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.

Give Thanks...For My Favorite Team Losing

 It sounds strange, but because my favorite college football team has lost two games in a row, I started writing a new story. 

For the longest time, my weekends in the fall were spent looking forward to the upcoming games. And for the past couple of years, my favorite team did very well...extremely well, and this year was supposed to be one of their best. Turns out, they were not the team everyone thought they'd be. They may still win a majority of their games and have a good season, but it's not what many (including myself at certain times...) believed it would be.

Oh well.

Since the chance of my team to go to the playoffs has basically disappeared, I'm not into the games anymore. Last week we ended up tending my grandson a couple of times and an idea for a book came to mind, so I started it. I'm not too far along--the story's still formulating in my mind--but it's been a lot of fun. Even if no one buys it or it never gets picked up by a publisher, I'm going to finish it.

Truth be told, I should have shed my obsession with sports years ago, or at least, toned it down. I could have accomplished so many things, used that time in other ways. Heck, I could have written dozens of novels in that same time. Getting rid of cable TV a year ago helped curb my addiction. I think this latest turn of events has helped me toward that end.

So, if this story works out, would I still be happy that the team has suffered a couple of losses because if they hadn't, they'd still be in the hunt for the nation's best team? That's a tough question.

As it stands now, I'm thankful for this opportunity. I'm thankful to be able to write something for my family. I'm thankful for directing my efforts toward other things and not be so hooked on things. Strange how things work out, sometimes. 

Give Thanks...For The Memories

 A week ago several of my past high school classmates met and celebrated forty years since we were all required--by law--to be together for organized public education.

Forty years.

I did not attend the reunion. 

Not that I didn't want to attend, but because they changed the date from the summer to a weekend in September, I had work conflicts. Bummer. It would have been fun to go and spend time with such wonderful people.

Many who attended posted photos and memories on social media. One Facebook friend posted a link to his cache of high school photos. He was our school photographer and he did a fantastic job. It's amazing to think that all those photos were taken on film, film that had to be developed...it was pretty pricey. Now, you can take a thousand photos basically for free.

I was not the most popular student at Davis High School Class of 1984, but I wasn't the most unpopular student, either. I enjoyed my time walking the (literally...) century-old halls of that old school...a series of buildings that no longer exist, by the way. I found all the photos I was in and I am including them here. I want to thank Vance Brand and his wonderful photographic eye that made these photos possible. I hope it's okay to post them. If not, I'll be glad to take them down.

So, I present a series of photos including me and my great friends. I'm thankful for those people and those times. Forty years...can't believe it's been that long.