What A Difference A Year Makes...

I was doing a little social media surfing this morning and the above photo popped up on my Facebook feed. The picture was to remind me of what I posted exactly one year ago today. It took me a moment to recognize the photo. 

It was the road that threw me off.

Where we live, we many times get brilliant sunsets, but the road and the mountain range told me this was a sunrise, not a sunset. I knew I took the photo, but I don't find myself driving anywhere in the morning nowadays. I'm usually working--

Then, it clicked.

A year ago today, I pulled over around 6am on 7/2/25 to get a shot of this incredible sunrise. I used the panoramic filter on my phone for maximum effect. It was stunning. But, it also reminded me of why I was on the road so early in the morning. I was driving to work, to Logan, about 20 miles from where this photo was taken.

Those were dark times...

For the past fifteen years (off and on...), I worked a job that was tough, and had gotten tougher in the past 2 1/2 years. The start of the dark days happened a few years earlier when my good friend and supervisor suddenly passed away. From there, it all went downhill. Our team was shattered. The organization re-grouped, they put in a wonderful new supervisor who was new to the position and the unique work we did. The major problem wasn't with her, but with an attitude shift that we had no idea from where it originated. Almost every decision we made was questioned and critiqued. We were hired for our ability to independently think and act for ourselves. 

Those days were over.

Then, to pour salt in the wound, we were called back into the office--only half the week, but still. I had worked at home for about seven years and I loved it. I was more productive, I was saving money, and the job was much less stressful. And because I didn't want to quit, I complied. This photo was a beautiful sight during an ugly time.

Then, I got a new job. I transferred to a new department and it was as if the heavens parted. Myself and another co-worker who had experienced the same dark days came over at the same time. It took months for us to feel as if the cloud constantly overhead no longer existed. I don't mean to insult or belittle real trauma, but my co-worker and I experienced some PTSD. We've been at the new job almost a year and looking back, I cannot believe the change that's taken place. I do have to go into the office, but only a couple of times a month, not every week. I get to be productive working from home and the specter of darkness no longer exists.

What a difference a year makes. Seeing this photo pop up in my timeline reminded me of the tough times, of how things looked bleak a year ago today. I see the brilliant colors, the subtle hues changing in the distance and I appreciate it, possibly even more today than I did when it made me pull over, get out of my car, and snap the picture. Funny how life works...not knowing the future. I didn't think I could love the photo more than I did that day exactly one year ago.

I was wrong. 

There Are...No Words

The call came while I was shopping with my wife and grandson. The voice on the other end stopped, stuttered, then she gave me the news.

Shock, disbelief, pain. 

I stood there, head down, there were no words. What do you say to a friend who just told you her brother had died? No matter what your scrambling brain thinks up, it's inadequate, vacant, not enough.

I first met Greg in 1987 when I met my brother's wife and her family after returning from my mission. He was the youngest of four, the baby, but he was no baby. Greg had a quiet presence. He never dominated a conversation--it wasn't needed. To me, he watched, observed, took it all in, and when he did speak, you knew his words carried weight. I always thought that about him. He watched our world and lived in his own. And funny, that dry sense of humor...classic.

I watched him climb the ladder in his career and it always impressed. He rose through the ranks, firefighter, engineer, captain, battalion and deputy chief, then in 2024 he became South Davis Metro Fire Chief. Whenever we had the time to chat (which became rarer as the years flew by...), I loved talking to him about his world, a world I knew nothing about. He talked about the life of a firefighter, the ordering of a new truck and how much input he had in that decision. He also talked about the community of firefighters and how when one falls, no matter where in the country, all honor their service, their sacrifice.

Humbling.

One of my favorite memories was years ago. We took my mother to the emergency room and there was Greg, helping with the EMTs and emergency staff. That big smile. As we waited, I talked to the nurses about Greg. "You know Stewie?" they asked. We told them he was family. They gushed over him, said he was a pleasure to work with...one of the good guys. 

Now, a nation of servants mourn with his family, for he was their family, too. The black across the South Davis Metro Fire Department banner signifies loss, a void where a light no longer shines. Greg...we love you and you are missed.

Crushed...Absolutely Crushed

 The older I get, I should (somewhat...) come to expect the kind of news that floored me this morning, a friend, someone I've known for over four decades, passed away this morning. There's never a good time to deliver such heartbreaking news, but it's the last thing I expected while scrolling through Facebook on Christmas Eve morning.

Because of my brother Alan, I loved my freshman year of high school. I remember dreading the very thought of being fifteen-years old and sharing the same halls and classrooms as literal adults, eighteen-year old adults. I heard rumors of hazing, pushing pennies, getting shoved in lockers. Yes, it happened to others...

But not to me.

No, I had friends, and one of my good friends way back in 1980 was Ted. I looked up to Ted, literally as well as figuratively. For some reason, he didn't mind having a freshman tag along when the gang did cool stuff. Looking back as a sixty-year old, it seems silly. Then again, much of what we felt was important in high school was silly. 

Which brings me to Ted. He was a photographer and I showed an interest. Because of that, he mentored me and gave me confidence that I could take great pictures, too. He loved rock bands...so did I. He loved Volkswagens...so did I. We even double-dated on my very first school dance. Wonderful memories.

Then, as people do over years and years, we took different paths. Because of social media, namely, Facebook, we kept in touch. Our correspondence only increased when I moved to the valley where he grew up. As I posted photos and stories of this beautiful part of the state, he would comment--almost every time--telling me about a house, or a street, or a memory from his youth, from before we met in the halls of Davis High School. 

From those posts, I saw a man who was fiercely devoted to his family, his children, his wife. We would chat electronically about photography, music, VWs, even a shared Scandinavian heritage. I got to know him all over again. He posted of health issues, but like the stud he was, he never sought pity from others. He accepted his future bravely--at least, publicly. He faced his mortality in a way I can only hope to emulate. He fought it to the end.

On Christmas Eve, the news cut extra deep. But, it forced me to remember those wonderful days of my youth, when a senior didn't care for such immature labels and befriended a geeky, skinny, shy kid who just wanted to fit in. Those are the people who change lives. I will miss my friend, miss his humor, his rebellious spirit, a spirit that can now soar free in the halls of Valhalla. 

Rest now, my brother. And thank you for so much.

Changes...Answering The Call To Return

 This morning I left my house, climbed into my car, and this photo is what I saw. The view represents the end of an era, at least for me. It was the day I returned to the office.

I had a good run.

Months ago, a national election brought attention to teleworkers, most of the attention negative. I get it. Plummers, waitresses, workers in retail couldn't stay home and keep their jobs. No, they have to leave their homes every shift so that the rest of us can enjoy the services they offer. Me? Well, I'm a public servant and decisions were made in the spring of 2020 to send us home. I had been working from home for a couple of years before this decision was made so no change for me.

Our bosses decided a few months ago it was time to bring us back into the office. I get it. It makes sense on some levels, but not so much on others. Still, I can complain all day long...it won't change my new reality.

I can go on and on (and have done so...) about the benefits of working from home--benefits not just for me, but for others. I know these benefits because I've worked under them for the past eight years...almost a third of my entire career. Working from home was great, an answer to prayers, actually. 

This morning I began working at a new location--my sixth with this organization. It took exactly thirty minutes to drive there. Turns out the drive was the most pleasant experience today. When I arrived, I had to set up my work station. The way I set up my equipment is very important to me. It allows me to be the most efficient with my work. Change disrupts this organization. I was able to get into the programs I used, but the word processing program I use would not comply. The most frustrating thing for me is that I had the same issue with that computer program a few months back. I KNOW the fix is simple, but for the life of me, I can't remember how I fixed it.

When the appropriate time came, I moved my keyboard, mouse, and headset to the side so that the worker with whom I share the cubicle half the work week can use his keyboard, mouse, and headset. I powered down the computer, picked up my stuff, descended the stairs and left the building.

All in all, there were frustrations, and yet, at the same time, I realized I am blessed. I am now required to go into the office twice a week. I still have my job, just at a different location...

A different perspective.

One day back. Here's to many more.

Give Thanks...For Two Moms - I Really Wish They Could Have Known Each Other

It's Mother's Day and the social media is full of odes, dedications, and well-wishes for mothers, spouses, and daughter.

As it should be.

If you're adopted, you know some of the feelings I've had all my life when Mother's Day and Father's Day roll around. I could not be more blessed than to have been placed with my adopted family. Of course, since we live only one reality, it's impossible for me to know any different, but I cannot adequately express how amazing was my adopted family. My parents raised my brother, sister, and me (all adopted...) with love, compassion, discipline, and sacrifice. I can simply not imagine any other life.

In the fall of 2023 I found my birth mother. Had we more time, I could have met her in person, but we found each other only weeks before she passed away from a long illness. My adopted mother passed away in 2007. As I read posts from friends and family today, I couldn't help but wish these two amazing women could have met each other in this life.

I think they'd have loved it.

Of course, I really only knew one, but I've learned of the other since her passing. Both were short, spunky, brave, and from what I understand, both were very funny. I don't think I appreciated my mom's humor enough before she died. Man, she was a funny woman. At my birth mother's celebration of life held just over a year ago, the stories I heard described a woman who made everyone laugh.

Because of my philosophy, I believe these woman have indeed met. I'll bet it was a wonderful and special meeting between two women who gave me so much, without whom I would not be here (literally...), and not be the man I am today. I'm thankful for them both, for their love, their sacrifice, their incredible lives.

Happy heavenly Mother's Day...to my two moms. 

Give Thanks...To Know These Wonderful Men Better, Even After They've Passed

 Yesterday, the community said their good-byes to an incredible father, husband, and friend. I was unable to attend, unfortunately, but when reading the obituary for JT, I learned more about him than I knew before. 

I suppose that's a positive that comes from such a solemn event...

One of few.

I first met JT decades ago when he married an absolutely wonderful person. I did not know him, but I knew he had to be a quality person for her to choose him, and everything that I learned from him and about him since only confirms those initial impressions. The last few years were tough on him as his health deteriorated quickly until, at the end, there was just no more fight left. My heart breaks for my friend and her family. 

JT was a creative...an artist who worked in creative fields all his life. When our oldest son was a toddler, JT cast him in a short film. I have great respect for those who don't just think about creating new art, but actually do it. What I didn't know about JT was after graduating college, he moved to New York City and worked in several off-broadway productions. How I would have loved to know that, to be able to spend an hour or two just to ask what that was like. I guess that conversation will have to wait.

It reminded me of two other funerals I attended, one in person, and one over the internet. Years ago, a writer who mentored literally thousands of writers and who helped inspire millions of written words passed. It devastated the local writing community. A speaker at his funeral--I believe it was a brother, but I could be wrong--talked about how my friend worked as a butcher in his younger days. I would have loved to talk to him about that. My mother worked in a butcher shop for decades to support our family after my father passed away. I felt sad I didn't get a chance to ask him about those experiences.

The other funeral happened last year when my supervisor and friend passed away. I listed to his brother talk about Darren's love for wrist watches. I had no idea. I have so many watches stowed away in drawers and boxes...most of them inoperative, but had I known, we could have talked about watches when we met each month for my evaluations. On the day of the funeral, this small fact of my friend made me miss him even more.

The optimist says one can find good in any situation. Optimists should add that, though possible it's sometimes difficult to see the good in some things. I'm thankful that I knew these incredible men, hence, the good. Each time, after hearing of things I wish I knew before they passed, it opened my eyes that I should be less selfish, less self-centered and get to know people better. Even though I can't know everything, I'm trying to know more.

And that's a good thing.

Give Thanks...For Wonderful Memories And A Great Cause

 This photo popped up on my Facebook feed today. If you don't know anyone in this photo, you'd think it was just another group of young adults posing for an event. I suppose the hair styles gives it away that this photo was not taken recently. It's actually almost thirty-five years old. You may not know them, but I do,

Each and every one.

This group met for university credit every weekday in a deconsecrated religious building at the top of 3rd West in Salt Lake City. We gathered, rehearsed, practiced some of the most beautiful music ever written, and threw in some B.D.Q. Bach for fun. We shared jokes, smiled a lot, allowed the time in that room to rejuvenate and recharge our crazy hectic lives. Looking at those faces from decades before, I see souls yet to experience the joys and heartaches of life. Many married fellow choir members...most of the unions remain to this day, some did not. I see lawyers, doctors, professionals from several fields. As far as I know, there have been no deaths...but spouses, well, life is incredibly cruel sometimes.

The photo was not in my feed to reminisce about a wonderful time in our lives, but for a higher purpose, something more noble. The gentleman, front row, far left is Dr. Michael Huff. A quick internet search will tell you more about this amazing musician and human. Music has always been a part of his life. In our choir he was the assistant director and accompanist. He's now the Director of Choral Activities at Snow College in Ephraim, Utah. The gentleman at the opposite end of the front row is Dr. Ed Thompson.

I can count the men who have had the most influence in my life on one hand...Dr. Thompson is one.

I sang in Ed's choir for four years. Since that photo was taken, we've each gone our separate ways, made choices, sacrificed, lived. Dr. Thompson continued directing the choir he so dearly loved for several years, then retired. I know Dr. Thompson impacted my life greatly. The same can be said for many of us. Dr. Huff, who worked with his mentor as a contemporary, has done something wonderful. A new scholarship has been created, the Edgar J. Thompson Endowed Scholarship. You can find all the information on this program by clicking: HERE. 

If I could, I'd fund the whole thing. However, if you have the means and are looking for a worthy cause to enrich musicians's lives, consider donating. It will guarantee the name of a great man will live on.

I'm thankful to have been part of something special, something that I still miss these many years later. Knowing Michael, he's creating an opportunity to give others a piece of that feeling. God bless him.

Give Thanks...For The Somber Times

 I don't talk about my job much on this blog, or didn't when I wrote daily. It's not that I don't like my job--I do, most of the time. It's challenging and I feel we do good, based on the laws and policies of the state and the federal governments. But, at the end of the day, it's a job. It's a way to support my family. I spend my day as millions/billions of others every day. Some have it better...many have it much worse.

My job involves the appropriation of state and federal funds. I'm not part of the legislative branch that decides the extent of those funds, but I do make decisions of whether or not those funds continue to go to individuals who are eligible. As long as they're eligible, they get to keep them. My job is to make sure the funds continue. 

Doing the same thing everyday (with the occasional "surprise" case...), things can get routine, even boring. That's the nature of things...it can't be fireworks and rainbows all the time. That's when a phone call can stand out, especially when the person on the other end brings in a different spirit into the room.

When they bring in a somber tone, a darker time.

Last week, I made a call, a requirement for that particular person's case. I finished my job, asked the requisite questions, obtained the necessary answers, made notes, double-checked to make sure I had everything I needed, then I went into habit-mode. I thanked the woman on the other end of the line, then told her we're done for another twelve months, after which, we'd speak again.

She chuckled.

Then she said, "No we won't."

That piqued my interest. Usually, those with whom I'm speaking find my words sort of funny, as if they've been in a dentist's chair and the exam is finished and you won't have to endure my line of questioning for a year. I said, "Oh? What, are you moving?"

That's when she said as calmly as if we were discussing her favorite book in a booth at a diner.

"No," she said. "I'm only got about a month to live."

I've talked to the citizens of the state of Utah for almost three decades. Few things surprise me...this did. I was at a loss for words. I finally said I was sorry to hear the bad news. She told me what she had, some extremely long medical definition of the thing that was killing her, then said, "it is what it is."

Again, I said how sorry I was to hear such terrible news. I can't remember how we ended the call, but as I hit the "End Call" button on the computer, the conversation washed over me. I'm getting to the age where I'm seeing friends--or strangers, even--around my age who won't wake up to see another day. It's sobering, humbling, not your ordinary day at the office.

In a strange way, I'm thankful for that call, for that woman's courage, for her attitude. It makes me appreciate my life, the lives of my family and friends, the blessings I have, even my many-times boring job. The adage that there is opposition in all things rings true yet again. We cannot appreciate or understand the good without the bad, the sweet without the sour, life without the absence of life.

Every once in a while I get a call like that...very very few like that one specifically. They change the way I not only work, but how I see, well...everything.

Give Thanks...For Forty Blessed Years

 The text message came on Friday. It was from a friend, a friend I've known longer than I didn't know him. He reminded me via text that it was forty years ago--to the day--that we first met.

That day was one of the most important and influential in my life.

January, 24, 1985.

That morning I woke up, dressed, collected my suitcases (that I packed the day before...), loaded them in the car with the rest of my family and we drove sixty miles to the south, ending up in Provo, Utah, within walking distance of the great and spacious university campus of BYU.

That's where I met Brian, Mark, Michael, Jeff, and Linda...the newest missionary district in the Missionary Training Center (or, MTC...) assigned to the Denmark Copenhagen Mission for the LDS church. 

Because I'm old, I thought the anniversary was on the 25th, not the 24th, so on the 25th I dug out my old missionary journal and checked out the first entry. 1-24-85. I missed writing an entry the next day and I've missed I think one other day since 1-24-85, but every other day for those forty years, I've written in a journal.

Look at us...so different, yet in many ways, the same. Back then we were young, healthy, ambitious, somewhat cocky, a little scared, definitely naive, and we all had our hair. Now, with the life experience of two-hundred and forty years, we're not young, not as healthy, ambitious in different things, scared of different things, humbled, and lacking things (literally...) that we once had.

Growing up in a predominant religion serving a mission was something talked about every week at church, and many times throughout the week at home or with friends at school. To call it "pressure to go" would be an understatement. I always thought I was going to go. I don't think I ever considered not going. And when I turned nineteen (the age at the time...), I submitted my papers and a few weeks later my call came...Denmark Copenhagen.

The only thing I knew about Denmark was that it was small and situated above Germany. I was taking German at USU when my call came and the textbook showed what I thought was just a small map of the country. Turns out, it showed much more--almost all of Denmark.

I wrote in my journal forty years and two days ago that I arrived at the MTC and spent much of the morning walking around with Dan Scott, a fellow Davis High School graduate. We were both confused. I eventually found Brian and Mark, my two MTC companions. I skipped lunch, but ate dinner. 

That was pretty much my first entry. 

I'm glad I wrote it. I'm glad I wrote every day after that.

Rarely, do I read those old entries. Friday's text message brought me back, back to that first day, a day that changed my life. Looking back there have been several days--a dozen, maybe two--that were life-changing. This was one of them. Since that day, we all served, all came back, lived our lives, and thanks to social media, have stayed in touch. When we gather, we're family, brothers and a sister who shared those days and weeks at the MTC cooped up in the classrooms, gyms, and cafeterias. We then shared the joy and frustration of learning a foreign language, speaking with strangers (many who became friends...), and surviving that cultural experience of an LDS mission.

I cannot express in words just how impactful those days, weeks, months, and years were to me, and how my mission's affected my life ever since. I'm thankful for those memories and those people and that decision, especially those who supported me and my friends...my family.

Forty years...forty blessed years.

Looking Back...My Last New Years Eve Blog Post

It's been one year since I wrote this, 366 days, 12 months. Since 2013 I wrote a blog post on New Years Eve. Sometimes the words came quickly, sometimes I had to search, but every night, before 12 midnight Mountain Time, I hit the "Publish" button and another blog post was added to the library.

A few months ago, I stopped the dailies. It got to the point where I needed to stop, to do something else. I miss it sometimes, like tonight as I sit in our front room watching TV and wait for a new year to begin. So, maybe you read this last year, maybe not. It's not so much a "New Years" post, but it's what I was thinking about 366 days, 12 months ago.

Happy New Year Everyone! May it be your best ever.

 Isaac Newton's Third Law of Motion states that, "For ever action there is an equal and opposite reaction." In the Book of Mormon, a scripture says basically the same thing, "For it must needs be, that there is opposition in all things..."

The world of science and the world of religion agree (something I believe happens more than people realize...). It's easy to understand Newton's Law...you see an object being acted upon--jumping up in the air, for example--takes energy to jump and gravity pulls you down. Opposition in a spiritual sense...well, that's a little more complicated. Think of the "Shoulder Angel and Devil" as an example. We can look around and see the evil in the world...sometimes it's harder to see the good, but--and I do believe this wholeheartedly--the good is there, stronger than the evil.

It's science.

This past week I learned that a dear friends's family lost their matriarch. She passed after an eight-year struggle with cancer. I only learned of her deteriorating condition the day before. My friend let us all know that his wife might not see 2024. She passed the next day. That night he posted a photo of a tribute given to his sweet wife and family by his neighbors. The passing breaks your heart...the tribute shows how wonderful people can be to each other.

Directly under my friend's post another friend posted a picture of a newborn, a child born only hours before. One of the most impactful events that can happen to human beings is the birth of a child. They sent the social media post to proclaim their joy to us all.

I believe the only connection between these two families is me. I've not seen my friend who suffered the loss in years, but social media can keep us connected. The same can be said for the family with the new edition. Interestingly enough, both the expression of grief and of joy were listed one under another on my social media feed.

Opposition in all things.

One family will start the new year missing their mother/spouse/friend...the other will start a hopefully life-long journey as their family increases. Pain for one family, elation for the other.

The wonderful and tragic thing about life is both families will experience the same thing while they travel throughout this life. My friend and his wife experienced the miracle of childbirth. They know what's coming for the other family. And, since we all die, the family with the new baby has experienced loss, either a close family member or someone more distant, we've all attended a funeral.

The rest of the Book of Mormon scripture reads, "If not so...righteousness could not be brought to pass, neither wickedness, neither holiness nor misery, neither good nor bad." Whether or not you believe in this book of scripture, the philosophy behind the words are time-tested facts. Without pain, you cannot know joy, without work you cannot appreciate rest, without contention you cannot understand peace.

To every action there's an equal and opposite action.

I mourn for my friend's family. Having never experienced a loss so personal, I cannot understand their pain. I'm also happy for my other friends. At any given time, we're subject to the joys and hardships of life, some severe, some mild, but always evolving. I'm thankful for these experiences, the good and the bad, the bitter and the sweet. The trick is to enjoy the good times and remember the bad times only exist because the good times happened first.

Give Thanks...For Continued Traditions

 Every year, life seems to get in the way of things, renewing the car's license tags before they expire, not throwing away all those credit card applications so they just sit on the counter, forgetting to buy dishwashing detergent before the old stuff runs out. 

And making home-baked treats for our neighbors at Christmas time.

Thank goodness my wife's on top of things.

She baked yesterday and today we frosted, put on plates, and delivered them to the neighbors. It's one of those traditions I'm glad we keep alive. Another tradition, today we participated in our annual ward Christmas program at church. It's something that's become as much of the holiday as enjoying Christmas lights or singing along with your favorite holiday songs.

I'm thankful for those traditions. Even though my wife did most of the work on the treats, it was fun walking to each door in a light rain to offer small tokens of appreciation for them and wishing them a Merry Christmas. I'm thankful for our neighbors and friends, for our little community, for the ward Christmas program (and our choir...). I'm thankful to have made it another year.

I'm thankful for continued traditions.

Give Thanks...Back In The Musical Saddle

 Tonight, I stood with several other tenors, basses, altos, and sopranos, as well as a conductor and orchestra and we performed selections from G.F. Handel's The Messiah. 

It felt good.

Of course, my voice is thrashed.

Back in the day, at this time of year, I was singing several hours every day. In college, our a'cappella choir sang daily, and at several times as fundraisers for trips. Later, when I got involved in community theater, several months of rehearsals culminated in performing every day for a month, and sometimes, twice on Saturdays.

It's been years since I did a Christmas show, seven or eight, I think. I miss it in some ways, but boy...doing a show at Christmas is tough.

The last time I sang Handel's The Messiah was around thirty years ago. My wife and I sang with the Utah Symphony Chorus...incredible experience. For the past couple of weeks, I dusted off my music-reading skills and jumped into the project at our local church.

I miss performing, and because it's performing, I think I can somehow return to those days and start performing again, but that's impossible, just as it's impossible to return to my youth when I had few responsibilities...just going to school, performing, and hanging out with my friends.

With age comes wisdom, at least, I hope so. Tonight, I think I enjoyed the music more than I ever had. The musicians were not world-class like the last time I sang the notes (I do NOT include my self in the "world class" category...). It was imperfect, but beautiful.

I'm thankful for the many opportunities I've had in my life to perform, for the life-long friendships I made from those days. Singing changed my life...literally. I had fun tonight.

It felt good to be back in the musical saddle.

Give Thanks...For A Good Deal, Even If They Never Get Used

 Hard to pass up a good deal.

It's probably been half a decade since I last went skiing. If my 59-year old self told my 17-year old self that I rarely go skiing during ski season, my younger self would not believe it. It would seem so strange. Then again, I doubt my 17-year old self would understand that things would change...

Namely, the cost of the sport.

Back in the day, you could go to almost any Northern Utah resort and ski all area/all day for under $12. If you wanted to spend more, you could go to Snowbird or Park City of Deer Valley. When we had a little extra cash, we'd go to Snowbird and ski all area w/o the tram for $16. That's mind-blowing now. The most expensive part of skiing back then was the equipment.

That's why when I go to our local thrift store and I see practically new(ish...), unused skis for $12, I buy them, even if I don't need them or even if I may never actually use them. 

At my age, people don't do things they used to do. I know a lot of people my age or older who ski and good for them. I'd like to think I'd still be able to successfully navigate from the top of the mountain to the lodge. But, you never know. Plus, there's the ever-increasing costs. That's not going to change.

I'm thankful for a good deal. I'm thankful for my childhood memories of skiing with my family and friends. I'm thankful that others enjoy the sport so much. I don't know how good the Rossignols are that I bought, but I know the underside are almost pristine...not a lot of rock skiing were done. This year's ski season has just begun. Hopefully, I'll get a chance to take these babies out and give them a run or two. 

Time will tell.

Give Thanks...Knowing How The Other Side Feels

 For my team, the season is over. It ended Friday night in Florida. To call the U of U's 2024 football season a disappointment doesn't come close to reality.

It was much worse than that.

And our disappointment is mostly our fault. We thought it would be so much better. For years...heck, even decades, we've had it good, and this year was supposed to be the best yet. It started strong and then it went downhill, and by downhill, seven losses in a row. As a fan base, we went enjoying a Top 10 team, then we watched out ream fall out of the college football playoff picture, then it kept going down, and down...

And down.

Until, the team saw a winning record vanish and a shot at a bowl game--any bowl game--disappear.

Even thought it's been more than thirty years since I attended the University of Utah, I know something about how Utah fans think--not all fans, mind you--but many. They're fixated and fascinated on their rivals, the Brigham Young University Cougars. And even though I'm not a fan of that school (for the most part...), many of their fans are as fixated and fascinated on the U as well. They had to watch as their most-hated rivals built a national brand, a team talked about on the sports shows and podcasts. Man, that must have sucked. 

Now we, as Utah fans, know how that feels. We've watched as the men in blue win game after game and took the place on the sport shows and podcasts. When projections of the college football playoff were discussed, the big red U became a big blue Y. BYU was were having the season Utah fans felt like they deserved. For years, BYU played hard and battled week after week, having big wins, but not having the seasons Utah had.

Now, we know how they feel.

Now, they know how we feel.

I'm old enough to remember the dominant BYU teams of the 70s and 80s. As a Utah fan, it was brutal. Younger fans can't understand seeing the roles reversed, seeing Utah being (and winning...) BCS games, having undefeated seasons, a constant place in the Top 25. Utah will probably never reach the level BYU did because I believe the sport is rigged that no one but the Blue Bloods will ever win another national championship, but hey...that's just me.

It's been a tough year for local football teams. The U saw that college playoff as a real possibility. After a couple of losses, that dream died. Then, the Y became as close as a team can come to reaching the playoffs, before losing two key games. Like the U, the Y's dream came to an end.

In nine months, the teams will again don their uniforms and try and win as many games as possible. Changes on both sides will create interesting storylines and fodder for sports shows, podcasts, and banter around the water cooler. All I know is both sides--both teams--want their players to advance, to have a better season than the one that just ended. I'm thankful to be a fan. I've toned things down in my own life so the games don't affect me as much as they once did. I'm thankful that, as a fan, I can see how happy our rivals are. Their team had a great season, one they should be proud of. I'm thankful I got to enjoy so many successful Utah Utes years, and hopefully, they can return to their winning ways in 2025.

Funny, how things work out sometimes.

Give Thanks...For Thanksgiving

 Because of scheduling issues, our family gathered yesterday to laugh, share stories, and food. It was your typical Thanksgiving celebration. The only downside is not everyone could make it, that and the dog...

Still, it was a wonderful time.

I sometimes can't believe just how blessed I am.

Without doing any research, I still believe Thanksgiving to be an American holiday. I know other countries have adopted other American holidays and cultural events (many, America adopted from other countries to begin with...), but I think Thanksgiving remains ours.

Over the years, the gatherings have changed. As a child, it was our immediate family and sometimes others would come from out-of-state or we'd go there. Eventually, my siblings and I got married and moved away, starting our own families, our own traditions, but we'd always check to see what we were doing for Thanksgiving.

Family.

Now, years later, our own children are marrying and having children of their own. Now, they must check with their other families to see when they're gathering to see if they can make it to their celebrations. Life is a circle, or as some would say, the circle of life.

Yesterday, I spent six hours in the car. Thankfully, the weather and traveling companions were good. It was worth every minute. Helping move the biggest treadmill I've ever seen upstairs was not something I thought I'd be doing but, many hands made light work. Not only was it our Thanksgiving celebration, but also my son's birthday. I hope it was a good one.

For the past several years, I've blogged on Sundays and included the hashtag #GiveThanks. Truth be told, I could use that hashtag every time I blog...sometimes it's just hard to see all those blessings. Today, this week, this year I'm thankful for my health, my employment, the physical things we have, but most of all, my family, and since last Thanksgiving, I include my "other family" as well. 

Sometimes, I can't believe just how blessed I am.

Give Thanks...For Ward Choirs

 Last year (at least, I think it was last year...), I was asked to serve as a choir leader for our local LDS congregation. I believe you don't have to be a member of my religion to understand what this calling entails. Choirs in local congregations are often times the butt of jokes in music circles...and in other circles, too. They're an easy target. We invite anyone wishing to sing to join. Heck, I'm sure I've made jokes about these choirs over the years.

I don't think I'll ever do that again.

Our ward choir sang in church today. We had one rehearsal two weeks ago and went through the song one and one-half times this morning before our services began. They sounded wonderful. I'm not saying they were "world-class" in their presentation of the hymn, but boy, they sounded great--just ordinary church goers who enjoy singing.

When I was called, I felt inadequate, even though I've been singing in choirs--amateur and professional--for the past forty years. I've sung in regular choirs and I've sung with talent that's second to none. I was afraid I would be expected to get the singers to sound like a choir that blew people away. I quickly realized that's not my job...not my calling. I'm there to help the singers and the congregation feel something, to bring a spirit to the meeting.

I'm far from doing the best job with this calling. I have a long way to go--there's so much more I can do for the ward. That's the thing about callings. They're not not given to those who have mastered the skill...more like given to those who need to learn something.

I'm thankful for my neighbors who stay late and rehearse, who come early--small kids in tow--to support me and the program. I'm thankful I can stand before them and hear the music we create before anyone else. I'm thankful for ward choirs.

Give Thanks...The Land That I Love

 I took this picture of our flag on October 14th of this year. Tomorrow, I'll fly it again--both times to honor those who made it possible for me to be born, grow up, and live in this incredible country. This is the month where many of my fellow countrymen find things for which the are thankful and they share those thoughts with others.

Today, I'm thankful for where I live.

Having lived almost sixty years on this planet, I've seen some history. Had I properly studied history I would have known more, but between my grandparents and my self, our lives cover the years of 1885 to the present day. In those three generations, the world has forever changed. Very few living today could even comprehend what life was like in the 1800s. Tonight, I'm sitting in a climate-controlled room communicating on a device that can send these words to literally billions of people. We have food in our house that I did not have to hunt, water we did not have to dredge up from the ground, vehicles in the garage that can take us around the world. Even the most vivid imaginations of my grandparent's generation could ever have dreamed how we would live today.

We live in the age of miracles.

And the United States of America stands apart. The experiment allowing humans guaranteed rights, rights that should not be taken away by men with guns (governments or criminals...) was so novel, so radical, so important for humanity, that once implemented, the world would never be the same.

November is only ten-days old and the month has left its mark on history. I've watched with fascination the highest and lowest of emotions, and yet, the life I live cannot compare with the highs and lows of the people who came before, who sacrificed all. We sometimes (many times...) forget that history did not start the day we were born. That's a shame, and not only that, but forgetting history--true history--can doom a society.

Tonight I walked to the end of a dead end street where homes will one day line a new road. I looked up. The sky was aflame with reds and oranges and blues and colors that took my breath away. I get to live on that street. I get to live in a country where, because of good people obeying laws, me and my family can live in relative peace. Because I've not studied history, I know of few other people who have been so blessed.

Events of the past week have caused millions to flood social media with their opinions, their griefs, their joys. I add my voice to theirs to say I'm thankful where I live. I'm thankful to have never wanted for food, for shelter, for love. I'm thankful for this land that I love.

One Hundred Years Ago Today...A Great Man Was Born

 On this day in 1924 my father was born in Harlem, Montana...one century, one hundred years, Harry A. Taylor, my father.

When I think of amazing men, amazing Americans, I think of my dad. When the Great Depression hit, he was old enough to understand things were bad, and if not, he definitely knew by the time it ended a decade later. Imaging going from a depression economy to a nation at war, which is exactly what happened. Dad had to wait until he turned eighteen in1945 to enlist, but when he did, they sent him to Germany and placed him behind a tail gun in a B-17 because he was an expert marksman. His family sent five brothers to fight in WWII...they all survived.

When he returned, the man who never graduated from high school earned a four-year engineering degree in three years, an incredible feat even then. He married my mother and after years of trying for children of their own, they adopted other's children, and they did it three times. He worked as an engineer for several companies finally ending up as a civilian worker at Hill Air Force Base. My parents bought six acres of land on the mountain in Farmington, Utah, where he designed and began building his dream home. 

He never saw its completion. 

The law of averages says reaching your one-hundredth birthday is rare. My father was months shy of reaching half that. He passed away at forty-nine, leaving a wife and three children under eleven-years old.

One hundred years is a milestone. Buildings have celebrations when they reach that mark (at least they do in the Western United States because that is considered old...). When people turn one-hundred local news do stories on them and families gather to celebrate.

For my father, this blog post may be the only thing written about him, the only mention the world will know of his birth and a little about his short, but important life. It's a shame, in a way, that we're not holding celebrations, no gatherings, no parties. Of my father's eleven siblings, only one remains, and of my immediate family, only my brother and I are left to remember the man we barely knew.

From what I know about my father, I doubt he'd be upset that this may be the only acknowledge of his birthday. It's not when a person is born that's important, it's what you do with the time you have, and my father...well, he's my Gold Standard on how to live a truly special life.

Happy birthday, Dad. I cannot thank you enough for everything you've done for me. Love you and miss you still.

Give Thanks...For Missing You

 I parked the car on the thin blade of pavement running north/south, one of several dissecting the Farmington City Cemetery. I arrived early so I could still make my call time for work. I got out and the brilliance of the day hit me, the greens of the grass seem to glow, a rarity in late October. In the past I've visited with snow, leaves covering the headstone of my parents. Yesterday, you could not ask for a more perfect day.

I fetched the pumpkin I carved the morning before, one I spotted among hundreds stacked in front of our local grocery store. My eyes locked on it immediately...small-ish, round-ish, almost perfect. I like to pick smaller pumpkins for my mom's grave. They fit her, not only in her size (not quite five feet tall...), but also in the way she didn't want attention directed her way. That didn't stop the attention from coming. Everyone who knew my mother loved her. She drew people to her like flies to a porch light at dusk.

I hiked the few steps from the car to the site and placed the pumpkin on the ground. Due to the slope, I adjusted the placement to prevent it from rolling downhill. I stood and surveyed the cemetery. Except for a service truck either beginning its duties to accept a new member, or finishing up welcoming a new member (considering the time of day, it's probably the latter...), I stood alone, the only person living at the cemetery on this absolutely beautiful day.

A day my mom would have appreciated.

I had my mom for forty-two years, long enough to believe I knew her. When she passed--and the passing was no surprise--I realized just how much I didn't know of the woman who selflessly adopted three children, myself included, and who raised us alone for thirty-three years. It's funny and ironic and terribly sad how the instant they're gone, you wish you could spend more time with them when you spent every day of your life with them before. The desire to ask her questions, to find out more about her life as a child growing up in the Great Depression or during WWII and all the wars that followed, as a young adult, a newlywed, even during the times I lived with her, hit me after she died and has continued these seventeen years since.

I can't remember the exact year I started carving a pumpkin for her birthday. I was possibly a teenager. I didn't continue the tradition every year, but I believe I've done much better since 2007. It's a small gesture, like the pumpkin itself...small, but heartfelt. 

Tonight, I'll drive to the cemetery again. Since it's Sunday, I may be alone at the cemetery, or perhaps others may come to be as close to their loved ones's remains as possible. The weather's not as perfect as it was yesterday and that may keep some from visiting. I'll pack up the pumpkin, bring it home, and place it among others for the holiday that always occurs four days after we celebrate my mom's birthday.

I thought I was thankful for my mother before, but I find myself more thankful for her with each passing year. I realize, as I get older, what an incredible person she was and how lucky all of us who knew her actually are. In a word...very. In 365 days, God willing, I'll continue the tradition, find an almost perfect pumpkin, carve it, and leave it for my mom. I'm thankful I miss her so much. It's a testament to just how wonderful she was. Until next year, mom. Still missing you.

Give Thanks...For The Primary Program

 Today, I almost stayed home from Sacrament Meeting because we have a few family members recuperating from various issues. When I checked the chorister schedule this morning, I forgot that I was scheduled to conduct the music today. 

I'm glad I decided to go.

It was the annual Primary program.

If you're unfamiliar with the our religion, we have an organization that focuses on children ages three to twelve. It's call the Primary. Around this time of year the congregations have one meeting dedicated to the kids. They give short (very short...) talks--sometimes only a sentence or even less--and they sing their little hearts out. I sat on the front row and got to see the program close up. Since my children graduated from Primary, I haven't been as interested in the program. Today, it was just magical.

I'll bet I could be in any Primary program across the world and feel the same thing. I might not understand the words, but I would definitely recognize the spirit that surrounds those children. I'm sure every Primary program would have the embarrassed few, the children searching for their parents/grandparents/siblings, and those amazing souls who stand as tall as possible and belt out the songs regardless of whether or not they can hit the note. 

Pure wonder.

Pure innocence.

Perfection.

The picture above is a visual depiction of the First Primary founded in Farmington, Utah in 1878. The mural is in the Memorial Rock Church in the building where I grew up. Every Sunday I saw that painting, memorized faces, studied the poses and the expressions on that wall. Just seeing it brings back a flood of memories.

Today, I along with everyone else in the hall, felt that special feeling that can only come from children. I'm thankful I decided to go this morning. I'm thankful for the opportunity to be a part of the program...part of the congregation. I'm thankful for the Primary program.