trunk or treat

On Halloween night I tricked out my trunk for a good cause. Loading up the left over decorations and prizes from our Harry Potter party, I handed out some treats with friends at the children's shelter. Although I didn't come away with any prized chocolate goodies myself, it was quite rewarding. I loved seeing the excitement on the faces of fairies, hippies and pirates. The saddest part of the sugarfest however, was realizing that the cuts, sores, black eyes and bruises usually painted on as part of a Halloween costume, were not paint at all.

The motto of The Christmas Box House is "Every child deserves a childhood." I believe that.

garden tour

Whenever I imagined the State of Oklahoma (which honestly wasn't that often) I pictured it mostly as a flat, golden prairieland– "where the wind comes sweeping down the plain." While touring Tulsa last week, my mental picture altered a bit. These pictures were taken in some amazing gardens in the Sooner State. The first image is a former amphitheater converted into a terraced garden.

The apothecary garden showcased specimens used for medicinal purposes.

Philbrook, an oil tycoon residence turned art museum, was nothing short of inspiring.

During the coming winter months I will surely be dreaming of the possibility of springtime gardens at Jefferson Square.

sign of the times

I saw this advertisement at the check out counter in a drug store museum in Guthrie, Oklahoma. (Is that where they got the term "check out"?) Anyway, I don't remember being issued any Mexican aphrodisiacs when I wore the black name tag.

parleys way

Although the Missouri/Illinois leg had to be amputated from my trip, I was able to make a quick jaunt over the Oklahoma border into Arkansas in order to locate my great-great grandfather's gravesite.

Driving in the early morning hours, for some reason the "Scooby, Scooby-Doo, where are you?" theme song was stuck in my head. And somewhere along the way, while chasing down directions on country roads, the song turned into "Parley Parker Pratt, where you at?"

"Monet," the secretary voice on the rental car's GPS system, talked me most of the way there.

For years the Pratt family organization has debated about whether or not to move Parley's body back to Utah–his dying wish. When they finally attempted it this past spring, archeologists were unable to retrieve anything.

Curious.

hello, i'm mary. are you ross?

Early Monday morning, after driving for a few hours through forested flatlands, I stopped at a Cracker Barrel Restaurant in Alma, Arkansas for blueberry pancakes and directions. Winding through the maze of candy and craft displays I found the hostess station and waited my turn to be greeted and seated. After a few minutes a middle-aged woman with gold rimmed glasses approached me, with menus in hand. "Hello, I'm Mary," she stated quite matter-of-factly. But before I could formulate a courteous reply: "Hello Mary, I'm Jed"–the impatient "Mary" with an Southern accent as thick as her short, curly hair, repeated herself; this time a little more deliberately punctuated: "Hello. How MAN-Y?" "Uh, one," I said, both of us retaining our anonymity.

This brief exchange reminded me of another mistaken introduction, also occurring on an eastern roadtrip. A few years ago, while driving cross country, I stopped at a gas station in Rhode Island. It was quite late on a Saturday night, and I was scouring the backroads for the location of an LDS Meetinghouse in order to attend church services the next morning. Pulling up to the pump, some distance from the front doors of the Fuel Mart, I took stock of my surroundings. It appeared to be a rough part of town. Stepping out of my Jeep, I could see someone walking my way.

"Ross?" the man called out from across the parking lot. "Are you Ross?" Due to the fact that I am not Ross–and even if I was, I was confident that I didn't know anyone in this state–I did not look up. "I'll just pretend that I can't hear him from this distance," I rationalized. But, in spite of my non-response, the man was not deterred, and both his questioning and proximity advanced. "Ross! Are you Ross?" he continued, with still no reply from me.

Finally, getting within a few feet of my car, where it would be more than obvious that I was ignoring him, I braced myself for his inevitably pointed question–something like, "Hey Ross, are you DEAF?!" But instead, the gentleman repeated his question, this time much more slowly, as if I were hearing impared– "Are–you–LOST?" He went on to explain that he saw me looking around when I turned in to the station and had noticed my Utah license plate, and wanted to offer some friendly Rhode Island hospitality.

I wonder if the local college offers an Interpretive Accents 101 course I can enroll myself in.

poem for jack

Jack, who illuminated our lives for much too short of a season, was laid to rest one year ago today. As a tribute, I wrote a poem for Darren and Sarah's little pumpkin, and just ran across it again this week. I am sure that Jack is tending to his older brother duties, looking after his new little sister Audrey Pay. We miss you Jack, and look forward to meeting you again someday.



Jack, A Lantern

Once and still the skilled gardener's delight
Was picked from a well tended harvest bed
Carried, and cradled, then carefully carved
Revealing a most singular light.
Illuminated, the prized plump shell
Shines a path for hesitant, hopeful steps.
While evening's journey brings its share of tricks,
Morning promises candied regale.
Tomorrow's sun will not long be held back.
The source will gather all light into one.
Til then keep aglow our brave grin bearer
Hold on, shine on, luminous little Jack.

harry's halloween

something wicked this way comes...
conjuring up some pictures to post

at the altar

Altar. Alter. Two similar words. Not just in the way they sound, but in the process they initiate.

Lately I've been contemplating both the place and the process of altar/alter. The hymn declares, "I'll drop my burden at His feet, and bear a song away." (How Gentle God's Commands, Hymns 125) Although I know He graciously exchanges our baggage for His blessings, I see that that kind of process is a little too cavalier. How could any reciprocal friendship function in that manner? If the only time I come to Him is to abandon a trial I have grown weary of carrying, I will only know His feet.

Looking to Abraham as an example, I see that the real opportunity to know the Lord completely, from head to toe, comes from placing something precious on the altar. My natural man becomes changed, altered, when I put everything on the line and endure to the end in faithfulness. Somewhere in my telesital tutoring, I learned that each one of us, if we hope to sit down with Prophets, must endure our own customized Abrahamic test. Like the trusting patriarch of old, am I willing to give what it is I treasure most–and not just what it is I no longer want? (A new way to consider how/what I donate to Deseret Industries.) Realizing that everything is already the Lord's, and I am just a selfish steward, my outlook on offerings has shifted.

One of my favorite definitions of charity is: giving away something that is good for you, that is better for someone else. Charity is the pure love of Christ. And what is it that He purely loves, but us? He willingly laid down His perfect life that we might gain eternal life. So, instead of bringing an offering of frustration, as I am often wont to do–I will place faith on the altar. Rather than confusion, anger, and upset–most of all, I bring hope before Him. Like obedient Abraham, I will bring my best to Him–and He will do His will with it all.

phone in the hole

Who needs kids when you can drop your own cell phone in the toilet?

tractor boy

Growing up in the city, spending more time inside with sketchbooks than outside with shovels–who would have thunk it? I am a tractor boy. I love manuevering the riding mower, much like the Autopia car ride at amusement parks, over the rural acreage. I love being outdoors smelling the fresh cut grass. And perched on top of a noisy machine, with gears and grease, I love embracing the sometimes overshadowed part of my still rugged soul.

back to school

I was a little amazed when I was asked to help with my 20 year high school reunion. Although I spent years with these folks–the cheerleaders, the jocks, the scholars, the stoners–I always felt like an outsider. In my own personal version of "The Breakfast Club," I suppose I would have been the geeky "Brian" character...perhaps a little more arty than brainy, but I definitely would have been the one stuck with writing the report while the rest of the group hooked up. Back then, I think I could have called all 370+ of my classmates by name, but could not with confidence have counted even a handful as close friends.

As a result of the house fire a few years ago, I literally have no physical evidence of those formative years...no dance pictures, yearbooks, report cards or awards. And over the years, many of the memories have also dissipated like smoke. But, being a loyal Highland Ram, I got over my social anxiety and agreed to assist with the reunion. I emailed and telephoned my fair share of names on the missing classmates list. I gathered items, printed and planned. I drove 3 hours roundtrip to weekly meetings at our class president's house. And the more we met, the more I seriously contemplated the possibility that I must have been home-schooled. Other than walking the same locker lined hallways, I didn't have the same memories of High School that all of those moms and dads in the room did.

At 7:00 sharp, on the Alumni night of the reunion, all of the popular kids walked in, pressed and poised–even smelling expensive. Stinky and sweaty, dirty and dreary from schlepping tables, chairs, food and memorabilia out into the courtyard, for hours in the August afternoon sun...Lisa (my one social confidant) and I faded into the back. Distant hugs reminded us we were a little out of place, back then, and now again, 20 years later.

But, more than dwelling on the feelings of my introverted misfit past, I found that I was sincerely interested in these familiar strangers. Many had been dealt some difficult hands in life. All were interesting, and I was sincerely happy to see each and every one. I got "out of my 16-year-old head" and as a result, was able to see who these people were for me. Collectively, we provided the background, the context, for all of us stepping out into the world. We prepared each other with skills to deal with life's adventures. And amazingly, produced some incredibly accomplished and resilient souls. So, to that I say, more than thanks for the memories–thanks for the experience. High School really was the training ground for life.

good times never expire

The most expected and dreaded part of a high school reunion, by tradition, has to be addressed–the awards for who "traveled the farthest," has the "most children," is the "most" or "least changed"...you know the list. After hearing horror stories of reunion-going classmates being re-traumatized in front of their eternal peers, and how awkward the moment of judgement can be, we carefully considered how to approach this part of the evening when planning our 20th year get-together.

For us, the solution was a presentation of a series of beautiful gift certificates to our favorite high school haunts. The joke was that all of the featured places have closed since our glory days. So, the premise of the presentation was something like, "How embarrassing. We had some great prizes to award tonight, but just realized that all of these certificates expired in 1988! But just so you know what you could have won for having the Most Tattoos, you would have received..." It kept that part of the evening nostalgic and light-hearted, without forcing people in or out of the spotlight. I think it worked well. There were passes to Xenon dance club, and gift certificates to places like Snelgrove's ice cream parlor, Castleton's department store, Granite Furniture in Sugarhouse, the food court at Crossroads Plaza, and Bill and Nada's Cafe.

When the event was over, one classmate asked if she could take home the gift certificate to the 7-Eleven on 21st and 21st. She said that whenever she drives by that location with her kids in the car and points out that building as being her favorite high school hang out, her kids reply, "Mom, you are so lame. You hung out at the dry cleaners?"

Life moves on, but good times never expire.

class of 1988

Twenty. Years. Ouch.

mystery link

Have you ever "googled" your own name? When I tried it the other day, I didn't know quite what to expect. Just how many of me are there in the world anyway?

The results came up with links to news stories about the chabin fire; quotes I had said regarding the "First Harvest" event at This is the Place Heritage Park; my "why I'm a Jed" profile on jed.com; my appointment to the Ogden Landmarks Commission; a poem I had written to a girl I didn't know; results of a track race I had won in a junior high school back east (when I followed that link I was disappointed to learn that it really wasn't me); my entry in the county fair as an 11-year old 4-H participant who "built a catapult powerful enough to loft a bowling ball a few yards and accurate enough to hit the head of his sister’s suitor with a tennis ball from 60-feet" (again not me...how disheartening to learn in one day that not only am I not athletic, but I am not scientific either. Quite a shocker–good thing I was sitting down); in addition to being a native Utahn, that I also currently reside in Alabama, Pennsylvania and New York; and a random blogspot.

Curious, I also followed the link to the unknown blog (a potentially dangerous practice) and found that I was in someone's personal list of blogs that I didn't recognize. I didn't know quite what to think. When you discover that you are being watched from afar, should you feel flattered or self conscious? I guess it's payback from being a blogstalker myself sometimes.

you can't spell pigeon without PIG

Pigeons, pigeons, everywhere–
on the rooftop, on the stair.
Cooing, cooing, everywhere–
from the tower–Quasi's lair.
Flapping, flapping everywhere–
in attic, eaves and window glare.
Droppings, droppings, everywhere–
on sidewalks, car, and in my hair.
Fly, please fly away, anywhere–
Into a propeller; I don't care.

Any (legal/lethal) suggestions for how to get rid of a pesky pigeon colony?

the fireworks stairs

I think everyone, to some degree, has "skeletons in their closet"–deep secrets they try to keep hidden away from the scrutiny of others. If you were to pry open the door containing my personal stash of bony shame, one thing to come tumbling out of the over-stuffed space would be the quirkiness of my family home. I am confident there are things about that place even "Ripley" wouldn't "believe."

For decades, the ever-evolving structure kept us equally sheltered and entertained, but any attempt to explain the inexplicable got crammed in a confined space, never to see the light of day. However, since it is no longer a tangible terror, perhaps it is now safe to let one well-guarded secret escape the confines of the dark: the story of the "fireworks stairs."

Over the years 2264 South 2000 East was known by many different names, including: "the compound" or "Fort Platt" because of the wall surrounding it, "the James Bond house" because of its many concealed passageways, and Utah's "Winchester Mystery House" because of the random staircases. People (new naive move-ins to the neighborhood, guys parked in the driveway waiting to pick up one of my sisters for a date, pilots taking aerial photos of the east bench) would often inquire about the unusual turret on top of the house. Usually I would give a truthful, albeit brief answer about the gray-washed structure made of scrap lumber, windows and doors– "aaaa...stairs"–but would always try to change the subject.

During the winter months the stairs provided easy access for shoveling the snow off of the roof–a task my dad seemed obsessed with, and a chore I hated. On the last long nights of summer vacation, when the light lingers, the stairs took me up and away from the street heat below to a peculiarly private place to study. With a clear view of the "H" rock, my high school's mark on the mountain, I would sit on the expansive roof and read books like Voltaire's "Candide," and other assigned reading for the upcoming school year. But mostly, the stairs were made for the month of July.

After gorging myself on holiday watermelon, I would make the singular climb up the awkward stairs with armfuls of pillows to see the light shows choreographed for "normal" families, who sat in the park on yarn-tied picnic quilts. While the prelude of patriotic anthems wafted its way up the hill, over the tree tops, sometimes I would wish to be down there somewhere–somewhere in the mass of Americana chasing someone with a squirtgun, lighting sparklers like a chain-smoker, or shouting "UNO!" in a circle of friends each holding cards and popsicles. I am sure that the phrase "it's lonely at the top" was never conceived for this context, but year after year, sitting alone on the roof, the feeling seemed to fit.

As a consolation for the price of peculiarness, however, I had access to as many sky spectaculars as I could take in. It was a surround-sound, and sight, experience. The booms would echo off of the Wasatch mountain walls, answering back the explosive flashes from Sugarhouse Park, the Salt Lake Country Club, Fort Douglas, Derks Field, and areas of the valley I had never visited. Each show was an encore from the previous production, satisfying the hope for "just one more."

Driving through the old neighborhood last week, I passed by the house. It was sold earlier this year to a very nice (and ambitious) family, and is currently undergoing an extreme makeover. The porches have been removed as well as most of the second story. As a result the "fireworks stairs" can never be scaled again. In the afterglow of Independence Day, when fond recollections of reclining on a manicured lawn next to friends, family and thousands of patriotic park strangers, should arise, I am left with an alternative vivid memory: sitting on tar paper and roofing nails, watching the holiday light show, and descending the narrow passageway (watch your head) of the "fireworks stairs."

And with that melancholy mental picture, a skeleton is set free.

I heart Liberty Days

You know you live in a small town when they announce the winner of the Fourth of July greased pig chase over the pulpit in Sacrament Meeting. Until a few years ago, I never really cared for the Fourth of July holiday. It was always hot, crowded, sticky, loud and somewhat lonely. I couldn't understand how a day that ended in fireworks could still feel so anticlimactic. And then I moved to a little town called Liberty, and now just can't seem to get enough of the day.

This year Liberty Days began at 7 a.m. with The Star-Spangled Banner, all verses, being sung by a young, clear voice projected to the far corners of the community park and rodeo grounds over the newly installed sound system. The object of the stirring ballad, the American flag, was then raised by the local scout troop to watch over the day. Kids of all ages, most with bedhead and ruddy cheeks just waiting to be fake tattooed with patriotic combinations of red white and blue, waited in the early morning line for a robust chuck wagon breakfast. Volunteers flipped flap-jacks, slung hashbrowns, sliced melons, and sold tickets for events such as the quilt raffle, cow plop and stick horse derby.

The block long parade showcased equal numbers of tractors and tricycles, while the greased pole lured holiday monkeys up a 25 foot slippery vertical climb, with it's promise of a hundred dollar bill tethered to the top. We cheered on the sack racers, hula hoopers, arm wrestlers, mutton busters, and hot dog, watermelon and pie eaters; and when it got hot, we cooled off with snow-cones courtesy of the Young Men from church, and got "flushed" courtesy of a toilet bowl perched on top of an unusual dunking booth.

The fireworks were stellar as usual, even if (as a result of losing the chabin) we were, as my sister Alison expressed, "just grass sitters," like everyone else. The day ended with taking down the flags surrounding my empty corner, which served as a parking lot for holiday revelers, and packing our own patriots up to "Uncle Jed's old house with the pool"–the condo at Wolf Creek, where we played more games until late into the night, as if we did not want the day to end.

I heart Liberty Days.

cousins

The creatures pictured to the left are my nieces and nephews. As it is in the animal kingdom, each has distinct behaviors and personalities. They are fun kids who generally keep each other entertained, and make the rest of us laugh. I think extended family relationships are important, and help to shape our experience in the world. I hope the memories they are making as cousins are as fond as the ones I made as a youth.

Recently my sisters and I were reminiscing about the fun, crazy, traumatic and always memorable experiences spent with our own cousins growing up. We traveled in masse, usually stuffed in layers into the Nelson's red 70's VW bus (seatbelts...what were seatbelts?), and spent so much time together, it was as though we were a polygamist family.

There were trips to Lagoon with homemade picnic lunches, returning home late at night "all-day" stamped and sunburned; camp-outs in the trailer on the Coltman farm in Idaho, which always smelled of burnt popcorn and asparagus; standing in line for "Star Wars" again, and again and again; road-trips to California beaches via the Nevada ranch, where we stopped for Aunt Nelda's oatmeal and horseback rides; swimming lessons, tennis lessons, fishing trips and sleep-overs on the round trampoline; and outings to the zoo, all stinky and sticky. We played every card game, board game, and version of tag imaginable–and made up many so games of our own. We established club houses, published our own newsletter and played the name game for hours. Hawaii was a thrill, even if only seen from under the dashboard; and the field trip to the slaughterhouse made us all vegetarians for awhile–(Did Uncle Varr forget that we were city kids? Or...kids?)

Thank you Nelson family for a memorable childhood. Although my pictures of those days were lost in the fire, the memories are still intact. God bless cousins.

creators

Tonight, while a rerun of a BYU Forum address was playing on a PBS television station in the background, I heard one of the best course of actions for how to cultivate the creative process: Fall in love with the world, and take notes.


If God is THE Creator (which I believe) and we are His children (which I know), we are, by heavenly heritage, also Creators. What better way to learn the pattern and mature into our deific future than to study His creations: the world, ourselves and the plan of salvation?

The power of observation, I now see, is one of many divine powers we can develop in order to hone our skills as creators.

potty words

Sometimes my nephews forget to watch their language and fall into a string of "potty words" that for some reason make little boys giggle. When four-year-old Joey called his brother Zach a "booger," he was reprimanded by his mother for using such inappropriate language. "But mom," Joey countered, "that's not a POTTY word. Boogers come out of your NOSE." Technically true.

built to last

John Ruskin, the art critic, said, “When we build, let us think that we build forever. Let us not build for the present delight, nor for the present peace alone. Let it be work such that our descendants will thank us. And let us think as we lay stone upon stone, that a time is to come when these stones shall be a blessing, that we might receive inspiration, and be guided as it were by this molding of the humble clay.”

And that's why I do what I do.

anniversary of life

Today I learned that my very good friend and fellow Nauvooer, Erin, is currently welcoming her newborn son into the world. Congratulations/Good Luck/Best Wishes.

Whether the world is aware of it's importance or not, June 27th is a very significant date. In 1844 Joseph Smith the Prophet of the Restoration, and his brother Hyrum the Patriarch, completed their foreordained duty, and returned home. Considering how we remember birthdays, and thrill at soul's entrance into this life, I've pondered a little bit on what kind of celebrations must occur as one is born again into a new life beyond the veil. Another friend of mine, Adris, a pioneer in her own right, coined the term "homegoing." I like that.

I just couldn't let this day pass without acknowledging the incalculable efforts made by the forebears of our faith–those who facilitated earthly access to the fullness of the gospel, for all mankind. Today I am particularly moved by the unfathomable sacrifices of Joseph and Emma. To me they are the ultimate dynamic duo, right up there with Adam and Eve, our first parents. My sincere gratitude and profound awe for all parents who selflessly bestow gifts of new life.

check out this great video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HaH_OKPO-zs

local tourist

Assisting with my impending high school reunion this summer, I have been able to reconnect with some long lost friends. One of those acquaintances is Gordon. In addition to being a dad and doctor, he is an amazing photographer. www.gordonsmith.smugmug.com

Years ago, on a sluggish summer day, I remember packing my camera around downtown Salt Lake with Gordon as we played tourists in our own city. It was a ton of fun– learning more about the history and architecture of the area, picking up complementary postcards and interviewing native Utahns about what they liked to do around town.

In light of rising fuel costs, taking another vacation close to home may be more in the budget this year. If you also choose to tour locally, send me a postcard.

its a tie

Getting ready for church this morning, I was painfully aware of my need for a new tie. Oh, to be a dad on father's day.

anagram

FIST UNIT METHOD
FIR STUNTED DITCH
I SIT HOT
SUN TORCH
RED MIST
RUNT DOC
I SEE THIS
UNDO IT
I RUN METH
FUN TEETH

Today we had fun strategically prying the letters off of the FIRST UNITED METHODIST CHURCH sign. Quite a few cars slowed down to read the ever changing name, especially when it was the METH CHURCH for a minute or two. I really hope those people don't show up for services on Sunday.

my lucky day

When the numbers and the days of the week align just right and Friday the 13th appears on the calendar, many people experience a feeling of dread. There is even a word for that specific fear: paraskavedekatriaphobia.


But is there a word for people like me who actually LIKE that day?

Known as someone with an unusual knack for bad luck, one would think that I would be justified to stay in bed on such an ill-fated day–with the covers pulled up over my head until the safe light of Saturday peeked through the windows. But for some reason, I am drawn to the day–almost like a personal anniversary of sorts.

Back in my college years, I was in a terrible car accident on Friday the thirteenth. My little red Toyota Camry was struck nearly head-0n when a rusty work truck did a U-Turn on the highway. Of course the collision causing truck was not licensed, and the illegal alien driver was not insured. My car was held captive in the auto body shop for the entire semester, being re-injured twice while waiting patiently for its restoration–a shop worker drove the bumperless car into a telephone pole on the repair lot, and then a few weeks later the windshield was smashed. I sported a rather unattractive neck brace for much longer than fall fashion would allow; and of course, this was all during the semester I decided to live quite a distance from campus.

Sometimes the unexpected can be devastating. Which is why, I suppose, I kind of like Friday the thirteenth. Now, I don't get me wrong–I don't tempt fate by walking under ladders while petting a black cat or anything like that. It's just a day I don't have to look over my shoulder for the storm clouds rolling in, or an anvil falling from above...I just kind of expect it. So the pressure is off, and my anxiety can take a holiday.

floored

MONEY PIT
A few more floors,
windows and doors,
lighting and landscaping–
In money, time,
and patience,
it's the bottom of the barrel
I'm scraping.

The Jefferson Inn is coming along...I hope I look this good when I am 100 years old.

sanctuary

After being located on the corner of 26th and Jefferson for 85 years, The First United Methodist Church of Ogden officially has a new home. The congregation moved over the weekend to their new facility in Marriott/Slaterville. Now the work REALLY begins. I am afraid that the 8,000 sq foot mansion house was only practice when compared to the 25,000 sq ft sanctuary that now lies ahead of me. The old building feels a little empty, but still has a lot of soul. The message "We love you Church" was left behind on a classroom chalkboard. I'll try to keep the love alive...I just hope it's reciprocal.

where the sidewalk ends and begins again

Where the Sidewalk Ends
by Shel Silverstein

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.

In addition to repairing the crumbly stairs (which had to be approved by the Landmarks Commission) and replacing the uneven concrete approach to 2604 Jefferson Avenue, this week I created a new sidewalk, where there never was one before. While it only connects the front yard to where the courtyard gardens will be, I felt a little like a trailblazer–defining the path that people will walk sometime in the future.

Yes, I suppose it could have run diagonally through the yard to make the jaunt a little more efficient, but instead, the sidewalk was designed to take a little turn just for fun. Creating this new walkway made me think a little bit about how Heavenly Father makes connections. Pressing forward on my mortal journey, experience has taught me that rarely is it a straight line that gets me from here to there. Sometimes there are twists and turns, causing me to slow down and consciously consider if I am walking in the right way. Even though I can see in the distance where it is I want to go, I have to patiently follow the prescribed path. Nevertheless, I trust that He purposefully, skillfully, designed my course and although His "ways" are not my "ways", I know the truth and light of The Way will lead me back home.

and we have sod

Sassy, grassy, no trespassy...













Did you know that Home Depot does not carry "NO TRESSPASSING" signs in Spanish? Now there's a million dollar idea for an espanol entrepreneur.

ten things

Life is busy. Stuff happens. Computers crash, pipes leak, meetings go long and when trying to communicate with painters high school Spanish skills only go so far. I guess what I am trying to say is that unlike a lot of superbloggers, I can only handle one day at a time...if that fast. In an attempt to catch up on my online journal, the list below contains ten things (some top, some bottom) of the past few weeks.

10. Tax extension
9. KUED teleprompting
8. Utah Heritage Foundation
7. Appliances, appliances, appliances
6. Landmark distinctions
5. Blueprints
4. Paint and repaint
3. Ogden Landmarks Commission
2. Sod
1. General Conference

the way the cookie crumbled

When I was a self-expressed 4 year old, Heather was my best friend. Being two of the few younger kids on the block, we played together all of the time. We read our favorite books, created art projects, and in the long summer months played outdoor games, shared lunches and explored the deep, deep gardens in the park-like backyard of her Grandma Peterson's house. Heather made me laugh, and with long blond hair, was pretty cute, to boot.

When February rolled around I asked my mom "what do you give your friends for Valentines Day?" Under her supervision we made sugar cookies and with friendly confidence I walked the plateful of heart shaped tokens, all by myself, across the street. Heather's uncle Gene answered the door.

"Are those for me?" he inquired. "Well, I suppose you could have some if Heather wants to share," I replied. "Oh," he continued, "they're for your GIRLFRIEND" he teased. "Well, no, I made them for Heather," I stammered back. "Well," he said, peering down from four feet above, "she's a GIRL isn't she?" "Yes," I agreed. "And she's your FRIEND, right? So that makes her your GIRLFRIEND!" Before I could process his logic he called out, "Heather, your BOYFRIEND is here! He has valentines for you! Maybe if you're lucky you'll get a kiss with those cookies!"

Like a deer in the headlights, first I was stunned, and then I bolted back across the road to safety. And like the crumbly cookies, I think I left my fragile heart behind. It occurs to me now, 30+ years later, when it comes to showing affection for someone first, I've never dared to cross the street again.

crashing through walls

Attending a family ward as a single male has its challenges. Over the years I've come to the conclusion that the first 10 minutes of Relief Society must be dedicated to a brain-storming session focused on my singleness and who these soul sisters could fix me up with in order to make me whole and complete. No matter what you call the process, whenever I am hit up for a line up, it usually ends up feeling like a "set-up."

I've been tapped on the shoulder from two pews behind, stopped on my way to the bathroom, and again on the way out. I've been blocked at the drinking fountain, cornered in the gym, backed up against the carpeted hallway walls, flagged down in the parking lot and followed home. One particular Sunday, after a series of such encounters, I'm afraid my reservoir of polite responses had run dry.

When the fifth clairvoyant matchmaker approached me in the overflow and offered up the contact information on the "perfect girl for me," I think I snapped. Glancing at the handwritten note placed in my hand, I said something flippant like: "Isn't that strange? Just today FOUR other people have told me they also know this person, but she seems to go by a lot of different names, and has completely different phone numbers. With all of these aliases, do you think she could be some kind of felon?"

Again, not my most gracious moment.

Recently I had an epiphany around blind dates. After years of trying to decipher who I am being that people mentally link me with girls who have pink hair, run personal cat sanctuaries or are grandmothers of eight...it occurred to me, with the help of friend, that people keep setting me up with "nice single girls" because all they know about me is that I am a "nice single guy," and so that is all they have to go on in order to connect the dots between us.

While it is a challenge for me, I now realize that I need to be more open with people. I need to share my real self with those around me if I ever hope to share my whole self with a help meet. Who knows how/when/why I constructed the cliched emotional walls, and carry a fear of intimacy, relationships and commitment. But, with the aid of my army of yentas, maybe we can figure it out.

refiner's fire

1 Peter 1:7 – That the trial of your faith, being much more precious than of gold that perisheth, though it be tried with fire, might be found unto praise and honour and glory at the appearing of Jesus Christ.

Two years ago today, I was standing toe to toe with local newscaster Rod Decker trying my best to answer his question: "so, how do you feel?" as my home was burning in the background, and news helicopters circled overhead.

With 730 days of perspective, I would now have to respond, "I feel blessed." I have so much to be grateful for...the thoughts, prayers and helping hands of family friends and strangers as I begin to begin again.

Reflecting back on my personal plagues, I have come to understand the Lord's words "that your burdens may be light" differently. The Lord's promise is not necessarily to remove our burdens, or even lift them, as I had previously thought. Another definition for light is knowledge. For me, the "burdens" of recent experiences have brought additional "light" or knowledge. I understand some things differently largely due to having to carry some unusual burdens. I believe that we are privately tutored by our challenges...and we all have them. Instead of feeling weighed down by difficulty, consider burdens are a vehicle to light, knowledge and understanding.

Alma taught: "...may God grant unto you that your burdens may be light, through the joy of his Son. And even all this can ye do if ye will. Amen." (Alma 33:23)

My best to all of you who are currently being tutored by trials.

Go and roast a marshmallow as a memorial for today.

nauvooish

Lately I've been feeling a little Nauvooish. My pioneer friends understand that term–it is a longing to connect with simple truths; the need to analyze one's personal progress in God's plan; and the desire to access inspiration. Quite often when I feel the need to refocus, rededicate and renew myself, I retreat to my favorite destination, Nauvoo: The City of Joseph.

It has nothing to do with sentimental souvenirs. (I resent that a generation of merchandisers have Seagull Book and Tape and Bed and Breakfasted it to death.) What draws me there is the sanctified silence. It's the far reaching farm lands, a balanced picture of bounty and industry. It's the consecrated craftsmanship of celestial spires and handmade bricks, evidence of a generation's devotion to faith and family. It is evening light reflected at the river's edge, revealing God's providence, goodness and promise of peace at journey's end. In addition to providing a church history lesson, for me, Nauvoo is an extra-sensory Temple experience.

I am currently planning another pilgrimage for May. Depending on my travel mates, typically I fly into Kansas City and meander my way through Missouri, hitting all of the significant sites, including: Liberty Jail, Far West and Adam-Ondi-Ahman. This year I am adding a random element of sheer fun to the usually introspective experience. The other day I noticed that "Wicked" will be playing in Kansas City in May. I have heard great reviews of the show and couldn't think of a better place to experience the ride over the rainbow, than from where Dorothy was first caught up in the twisted tale.

If anyone wants to join the Wicked Church History Tour this spring, let me know...I'll save some space in my wagontrain.

the plan

jealous neighbor

With five feet of snow still piled up in the yard, it is still very much winter in Liberty. But spring is just a 20 minute commute down Ogden Canyon–so driving to work is like fast-forwarding the seasons. Pulling up to Jefferson Square, I am immediately made aware of the need to focus on it's curb appeal. Currently the only flowers on the property are displayed in the stained glass windows, and not planted in the ground.

One hundred years ago, Mr. Pingree built his home across the street from the home of his banking associate, Mr. Eccles. While I don't know the relationship the two gentlemen had "back in the day," this past weekend I entertained the idea that they shared a friendly competition of stellar yard maintenance.

Looking over from the Pingree porch to the Eccles' grand Victorian, which now serves as Ogden's community art center, I couldn't help but feel a little jealous of their sculptured gardens. And so, to some degree, I had the idea of rekindling that imagined rivalry. I've been sketching plans and have consulted some landscape designers. New sidewalks, new sprinkling systems and new sod is on the way. Let the landscaping wars begin.