my heart for all these atrocities of society there isn’t anything I can do to change the past. But there are things that I can do today to help make someone’s life less pained and less difficult.

I recently attended a cousin’s reunion back in the area where I grew up. There on those dusty country roads of East Texas years ago, I ran barefoot, played in the woods, found ancient Indian arrowheads and dammed up the creek to swim in the cool water that washed away the heat of a summer afternoon. As I washed away that heat I didn’t realize that at the same time I was bathing myself with memories that would remain with me all my life.

In those carefree days we ran shoeless and shirtless except when coming to the supper table. We felt safe and loved under the watchful eyes of parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles. Within their care we weren’t able to stray too far from the course that those “wiser than we” had planned for us.

As youth we were full of energy and enthusiasm. There weren’t enough daylight hours to do all the things we wanted to do. As we ran through the house headed for the front door that opened the world to us, often the last words I’d hear were “Don’t slam the screen door.” We’d be gone until hunger drew us back to Granny’s house for hot rolls or pound cake and cold milk.

As an adult I gradually began to realize that not everyone had such an innocent childhood. “Why me?” I’d ask. Why was I so blessed? Then I realized I had very little to do with it. It was the people around me that made such a safe, watched-over childhood possible for me. Today, many of those adults who kept a close check on me are gone from this life. They may be physically gone but their memory is very much alive inside of me. I’m reminded of a saying I once saw on a grave marker, “A life well lived, lives on.” The lives of my deceased family members live on in my memory. And every good deed I have done in life is in part a result of their good example and love shown to me.

How grateful I am for my heritage. I owe so much to those who went before me; more than I can ever repay. What small repayment I can make is to help someone, lift someone, encourage someone, or compliment someone. There is a familiar saying, “I can’t do everything but I can do something. What I can do, I will do” with a feeling of gratitude for those who nurtured me in my youth and who were “Wiser than me.”

Each day of our lives can be a Day of Thanksgiving. Though we may not eat turkey, dressing and cranberries each day, we can certainly create a day of thanksgiving in our own lives and in the lives of others as we reach out and touch them in gentle ways. May Heavenly Father’s blessings rain down upon you and bathe you in the soft memories of those in your life who had a positive influence on you and at the time were “Wiser than you.”

Butterflies on the Wind

It didn’t make sense but I decided it didn’t have to make sense to anyone but me. The cold water sliding over my bare feet sent a November chill up my body as I stepped out into the water and shoved my canoe down stream and jumped in. I had floated the Green River the previous six years and vowed that I’d do it again this year. Summer slipped into fall and other responsibilities crowded out my scheduled trip down the river.

The desire to experience the solitude and beauty of the river wasn’t dampened by the turning of the weather. True, slipping out of the canoe in the middle of the river and cooling off from the hot summer sun wouldn’t be my experience with this trip. But that didn’t discourage me from thinking of and looking for the blue herons, the turtles, and the occasional cougar footprints often seen down near the edge of the water. Dipping my paddle in the water using a modified “j” stroke that works best for maneuvering a canoe all alone, I set up a rhythm and the ripples that ran off my paddle and splashed back into the river with each stroke became music to my ears.

That music in my mind recalled another trip down the river when two of my daughters were paddling and singing, their voices drifting down the river like soft butterflies on the wind. Each time I thought of that day a lump rose in my throat and my eyes became wet with tears of tenderness. I was filled with gratitude as I reflected on the love that my children have shown me all my life.

All day long I paddled and enjoyed the wonders of the river. As darkness chased the winter sun close to the horizon and I began to see my breath on the calm air, I knew it was time to find a sandbar and camp for the evening. I took the wood from my dry pack and started a small fire. An Indian saying came to my mind as I sat and watched moths dance around the small flames. “An Indian builds a small fire and is warmed through and through while the white man builds a large fire and is too hot on one side and too cold on the back side.”

As I sat there in the darkening evening I was warmed by the memories of past river trips as much as I was warmed by the fire. I looked up and once more witnessed the multitude of stars in a moonless night and felt so much gratitude for all my blessings and opportunities in life: family, friends, freedoms fought for by others, and my health. Looking up at the night sky brought to my heart again and again that although I sat alone on a wintry riverbank I did not feel lonely in this vast universe. Appearing small and insignificant in comparison to the expanse of the huge star filled sky, I didn’t feel small when I thought of the love I feel from those I hold dear. They have treated my feelings as though they were soft butterflies on the wind just like the music my daughters created with their voices on this river one summer day in my life.

Two for One?

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

A friend recently asked me a question. My answer to her question was, “Two for one.” When I said those words a memory of years ago came flooding across me and washed me up on the sands of my youth.

The Memory:

“I’ll trade you two cat-eyes for one of your steelies,” she said. “No, I wouldn’t trade you one of my steelies for a hundred cat-eyed marbles,” I said. “I don’t have a hundred cat-eyes,” she said with a look of forlorn disappointment. “I said I wouldn’t trade for a hundred cat-eyes so it doesn’t matter whether you have that many or not,” I said.

Playing marbles-for-keeps was the first form of gambling I was exposed to in my youth. It took place on the playground in the first grade at Gilmer Elementary. We played at recess, during lunch break and while waiting for the bus to take us home after school. I once got so engrossed in the game that I missed the bus and had to walk the seven miles home. I burst through the door of our home about the same time the family got worried enough to come looking for me. I was so excited. I had just won my second steelie.

I’ll explain the rules of the game for those of you who have never played marbles-for-keeps. First you draw a circle in the dirt. Each player tosses three marbles into the circle. Then the players take turns as they kneel down, curl the index finger around a marble called a “shooter” and position the thumb behind the marble in preparation of flipping the “shooter” marble toward its intended target. Any marble knocked out of the circle by the “shooter” marble becomes the property of the one who made the shot. If, by chance, the shooter marble fails to knock another marble out of the circle and it does not pass out of the circle either, then the shooter marble must remain in the circle and became free game for the other players to try to knock it out of the circle.

Playing marbles-for-keeps with someone who was using a steelie as his shooter was dangerous business. A steelie could easily knock other marbles out of the circle because of its additional weight. You could drop a steelie in the circle at the start of a game but you couldn’t use a steelie as your shooter marble unless you had previously won it fair-and-square in a marbles-for-keeps game.

When William (we called him Will) dropped a steelie into the circle I couldn’t believe my luck. It is almost impossible to knock a steelie out of the circle unless it was done by another steelie. Fortune was smiling on me that day. I had won my first steelie just two weeks earlier by sheer luck when other boys trying to win it had knocked it right next to the edge of the circle. I smacked it as hard as I could from across the ring drawn in the dirt. The steelie barely passed outside the circle. I immediately pocketed it and had no intention of gambling with it in the future. When Will dropped his steelie in the circle he had forgotten that I had a steelie buried deep in my pocket.

When the game was over I was the owner of two steelies. With two steelies I could afford to gamble a little more recklessly. Over the course of the next few weeks I had assembled a sack of fifty-four marbles. I had cat-eyes, swirls, blues, greens, whites, grays and even two crystal clear marbles. I never gambled my two crystal clear marbles. I considered them my good luck marbles. The two steelies and the two crystal clear marbles were not ever carried in my marble sack. I kept them in my pocket separate from everything else.

Once I forgot to take my special marbles out of my pant’s pocket. When mother was washing my clothes, as she fed the pants through the ringer to squeeze out the water and soap, the ringer rollers jerked, hesitated then bounced over something hard in the pant’s pocket. Fishing into the pocket mother found one of my steelies. When she told me she found one of my marbles I was gripped with fear. If she only found one then three others were missing because I kept them together. I ran to the old tub style washer and sloshed my hand through the dirty wash water. To my relief, I found the other three marbles and made a promise to myself to be more careful with them in the future.

My treasure sack of fifty-four marbles was due mainly to my tactic of placing one steelie in the circle where it would be hard to knock out and using the other steelie as my shooter. Now you know why I was unwilling to trade a steelie for two measly cat-eyes. Some things are too precious to trade away. “If you won’t trade for one of your steelies, will you trade one of your crystal clear marbles?” she asked. “Never,” I said without a moment’s hesitation. How could I trade one of them? They were my good luck.

Fast forward to 2003. I had those two crystal clear marbles with me when I was hiking with family and friends in the Black Box of the San Rafael Swell. As I sat in the shallow water at the take-out point of the hike I reached into my pocket and discovered that one of my marbles was missing. I hurriedly looked around the immediate area where I sat and cleaned the small pebbly gravel out of my tennis shoes but my crystal marble was not to be found. I was saddened by the loss of that marble but I had a group of family and friends who were relying on me to lead them back to the safety and comfort of our campsite.

Later I obtained another crystal clear marble to replace my lost one. When asked which one was the original marble I said, “I don’t know. It’s more about what the marble represents than whether it is an original.” Besides, I still had two steelies that were originals and they were safely tucked away with a few other boyhood artifacts. Their true value isn’t of a monetary nature but the value is in the memories that are wrapped around them. Too often we hold on too tightly to the marble instead of what it represents. No, I wouldn’t trade two for one, twenty for one or even a hundred for one. But I’m now speaking of the memories, not the marbles. Each and every memory is precious to me. Family and friends are wrapped up in the memories that make up the sum total of who I am. My memories are not for sale, nor for trade, but only for sharing. As I share them they are still retained. Only a few of you have seen my crystal clear and steelie marbles but many of you have been a part of my memories. For that I am most grateful. For that I am richly blessed.

I originally called this article, “Marbles & Memories” but later decided to just call it “Two for One?” As I move into the fall or winter of my life (depending on what you prefer to call it) my memories have become more precious than my marbles. However, I can still hold those marbles in my hand and when I do, the memories come flooding back. Today I would gladly trade two marbles to entice you to share just one of your precious memories with me. But don’t ask me to give up one of the steelies or crystal clear marbles of my youth for I will never travel that road again except in the memories of my mind.

Precious Memories: Today & Tomorrow

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

There is a row of willow trees along the west boundary of the park near my home. I noticed today that their woody brown branches of winter are beginning to give way to a yellow-green hue. My brother said that was a sign that the trees were preparing to burst forth with the new buds of spring.

Although the trees are of the same relative height, one in particular stands out to me. Regardless of the season, in my mind I see that tree radiant with the dark green leaves of summer. I also see my first remote control motorized sailplane wedged between two of its branches. As far as planes go it was a sad sight. The propeller was broken and a severed wing was resting comfortably in the grass beneath the tree. I gathered up the damaged pieces of my plane and headed home to make the necessary repairs.

The amount of time I was spending repairing my plane in comparison to the time I was spending flying was disproportional. There was a root cause behind this situation. My son, who has flown remote control planes for years and was struggling to teach me the sport, had repeatedly cautioned me that I wasn’t ready to fly solo yet. But once alone, I began to rationalize my ability: not my skill, but my ability to save a bad situation, somehow to pull it out at the last moment when I got into trouble. Soon I’d be back at the park with my repaired plane ready to give it another try. I had been flying real planes for thirty-three years. Just how difficult could this be? After the total destruction of three motorized sailplanes, I finally got the message.

At the suggestion of my son, my next plane was an awkward looking set of wings and motor that barely resembled an aircraft. Gone were the sleek lines of the sailplanes. Gone was the ability to soar to heights where it was hard to see the tiny dot of a plane high in the sky. I named my new plane Slow Poke because I could almost outrun it. It was so slow it could actually fly backwards in a seven mile per hour wind. But this little plane was exactly what I needed: slow to react to wrong control input, gentle in inexperienced hands and forgiving in outright crashes. Even with all these attributes I have still crashed Slow Poke more times than I can keep track of. I’m not an expert remote control pilot yet but I have become expert at quick field repairs so I can fix the damage and get back to doing what I enjoy . . . flying.

So, as I pass the row of trees along the west border of our neighborhood park, my thoughts and memories of the broken sailplane wedged between two branches isn’t a sad memory. It is a memory of a progression of events. Without those heartbreak experiences of crashing my sailplanes I would have never met Slow Poke and come to love and appreciate things that move at a slower pace but get the job done.

My life is crammed full of precious memories that become the sum total of who I am today. With rare exception, the places I go and the things I do remind me of special occasions and unique happenings that take me back in time and caress my heart with a tender squeeze. I believe it was Mark Twain who said, “I am a part of all I have met.” Mother Teresa said, “I desire to share a part of me with all I meet.” While one quote is focused on receiving the other is focused on giving. I have received much more than I have given in return.

Whether it is a memory of a model plane wedged between the branches of a tree, reflecting on a special hike with family and friends, or simply a phone call to check up on someone, I feel like my memories make me one of the richest men alive. Isn’t that what Easter is about . . . remembering what others have done for us, especially the One who gave us eternal life. It was Eleanor Roosevelt who said, “When managing yourself, use your brain. When managing your relationships with others, use your heart.” Isn’t that basically what the Savior has asked of us? When the woody brown branches of winter give way to the yellow-green hue of spring, my mind doesn’t just dwell on my earthly experiences and the special people in my life but also on the great saving sacrifice made for you and me by the Son of God. The new buds of spring remind me of the precious renewal of life freely given to each of us.

A Few Minutes

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Pulling into the airport area that was designated “Park & Wait,” I searched the electronic information board for Delta Flight #1826. The green lights on the board next to Honolulu flight #1826 flashed “En Route.” I eased the car into park and read the large billboard sign to my right. It said, “Do not leave car engine running.” I reached up and turned the ignition key to the off position. I glanced at my watch. It was 7:41 AM. A friend was scheduled to arrive at 7:53 AM after spending nine days on the Island of Kauai in Hawaii. I was looking forward to hearing first hand the highlights of her vacation, seeing her pictures and sharing in her excitement that had filtered down to me through her e-mails.

When the electronic sign that announces flight arrivals changed from “en route” to “pick-up” I cranked the engine and moved out of the parking area. The street curb area designated for picking up arriving passengers from the Delta flights was crowded except at the far end. I pulled in next to the curb down beyond all the other cars and backed up to get as close to the pedestrian crosswalk as possible where my friend would be exiting the terminal. My cell phone rang. “I’m here at the baggage area. Where are you?” she asked. “Right out side,” I said. “I would come in and help with your luggage but I can’t leave the car unattended.” “That’s okay,” she said. “I’ll be out in just a few minutes.”

A lot can happen in a few minutes. I left the engine running and stepped around the back of the car and on to the curb so I would have a better view of the crosswalk where she would be coming out of the terminal. “You’re a half-aborted excuse for a human,” said a man standing on the sidewalk about four feet away. “Excuse me,” I said. “Shut your face before I shut it for you,” came his reply. “Sir, I don’t know what I’ve done to upset you but whatever it is, I apologize,” I said. “I said shut your yap before I shut it for you,” he said in a raised tone. “Would you at least tell me what I did? I honestly don’t know what I did to offend you,” I said. “You took my parking place you son-of-a-beach." Before I could comment, he corrected his words although I already knew what he meant to say. "Now get back in your car before I kick the hell out of you,” he said. “I hope there isn’t a lot of hell left in me,” I said, trying to defuse the situation. I was puzzled because he was waiting to be picked up by someone who hadn’t arrived yet. There were no cars parked in front of me so I said, “If you would like, I will move forward and let you have your space back.” “Go to hell you moron,” he said as his face grew beet red almost matching the color of his sweatshirt. “I’m going to move forward and let you settle down before you have a coronary,” I said. “You move that car one inch and I’ll kick both you and the car across the street,” came his reply. “Sir, I apologize for upsetting you, it was not intentional,” I said. “Shut your face you abortion mistake,” were his final words to me. I turned and walked away in search of my friend. Looking back I saw that he had taken the eight or nine steps down the sidewalk past the front of my car and once more resumed his wait for his ride that still hadn't arrived.

When I saw her coming across the street her smile washed away the sadness I felt inside for the man in the red sweatshirt. On the front of the sweatshirt were written the words, “Just you and me Babe.” I felt sorry for him but I found myself feeling more sorry for whoever his babe might be. She is the one who lives with his explosive personality day in and day out. He and I only had a brief encounter, an encounter that was easy to deal with because I could go home and not have to be exposed to his ugliness and temper on a regular basis. I felt sorry for all the babes in the world who are connected to men with foul mouths, ill tempers and uncontrolled emotions.

As we drove away from the airport and began talking of her vacation to Hawaii, I soon forgot the red face, the caustic words, and even the references to my unfortunate birth. A nice tan on a smiling face coupled with soft words can wash away a lot of unpleasantness. On the surface I had acted pleasant to the angry man in the red sweatshirt but not all my feelings on the inside mirrored my outward actions. I wish that I could say they did but in truth they didn’t.

I had some unpleasant thoughts about the man. I reflected on my own life and what my reaction to him would have been at different stages of my maturity. I was actually reviewing those very thoughts while we were having our little conversation. I thought about how I would have responded as a teenager, as a young adult, and all the way up to who I am now. I think I prefer the person I am today. I don’t feel a need to prove my manhood or try to change someone else’s opinion of me. There are certainly advantages to a softer approach. I didn’t end up with a broken nose as I have on occasion. I didn’t do something that I would later regret. But most important, my choice of behavior didn’t place the man in the red sweatshirt between the Savior and me because the Savior knows the intent of my heart. It is much easier to be forgiven of poor thoughts than poor actions. Bad thoughts only hurt and diminish me while poor behavior impacts others as well. I have a long way to go but at least I am making better choices than I did when I was younger. I believe that is called progress. What a difference a few minutes can make. It only takes a few minutes of stress or unexpected confrontation to help us see how far we have come and how far we still have to go. Just yesterday my brother shared a quote with me: “If you aren’t nice, nothing else matters.”

Chasing Memories

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

As each January fades into February I find time to push the plane out of the hangar, blow the winter cobwebs out of the exhaust pipes and fly over to Fremont Island for a rendezvous with the old memories that remind me of my visit to that island in 2004. At the time I didn’t know I was going to be invited to spend the night so I didn’t take along my pajamas and toothbrush. It proved to be the longest, coldest night of my life and one I do not wish to repeat. However, it is also a night that taught me a lot about myself. Just thinking about that night reminds me of a statement that Neal A. Maxwell made after a bout with cancer. Paraphrasing his words, “It humbled me and softened me for which I am eternally grateful but I don’t kneel by my bed at night and pray to relive the experience.”

The topic of that cold February night came up as I sat in the living room this week and visited with my son. He and a close friend were the ones who came looking for me in the dark of night as they flew over a windswept Great Salt Lake. Because of the winter conditions, snow covered landing strip and moonless night, they were not able to rescue me but they provided me with all that I had asked for. I did not want the ones I love to spend the night with no knowledge of my condition or whereabouts. I breathed a huge sigh of relief as the plane circling overhead flew away carrying information that I was uninjured and at least acting rational.

The following day I shoveled snow until I only had thirty minutes of daylight left to attempt a takeoff. During the day my sons along with two dear friends made several trips to the island and air dropped supplies, snow shovel, and whatever else they thought I might need. At a prearranged time they returned and were circling overhead just incase I crashed on takeoff and needed a rescue team sent in by helicopter.

Now, four years later, I still have a small shutter pass through me as I reflect on the events that followed. I have often wished that each and every person on this earth could have a similar experience occur in their individual lives. Coming from my radio headphones, I heard the words, “We just witnessed a miracle.” My sons and friends in the plane circling overhead saw and expressed into the radio microphone what I was experiencing first hand. The miracle wasn’t born on the wings of my flying skill but on wind that came from seemingly nowhere to lift my little plane out of the icy grasp of the winter snow. The plane didn’t have enough forward motion to be flying but it was flying. Even before I had time to scan the aircraft instruments and assure myself I wasn’t hallucinating, I was thinking of the song by Bette Midler called, “Wind Beneath My Wings.”

Once in a while we are blessed to view a miracle or at least witness an event that seems to defy our understanding. But in reality there are miracles occurring each and every day of our lives. Life itself is a miracle. The recuperative powers of the physical body are miracles. The ability our minds have of capturing and storing events of the past into memory is a miracle. Today I am thankful for the miracle that I can close my eyes and be transported back to that time and place, hear the music in my head and feel the wind beneath my wings once more.

I am grateful that my miracle on Fremont Island came on the one year anniversary of my father-in-law’s passing. I have often wondered if he had anything to do with the wind beneath my wings that cold February day in 2004. It was a great blessing to have him in our home during the last years of his life. It was a cold wintry day in February when we stood by his open grave and said our last earthly goodbyes. And it was a cold windy day just one year later when someone stirred the wind beneath my wings. Regardless of what people say about miracles, the five pilots on and circling above Fremont Island that day witnessed one. I haven’t tried to understand why or how but I am very grateful. Isn’t that what miracles are all about . . . helping us learn to have a grateful heart?

Becoming Great

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

I’m propped up with several pillows behind my head trying to breathe this morning. I have rejected my wife’s miracle cures for the common chest cold so she has left me to my own devices. It is hard to take advice from the one who exposed you in the first place. It actually reminds me of the snake that was caught on a high mountain ridge in an early winter storm. With the wind whipping and blowing snow, the snake could hardly move. A young man passed by the snake on his way out of the wintry country. “Please take me along with you; I’m freezing to death,” said the snake. “You are a snake and will bite me if I pick you up,” replied the boy. “I won’t bite you. I will be forever grateful to you for saving my life,” said the snake. Reluctantly the boy picked up the snake and carried him down off the high mountain to the safety of the warmer air below. Just as the boy set the snake down, the snake bit him. In alarm the boy exclaimed, “You said you wouldn’t bite me if I saved your life.” As the snake slithered away he casually glances back and stated, “You knew what I was when you picked me up.” Well, I knew my wife had a chest cold when I chose to sit by her on a long airplane ride last week.

But today’s clicking of the computer key board isn’t about chest colds and miracle cures. My wife and I discuss my health choices “ad nauseam” when I’m not hidden away in the family sanctuary. I know that she means well but it is like being followed to the street to make sure I will look both ways before crossing. I’m sixty-one and haven’t been hit by a passing motorist yet. Just incase I might predispose myself to some hypnotic suggestion I will be very careful on my morning walks for the next few days.

Through the hacking and coughing from the chest cold some of my thoughts are still on the beauties that surround me and on those who have helped make those pleasant images possible. Hanging in our hall is an enlarged photograph taken of a granite mountain called Half Dome located in Yosemite National Park. Ansel Adams is the photographer. He brought nature to life although his pictures were taken in black and white. Ansel was able to capture the light in such a way that his pictures absorb you into them even if you have never visited the subjects of his photographs. He once made a statement that a photograph hasn’t done its job if its image doesn’t stay with you long after it has been removed from your physical sight.

Ansel Adams had another love besides photography. It was music and more precisely the piano. He longed to be a concert pianist and often practiced six hours a day during the most bitter winter months when he couldn’t be out capturing nature through the lenses of his camera. Eventually Ansel chose photography over being a concert pianist because he concluded that he couldn’t be the greatest at both professions. These two great loves that Ansel Adams possessed reminded me of another person who shared his enthusiasm for photography and music. I guess I could call him the Ansel Adams of our family.

Our Ansel Adams’ was my brother Bill. I called him Billy Boy and in time he came to understand that my nickname for him was out of affection. I could have called him William Edward Grubbs, Jr. or even just Junior but for some reason he became known to me as Billy Boy. Bill was and continues to this day to be fascinated with photography. He has shared with me many of his best works. The difference between Bill and Ansel Adams is that my brother Bill’s pictures were often taken of places that I had visited and developed cherished memories from.

It could be a picture of a darkening sky sweeping across the Lake Powell area. Bill rushed out in the storm wind that was whipping up the sand in front of the coming rain. I can look at that picture and it brings back all the sights and sounds of that family reunion on the lake in the old houseboat called the Sand Cabin. The fact that Bill had to take his camera in to be completely disassembled to remove all the tiny particles of sand didn’t stop him from capturing that moment in time.

Or the hike in the Subway of Zion National Park when Bill stepped off in deeper water than he anticipated. The only thing visible momentarily was his tripod and camera sticking out of the water above his head as he tried desperately to save camera and film. It was to no avail. Eventually the camera disappeared below the surface but before that took place Bill captured many beautiful pictures of the scenery of the canyon. One of those prints hangs in my room and often reminds me of the times we have spent in that beautiful part of nature. The picture also calls back to mind the family and friends who I have shared those special occasions with. Once again Bill’s camera had to be taken to the professionals for thorough disassembly and cleaning.

Bill has thousands of negatives and prints that have become part of his mark on our lives. His sunset picture with the LDS Bountiful Temple in the foreground shortly after its completion was chosen to be placed in every chapel in the temple district. That same picture appeared on the wallet sized cards that explained the schedule and times that the temple was open. My brother Bill has had a few moments in the spot light as he has worked to capture the light and imagery of still-print photography. Much of what you see in his photographs stays with you long after the physical picture has been removed from your view.

Bill has had his winter mountain adventures and has been bitten by a few emotional snakes along the way like sand and water in his camera. But he has continued to take his camera and capture for each of us the energy and excitement of times past. Ansel Adams has captured in print images that have become world famous. My brother Bill has captured in print the emotion of much of my life. Along with Ansel Adams, my brother also worked in black and white. He soon learned how to develop his own prints and catalogued them by the thousands. Just like Ansel Adams, Bill’s black and white work also included the keyboard of the family piano. He loved music and would play those black and white keys for hours without being prompted. He took joy in the journey of his musical pursuits. I would rather eat two jalapeño peppers than practice the mandatory thirty minutes per day. For me, those thirty minutes seemed like three hours. What became my torture chamber was my brother’s afternoon delight. Same piano: different experience. That’s the difference between becoming great at something and just getting by. Thank you Ansel Adams and thank you Billy Boy.

If Only

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

I love the ocean and have never stepped onto a beach without it being a peaceful experience even when the wind is blowing and the waves appear angry. There is just something magical about it that makes me feel all warm inside. I’m not particular. It can be the Pacific Ocean, Atlantic, the Gulf of Mexico or even The Sea of Cortez. They each hold a special place in my heart and in my memory.

I enjoy slipping off my shoes and walking in the wet sand where the waves can gently wash over my feet and bathe them in the story of time. I often wonder where those water droplets have been as they are swept up from the sea by hot temperatures to be carried aloft for miles and miles only to be condensed back into water droplets and splashed on the ground to nourish the earth. Then gradually those droplets find their way to the streams and rivers that carry them ultimately back to the ocean to once more churn and bubble in the waves that wash over my feet once more.

As I walk along the beach I look for things that catch my interest. Years ago I would find shells that still contained their living creatures and regardless of the fate of the little ocean dwellers, I would haul them home. After a week or so the smell of dead and dying sea creatures would outweigh the beauty of the shells and I would throw them away in hopes of ridding myself of the putrid odor. Today I toss the living ones back into the surf and limit my treasure hunting to the shells and other artifacts that wash up at my feet.

On those days that I find nothing to take home, I still enjoy the sights and sounds of the ocean. Many of my dreams incorporate the sand, the sun, the breeze, and the waves of the ocean. I’m not sure if that is because we often went to the beach on our family vacations or because I am enthralled with distant horizons. A good friend once suggested that it might be because those horizons don’t block my imagination. I reminded her that there isn’t much that impedes my imagination. She agreed.

Today as I walked on the beach, most of the shells were trampled and broken from other beach combers looking for that perfect specimen to hold up in the air and say, “Look what I found.” As I strolled down the beach my wife ran ahead of me to make sure she would be the first to spot a trophy shell. “You see them before I get a chance to look,” she said as she sprinted twenty yards or so ahead. Walking in the wet sand or beach combing for treasures has never been a race for me. I casually moved out into the water so that I was walking in four inches of standing tide. The foam of the waves coming in momentarily blocked my view of the sandy bottom but after each wave passed the water would clear once more and I could see what was being tumbled and washed ashore.

During the course of my walk I found a sand dollar about the size of a silver dollar. I carefully cupped it in my hand to protect its fragile edges. A little further down the beach I came across a hand-woven necklace half buried in the sand. It had been broken or came untied because one end was moving around in the waves. Part of the necklace was buried in the sand. I gave it a gentle tug but it didn’t want to slide out of its wet sandy tomb. Bending over, I began to gently dig around the necklace. To my surprise the necklace contained a small gold ring. If I had been able to pull the necklace from the sand without having to do any digging, I would never have known that it contained the small gold ring. The ring would have slid off the necklace and remained buried in the sand for someone else to find or possible never be found.

Washing the wet sand off the ring I examined it for any inscription that might be on the inside. The only words I found were “14 K” embossed in tiny letters. My wife said, “You lucky duck.” “It wasn’t luck at all; you passed by it before I did,” I said. “You just chose to look in different places than I was looking.” Anyway, I didn’t feel lucky. I felt special that I had the opportunity to touch something that was probably very precious to someone else. I would tell the story of the ring “If Only” I knew its history. I would return the ring to its owner “If Only” I knew who she was. I would toss the ring back into the ocean “If Only” I knew that would be her desire. Until I do know, I will keep it and remember that I found it on January 25th. So, as I thought all along, there can be Christmas in January. I can hardly wait for February 25th. My daughter called to tell me that my eleventh grandchild is due on May 25th. Who was it that said, “If only we could have Christmas every month?” We can. It is only limited by our imagination.

One for You, More for Me

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

With Mitt Romney, a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, seeking the Republican nomination for president of the United States, there has been much talk in the news about Mormons and their beliefs. One of those beliefs and early practices targeted by the media is the subject of polygamy. Although polygamy was routinely practiced in the mid 1800’s and only a small minority of members of the church practiced polygamy, the subject continues to be a topic of discussion when the word Mormon is mentioned.

In a recent discussion a good friend asked my opinion about Mitt Romney and my attitude about polygamy. When I responded that I wasn’t a good candidate to answer such a question, it pricked her curiosity. “Why not?” she asked. “Let’s get something to eat and I’ll explain it to you over lunch,” I said. We drove to the sandwich shop in virtual silence. I’m sure she was wondering what my response would be and I was contemplating how I would explain myself in such a way that she would understand not only my words but my heart. It was just past one o’clock so the crowd had dissipated at Crown Burger. I ordered a bacon cheese burger and onion rings. Don’t tell my wife, she already thinks I have a death wish. With my friend munching her health conscious salad I began my story.

When I was twelve years old I had a dream in which a girl came to visit me in my tree house. Over the years this same girl regularly appeared in my dreams and I became convinced that one day I would find her and we would get married. Somehow I thought that I would just see her and recognize her for who she was. And oh by the way, I naturally assumed that she would have a similar experience and recognize me also. At age twenty-two I decided that I must be mistaken and stopped searching for the girl in my dreams. I went to work to find a “wise choice” to be my companion and mother of our children.

When I found her I didn’t think it would be too difficult to convince her to marry me. She couldn’t be too picky. She was dating an old geezer in graduate school. He knew exactly what he wanted to be when he grew up and his name was Frankenberger. With a name like that it would be a piece of cake to convince her to switch to Grubbs. I told her on our first date that I was going to marry her. A note of clarification . . . I didn’t ask her to marry me on our first date; I just told her that I was going to marry her. I wasn’t in love with her yet, I barely knew her. I had only been in love three times if I didn’t count my fourth grade school teacher. But something inside of me said that this girl would be a “wise choice”. She didn’t buy into that “wise choice” business too easily. Getting her in that wedding dress was like rowing my boat out on the lake and trying to convince a fish to jump into my net.

I finally learned a few words in “the fish language” and we were married on September 5th, 1969. After a brief honeymoon on the north rim of the Grand Canyon we returned to our schooling. I don’t know why it was such a surprise to me but I discovered I had married a studyholic. It shouldn’t have been a surprise because every time I tried to get a date with her we ended up in the campus library until it closed. In case you are wondering what a studyholic is . . . convince an alcoholic that there are answers to his problems in books instead of booze and he’ll consume the library. Because the race was over and the trophy was sharing my living space, I stopped going to the library with her. Not spending my evenings at the library coupled with the fact that I had a cake of a job working for the university, I had more free time on my hands. With all this free time between work and class, my eyes began to wander. What would you expect when you have a wife who is too busy studying to watch a movie or even go for a drive?

Pretty soon I was noticing what lived next door. I didn’t see her much because she stayed inside most of the time but when she came out she could sure turn a head. She was usually dressed to be noticed if you know what I mean. It didn’t matter what she wore because by now I was hooked. I thought about her all the time. I fantasized about her. I know that I should have felt guilty about what was going on inside my head but I justified my behavior. Hadn’t other men learned how to have multiple loves? What about the guy who left his adoring family back east to earn his fortune trapping furs in the northwest territory of the 1800’s? I don’t think he was writing home and telling his wife about the Indian squaw snuggled up next to him at night to help drive out the cold wind sneaking through the cracks of his log cabin. Or what about the early pioneer who helped bury a fallen friend then married the widow in a wagon train ceremony taking in her and her children along with his own? Was she loved less because she wasn’t the first? Was the first loved less because part of his heart was burning from a different flame? Yes, I know these are weak arguments hurtled against a stone wall of tradition. But remember, I said that the one next door only turned my head. I was watching her from the window, not chasing after her or even trying to make conversation.

I know what you are thinking; the old Bible verse . . . “as a man thinketh, so is he.” Well I have some news for you. I never saw a man slapped for what he was thinking. I never saw a man in trouble for what he was dreaming, unless he was naive enough to share his dreams. I think that verse of scripture is telling us that if you think it long and hard enough, you will eventually figure out a way to get it or become it. Well, that’s what happened to me. Eventually just watching her from the safety of my living room window wasn’t enough. My fanaticizes grew to the point I thought I had to have her. As her door opened one day and she was maneuvering through the opening, and I think you can imagine what I mean when I say maneuvering, I raced over and met her just as she reached the curb of her drive. I didn’t know the guy who was with her but I blurted out, “Where can I find her twin sister?” “At the Kawasaki Dealership on Main Street,” he said. “There are two more just like her on the showroom floor.”

After a fitful two days, my wife finally consented to let me take out a student loan in her name and use the money to bring home my other love. And what a love affair it was. I would race home from school or work and head up into the mountains above our apartment and spend a glorious couple of hours revving her engine and shifting her gears until it was almost too dark to see the trail. My wife didn’t say too much at first. She was concerned about the amount of time I was spending away from home and not studying. She became more alarmed when I wanted to bring my other love into the living room at night because I didn’t want her left out in the cold.

Well, like I said in the beginning, I’m not the right man to ask about polygamy. I have been living polygamy most my life. When you allow a significant part of your heart, interest and desire to be focused on something or someone other than your spouse, isn’t that a mild form of Polygamy? I had a girl who came to me in my dreams before I met my wife. She still occupies a portion of my heart along with motorcycles, airplanes, boats and my latest love, writing. It drives my wife crazy thinking of all the things that I could be accomplishing around the house if I didn’t spend so much time pounding away at the keys of my computer or scribbling in one of my notebooks. It amazes me how, after thirty-eight years of being together, she thinks that if I put away all these other loves, I will magically become interested in whittling down that long list of honey-dos under the magnet on the fridge. Just thinking about that list causes my eye to start wandering once more but not in search of another wife. Two wives would mean two fridges. Two fridges would mean two separate honey-do lists reminding me of all the things I should be doing instead of what I am doing; pounding away on my laptop thinking of a clever way to say something that has already been said many times before. But at least I haven’t been completely deceitful; I wear two rings on my left hand; one for her and one for the other love(s) of my life.

Polygamy, the practice of having more than one wife was banned by the U.S. Supreme Court in 1879. A few daring, yet foolish men, have defied the laws set forth by this great country and have married more than one woman. As their deeds are discovered they are brought to justice. What about all the rest of us who aren’t breaking the law of the land but often do immeasurable damage by spending excessive time and energy where no growth occurs in ourselves or the ones around us. On a recent work project with my son-in-law, he stated that he didn’t have time for many of the things that interest the other men in his neighborhood. “I have three little boys who need a dad to wrestle with them and chase them around the yard,” he said. There is nothing wrong with a hobby or a special interest so long as it doesn’t compete with what is truly important. But in truth, how many of you women out there have been living my definition of polygamy for most of your married life? Have your children grown up being told to be quiet or stay in the other room so your husband won’t miss that critical play as his favorite team scores another basket or touchdown? Or when he slips out the door early Saturday morning with his golf clubs or fishing pole and says he’ll be back in a couple of hours knowing all along that you won’t see him until dark? Is it only when he wants to buy a king-sized bed so there will be ample room for three does the hair stand up on your neck and you shout, “That’s polygamy!”

I once had a dream that I was in bed snuggled down between two women (names not important to the story). They talked for what seemed like hours. As I laid there in the dark I realized they were talking about me as though I wasn’t even there. They discussed my shortcomings and all the changes they thought I should make. Note . . . I didn’t disagree with the shortcomings; I just didn’t enjoy hearing about them. One wife gave the other counsel about how she should handle me. I tried to get to sleep but it was no use. In my dream I concluded that any man who thought polygamy would be a pleasant feast of milk and honey should be required to spend a night in my dream (and these two women “liked” each other). When I wrote about my dream I titled it “Polygamy, Fact or Fantasy.” Now I ask the question, “Where is your heart, where is your interest, where do you focus your time, and where does your spouse fit into that picture?” Has your wife deceived herself by saying, “You know boys, their oversize toys come first.” That all seems to be okay in our society until that toy isn’t a motorcycle, isn’t an airplane, isn’t a favorite ball team, but another wife: then and only then is he breaking the law.

Well, enough said about polygamy. Now back to my opinion of Mitt Romney who, by the way, had a great grandfather who was a polygamist. That is why the news agencies have made such an issued of this subject. I don’t know if Mitt Romney or any other candidate currently running for that high office is the best qualified to lead this nation. I just finished reading books on the life of Abraham Lincoln and George Washington. These men weren’t perfect but their values were clear. They didn’t engage in doubletalk. I’m not convinced that we have a Lincoln or Washington running on either party’s ticket. I don’t think that someone should vote for a candidate just because he is a member of their church. But on the other hand, a candidate shouldn’t be ruled out as a viable choice on the basis that he belongs to an organization that once condoned the practice of polygamy prior to it being banned by the Supreme Court. If you go back far enough in your ancestry most will encounter polygamy or some other “now illegal” practice unless you are descended directly from the Pope (no pun on the Catholic Church intended). In the Bible, the Savior stated to the men about to stone the woman caught in adultery . . . “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.”

The puppeteers of the media determine what we as mainstream Americans see in the form of news. If they can get our attention away from the real issues and swallow us up in rhetoric of the past, they have accomplished their purpose of bringing negative publicity to any candidate who is not of their choice. I believe that we should vote our conscience after an examination of the values each candidate professes if those values are substantiated by his or her past behavior. If a presidential candidate’s words and actions do not mirror one another, believe their actions. If you trust their actions you will rarely be mistaken about who the person truly is. And you won’t have to try to determine what the definition of “is” is (if you catch my pun).

Scratched, Not Broken

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

He was clutching the chain-link fence trying to maintain his balance as he shuffled along the icy sidewalk. As I came to a stop and rolled down my car window I asked, “Would you like a ride?” He didn’t respond. It appeared he was sorting through my words trying to decide what his answer should be. Because he appeared to be in trouble I stepped out of the car and walked over to see if I could help him in some way. I assumed he was coming from the grocery store just down the block because he was carrying a plastic sack containing a loaf of bread and two fruit drinks. “Hold on to me and I will help you into the car and I will take you home,” I said.

“I can’t, I can’t go, I can’t go home yet. I have, I have to, I have to go to work,” he stammered. He wasn’t stuttering. It appeared that his mental thought processes were getting stuck then starting over before he finished his thought. It reminded me of a CD that had been scratched and jumped back a track. The way this guy was hobbling and struggling just to walk made me curious as to what type of work he did. “Where do you work?” I asked. “I work, I work at, I work at Cesar’s Pizza,” he said.

My mind immediately began to dance through the possible jobs that this man might do for a pizza shop. He must work in the kitchen washing dishes, or making dough for the pizzas. Maybe he just mops floors. “What do you do for Cesar’s Pizza?” I asked. “I am, I am the, I am the sign man,” he said. “Oh, you stand out on the sidewalk and wear a sign encouraging people to come into Cesar’s Pizza?” I asked. “I wear, I wear a, I wear a pizza costume.”

As my rider pointed out the direction to Cesar’s Pizza he told me that his name was James. He rides the city bus to Smith’s Food Market were he waits for two hours before walking the six blocks to Cesar’s Pizza. He waits inside the grocery store to stay warm until he reports to work at 11:00 to begin wearing his pizza sign. James holds his grocery bag under the pizza costume and eats from the loaf of bread and drinks his juice. “Is that what you eat every day?” I asked. He answered yes. “Do you work every day?” I asked. He said that he worked every day except Sunday. “But I, but I am, but I am lucky to have a job,” he explained.

As we pulled into the Cesar’s Pizza parking lot James started to open the door to get out. I asked him if he had a few more minutes that we could talk. From what I had already learned from our conversation I knew that he would have to stand outside the pizza shop in the cold until just before 11:00. What good would I have accomplished if I transported him to work so he could get there early and then have to stand out in the cold until time to go in and put on his pizza suit? We sat in the warmth of the car for the next few minutes and talked about his life.

James’s speech reminded me of my favorite CD that is scratched and jumps tracks until I nudge it along beyond the damaged portion. I continue to listen to it because I love the music. Because it was difficult for James to express himself I will paraphrase what he had to say next. “I fell on the ice and hurt myself getting off the bus today. That is why I am having so much trouble walking. Three people got off the bus after me and no one stopped to help. I think it was because no one wanted to touch me. I was embarrassed as I struggled to my feet and the bus finally pulled away. My hip and elbow hurt and I felt sorry for myself. My mother taught me that when you feel sorry for yourself you become miserable for other people to be around. I heard her words in my mind but I still wondered if anyone in the world cared about me.”

I didn’t try to solve James’s problems. A twenty dollar bill pushed into his hand wouldn’t change his life. But he changed my life. After saying goodbye to James I drove away feeling more thankful for my own life and for the opportunities I have been blessed with. I reflected upon the special care I have received throughout my life. I never remember once feeling as though no one in the world cared about me. I only wish that James, along with everyone else, could have been helped as much as I have been throughout my life.

Later in the day, as I drove over to my brother’s office to wish him a happy birthday, I passed Cesar’s Pizza and there stood James in his pizza costume waving at the passing cars. Well, I assume it was James. I couldn’t see his face but I did recognize the yellow sleeves of his oversized frayed coat protruding from the pepperoni pizza costume. He may have already forgotten me but I hadn’t forgotten him. I smiled as I passed but I wasn’t just smiling at James. I was thinking about how fortunate I am. I had spent the day in a warm office while James limped along an icy sidewalk in front of Cesar’s Pizza thankful to have a job. James had helped me remember that a grateful attitude encourages a cheerful countenance. And a cheerful countenance . . . well, I think you get the idea. James may be scratched but he isn’t broken. I’ll bet I see him standing out in front of Cesar’s Pizza tomorrow regardless of whether it is blowing snow or bright sunshine.

Thank you, James.