:Family Matters

December 28, 2008

The question this week from almost everyone is, “How was your Christmas?” Like that old faithful, “How are you?” There is only one answer, “Great” for who has time these days to sit and listen to an honest reply? Perhaps I have noticed the asking because there seems to be a need for reassurance, in light of the current economic situation which is so different from the bubble of prosperity we have ridden for the last decade, that all is well with friends/neighbors/family. A reaching out not only for reassurance but a desire to, as the scriptures say, “bear one another’s burdens”. And thank you for asking, we did have a lovely Christmas. It was a quiet one for us with close by family stopping in to visit for a little while taking time to catch us up on events in their lives—and those further away calling us, what more could one ask for? I like the thought “all hearts go home for Christmas” because for me that is what the season is about, a gigantic reaching out to those we love, a drawing near to us of that which is most precious, that we value most, our families. The words from a song written during World War II catches beautifully what I am trying to say. “I’ll be home for Christmas, you can count on me. . . I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams.

Dawn and Eric spent Christmas Eve with us and stayed to open gifts the next morning before they scooted home, without staying for Christmas dinner, because of the weather. Robyn was with us as well. Her love of the season is contagious and rubs off on us all. We even had the fun of little children in our home as Vicky and Sherman spent the night with us and most of the next day along with Aviendha whose nickname is “Tookie” age 4 and Elmindreda Mary Andrus who goes by EMA (pronounced Emma) age two. They are such fun to play with and play we did as we built block towers and found the little matchbox cars that were left behind from the days when Jordan was a regular visitor and ran them down the chute to see which one was the fastest and read stories and watched a video (Pokemon which came to us from Dakota via his mother Nancy when he had outgrown that phase. It’s hard to believe that he graduated from high school this past June—the years pass so quickly.)

What a tickle it gave me to hear EMA as she made her careful way down the stairs calling out at the top of her little lungs quite eagerly to her sister, who was sitting on the couch writing letters to us all and sealing them with a kiss, made possible by the colored chap stick she had received as a gift, “Tookie, Tookie, it’s me EMA. I’m here!” EMA knows who she is and that she has a sister who loves her, waiting to play with her. Life doesn’t get any better then that, does it!

Vicky and Sherman muscled the table that MGH had been using for a desk in his office downstairs in exchange for the computer table that I no longer use because I now have a laptop that allows me to go anywhere in the house to write my letters or read my e-mails which I have really enjoyed. This was made necessary because of the new computer for MGH which arrived three weeks before Christmas and then just sat in the front room because we couldn’t muster up the enthusiasm necessary to get the transferring of, for us, heavy awkward items either one way or the other although MGH did manage to get his years worth of accumulation somewhat sorted and filed so that his desk was cleared even if most of it ended up on the floor and for that he deserves much credit. He tells me that one of the things his father used to tell him was, “once a man and twice a boy” which was always good for a chuckle or two when he was younger but now that he is an old man he understands what was being said. His ability to stick with and finish a task has decreased as the years have increased until some days it is all he can do to get up and get dressed in the morning. His spirit,however, remains indomitable as he reaches deep down inside himself for what is required to continue ‘keeping on, keeping on’. His aging body simply hurts most of the time but he rarely complains. In fact, if you weren’t around to hear/watch when he struggles to heft one leg up over the other to put his socks on and grunts at the effort required just as a tennis player does who is fiercely returning a ball back across the net you might not even realize what a battle it has become for him to do even the simplest of things.

The young people who come to receive their Patriarchal Blessings phone MGH and set up an appointment which is usually sometime within the week they call. Early in December a young man called and asked if December 28th would be okay, which it was even though unusual because of the timing. He then called the day before and reconfirmed the date. The reason for the scheduling became apparent when he arrived with his parents, the former governor of the state Mike L______ who has served as President G_____ W. B_____ Secretary of Health and Human Services since 2005. This then explained the need for such far out calendaring. I didn’t meet them as I had disappeared to my downstairs lair for the duration but I got to hear all about the visit later on. Darn, I just wish my kitchen counters had been spotless but alas the big one was cluttered with tape, wrapping paper and miscellaneous Christmas debris that I hadn’t gotten put away and still haven’t for that matter but I am beginning to make progress and hope to have all cleared away by the end of today. (Pray for me that I will succeed. . . )

Mother always said that the worst thing about living in the farm house was the fact that no one ever used the front door. Visitors would knock on the back door that led straight to the kitchen then on through the dining room before arriving at the front room. While there was a sidewalk leading up the front door the driveway and parking made the back entrance to the house a more natural choice for those coming to see us, which to be honest wasn’t all that unusual for most farm families. The downside was that it meant that the heart of the home was always on display for good or ill depending on the time of day and how busy mother was with other activities. She always told us that her ideal home was one where the kitchen had a door which could be closed when needed and I agree, don’t you?

I am always amazed at what things children notice. Aviendha, on Friday, asked me why we still had our Christmas decorations up since Christmas was over. I told her that when I grew up we left Christmas decorations up until January 1st which tradition I have continued in my own home. Thinking about it now, it just feels right to me to allow the spirit of the season to linger a little longer—what say you?

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December 21, 2008

So much for not having a Christmas tree with real lights and decorations which is what I decided upon several years ago when it became obvious that neither MGH or I could put our revolving tree, with its thousand lights, together anymore. So off it went to the D.I. after lying recumbent in the garage taking up space while I waited to see if either of us would ever again acquire the musculature necessary to lift the pieces into place. “Nope”, I thought to myself, after a decent interval “all the faith in the world will never see this happen as we seem to be minus the ‘works’ part”. Then came the years of ‘the very small tree’ which could be stored on a top shelf of a closet along with other out of season decorations. This worked well as far as my being able to move it around but it was hard to watch Robyn when she arrived on Christmas Eve with her pack of goodies as her eyes scanned the room looking for a place to lay them. The bewildered look on her face was enough to break the hardest heart for Robyn delights in Christmas. She enjoys all the ‘trappings’ of the season and for her to not be able to see a tree when she came home almost broke my heart but practicality had the upper hand and so I would quickly point out that there was a tree in the room, you just had to know where to look.

I tell you all this because last year I broke down and bought a bigger tree at Home Depot when they went on sale after Christmas. There were others I liked better but this one went home with me because I could lift the tree, box and all, and it only cost $14.98. It’s still a little small but by putting it on a bench it can be be seen through the front room window which I think adds a nice touch as it is the only bit of Christmas to be seen as our home sits dark and still midst the other houses on our block so artfully adorned with Christmas lights. I must admit that I have enjoyed playing at decorating a tree again even if it doesn’t have the flair I see, for example. on the trees in the craft store where the piece de’ la resistance greets me with its copper colored ornaments and price tag of over $2000.00 dollars which has now, by the way, been reduced to 75% off. I don’t know if they ever did sell last years tree which was upside down – a style which, thankfully, I haven’t seen repeated this year.

Nothing can compare, don’t you agree, to a fresh cut tree and here I am not talking about the ones that arrive at Smith’s a week before Thanksgiving with their green sprayed branches that would require a miracle somewhat on the order of parting the Red Sea to keep them from losing all their needles before Christmas. No, I mean the ones where the whole family climbed into the car and away we all went no matter the temperature which played a big part in determining how close we came to finding the perfect tree. Getting the thing home was half the fun as it had to be lashed to the top of the car with twine provided by the tree farm in a complicated arrangement that went over and around through the car which meant we would ride the twenty or so miles home with the windows down just enough to ensure we would all be sick by the time we got back as the freezing cold air whipped round us. Okay, so the last was an exaggeration – no one ever got sick.

Our ‘chosen one’, often surprised us when affixed to a stand by almost always having a crook or a bend we hadn’t noticed when we selected it. From long experience we knew we could hide this by strategically turning the bad side to the wall. Here I must admit to a serious crisis of faith by wondering if we could make anything beautiful appear from the problems that suddenly multiplied before our eyes as we looked at our ever so carefully chosen tree now ensconced in our front room having left a trail of needles, pine sap and snow across the carpet on its way to fulfill it’s manifest destiny. But for we of the Andrus persuasion such a dilemma could not hold us back for long and after a few despairing moments MGH would often find himself prone on the floor in what could easily be mistaken, if one didn’t know better, for some kind of tree worship but was actually his attempt to turn the tree to just the right spot in order to show it’s good points to the best advantage following the helpful advice of HGW and assorted offspring. This step never took long as patience with dithering was never one of MGH’s strong points.

The next challenge was stringing the lights which somehow always seemed to be my task mainly because all the other candidates for this chore would disappear from the scene while I wasn’t looking and so I would find myself, alone in the living room with a cardboard box full of tangled lights and a tree determined to seek revenge. Upon reflection I suspect the reason they all fled was because they knew I could become quite cross as the needles scratched and pricked me while I attempted to get the lights wound round and through the branches which, if done right, and I was quite adamant about this, could yield spectacular results not the least of which was the return of my good humor when finished.

Aah, the memories of Christmases past where I would have to place decorating the tree as a favorite to revisit. One of my specialties, in fact I took quite a bit of pride in this particular skill was the careful placement of tinsel which, if done right, gave a shimmery look to one’s tree somewhat reminiscent of a tree covered with icicles. At least I think that was the idea, who really knows but for years every well dressed tree had this look which in case you are young enough to have never seen the stuff just imagine really flimsy tinfoil cut into strips no wider than an eighth of an inch and about twenty four inches long. These tiny strips had to be laid one at a time over each individual branch until the branch was covered. The amount that went on each branch generally depended on the patience of the person doing the decorating. Since patience was my qift I was a natural. However, even I was never able to duplicate the look of the tree displayed on the front of the package the tinsel arrived in although I tried. Barbara, ever the practical one, drove me crazy with the way she tackled this task as her preferred method was to grab a handful and toss it in the general area of the branch she was aiming for where it would remain in all its tangled glory until time to put everything carefully away which meant ‘her’ tinsel would be thrown away instead of being saved because it was so tangled which was probably her goal in the first place.

The real challenge came when the recycled tinsel which I am firmly convinced indulged in some hanky panky while stored as some of it always came out snarled no matter how carefully it had been laid to rest then had to be very carefully untangled. The obvious question in this day and age of throw away abundance is why we even thought of trying to reuse the stuff in the first place and all I can come up with is that it saved a little on the cost of decorating our tree. Having lived through the Great Depression the adults in our family always carried the knowledge that life could be hard with the need to save and reuse firmly embedded in their souls. As this year ends I can’t help but wonder if we are about to learn for ourselves the lessons so dearly acquired by our parents and grandparents on how to to truly know needs from wants as our nation seems poised to fall into the deepest recession in my lifetime. We have been blessed with so much abundance in this country for so many years and there are few left who remember that that was not always the case. My wish for us all then is that we “count our many blessings, name them one by one. . . “ as we gather with family and friends this year to celebrate the birth of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ complete with all the trappings that add to our good cheer!

Life has has been good to us for another year. May we all continue to “live long and prosper” is my Christmas wish sent with much love from our home to yours.

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December 14, 2008

Just odds and ends this week the first being a very quick trip made to attend the funeral of MGH’s nephew Darnell A_____ who died last Monday just a few days shy of his 79th birthday. He had struggled with the ravages of diabetes the last 5 years leaving him without a leg to stand on, literally. When he became gravely ill this past week his family asked his brother Ray to come give him a Priesthood blessing which he did. He told MGH that as he was giving the blessing it became clear to him that it was not to be a blessing of healing but rather one of release, whereupon he then told Darnell that it was alright for him to let go, his work here was finished. Darnell died a few hours later with his wife of 59 years at his side as were his children. I can’t think of a better way to leave this life than to be surrounded by those who love you—can you?

The loss was especially poignant for MGH who grew up with these two nephews whose father was Ben A_____ like they were brothers. Their early years were intimately tied together as they worked together on the farm, played sports on the same teams, attended church activities and meetings, knew each others hopes and dreams. The three of them were each others best man as they married and then engaged in friendly competition over who had the most children/grandchildren etc.

I first met Darnell when MGH stopped at the Phillips gas station Darnell owned on the corner just down the street from the B.F. Andrus home in Draper. This was in 1961 and we were either just married or soon to be, I can’t remember exactly which it was. Darnell came out from the service station to fill the gas tank, (this was in the day when one could pull into a service station and ask the attendant to “fill ‘er up and check the oil”. They even washed the windshield and checked the air in your tires which leaves me to believe that we were sold a bill of goods when we were led to believe that ’self-serve’ at a gas station was the greatest thing since the invention of sliced bread.) Darnell greeted MGH with a friendly “How ‘ya doin’ Unc?” that I found a little hard to understand not to mention the fact that I thought this a rather strange greeting not realizing the relationship that existed between the two of them. Darnell was born with a cleft pallet which explained the speech defect that those who knew him had long ago learned to understand. The cleft pallet was supposedly corrected by surgery at birth but must not have been entirely successful as his young mother kept him alive by feeding him milk with a teaspoon—talk about devotion! His family displayed a lot of pictures of Darnell’s life. One was a really neat picture of the whole family complete with spouses/children, grandchildren etc. While I didn’t take the time to count them there must have been well over a hundred descendants of Bonnie & Darnell in that picture. I found myself wondering just how many there would be if we were to have a ‘family’ picture taken of our crew. Lets see, there are now 39 grandchildren and 17 great grandchildren give or take a few. Looks to me like we Andrus’s take pretty seriously the biblical injunction to multiply and replenish the earth.

This is a totally different subject but I need to let everyone know who might have occasion to contact us using snail mail that a change in our zip code from 84720 to 84721 has taken place. This is because the friendly/farseeing folks at the USPS have decided that at some point in the future there will be enough people living in our area to make a division necessary. Said change will allow them to keep up the high quality service which is now provided. As things now stand all mail is sent directly to Provo which is 210 miles from us where it is sorted and then anything local is returned again to be delivered which we are assured is made necessary in order to fully utilize the expensive machinery that enables the post office to deliver the millions of pieces of mail that flow back and forth across the nation in a manner that makes us the envy of the rest of the world. Thinking about the logistics required to get all the mail gathered and sent to this large regional processing center and then returning it from whence it came leaves me scratching my head in bemusement—but then, who am I to question?

Not that this comment has anything to do with anything but how long do you think it will be before Saturday mail delivery is ended in the interest of stopping the red ink the USPS is hemorrhaging? We’ve been promised ‘change’ by our newly elected POTUS–might this be one we can look forward to?

As we returned home from attending the funeral I couldn’t help but marvel at the number of humongous billboards that now greet those approaching our fair city on I-15. They have multiplied over the thirteen years we have lived in this area and while I used to delight in approaching a town when I was young because the billboards meant we could play the alphabet game, which we often did to help relieve the tedium of a long drive, I now view them with a somewhat jaundiced eye perhaps as a result of the work Lady Bird Johnson (while her husband was POTUS) did to beautify the country with flowers and such and as a result billboards were to be eliminated but as their extinction drew near it became a cause for concern and they were placed on the endangered species list which has allowed for their revival. MGH, faithfully completes the cross word puzzle as well as the cryptoquote, every now and then he comes across one that tickles his funny bone, which is quite an accomplishment, I might add as he is not at all ticklish anywhere else and believe me, we have all tried to get a response. He shared this one with me not too long ago: I think that I shall never see a billboard lovely as a tree. Indeed, unless the billboards fall, I’ll never see a tree at all. Ogden Nash

Life is good isn’t it. The older I get the more I treasure the family I grew up in and the family I married into. MGH and I, from our retirement home here in this high mountain valley of Southern Utah send our love to each of you. We hope that this season is a joyous one filled with delight as you go about preparing for Christmas Day when we celebrate the greatest gift of all, a small babe born in a manager. God’s son come to earth whose life and death would redeem us from the Fall and open the way for us to return to that Eternal Home from whence we came. Merry Christmas to you all!

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December 7, 2008

This rummaging around in my mind for memories reminds me of that old saw, “no one who can read will ever get their attic cleaned” which I know to be true as many a day has found me determinedly delving into boxes with the goal of setting everything to rights in the hope of making my house a house of order. which inevitably turns up old letters/magazines/books that had been saved for future perusal/history/whatever only to find myself sitting there hours later with piles of old magazines which I made the mistake of opening to make sure I wasn’t throwing out something important and this innocent action led to my getting interested in some, now quite out of date articles and as a result I never made it past the first box.

MGH is notorious for holding onto every scrap of paper that has ever come into his possession which is why he has two full sized file cabinets crammed with important stuff dating back to the beginning of time. Now mind you, I am not saying this is bad, it’s just, and here I am being as kind as possible, disorganized. Alas, I must give credit where credit is due and as MGH is prone to remind me when the subject arises, he had things organized to begin with and it wasn’t him who failed to put things back where they belonged. After lo these many years of other’s invading his filing system some important things of vital importance on the order of birth certificates and the title to the house have disappeared, which, if past history is any indicator, will never to be seen again by human eyes unless or until someone takes the time to ’sort’ through and get everything once more set to rights.

As a case in point, MGH made a stab at the ’setting things right’ project several months ago when he began searching for the paper that proves he has paid in full for several burial plots in the Draper cemetery. (I having long heard that said paper exists but never having actually set eyes on it and as he has, it only seemed logical to get him involved in finding it while he still can although I wouldn’t be surprised to see him outlive all of us, contrary to his expectations.) This resulted in a small pile of miscellaneous items being placed on the floor in the middle of his office where it was necessary to step on/over/around said pile in order to reach any point in the room other than the chair in front of his computer which I did cheerfully for a number of weeks as it had, after all, been my suggestion that led to the ‘pile’ in the first place—so I really had no right to complain. Finally, I could no longer resist the need to do something/anything, so I asked him if he would like help removing it to another location (I had in mind a garbage can). He replied that he was still trying to make his mind up about whether to continue saving said items and needed more time to think about it. FYI, at this time the pile continues to be in the middle of the floor although some progress has been made as it has been confined in a brown paper grocery bag which makes it easier to step around. So I must ask you, is there hope for the readers of the world? Will our attics/garages/spare rooms ever be set to rights?

Speaking of attics we had a sort of one in the farm house in Iowa. I remember checking it out with Barbara once when curiosity got the better of common sense. It has been so long ago now I am not quite sure how we got into it but it seems like the access point was reached by standing on a ladder and then pushing aside the covering that blocked the entrance and wiggling up through the opening. It seems like we were hoping to find a long forgotten stash of money carefully hidden amidst the other treasures just waiting to be found but we were quickly returned to reality when all we found besides lots of dust and dead bugs were several cardboard boxes full of old books which proved to be pretty much uninteresting, although we tried, even for we Gano girls who made a habit of reading everything we could get our hands on.

Trying to access memories stored in my ‘attic’ (head) often turns up similar results to the aforementioned ones as I try to chase down a thought that has been teasing me with little hints which sometimes blossom into a full fledged memory but more often than not one thought leads to another just as ephemeral. This perpetual search has become an everlasting wild goose chase with oft times little to show for my efforts. At the moment I am trying to remember my earliest memory which, I might add, is the only memory I have ever had of my earliest days. Now I only remember remembering but for a long time it was there clear and true. It goes like this: Once upon a time when I was very small I had a pretty little white dress with small red polka dots on it. Mother must have washed it and laid it on the top of the heater in order to more quickly dry it. I suspect it was coal or wood fired which meant that the temperature was quite uneven although that was taken pretty much for granted at that time. She must have asked Dad to keep an eye on it to make sure that the heat didn’t burn or scorch the material which he neglected to do and the little dress was ruined. I remember a terrific uproar occurring about this. Seems silly doesn’t it but I don’t think I had too many dresses and as money was tight the dress was meant to be worn until I outgrew it and then passed onto Barbara.

What a small little tidbit of a memory but it is one complete with a picture of me wearing that dress, along with Mother and Dad in their Sunday best. I don’t know if it still exists. Perhaps one of my sisters has it carefully packed away where they keep their treasures. I wouldn’t mind seeing it again but asking them to go look for it is sure to bring on a case of the aforementioned dreaded NOCCTAITCR Syndrome (No One Can Clean Their Attic If They Can Read).

Now, here is a request from ’she who regularly bares her life to all and sundry’, how about you dear reader dipping into your memories and sharing the earliest ones that you can remember? I know I would enjoy reading them and I promise to treat them with the kindness and respect they deserve for I know full well how fragile memories are. I also know that when we are gone we take our memories with us and who knows, perhaps they might contain information that will in turn give our children and then their children hope, courage, inspiration, a good laugh? Hopefully, if we can capture some of them they will learn of the events that shaped our lives, that helped us become what/who we are.

P. S. Some things are too important to ever forget such as the bombing of Pearl Harbor 67 years ago today which sent this country into World War II. MGH remembers that time and will perhaps share his thoughts on how it affected his family and country when they heard the news. We need to hear these stories now because soon all who do will be gone and then it will be too late.

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November 30, 2008

It’s five o’clock and already the sun is about to slip beneath the horizon taking its light to the other side of the world leaving darkness in its place. I miss the sunshine. I know the house plants that manage to survive my well meaning, but sometimes sporadic care do too as they send out spindly stalks toward the weak light that comes in through the large sliding door in the downstairs where I have strategically placed them in hopes of nurturing them through until Spring comes once more. But first, they must survive Winter, as must we all.

This task doesn’t get easier as one enters old age. I know this because I watch MGH struggle to slip on his Sunday shoes which are actually leather slippers which he wears because they help his knees with their flat soles. This simple task is made difficult because his feet swell and won’t go easily into the protective covering deemed appropriate not to mention necessary when venturing outside one’s home into the larger world. It pains me to watch him put socks on as he uses both hands to hoist a recalcitrant leg up over its partner before fumbling with thickened/slow fingers as he eases the first one over his foot which seems to be further away than his arms can now reach, repeating the process for the other. I long to help him but I know he won’t accept, and rightly so, because if he does it will be one more thing he can no longer do for himself. No one wants to be dependent on others for their care, not even babies who are totally helpless when they arrive but almost from day one begin the learning process that allows them to grow until they too can care for themselves as well as the children they will bring into this world and so the wheel turns on its eternal round bringing new life, releasing the old to move on to other tasks. I wonder sometimes why the process seems to reverse its self as we age. Perhaps it is because we learn true compassion when we help the old, who have none of the virtues of new life, reach through the Winter of their lives toward that eternal Spring which awaits.

MGH says that not many are able to evaluate the worth of a ‘dry’ cow. In case you are wondering what kind of an oxymoron I have presented you, I feel the need to make haste and explain. First, milk does not automatically appear on the grocery shelf but is rather the final product of a process that began when a cow gave birth to a calf for whom she produces a liquid that is ideal for the nourishment of her baby. Suffice it to say that at some point one of our distant ancestors discovered it could be used for food for his babies as well and a new industry was born. The whole process of encouraging a cow to produce more milk than her calf needs has in turn brought into being the herdsman who watches and cares for the animals in his care. MGH is one such individual who truly loves/understands/nurtures the animals that have come under his care culminating with his work in the early 90’s on the worlds largest dairy farm located in Saudi Arabia when he was responsible for the nutrition of 22,000 cows/calves/heifers etc. etc. etc.

A dairy cow produces the most milk, as might be expected, when her calf is first born and is in the greatest need of nourishment before gradually making the transition to other foods. While she is encouraged to produce as long as possible there comes a time when the cycle must begin again if she is to continue to produce the amount of milk which allows her to be kept in the milking herd. This requires that she deliver a new calf on a regular basis. Part of the process in this cycle involves ‘drying her up’ which means that she is no longer encouraged to produce milk. When this happens her udder loses its shape and it becomes difficult to tell what kind of producer she will be if careful records haven’t been kept on her production capability. The ideal time to purchase a milk cow is during this ‘dry’ period as the buyer will then have a new calf as well as the benefit of a cow’s most productive time. This, then, is where MGH is coming from when he says, “Not everyone can see a dry cow”, as it is necessary to evaluate many things about her when making the decision about her future worth to the cash flow of the farm and often times this becomes a subjective decision based on false premises.

While it is true that grain and hay can hopefully be sold for a profit after they are harvested this leaves vast stretches of time where there is no cash coming in to live on which is why the milk check became such a valuable source of income to our family, as well as many others. Dad often went to farm sales to check out the dairy cattle being offered for sale where he would buy the best animals he could afford. Sometimes his choices were good and other times they left us all shaking our collective heads about a real dud. I can remember two cows, they were both decent milk animals, that he came home with one time that he named High Bach and Low Bach, Bach being the name of the farmer he purchased them from. High Bach was tall and rangy with a small compact udder while low Bach stood much lower to the ground with a huge udder, which if you didn’t know better might make it seem she was the better of the two. While she was a good producer her full udder was always a real challenge to clean before she could be milked as it’s close proximity to mother earth insured that she picked more than her fair share of the nonsense that has to be removed in order to keep the milk from being contaminated. High Bach was the better of the two and much easier to care for.

MGH knows how to look at a dry cow. He has the gift of being able to look at what really matters in conformation and udder size/attachment as well as evaluating any records regarding breeding and production. Because of this gift he was often asked to purchase calves/heifers/cows for others, including dad, which he did with excellent results.

We in the Winter of our lives, no longer exhibit the strength/beauty/production of our younger years. Like the trees with their leaves stripped from branches once full of life, reduced to a bare essence of their former glory as they await the arrival of Spring and a renewing of life once more, so, too, do we in this last stage of life find ourselves stripped of all the extraneous trappings that the world holds in highest esteem. To those with eyes to see, it is not gone– but only hidden.

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