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.

Give Thanks...For Five-Thousand

It began on a Monday, Monday, January 23, 2011, to be exact. I was late to the party, but I thought it would be fun to start a blog.

That was five-thousand days from today, Sunday, September 29, 2024. I know it's five-thousand days because I've written five-thousand posts, one post, every single day.

I think it's time to stop.

By the time I got into the blogging game, blogs were fading. I didn't care. I enjoyed writing them. Now, almost fourteen years later, I don't know anyone who writes blog posts anymore. They're basically extinct. I know some still write them (because I'm one of those people...). I wonder who--if any--write and post something daily. I'm sure it's rare.

In my heyday, I was getting more than a hundred hits each day. I even made about $100 bucks from Google due to the number of visits. Those days are long gone. I'm averaging between twenty to thirty hits each day, sometimes more when the topic is of interest to many people. Sure, I liked the hits and back then, people even commented on the posts. Now, comments are rare, though still appreciated. I know that those twenty to thirty visits are from friends and family. I appreciate them all, each one, every day.

So, why stop now? Five-thousand is a good round number. It's something I can be proud of, an accomplishment eclipsed by few others, if any. But, every single person who ever started a blog, they all ended them, too. Everyone who started, then stopped, did so for a different reason. There's no one reason for me to stop, other than, it's time.

In the past five-thousand days, I've chronicled my life, the life of my family an friends. I've posted short stories and other snippets of fiction. I've written about weddings, about funerals, reunions, triumphs, tragedies, but mostly normal (some would say, boring...) topics. There were times--not many--when I searched for a topic, racked my brain for something to post. Every time I overcame, I succeeded in posting...something.

I'm not quitting the blogging game entirely. I plan on writing perhaps weekly, maybe a few times a week, especially when things happen I want to digitally remember and to allow others to read as well. It's funny, if I don't post anything tomorrow, I'll want to write a blog post about how it feels to not post anything.

If I don't post anything tomorrow, it's over...the streak ends, something that can never continue. As I get older, I realize, all things that start must have an ending. As the title of a classic Sydney Sheldon novel truthfully proclaims, Nothing Lasts Forever.

For all of you who have read my posts, I'm thankful for you and I hope you continue to do so when I write in the future. I'll notify on social media when a new blog post is written. But, if you move on and find another daily blogger to follow, I completely understand. The world has changed in the past five-thousand days. I've provided a daily glimpse of how those days have affected me and my loved ones, sometimes funny, sometimes serious, always daily.

I'm thankful for the ability to write these words, post these pictures. I'm thankful for good health and a (somewhat...) sound mind that allowed me to express myself. And so I say farewell...

For now. God bless you all.

But, Hey...We're Family

 This year's edition of FanX, the Salt Lake City Comic Con has ended. Thousands of people attended and possibly millions of dollars exchanged hands during the three-day event. If you've gone to this, or other comics conventions you know what you're going to get.

People having a great time.

One of those people is my niece...one of the most talented cosplayers I know.

Maddie has been cosplaying for more than a decade. She's diminutive, but don't let her size fool you...she has a marshal arts black belt and works in security. She also is dedicated to making excellent representations of some awesome characters.

I admire people who have the talent, and patience to pull off a good cosplay. When we met up yesterday, Maddie was Abigail, a show I have not seen. The photo doesn't give you the full story of her costume, unfortunately.

Doing FanX for more than a decade, I've seen many cosplayers, some terrific, some not as much, but every time I see someone who put effort into their character, who stepped outside their comfort zone and expressed themselves in a new way. I admire anyone who can do it.

This year's con is over. People are heading home, either by car, bus, train, scooter, bike, or on foot, all the while dressed as someone else, someone new. I'm already wondering what Maddie will be next time.