That's my dad

So, I read some letters that my dad wrote Carl on his mission. I just read this part:

"Susie is busy getting the homecoming float ready. She's using my paint brushes. She reassures me that they are being cleaned out perfectly, but I have not seen them yet. Oh well without my five good paintbrushes I will never have to paint again."

Want to know the rest of that story? I did clean them out every night until Friday, when I had to leave early and asked my friend to clean them out. She promised she would. She didn't. She did put them in the trunk of her car, so when I got them a week later, they were all crusted over. I, of course, hid them from my dad until he asked a month later where all his paintbrushes and rollers were. I began to cry and tell him how sorry I was. He said, did I not realize they were 40 dollar real sheepskin rollers for each one?

No. I didn't. He didn't get mad. He just said something like, "Well, okay." And then life continued on. I still feel badly.

My thoughts today? My sweet dad! I'm sorry! You were so nice to loan them to me.

Towards the kids in leadership who I asked if they would pay me back since they didn't take care of the brushes--and they voted on it and said no--I say today, Damn you selfish rich teenagers! I didn't like any of them anyway.

What an awesome Dad, I didn't realize he knew the result of his brushes before I did. I really had all the assurance that I'd get them back to him safe and sound.

Dad's hatred of cats...explained

From a letter written home to his family from his mission:

Have I told you about Frau Bolliger, she is very nice but likes cats. She has 13. The other day one got run over. She has a special room especially for the cats. In her apartment there is our bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, living room where she sleeps because the other room is made especially for the cats, with a piece of plastic covering the window which allows the cats to come in and out at will. She even has [a] stuffed cat on one of her tables. Her front room “smells,” I wonder why. I am going to try to get a picture of all of her cats lying around in the living room.

How Life Becomes Legend

This morning Sarah was remembering Grandpa Poppy. She remembers how he would give her piggy back rides, and throw her in the air when she was a baby. She said she remembered how before he became sick he used to talk like a duck. And then the story... Grandpa spoke like a duck because he had a duck inside him. One day he went swimming in a pond and came out of the water with his mouth open. A baby duck went inside and he swallowed it as he was grasping for air. This duckling grew inside him. Grandpa also began to swim...grandpa naturally couldn't swim, in fact, when he was a boy scout he couldn't even float! He talked duck and it grew so much that one day he couldn't talk any more except to talk like a duck. That's when grandpa stopped talking very much. Slowly the duck took over his brain and body. Then he couldn't live any more because he became more duck than man.

Did you ever realize Grandpa could always talk like a duck until close to the very end?

So Sweet

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  July 05, 2010

Gustafson's,
Having grown up until age 12 on Preston Street and a year behind Denny (I think he became Gus later), I have good memories and fond feelings for your son-husband-dad. The first one of Denny that came to mind as I sadly saw his obituary was one of Christmas at age 9 or 10. As we made neighborhood rounds (foreshadowing our careers, I guess) to tell what Santa brought and see how our buddies fared, I felt sorry for Denny because instead of toys he got books--science books. No kid wanted books! Any more than they wanted sox. But amazing to us, he seemed perfectly content, yes eager in fact. And that quest to know got him into Princeton, I later learned from missionary friend Keith Hilbig, and into Columbia and the medical profession, I learned from Herbert as we talked once during his visit to the Salt Lake Clinic, and now into God's good graces I learn from the obituary, having led a stellar life and left the world 7 kids better. Be sorrowful at his passing but comforted over his moving on to stage 3, and joyful at the prospect of eternal togetherness with his sound mind restored.
Blessings to you.

~

Louis Moench,

Salt Lake City, Utah

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July 03, 2010

Dear Family of Dennis,
My dad worked at Continental Bank with Dennis' dad & we have fond memories of both his mom & dad from those years. My dad passed away four years ago & my mom is living with us, now in her 92nd year. Please give Dennis' dad our love & we pray that you, Judy & your family will be comforted & find peace in knowing that Dennis is in a good place where he's among loved ones who have also graduated to another level in the Plan. May you be blessed with that peace to be with you.
Love, The Family of Leslie Fletcher & Elva Fletcher

~

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June 29, 2010

Judy and Family:
We are so very sorry for your loss. As we've watched Dennis these past few years we've been amazed at his tenacity for keeping healthy in biking, walking and just enjoying the great outdoors.
You have been so tremendously devoted to his comfort & care. We pray you will find peace in your heart at this most difficult time.
Love,

~

Betsy and Art Fowler,

Alamo, California

June 29, 2010

To The Family of Dr. Gustafson,
It was a shock to learn of the passing of Dr. Gustafson. He was a kind and gentle man. I worked with him for many years at Los Medanos Hospital and admired him very much for his caring spirit. May your memories sustain you in years to come. Remember he will remain in the hearts of many who knew him. God bless you all.
Lucille Sterling,RN
Baton Rouge,La.

European vacation

Dad's beloved pastry place, Bratislava Slovakia:

Pastries were only thirty cents each--He kept going back for more and then we packed some in our backpack for the next day.

I got to take my dad to Europe with my newborn babe in 2005 and show him all the sites where I studied abroad.

In Vienna:

Prague:

Carl und Vati in Wien. Ich spreche kein deutsch, verklich Vati?! I happened to make Dad laugh out loud at me trying to speak German to him.

Got to love this picture. It's a centuries-old flower market in Prague and Dad wanted some nuts. He asked the stand-guy (Can't think of the word-man that tends the booth?) for some nuts. Sure, how many? Dad gets a handful. The guy snorts and waves him away. Dad gets them for free. Now that's called Thrifty!

And may I mention that dad's wearing my hat? It's from high school and I thought I'd lost it. Nope, it was on dad's head five years later. It looked good on either of us.
Again "This won't turn out."

We both loved this movie! It filled Dad's music requirement and my holocaust requirement.
A later trip to SF:Dad in Brazil picking Carl up from his mission a few years earlier.
We sure do love you daddy-o! We're glad you're so darn happy right now and that you accomplished everything you came here to do and succeeded in enduring to the end! We couldn't have asked for a better Dad for us all. Thank you for setting the bar so high in your testimony of the Savior and staying close to Heavenly Father. You gave all us kids and our grandkids the best legacy of all. We love you!

Walks with Grandpa

By Kathrine and kids

Ryan was four and Emma was two when they first started walking with Grandpa. I thought they were just going on small walks up the street, but after hearing Ryan's stories about the wilderness and the things he saw, they must have really explored the open space in White Gate. Grandpa could never go on long walks before he retired, because he had so many responsibilities and his little beeper would always call him back if he ever tried to get away. We were all excited to spend time with him after he retired. Emma would put on her white sandals and grab Grandpa's finger and be off.

When Grandpa visited us here in Provo, he would be out walking around town most of the day. In the summer he wore that Sherlock Holmes hat or a baseball cap, and in the rain it was his fleece with an umbrella. In the winter, you could always spot him in his Costco coats and beanie. The kids loved to go with him--he somehow always ended up at the dollar movies or the creamery.

Speaking of the Creamery, this is Emma's favorite: We walked to the Creamery with Grandpa, and we brought that yappy dog with us (Betty Bop). We didn't know what to do with it--we couldn't take it in with us, and we couldn't tie her up since she barks so much. Grandpa put her in the garbage can right outside the door. We had a great time--she was actually quiet--and when we were all done, he just took off the top and tipped it over so she could climb out. (Too bad every house doesn't have large garbage cans to keep yappy dogs in!)

The kids didn't know their grandpa had Alzheimers until he had a hard time talking. They didn't understand what that meant (Emma thought it had something to do with All Stars, but instead it was All Timers), until they realized they had to tell Grandpa it was OK to cross the street. Then, Grandpa was no longer taking them on walks--instead they were taking Grandpa on walks. That's OK though, because they still ended up at the Creamery.

One day, Grandpa seemed particularly anxious, so Ryan went out with him. They were gone probably an hour or two, and when they got back, Dennis was still anxious and wanted to keep going. That is what having multiple kids is all about--Jeshua took him out for another hour. Now it was Emma's turn, but she didn't want to go on a walk. This was during her "Wicked Time" when she sang all the songs from the play. She somehow talked Grandpa into sitting down to listen to her sing. Tears started to stream down Grandpa's face, and he told her to sing more. She was glad for the invitation (everyone else told her to be quiet). She sang to him till he fell asleep.

We have been eating oranges, raspberry sherbet, bread with jam, pre-made hamburgers, and frozen corn for two days straight--it makes us feel like he is here. And when we are on long walks, we will always wonder if maybe he is here.

How to treat a dad-the Gustafson way!

Recently Craig's dad was left alone at home for a weekend. I wasn't sure if he'd ever been introduced to the Gustafson way of being treated...

I know other people love their dad. They celebrate him on father's day. They let their moms tell their dads what's really going on in their lives.

But Gustafsons...

We know how to treat a dad. So we submitted Craig's dad to the same treatment:

It begins by finding a babysitter- preferably one for free because Dad's not going to pay for that unless he's visiting and has an excess amount of cash on him.

Then you find a movie that he'd love (action or comedy).

Then you pick him up and have a grand old time talking about interesting subjects. You go see the movie and let dad pay, of course.

Then you pick a restaurant and go eat. Dad pays, of course.

And you always top the evening off with some great Baskin-Robbins or frozen yogurt, with dad paying of course.

But the whole time you pay utmost attention to Dad. What does he like to talk about? Helping him order something he'd like off the menu--chicken and salmon are always good choices with no fattening sauces! Yuck! (Craig once let mayonnaise be put on my dad's sandwich--several "shits!" later and us wiping it off, Craig learned the hard way the knowledge we were born with).

"I read this in the paper dad, I thought you'd find that interesting."

or

"Tell me this church history tale dad...wow, fascinating!"

Some translating would be involved-- my best correct guess was what you could find at Costco--the answer was Jelly Bellys. You had to have in-depth knowledge of my dad to play. Sorry non-blood relations, you're simply too late in the game to play this game.

Before you knew it, the ice cream was gone and you were on your way home. You got an evening of free entertainment, food, and chatter, and dad was as happy as could be!

Good times had for all.

Treating a dad like a king is the Gustafson way.

I'm definitely passing the tradition on to my kids.

Dads deserve it.

Charity Never Faileth

We were in Austria looking for batteries. Not just any batteries--Duracell batteries. We went into one store that was a few steps down in the cellar. The shopkeeper showed dad batteries and dad said, "No! Do you have Duracell?" The guy got upset because Dad wouldn't buy those batteries and swore at us as we left. I said, "Gosh, what a jerk!"

Dad responded, "Well, he's in this bad little shop that's not doing much business."

Oh, okay. That's what charity is--understanding the other guy's perspective. Dad was good at that and not reviling back.

Dad's other job.

He operated at John Muir. He saw patients at Diablo Orthopedics. And he practiced Sports Medicine at every one of our athletic events when a player went down.

Dad would hustle on over, "Does it hurt A or B? 1 or 2?" And then pat the leg and say, "It looks okay. It'll be better in a few days."

Seriously, how cool was our dad?!

"To bed, to bed" said Sleepy Head...

"Let's wait awhile," said Slow.

"Put on the pot," said Hungry Boy.

"Let's eat before we go."

.................................................

• reading scriptures, always 5 versus at a time (You didn't have the book in front of you, so I could never understand how you magically knew the words we'd stumble on.)
• skipping the "begat"s, "Isaiah," and some wars (What a nice dad!)
• tickle spider
• wrapped like a burrito
• saying prayers underneath you and trying to escape afterward
• losing your pen or your glasses from the front pocket of your shirt after tucking us in
• Raspberries
• kisses from your rough, unshaven face
• Why does Carl get to stay up later?
• waking me up to go to the bathroom so I wouldn't wet the bed

When you have nothing else...

Dad came out to visit us in NC when I was hugely pregnant with Scott in the summer time. My husband was looking for a job, so we were a little bit stressed. It was nice to have dad there to hang out with and for him to pay for stuff like groceries or movies!

Then, as always happens when you can't afford it and you're hugely pregnant in the middle of the humid summer, our air conditioning broke. Not just a little bit, but entirely broken aka needed a replacement for tons of money.

That made Craig and I more stressed. And dad became stressed for us. He apologized that he couldn't help us pay for it and then did the only thing one can do when you meet a challenge with no solution.

He asked if he could kneel down and say a prayer with me. At the time he was having a little bit of a hard time talking. Most importanly, I remember the humility and faith that he asked Heavenly Father to bless me and Craig with all we were dealing with. And when he was done praying, he stood up and gave me a hug and reassured me that everything would be okay. We both felt the spirit of assurance that all would be okay. And it was okay.

I'm grateful that my dad who was dealing with so much himself, and been through such trying times, showed me again how important faith and prayer is in life and not doubting the reassuring answer you receive.

Turbo Diesel Rules

Dad's car:
I believe it was a 1985 Mercedes Silver 300D Turbo!

His first and only new car in his lifetime?

He had it for a good 15 years before it went to Cat in Utah, then Carl in LA. Rest In Peace, Mercedes. I still get happy whenever I see one cruisin' the streets.

Dad's Mercedes had several rules:

1. Don't put your feet in the webbing on the back of the seats.
2. Don't draw in the fog/moisture of window or else you'll have to get the windex when you get home to clean up your finger prints.
3. Don't roll down one of the windows or else it won't come back--but you can never remember which one.
4. Don't try to pull up the lock on the back doors to unlock the car door because it breaks it!
5. DIESEL GASOLINE ONLY!
6. Respect the turbo, baby!
7. What other sound makes you happier than to hear a diesel engine two miles away?
8. When bored, inspect the steel hip replacement that adorns the middle space between the front seats.
9. The stereo system only plays NPR--otherwise "somehow" your tape would be ejected out of the window and into the street.
10. Seats 5? According to Gus lore- 1 dad and 6 kids- 1 child in front, 3 in the back seats, Susie and Cathryn curled up behind the front seats.
11. Groceries don't unload themselves. Everyone has to help--stinks, huh? To make it a good, efficient grocery run, put five plastic Safeway bags on each arm and heft yourself+groceries into the house. Which breaks first--arm or plastic bag? Hopefully neither.

I'm sorry too!

Dear Dad,
I never got the chance to say I'm sorry.

I'm sorry that I told you my college chemistry class was harder than yours because in your day people didn't know as much as we do, therefore you didn't have as much to learn.

I'm sorry for all my B's...and the D+ I got in my freshman science class that I took my last semester of college and never went and just took the tests to see how well I could do without studying. But I was married then...so it shouldn't matter if you didn't pay for it, right?

I'm sorry for the thousands of dollars you spent on my tennis lessons and I never practiced and didn't even like the sport. And for all the times I banged my racket on the ground when I was mad and made sure you weren't watching.

I'm sorry that I never switched over to reading about Cambodia under Pol Pot's regime...or any other genocide and am still stuck on the Holocaust and Jewish history.

I'm sorry that you let me go all the way to Austria for a semester and I never listened in my art history class--it was my least favorite and I didn't learn anything about art.

I'm sorry that I never practiced the piano or clarinet and always fell asleep when you brought me to the opera--but my husband loves it and is musically talented so that should make up for something, right?

I'm sorry about the time I was really little, before our kitchen was remodeled, and you were leaning over and I came up and pinched your sides and it made you jump and hit your poor bald head on the corner of the kitchen cabinet. And you didn't even really get mad at me. At least not that you showed.

Sorry for all the time we went water ballooning and tp-ing in the summer. But it was really fun.

Sorry for all the times I cried about nothing.

Sorry for the movies I watched instead of reading or practicing things.

Sorry I reread the same books instead of branching out.

Sorry for all the classes I ditched in high school and all those times I didn't go to seminary.

But here I am with what will one day be a carload of kiddos who are your posterity whom I'm all breeding to be doctors, so I didn't turn out too badly, right?

Love, Susie

Fixing a Flat

Dad,

Today the tire on my stroller deflated while I was walking to the grocery store. I stopped and put air in it at the gas station. It deflated again while I was in the grocery store, so I knew I had a flat.

I pushed the stroller up the hill to a bike shop, about a half mile away. When I got there, the bike fix-it guy pulled the wire out of the tire and gave me a new tire. He said I could keep the old tire and patch it. I passed, and then I thought how thoroughly disappointed you would be.

You would have wanted me push the stroller home, flat tire and all. Then you'd tell me to fill some bin with water and make me move the tire in the water until I saw bubbles. Then yoiu'd have me find and use a patch kit to patch the hole.

I know how to repair a tire so well because you showed me about 5200 times "because someday you'll need to know how to fix a tire." Dad, thanks to you I know how to fix a tire, but I just choose not to do it.

Here's why:

I new tire costs $3.50 and takes 5 minutes for the bike guy to fix. A tire repair kit costs $2.25 and would entail me trying to find a bucket, search for the stupid hole and think there isn't one because I can't find the bubbles (I know I need glasses.), decide I'll just "patch" the entire tire because I am too lazy and already far too annoyed after spending a half hour on the thing. Yes, I know I could have saved $1.25 (which is Thrifty ice cream).

The point is that you did teach me well, and I can do it...if I want to.

Thanks for teaching me.

Love,

Cat

P.S. Maybe you should have taught me how to not be so lazy.

Memories of Betsy

I'll write more later. Can you all add to this?

• Long drives to Utah for every family vacation
• Not knowing if Besty would make it in one piece
• T.V. and movies as we drove, except someone got to sit up front to keep Dad company as he drove ALL NIGHT
• He'd wake up when he hit the bumpy side of the highway.
• Jam sandwiches in the "fridge" and those cherry pies at gas stations. Granola bars and the kind of cookies Dad liked
• Not stopping for the many bathroom breaks--instead he'd make us wear a diaper, or he'd flip the doors of the van open as a shield for when he pulled over and we'd pee on the side of the road
• There was a table in her. What ever happened to that?
• All kids drove her. All kids got into accidents in her.
• She didn't need a key, just don't lock the steering wheel
• $$$ to fix, but Dad couldn't let her go

I'm sorry

I'm sorry for

• being disruptive during FHE and home teacher visits. This includes throwing myself on the ground like a beached whale, talking a lot, fighting with people whose names start with C and S, not wanting to read, complaining about having to read, not coming when you asked, etc.
• saying I was spending the night at one friend's house while I was really at another friend's house, who may or may not have been a boy.
• taking off my neck brace before I officially had permission (although I'm not really sorry).
• getting into two car accidents. One of which was when you specifically told me I could only drive Betsy to and from school, and I immediately disobeyed the rule and hit an expensive car. The other was when I was wearing my neck brace (so it shouldn't really count, except that I was going to Nordstroms to spend your money).
• getting mad at you for stepping on the flowers I'd just planted and "killing them!" even though you were setting up the sprinklers.
• ever liking cats
• letting Bruno pee on the carpet
• making you take me to the bathroom in "the middle of the night" because I wet the bed for way too long.
• opening my mouth to fight way too often when I should have just followed your advice to "just say OK."
• sneaking out (but not really because it wasn't technically sneaking out if no one cared).
• never studying Spanish but telling you that it wasn't my fault because I just didn't get it.
• basically never studying anything.

This list will continue, but this is all I can think of now.

Dad's Punishment

"That was a stupid thing to do!"

Grab your arm and pinch it just in that most painful spot between the muscle and bone (a doctor's trick?) to give you a que to be quiet during church.

Hot, loud whisper in your ear to be quiet during church.

Go to your room.

Separate and I'll sit between you (again during church).

"Why would you do a stupid thing like that?"

A soft spanking because he knew you had a diaper on anyway, even when you were six...or eight.

"Now, what's the problem with this?"

"That's CRAP!"

Punishment!

In the farthest reaches of my memory, I remember dad spanking me once.

Something about being taken out of sacrament meeting and spanked.

Misbehaving, ME?

Every parent is allowed one offense in terms of unnecessary punishment--a freebie, if you will. He used it when I was three or four. Since then, he had other methods for punishment, all of which I try to remember now that I'm a parent because they were effective and loving.

My room was always a mess. I didn't appreciate that I lived right down the hall from my parents' bedroom, so my dad could always peek in, be horrified by the mess, and tell me to clean it up. Wisely, he'd give me a deadline. "I want this cleaned up by the time I come home from work!" (I learned to lock my door when I was gone and keep a toothpick hidden in the carpet so he couldn't just open it on a whim and tell me to clean it)

Although I moaned and grumbled, yea, even murmured, I understood his point. I couldn't even find my own shoes and my under-the-bed "storage" was too full to shove anything else under there. I appreciated, even through the fog that was grouchy teenager-hood, the good naturedness of my dad to give me a deadline instead of a "NOW!" in your face, battle-of-the-wills-initiating demand.

And I won't make a big issue, fifteen years later, of the dead and buried fact that it was much harder and rarer for my dad to walk purposefully to the other side of the house, up the stairs, to Cathryn's room to ask her to clean hers, or around the corner to check if Carl's room was spotless. Nor did I make mention of this to my dad at the time, who I knew would say, "Just worry about yourself!"

Ugh that phrase! Ugh that I use that with my own children today!
*******
Other punishments:
Because I was the baby of the family, a widespread fear existed that I might be...spoiled! Heaven Forbid! Spoiled! Me? No possible. Nope, I don't think so.

In the unrevisioned history of our family, dad asked me to do the dishes often once I was old enough. One time he asked me to do the dishes upon leaving, and said he wanted them done by the time he got back. I said no (a girl can only handle so much!) and he sent me to my room and left.

I went out and played until I heard the garage door opening again, whereupon I sprinted to my room.

I guess my dad came in to hear my footsteps pounding through the house (light-footed, I am not) and came straight to my room, where I innocently and breathlessly pretended to be in the middle of an intense, soap opera-esque Barbie story. He told me he knew exactly what I did, and I had to go and do the dishes now!

And I did.
**********
On Christmas Eve morning we went to Safeway (Safeway!) and got some groceries. Dad told me to bring them in. I forgot, perhaps? A few hours later dad came to me and said very seriously, "Susie? Did you bring in the groceries when I asked?"
I shook my head. Uh-oh.
"Does Santa bring presents to kids who don't do what they're told?"
I shook my head again. Tears welled in my eyes and poured over. Then I went straight to the garage and brought in all the groceries, hoping against hope that Santa would ignore this one infraction and still bring me my presents!
********
Another time he asked me to do the dishes and I cried at the injustice of it. So he helped me. (Carl and Cathryn, where were you?)
*********
At the end of one summer I painted the outside of the house (child labor laws, anyone?). It took me a few days of off and on work, and at the end I just had the highest parts of the house to do. It hurt my arms and my eyes and I was tired. So I cried. And dad painted the rest while I kept him company. And that was a highlight of my childhood--keeping dad company while he fixed toilets, the sprinklers outside (call out to me when they come on!), repainted rooms, and fixed the wooden chairs in our house with strong glue.
*********
I had to clean the "big bath." I cleaned it whiningly and my dad inspected it and found it lacking (high standards, that one). He tried to get me to scrub the toilet harder. I cried (story of my life) and so he softened his voice and just showed me. Believe it or not, my tears were all real and not manipulative.
**************
Dad knew our penchant for tp-ing. When I had sleepovers, he'd make me promise that I wouldn't go out with my friends. I'd do everything I could to reassure him I wouldn't go without promising. In the end, he'd make me promise. And because I respected and loved him so much, my promise was binding. I couldn't do other than what he'd asked of me because of that respect. And to me, that's the real lesson of parenting and punishment. It's not a battle of wills and "because I said so!" although dad liked that line, it was never forced on us, it was out of respect and love for my dad that I did what I was told. Now why doesn't my two year old have that kind of respect for me and stop hitting kids and taking off his poopy diapers?!

Swimming

When Dad's arthritis in his knees got too bad to play tennis, he decided he'd take up swimming to get exercise. The problem was that he'd never really learned to swim very well. Being my determined dad, he set out to not only learn, but to be good at it.

At first he began swimming with a snorkel and a mask because he didn't want to take the time to breath. He also wore nose plugs.

He noticed a man at the country club was a fast swimmer and wore a Speedo. Dad hired the man to teach him lessons. He also upgraded his trunks to a Speedo, although he'd wear his trunks right into the water and then take them off.

Now he had a snorkel, mask, nose plug, and Speedo.

After a lot of practice, Dad upgraded to goggles, a nose plug, and Speedos. He became a better swimmer and gained more confidence...enough confidence to forget the trunks and instead sport his Speedos right up to the pool.

I remember Dad trying to convince me to go swimming with him. He bribed my by saying, "I will only wear the Speedo in the water. Come on!" Now I wish I would have gone with him. After all, how many girls had dads in their 60s who would swim a mile a day...in a Speedo.

Afte his vision got too bad to swim, Dad took up biking. But that's a story for another post.

( Carl?)

PS--When we were on swim team, Carl purposely lost his Speedo for the entire season...in Dad's trunk. What a nice dad.

CAN YOU CHEAT ALZHEIMERS? DAD TRIED

Dad would go in for regular checkups on his alzheimer's progression. One of the tests is counting back from 100 by 7s. One day he called and asked to speak to Jon. I was a bit taken aback but handed the phone over. I heard Jon talk for a minute and then he hung up. Dad was preparing for his dr. appointment and wanted to ask my husband NOT ME how to count down from 100. He wrote the numbers down and planned on memorizing them before his appointment the next morning. I would love to see his little notebook with the numbers scrawled down.
100, 93, 86, 79,72....

Practice Practice Practice

When Tyler was a baby dad and Cathryn bought him a carseat. The carseat looks just like all other carseats except for one minor thing--whoever designed the latch thought he was designing a difficult brain riddle. The two pieces that have to fit perfectly before inserting into the buckly are cut like puzzle pieces. Thus, one would conclude that you would stick them together like a puzzle piece. The first time I spent several minutes trying to solve the puzzle before asking the engineer. Problem solved.

Fast forward several years to Arizona. Dad came out to visit and helped me put Jacob into the carseat after church. He tried to solve the riddle and I explained how counterintuitive it is, quickly snapped it and off we went. Well that wasn't good enough for dad. When we got home from church (I remember the Az sun was bright but I don't think it was blazing) dad asked me to show him how to work the carseat latch again. He then spent three hours outside trying to figure out the carseat. Every once in a while I would go out to check on him and show him again how to latch the carseat. Then I would leave him to practice more. It was bittersweet because his tenacity was there and I loved watching his practice but he did end up giving up and coming inside--maybe I finally bribed him with dinner...

Sweaters

There was the sweater and the windbreaker, and nothing in between. I dare you to remember a time when dad wore a "coat" when he didn't have skis strapped to his boots. That's right. Never.
The formula worked like this:
Cold = Sweater
Not cold = Sweater (it would be cold if the Benz's heater wasn't giving 110%)
Windy = windbreaker
Cold+windy = sweater + windbreaker

Where is there room for a coat? Every situation is already provided for. Of course the favorite sweater is the Nordstrom's after Christmas sale (of course) alpaca wool sweater in navy or tan. But he'd have to feel every one in the stack for softness before choosing. The favorite windbreaker was the red Camp Oljato windbreaker later replaced by the biking jacket.

But no sweater was ready off the shelf. Maximum warmth needed to be baked into yhe sweater. And only the XXLs could survive the treatment. Washing in the machine in hot water and then a hot dry cycle. The warmth remains forever trapped in the sweater after "the treatment".

Some may wonder "why"? I' quite certain it arose from the Boy Scout layering techniques paired with a suppressed fear of childhood UT winters as evidenced by his strange affinity to Rodney's predicament in a Christmas Story when he "can't get his arms down." To this day you'll see him shudder at the sight.

Dad's Reliable Remedies

Hurt your knee? Can you move it?

It will get better in a few days.

Why waste money on medicine? Have a canker sore?

Break an aspirin in half and place it on your canker.

Get a bump?

Hot compress for 10 minutes. Then cold compress for 10 minutes. Repeat.

Have a cold?

Take a hot shower.

Jam your finger?

Put tape on it. Any tape will do.

Your toe hurts?

You aren't cutting your toe nails the correct way. You are also cutting them too short.

Have a cough?

Don't cough on me.

Your head hurts?

Take a Tylenol.

Hurt your arm?

Refer to remedy in first answer.

Hogi Yogi

Dad loved him some Hogi Yogi! We always got to go when he was in Provo. I remember driving all over Sugar House with him so we could have Hogi Yogi one last time before I dropped him off at the airport. He'd order the biggest possible container, but I can't remember what flavor he'd get. Anyone?
At Hogi Yogi there's this machine that squishes yogurt and add-ins all together, and you have to use your arm and whole body to pull the lever down to make it work. Dad noticed the worker using a little too much wrist than is comfortable for an Orthopedist to view, so he instructed the worker how to use his body so it would take most of the pressure instead of his wrist. Then he watched as the worker followed his instructions...at least that one time. I explained, a tad bit embarrassed, that he was a doctor, and Dad left happy. Our dad--he couldn't help doing good in this world!

Oranges

Dad planted some orange trees on the side yard of our house. He tried to convince us that they tasted better than store-bought, but we used them more as ammunition in our sling shots than as food.

Oranges are a very big deal to Dad and were an important commodity in our home. They were guaranteed to be in our stocking (along with a toothbrush and Tic-Tacs--I don't get it either).

I always said I wouldn't marry a man unless he could peel an orange in one piece. (Husband cuts them.)

It's nasty, but in December my left thumb nail always turns yellow.

I owe my addiction to Dad.

Dad's car always smelled like oranges and cereal. I have fond memories of getting into his well heated Old Faithful Benz at night to talk with him and he always had orange peels in the cereal cup in the center of the console and a spare orange by the door.

Oranges were a staple food at our house. Many of my school lunches consisted of three oranges and maybe some Saltines.

At FHE one night, I started crying because my stomach hurt. (I was/am very dramatic.) Dad asked what I'd eaten that day. And I told him six oranges. Only six oranges. That's it. Dad laughed at me and said, "Well, you'd better not just eat oranges."

On our annual trips to buy a Christmas tree, we'd eat oranges while we walked around the lot, and we'd throw the peels under the trees. (It's OK. They are biodegradable.)

I've never had a hard time sharing food with my baby, until this week when I introduced him to oranges. He loves them more than I do! And maybe even more than Dad does! He demolishes them. He eats them so quickly that I feel like he's not appreciating them!

Oranges and Dad were such a big, happy, sweet part of my life, but I never thought oranges could be the end of Dad.

I was supposed to meet Dad in the Netherlands during our layover on our trip to Europe. My plane was delayed and I was in a complete panic, but some random saint helped him get on his connection.

When I got to the airport in Rome, I thought Dad would be waiting there. He wasn't. Somehow the tour group leader found him and put him on an earlier bus to the hotel.

I arrived at the hotel in a panic because only his bags were in the room.

I said a prayer and search the streets of Rome, yes, Rome for Dad. After walking around a few blocks, I found him...holding a bag of ORANGES!

He told me that when he got to the hotel he was hungry, so he found a fruit market but was disappointed that he only had and America dollar. Being Dad, they gave him the oranges for free.

The length the man goes to for oranges. The length his guardian angels go to to protect him while he finds oranges...Priceless!

The orange trees on the side yard have since been torn down to make room for renovations and additions; however, I can guarantee there's half a box of oranges sitting in the kitchen, being consumed at each meal.

In honor of Dad, I ate 2 1/2 oranges today. Yes, only 2 1/2 because my baby ate the other half. So the tradition, nay, obsession continues.

Evidence of our Asian Father

I have a theory that we were raised by an asian father. Asian on the inside, at least.


Although there was the story that made him so mad. He was a resident or in medical school and was so tired from being up how many hours but kept working through it all. The patient dad was tending looked up at him and called him a derogatory name for a Chinese person.


Squinty eyes, how many of us got them?


There's the other time when Carl was graduating from UCLA and we went out to eat with his friend of Chinese descent and her family. We'll be darned if our dad and her dad didn't look like brothers! They were the same height and had the same eyes. We even took a picture. Since I don't have that one, I do have this one as evidence of our asian heritage:

Can't tell what it is he's pointing at?

A Sun Dial.

The biggest one in all of someplace someplace located in Salzburg, Austria. In Fall of 05, he, Madeline, and I went to Austria, Slovakia, and Czech Republic, and this sun dial was one of his favorite sites we visited. We walked all over the city trying to find it because the guidebook mentioned a sun dial. We passed it several times before one of us caught on. So here it is, folks, the much sought out sun dial! It's, um, made of metal? The shops around it are pretty?

And who doesn't remember dad trying to tell the time of the day by moving his hands up in the sky from the point of the sun to somewhere coming up with some hour?

Our dad, the genius

After Craig and I moved to NC, dad came to visit us when Madeline was just a few months old (August 2005).

We took the requisite trip to Costco-for the fat-free frozen yogurt (!!!) AND the free groceries he was happy to buy-the happiness in spending money came only after retirement! We browsed the book aisle and came across a dictionary of Anatomical and Physiological terms. This was one legit dictionary.

I opened it up and sounded out one phrase/sentence.

Dad answered, explaining its exact function.

I chose a different one on a different page.

Dad hesitated, then answered.

A few more times, and dad answered all of them correctly.

We were both having a good time: my dad, the dictionary.

It reminded me of the time the Christmas of 2004 when we went hiking at Mt. Diablo and I pointed to a peculiar tree and wondered aloud, "What is that?!" to no one in particular.

Dad answered without hesitating.

Moral of both stories, moral of his life:

Dad knows everything.