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.

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?

Knowing What to Look For

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

We had been told that there were Indians in the region so upon entering this scarcely populated area of the Southwest, we pulled our mounts to the side of the trail, checked our ammunition, laced our holsters to our belts and continued our journey into the unknown. I call this region unknown only because I had never been here before. Have you ever gone somewhere and had the feeling that you had been there before? Well, this wasn't one of those times. I was moving into uncharted territory other than the fact that a friend had told me what to expect.

Based on those expectations I selected a five shot revolver as my sidearm just incase we ran into quarrelsome Indians. I usually carry a forty-caliber semi automatic hidden beneath a flapping shirttail but a revolver will fire under almost any condition as long as you keep your bullets dry. This world we were descending into was dusty and not an ideal place for a gun that would easily jam under such conditions; therefore, the revolver was my choice for this trip.

We began the last phase of our journey traveling on foot. The trail was steep and unforgiving to an errant step or stumble. Our mounts would have to stay tethered at the top of the canyon rim as we explored an area almost entirely forgotten by our busy world. After adjusting our backpacks and lacing our boots tight we questioned one another just to make sure that nothing of significance was being left behind. What more did I need besides a rope for safety, a camera to record our trip, a gun for protection and a good friend to share the experience? How about a little water, a headlamp in the event we were delayed beyond dark and a bulging pocket of cashew nuts for that burst of sustained energy to make the climb back out of the canyon? These items were all accounted for along with a lot of other things I won't take time to mention.

A message stenciled on the back of my brain said, "Leave only footprints and take nothing home except pictures as you visit these fragile areas of past civilizations." We weren't even leaving footprints to retrace our path as we hiked on the sandstone slickrock of southern Utah. Some geologists have referred to these slickrock formations as "wind blown and rain swept" but I think it has mostly been wind blown because there is little evidence of rain. Route finding was easy because little stacks of rocks called cairns were placed here and there to mark an otherwise invisible trail across the sandstone landscape leading down into the canyon.

My partner led the way and I lingered behind about ten feet eating cashew nuts and drinking cold orange juice as we proceeded down the trail. I might as well drink the orange juice while it is still cold. Besides, nourishment left in my pack can't give my body strength.  If I'm going to carry it I might as well carry it where it will do the most good; in my stomach. Kaye, my wife and hiking partner just gave a disapproving expression when I explained my reasoning for starting my munching so early in the trip. She said nothing else and I assumed that she was following that old rule of hiking logic . . . don't criticize until it is too late for your partner to turn back.  Sort of like marriage.

I was excited to finally be going to explore the Indian canyon-dwelling called Moonhouse. My only lingering mental frown was that all those I love and hold dear weren't here with me, talking, sharing, and just being together. But soon my thoughts focused on the steepness of the terrain below.  I chose a crisscross method of descending the slope, cutting across the sandstone diagonally working my way down a little at a time. My partner chose the sit and slide method. She wore an expensive pair of hiking boots that were advertised as being able to cling even to moss covered granite yet she scooted her way down the slope on her backside. I passed her and came to a feature called a pour-off. That is where the rain water reaches a vertical drop and spills over the edge like a waterfall. I tied a nylon strap to a rock and dangled the end over the edge so Kaye would have something to hold onto as she negotiated the drop-off. The rest of the hike was filled with breathtaking vistas of a harsh canyon divided by a ribbon of green trees meandering along the bottom creek bank.   

As we descended deeper into the canyon we were so focused on our footing and making sure that we remained on the correct path, we didn't see the Indian ruins in plain view built into the wall across the canyon from us. A feeling of slight embarrassment would grab our attention later when we climbed out of the canyon and realized that the Indian dwellings were right there in front of us all along. I was just amazed at how the dwellings blended into the landscape unless you knew what to look for. If those Indians had high powered rifles they could have picked us off like rabbits in a cage. If nothing else, they could certainly have seen us coming from a long way off.

But we continued our hike down to the canyon floor and up the other side until we came over a rise and there it was. Instantly we felt as though we were on hallowed ground. That feeling came over us even before we entered the first dwelling. Families had lived here. Children had been born in these rooms. Crops had been planted, grown and harvested in the canyon below and stored in granaries high in these crevices. Ceremonies had been preformed and burials took place as the struggle for life continued through the years. We had planned to spend an hour at the ruins but stayed four hours instead.

Ancient Indians didn't choose this place for the view or live here seeking an easy lifestyle. They most likely chose this secluded barren place for safety and peace. According to the archeologists these dwellings were constructed around 1200 A.D. and inhabited until about 1450 A.D. No one knows why they left or what happened to them. Assuming the findings of the archeologists to be correct, these people conducted the business of life for two hundred and fifty years here in this remote and unforgiving region. Like I mentioned earlier, they didn't choose this place just for the view. Why did they come here? Why did they build here? Why did they remain for two and a half centuries? Why did they eventually leave . . . leaving behind their pottery, their tools, their sleeping mats, and their history? The answers are blowing in the wind.

As we prepared to leave I pulled out my pistol and fired a five shot salute to the people of this land, a people I admire and reverence for their ability to survive in such a harsh environment. Not counting the echoes down the canyon, I was certain I heard a sixth shot. How could a five shot revolver deliver six shots? I turned and asked Kaye how many shots she heard. "I wasn't counting but I felt them all," she said, as we gathered our packs and prepared to leave this enchanted canyon where the past and the present collided. Maybe we weren't as alone as we thought. Climbing back out of the canyon we couldn't help but turn and look back across to the other side at the mud, stone and sand structures tucked under the overhangs. We were amazed that those structures hadn't been visible to our eyes as we hiked into the canyon. We just didn't know what to look for before. Maybe that is what life is about . . . knowing what to look for.

The Loss of a Friend

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Friends are lost in different ways. Some die while others just drift away because of changing interests. Some friends are sacrificed through misunderstandings and disagreements. Then there are those whose friendship weather the storms of adversity and reach out even through miles of physical separation and remain attached regardless of life’s situations.

I was blessed to know such a friend. We met in Kmart of all places and struck up a conversation that developed into a friendship that has lasted many years. The sales lady who introduced us or was there at the counter with us was a petite girl who looked as though she should still be in junior high. I told her she looked too young to be working and she informed me that she was eighteen and working to save money to go to college. My newly discovered friend introduced himself as Tex and when I asked if that was a nickname he said, “Yes,” but offered no additional information.

I have long since forgotten the sales clerk’s name. I remember that she commented that I should be the one with the name Tex because of my southern accent. It is strange how I remember her smile but can’t remember her name. I also remember the necklace she wore. It was a gold chain with a small elongated flat piece of gold with an inscription. With her permission I reached over and took the small piece of gold in my hands and examined the words. The inscription said, “Love You.” “Is there a story behind those words,” I asked, thinking that it was probably from a boyfriend. “It belonged to my mother. My father gave it to me when she died six years ago. I never take it off,” she said. You were twelve when your mother passed away?” I asked. “Yes,” she commented. “And you have never had the necklace off since the day your father placed it around your neck?” I questioned. “That’s right,” she stated.

As I stared into the eyes of the sales clerk I suddenly remembered Tex. I had almost totally ignored him while I was caught up in the story of the sales clerk’s necklace. An unspoken communication had been taking place between the sales clerk and me during those brief moments of silence after she stopped talking. But remembering my manners, I looked Tex right in the face and said, “We should do something special for this young lady for introducing us.” Her face reddened just a little as she said, “Oh I couldn’t accept anything.” Her comment didn’t surprise me. Tex and I said our goodbyes to the sales clerk and headed out the door to get better acquainted.

We hit it off right from the start. I told Tex about my hobbies. He had never been up in a small plane so I encouraged him to come to the airport with me for a flight into the wild blue yonder. He agreed and off we went. That was the first of many adventures we shared. We became close friends and once or twice we went back to Kmart to visit the petite sales clerk who wore the necklace with the inscription “Love You” written on it. We never saw her again but we often reflected on what might have happened to her as she carved her way through life without the influence of a mother to laugh with her and console her when necessary. We kidded ourselves that when our batteries went low we would drop by Kmart and have her recharge us with her inviting smile.

Tex and I saw or talked to one another almost every day. I’m surprise that my wife Kaye didn’t complain about the time we spent together. She seemed to sense that there was a special bond between us. One day Tex disappeared and I had no contact with him for a year or so. I missed him but friendships don’t last long that travel a one-way street. Then one day he showed back up and we renewed our friendship immediately. It was like we had never been separated. He and I flew together, boated together, hunted together, and camped together many times. Other than the year we were lost to each other that I previously spoke of, we were almost inseparable. I have lost track of all the things we did together. Then, while I was on a canoe trip down the Green River of southern Utah, it happened. As I was paddling the canoe a feeling swept over me and I knew that something had happened to Tex. I knew he was gone. I told my wife Kaye that I just lost a good friend, one who had been with me on more expeditions than I could remember.

Sensing my loss, Kaye immediately jumped into the river to see if she could find Tex. See, Tex was my wristwatch. Tex was short for Timex Expedition. I knew I would never find Tex in that river. I chuckled at Kaye for thinking that she could find him in the fast moving muddy water. But bless her heart that didn’t stop her from trying. I finally persuaded her to get back into the canoe. I was saddened but not because I had lost a valuable watch. Tex was inexpensive but I’m a sentimental guy. I thought of how long we had been together and how many adventures or expeditions we had shared. I can replace the watch. I can’t replace all the years he gave me his time, served as my alarm clock, challenged me with his stopwatch and made sure I knew what day of the month it was. He never let me down except when his batteries died. A quick trip to Kmart always solved his battery problem and he went right back to ticking as before.

As I told you, I once lost Tex for a year but one Sunday morning, a young man came up to me and told me who had my watch. When I asked for the watch back, it was returned accompanied with an apology. In the meantime I had purchased another Timex Expedition but as soon as Tex was given back to me, I removed the newer watch and started wearing Tex once more. I don’t think Tex will be coming back this time. Tex is waterproof so he will continue to tick in the water and sand of the Green River until the battery fades and the electronic ticking stops. Then he will be silent and become part of the elements of nature. Before the ticking stops maybe some fish will learn how to tell time. Do you think the fish will be happier if they know what time of day it is? Probably not. When we were on the river, we didn’t worry about what time it was either.

I had a premonition that I shouldn’t wear Tex while I was on the river. The band was worn and he had slipped off my wrist a couple of times before. As I look back I don’t focus on what might-have-been had I heeded the premonition and not worn Tex on the river. I chose instead to reflect on the great expeditions we shared over the years. I also think of the petite Kmart sales clerk who sold Tex to me. Remember, she was the girl who wore the necklace with the inscription “Love You” written on it. I don’t remember her name but I do remember her smile. “Some friends come into our lives and are soon gone. Others last a lifetime.” I never expected Tex to last a lifetime but I will miss him just like I miss the smile of the young sales clerk at Kmart. Oh, the worth of a smile.

I grew to love that watch but it was just a watch. What I will always love are the adventures and memories we shared. No matter where Tex is now, I will always have my memories. Those of you who know me well know that I keep a daily journal. And each day in that journal I list the highlight of my day, the regret of the day, and what I am grateful for. You probably think that I listed loosing my friend Tex as my regret of that day on the river but you would be wrong. What I listed as the regret-of-the-day was that I didn’t have more of you there with me so I could enjoy your company and companionship. Just think I had Tex longer than the Kmart sales clerk had her mother by her side.

The Window

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

A few months ago I attended a scholarship recognition banquet for Katie Campbell. On the printed program was a saying that has remained with me. It states that your view of the world is through your own window. Since that evening I have developed the habit of taking a few moments to look out my bedroom window before going to bed. On most occasions I am filed with gratitude as I look out into the vastness of our world. Sometimes my focus is on roof tops, trees, mountains and clouds. Other times, my focus is on street noises as cars drive by, a few with loud music, others just passing by.

Then there are times when I look out into the expanse of space beyond the moon and stars. It is at these moments when I realize how tiny I am in this vast universe. Tiny doesn't mean helpless. Tiny doesn't mean I can't make a difference. Efforts no matter how small can create good results.

Think of a tiny seed. Who can look at two seeds and determine which will sprout and which will not? Not me. But I can plant both seeds. And when the tender shouts push up through the damp soil, I can care for them.

Each of us is at our individual stage of development and maturity. It is so easy to become judgmental of others because they may not be at the same stage of development as we wish. Some seeds may never sprout and grow into our expectations. As I stand at my window looking at the world before me, I realize that my open window also allows the world to see into my room. What do they see? Do they see kindness in my heart? Is my love of others visible through my countenance? I don't know what others see because their view of me and of the world around them is seen through their own window.

I am thankful for the feelings inside of me that draw me to the window. I am thankful for eyes that allow me to take in the beauty of our world. I am no longer embarrassed when tears of gratitude stream down my cheeks for all those who have influenced my life for good. I often stand by my window and have tears originate in my heart and find their way to my eyes. Many of my tears can trace their beginning in my heart. The acceptance and love of family and friends have caused my tears to make that journey many times. Thank you for the patience and love each of you show me. I think of you often as I stand looking out my window, enjoying the moon and stars and memories of you.

Legacy of a Lady

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Today is August 2nd and I will quietly reflect and mark the thirty-fourth anniversary of the passing of someone very special to me. She wasn’t my peer. She wasn’t even related to me. But she had a significant impact on my life when I was a skinny teenage boy. I wasn’t just skinny physically; I was skinny emotionally if you know what I mean. In other words, I still had a lot to learn about life although I thought I was all grown up. Thank goodness this lady helped me realize that I still had miles to go on the road of life marked wisdom.

She was the first of two women in my life who would be instrumental in encouraging me in my pastime of writing. This lady became the driving force behind my desire to convey my thoughts and experiences in print. In way of explanation, in August of 1993 I had three separate yet identical dreams relating to her that inspired me to begin writing about the influence this lady had on my life. I felt driven by some indescribable force to allow others to get to know her through my writings. It was as though if I didn’t do it, no one else would. And her influence on this world would be buried as sure as if it had died along with her physical body. I titled those first short stories about my experiences with her a “Legacy of a Lady” and bound them in a folder. There were forty short stories chronicling my memories of life with her.

Forces at work inside of me suggested that there was a deeper meaning behind my dreams than just writing about my life with her. I decided to contact Karen and seek permission to have her parent’s temple work done. I was unsuccessful in locating her. I was unaware that Karen had divorced her first husband and remarried. One Sunday evening Karen called my home and said, “I understand you are looking for me.” I had not heard Karen’s voice or spoken to her since I visited her in the hospital twenty-two years earlier. In fact, that occasion in the hospital was the last time I would ever see her mother alive. Karen declined my request for permission to have her parent’s temple work performed.

Seven years passed with no contact with Karen. I was in her hometown on business for one day. It was Friday, June 5th, 2000. I tried repeatedly to contact Karen by phone but it rang busy each time. I thought that either she or her husband must be on the internet or the phone was off the hook. I stopped at a local convenience store and purchased a city map that would provide directions to their home. I knocked on the door and Karen answered. Because of our previous relationship and out of respect for my wife and Karen’s husband, I asked if she and I could visit out in her front yard instead of entering her home. We stood apart, no handshakes, no embraces, just talking and catching up on our lives. The last time I saw her prior to this occasion was at her mother’s funeral in 1973. After a few minutes I slipped back into my rental car and headed for the airport to continue the next leg of my business trip.

During that importune visit in her front yard, I told Karen about my writings I called Legacy of a Lady and asked her if she would like a copy. She said yes and I agreed to send it when I returned home form my trip. Karen seemed anxious for her adult children, Chris and Gay, to be able to read the stories and become better acquainted with their grandmother who had passed away before they were old enough to remember her.

Previously, I have told only one person all the specific details about the rest of this story. This is where a dark shadow began to fall over my brief reunion with Karen that took place in her front yard. Many of you have questioned the sanity of my destroying some of my early writings. Maybe you will better understand my actions as I share with you the events that took place.

I did send Karen a copy of Legacy of a Lady. It wasn’t the complete set of my writings but a selection that I thought would be most appropriate for her children to gain a greater appreciation of their grandmother. During the next two months I e-mailed Karen a few times and sent her a copy of an article I wrote about our brief reunion in her front yard. I wish I had retained a copy of that article but after I read it to my family and sent Karen a copy I purged it from my computer. What followed was a heart blistering e-mail from Karen’s husband accusing me of trying to stir up old feelings in Karen of a bygone era. He threatened to bring criminal stalking charges against me if I ever contacted her again. Danny proclaimed that Karen lived in constant fear that I would show up unannounced in her life again. He said that my stories were lies and figments of a sick imagination.

I was devastated that I had been the impetus for such frustration and anger. A part of me wanted to strike back, deny his accusations and attempt to justify my own behavior. But after reading Danny’s e-mail once more, I closed the door to my office, knelt by my desk and sought guidance before I made a response to his accusations. Returning to my computer, I apologized to Danny for any hurt, heartache or sorrow that I had caused him and his wife. I told him that I would never contact either of them again as long as I lived and that I would destroy the writings about his mother-in-law. That way he would be in control of what happened to the only copy left of what he labeled the writings of a sick imagination. I reread my written e-mail to him, made sure that I could live up to my stated commitments, sought confirmation of the spirit that it was the right thing to do and pressed the send button on my computer.

On August 2, 2000, the twenty-seventh anniversary of her death, as I previously promised I would do; I went back to my computer and deleted each of the articles written about this lady. It had been seven years since I had those three dreams and commenced to feverishly write about this special lady in my life. I then took the original bound copy of Legacy of a Lady which comprised a total of forty short stories to Lake Powell with me. As I flew over the barren desert of southern Utah on my way to the lake, I reread each of the stories I had written about the influence this lady had on my life. Once I finished reading them for what would be the last time, I removed the pages from the binder, opened the window of my plane and tossed them to the wind. I had completed what I told Danny that I would do. The only thing left was for me to never contact him or his wife again. I knew that I could do that also; not out of hurt or anger, but out of respect for his wishes.

I was chastised by family and friends for my actions. I was even told that I was too soft, that I should get him told instead of playing into the hands of a jealous husband and doing exactly what he wanted me to do. My answer to those comments was, “So what.” In a tug-of-war, if one party refuses to pick up the rope and pull, there is no war. I decided to not pick up my end of the rope. I owed no one an explanation. I owed Karen’s husband Danny an apology for the uncomfortable feelings welling up inside of him that I had been a party to. I felt sadness for him and for Karen. I felt sadness for me that what was so special to me, reflections of my relationship with her mom, was twisted into something ugly and misshapen.

I was surprised by Karen’s husband’s reaction since there was nothing in my comments during the front yard visit with Karen and nothing in my writings about her mom that focused on memories and experiences of mine and Karen’s dating years. But he was not able to see into my heart and no amount of explanation to an angry or frustrated man would convince him otherwise; therefore, I didn’t try. It was best to place all the power back into his hands. He was the one holding the rope and challenging me to a tug-of-war. I can only guess he got my email stating my apology and decisions. I never heard from him again after his heart blistering e-mail. See, the e-mail he sent was prior to talking e-mails so his words at least didn’t burn my ears.

But all his threats and accusations didn’t dampen my love and appreciation for his mother-in-law whom he never knew. She passed away twenty-one years before he and Karen married. It has now been seven years since that day I flew to Lake Powell, a favorite destination for me, and tossed my written reflections of the Legacy of a Lady out the window of the plane. As I said previously, only the written words were tossed to the wind. My memories of her are still alive in me. I have now begun to rewrite about some of those memories but out of respect for sensitive hearts, I have left off the name of this lady who had such an impact in my life. Although she doesn’t get her name in the bright lights of recognition, her spirit shines as bright on my life now as it did when she lovingly and tenderly guided me through some of the challenges of teenage life.

Maybe family members and friends puzzled by my behavior of destroying my writings will have a better understanding of why I tossed my written words to the wind. If I haven’t already bored you beyond consciousness, you can read the first of my rewritten reminisings of this Legacy of a Lady. The article is titled “The Two Piece.” The original short story was called “The Swimsuit.” This story will not be new to my children. They have heard me speak many times of my experiences with this lady who shared my own mother’s first name. She treated me and loved me like a son. Her attention to my shortcomings and her motives for encouraging me to make good choices in life may have been based on fear. Fear that I might marry her daughter one day. The forbidden wigi board said that we would marry. The yearbook singled us out as the most likely couple to marry after high school but dreams sent us in different directions. Karen’s mother probably breathed a huge sigh of relief. You can access the article “The Two Piece” by going to www.jerrygrubbs.com or just scroll down to the next article on this website.

It was fourteen years ago this month that I first wrote this article. All the short stories in Legacy of a Lady will not be reconstructed. As I gaze out the window of my life and reflect upon the people who influenced me for good, I will always remember this special lady who gave me a part of her by giving me her time, sharing her insights and loving me in spite of my shortcomings. This world could benefit from more people like her. Although she has been gone thirty-four years and I haven’t heard her voice other than in my dreams for all this time, I still miss her. And I will continue to miss you EGY until we meet again.

Pillow Talk

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Is it possible that during all these years I didn’t know who I was sleeping with? Or better still, did I just take it for granted that if I lost my bed partner I could easily replace it with another. I never thought much about my pillow until it turned up missing. How can something turn up and still be missing is a mystery to me. Or at least that phrase is what I would call an oxymoron; turning up and being missing all at the same time. The loss of my pillow was like a good friend had disappeared. Funny how comforting a pillow can be. You fluff it, fold it and wrap your arms around it as you drift off to sleep. During the night you might push it aside or even push it off the bed onto the floor, but eventually you awaken, stretch, and wonder where that pillow went. With eyes half open and consciousness teetering back and forth like a staggering drunk, you grope here and there for that pillow. Clutching it once more you tug and pull at it until you get it positioned comfortably back under your head and drift of to sleep.

When morning comes you fluff it, pat it into shape and cover it with the bedspread and think nothing more about the pillow until it is time once more to lie down for another night’s sleep. If we aren’t careful that is what we begin to do in our relationships with others. We pull them close to us when we have a need and think little of them when we are busy with the cares and challenges of life. In all honesty, I don’t think that anyone would choose to be someone else’s pillow, to be fluffed and patted and pushed away until a need arises. Then, when that need presents itself, expect the pillow to be right there where it was left just waiting to be of service once more.

Now I’m not suggesting that we carry our pillows around under our arm all day. We would get strange looks for sure. And heaven forbid what others might think. But if we are mindful during the day of the benefit those comforting pillows bring as we slumber through the night, we would be more appreciative and respectful of them. Do you have pillows in your life that you use at will and discard when you no longer have a need? I wonder how the pillows would feel if they had feelings. Thank goodness they don’t have feelings. We punch them, stuff them, fold them, and then drool on them at the very moment they are providing us the best level of comfort. Even when we travel it is comforting to snuggle down into a familiar pillow and close our eyes in search of that dream that tantalizes the imagination.

As I conclude my journal writings tonight and list the things that I am grateful for I should list the pillows of my life, the ones who have listened to my complaints, my disappointments and have even been witnesses to my prayers that often reach no farther than the bed covers because my heart has wandered while my lips recited the words.
But they have never complained, never given unsolicited advice but have silently fulfilled their duty as we punch them, fluff them, and fold them to meet our own needs.

Do you have people in your life that you have treated as pillows? I imagine you are somewhat like me, ready to think of someone else you know who could certainly use this little message. “It’s too bad old Charlie didn’t hear this. Someone needs to give him a good Indian burn for the way he treats his wife and kids.” Yes, it is easier to point out the faults of others than make that inward assessment and pluck the cactus needles in our own rear end. We often choose to sit on our own problems no matter how painful they are and point with a judgmental finger at the weaknesses of another. Even if you sit on your pillow instead of lay your head on it, you can still feel the cactus needles in your rear end. I’ve never heard a pillow complain or blame someone else for its problems, even when someone is sitting on it. I know a few people like that. But not many.

When the Wind Blows

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

As the old story goes, the farm boy could sleep when the wind blew because he was prepared in all things. I have usually been able to sleep regardless of whether the wind blew. One night not long ago the wind was blowing against our family. It wasn’t a natural wind caused by the atmospheric pressure of one air mass rushing to meet another. It was the constant gentle breeze coming from the air conditioning vents of the houseboat.

That cool air coming from those vents was designed to refresh us as we enjoyed being together on a houseboat at Lake Powell in celebration of our thirty-third family reunion. But in truth that cool air, that gentle artificial breeze was gradually poisoning us with carbon monoxide. With hind sight we could have done more to be prepared but this night, July 10th, 2007, we would have our metal tested as we dealt with an emergency far more serious than wind rocking our houseboat.

The natural wind did rock our houseboat later that night. As the wind increased in velocity one shore anchor gave way allowing the houseboat to weathervane into the wind. Sleeping bags, pillows, towels and clothing left lying on the deck of the houseboat were being blown into the water. Much of the effort to secure personal possessions that had not already been blown into the water was accomplished before I arrived back at the houseboat.

As I returned to the houseboat my mind wasn’t on the wind or on the houseboat. I was just going through the mechanical motions to secure the boat. We cranked the engines, letting the props hold the boat steady in the wind while we drilled more anchor holes in the sandstone rock of the shore. Within minutes we had four additional ropes securing the houseboat against the storm. I knew that the wind would stop blowing and personal gear could be replaced. My worry and concern was for my family members who were at the Bullfrog Emergency Medical Clinic being treated for carbon monoxide poisoning. Thirty-two people were transported to the clinic and twenty-two tested with levels of poisoning high enough to be admitted for treatment.

As the real wind of adversity blew against our family that night, I am thankful that emergency personnel were on duty and prepared to give us assistance. I am also mindful and grateful for the events that seemed to just fall into place as we grappled with our emergency. You may call those events coincidences. Neal A. Maxwell is quoted as having said, “There are no coincidences in life.” I agree with his statement. I believe we were in larger hands that night.

Too Proud to Pray

By Jerry Mack Grubbs
 
I have a saying on my desk that I look at each day. It states "The truly important things of life are not found in worldly wealth and earthly possessions but in the relationships we build with family and friends." After reading that saying, a visitor to my office said, "It was probably a poor man trying to make himself feel better who made that statement." I said in response, "If you truly believe what you just said, you probably also embrace the philosophy that 'religion is merely the opium of the uneducated,' a poor man trying to feel better about himself." Why is it that as a nation, the more successful we are, the more difficult it becomes to recognize the hand of God in our lives?  

I invited my visitor to have lunch with me. With a roll of his eyes he said, "You will probably insist that we bless the food at the restaurant." "No, I wouldn't want to embarrass you or cause you to feel uncomfortable," I said. "Many prayers are offered in silence, formulated in the mind and nestled softly in the heart. A prayer offered for show is no prayer at all but merely a one-act play with no curtain call.

I'm thankful I live in a country where our president isn't too proud to admit that he prays. I am grateful that our Founding Fathers weren't too proud to pray as they struggled to create a constitution that would stand the test of time. I'm glad I live among people who remember the God of heaven and earth when turmoil and conflict enter their lives. It was a humbled and frightened nation that returned to prayer following 9-11.   

I was certainly offering prayers of pleading the night of July 10th when those precious little ones of our family were in peril. As our boat sped through the darkness, our path being illuminated by a 400,000 candle power search light, I was thankful that I wasn't a stranger to prayer. Those prayers became prayers of gratitude the following day as we were able to reflect upon how blessed we are as a family. The family prayer that I was requested to give that morning was the most emotionally challenging assignment I have had in a long time. How thankful I am that I belong to a family where prayer is a daily part of our lives. That night of July 10th helped remind us just how unimportant worldly wealth and earthly possessions are when compared to the precious relationships of family and friends. How blessed I feel for each of you; for your safety, your example to me, and what I learn through my association with you.

It has been said that you measure a man by what makes him angry. I believe that you also measure a man by what he expresses gratitude for. It is often fear and anguish that brings a man to his knees in prayer; it is gratitude that keeps him on his knees.

The Tree House

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

She was agile as a boy when she climbed up into the tree. This girl was the only female I had ever invited to my tree house. I didn't actually invite her; she just stepped into my mind as I slept. This girl, this dream girl appeared at the base of the tree and said, "I want to share your tree house." She didn't say, "I want to visit your tree house."

This was a girl. Could she even climb the rope? Pushing through all that mental fog I said, "Do you need some help getting up the tree?" Before she could respond I began climbing down to help her. She acted irritated that I would think she needed my help. Irritation wasn't a feeling I wanted there in my secluded world. "This girl better get a different attitude if she is going to share my tree house," I thought. From the moment she sat down on the elevated platform next to me she became a co-owner of all my building efforts. Every board hauled up the rope, every nail driven into the tree and every hour spent planning how I would build my hideaway gave way to a feeling that it had never felt complete until she sat there next to me.

Accepting her was like drinking a glass of refreshing cold milk. She wore all white: white shorts, white blouse, white canvas shoes. She was fair complexioned and had blondish brown hair. When she saw that I was barefoot she removed her shoes. The irritation she originally stirred in me from her independent attitude faded as I watched her remove her shoes. But what drew me in to her were her eyes and her smile. She told me that she was eleven.

Touching her with my eyes, she spilled into me and covered all my insides. Although I didn't realize it at that moment, I would soon learn that I would never feel alone again. She stayed with me in my mind as I journeyed through my life, not necessarily as a living personage but more as a feeling. Down in the woods up in that tree house I forged a relationship with her that would stand the test of time. The tree no longer stands. Development has overrun and obliterated the forest that grew just beyond the home of my youth.

Before leaving for college in 1964 I returned to the tree house and renewed the memories I had created there through the years. On a sunny Sunday afternoon, the 5th of September 1965, before leaving for my mission for the LDS Church, I went back to the tree house and spent some quiet time. It would be the last time I ever sat and dangled my feet off the edge of that platform and looked down on the world below. Four years to the day of that last visit high up in the tree house, I walked through the doors of the Salt Lake LDS Temple and was married to my wife Kaye. Although it has been forty-two years since that last day I climbed up into the tree house it continues to be a place I can go to in my mind and find peace in my heart and a renewed resolve to strive to love others unconditionally as the girl in my dreams loved me.

Where Dad Thrived

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Dad had gone home and the ranch was left unattended through the winter. I tried to get up there each week to check on the buildings and give an appearance of activity taking place. It was Sunday afternoon and as I thought about the busy schedule of the upcoming week, I decided that I would slip up to the ranch, spend the night and come home in the morning.

I normally flew a small plane to the ranch but there was a light snow falling so I decided to drive. I was looking forward to the solitude of the drive assuming the roads didn't become snow-packed and slick. Once I left the interstate the little towns I passed appeared deserted. It was a peaceful drive. I arrived at the gate to the ranch just as it was getting dark. I had not bothered to change my shoes and the fresh snow wetted my socks as I stepped from the cab of the truck. That wasn't very smart, I thought. Oh well, I had my boots in the truck and I could change when I got to the house.

As I opened the gate that straddled the cattle guard at the entrance to the ranch I thought about dad and how much he loved this place. I wished he was here tonight. I would enjoy sitting by a warm fire and visiting with him and listening to the stories he had to tell about his adventures around the place. But he had gone south before the winter winds hit Wyoming. With snowdrifts four feet deep around the cabins I didn't blame him. The fact that dad wasn't here didn't stop the memories from flowing through me like clear water on a sunlit stream.

When dad first came to the ranch he said, "Mack, I'll take care of this place but I won't take any part in shooting the beavers that continue to dam up the culverts on the roads around the lake. I agreed that dad could deal peacefully with the beavers and any shooting that needed to be done, I would do. One day dad called and explained that he had spent five hours up to his waist in fifty degree water digging out a culvert plugged by a beaver. The next day dad called and told me that the beaver had plugged that same culvert again. He spent several hours in fifty degree water dragging out the limbs that chocked the culvert. The third day dad called and said, "Mack, I shot a beaver last night."

Skunks were also a serious problem for the ranch. They were nesting under one of the cabins and dad decided that he should trap them and remove the problem. The first skunk to end up in the trap created a new dilemma. How would dad get the skunk out of the trap without getting sprayed? Dad decided to shoot the skunk. He found out that shooting a skunk doesn't stop him from spraying. Not to be deterred, dad tied a twenty foot rope to the trap so the next skunk he caught, dad drug skunk, trap and all down to the lake and eased him into the water. I guess a skunk can't do two things at once: spray and drown.

The next group of creatures that came under the bead of dad's rifle was the raccoons. He would bate them with watermelon rinds and send them to the raccoon Promise Land with that rifle. Dad hadn't changed his tender feelings about the animals. He didn't enjoy taking their lives. But he loved the ranch and realized that sometimes difficult things have to be done to protect it. If a roof begins to leak and no one repairs it, nature will soon reclaim the entire cabin. Just as a nest of mice will destroy a sack of grain, beavers, skunks and raccoons will infest and wreak havoc on a ranch.

Dad taught me to respect life. He taught me that if I was going to take a life, I should be prepared to use that life for what it was created for.  Growing up, dad caught me shooting blue jays and said that I would have the opportunity to pluck and eat the next blue jay I killed. I never shot another blue jay or any other animal that I didn't eat. At least that is how it was until I came to the ranch and grew weary of trying to persuade the pesky creatures of Wyoming to go be a nuisance somewhere else. Just like dad, I didn't enjoy taking the life of the raccoons, the beavers, and the skunks. But I had grown to love the ranch and the special times dad and I spent together there during the previous summer.

These memories of dad washed across my mind during the few moments it took to open the gate that straddled the cattle guard at the entrance of the ranch. I felt lonely for dad's company. I was happy to be here in a place that is close to his heart even if he wasn't here now. Stepping back across the cattle guard, I slipped and fell. Extending my arms to catch my fall, my right arm slipped through the rails of the cattle guard and my forward motion caused a dislocation at my shoulder socket. I became dizzy with pain as I struggled to my feet. My arm hung limp and didn't obey the commands from my brain. I knew I was in trouble. It was almost dark and the snow was now coming down hard. I was a long way from help and I knew once my damaged shoulder began to swell I would not be able to get my arm back into the shoulder socket.

Just moments earlier all I needed to be content was a wealth of good memories swirling around in my head. But all the memories in the world wouldn't help relocate my shoulder. Where was dad when I needed him? I stumbled back to the truck and slid inside the warm cab to consider my options. The nearest town where medical help would be available was at least an hour's drive away but it was night and snowing hard. I decided that I needed to get my arm back into the shoulder socket before I did anything else.

Although my arm was almost useless I could still grip with my hand. I stepped out of the truck, closed the door and lifted my damaged arm with my other hand so I could grasp hold of the door handle of the truck. If I could hold on tight enough and jerk my body forward maybe the arm would slip back into place. Taking a deep breath and gripping the door handle, I jerked my body forward in hopes of forcing the shoulder joint back together. I crumpled to my knees in pain. Kneeling in the snow with my head against the side of the truck, I prayed out loud for help. Help didn't come. I struggled to my feet, took hold of the door handle once more and made a harder lunge to force my arm and shoulder back together. This time I cried out in pain as I sagged to my knees and slid down on my side until I lay in the snow cradling my injured arm.

I could feel my clothes becoming wet from the snow but I wasn't cold. Lying in the snow, I pleaded for help. There was no traffic on the road and I knew that what help I received would have to come from my own efforts. Once more I stood, took hold of the door handle and took a deep breath. I turned sideways, raised my left foot in the air and stepped forward like I was going to throw a rock as far as I could. As I gripped the door handle I let the full weight of my body carry me forward and this time I felt my arm pop back into place. Instantly the pain became less intense. I climbed back into the truck, reached over with my left hand and slipped the truck into reverse. As I backed out of the driveway to go to the hospital I noticed the open gate. I didn't want to leave the ranch unsecured nor did I want to walk across that slippery cattle guard again. I drove through the gate and up to the ranch house. Once inside, I took two strong painkillers that I carried in my bag just for occasions such as this. I stripped a spread off one of the beds and wrapped it around my chest and shoulder as tight as I could with my good arm.

I pulled the couch in the family room over by the fireplace and made a hot fire to warm my spirit. Lying on the couch I thought of all my blessings; of life, of family, of close friends, of the good times dad and I had here at the ranch. I would worry about my arm tomorrow when the sun would be bright upon the newly fallen snow and a fresh look at the world around me would make my problems a minor inconvenience. I slipped into the world of my dreams.

I recorded the dream I had that night. I still hold it close to my heart. Some dreams you share and some you tuck away. This dream I tucked away. I tucked the written words away but the dream is as alive in me today as when it filled my sleep filled mind. That night, amid the thoughts of dad at the ranch, the pain in my shoulder and the crackling fire that danced in my eyes and warmed my spirit, I made another memory even if it was only a dream. My grandpa told me to chase my dreams. He probably meant a different kind of dream. My grandpa is dead now but the dream lives on. I am thankful for all the men in my life who have helped shape and lift me when I was reaching out but couldn't quite touch my dream.

Dad and I still talk often and share fond memories of when I visited him at the ranch. I still dream of that ranch . . . where dad thrived.

No Talking Allowed

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Peering down from my hiding place I see far below a gentle surf lapping against the white sandy beach. The receding waves act like the tongues of thirsty dogs licking at the sand. As each wave releases its energy and slides back into the sea it carries with it part of this beach that is the front door to my view of the world.

But it isn’t just sand being drawn into the ocean that alters the view from my front door. Everything around me is in constant change if I just stand still long enough to notice. Maybe the fact that I have to stay very still and I am not allowed to speak to anyone gives me more time to watch the events taking place before me. Sometimes I feel like a spy looking down on the lives of people way down there on the beach. I can see them but they have no idea my eyes are upon them so they do things that they otherwise might not do.

As the sun was breaking over the distant horizon this morning I strained to bring into focus a jogger coming down the beach. Running alongside of him was a large black dog. The dog wasn’t on a leash although this beach had a strict leash-law. Occasionally the jogger would stop, pick up a piece of drift wood and toss it into the surf for the dog to chase after. The jogger and his dog were having a great time.

Almost right down in front of my hiding place the dog stopped and eliminated the remains of what must have been a large meal from the previous evening. What the dog did was perfectly normal behavior for a dog. The jogger stood patiently by as the dog finished his business. I saw that the man had a plastic bag tucked inside the waist band of his jogging shorts. That plastic bag was for the purpose of complying with another beach law, “scoop it up and pack it out” so the beach can remain clean and beautiful for other visitors to the sand of the seashore.

The dog completed his task and returned to his playful manner, coaxing his master to chase and play in the surf once more. The jogger looked down at the soiled beach but instead of retrieving his dog’s “beach present,” I noticed that he looked one way and then the next, searching for what I could only guess was to see if someone else on the beach might have seen what transpired. I can’t judge what was in his mind; I can only observe his actions. I looked both ways down the beach also and saw that it was deserted all except for me hiding way up above out of the jogger’s view. When he side-stepped the mess his dog left on the beach I wanted to shout down and tell him to clean up after his dog but I remained silent. I remembered one of the rules of my hiding place, no talking allowed. No one asked or wanted me to be the “Beach Gestapo” or “Poop Patrol.” I was only allowed to silently observe and there were many things to notice.

That huge orange ball we call the sun quickly pulled itself free of the horizon and began its steady climb into the sky, bringing with it the warmth of another beautiful summer day at the beach. I wondered what visitors would come to my front door of the world today. I had been so intent upon watching the jogger with his dog I had forgotten to turn off my lamp. I had left my light burning all night because I love to watch the light chase away the darkness. Some would call leaving my light on a waste of energy but I don’t tell others what to do with their light just like I didn’t remind the jogger of the “scoop-it-up and pack-it-out” rule of the beach.

I was anxious to see more visitors to the beach but I knew I would have to be patient. They didn’t come to entertain me; they didn’t even notice me. But not noticing me was okay. If visitors to the beach didn’t notice me, they would be themselves, acting just like the jogger who didn’t clean up after his dog because no one was looking.

My next visitors were two women taking a morning stroll. I imagined them to be vacationers who had grown tired of the novels they were reading back at their beach house and the sound of the surf had invited them to take a leisure walk. They looked happy and were enjoying one another’s company. They carried their sandals in their hands and walked barefoot in the wet sand letting the dying energy of the waves wash over their feet. I could see their lips moving and I strained to hear what they were saying but the sound of the surf muffled their voices. I knew I was too far away to hear what was being said so I just made up pleasant words and placed them on their lips.

The lady closest to the water was wearing a white swimsuit with blue markings. She had on a white blouse unbuttoned down the front that shielded her shoulders from the morning sun. Her shirttails flapped in the coastal breeze like the wings of a seagull taking flight. She had blonde hair and a smile that would melt your heart. She looked familiar but I was sure I had not seen her pass this way before or I would have remembered her. Her figure was filling out in places she would probably rather ignore but that didn’t matter to me. I am old enough to understand that a soft glance and a gentle touch are remembered by the senses long after the footprints in the sand are washed away by the incoming tide. And as long as I have been watching this beach, the tide has ebbed and flowed, washing away any evidence of trespassers on nature. I decided to name this lady Soft & Gentle for how she made me feel as I touched her with my eyes.

The other lady, the one closest to me, was much thinner and walked as though she wanted someone to notice her. She looked like she could go the distance . . . like a runner or an aerobics instructor. Her swimsuit was color coordinated in cream and copper to match a perfectly tanned body. I instantly nicknamed her Tanned & Toned. Here I was watching Soft & Gentle walking with Tanned & Toned as they strolled along the beach of life. I felt somewhat guilty tucked away in my hiding place and observing their every move. I wasn’t trying to deprive these two ladies of their privacy, I just enjoyed watching them as they leisurely strolled along the beach in what I called the front door to my world. I knew the pleasure of their company wouldn’t last long. They would soon be out of sight and I could only hope that they would pass by me on their return to their beach house. I wanted to run down to the beach before they came by again and remove the dropping left by the jogger’s dog but I couldn’t. I wasn’t on beach patrol; besides I wasn’t allowed to leave my hiding place.

I loose track of the days here in the cliff above the beach below. Today is either a holiday or the weekend because people began to show up just after lunch and stake out their own private spot of beach. They plopped down coolers, lawn chairs, towels and food baskets of all shapes and sizes. A volleyball net was set up for afternoon entertainment. This was turning into a wonderful way to pass the hours that can be sheer boredom when the beach is deserted. I’m not saying that I don’t enjoy the private solitude that a quiet beach can invite. I’m just suggesting that there can be a healthy balance between solitude and life-in-motion. With the erection of that volleyball net I knew instantly that there would be a lot of life in motion today. There would be young women in smaller than practical bikinis revealing enough of their assets to distract their male counterparts in the volleyball game. I wasn’t disappointed as the afternoon crowd gathered and the flirtation games began. Remember, disappointment comes from unmet expectations. Although the scenery was pleasant I felt a little saddened that so much emphasis is placed on physical appearance. But looking beyond the physical appearance is easier for an older generation where there have been too many cookies and milkshakes to tuck into a bikini or a Speedo.

I didn’t learn too much from this festive party because they were too busy worrying about how they looked to their friends. If you want to discover who someone really is, watch them when they think no one is looking. Like the little boy looking to make sure his mother wasn’t watching before he picked his nose. The only person who would chastise him was his mother, consequently; she was the only person who counted as he turned his back to her and performed his nasal ritual. Ten years from now when he would be one of the young men playing sand volleyball, wearing his Speedo and flexing his budding muscles, he wouldn’t dare put his finger anywhere near his nose for fear someone would have the slightest suspicion he was digging in that direction. Oh, the things we do when we think no one is looking. But today I was looking from my hiding place high up in the rocks above this happy crowd.

As afternoon burned into evening and most of the beach goers had retreated to their cars and headed for home, some lingered and built a campfire to roast marshmallows and hot dogs. From high up in my hiding place above the beach they became dancing shadows against the flames of the fire. I could still see their faces in the flickering light. One couple in particular stood out to me as I watched their eyes meet and lock on one another for long moments. I played a game in my mind and chose them to be the last hangers-on. In other words, no matter how long it took or how late it got these two would be the last ones to leave so that they could enjoy the quiet peaceful darkness together. I did not know what would happen once they were alone but I did know that there would be an expression of their feelings for one another.

I was right about the couple, not because I am smart but because I have observed visitors to the beach on other occasions. The pattern is the same. Once they are alone, they begin to explore each other physically or mentally or both. Tonight it was physical. The couple first sat by the dying fire and held each other close. Gradually as the fire turned to nothing more than glowing embers, they slid off the log they were sitting on and laid next to one another in the damp sand. It was only by a sliver of moon that I was able to see that things were taking place down on that beach that were meant for their eyes only. I know that a better one than I would have turned away and given them their privacy but instead, I turned on my light and let it shine down upon them. You see, I am a lighthouse and I am not allowed to talk. But I can turn on my light and chase away the darkness.

That is what I do each evening as I try to help others find their way on the darkest of nights. Some are caught in the unsuspected light, surprised and possibly embarrassed like the couple lying in the sand below. Others are grateful for that beacon that can guide them safely home. I could not leave the light off to accommodate the couple on the beach for fear that someone else was lost and floundering in a dark unfriendly sea. I started to name this article “If Lighthouses Could Talk,” but then it would have given away my hiding place. If a lighthouse could talk, think of the stories it would have to tell. If it could write, think of the pages of journals that a lighthouse could fill. If a lighthouse had a heart, imagine all the romantic sunsets it would experience.

A Soft Presence

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Taking the stairs two at a time I sidestepped around a middle aged woman as I made my way up the stairwell to level 5 of the parking lot. As I climbed the stairs above her, I looked back and saw that her blonde hair revealed graying roots. There was a bounce in my step. My youthful exuberance was from holding my newest grandson Campbell as I visited with his parents at the hospital. Just as I opened the door to exit the stairwell I looked back and the lady I had passed was lumbering up the last flight of stairs not far behind me. I decided to wait and hold the door for her. She looked up and smiled a thank you as she passed through the doorway.

As the door began to close I glanced back into the stairwell and suddenly an old familiar feeling gripped me. I felt the presence of an unseen person in that stairwell. I have experienced similar feelings in the past; of sensing the presence of someone who I could not see. The feeling is usually the same. I am emotionally drawn to her and I want to protect her and keep her from harm. Who is this person? Where is this feeling coming from? Why am I so concerned about her safety? She isn’t my mother, my wife, my daughters, or my daughters-in-law. She is apart from them but I have an emotional attachment to her. As I try to put definition on those emotions I can’t even decide whether I feel responsible for her or responsible to her.

I hope that someday I will understand these feelings. I know there is someone lingering near me, reaching out to me. It isn’t a ghost but a soft presence of someone near. It is like my heart knows more than my brain and my heart isn’t willing to tell my brain who is standing there and what it all means. Although this experience has repeated itself on other occasions, prior to today my most recent feeling that her soft presence was near me came in September of last year. While my wife and I were having dinner at the home of friends I felt this lady standing right next to my chair.

Some would say that I am crazy, that it is all a figment of my imagination. Maybe it is my imagination and maybe it isn’t. But to me she is real and I look forward to understanding the meaning of it all. I know a little more than I am telling but not much more; not enough for you to make any sense out of what floods over me when I feel her soft presence near me.

I have heard stories of other people having similar experiences when they have lost a loved one through accident or illness. These people often struggle in frustration as they strive to put into words that a soft presence was felt and a comforting feeling was experienced. I have never felt that my experiences are coming form someone deceased nor have I thought that this soft presence I feel near me is trying to bring me a message from beyond this world. She is just there . . . unseen but felt. And the feeling remains with me for days and I want to hold her, shield her and protect her from anyone who would harm her in any way. She was in the parking lot stairwell today. Why? I do not know. But I was flooded with warmth by her soft presence.

The Little Red Wagon

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

It was the 21st day of December and I had spent a few moments at the cemetery remembering a close friend and visiting old memories. It was a beautiful day, crisp and clear with a gentle breeze blowing. I tucked my neck down into the collar of my coat as I finished writing a few thoughts, closed my notebook and headed back to the car.

I turned left as I exited the cemetery and headed for a Christmas visit with another friend from my past. I see her only once each year now and yet twenty years ago we were together every working day. I knew a little of her hopes and dreams and some of her disappointments. But today she and I will reflect on days gone by, catch up on the events of the current year and after a brief hug, say our goodbyes for another year. Oh, we will promise to get together more often; go to lunch and have Mexican food, but it will not happen.

It will not happen because life gets busy with obligations and routine commitments. But mostly it will not happen because our lives become intertwined for a season and then a pruning separates the old from the new. This year she will once again say, "I wondered if you would come this year." And I will think, "We prune, gather, stack and burn but no one can prune away my memories." We lived and laughed and worked and played. We even shared that friend who is now silent that I visited in the cemetery. She will ask if I know what day this is and we will both know it is the anniversary of his passing.

While sitting at a red light and thinking about the upcoming visit with her, I noticed a black BMW sedan pass by in front of me. It was spotless, so spotless it caught my eye. But what really caught my attention was a red wagon full of Christmas presents in the back seat of that car. When the light changed I impulsively decided to follow the BMW. Pulling in close behind the black car I noticed that it was a 530xi. That didn't mean anything to me but I was sure it meant something to the owner. I wanted to jot down the license plate number but I didn't. The BMW was headed east on Fourth South Street and I decided to pull up beside it to get a closer look at the red wagon in the back seat. But my attention was drawn to the occupants of the car.

It is interesting what you can see in a person if you look close enough. I'm not talking about receding hairlines on men and turtleneck sweaters on women to hide what cosmetic surgery can't roll back the clock on. I'm talking about the look of happiness, contentment, worry or grief. Today I saw worry and grief chiseled in stone on the faces of the couple in the spotless black BMW sedan. They were well dressed. The lady passenger didn't have a single blond hair out of place and the morning sun danced on her golden necklace. The driver wore a heavy starched white shirt with monogrammed cuffs. They each had an unopened water bottle cradled in the console cup holders. They appeared to be in their mid thirties but the strain on their faces gave them the appearance of statues devoid of life or manikins in a department store window.

They did not speak. They did not look at each other or toward me but stared straight ahead as though in a trance. I wanted to know their story. I wanted to know who the little red wagon full of Christmas presents was for. As I continued to follow the BMW, it turned toward the University of Utah Hospital. I began to imagine that this couple had a young son or daughter gravely ill and that they were filled with despair. I lost them in the hospital parking terrace but I wasn't too concerned. How many couples would be pulling a red wagon full of Christmas presents through the corridor of the hospital? To my dismay the couple was just entering the elevator when I reached the main foyer. All I knew was that they were headed up. I was blocked by a sea of people. Something was wrong. There had been a "Code Pink" issued just as I entered the hospital. Code Pink meant there had been an infant abduction and every exit to the hospital was being closed off. It took several minutes before everyone knew that it was just a security drill.

Security drill or not, I had lost the couple with the red wagon full of Christmas presents. But what I could not forget was that look of despair on their faces. There are some things that money cannot buy. It cannot buy health and it cannot buy happiness. The look on the faces of that couple told me that they would trade anything for what they did not have, a healthy child. A spotless black BMW sedan, starched white shirts and gold necklaces become nothing more than pruned limbs, gathered, stacked and prepared for burning if that sacrifice would restore what that couple had lost.

While wandering the halls of the hospital in search of the little red wagon full of Christmas presents, I came across another friend from the past. What a pleasant yet unexpected reunion we enjoyed. We exchanged phone numbers and agreed to meet for lunch one day. I left the hospital with a lighter step because of a friendship renewed coupled with a pain in my heart for a couple I did not know. I returned to my car and continued on my journey to visit that friend with whom I had laughed and worked and played so many years ago. I didn't have a little red wagon full of Christmas presents for her but I did have memories to share and moments to remember. I heard her voice. I enjoyed her smile. Our friendship has survived the pruning, gathering, stacking and burning that separates the old from the new.  After the pruning comes the tender new growth. Oh, how good it is to be alive and pull my little red wagon along the road of my mind and fill it with memories, hopes and dreams and friendships renewed.

The Look of Christmas

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

The year was 1952. I was six years old and anxious for Christmas to come. I had written my letter to Santa requesting a 24" J.C. Higgins bicycle. I didn't know how to ride a bike but I was sure that in no time I would be sailing up and down the dirt road in front of my home.

My joy was complete Christmas morning as I entered the room and saw my candy apple red bicycle next to the tree. There were other presents with my name on them but I had only one thought…get outside and learn to ride my new bike. My brother Bill got a bike also but he was seven and he already knew how to ride. Bill climbed on his bike and was soon out of sight. I quickly discovered that a 24" bicycle was too tall for a six year old. It was impossible to sit on the seat and keep my feet on the pedals. Sometime the bicycle cross bar was even a challenge. My dad assured me that I would grow into the bike.

Learning to ride this oversize bicycle proved very challenging for me. I couldn't pedal with enough momentum to keep my balance so my brother came up with a plan. I pushed my bike over to a gently sloping hill. Holding the bike while I straddled the cross bar and got my feet on the pedals, my brother gave me a gentle shove down the incline. If I could have remembered my birth this would have been the second most frightening experience of my life. I was convinced that I was about to die. I crashed. I survived, but the candy apple red paint on my bike didn't do as well. I cried as I pushed my bike home. My brother was still laughing as we came into the front yard. I thought how strange it was that he got so serious and concerned about my welfare when my mother appeared in the doorway. She consoled me and assured me that my bike would function just as well with the paint scuffed up a little.

I eventually learned to ride my candy apple red bike with the white side wall tires. The world was different in those days. Mother let us ride our bicycles to town seven miles away. After we moved to the city, my brother and I rode all the way to granny's house thirty-three miles away. Young boys on a two lane country road traveling so far away made us feel all grown up. We eventually rode the tread off the tires of those bikes. That was okay because with bald tires we could slam on the brakes and skid farther which was a great pastime.

I no longer worried about the scrapes and scratches on my candy apple red bike. I left it out in the rain. I occasionally left it in the neighbor's yard and took little regard for it unless I couldn't find it when I was ready to travel once more. One day I looked and looked for my bike and couldn't find it anywhere. When I asked mother if she knew where my bike was, she said, "Yes, I gave your bike away to some needy children who will appreciate it and keep it out of the weather." I was so angry with her that I could cuss but cussing would get me the "you know what." Of course I never tried cussing my mother but I got the "you know what" for other things and I wasn't going to invite that experience into my life intentionally. I was in a bad mood for days. I even ran away for four hours but I decided that wasn't a good plan. No matter what I did or what I said, my candy apple red bicycle did not come home.

As Christmas approached I requested a new bike. Mother said I couldn't ask for another bike because I didn't take care of the bike I had. I told her if I couldn't have a bike I didn't want anything; apply the pressure, right. I knew my parents would eventually cave under the pressure and I'd get a new bike. As Christmas neared I looked high and low for evidence of a new bike tucked away in a safe place. See, when you live out in the country your parents sometimes loose faith in Santa and they stash a few things here and there just incase Santa can't find your place on Christmas Eve.

With all my snooping and searching I could find no evidence of a new bicycle that would be standing shining and bright in our living room on Christmas morning just waiting to make me the happiest boy alive. Mother said that if I didn't decide what I wanted for Christmas she would ask Santa to just bring me some clothes. With a reluctant heart I made other choices for the coming Christmas. Mother reminded us that there were many children on Santa's list so we needed to be careful about how much we asked for. Her comment reminded me of that poor little boy who was riding my candy apple red bike. I hoped he crashed and I didn't even know who he was.

Christmas morning finally arrived. I planned to act excited although I was still unhappy about not getting a bicycle. To my surprise there were two shiny green bicycles with white trim; one for me and one for my brother. I ran across the living room to claim my new bike. Coming closer, I realized the bike wasn't new. It was my old 24" J.C. Higgins bike painted a different color. It wasn't even a good paint job. I was angry at mother for lying to me about giving my bike away. I thought of all the months I had missed riding my bike. She had lied to me. Even with my old bike back I was still unhappy that I wasn't getting a new bicycle for Christmas. This was turning out to be the worst Christmas of my life. I looked at my brother and I could see the same disappointment in his eyes. I turned to my mother and as our eyes met I knew at that instant that I held her happiness in my hands. I saw a longing in her eyes that even a ten year old boy could recognize. Would I do the right thing? Would my light burn bright this day? I knew my mother had painted my bike with her own hands. The unsteady lines and brush strokes of the green paint took on new meaning to me. I ran to mother and threw my arms around her, hugging her has tight as I could and thanking her for my bicycle. As my brother and I took our bikes outside to ride, we decided it was nice to have new tires and fresh paint. We grinned at each other and peddled down the road. I never forgot the power we held in our hands that morning when we looked up into the eyes of our mother on a Christmas long ago when there were so many children on Santa's list.