Making Others Feel Special

I hadn't stepped more than two feet into the Memorial Ward Chapel before Bret Bassett came up to me and introduced himself. He asked me my name, welcomed me to the ward and laughed at my jokes. Forty years later, Bret is still one of my closest friends and that laugh hasn't changed.

I was invited to a pool party at his subdivision and a follow-up party at his house that next Wednesday. At the party, Bret made sure that I was introduced to everyone. All of the time I was in his company, he made me feel like I was his closest and dearest friend. I kept thinking of the words that Christ used to describe Nathanael, "Behold, a man without guile". (later on I discovered a little guile here and there...but not much)

The first time I ate dinner with the Bassetts, I discovered a few things. First, if you weren't quick, you'd starve before you got anything to eat in that household. All of the food was placed atop a large Lazy Susan that sat at the round kitchen table. Nobody ever asked for anything to be passed, they just spun the Lazy Susan until the food item they wanted was in front of them.

I have heard people opine that the smallest increment of time known to man is called, 'A New York Minute'. It is the interval of time between the light in front of you turning green and the cab driver behind you honking his horn. However, I have discovered an infinitesimally shorter increment of time..it is the period of time between 'Amen' being said over the food at the Bassett home and the Lazy Susan starting to spin.

I wasn't quite sure what was on the menu because that Lazy Susan spun so fast that all I saw was a blur...an amalgam of foods whipping by too fast for the eye to lock onto so the mind could register. (I thought I smelled chicken) It was Brett's brother Bruce who showed me how to get fed. You simply stuck your arm into the middle of the Lazy Susan and scooped whatever dish came by off and onto the table. Once I'd seen it done a couple of times and was assured that I wouldn't lose a limb in the process, I copied Bruce's example. The timing required to accomplish this feat is something akin to the timing required for double dutch jump rope.

The second thing I learned from visiting The Bassett home was that all of Bret's brothers and sisters had, in varying degrees, the very same ability to make a stranger feel like you were family. It didn't take long to discover that this remarkable talent was due to the example set by the matriarch of The Bassett Clan, Sister Bassett.

Sister Bassett was the proverbial iron fist in a velvet glove. Those ice-blue eyes of hers would look straight into yours in a way that said, "I'll brook no nonsense from you, young man" with a generous twinkle that also said, "but you're fun to have around". Even when those eye's flashed in anger, you could still detect a hint of that twinkle lurking around the edges.

I think it was because I loved the dichotomy of those angry eyes with a hint of twinkle so much that I made it my life's mission to be the thorn in Sister Bassett's side. I never left the field of verbal battle with Sister Bassett unbloodied, or even close to victorious. (but to this day, I haven't given up)

Once her youngest son, Sid, did something that caused Sister Bassett to reach out and swat his behind. I chided her by saying that the prophet, David O. McKay's children said that the worst thing he ever did to them was to say, "I wish my children would be good". Usually, a zinger like that will catch my opponent off guard long enough for me to prepare another one before they answer back...but not Sister Bassett. She shot back at me with, "I've read a lot of wonderful things about President McKay. I've never read anything about his kids though"

Score:Janice 1; Tom 0

We had an ongoing argument over my failure to attend BYU Education Week. I refused to go on the grounds that they charged an entrance fee and The Book of Mormon says that paying people to preach to you was priest crafts

This one came out a tie.

I never paid for a haircut my entire time in high school. If my hair got too long, Sister Bassett would get out her clippers and barber's cloth, set me in a chair in the kitchen, place the cloth around my shoulders and cut my hair. It was during these times of captivity that she imparted her wisdom to me. If I showed any reticence about accepting that wisdom or wanting to argue with her, I was told to be quiet and listen. Usually these demands for silence were punctuated by short tugs to a lock of hair on the back of my head.

Sister Bassett's favorite form of punishment was to sentence the guilty to a week of doing the dinner dishes. Over the years I had seen each of the Bassett children take their turn several times with this punishment. The seriousness of infraction required for the issuance this ultimate sentence waned proportionate to the days of the week. Meaning, if it was Sunday and nobody was cued up to do dishes for the next week, you watched yourself.

I thought that this punishment was reserved only for her children and paid for my folly one week by stepping over the line while teasing the youngest sister, Liz. I was roundly chastised and told that I was expected in the Bassett home every night at seven o'clock for a week so that I could do the dishes. All of the Bassett children cheered...mainly because, if I was doing the dishes, they didn't have to.

Explaining to my parents why I had to leave our dinner table and drive over to the Bassett's to do the dishes was a little awkward, especially when I didn't do dishes in our home. My dad asked me what would happen if I just ignored Sister Bassett's demand. To be honest, I hadn't really thought about it...and when I did...it scared me a little.

Sister Bassett became like a second mom to me. She's been in the hospital and, as I write these words, she is about to undergo surgery on her heart. There is a definite chance that she will not make it through the surgery...but how I hope and pray she does.

I went to visit her in the hospital on Monday and all of her children there greeted me like a long lost sibling. We all chatted while Sister Bassett slept, when she opened her eyes and saw me, the first thing I did was offer her a sip of my Dr. Pepper.

"You know I don't drink that", She said.

"Are you judging me?" I asked. "Is this the kind of thing that you want to be doing while getting ready to see Jesus?...judge others?"

I was rewarded with a huge twinkle out of those eyes that hadn't seemed to age a bit over the last 4 decades (score one for Tom)

When it came time to go, I went over and kissed her forehead, she said, "I love you forever and have since the first time you came into our home."

I've been keeping up with her progress by reading the blog her kids set up. I also read the comments of the people she's touched over the years....people who I don't know but feel the same way about her that I do. It made me think, for a moment, that I wasn't that special to her after all....but then I quickly realized that we all are.

In The Valley of Peniel

I watched a program on The History Channel the other day about the ancient patriarch, Jacob, whose name was changed to Israel after he wrestled all night with a heavenly being. Jacob called the name of the place where he struggled, 'Peniel' because, 'I have seen the face of God'. The name 'Israel' was given to Jacob as a blessing by the Heavenly messenger. Israel can have one or more of several meanings from, 'struggled with God' to, 'prevailed with God'. It was given to Jacob by the heavenly messenger at the dawn of an all night struggle during which neither was victorious. The scriptures state that the heavenly being reached out and touched Jacob's thigh and that his hip was out of joint. Despite the obvious pain and discomfort he was going through, Jacob stubbornly clung to the being and refused to let him go. Seeing that the dawn was upon him, the messenger told Jacob to release him. Jacob refused and demanded a blessing.

What interested me most was the literal way in which the historian commentators took the story. I must admit that, up to that point, I too had thought of Jacob's struggle in a literal sense...but not anymore. Maybe, perhaps, because I, also, have been struggling of late.

I've been going through some difficult times, lately. Although I've weathered far worse times, what makes this current episode so difficult to take is the way in which I've sought solace and comfort in vain. In other times, when I've gone to The Lord in prayer for relief and comfort, the burdens that I carried into the conversation and laid at Heavenly Father's feet have been taken from me. Nothing in my outward circumstances had changed. I still faced the same challenges as I did before I hit my knees, and yet...those burdens were taken from me and I left that meeting with my Father in Heaven with a knowledge that I was equal to the task before me...that things will, somehow, work out and my family and I will do well.

For the past few months, however, that solace has been sought in vain. The heavens seem to have closed themselves up and every petitioned blessing has been answered with a new challenge or obstacle. I don't know when I've ever felt more alone. Like Jacob, I have been struggling with God.

I suppose that's why yesterday's broadcast seems like a Godsend to me. For the first time I understood what must have been really happening that night, and I saw Jacob's struggle with God as a spiritual, rather than a physical struggle. Jacob seeking to connect with his Father in Heaven and seeking solace and comfort and assurance from God before he went on to meet his estranged brother, Esau...and that solace and comfort and assurance being withheld. Perhaps, during his distracted struggle to connect with God, Jacob lost his footing in the dark, slipped and fell and dislocated his hip, seeing that painful injury as an answer from God for his petitions.

As Jacob writhes in pain, he looks to the East and sees that the sky over the horizon is a shade or two lighter than the last time he looked and he realizes that he has been struggling with God all night long for a blessing that seems to not come.

And then Satan enters Jacob's heart in the guise of God, Himself, and say's 'Let me go'...'Abandon your worship of me'

And this is where Jacob proves to himself the metal of which he's made. He refuses to give up and abandon God, although it appears to Jacob as if God has given up on Jacob and abandoned him. He stubbornly refuses to let go and clings to God, asking a blessing once more...and this time the sought for blessing comes.

Jacob's name is changed to Israel and he is promised that he will be the father of many nations. The great blessing that was given to his father, Isaac and his grandfather, Abraham, will be realized through Jacob. Through his lineaqe will come the Savior of the World, and he will be praised throughout eternity.

Maybe I'm wrong and misreading this whole episode...maybe it's been so long since I've had a confirmation from The Spirit that I'm misinterpreting this whole scenario....but maybe I'm right.

Anyway, it's given me the strength to hold on...to stubbornly cling to God and await his answer.

Orange you glad we came?

Salerno was my first and, as sometimes happens, fourth city on my mission. Nestled just south of Naples along the southern end of the Amalfi Coast, reputedly one of the most beautiful coastlines in the world. It was one of my favorite cities for several reasons.

The allies landed here during WWII and then slugged it up north where they had a major battle at Monte Casino where Germans had set up their stronghold in a Benedictine Monastery high on a hill overlooking the town of Casino. The battle was one of the bloodiest and most decisive battles in WWII and with the fall of Monte Casino, the road to Rome was open.

For some reason, I confused the old dilapidated ruins of a monastery high on a hill overlooking Salerno with the famed battle site located some 100 kilometers to the north.

In my defense, I blame a lack of interest in World History and that Italians actually believe that the grotto and manger wherein Christ was born was spirited away from Jerusalem by angels one medieval night and is now located in the town of Assisi Italy (Of St. Francis fame). Apparently the lead in the Italian water system causes these types of geographical delusions.

The fact that St. Francis' birthplace and the birthplace of our Lord is now located within a five minute walk of each other should be viewed as a bona fide miracle and we should not fall prey to the cynical assumption that this is just a thirteenth century marketing ploy. (On your way out, don't forget to take a look at our beautiful place mats which feature St. Francis' "Lord, make me an instrument of they peace" prayer in gold leaf on one side with the Holy Family manger scene recreated in stunning 3D reality on the other side....if you keep your left eye open while rapidly blinking your right, you'll see Baby Jesus wink at you)...now, back to our story.

Anyway, when I told my companion that I was certain that the run-down monastery on the highest hill overlooking Salerno was the famed WWII battle site, we made plans to climb the hill and visit it on the very next P-Day.

We started our climb about ten in the morning under a blazing August Mediterranean sun. It soon became apparent to both of us that the hill was a lot higher than we had anticipated,a lot steeper than we had anticipated, and that we should have brought along some water for the climb.

The road to the monastery wasn't anything you'd drive a car up....or even a jeep if it had a nice paint job. It was more of a goat path, complete with the occasional goat bleating out protests against out intrusion into their domain. Both my companion and I were tired, hot, thirsty, and sweaty and I suspect that if either of us hinted at wanting to go back without making it to the top, we'd have turned around immediately...but neither of us wanted to be the weenie and so we soldiered on.

About fifty yards from the top, we stopped to rest on a rock and catch our breath. That was when we discovered that the monastery which we had thought was abandoned was, in fact, inhabited. A party of three monks came down from the top of the hill towards us. They had witnessed our climb, which took the better part of an hour, saw that we had foolishly forgot to bring liquid refreshment, and were coming down to greet us with a couple of bottles of wine.

In Italy, EVERYONE drinks wine...and many Italians view a refusal of offered wine as an insult akin to spitting on their flag. It doesn't matter how much you protest that it is against your religion, they will try every ploy up to and including wrestling you to the ground, forcing open your mouth, and pouring the stuff down your throat.

The monks came up to us and introduced themselves. One of them told us that he was the prior of the small cell of monks that was living in and restoring the old monastery. When he offered us the wine he had brought to us, we politely refused, telling him that we were missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints and that drinking wine was against our religion.

Given the Italian's sensitive feelings about their wine and the fact that we were Mormon missionaries on Italian soil, we fully expected to be shown the way back down the mountain. Instead, the prior inclined his head and whispered something to one of the other monks who went running back up to the monastery with the two bottles of wine.

The prior then invited us to lunch and asked us to sit and rest ourselves on a large rock overlooking the Bay of Salerno until we were refreshed and could continue our journey. After about two minutes, the monk that had left came hurrying back with a couple of cups and a pitcher of the coolest, sweetest spring water I had ever tasted.

When we got to the monastery, we saw that a table had been set up in the courtyard and the rest of the monks, about twenty in all, were busy setting up a simple, rustic meal of freshly baked bread, goat cheese, tomatoes, olives, vinegar, appricots and oranges, all made there in the monastery by the monks that now waited on us hand and foot. We were told several times how it was a pity that we could not drink wine which was also made there and, reportedly, quite wonderful.

Towards the end of the meal, the prior again bent his head and whispered something to the monk who had brought us the pitcher of water and sent him scurrying off on yet another errand. When he returned, he was holding two dusty bottles. We thought that we were, again, going to have to refuse an offering of wine when the dust was blown off and we discovered that what was being offered to us was aranciata...simple orange soda. Aranciata is the second favorite drink in Italy right after wine and coffee. When the rest of the monks at the table saw the bottles, they hastily drained the wine from their glasses in anticipation of the treat. There was just enough for a small glass of orange soda for each of us.

As we sat around the table and talked, there was no arguing over religion. Instead, we openly envied each other. My companion and I envied the amount of time afforded to the monks for study and prayer while they openly envied the fact that we were actively involved in bringing souls to Christ.

The hour was late and we had to be back and dressed in white shites and ties before 5:00 in the evening and so, after much hand-shaking, hugging, and a little more cheek-kissing than either my companion and I were comfortable with, we said our goodbyes.

As I related that story to our branch president, he told me that the monks on the hill were very poor and that they normally only ate very poor fare. "That meal they gave you was probably like their Christmas feast...and those two bottles of aranciata were probably donated and saved for a special occasion. They usually only eat what they grow or make and only come into town only twice a year and what little money they have is spent on building supplies"

The very next P-day, my companion and I and the two other missionaries that served in Salerno with us trudged up the hill to the monastery once more. The climb took a little longer this time because each of us were weighed down with shopping bags full of cheese, bread, olives, vinegar..and orange soda...lots of orange soda.

We probably could have brought one or two bottles more but we just had to have room in the bags for twenty bars of chocolate.

Hi Dad

Having a child with autism under your roof hones your senses in a way that few imagine possible. One of the things that changes is that you can spot another person with autism a mile away. There are various and sundry nuances to the way a person with autism will hold their head, react to a touch, walk, talk, make a noise....it really is uncanny. Kerry and I have been in the supermarket and she will prick her ears up at a noise made one aisle over and say to me, "That person has autism". Sure enough, when we turned the corner, there would be a person holding their head at the precise angle or moving their thumb and forefinger together in a way as to suggest that they are counting imaginary money. One of the key signs is the avoidance of eye contact. A person with autism will most of the time answer a question posed to them as if they are being distracted from some unseen attraction that commands their attention...physically in this world and yet, mentally, engrossed in some other world that is far removed and distant. People who are not intimate with this disease have no idea how much Dustin Hoffman deserved that Academy Award he won for 'Rainman'.

The hardest part of finding out that your child has autism is the death of all of the hopes and dreams and expectations that had unknowingly taken root in your heart the minute that child arrived in your life. You have to learn to say goodbye to that child and start learning to love the child that you have...and yet...somewhere behind that unseen and impenetrable wall...you have an inkling...a hope that the child you thought you had is still waiting there...biding time until the day when The Great God will make all things right and you will enjoy him as he really is, unfettered and free of all mental restraints.

Fortunately, for Kerry and I, Heavenly Father has given us brief glimpses into what this will be like. It's happened to each of us at different times and in different ways but we've each had the opportunity to briefly meet and converse with our son when he has been completely free of his autism.

For me, the occurrence happened about ten years ago when I was recuperating from my accident. Kerry had gone off to the store with John-Ross and Sarah and Daniel and I were at home by ourselves. I was busy with some project at my desk and Daniel was in the room watching television.

As I worked, I slowly became aware of a different feeling in the room....almost the way you become aware that the weather has suddenly changed outside. It was very subtle but very palpable.

I looked up from my work and into the eyes of my son. Everything about his visage had changed. The ever-present grin that is so endearing and yet, so indelibly reminiscient of a person with mental illness was gone. It was replaced with the calm serenity of a person who is completely confident and free of any remorse or regret. The eyes that would only briefly meet mine now locked onto me and seemed to penetrate deep into the depths of my soul.

There was a moment of silence as it dawned upon me that I was looking at my son, completely free of the prison that had held his mind and kept him away from me.

"Hi Dad"

I was afraid to speak for fear that anything on my part would shatter the moment and so Daniel and I stood locked in each other's gaze until I finally said, "Hello son.".

"I just wanted you to know that I'm not crazy"

"I know you're not"

"Good"


And with the utterance of those words...he was gone...The crooked smile returned to his face and his eyes clouded over and my son retreated back behind that wall that he had briefly pierced. Gone to a place where I could not follow.

One day, the wall will be forever torn down. The prison doors will be flung open and I will again see him as he truly is, majestic, unblemished, unfettered...divine. And he will retreat no more to a place where I cannot follow. I will bask in his company and learn to love him all over again...and I will have to say goodbye to the son I have now.

How I will miss him.

Sesame Street has been brought to you by the letters 'D" and "P"

My wife and I often observe that we do not have three children, we have three only children. We state that because they are so completely different. We have our son, Daniel who has autism. We have our daughter, Sarah who's gifted in music and dramma and math and...(well...she's a girl)...and we have our eldest son, John-Ross.

John-Ross is a genius. There's no other way to put it. A lot of people abuse that phrase when they want to tell you that their kid is pretty smart so let me elaborate. When John-Ross was three, he taught himself to read. Before he started Kindergarten, he had read the entire collected works of Lewis Carroll and was working on Melville. He absorbed knowledge, particularly literature, not like a sponge but more like a black hole would absorb light. By the time he was eight, he was up to reading the books they give literature majors in college...usually three or four at a time.

As a young father, I often made the mistake of confusing intelligence with maturity. So when John-Ross came to me at the tender age of six and a half and wondered where babies came from, I thought to myself,"What? Vonnegut hasn't covered that for you yet" I was about to give my son a volume written by Kilgore Trout, one of Vonnegut's alter egos whose prose served when what Vonnegut wanted to say exceeded the poetic license he granted himself, thinking..."there ya go, kid...that ought to explain it to you " when my wife caught me and told me I had to man up and do it myself.

Like I said, it is easy to mistake intelligence for maturity and so, since my son was using big words and talking like an adult...I talked to him like an adult. I told him exactly where babies come from; the whole process. What he wanted...what he needed at the time was a simple, "When mommies and daddies love each other..." and here I was whipping out charts and graphs and full color illustrations out of the encyclopedia.

When I finished, I felt proud. I had just passed one of those seminal moments (excuse the awkwardness of that particular phrase here) between a father and a son. I patted my six year old on the head and asked him if he had any questions.

John-Ross looked up at me with those beautiful brown eyes of his like he had been pole-axed. Then, without another word, he turned, went into the bathroom, and began to throw up. When he emerged from the bathroom, he again turned those sweet brown eyes up to me. There was a pleading in them, almost as if he wanted me to say "Ha Ha....just kidding!. You see, there's this stork and this cabbage patch..." We stood there in silence for a moment.

When he finally spoke, he said, "Surely, you don't do that to my mother!"

That was when my wife and I instituted, "The Jar" Let me explain "The Jar". It operates along the same principle as a swear jar that many families use to punish daddy when he hits his thumb with a hammer and lets fly a few expletives to which tender young ears ought not be exposed. Only the swear jar is a mayonaise jar with quarters and nickles in it. Once the jar got full, the family would all go out for pizza.

Our jar was a five gallon water jug stuffed with tens and twenties and its intended purpose was to pay for whatever future therapy our children would need due to the ham-fisted way in which I handled myself as their father. "The Explaining Incident" (as it later became known) cost me a weeks pay.

The reason you need to know all of this is because you need a foundation for the story I am about to tell. When John-Ross was two and a half, Sesame Street was his main diet. Our home had more Sesame Street stuff in it than a PBS gift shop. There were two reasons for this: First, like I said, John-Ross was absorbing knowledge at an alarming rate and Sesame Street's sole raison d'etere was to stuff knowledge into little minds, and second (and perhaps more important) we had just moved to California, into the only apartment we could afford there which meant it was in a seedier part of Freemont. While we were moving in, I witnessed a homeless person relieving himself in the ally across the street and made the patriarchal declaration that, under no circumstances, until we could move into a better neighborhood, would our son be allowed to play outside by himself.


So, while we barracaded ourself into our eight hundred square feet of stucco-finished, Pepto-Bismal pink, Heaven on earth...the characters on Sesame Street became John-Ross' closest and dearest friends. Really..his only friends.

When Daniel was born, Kerry's father took ill and we flew her across country with our new baby so that she could care for her dad and show him his new grandson. I took a couple of weeks off from work to care for John-Ross.

My wife had carefully written out and placed in a binder explicit instructions on the care and feeding of our son. She even entitled it, "The Care and Feeding of John-Ross" (I tossed the book as soon as my wife got on the plane)

Instructions??? we don't need no stinkin' instructions! John-Ross was my buddy, my pal...we were going to have two weeks of fun while mom was gone and I had carefully planned out my own agenda...with a final Saturday crescendo and climaxing with our sitting front row and center at "Sesame Street Live"

My wife had caught me once slipping Dr. Pepper into John-Ross' sippy cup and I got a lecture that lasted for...(let's see....today is Friday....) on why we should NEVER give caffiene to children. I had no idea at the time that the reason we don't give caffiene to children is for our own safety's sake. So when the wife boarded the plane, John-Ross and I stopped off at the 7-11 and I bought him his first Big Gulp...filled to the brim with Dr. Pepper. (Heck...I was raised on the stuff....if it was good enough for me, it was good enough for my son)

The next thing that went out the window was that namby-pamby box of Cheerios. I went to the store and got REAL cereal...MAN cereal....."Son, let me introduce you to a friend of mine...his name is 'Captain Crunch' Oh...and here's some chocolate milk while you're at it!"

By the time two weeks had passed, I had completely destroyed any chance my wife ever had of ever getting our son to eat anything green (unless it was an M&M) and John-Ross was sleeping ...oh...I'd say about two or three hours a day.

We spent Saturday afternoon at the picture show watching "Return of The Jedi" ...More movie food. Two troughs of Pepsi. (They don't serve Dr. Pepper at the movies outside of Texas....I'm telling you...outside of The Lone Star State, people live like animals) The next best thing would be whatever you have that is brown, carbonated, and caffienated.

By the time we left the movies and headed for Sesame Street Live, between the caffiene, sugar, and special effects brought to us in surround sound Dolby, I had my little toddler strung up tighter than an 'E' string on a Stratavarious. He was one Skittle away from a diabetic coma.

We got to the auditirium and took our seats. I bought John-Ross a souvenir, one of those thick felt "Ernie's" that was about half the size he was and sat atop a 30" dowel. Ernie was John-Ross' favorite....his best friend in the whole wide world and he was about to see him live and in person for the first time. I was almost as excited as he was.

When the lights dimmed and the spotlights began to play across the stage, John-Ross went into a kind of trance. If you've never been to one of these shows, what they do is keep the excitment level just short of the children wetting themselves...which is fine if you don't have your toddler all strung out on kiddie crack. In fact, I think that they ought to print a huge warning on the ticket. "DON'T EVEN THINK OF BRINGING YOUR KID IN HERE IF HE'S EVEN SEEN A DR. PEPPER IN THE PAST WEEK!"

They bring out the characters one by one..First the minor ones...Then they work up to The Count. By this time, I was having to physically restrain John-Ross from leaping to his feet and going up on stage to play with his friends.

When Big Bird came out, he walked right by us and didn't even look down at my son who called out, "Big Bird!...it's me...John-Ross!"

This time, merely holding my son in his seat wasn't going to do. He was creating enough of a ruckus that he was causing a scene and I had to remove him from the auditorium until he calmed down. I had no idea at the time just how much these characters meant to my son and how much he viewed them as his only friends in the world. I tried to calmly explain to him that he needed to stay in his seat or we would have to go home.

Well....John-Ross was having none of THAT! He tried to run past me into the auditorium so I grabbed him and took him to a side alcove where he spent ten minutes trying to run past me, over me or through me. The tears in my son's eyes wear not tears of sadness but of rage. I had never seen that look in a kid before (well, I had in horror movies but not in a real kid) A security guard passed by and asked if he could help. For a moment I had a vision of John-Ross whipping the security guard's service revolver from its holster, emptying into me, then standing over my lifeless body asking the guard if he would kindly show my son how to reload the thing.

By some miracle, I got John-Ross calmed down enough to go back inside. We had no sooner taken our seats when the announcer introduced my son's favorite Sesame Street character, Ernie. When Earnie came down the aisle right beside us, I couldn't believe my eyes. John-Ross was sitting perfectly mannered in the seat next to me and waved at his friend, who waved back.

Ernie went on stage and started doing a little song and dance and asking us to clap along with him. My son was acting perfectly well at the time and so I unclenched my fist from his shirt onto which I was holding tightly and began to clap along.

It was the moment John-Ross was waiting for. Like I said...the kid's a genius and he was biding his time until I let my guard down. The second he felt me loosen my grip on his shirt, he shot out of his chair and onto that stage like he was on fire! He actually made it all the way up to Ernie who bent down and hugged John-Ross before the security guards pried him loose and handed him kicking and screaming back to me.

If I thought my son had gone berzerker on me before, it was nothing compared to now. I never knew what caffiene actually did for you, based on my own observation from trying to quit drinking Dr.Pepper, it keeps your head from caving in. Apparently, however, for kids it has a different affect and acts pretty much like gamma rays do to Bruce Banner. John-Ross turned into the Hulk...right up to and including super-toddler strength. I had to hold him by his belt, away from my body, as we made it to our car.

I strapped my son into his car seat in the back and buckled him in as tightly as I could. All the way out of the parking lot he was cursing at me in some dead language and whacking away at me with his felt Ernie-On-A-Stick.

When we got onto the freeway to Fremont, it was under construction and so they had narrowed the lanes down to a single lane...to my right were orange cones and workmen, to my left was a temporary concrete rail. I had about 6" on eith side of my car to drive.

In California, the rules are different. It doesn't matter how congested the traffic is, if the freeway is under construction or you have the narrowest of passages in which to navigate, if you're not driving 80 mph, the driver behind you will MAKE you go that fast. I had to do all of that while my hopped up kid in the back seat was intent upon beating me to death with a starch-stiffened PBS character impaled upon a 1/4" dowel!

I drove with my left had while fending off the assault with my right. I finally grabbed Ernie out of my son's hand and flung him beyond my son into the far back of the station wagon..thinking that the fight was over. I was wrong...that was just round one.

John-Ross manifested his Houdini skills then and somehow teleported himself out of his super-industrial strength Toys-R-Us escape-proof child seat and flew at me, balling himself up on my head, biting my ears, and pounding me with his fists. If you want a visual idea of what was going on, rent the Disney movie, "The Incredibles" and fast forward to the last five minutes where Jack-Jack goes berzerker and dismantles Syndrome. That's as close as I can come to what my child was doing to me as I drove 80mph down a congested California highway.

When my wife came home the next day, I had to explain to her the dowel-marked bruises on my face and neck and bite marks on my ear and why our son no longer took naps....

You want to know something? I got no sympathy from her at all.

Why I Have Forsaken Broccoli in an Effort to Save the Planet

A while back, a co-worker came into my office and indignantly pulled my dormant cell phone charger from the wall. What followed was a sort of dressing down by the co-worker who lectured me on the evils of leaving an un-used cell phone charger plugged into an electrical socket.

Really descriptive phrases like, "energy vampire" were tossed about. I defended myself to no avail. I even protested that I love our planet (I do love it, you know...after all...my kids live here). But really...how much waste could a dormant cell-phone charger cause? It's not like I see the lights flicker or dim when I plug the thing in!

Luckily, we have all sorts of tools and gadgets in our office to measure such things so I wandered out into the shop, procurred one and proceeded to test just how much energy I was wasting by leaving my cell phone charger plugged in when it wasn't charging anything.

6 watts. That's what it was wasting. 6 watts over a 24 hour period.

Now, to the uninitiated, 6 watts might seem like a lot and it really is if you take into account the fact that there are 1.35 billion cell phones in use world wide. Assuming that half of them charge by wall socket and not car...and if we assume that all of them are energy vampires like myself...that means that over 4 gigawatts are being wasted every 24 hours. That's enough energy to send 3 Deloreans travelling through the space-time continuum and still have a bit more to spare (once every 7 days, we get to send 4). Now, I don't care how you slice it...that's serious energy.

But still, I enjoy leaving my cell phone charger plugged in. I don't have to hunt for it and, let's face it, at my age and weight, every instance of bending down to plug something into a receptacle is a risky venture. So I wondered if I might do something else to save the carbon emissions required to generate that 6 watts of energy every day and, I must say, my research has yeilded rich fruit indeed!

Every organism on the planet with a digestive tract emits an average daily quantity of (how shall I put this?)...."miasmic eruptions" As it happens, our federal government in an endeavor that I had heretofore thought insane, has funded research into the quantity and nature of these bowel burps.

It has been established that, on an average day, an average human will emit about fourteen of these totaling about half a liter volume.

The exact chemical nature of these eruptions varies depending upon the intake of the person in question but, on average, about a fourth of these eruptions is a combustable gas called methane.

Coincidentally, methane is also a greenhouse gas.

There are 28 liters in a cubic foot and 1200 BTU/ft3 of methane. and there are 3.4 BTU/watt of energy. Assuming an efficiency rate of 80%, it takes, therefore 4.25 BTU to generate 1 watt of electricity.

Following that criteria, The average human expels enough methane to create approximately 0.6 watts of electricity...about a tenth of the energy required to power that cell phone charger for 24 hours.

Ah...but heres the wrinkle....both the quantity and, in this instance, quality of these miasmic eruptions increases substantially when humans ingest certain foods. (Broccoli, Cabbage, Beans...) In fact, ingestion of these food items can increase the volume and methane content over ten times...My wife asserts that this is a most conservative estimate.

It follows, therefore, that for every day I do not eat broccoli, I save the planet enough greenhouse emissions to create 6 watts of electricity...exactly the amount I require to leave my cell phone charger plugged into the wall guilt free. It's my own little personal "Cap and Trade"

So there it is...it's what I'm doing to save the planet...

(I am working on an invention that will allow the eating of broccoli and take those emissions and convert them to the necessary energy to power my cell phone charger but the prototype for the collection system is not quite ready for certain "Victorian prejudices" still prevalent in today's enlightened society)

I apologize for my faulty math but it seems that this is even a better deal than I had previously thought!

1/28 x 0.25 x 1200 x .80 /3.4 x 10 = 25 watts. Meaning that for every day I don't eat broccoli...three other people besides myself can leave their cell charger plugged in guilt free!. This is really exciting news. We could even market it in a sort of "friends and family" type venture!

(note to self..."Call Verizon")

Lessons from Atticus

"The one thing that doesn't abide by majority rule is a person's conscience"

- Atticus Finch -

It's the 50th anniversary of Harper Lee's masterpiece, "To Kill a Mockingbird". Ms. Lee never penned another work. Why bother? Her first effort was so masterful as to assure that any further attempts would pale by comparison.

I love the book and I love the movie made from the book. I can't think of a more perfect actor to play Atticus Finch than Gregory Peck. His melodious baritone evenly dispensed wisdom in such a quiet and unassuming manner as to command respect and assent.

After viewing the movie and reading the book more times than I can count, I have come to the conclusion that the greatest lesson Atticus taught us was that there was always room for manners. Emily Post stated that manners exist to make people feel at ease with each other; and Atticus Finch was a man who, even in the most extreme circumstances, NEVER forgot his manners.

From diffusing the anger and ire of Miss Dubose to making young Walter feel at ease at the dinner table. Atticus treated all with respect and kindness. Even Bob and Mayella Ewell were treated with respect; although in Bob Ewell's case, one gets the impression that Atticus remembered his manners to preserve his own dignity rather than Mr. Ewell's

I can't think of any greater scene in the history of cinema than Atticus Finch wiping Bob Ewell's spittle from his cheek, then casting the handkerchief aside and walking around his adversary to the car where his son waited and watched. Without a word, Atticus told his son what it meant to really be a man.

After Tom Robinson's conviction, when anyone would excuse Atticus for not remembering the niceties of social convention, Sheriff Tate drove up asking for a conference with Atticus who was in mid conversation with his neighbor, Miss Maudie. Upon hearing Sheriff Tate's request, he didn't just turn from his conversation but rather asked Miss Maudie to excuse him first. I wonder how many of us, under similar pressure and disappointment, would remember such a small social convention?

But Atticus' greatest lesson came after the attack on his two children. When his only son lay unconscious in bed, his prognosis undetermined, Scout discovered Boo Radley hiding behind the door. I never fail to smile through a blur of tears when I see the shy man start suddenly and cower when his hiding place is discovered, only to calm down when Atticus' reassuring voice offered the proper words of introduction that one would expect to hear at a cotillion, "Miss Jean Louise Finch? Mr. Arthur Radley"

As the father of a child who is very reminiscent of Boo Radley, I am also grateful that Atticus never failed to grant the young man with special needs the dignity of his proper name...refusing to call him Boo like the rest of the town...hence the quote at the beginning of this post.

In reading Harper Lee describe her father, and watching Gregory Peck's portrayal on the screen, I cannot help but realize that here is a man who is as close to being like Christ as any other man I can think of.

So....a belated note of gratitude to Harper Lee for her book and for showing to us that the best things are always those that inspire us to greater levels of perfection

Are You Honest in Your Dealings With Your Fellow Man?

So many times in my church, I hear talks about the blessings of regular temple attendance. I probably don't attend as often as I ought to. Particularly considering that I pass seven temples on the way to work and I work within walking distance of the Salt Lake Temple...so I can't add any insight into the blessings that come to us with regular temple attendance. But I can tell you that being worthy to attend the temple saved my job once.

When I worked in Wisconsin, the company I worked for was owned by a man and his wife who were some of the finest people I'd ever met. The owner of the company was the kind of man who would often drive by late at night, see the light on in my office as I was working to meet a deadline, turn his car around, drive to Subway, and bring me a sandwich and drink as he sat in my office and asked me whether or not they were working me too hard and what they could do to ease my burden so that I could spend more time with my family and less time at work. He was a deeply religious man who often told me how he admired my religion's emphasis on family.

After a year working there, they decided to semi-retire and handed the daily management of the company over to a man who, by all reports, hated the very ground on which I walked. I never could understand why and none of my co-workers who told me that he had confided in them about his hatred for me could tell me why. Several theories were floated...I was a Texan and he hated George W. Bush with the white hot hatred of a thousand suns so he hated me as well....I was the only one in my company who fully understood how to do the job I was hired to do and so he disliked not having more control over the process....the most popular theory was that I was a big person and he was a cigar-chomping small man who, if psychiatrists had been in his company for fifteen minutes, would be rushing to write papers proposing to rename "Napoleon Complex" to "Skrowonski-itis"

But, whatever the reason for his dislike of me, it was something I lived with. I kept my head down, did my work, and did everything I could to not give him an excuse to fire me...then one day, he got the excuse he was looking for.

We had been hired by a construction company to design a water park. The initial job came in over budget and so all departments were asked to work with the sub-contractors to cut down costs. My department was asked to cut a quarter of a million from the cost and so I went back and forth between the two HVAC companies that were bidding on the job to get suggestions on how we might do what was needed to get the job within budget.

On my own, I discovered a possible way to cut more than a quarter of a million from the job. This job had a North Woods Lodge-type feel so it featured steep sloping roofs. I found a small obscure portion of the roof that would support equipment allowing me to go with a much less expensive system and made the changes over the weekend.

The following Monday, I went to our client with my proposed changes as well as my estimate of the potential savings. When my ideas were green-lit, I said, "Great! I'll pass this along to the two HVAC companies". It was then that I was instructed by our client to do something I considered unethical. I was told to give the information to only one of the companies and leave the other in the dark. I took my concerns to the CEO who told me to do as our client had instructed.

When the new bids came in, the company that had been informed of the new changes had a clear and distinct advantage over the one left in the dark. The owner of the company who had been left out of the loop called me in bewilderment. During the course of our conversation, he said, "I don't know where they're getting their numbers from. Are you giving them the same information that you're giving me?"

My heart came to my throat as I thought of all the possible ramifications of telling the truth...none of which were immediately good for me"

After a moment's hesitation, I said, "No, I'm not."

"Can you give me the same information that you're giving them?"

Another moment's hesitation..."No I can't"

"WHY NOT!?!?!?"

"You need to take that up with our client"

I'm not sure exactly what the conversation was between the two companies but when the smoke cleared, our client had been threatened with a lawsuit and had made some settlement agreement with the company that had been left out of the loop.

I was called into my CEO's office and, when I got there, Our CEO, and our client's CEO were in the office, both glared at me as I sat down and took my seat. I was about to be fired.

I was raked over the coals for the better part of thirty minutes being told how I had caused embarrassment to our firm and our client's firm because of my inability to maintain confidentiality. I heard the door open behind me, I assumed it was the head of Human Resources coming to give me my severance papers.

It was the owner of the company who came into the room and took a seat next to me. As he sat down, the CEO of the company asked me, "What were you thinking of?"

There was a bit of a pause. I glanced over to the owner and recalled all of the discussions we had had about my religion and how he had always expressed admiration for our ideals...and then, I reached into my wallet and pulled out my temple recommend.

"Do you see this piece of paper?" I asked. "This is one of the most precious things I own. It allows me to go to a place I consider to be one of the most sacred places on earth and worship my Heavenly Father". The CEO looked a bit confused but he allowed me to continue. "Every year, I have to have this piece of paper renewed. During that process, I have to be interviewed twice; each time by a man that I recognize as being called of God to represent Him. Both of them will ask me several questions, one of which will be, 'Are you honest in your dealings with your fellow man?'. You ask me what I was thinking? I was thinking how I was going to answer that question the next time I was asked."

I stopped talking and left my temple recommend on the table. After an awkward moment of silence, the owner of the company reached out, took the recommend, handed it back to me and then turned to the men on the other side of the able and said, "Gentlemen, this meeting is over".

Eventually the owner decided to sell the company but for the time he was there, I was assured by people in the know that I was untouchable.

The Portrait

29 years ago tomorrow, Kerry Huber against all better judgement, rescued me from bachelorhood. I knew Kerry exactly three weeks before I proposed to her. In a way, it was an arranged marriage. It came about in a rather unorthodox way. (but when have I ever been orthodox about anything?)

As he officially released me from my mission, my Stake President asked me if I would like a blessing. I'm not certain if it was a usual offer but he was my Stake President and his son was my best friend and, in high school I had spent more waking hours at his home than my own so I looked to him and his wife as secondary parents. In light of all that, I readily accepted.

During the blessing, he paused for what seemed an awfully long time. In retrospect, I now know exactly what was going on because it's happened to me since. During the course of a blessing, you're prompted to say something out of the ordinary and, for a while, you kind of have to chew on it. Like when Kerry lost her diamond bracelet, the very first really nice piece of jewelry I'd given her and, in retracing her steps, she realized it could be anywhere up to and including a garbage truck that had carried away tree clippings earlier that day.

She was inconsolable and asked me for a blessing during which I was prompted to promise her she would get it back (I normally don't involve Heavenly Father on the matter of lost jewelry but this was a very sentimental piece and my wife was crying)

Anyway, when I felt prompted to give my wife that blessing, I hemmed and hawed for a moment thinking over the rammifications. Here I was using my priesthood to promise returned jewelry to my wife. It didn't feel right....on a smaller scale, like Nephi wrestling with The Spirit over the demise of Laban.

So, when I was prompted to give that promise to my wife, I kind of backpedaled and said, in my heart, "You know, Heavenly Father, if that's how you feel about it, why don't you just tell her yourself and leave me out of the whole thing?"

"Tell her"

"Okay...but...this doesn't feel right, Heavenly Father. I'm using my priesthood here to promise a blessing to my wife and it seems kind of vain"

"Tell Her"

"Okay...but....you're SURE she's going to get it back? Because, if I promise this thing and she doesn't get it back....I'm gonna look awful fool.."

"Would you just tell her already?

So I promised my wife she would get her bracelet back.

"Now tell her again"

The next day, I walked out of the house, went straight to the garage, opened the door and looked in the bottom of the fertilizer spreader to see my wife's bracelet lying there. (whew)

Anyway...that kind of exchange must have been what was happening in President Bassett's mind while he was paused in my blessing because, the next words out of his mouth were, "Tom, not everyone has somebody that they are supposed to marry, but you do. I bless you that, when you see her, you will know it instantly"

Two years later, I was talking to my girlfriend, Lisa at institute when I looked across the room and saw Kerry. The next thing I thought was, "what am I going to tell Lisa?"

Kerry and I were engaged three weeks later and married four months later. Over the years, I have seen the wisdom of our Heavenly Father in placing the two of us together. When the school district we were in was refusing to give our special needs son the services he needed, I watched in awe as the lioness I married argued with no fewer than twelve school district officials and lawyers. At the end of three hours, they finally threw in the towel and gave us everything we were asking for.

While I was recuperating from my accident, when growing a beard was the only thing I could do by myself, she fed and dressed and bathed me for the better part of a year. She never complained once or made me feel like the service she rendered me was a burden.

Over the years, she has been my companion, my confidant, my willing scrabble partner and, when I've needed it, the thorn in my side and the boot to my rear.

Our courtship was brief and so we had to get to know each other better after we married. We are both dominant personalities and so we've had to work out many many compromises over the last three decades. Most of these have concerned my personal wardrobe choices. If she hates a tie that I love, the compromise we work out is that she tells me I can keep it and then one day, several months later, I will look through my closet and realize that the tie we argued over hasn't been seen in quite a while.

If I could change one thing about her, it would be her own self-deprication. Although I love to take pictures, my wife has never been a willing subject, telling me that she want's to get a better haircut or lose some weight first.

Every time she offers these excuses, I look at her and wonder what the heck she's talking about. She looks more beautiful today than the day we married and I realize that I cannot look at her without filtering everything I take in through the three decades of our life together. And so I wrote her this poem and, in honor of the anniversary of her agreeing to rescue me, I share it with our friends:

(I'm a little ham-fisted when it comes to poetry so all I can manage is iambic pentameter)

The Portrait

I have no portrait of my wife to place upon a wall
There's none within my wallet, to share with one and all
There lies a canvas in my heart that's stretched out through the years
and with a brush of memories, I paint her portrait there

I have so many memories, from each of them I choose
her colors vibrant and bold or soft and subtle hues
and every time I add a stroke, I glance again to see
the portrait in my heart has grown more beautiful to me

Across the altar of The Lord, her lovliness and grace
are captured in my memory, and form the portrait's face
The day that our first son was born, I watched her hold the child
and it is from that memory, I paint the portrait's smile

Each tender word, each warm caress, each moment that I prize
are captured in my memory and shines within her eyes
And every day of triumph, and those of pain and grief
adds character, and contrast, and beauty underneath.

There are no borders in my heart; no barriers, nor fences
to mark the place the portrait stops, and where my soul commences
The countenance shall never fade; the colors never set
upon this cherished rendering, that's not quite finished yet.

The Last Spanking

We never did spank our kids a lot. In our home, there were only two offenses which were 'spanking-worthy'

1) The child in question did something that endangered himself or others
2) The child in question directly (and I mean DIRECTLY) defied parental authority

Then one day in Foley's during the Christmas holiday rush, Daniel became frustrated with his mother for something or other and he raised his fist to strike her. I blocked the blow and, using his raised hand to turn him around, administered two swift swats to his hindquarters.

Sniffling ensued.

I pulled Daniel off to the side and asked, "Do you know why I spanked you?"

....sniff...."yes"....sniff

"Why did I spank you?", I asked

"'cause you don't love me"

That was the last spanking I ever gave.

(you should thank your older brother, Sarah)

The Duckars

When I lived in Katy Texas, I would often spend an afternoon fishing at Mary Jo Pecham Park. It was decent, as far as fishing spots go. There was rumored to be a monster catfish lurking somewhere just southwest of the pier that jutted into the eastern part of the pond. I never did see the huge fish but once, I baited one of my lines, cast out and laid it on the shore in order to bait my other line and I saw a hundred dollar rod and reel whip into the pond, following whatever fish had grabbed my bait. On another occasion, as I was watching the waterfowl swim along the pond, one of the ducks just vanished beneath the surface and never came up again. Clearly there was something large enough to drag in a rod and reel and swallow an adult duck in that water.

There was also on this pond, a female mallard with an unusually large brood of ducklings following her about. Where the most I was used to seeing was five or six babies with a mother duck, this one had fifteen. Several of my fellow anglers and I surmised that this particular hen had adopted the ducklings from other hens who had fallen prey to the monster catfish in the pond.

As you can imagine, taking care of such a large number of babies was more than a full time job for this mother hen and, in watching her go about her tasks, it was quite evident that she had developed the organizational skills and the resourcefullness of the Duggar family on television.

When it rained, the mother duck would spread her wings as wide as she could and all of the little ducklings would scramble to take shelter underneath. The problem was that the area of the combined ducklings was greater than the area of the mother ducks wingspan...no problem, they simply devised an ingenious method of taking turns. When a duckling in pack pushed his way under the wing, a duckling in front would pop out much the way a ping pong ball would pop out of a tube stuffed with ping pong balls when you shoved one into the end. The evicted duckling would never try to fight his way back under the wing. Rather, he would scramble around to the back and take his place in the queue that formed back there. All the while the mother duck looked serene and, I would even say 'majestic' as she stood rock still with the rain pelting her and her outstreached wings.

Feeding the ducklings also required a bit of ingenuity on the part of the mother duck. Most of the smaller families of duck had no problem finding enough morsels to feed 5 or 6 young ones but 15 in the same group required the mother duck to be constantly on the move. It soon became apparent that she was a novelty and she quickly decided to take advantage of her unique situation and 'took the show on the road' as it were.

It took about two hours for this mother duck to parade her brood around the lake. And all the time I was there fishing, that's all she did. She would walk around the lake with her ducklings following her and, when she came to a family enjoying a picnic or a fisherman, she would stop and gather her ducklings around her and look up at the humans expectantly.

She was never disappointed. Corners were torn from sandwiches and spare hot dog buns were broken up to feed to the huge family of ducks. They were particularly fond of worms and fishermen were especially sought out to share in the responsibility of feeding her family.

Once, she came up and stopped her family in front of me as I was fishing. I wanted to test her resolve and so I just ignored her for a while as I fished. Her patience with me lasted about fifteen seconds and soon I felt a peck at the toe of my boot.

I stamped my foot at her....

two pecks on my boot....

I gave her a worm. She looked at me as if to say, "are you kidding me?"

another peck.

I laughed out loud...is there anything more courageous than a mother taking care of her children?

I upended both cartons of bait onto the ground in front of the ducklings and started packing to leave.

It didn't look like the fishing was going to be that good anyway.

Get It While It's Hot

In my earlier married years, I used to rent a house from a dear friend of mine...a lot of you know him, Fred Knies. Actually, to call Fred a friend really doesn't do justice to him. He's in my kidney club, one of those rare individuals who, along with my siblings can call me at any time and request one of my kidneys or some bone marrow.

For those of you who don't know Fred, let me say that, he knows the value of a dollar. He did the grocery shopping because he felt his wife wasn't using enough coupons and I've personally seen him weigh all the five pound bags of potatoes so that he could get the one that weighed five and a half pounds and line up all the bottles of apple juice to get the one that was filled a fraction of an inch more than the others.

So, when we went a few years renting from him without a rent increase, it wasn't because Fred was forgetful, it was because he was mindful of our own financial straits at the time and he was exhibiting charity, a rare trait to be combined with someone so mindful of money. But then, Fred is a rare individual.

But, as it does happen, our own financial outlook changed for the better and Fred, who lived just a few doors down from us, came up to me as I was finishing up the yard work and told me that he was raising the rent by fifty dollars a month.

Now, I know I should have been grateful to him that he hadn't raised the rent in several years but all I was thinking at the time was that I was just enjoying having my head above water and now I have a rent increase to deal with.

So when Fred's little girl, Alden came skipping up a few seconds after Fred's announcement and excitedly showed me her first lost tooth, I bent down and patted her head and said, "That's WONDERFUL, Alden! Do you know that if you put that tooth under your pillow tonight, the tooth fairy will bring you fifty dollars?"

"Really?" Alden asked, her eyes wide with amazement.

"Sure enough!" I said, "That's what the tooth fairy brings to our kids!"

Then I smiled at Fred and went into the house.

Revenge isn't always a dish best served cold...sometimes you gotta serve it hot.

Laughter Through Tears

The death of a loved one, perhaps more especially a parent, occasions such an intense grief that your soul cries out for any moment of relief or respite. I am reminded of that scene in "Steel Magnolias" where Dolly Parton's character says, "laughter through tears is my favorite emotion". It's my favorite emotion as well. It always serves to remind me that, no matter how bleak or how horrible I feel at the moment, that there will be a time when I will smile and laugh again.

When a moment of levity bursts the dam that holds your grief and laughter floods forth with tears...as you laugh, little moments flash across your memory...moments of joy and laughter that you had shared with the person you now mourn. It is the most wonderful, bittersweet feeling in the world.

The funeral home and cemetary at the corner of Dairy Ashford and Westheimer in Houston, Texas is where we buried both of my parents. It was also the scene of two of these moments for me.

When my mother died, we held the viewing at the funeral home associated with the cemetary. Our family huddled in a corner, our heads bowed with grief as scores of people who loved my mother shuffled past her coffin and paid their last respects, then made their way over to where we were to offer a word of condolence or relate a favorite memory.

As we accepted these offerings of love, out of the corner of my eye I saw my son Daniel in line with the the rest of the mourners. Although the halmark of a person with autism is an inability to understand or respect social conventions that most of us take for granted, Daniel waited patiently and respectfully in line with the rest of the mourners.

When my son got to the side of my mother's coffin, he quiety whispered to her, "Goodbye Grandma, I'll miss you". Then he sweetly bent forward and kissed her brow. We were all about to breath a sigh of relief thinking that Daniel had somehow managed to hold back the autism long enough to act normally when my son's condition reasserted itself.

As Daniel raised himself from that kiss, a worried look clouded his face and he turned to us and said, "Oh, she's cold!" Then, as if that wasn't awkward enough, he said, "I better check her pulse". I was just about to rise up and try to salvage the situation when Daniel sadly raised his eyes to me, his hand still on my mother's wrist, and slowly shook his head, announcing his prognosis,

"I don't think she's gonna make it"

That did it, the dam of our grief burst and laughter with tears overcame the whole family. I looked at the faces of my wife and children, my brother and sisters and their families and we all had the same expression...pure joy. Joy at the realization that we had shared this life with such a grand lady...that, above all people, we were blessed to call her mother or grandma. In that moment of mourning our loss, we were reminded of how priviledged we really were.

My father's funeral was held at the same location and, years later, I found myself standing in the same place as I had years earlier, once again looking into the coffin of a beloved parent and wondering to myself if I would ever feel happy again.

Before I was born, my father had accidentally cut off the first two fingers of his right hand at the first knuckle. Although, he was technically handicapped, one would never know it. There were more than a few times when I would look at my father holding a pencil and drafting, his work so beautiful and masterful that it eclipsed the work of other drafters with all of their digits, and realize that the most amazing feats are sometimes the ones that seem effortless.

Later on in life, when I spent a year learning to manipulate my own hands again, my father's example served as a quiet and constant inspiration to me.

The funeral directors had supposed my father's right hand to be a deformity and so, when they prepared the body, they hid it under his left hand. Well, my father's grandchildren were not having any of that! Every single one of them had teethed upon those bony nubs of what remained of his first two digits. They convened a quiet council in the corner, agreed upon a proper course of action, and elected one of them to go and correct the funeral home's blunder and place my father's right hand on top for all to see.

As I looked at my father's fingers and these thoughts crossed my mind, my eyes wandered down to a banner placed on the coffin. One of my sisters had seen to it that the final words my father always said to anyone who ever came to visit him were inscribed thereupon, "I'm glad you had a chance to see me"

Because this was a private moment, the laughter was a bit quieter but the emotion and release no less sweet.

There is another instance I wanted to relate concerning this funeral home...something that happened years before any of the first two. I was commissioned to redesign the air conditioning systems and had to go and visit the place and access the existing conditions.

The building had multi-level mansard type roofs...flat rooftops with 4 foot steep sloping sides so when I had to get from the higher roof down to a lower roof, all I had to do is sit down on the steep slope and let gravity do the rest. After checking the unit in question, getting from the lower roof up to the higher roof was a different question altogether...now gravity was working against me...gravity and quite a few extra pounds of weight. I tried to grab onto the upper roof and scramble with my feet but they would not gain purchase. I seemed to be doomed to waiting on the lower roof until the fire department came and rescued me...then a sudden inspiration hit. I won't go into any great detail but, if you've ever seen Shamu come out of the water at Sea World, you have a fair idea of how I finally made it up to the upper part of the roof.

There was only one more obstacle now to getting back down to solid ground...the roof hatch. If you've never had to climb onto the roof of a commercial building, there's alwas a long ladder attached to a roof hatch which is mounted onto a 18" curb. The reason for the curb is to keep rain water from leaking from the roof down to the utility room below. The way to install these is to put the ladder on one side of the hole with the hinge to the cover on the opposite side so that, when you try to transfer from the ladder onto the roof, you don't have to negotiate your way around a trap door facing you. The people who installed this roof hatch installed the ladder and the hinge on the same side so that when I got to the top and opened the trap door, I was, in effect, facing a wall that I had to climb around and get onto the roof...no easy but doable.

Getting back down was a whole 'nother story though...now I had to try and figure out how to step off of the roof, into a hole that dropped twenty feet, around the trap door and somehow make sure my foot landed onto the rung of the ladder....it's actually about ten times as difficult as it sounds, especially for a fat man.

I finally decided that the safe way to do this would be to sit down, straddle the roof curb and swing my dangling left foot onto the ladder rung.

The edge of a roof curb...the part the trap door rests upon, is about two inches thick...so (how do I say this delicately?)when I straddled the curb, one of the (ahem) 'boys' went on one side of the curb and one of them went on the other side.

All fine and good until I swung my leg to reach the rung and that had the effect of sqeezing one of the lads rather painfully.

For those of you who have not experienced this type of pain, let me state right here and now that the movies don't do justice to it. First off, the movies show a kick to the groin and the reciever of the injury immediately doubling over in pain....that's not how it goes down...it usually takes a few moments because, although there's an immediate pain associated with the injury, the REAL pain comes anout three seconds later when a huge all-encompasing cramp siezes everything from the groin up to the lungs....it's like having a charley horse in your midsection.

What actually happens is that the person recieving the injury realizes that something bad has happened and he says to himself, "that's gonna hurt ----------------------------- oh yeah...there it is"

So I when I realized I had done myself an injury, there was actually a second or two when I realized that, if I didn't roll onto the roof immediately, the possibility was very real that I would be plummeting twenty feet onto some very nasty electrical transformers with some very sharp corners, so I rolled onto the roof"

When the cramps hit, I doubled up in pain, groaned and moaned and cursed and generally made enough noise to convince anyone happening by that I was being dismembered by a rusty, slow-moving chain saw. When the pain began to ebb, I began to realize where I was and how loudly and profanely, I had complained....I crawled to the edge of the roof and saw my worst fears confirmed.

Just below me, a group of mourners had, apparently, been in the process of loading their loved one into a hearse when my screams and moans and complaints that I was dying wafted down to their ears from the roof above.

They had stopped what they were doing and stared in wide-eyed, open-mouthed wonderment and what they were certain were the death throes of a dying man above them.

There was a second or two when we just stared at each other and then I meekly said, "I'm sorry"....it started with just a snicker from one of the mourners and then a giggle...then some half-suppressed snorts. Before long, every one of the mourners were laughing uproarisly

Laughter through tears...it's the best.

Couched in Different Terms

First off, let me state that I hate almost everything about this health care bill (I think I've made that abundantly clear) But, yesterday, my wife and I were talking and I was reminded of an incident in our marriage that is somewhat applicable to the health care bill.

We had inherited a couch from my parents...I loved that couch. It was the perfect Sunday Afternoon nap couch. It's the only couch I've been able to awaken from after a Sunday snooze and not have a sore back or a stiff neck. Like a seasoned baseball glove, that couch had been perfectly broken in and formed to my body.

The only problem was that, when I wasn't in the couch, it was still perfectly broken in and formed to my body. My wife hated the couch and I loved it. The couch's fate and its place in our home was the subject of many discussions, arguments, reasonings, pleadings, cajolings, briberies, and some sotto voce threatenings for a few years in our home.

Then I came home one day and saw that my couch...my beloved couch, was sitting on the curb with piles of trash bags heaped upon it. Well, I was having none of THAT! If she could take it upon herself to unilaterally remove the couch from our home, I could certainly take it upon myself to put it back in its proper place. I pulled into the driveway, got out of my car, slammed the door and stormed over to the couch pulling bags of trash from it and reached down to grab it by the legs and haul it back into the house.

The first thing I noticed was that my wife had sawn the legs off of the couch....the second thing I noticed when I looked up was my wife standing in the doorway with a smug expression on her face (things would have probably gone a LOT smoother after that is it wasn't for that smug expression)

When Cortez reached the New World, he burned his boats. As a result, his men had no other option but to succeed. All during the ensuing argument over my wife's unilateral decision, she kept protesting that she was NOT forcing me to buy a new couch, she was merely, 'helping me make the right decision'.

Now...let me state again...I HATE the way this bill has come about. It has shown the ugly side of both parties and of The American People. I really can't think of a single newsworthy instance during this clash of ideas where anyone has acted in an adult and reasonable manner.

The very simple truth (as far as I can see) is that health care reform is very much a needed thing in this country. The other undeniable truth was that the republicans did not address this issue when they were in power.

I have outlined, I believe, very reasonable and very attainable common sense ideas that would go a long way to bringing down the cost of health care and insurance and many of my friends have done the same.

What all of these ideas have in common is the realization that health care costs didn't begin to spiral out of control until the government stepped in and started to meddle with it in the first place. Almost all of the ideas cost very litte if any tax dollars to the public and, more importantly, they allow people the freedom to make their own choices.

But the republicans didn't seriously begin to address any ideas on health care reform until the democrats had a super-majority and said, that they were going to cut the legs off the couch...THEN the republicans got on board with the idea...given the years of frustration that the democrats have had over trying to bring this to the front burner, I understand it when they said to the Johnny-Come-Lately republicans, "you know what Chuckles? Sit your butt in that back seat there and let us drive for a while" I don't condone that type of attitude...but I understand it.

What happened next was embarrassing to say the least. Democrats tried to over-reach and republicans tried to grab back the wheel...it was about as ugly a scene as I ever wanted to witness from my elected officials. Frankly, I''m disgusted with the entire lot. Vitriol, invectives, lies, innuendos, all accusing the other side of the most heinous and foul motives possible.

The polls clearly stated that most Americans thought that something ought to be done about health care. They also clearly stated that they absolutely hated this bill. They hated the pork, the bribes, the cowtowing to special interests and unions...and the majority of Americans wanted our elected officials to scrap this bill and start over again, but like adults this time.

The democrats will not remain in power for long...this abomination of a bill all but guarantees that. When the republicans come into power again...I can only hope that they repeal this thing and give us something that offers real solutions and real choices to the public. I hope that they just don't grab the old couch off of the trash heap and drag it back into the house and prop it up with some cinder blocks.

But until then, as begrudgingly as I have to say it...I'm kind of grateful to the democrats for sawing the legs off the old thing.

No Substitutions Allowed

I love Texas. To be certain, there are much prettier places to live (unless the bluebonnets are in season) and there are more hospitable places to live (climate-wise, anyway)...but I've never lived in a place with such a can-do attitude my entire life. The Texan attitude can be summed up in a joke I once heard.

A good old boy from Texas died and went to Heaven. Being from Texas, he was immediately admitted and St. Peter took him all around the place, showing him the glory and majesty of his new celestial home.

They passed by the garden and St. Peter said, "have you ever seen flowers so beautiful or smelled such a fragrant perfume?"

"Well, yes", said the Texan, "As a matter of fact they are almost as beautiful as the hillsides in Texas when they are covered in bluebonnets and indian paintbrushes and they smell almost as wonderful as the gardenias and honeysuckle back home in Texas"

Somewhat vexed, St. Peter then showed the Texan his heavenly mansion. "I'll bet you've never stayed anyplace like this before"

The Texan looked around and said, "I guess it will do, it's almost as nice as my huntin' cabin back in Texas and I've always been real comfortable there"

Getting even more annoyed, St. Peter took the Texan over to the edge of Heaven and asked him to look down into the fiery pits of Hell. "I don't suppose that you have anything like THAT in Texas, do you?" asked St. Peter

The Texan looked into the pits of Hell for a while and then quietly spoke, "No...I don't believe that we do" then the Texan brightened up a bit, "but I know this ol' boy down in Houston that could put it out for you!"

But the Texas spirit notwithstanding, the thing I miss most about Texas is the cuisine. Things that are taken for granted in Texas are precious commodities outside the Lone Star State. When you find a fellow expat and proudly tell them that you have a stash of Blue Bell in your freezer, they start to lobby for an invitation to dinner.

But, even though there are some things Texan that you can get outside of Texas, you still have to make due.

For instance, you can get Fritoes, and you can get onions, and you can get cheese...so you're three-fourths of the way to making Frito Pie...sadly, however, the fourth ingrediant is scarcely found outside of Texas; I'm speaking of course, about Wolf Brand Chili.

You can get other chili. Hormel makes chili and its even made in a town called Austin...it's just made in Austin Minnesota....it just doesn't cut it.

At least that was my stand for many years...a lot of people said I was being too stodgy and rigid...that I could make a perfectly wonderful Frito Pie without Wolf Brand Chili.
Then the other night I was watching "King of The Hill" and I watched Hank exuberantly proclaim that "Tonight is Frito Pie night with Wolf Brand Chili!!"

And I wondered if the King of The Hill people had been peeking in my window.

3:16

I have the alarm set on my cell phone to go off at 3:00 in the morning. It's the time I need to get up to shave, shower, and dress and get out of the door by 4:00 so I can be at work in Salt Lake City by 5:15 (after dropping my mother-in-law off at Beehive Clothing).

I don't mind getting up early and I've been an early riser since I was a kid...but 3:00 am is pushing it a bit. Plus, the older I get the more I think of all those naps I refused to take when I was a kid and I kick myself (figuratively because, at my age, those kinds of shenanigans can cause you to break your hip...and I've already had one of those)

Anyway, today I happened to look at my cell phone to check the time and it was 3:16. It immediately reminded my of all those signs I see festooning football end zones. Zealot born-again Christians place them there to give us all a little shot of religion while we're watching 22 guys trying to pummel the life from each other....it really is, I believe, an inappropriate venue.

To tell you the truth, for the reason I cited above, John 3:16 has never been a scripture I much liked. To be certain, it is a beautiful piece of prose:

For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life

It should be one of my favorite scriptures, but it isn't. Mainly because the people who spend so much energy trying to display that scripture at football games can usually be counted upon to display an equal or greater amount of energy declaring that I am not a Christian.

It's been happening since High School when a fellow member of the football team came over to my house to tell me why I was not going to be admitted to The Fellowship of Christian Athletes and why I was going to hell. I can't tell you how much I appreciated that visit. I took to calling them "Church of the Good Ol' Boy" (along with a few other names). Then a couple of them squared off with me after school. The conversation went something like this:

"Hey, Boyce, we don't appreciate what you've been saying about us...and you better knock it off"

"How about you just forgive me?"

(sadly, Church of the Good Ol' Boy's lack any sense of irony)

If I had a nickle for every time I've been told I'm not a Christian by one of the Good Ol' Boys, I'd put all the nickles in a sock and beat the next one that told me that senseless (There's that irony again)

About 15 years or ago, it got real bad in Katy. You could literally drive down the street and see every marquee in front of every Good Ol' Boy church advertising how they were going to tell you all about what was wrong with the Mormons. It was quite unpleasant for quite some time and a lot of people in our church lost friends for no good reason other than they were LDS.

None of us could figure out what the impetus was for all of this sudden vitriol and persecution directed at us. And then, one day, they announced that our church was going to build a temple in Houston.....if you listened closely enough, you could hear a collective "aHA!" erupt from all the LDS people in Katy.

It seemed that there was one church in Katy that was at the nexus of all of this. They showed weekly anti-mormon films and had regular ex-mormons visit and speak to their youth. I was, at the time, Elders Quorum President and, during one of our welfare meetings, our bishop said that he'd had enough of this foolishness. He assigned me to call the pastor of the church and volunteer to have the missionaries come over and speak to them if they were so interested in our church. (I still don't know what I did to make that bishop dislike me so much)...but I took the assignment.

I didn't get hold of the pastor. I got hold of their "Cult" minister (oh joys!). I introduced myself and told him why I was calling. We got into the standard "You're not a Christian-Yes we are-No you're not-We believe in Christ-Not the same Christ we believe in" discussion that anyone whose run into a Good Ol Boy has had.

Finally, the pastor said, "I don't want you to get the wrong impression Mister Boyce. We don't hate you. We love you....we love you because Christ says we have to love you"

For a moment I was stunned...I didn't even know why I was stunned and then it hit me, and I said.

"You're right, Pastor. I don't think we do believe in the same Jesus"

"Oh?"

"No. You see, the Christ we believe in fills us with love for our fellow man. As a matter of fact, love for our fellow man is an automatic result of the simple process of believing in Him and worshiping Him and knowing and truly understanding that we are, each every one of us, petitioners for His forgiveness and mercy...so if you love your fellow man because you feel compelled to, perhaps we don't worship the same Christ after all."

We weren't invited to speak that his church.

So that's it....that's why John 3:16 has never been one of my favorite scriptures. And then, today I happened to glance at my cell phone and it was 3:16 and the scripture came to mind. It came to me unpoluted by the noise and glare of a football game...it came to me in a still small voice. And it immediately became one of my favorites.

I think that I'll set my cell phone alarm for 3:16 from now on....at the very least, I could use the extra sleep

Lead, Kindly Light - One Mormon's View on the Issue of Gay Marriage

People outside the LDS faith have little idea how pervasive our culture is in our lives. They know about Jews and Catholics because there have been umpteen million movies centered around a jewish person or catholic person trying to rectify their belief in their religion and the culture that comes with that religion with the difficulties of living in a secular world...and many mormons identify closely with these characters because our lives are similarly enmeshed and entangled with the culture that comes with our religion.

For the record, there is the Gospel of Jesus Christ, as preached by my church and there is the culture of mormonism. Any intersection between the two is purely coincidental and as likely to happen as an asteroid the size of Texas hitting the earth...we know it's happened before because we can see the geological evidence and we know it can happen again at any time.
People are rarely indifferent to mormons. They either hate us or they love us. If they hate us, it is a safe bet that they've had a past interaction with someone of our faith who focuses less on The Gospel and more on the culture.

I guess that's why I wanted to write about this particular subject; because, although I am steeped in the culture of my religion, I am constantly holding it up to the filter of The Gospel and, like Tevye, I frequently find myself saying, "on the other hand"

All during the Proposition 8 campaign in California, I was saddened by the accusations of hatred hurled at my religion. When it passed, I watched in tears as people who demand tolerance spray painted grafitti all over our most sacred structures. I was moved to tears again by pictures of people who were not members of my religion trying to scrub the offending spray paint from our temple walls.

The issue of marriage rights for homosexuals is something I've struggled with for many years and, to be honest, I'm still struggling with it. The evidence shows that blacks and hispanics overwhelmingly voted for Proposition 8 and yet, it seems that only my religion was vilified for its passing. It would be too prosaic to claim that the members of my faith were singled out for displays of hatred because of religious intolerance. The simple fact is that we were singled out because we were easy targets. Like homosexuals, there are many false assumptions made by people outside our religion about us. Like homosexuals, the lack of understanding, coupled with a fear of the unknown, sometimes leads to violence.

If you let yourself dwell upon the parallels here, the dichotomy of a group long persecuted and hated visiting violence upon another group long persecuted and hated is mind-boggling.

And yet, I understand. The simple truth is, were I not LDS and were I gay, I would probably react the very same way. I would be incensed beyond reason at my not being able to participate. I understand the reasons behind he actions against my religion because I've taken the time to try and understand the issue from the other viewpoint.

Sadly, I don't think that the people standing outside our temple with cans of spray paint have spent the same effort I have. It is too easy to assign a motive of hatred to people who do not agree with us. It requires no intellectual effort on our part. It is also, the very epitome of hypocrisy. Because, when you think about it, we assign the motive of hatred to a group of people who do not think like us so that we can then more easily justify our own hatred and violence towards them. So I would like to lay it out, from my perspective, as to why two groups of people with similar experiences of being the victims of bigotry and persecution could find themselves at this crossroad.

For the longest time, I was a proponent for gay marriage. My reasoning was that I saw no special lines in my tax forms that said if you're gay, you don't need to pay as much tax as the rest of us. When I got my jury summons, I never saw a provision that excused me from serving if I was homosexual...and, although I've looked, I have yet to see any speed limit signs that allowed people who had same-sex attractions to drive faster than the rest of us. If gay people are expected to shoulder thier fair share of being a citizen, I saw no reason why they should not enjoy all of the rights and priviledges of citizenship that I have. I still don't

And yet, my religion has taken a stand on this issue. My religion that goes out of its way to not take a stand on anything political, that every election time sends us a letter to be read from the pulpit in essence stating that political discussions are not to take place from our pulpits and that we are to prayerfully consider and vote for the candidate that we believe will serve us best, they have come out and said that the position of the church is to not support gay marriage rights.

And so, I had to make a choice...do I trust my own wisdom or do I trust the wisdom of men I believe are prophets of God?

Let me take a moment and explain faith as I understand it. Faith is an experiment very much like a scientific experiment...only you can only prove it to yourself. You can never prove it to another. I think that's the way it's always supposed to have been.

I never much understood Paul's explanation of what constitutes faith and I think too many people bandy about the word when what they really mean is that they believe. But faith is different from a belief because faith is a belief that you put your trust into.

A trapeze artist climbs to the top of the tent and swings out on that trapeze because he believes that when he lets go, the other trapeze artist on the recieving end will be there at the precise moment and place to catch him...he does all of that because he believes...but he doesn't have faith until he actually lets go of his trapeze.

The thing about faith in God is that the more you put your trust into it, the more it proves you right. I never have been able to understand why paying a tenth of my income to God assures me that I will somehow manage better but it does. I don't know why reading my scriptures with my family every day seems to cause all of the pettiness and bickering to end and for us to have greater calm in our lives...but it does. I don't know by what means people are healed when hands are placed upon their heads and they are blessed...but I've seen miracles time and time again. It seems that every time I place my trust in my beliefs and act as the men I sustain as prophets say I should act, the scattered pieces of my life oddly seem to align themselves.

And yet, on this one issue of gay marriage, I held to my own wisdom for the longest time because, it just didn't seem right. And then one day, in church, we sang a hymn that we'd sung countless times before and, for some reason, its meaning slammed into me with such a force that I knew I had to abandon my own wisdom and trust in what has never failed me before.

Lead, kindly Light, amid th’encircling gloom;
Lead thou me on!
The night is dark, and I am far from home;
Lead thou me on!
Keep thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene—one step enough for me.

I was not ever thus, nor pray’d that thou
Shouldst lead me on.
I loved to choose and see my path; but now,
Lead thou me on!
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will. Remember not past years.

So long thy pow’r hath blest me, sure it still
Will lead me on
O’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent, till
The night is gone.
And with the morn those angel faces smile,
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile!

To my friends who are gay and to their friends who have taken the opposite side of this issue, I can only say I hope that you understand that I had to make a decision and again, like Tevye, say to myself, "there is no other hand...if I bend that far, I'll break"

I do not come to my stand on this issue lightly, nor is my stand on this issue motivated by fear or hatred. I am simply choosing to place my trust in my beliefs. They have never failed me before and though I know that many will read these words with bitterness, I truly hope that the day will come when we can disagree without being disagreeable.

Peanut Butter and Jelly

When I was young and I would come home with a black eye or a bloody nose (a frequent occurance when I was young) my parents' reaction was to ask me what it was I did to cause someone to want to give me a black eye or a bloody nose.

It was a pretty good reaction. It taught me to be introspective and to try and see my part in the conflicts in my life. To be honest, it worked both ways. When some kid's parent called to complain of a black eye or a bloody nose, my parents asked what their kid did to cause me to want to give them a black eye or a bloody nose.

It worked most of the time....sometimes, however, it backfired. Like the day when I was five and I was out shopping with my mother and I finally convinced her that I was much too big to be taken to the ladies room, that I was big enough to use the bathroom all by myself, I never told anyone about the man in the restroom that hurt me. I was afraid that if I did, they would say, "See? I told you that you were too small to go by yourself, this wouldn't have happened if you hadn't insisted upon having your own way".

In my parents' defense, I now know that their reaction would not have been that...but that doesn't change the fact that, as a child, I was certain that their reaction would be what I feared.

Later on, when I was an adult, my mother and I were talking about humor. I observed to her that humor comes from pain. "But you're funny", my mom said, "where does your pain come from?" Even as an adult, I still couldn't tell her...I just didn't trust myself to word it in the right way.

I am the youngest of four children. My brother, John, is the oldest of us and, when I was growing up, he was my hero. He did everything I wanted to do and was everything I wanted to be. He drew well, he played the guitar, he taught me to hit a baseball, throw a football, ride a bike, build a fort.

He actually had the patience and steady hands to put an airplane model together without it having huge globs of glue oozing from the seams..he never seemed to not have time for me. He was always patient with me...even when I couldn't keep my grubby, clumsy hands off of his freshly-painted and decaled airplane model (which despite its aerodynamic design refused to fly very far and wasn't nearly as sturdy as it looked)....and when the incident in the bathroom changed me, caused me to begin lashing out and acting badly for all the rest of my childhood, it was my big brother who got me through everything....the one that never ever seemed to give up on me.

John was a soda-jerk at KG Drugstore about a mile from our house and our mom would often drop me off at the counter for John to watch me while she went shopping somewhere else. I marvelled at the dashing figure he cut in his starched white apron and bow tie and the paper hat set at a jaunty angle.

I watched the skill with which he made malts and turned burgers...waiting until the perfect moment to place the cheese on the patty so that it was melted at precisely the proper amount, then placing the top half of the bun down on the patty while it finished cooking so that it was all warm and greasy and filled with all of the artery-clogging goodness that makes a burger taste wonderful...and I especially loved the way he would slip me a cherry Dr. Pepper or a plate of chips from time to time. Sometimes he would pool his tips together and buy me a comic book or a bag of plastic green army men, half of whom I would position on the counter in a defensive line about the ketchup and mustard bottles while the other half assaulted from the salt and pepper shakers and napkin dispenser.

To this day, I prefer chips instead of fries, and a really good soda fountain soft drink is the epitome, the sine qua non of carbonated beverages...there's nothing in a bottle that can rival the taste.

One day my sisters came at the end of his shift and we all decided to race home...girls against the boys. My big brother swept me onto his strong shoulders and ran home with me laughing all the way. We beat our sisters by a wide margin and, not knowing what to do until they got home, my brother decided to teach me how to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Almost five decades later, I still make them the same way he taught me.

When John left on his mission, I was devastated. I had no idea how I was going to cope with my pain without him there to destract me and make me feel like I wasn't dirty or damaged or like I didn't have a target on my back. I had no idea how to feel like a normal kid without my big brother there and I was terrified.

I don't know why I didn't make the connection with all of the preparation...maybe it was denial but I first realized that my brother was going to be gone for almost three years on the ride back home, after dropping John of at the train station. I looked about and noticed he wasn't in the car. I frantically told my parents that we'd forgotten John and we needed to turn around. When I was told he wouldn't be back for almost three years, I burst into tears.

I don't think that adults realize it but, time is a relative thing and three years to a five and a half year old is over half of his life span. At first they thought my tears were cute, then they got annoying and I was told in no uncertain terms to stop. Somehow I did but pain is non-compressable and, while I pushed it down there, it sprang up and manifested itself in other areas of my life.

John's return from his mission was to be three months after I turned eight years old and, though I loved and idolized my father as well, I could think of nobody other than my brother that I wanted to dip me into the waters of baptism so that I could finally feel clean again...so I postponed my baptism for three months until he came home.

As an adult, I asked my father if my decision hurt his feelings, like the wonderful father he was, he told me how proud he was that his eldest son baptised his youngest. I wasn't quite sure how he felt until my accident made it impossible for me to baptise my own youngest child and my own eldest son filled in for me. The glowing pride I felt at that moment made it possible for me to put the nagging fear that I had offended my father to rest.

My brother and I are so alike in so many ways and so different in so many others. There have been times when we've sworn we never wanted to see each other again and times when we couldn't wait to be together. Some of the happiest times of my life have been spent with him and I never laugh harder than when I am in his company.

Up until now, nobody but my wife has known what he meant to me growing up and how much a role he played in me being able to function as a normal person....not even John has known.

When people ask me why I love him so much, up to now, all I've been able to say was, "He taught me to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich"