Teisevsvej 23...A Place Where I Used To Live

 In the summer of 1985 I got on a train in a suburb outside of Copenhagen (København...) and traveled west. The train crossed the island of Zealand (Sjælland...) until we came to the North Sea. They disconnected the engine and pushed the train onto a ferry.

Very cool.

I forget how long it took for the huge ship to travel to yet another Danish island, but when the ferry stopped, the train disembarked on Funen (Fyn...). From there, the train continued west until I reached the amazing city of Odense, Denmark, the small Scandinavian country's third largest city.

I got off the train and met one of the most interesting people I've ever met, Daren. At the time I was a LDS missionary. Missionaries are assigned a companion and Daren was mine. Last week I got a text message from Daren. He sent me a picture, a picture of a house on a little street just north and a little east of the city center. 

It's where we used to live.

It's been a long time since I left that house, once again leaving by train. Before I saw the picture, I had no idea of what the house looked like, but seeing it now, I remember. I remember our entry was on the side of the house. Once inside, we went downstairs. Our apartment was in the basement. When I arrived, the place was a pit. Daren would agree. Thankfully, some of the members of the local congregation came over and patched holes in the walls and painted. 

I only lived at that address for four months. Not long, but, a life can change in four months. I'm not saying living in that house changed my life entirely, but I did make a life-long friend, several actually. I fell in love with Odense (birthplace of Hans Christian Anderson...). That structure is where we returned after insanely difficult days, after the highest highs and the lowest lows. It offered shelter from storms, from hot summer days, from insults and bullies, from dejection. It's where we ate most of our meals (not a lot of member meals for us...), and got up early to do it all again. 

I'm glad Daren was there when I arrived. Even though we only spent two months together, I felt like he was a big brother for me--I still feel that way. I've loved seeing pictures of his adventures as his family discovers the magical land the locals call Danmark, and seeing Daren re-discover the land that's stolen our hearts.

It's just a house, one of millions in the small country, a place where I used to live. I'm glad he sent the picture...I nice gesture he didn't need to do. Then again, if you know Daren, it's not surprising at all.

There Was A Time...When This Was Very Very Cool.

 Man, it's hard for me to express just how cool this map was. 

Turn back the clock, thirty-five years. I was a missionary living in Denmark--the first time I left the United States. When you first arrive in the country, you buy stuff you'll need...a down comforter, a bike, lots of pastry, and a city map of Copenhagen, or København to the natives.

But, this was not just any map. It was an expandable map, a map so ingeniously designed, you could find any street--even the smallest alleyway--in the huge city. The first time I saw one I was enthralled. With the legend in the back, you find the street, which directs you to a numerical and alphabetical location on the map. You open the map and find the coordinates. Boom! There you go.

I wonder if any of the younger generation has ever seen a map. This isn't a dig, just a fact of living in our modern world. Who needs a paper map when you have a phone that can not only find the location, but give you exact directions as you are traveling to that very spot?

Not many.

I've kept a few things from my mission, many photographs, my journal entries, my Danish books including my Danish scriptures, and the weight I put on from the pastries (actually, back then it was impossible for me to gain weight--what a cruel world...). 

And, I kept the map. It is falling apart--the map portion itself is detached from the cover...still works, though. I think if I ever went back to Copenhagen/København, people would laugh at me if they saw me actually using it to find a location. It would be worth it, though, just to bring back the memories.

The map was cool thirty-five years ago. To me, it's possibly even cooler now.

Goodnight...To A Giant Of A Man, Mentor, And Friend

 "Elder Taylor."

I was already excited about the prospects. I'd waited a long time to find out where I would be assigned.

"You've been assigned to the Glostrup area--it's in København--and your companion will be Elder Richardson."

The name meant nothing, nor did the location. I knew as much about Glostrup as I did about quantum physics.

Then they added, "Ældste Richardson...han er dyktig at sproget."

That's all I needed to hear. Even my limited command of the Danish language told me that my companion--my trainer--was good at the language. I hoped I'd be paired with someone who would help me improve my Danish.

Turns out I learned a lot more than how to improve my second language from the Ed Richardson.

On Monday, I read a post on Facebook from Ed...he was in the hospital and it was serious. Yesterday I woke to the news that he passed away.

Elder Richardson and I spent two month together, biking and walking the streets of Copenhagen's western suburb. He taught me what it was like being a missionary in Denmark.  I learned that even though we were yelled at, flipped off, spit on, that the Danes were "not" those people. That they were loving, warm, intelligent, and some even wanted to hear what we had to say. We must have looked strange--Ed, a big guy, tall and wide, and me, a scrawny 120 lb kid who looked fifteen-years old. I first met Ed in the spring of 1985...thirty-six years ago. Since that time, I never considered Ed not a friend.

Of course, as lives to, I had little interaction with Ed since. We both began our lives, married, became fathers, and fathers-in-law. We both had struggles and triumphs, victories and defeats.

When someone you know--someone who had a large impact on your life--passes away, a light goes out and you feel it, even though we hardly saw each other in those thirty-six years. When I saw Ed's post of his hospitalization earlier this week, I prayed things would turn out differently. I hoped his constitution would match his personality and rise above. Unfortunately, it was not to be.

Several of those I knew in that distant land decades ago have died. As I search the old pictures, I was reminded of just how many. Now Ed resides in that column, a column we'll all one day join.

Goodnight, Elder Richardson. Tak for alt.

A Writer Friend's House Sign...

 Hands down, getting to know other authors is one of the best things about being involved in a writing community. Over the years, I've met so many writers--some, I've gotten to know quite well, others, I've met only a few times. Thanks to social media, I can follow them equally. One author I met not too often was from Colorado. He was attending the Salt Lake Comic Con (if could have been FanX, though...). I remember him being a very nice person...

Not unusual for a writer.

The other day he posted a picture, which fascinated me. It was about soliciting and Jesus. And it brought back a lot of memories.

Years ago, I was on a LDS mission, basically combining both those things...soliciting and Jesus. We actually went door-to-door trying to spread the good word message. Because of the area we were in, we were not very successful, as far as actually discussing Jesus. It was hard, but it's an experience I wouldn't trade for anything. It changed my life.

When I saw my friend's picture, I thought back about when I was knocking on doors on my mission. I can think of very few--if any--of the people we contacted who would have that particular sign on their door. Nope. No way. The last thing they'd hang outside their door was that sign. Just thinking about that gave me a new-found respect for my friend. Most people have "No Soliciting" signs to avoid not only door-to-door salespeople, but religious people as well. If he has that on his door, well...he's in for some discussions. I know if I saw that sign when I was serving, I'd have made a B-line to his door.

Can You Say...Rød Grød Med Fløde På?

It's been over thirty-three years since I stepped foot on Danish soil. Even though I had studied and taken classes about Denmark, the people, their customs, their food, I had so much to learn as a young American teenager leaving the boarders of my home country for the first time.

And one of the first things I learned was how to say:

Rød Grød Med Fløde På

There's a support system for young LDS missionaries when they arrive in the area where they'll spend the next eighteen months to two years. Other missionaries and members who live in the area take the newbies under their wings and show them the ropes. It was the same for me. I was taught about some of the customs they didn't teach in the classes, what's considered rude and unacceptable in social situations. I learned about how different the food is. Now, considering Denmark is in Europe, their diets are pretty much the same as ours (unlike my brother who went to Japan...). 

There was one dish, however, that was not only distinctively Danish, but it was also used as a test on just how well us non-Danes spoke their language. The dish--red berry pudding with cream. And to hear a native Dane say those words--Rød Grød Med Fløde På--it's as foreign and complicated (to pronounce correctly...) as some of the toughest languages on earth.

I found a video on the Embassy of Denmark in the United States Facebook site. You can access the site: HERE. The video shows you how to make it, but doesn't give you a recipe with specifics. You can click: HERE for a recipe. I've had it with both strawberries and rhubarb. It's how I came to love rhubarb desserts.

It's been decades since I spoke Danish for any length of time. I'm rusty with the language. I've been told if I returned, I could get back into speaking it fluently. I hope that's true--I'd like to think that's true. I wasn't the best Danish-speaking missionary, but I did okay. I can say, however, that I did master this one phrase, the one thing Danes asked us Americans to say to see if we really could speak Danish without that American accent.

So, if you read this and you know me and you see me and you remember that I once wrote about my ability to say, "rød grød med fløde på," ask me to repeat it. I'll be glad to do it. Better yet, if you are brave and try and make the dessert yourself, I'll be more than happy to taste test it to see how you did. Because if you made it like the Danes do, I'm sure you'll love it, too.

In This Picture You'll Find One Of My Heroes...

I recorded last night's Utah Jazz game, their biggest win of the season, a 129-99 beat down of the reigning NBA World Champions, the Golden State Warriors. A reporter was interviewing Ricky Rubio, the Utah Jazz starting point guard after the game ended (Rubio had a monster game...). And during that interview I spotted a hero of mine--no, not the former first-round draft pick from Spain. My hero stood in the background.

He's one of the fans.

And he's my friend.

I first met Jeff in January 1985. Six strangers moved to a complex to learn how to communicate in the Danish language, and how to be good and effective missionaries. I can't believe it's been thirty-three years and a few days since we met.

When we lived in Denmark we pretty much did the same thing--we were missionaries. When we returned home, I think we all went to college. We all ended up getting married, having kids, and now our kids are going on missions, getting married, and having kids. The circle of life.

Why is Jeff one of my heroes? He's kind of amazing. Businessman, philanthropist, husband, father, and grandfather. He's run a successful business for almost twenty years, and he and his family have been nothing but fantastic to me and my family, even to the point of helping us out when we needed it. Even through he's obtained much success, he's still that same downed-to-earth guy I met years ago.

Jeff's a huge sports fan as well. He and his wife attend numerous sporting events, hence me spotting him after the Utah Jazz epic win. He's even invited me and my kids to attend games with them and I've had a blast every time.

It's fun spotting Jeff and his family at the games. He's kind of like a celebrity. If you know Jeff, you know he's got a heart as big as his personality, and I'm proud to call him my friend.

And a hero.

My Friend Rex Is Selling Alfalfa...

I've known Rex Sorensen for over thirty years. And now the man is selling alfalfa. When I think back of when I first met Rex, imaging him selling alfalfa was something I would have had a difficult time imagining. Not that he's not capable--Rex is one of the most confident people I've ever met.

And, I suppose, I am having a little difficulty imaging him selling it now. I must admit that Rex and I haven't seen much of each other in the past thirty years--we've maybe spoken face-to-face less than five times since we both left the amazing country of Denmark where we first met. Since I haven't kept up with the doings of Rex, I guess growing, harvesting, and selling alfalfa is as noble an activity as anything else out there, probably more so considering what's required.

Now, if any of you are in the market for alfalfa, let me tell you about this particular crop (borrowing heavily on how he's described it because I know pretty much nothing about alfalfa...).

Per Rex: 

Premium 1 alfalfa. 3 string. Just baled yesterday (he posted this today on Facebook...). Lots of leaf and it flakes great. $9.75 per bale. We deliver or U pick up. Let me know.

Couple of things to try and help out my friend. I imagine Premium 1 alfalfa is good--usually things with a "1" attached are the best. 3 string = good, I guess. Recently baled = another plus. And great flaking must be superior to crappy flaking.

And finally, he delivers or U (thanks for the unintended U of U shout-out...) pick up. This alfalfa is in Gilbert, Arizona, so if you're in Gilbert or the sounding area and you need alfalfa, let me know and I'll hook you up with my friend Rex.

If you're not in his area, like me, I wonder just how far he'd deliver. I mean, I have absolutely no use for alfalfa (as far as I know...), but it would be great if he'd deliver some product the several hundred miles that separate the both of us. It would be great to hang out with him and even take him to dinner.

We're Having A Homecoming...Because He Came Home

We've had a great week. It was the first time in two years we had the whole family together. That happens when someone who's been away comes home. In our religion, as with many religions, young people leave on missions.

I don't know how other religions celebrate when their children/parents come home, but for us, we gather, spend time with family (eat yummy snacks...) and listen to them report on their mission. That's what our family will be doing tomorrow morning, in our local church just down the street.

Missions are not normal, if normal is defined as what everyone else is doing. It's not normal for eighteen and nineteen-year olds to live by mission rules 24/7. But, in our culture it is. Now that he's home, many people have asked us about him, how he's doing, what are his plans. They haven't had a chance to talk to him. Tomorrow, they'll get that chance. And they'll know something that we know, something they might have known before but forgotten. He's a pretty good kid.

And we're happy to have him home. We've had a great week.

Next Week, It Won't Look Like This...

 Each Sunday a program is printed for our local congregation and on the back side is a list of those serving missions. Next week it won't look the same. A couple of names will be missing.

And I'm going to miss that.

But only a little.

Just over 29 years ago I wasn't a dad preparing to pick up his son. I was the one preparing to be picked up. I remember certain things about that day. Our plane made an unscheduled stop in Oslo which meant we missed our connection at JFK. Which meant we had to spend the night in NYC (the one and only time I ever set foot on New York State soil...) and caught a flight to Chicago. We then went to Casper (or Cody--I don't remember which...) then finally we made it to SLC.

I was very tired and extremely jet-lagged.

But I remember and hope to never forget the feeling I had getting off the plane and seeing my mom, and family waiting to welcome me home.  There are few feelings that can match being loved by those you love and returning to those people after an extended absence. We've been preparing for day all week. This afternoon we took three blank poster boards and turned them into easily-recognized messages. It's a physical symbol that will inadequately express how we really feel.

So tomorrow our lives will change again and our son will come home. Just as everything that has a beginning must have an end. Tomorrow each of us in my family will have endings and new beginnings. Lives will change; doors will close and windows will open. Yes, I will miss some things about the life we've lived these past twenty-four months.

But only a little.