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.