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.

My Dad's passing

Today, May 24, 2010, my father passed away. He was born in Chico, Texas in March 1918. He was 92. the adventures of his life took him from Texas to Wyoming, to Idaho, Utah, Nevada, California, Oregon and finally Montana. Professionally he was a chef. He served in the Army in Okinawa during WWII. Along the way he fathered 6 children I was the youngest.

The odd thing is my feelings. I don't have the feelings I suppose I should have. I feel sad but mostly I feel sad that I don't feel sad. My father and I did not have much of a relationship. You see he left my family when I was 6 years old. I would spend summers with him until I graduated from high school. I always went to where he was living--the road did not go both ways. I would send him invitations to my high school graduation, my college graduations (I did it twice it was so much fun). To this day I am still his only child with a college degree. He did not attend my wedding and only saw my 4 children twice.

A few times I sent him letters asking for a reason that he was not a part of my life. I never heard a response. For over 10 years my wife sent him a letter and a check every two weeks. When we did talk it was mostly about the weather and outdoors kinds of things. We never spoke about the important things.

A few years ago my older brother Taylor and I went up to visit my Dad in Oregon. We both flew in and spent a few days with him. My sister Jennifer came up also. We went to the coast and had a pleasant time. During this time he never asked me about my family--until I was getting on the plane to return home. I found that strange. I realized he does not know me. And I don't know him.

I knew he was a poor man. Honorable with his debts. Shortly after my parents were divorced he remarried. Marge, my step-mom she got cancer. My Dad did not have health insurance and it took him 20 years to pay for the bill. His example of honoring his debts has always inspired me. He also always paid his alimony and child support. There was a bit of a row between my parents when a child support check did not show up. My Mom was angry that it was not sent. My Dad insisted that he had sent the check. Years later I found that check being used as a book mark in a book I was reading. My Mom did not laugh at that. I did.

Two years ago my Dad's health no longer permitted him to live alone. He went to live in Deer Lodge, Montana. This is where his step-daughter Bev lives. He stayed in a nursing home there the last two years of his life. My wife beckie and I went to Medford, Oregon to close out his apartment. My sister Jennifer also came up from Reno, Nevada. Beckie and I worked hard and disposed of his furniture, clothing, and cleaned out his apartment. We both look back on that few days as a memorable time. We discovered that we work well together. As I was looking through photo albums that he had I saw many pictures with his new family. He was there for the celebration of birthdays, holidays and graduations. All of the things he missed with me--he had with his new family. It was a revelation to me. I finally understood that when he left his family he left more than his wife--he left his youngest three children as well.

As we finished closing out his apartment a grand daughter from his new family came to drive him to Montana. As they drove away I said to myself I won't see him again in this life. It was true. In my mind I became an orphan that day. I mourned his passing then.

Today the news leaves me feeling funny. I'm glad he was surrounded by those he loved and those who knew and loved him. I'm grateful to God that he had that blessing. I guess that I am sad that he never got to know his own blood family. He has wonderful grand children that he does not know--and they never got the chance to know him. That is sad.

So on this snowy May 24, 2010. I wish my Father well in his journey into the eternities. I wish him nothing but happiness.