David my brother

40 years, four decades, 480 months, 14,600 days, 350,400 hours. 40 years, a significant portion of a lifetime. 40 years ago today, September 28, 1973 my life was forever changed. I did not know it had changed until September 30. 40 years ago today my older brother David Maurice Manning took his life, with a shotgun alone in his car in a garage. He was not found for two days.

I was 14 living in Utah with my mother. My older brother Taylor was serving a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. David was living in California with his wife Debbie and her son Paul. My two sisters were grown, married with children of their own.

Sunday evening September 30, the phone rang. I was in the living room sitting in an easy chair eating ice cream. My mother answered the phone in the kitchen. Immediately she started making a sound I at first mistook for laughter. As I listened I realized this was not laughter she was crying--not just crying she was wailing. I left my easy chair with my bowl of ice cream and stood in front of her on the phone.

"What's wrong?" I asked.
"David's dead!"

This I remember I threw my bowl of ice cream across the kitchen I uttered a profanity--one my mother had never heard me utter before. It was the big one. That was all I said.

Jim Withey my mother's fiancé, at the time, came into the kitchen--I left. He started to clean up the mess I made. I walked back into the living room and sat down. I don't know why I did this. I just did it. I suppose when my Mom got off the phone we hugged, I really don't remember.

Funny thing before this had taken place I remember thinking that if David died I would go and see Cindy Gardner. I suppose it was because I had a boyhood crush on her. But I had thought that through. That is what I did. I got on my 10-speed bike and rode over to her house. I could tell she was not there but in the neighborhood Jimmy Jeppeson was talking to Becky Chai. I rode over and visited with them. I don't think I told them what had happened. I didn't have the words. They both knew David. I didn't know how to start a conversation like this.

How do you segue from typical early school year conversation of football games and who looks cute to by the way my brother just died. I felt numb and being there with them wasn't helping. I rode away.

My Mother had a particularly hard time with suicide. This wasn't the first of her children to do this. Two years before my oldest brother Jerry committed suicide. By the morning my Mom told me to tell people that David had died from viral pneumonia. In Los Angeles? Anyway she told me to lie. Just as she had told me to lie about how Jerry died. Suicide was shameful and if people knew how my brothers had died it would bring more shame to my family besides being about the only divorced family in the neighborhood at the time.

The next morning as I went to the bus stop I was a little late and the bus was loaded and ready to drive away when I boarded. I looked down the aisle and the faces of the kids who usually completely ignored told me that they knew. We were kids, we did not have experience with what to say or not say. Most said nothing, they just looked at me as I sat down.

I don't remember who I was sitting by but as we made the 2 mile bus ride, he said "I heard about your brother." No hugs, no comforting arm around my shoulder. We didn't say much.

When the bus arrived at the school I went to my German class to take a test. I told the teacher I would be gone the rest of the week and I needed to take the test early. She sat me down at her desk and let me take the test. I went to work. Students began to file in for the first period class. I sat there quietly taking the test. Mrs. Snow shushed the kids so I could work away. As I pondered the answer to one of the questions I looked around. There on the desk was the answer key. I honestly did not want to cheat but there it was and I was ill prepared for this test. I mostly did not look but I did look for a few answers. Mrs. Snow caught me. She grabbed the answer key away and scolded me in front of everyone. About halfway through the first period class I finished the test and gathered up my things. I handed the finished test to her and headed for the door.

"Where are you going this week?" she asked.

My answer was barbed and designed to get back at her for scolding me in front of the class. "My brother's funeral." I shot back. Her stern look melted. She looked compassionate. I felt bad.

Nothing I was doing was helping me. I was lying, cheating being mean. But life had just taken from me my brother. I did not know how to cope with that.

David and I were never competitive with each other so we never seemed to bug each other. We got along. Beyond getting along, I wanted to be like him.

A later generation would have a commercial tag line "Be like Mike". David was my Mike. Why I ever wanted to be like a heavy duty drug user, who had spent more than a little time in jail I no longer understand. But I sought to emulate him.

With due consideration to my only living brother, David, at the time, was my favorite. He seemed to understand me. He taught me how to swim. I viewed him as the essence of cool. The passing 40 years have taught me that he wasn't. He was a lost soul, with a mental illness. Like so many with a mental illness he coped through drugs. But to me he was kind and understanding. A gentle soul.

My Mom and I flew to Los Angeles. We were met at the airport by Don Pollard, my brother-in-law. He had never met my mother before. I knew Don and started to introduce him to my Mom. He stepped past me and just hugged my mother. As I recall he was crying. I have always held a kind spot in my heart for Don for this kindly act.

The funeral came and went. That evening following the funeral. All from my side of the family were at my sister Jennifer's home. Her home was next door to David's in-laws. I knew them having spent a fair amount of time visiting David and Jennifer just a month before. I liked the "in-laws" I was alone in a living room while the grown ups talked in the kitchen. They were bad mouthing the "in-laws. The Cienfuegos were a kind but rugged family. They had accepted me completely as a family member. With all of the emotions of the past few days just building and building up inside of me, I felt like I was going to explode. I got up and I don't remember if I ran out the front door or just left quickly.

I stumbled out the door and began to sob. I saw Mr. Cienfuegos on the lawn in front of his house. He saw and heard me and ran over to comfort me. My family in Jennifer's kitchen heard the front door slam. They later told me they feared that Don was going out the door with his gun to shoot Mr. Cienfuegos. With this understanding when they came running out the front door and saw what looked like me wrestling Mr. Cienfuegos they ran to break it up. My father grabbed me in a bear hug to wrestle me away. I distinctly remember grabbing one of his finger and thinking the way to get out of this is to break his finger. I didn't, perhaps my first smart action of the past few days.

Soon everyone realized I was just having a melt down and Mr. Cienfuegos was there to help everything calmed down. Someone suggested that Jennifer take me for a drive.

As we were driving around doing very little talking just looking at the night and listening to the radio. A popular song of the day came on the radio. It touched me deeply. Daniel by Elton John.

Daniel is traveling tonight on a plane
I can see the red tail light heading for Spain
Oh, I can see Daniel waving goodbye
God, it looks like Daniel, must be the clouds in my eyes

They say Spain is pretty though I've never been
Well, Daniel says its the best place that he's ever seen
Oh, and he should know, he's been there enough
Lord, I miss Daniel , oh, I miss him so much

Daniel my brother, you are older than me
Do you still feel the pain of the scars that won't heal
Your eyes have died but you see more than I
Daniel you're a star in the face of the sky

To this day I can get emotional if I sing that song. That evening healing began for me.

At David's funeral the lyrics to a song that was David's favorite were shared. Old Man by Niel Young

Old man look at my life,
I'm a lot like you were
Old man look at my life,
I'm a lot like you were.

Old man look at my life,
Twenty four
and there's so much more
Live alone in a paradise
That makes me think of two.

Love lost, such a cost,
Give me things
That won't get lost
Like a coin that won't get tossed
Rolling home to you.

Old man take a look at my life
I'm a lot like you
I need someone to love me
The whole day through
Ah, one look in my eyes
and you can tell that's true

Lullabies, look in your eyes
Run around the same old town.
Doesn't mean that much to me
To mean that much to you

I've been first and last
Look at how the time goes past
But, I'm all alone at last
Rolling home to you.

Each year around this time I get the yearning to listen to this song. I used to listen to it over and over lying on the floor at home with the head phones on. No small task in the LP era. Through this song and Daniel I came to find some measure of peace.

But peace would prove elusive. Three years later, I was now in college. I had to write an English paper about a significant personal event in my life. I wrote about David. But peace had vanished in my life. Now I was haunted by the last few minutes I had spend with David.

David had come home in August of 1973 with his new wife Debbie and her new baby Paul. It was a joyful few days. David took me back to California with him. I spent a few weeks there taking in the Los Angeles area. It was an amazing time for me. When it was time to leave Jennifer took me to the airport. She drove by the car wash where David worked. After a few moments of small talk it was time to say goodbye. I felt like telling him I loved him. But in our family we just did not say that. The feeling to do so was strong but I chocked up and a wanna be tough guy doesn't cry when telling his older brother good bye. So we shook hands, the cool way, and said good bye.

Now three years later I was haunted by that moment. I wanted with all my heart to relive that moment and tell him that I loved him. But I could not. With the understanding I had at the time I thought perhaps I could have prevented his suicide. I poured my heart out in that paper. It was cathartic.

I had a wise professor. When my paper was returned in addition to the expected grammar corrections there was a personal note. In that note he told me the Atonement of Christ would take away my pain. I did not understand why or how.

In the years and decades that have followed, my life has gone on. Through my own struggles with a mental illness, I have learned a lot of what David was dealing with, this has given me a great deal of empathy and understanding. Beyond all that I have found that the Atonement has provided the peace and healing I had been seeking. How that happened I do not know. What I do know is the pain is completely gone and peace has taken its place.

David where ever you are, I still miss you and look to you as my older brother. I wish nothing for you but the peace that I now know.

Lesson learned as a Grandfather

A few weeks ago Beckie and I attended a wedding reception and spent part of the evening talking to dear friends Murray and Nadine Low. The Low's are on the cusp of becoming grandparents. Murray asked my what I had learned as a grandfather. his question caught me flat. Since then I have pondered this question as the moments allow. First of all becoming a grandfather or Papa, as I prefer, has been a consummate blessing in my life. I have come to have a more complete view of life and why God placed us here than I have ever had before. I honestly believe I could not have learned these lessons in any other way. What have I learned? First, children are the most amazing students. They listen to and process almost everything. If you think they are not paying attention you are mistaken. They listen. They listen and practice life. How do they practice? They play. I have learned this by playing with them. I gladly go off and play anything from gardening, to Disney roll playing adventures. While doing this I have seen how they are really practicing being adults in their own childlike manner. As we play games I have learned that I need to be engaged with them. They need to know that I'm not casually listening while checking my phone or talking to another adult. I am with them. As we play I feel a connection growing. I think they feel it also. One of my most precious memories is of sitting on the cement, again at a wedding reception, with one of my older grandchildren. She has a hard time focusing sometimes. we were sitting side-by-side. I could tell she was bothered by something. I asked her how she felt. She told me one of her Aunts was mad at her. I asked her why? She replied she was playing in some water and her Aunt yelled at her. This conversation took place sitting side-by-side not looking at each other eating a cupcake. I learned something about this little girl who so often seems oblivious to the adult world--she cares deeply about how others act towards her. I have marveled at how they learn and master new skills. Think of it, they come into the world not able to control their own body, unable to comprehend the language and within two years they run around, more than most parents like, and they can speak. How many adults have mastered a language in the past two years. More than mastering the motor skills of life they are mastering the culture. They are learning what love is and things like trust and confidence. I have been sadened when one of my granddauthers has asked me to wait while she goes and tends to some task at hand and asks imploringly that I wait "right there" I have been saddened when she kept looking back to see that I did not wander off to some more important duty. This taught me to two things--somewhere along the way her friends have ditched her but more importantly I will not and I stay put until she returns. She needs to know I will be there for her. I will continue to play these games and pretend as long as they want to. I trust that in doing so the trust is a two-way street. Someday the questions they ask will be more serious. Questions they may not want to ask their parents. On that day I hope they will come to me. Second, you become a grandparent with time. I am at the stage of life where people start to die of natural causes, as they say. I need to take care of myself to be there for them. Because of this I take care of myself both physically and spiritually so that I will be there when they need me. Third, most importantly I have learned that all I really need to do is to love them. Jokingly I have heard the special relationship that exists between a grandparent and a grandchild is that they share a common enemy. But seriously, I want them to know that I love them unconditionaly. They are a joy in my life. I want them to know that I love them because of who they are. They may disappoint me later on with some choices but they need to know that I will always love them and desire to keep them close to me throughout there life. As we play today I hope that bond of love grows to be unbreakable for a later day when they may need to lean on me for reassurance. I would hope they can sense how deeply i love them. I suppose they cannot fully understand this now. They will have to wait until some future day when one of their children hands then their first grandchild. At that moment they will be filled with a deoth of love for another they did not know existed. Then they will perhaps hear with their inner spiritual ear the voice of God whisper this is how I have always felt about you. That is the real lesson I've learned--God really loves me and you with a bond that is unbreakable and He always wants me to turn to Him with the tough questions.

Thirty Years

Tomorrow is my 30th wedding anniversary. 30 years! How did that happen? Where Was I? Was I off going to the bathroom all that time and I missed it? It has passed like a dream. A pleasant dream though. 30 years, I have two older brothers who have died. 30 years is longer than either of them lived. They both committed suicide, I wish they could have hung on and learned the greatest lesson of age, it always seems to work out. 30 years, Dick Clark was really a young man when we got married, probably about my age. 30 years wow!

What have Beckie and I done these past 30 years. Well completed school, been gainfully employed the entire time. Survived multiple economic down turns. I hate to admit I almost had a Master's degree before someone paid me over $10.00/hour. My kids have occasionally looked at the social security earnings statement that comes out annually and they laugh at how little I earned when I was there age. Likewise, when I help them with their taxes I am stunned at how much they make, yet they still drink my milk--I don't drink their milk.

We have come to own a home. This is no longer a shared partnership with the bank-- we own it. It took us 12 years to purchase a home. I do remember wondering if we could ever afford a home. I could not see how my friends could make a down payment and manage a mortgage. The biggest issue was those darned student loans. It seemed like we would never get the blasted things paid off. Interestingly, having to pay those blasted loans off (they represented 50% of our annual income when I got my first "career job") anyway, I digress, the discipline we had to have to live within our means, defer gratification, and just plain do without, taught us how to manage our money. When we eventually did buy a home we worked at paying it off. We went years without any front room furniture. It kind of seemed natural to us we must have seemed weird to those who came to pay us a visit.

We raised a dog, a wonderful dog we got him as a puppy, house trained him, ran with him, let him pull the kids around and eventually took him on that one way trip to the vet. He blessed our lives, I hope we blessed his.

In the process we raised four wonderful children. They in turn have given us two adorable grandchildren with a third on the way. Our youngest is getting married this fall. Children have been the adventure of a lifetime. They have brought joy, fun, excitement, and yes, stress, pain, fear, and heartache. All-in-all it has been a wonderful experience. That is why the 30 years have passed like a dream, the kids, they have been so much work--and in return so much joy.

In those 30 years, Beckie and I have learned to work well together. We laugh together, we pray together, we cry together. We usually know when it is time to really listen to the other one.

We play together but we don't do everything together, in 30 years we have learned we have some differing interests, for example, I like to ski, Beckie only imagines the pain of ruined knees completely overlooking the joy of careening down a steep slope at a speed just past being in control. She is the most practical one.

To me my wife looks the same, I will admit for a 50 year old she is a babe and to me truly looks much like she did when we were married. But we work at it. We eat a healthy diet, we work out 5 or 6 days each week. We go for walks when the weather permits, we have to negotiate the stairs in our house. In many ways I do not feel like someone who has been married for 30 years because I feel like a kid. But the hands give it all away, Hers and mine, hands don't age well, My hands look like my Dad's hands--old hands. Time is ticking away.

Would I marry her again? In a heart beat. For in the 30 years I have learned that what I thought was love was nothing like the love I have for her now. Now it is a rich fulfilling satisfying feeling that after all is said and done, we belong to each other. We don't give each other a present for our anniversaries, why? We both agree a present would be a tawdry representation of the greatest gift each of us gives each day. We give our self to the other. I guess that is a secret to happiness. 30 years its only the beginning.

Scars Tell a Story of Your Life

One of the nice things about living in a four season climate is things that you have to do all year round like take care of the lawn, especially weed whacking, you no longer have to do them about the time you are absolutely sick of it. Then after a season you are ready to take care of the lawn again.

This spring, during my first or second time to weed whack then mow the lawn, I was almost through with weed whacking for the day when I was trimming around an old stump in the back yard. I heard the unmistakable sound of the string from the weed whacker being broken off, this becomes a flying projectile the sound was immediately followed by a searing pain in my right shin. I immediately reviewed my rules for weed whacking.

Rule number 1 always wear eye protection. Check.

Rule number 2 wear long pants,

Rule 2A if you don't wear long pants wear socks that cover the shins.

Rule number 3 if you break rule number 2 don't swear when you get hit by debris because the neighbor children are at an impressionable age.

Upon completing my review of the rules I determined I was obeying rule number 1 but I broke rule number 2 and 2A. With some effort I kept rule 3.

I looked down and saw a thin line of blood across my shin with a bit of peeled back skin. It hurt. It hurt bad. I wondered if I might need stitches. I did not want to touch it because my hands were really dirty. After I limped around a bit and castigated myself for being so stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid! I looked it over some and determined I probably did not need stitches and if I did I would finish the job first. So I kept on weed whacking, then mowed the lawn, then tended to my first-aid. I can get a bit type "A" when it comes to finishing the lawn. That was a few months ago. I now have a nice scar across my shin.

Since it is summertime, I wear shorts anytime that I can. There are so many times when others dictated what I wear, when I'm not being told what to wear, I choose shorts. This has given me plenty of opportunity to view the new scar. This has also made me think a bit about scars, especially my scars. Scars seem to be an inevitable part of life. They are evidence of living--evidence of mess-ups, evidence of trying new things, evidence of failure.

In thinking about how I got some of my scars I have found that I can't remember what caused some of them. Others I have vivid memories of how I earned them. One scar I got in the 5th grade--it was a true wrong place at the wrong time incident. My mother was browning a roast for Sunday dinner when I walked through the kitchen and was right beside her when she turned the roast. It slipped off the fork and fell back into the skillet. The splash caused hot oil from the pan to fly into the air, unfortunately my face was in the trajectory of that flying oil. The scar was really prominent for a year but faded over time.

Another scar on my face came from a split second decision while sledding one day. It was a wonderful day. We were in the hills on a snow packed road, the sled was a flexible flyer. Near the bottom of the hill there was a sharp right turn. To make the turn, you had to turn into a skid to keep from going around. We had more friends than sleds so we went down in twos. One to steer the sled and another to lie on the drivers back for added weight and speed. If you did not make the turn at the bottom of the hill you would fly off the road into a barbed wire fence. Nothing like danger to make sledding all the more fun. One run when I was the driver, we made the right turn and stayed on the road our momentum kept us going and around another turn when we came face-to-wheel with a tote-goat hauling a group of sleds up the hill. I had to make a split-second decision: Stay the course and hit the tote-goat, or go off the road into the rocks. I chose the rocks. Hence a scar above my lip.

On my right foot where the big toe bends is a scar from my stupidity. I went swimming in a lake by my self, in an area where no one else was. I chose to go there because I could not swim and I was embarrassed by that fact. Adding to that fact it was a Sunday, refer to Christian teachings and remember that one of the big 10 commandments is to keep the Sabbath Day holy. (come to think of it my sledding scar occurred on a Sunday too). So add all these bad omens up and the only smart thing I did that day when I stepped on a broken beer bottle, I recognized I would need stitches. So I immediately went for help. Have you ever had stitches in a toe or finger? When the doctor numbs it up, that shot is memorable to say the least. Adding to how memorable it was, he stuck the needle in the gaping wound and when he went to pull the needle out the needle stayed in. He had to get some pliers to pull the needle out. I can still vividly remember how bad that hurt.

One scar is good. It is in the place of a tumor. I'm very glad I have that scar. It is in my arm pit so no one asks to see it.

My scars tell some of the story of my life. They point to dumb moments, thrilling moments, life's challenges.

One of my scars over time has come to mean a great deal to me. When I was born I had a large birth mark to the side of my right knee. If it were still there it would be about 5 or 6 inches long and 3 or 4 inches wide. When I was in grade school my mom had it removed. It was taken off in the summer when I was staying with my Dad. At the time he was living in Ely, Nevada. My nephew Lance Pollard was just a toddler at the time. The week following my surgery I still had my stitches in and could not bend my knee. I was standing on the front steps with Lance and he started to fall. What I'm going to relate, really was my thought process that took place in an instant. I saw that he was going to hit his head on the corner of the cement steps. If he hit his head he could really be hurt. I realized that he was too far from me to stop him from falling unless I stepped forward and to do that I would have to bend my knee. I knew this would really hurt. How I knew this was during the surgery to remove the birth mark I woke up in the operating room and I felt like my leg was on fire. I remember the nurse rubbing my face and telling me to be still and not to let my parents see me cry. Cry! My eye, my leg was on fire! So I had an inkling of what bending my knee would fee like. But I lunged forward and caught Lance. He did not hit his head. I felt a searing pain in my knee. I went into the house with Lance and I laid down. I was scared I had really hurt myself. What I did do was pop some stitches and ripped open the wound. Now with the passage of time this scar looks like a snake. The part of the scar closest to where my knee bends is where the head of the snake is. The scar is really quite ugly.

The reason this scar means something to me is over the time I have come to realize I got this doing something selfless. I jeopardized my well being to help someone else not get hurt. Why did I do it? I did it because I love him--that is reason enough. That instant and the scar has come to mean a lot to me.

Oh and by the way I always obey rule number 2 now when I weed whack. I bear evidence of when I did not obey this rule and next door the neighbor children are always outside bouncing on their trampoline so I have to obey rule number 2 so it is easier to obey rule number 3.

The Evolution of Chest Hair

Society's view of male chest hair has evolved in my life time. I grew up in a hairy family. My dad and oldest brother had hairy chests. They were my first male role models. I was coming of age during the "Age of Aquarius" the musical, "Hair" was very popular "Here hair, there hair everywhere (Daddy, Daddy) Hair". Further cementing my desire for a hairy chest, was a remark from a girl I liked. She commented about James Caan's unmanicured chest, saying she would like to run her fingers through that chest hair--a very lustful comment. I thought to myself, in time I, too, will have a hairy chest that . . . well I'll let it go at that. Robert Redford has a hairy chest, and all the girls my age liked him. So you see how the twig was bent. Nature was true to its word--like father, like son--I was blessed with a hairy chest.

As time passed male stars started to have more manicured looking or just plain hairless chests. A new generation has arisen that looks askance at an unmanicured chest--manscaping, its called. That's a bit much for me. I struggle with my daily face-shaving ritual. In fact I went years with out shaving my face. So long, in fact, that my youngest two children did not have a memory of me without a beard. When I did decide to shave, I called them into the bathroom to watch so they would know it was me and not some stranger who had broken into the home intent on some form of mayhem. They cried when I shaved.

There was one downside to the hairy chest: my Dad's hairy chest started to turn grey, a sign of age. My dad was always old, no matter what his age, to me he was old. Well a few years ago, I noticed I too was seeing unmistakable evidence of age, just like my father. The love affair with a hairy chest was over.

So I have a granddaughter who is 15 months old who when she is shown a necklace by her mother her mother will say "pretty". This week we were on vacation and this granddaughter happened to be in the hot tub with me. Now don't go off on it being too hot for a little one. The hot tub was bath temperature and the pool was slightly above freezing, so she and her mother were in this large hot tub and the little girl was walking around the seat against the edge of the pool. To her, stepping off this ledge was an immediate plunge into the abyss. As she was walking by me, on this ledge, she stopped and looked at my chest and kind of patted my chest hair--the white/grey part, and she said "pretty" Suddenly chest hair is back in vogue. In fact grey chest hair is the best. I don't think it will ever go out of fashion again.

Luke 21:19 or Good Things Come to Those Who Wait

Do yourself a favor and take 3 minutes and look this up. The request is a bit of homework that is congruent with the topic of this post. "In your patience possess ye your souls." Or said another way "And seek the face of the Lord always, that in patience ye may possess your souls, and ye shall have eternal life." (Doctrine and Covenants Section 101 verse 38).


Growing up and then moving on to college, I often heard that a character trait of the middle class was the principle of "delayed gratification," meaning the middle class would put off impulse spending to save for something "better" or longer lasting. A color TV would not be purchased in order to save for college. A fun trip to an amusement park would not take place in order to make the bill payments. In my family the mortgage was small ($89.00/month) and paid on time. Bills likewise were paid on time. I was raised in a frugal existence but everyone around me was too, so I really didn't know we were different.


I grew up believing I was middle class. Back then the class you were supposedly assigned to was as much a matter of what you did for a living as how much you earned. Today it all seems to be about the "Benjamin's"--cash is king. I arrived at this conclusion because my Dad was a head chef (management) my Mom was a teacher (union), but a professional. Since my parents were divorced, when it came to income we didn't fare too well. We got by, but I never really understood how poor we were until my world expanded a bit in high school and I was exposed to those who had a lot. So, not understanding that I was poor was not a liability to me. I didn't understand that I had been dealt an economic blow in life, so I missed the opportunity to play the victim card.


Politically my Dad was a staunch Democrat. The party of the underdog. In the 1968 election, his choice for President was either Richard Nixon (Republican) or George McGovern (Democrat). McGovern, though a WWII veteran like my Dad, was extremely liberal for the times--way too socially liberal for my Dad. Later I asked my Dad who he voted for in that election; his response--"no one". He couldn't bring himself to vote for a Republican.

My Mom was a life long Republican. I never knew why. But by the fact that I mostly grew up around her, I was greatly shaped by her political views. Could I have voted in 1968 I would have voted for Nixon. (Later on as my understanding of who the parties were supposed to represent, I was always bemused at the irony of my management father supporting the party of unions and my union Mother--though you did not say that to her--supported the party of management. Though in fairness, I have to declare I am not affiliated with either party and both major parties can really tick me off.


And that brings us back to the topic of the day: patience. "In the 1960's, a professor at Stanford University began a modest experiment testing the willpower of four-year old children. He placed before them a large marshmallow and then told them they could eat it right away or, if they waited for 15 minutes, they could have two marshmallows.


"He then left the children alone and watched what happened behind a two-way mirror. Some of the children ate the marshmallow immediately; some could wait only a few minutes before giving in to temptation. Only 30 percent were able to wait.



"It was a mildly interesting experiment, and the professor moved on to other areas of research, for, in his own words, 'there are only so many things you can do with kids trying not to eat marshmallows.' But as time went on, he kept track of the children and began to notice an interesting correlation: the children who could not wait struggled later in life and had more behavioral problems, while those who waited tended to be more positive and better motivated, have higher grades and incomes, and have healthier relationships." (Deter F. Uchtdorf, Ensign May 2010).



I have lived over 51 years, barely not a pup anymore by some standards and ancient and wrinkly by others, but in that half century--now that sounds old--I have learned a few things. I have learned that patience is a virtue and that good things come to those who wait. Let me explain. The concept seems almost counterintuitive in our uber-competitive society where fast action and grabbing the bull by the horns is lauded, and those with lightening-fast reflexes in business are rewarded handsomely. I'm not talking about earning money, I'm talking about important things like relationships and mastering yourself and learning things.


In my first half century I have seen all too often how not being patient enough to listen precludes understanding and leads to misunderstanding and frequently contention. How many times have you seen someone trying to explain themselves and the person they are explaining it to interrupts them moving the conversation off topic onto the topic the interrupter wanted to talk about. When this happens, have you ever noticed the body language of the one interrupted? Typically, they draw back and disengage. A moment of understanding is lost; a wedge is driven, however imperceptibly between two people. Please note that the patience I am speaking of here is in listening, not waiting to speak, that is just polite interruption.


What good things come from listening? understanding, for one; bridge building for another. Listening requires you to be in the moment, engaged, with the person in front of you. Friendship, love and understanding are the rewards of patient listening. When you realize what you gain from listening, you realize you have really given nothing in comparison to what you have gained. In our high tech world with the ability to engage by text or email people around the planet we often miss the opportunity to engage the person next to us.

Another form of patience is learning when to hold your tongue. There is a time to speak and a time not to speak. Wisdom comes when you learn which is which. As all are aware, wisdom is born of experience; experience comes from mistakes. Wisdom has scars. What have I learned from holding my tongue? I have learned that people will open up to you when they feel safe in your presence. Meaning, they can tell you even things they have done wrong and they won't be verbally stomped on. Now I have learned this but I am by no means a master of it. I also bear scars from when I should have held my tongue but did not. Its funny but in my life the things I really regret are those moments when I could have taken the high road but I did not. The typical "sins"--10 commandments-type stuff I don't really feel bad about once I have corrected the situation, but I still grimace at being far less than I should have been.



Perhaps the hardest form of patience is to be patient with yourself. Alas, in 51 years I have not yet come close to mastering that. I am doing better, some days, but not always. I realize we all have our challenges that vex us. My challenges are not yours, nor are yours mine. Because of that, it is easy to judge each other--sometimes harshly. When your challenges are my strengths, it is easy to be critical and even harsh. But we all have challenges that are the strengths of another.

All through school I could not understand Algebra. I wanted to be an electrical engineer, but the math got in the way. In Jr. high I was stymied by the pre-Algebra stuff. In High School it was no easier. In college, I tried got a rotten grade then had to try again. I was panicked--"what if I can't learn this?" I asked myself,


"I will never graduate," I answered. I kept trying. Finally I got it. Algebra is a game. It has rules. As long as I played by the rules I got it right. Goal! I passed. What a wonderful feeling of accomplishment. I had done it--delayed gratification--hard work--nose to the grindstone--try, try again it worked. So much of life is like that and when we finally get something that has stumped us it is so rewarding. Far more, I think than if we get it right off the bat.


So far in my 50 plus years I have learned a lot but mastered little. Perhaps in my next 30 plus years I will be able to conquer this character thing just like Algebra. Until then I will keep utilizing those middle class values I was raised with and practice patience because I'm beginning to see that in doing so I am starting to "possess my soul".

My Youngest Daughter's Wedding Day

June 9, 2010, my youngest daughter, Sheena, married Trent Bates in the Mount Timpanogos Temple. I have, in a way, looked forward to this day all of her life. You bring children into this world to raise them to become responsible adults, capable of supporting themselves and blessing your life with grandchildren. Being the grandfather of two had I known how wonderful it is to be a grandfather I would have skipped being a father altogether. But I digress.

It was a wonderful day. (By the way the almanac predicts that June 9 is the best day in June for an outdoor reception--just in case you have a June wedding in your future). The weather, which has been anything but June like cooperated. The day was warm in the 80's, the sun shone some of the day but there was a nice amount of cloud cover to make the day easier for us all--including my bald head. It did rain a bit for about seven minutes but not very hard. Mercifully, the wind did not blow.

The pleasant weather did not make this such a wonderful day. What made this such a wonderful day? The marriage and many small moments all rolled into one made this a most memorable day. A parental payday. One of those days that parent's cherish and cling to the memory for as long as memory lasts.

For me the day was capsulated in a few moments--a simple dance, a tradition at receptions. The father and daughter dance together--alone on the dance floor--at the conclusion of the dance the groom either cuts in or takes the next dance. The symbolism is rich.

Sheena had given me a heads up in the morning that she wanted to dance. She told me the chosen song was about a father taking his youngest daughter down the aisle and the difficulty in giving her away. Ok when she told me this I did not reply. I could not--the lump in my throat was to big to allow me even to stammer out a reply. The day went on. When I first saw her in the temple dressed in white and looking so lovely and grown up, that lump came back again. Luckily, I did not have to say anything then.

Following the wedding there was the traditional picture taking. Beckie and I stayed behind as the photographer (Kate Osborne Photography) took a lot of pictures of just Sheena and Trent. As I stood there watching them I had an experience that I really can't put into words. I hope I won't be misunderstood in sharing it. As I watched the two of them I felt a symbolic weight lifted from my shoulders my relationship with Sheena was now different. I was no longer the primary male figure I have been all of her life. I was now more of a consultant. I really can't do this moment justice. To me it was profound and sweet. I wish I had the words to convey how powerful of a moment it was for me.

As the day progressed and we were into the reception. I forgot all about that dance as I spent the evening greeting friends and those who came from the Bates side of the marriage. As we neared the time for the reception to end, Sheena told me she wanted to dance. I was not looking forward to this dance. Not because I generally do not dance and it shows. Not because all eyes would be on us. I was not looking forward to this because Sheena had told me what the lyrics of the song were and I knew I would cry and cry hard. The song began, I had never heard it before. I looked at my youngest daughter--how beautiful she looked. Where had the little girl gone. Where was the girl who used to push her bangs back to mimic by bald head and say"I look just like my Dad. Where was the little girl who with such innocence when I phoned home from a business trip and I told her that I had visited a castle in Disney World that day asked me with wonder in her voice if I had seen a princess. (By the way because of that our family began annual vacations). As we started to dance my eyes immediately teared up. The lump in my throat was actually painful. Sheena teared up too. For a moment we just hugged and I tried not to sob. We talked. What we talked about should be kept between the two of us. It was the perfect conversation for me. I got to tell her some special things about her that only I know. She got to say thanks for me being her Dad. As I looked around I noted that we were indeed the center of attention. I also noted that Sheena and I were not the only ones with tear filled eyes. (I can't even write this without tearing up). For me it was the perfect transition. The changing from one part of our relationship to the next. The chapter finished but the book continues on.

Why did I fear that dance? It is interesting in life how many times the things we dread or fear turn out to be so fulfilling and necessary for us. Even the really hard things when we pass through them in retrospect we see them as refining moments. In my case this was my payday. One of many parental paydays that I will forever cherish. Thanks Sheena for pushing the issue and creating that moment for me. God Bless.