Duchess – Springer Spaniel Royalty

Don’t even get me started on Duchess…she came into our lives as a mature dog, I forget from where.  Though she was pure- bred, she had this goofy knot of fur on top of her head that made it hard to ever take her seriously.

My mom swore that she would never have an indoor dog, but somehow Duchess wound herself around her heart, just like the rest of us, so in she came...and stayed in mom's bedroom

She would fetch anything you threw, including rocks.  If you threw a certain squeaky duck, she would pick it up, retreat to some safe place, put the duck between her paws and lick and care for it as if it were a puppy.

She was also a baseball cousin of Snoopy.  Whenever we played a pickup game of baseball, she had to be there, and would frequently stop ground balls before they got to the fielder, and proudly take them to the pitcher, much to our dismay.

She was a great hunter, in spite of her goofiness, and she could talk…my she could talk!  Not just words, but sentences.  And she would only howl when induced…Jeff, Dave, me, or any of us could sit near her and start to moan, raising it up to a whine, then a howl, and she would follow right along, and keep going when we stopped.  We would laugh ourselves silly until mom yelled at us to stop.

When she passed, as all dogs do, it left a hole in mom’s heart that could only be filled one way.  I am convinced without Duchess, there would not have been a Marjon.  

Roar For Orem High!

This is my high school's fight song.  Unlike other school's fight songs at the time,
it was not based on a popular college fight song, or a rousing march, but was a
completely original piece, composed by Clyde Sandgren and arranged by Ralph
Laycock, whom Mom will recognize as one of the musical legends at BYU.  We
were always so proud to have our own unique fight song!   

Two Little Boys

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This was a song Iola (my mother) sang to my brother Dave and I when we were young. It was not original with her, and different words and tunes can be found around the internet...but these are the words she sang to us. It can still make me cry like a baby: Two Little Boys Two little boys had two little toys, Each had a wooden horse; Gaily they'd play each summer's day, Brave little warriors of course. One little chap had a mishap, Broke off his horse's head... Cried for his toy, then cried for joy When Joey solemnly said: Did you think I would leave you crying When there's room on my horse for two? Over the hills we'll be flying He can go just as fast with two! When we grow up, we'll both be soldiers, And our horses will not be toys... Then do you think we'll remember When we were two little boys? Long years rolled past, war came at last Bravely they marched away. Cannon roared loud! 'Midst the wild crowd Wounded and dying Joe lay. Then tried and true, a horseman broke through, Rushed to the soldier's side... Jumped to the ground, threw his arms 'round, As to his brother he cried, Do you think I would leave you dying When there's room on my horse for two? Over the hills we'll be flying, He can go just as fast with two! Did you say that you're all a-tremble? Well, perhaps its the battle's noise... Or perhaps it is that you remember When we were two little boys. As I type, the memories are thick, and the tears flow unbidden down my cheeks.

Where There’s Smoke…

This is a recollection of a true incident that occurred when Sarah was a newborn.  It somehow failed to make it into my journal then, so Jeanne encouraged me to record it now and insert it after the fact.

As we all know, Sarah was born early to (another story) and so had a low birth weight of about 4.5 pounds.  As a result, she was kept in neo-natal intensive care (NICU) for a period as a precaution, to make sure she was thriving.  Gratefully, she did.

Because her suction reflex was not as strong as most newborns, Jeanne would harvest mothers’ milk, and we would feed it to Sarah with a bottle.  They would even let me do this on occasion (feed with a bottle, that is).

I was there on a Saturday morning, and had settled into a rocking chair in the NICU to feed Sarah.  After a short time I noticed a wisp of smoke that smelled distinctly electric.  I stood to see if I could determine the source, but I could not, and no more was forthcoming, so after a few moments I sat back down.

Again smoke appeared, and I thought I should inform someone, but again when I stood, the smoke disappeared, and there was no one nearby to whom to report. 

After a longer period of looking around, I once again resumed my seat.  No sooner had I done so than the smoke appeared again! I jumped up, determined to tell SOMEONE that there was a problem, but noticed the wisp of smoke coming from my side…from MY POCKET!  Upon closer inspection I found two small but distinct burn holes in the pocket.  I couldn’t imagine what might have caused it, but I plunged my hand in the pocket to find out, and pulled out two 9-volt batteries.  I remembered putting them there to remind me to buy new ones at the hardware store later.  Apparently when I sat, the battery posts would make contact sufficient to create an electric arc; and when I stood, the circuit was broken.

I was glad, after all, that I had not been able to alert someone; and I learned that I should trust my senses more than my analytic abilities.   

Dad's Experience as a Transmitter

The Veil is Thin

This is my recollection of an experience my father had which was a blessing to our neighbors at the time, the Maestas family.  I will begin with a little background.

The local scout troop had planned a campout in the mountains.  My youngest brother Jeff and his friend, Johnny Maestas, were buddies with many of the troop, so even though they were too young by a year, they were invited to tag along.  My mother had promptings of foreboding, and did not allow Jeff to go.  Johnny was permitted and happily went along.

Sometime during the trip, on a troop hike, some members of the troop were a little ahead of the rest, and thus higher on the side of a steep hill on one of the switchbacks above the lower group.  One of the hikers in the lead group accidentally dislodged a large stone, which then rolled down the hill with gathering speed.  It ended up hitting Johnny in the head, producing a mortal wound.

When news got back to our Ward, the neighborhood was in shock.  John Maestas Sr. was our Bishop, and everyone knew the family, and especially Johnny, who was the oldest child.  The grief experienced by the family was shared by many, and our family was deeply affected.

During the time between Johnny’s death and funeral, my father, whom Bishop Maestas had gone out of his way to befriend, sought some peace fishing in Provo Canyon on the Provo River.  He had settled into one of his familiar spots when he heard a voice, “Brother Lambson”.  The voice sounded just like Johnny.  Dad looked around, startled, but saw nothing.  He heard the voice again, “Brother Lambson”.  Not knowing how to respond, and a little frightened, he got out of the river, and moved to a new spot.  He was there for several minutes, and then heard the voice again:  “Brother Lambson, its Johnny.  I need you to tell my family that I am alright”.

Dad was almost undone.  He was not active at this time, but he loved the Bishop and his family and he knew what he had to do.  He got out of the river, put away his equipment, and made his way quickly down the canyon.  He went to the Maestas home and shared with them all he had experienced.  They wept again, together, but grief mingled with gratitude at this tender mercy from beyond the veil.

No one knows why Dad was the instrument of this message.  Some speculated that perhaps the family was so overcome with grief that Johnny could not get through to them.  Whatever the case, the experience has blessed two families for over four decades.