We Thank Thee, O God, For a Prophet

A slightly more serious tone for this one,  The Solemn Assembly we witnessed and participated in this morning took me back to my junior year in high school.  Early in the fall of that school year I had developed a close friendship with Matt Chatterley...we did almost everything together.  Part of the reason for the genesis of that association is we shared an early morning seminary class taught by the amazing Dale Mouritsen (I hope his ears burn every time someone reads this:-))

An aside about this class...seminary in virtually all Utah communities was released time...that is, you could choose to take seminary for elective credit, and for one hour each day, you could leave the high school and walk to a nearby building for your seminary class.  Seminary was taught all the hours of the school day, so the only reason someone would take an early morning seminary class is if her or his schedule was already so full of classes they needed or wanted to take that there was no room for another class except before school.

At the beginning of the year, there would be a meeting in the central hall of the seminary building where we would be introduced to our teachers, then follow them into our classroom.  The faculty would all sit on a raised platform where you could get a good look at them.  Brother Mouritsen was new to Orem High that fall...he had taught a couple of years in Lehi, but was still among the youngest of our seminary faculty. None of us knew anything about him, and we didn't like what we could observe.  He had a bristling black bulldog haircut...it a time of longer and softer styles. He was clean shaven, but still had that blue shadow on his face and chin.  And most ominous of all...unlike every other seminary teacher we had ever encountered in our two-year history, he NEVER SMILED.  He had a perpetual scowl that made him look like a drill sergeant who spent the previous night sleeping on a bed of cockle burrs.  Of all the faculty, we were all hoping we would NOT be assigned to this guy.

However, 27 of us were, and we were a little shell shocked.  The first class was a fulfillment of our worst fears.  He laid down the rules, and gave us a handout lest we forget.  He gave the first week's homework assignments...HOMEWORK?  IN SEMINARY?? This is what we were getting up early for?  At some point during that first session, a couple of guys in the back of the room were enjoying themselves a little too much a little too loudly.  He stopped talking and the whole room got very quiet.  He just drilled a hole in them with his stare, which was uncomfortably long.  Then he pointed a forefinger at them and said, "You take the notes...I'll make the jokes." 

Well, kids began trying to transfer out of that class...I don't remember how many we lost, but it was alarming the administration.  After that short first week (I think we were just there three days), those who remained came back on Monday resigned to our fate...and found an entirely different teacher!  The bulldog and blue shadow were still there, but the scowl was replaced by a sort of smirk, and the atmosphere was...what...relaxed?  What had they done with our drill sergeant?  He smiled broadly at s and said "now we know who came here to learn!" 

Bottom line...best seminary teacher and class I ever had. He still gave us homework, and had tests that were challenging, and not everyone got As,  but he gave us a vision of who we could be, and we became closer as a class. Word got out, of course, and by Christmas break, the administration  had a different problem on their hands...more kids wanted to transfer into this amazing class than had transferred out!  It is not too strong a statement  to say this man changed the arc of my life.  I was not a bad guy, but I just kind of played around the gospel in a half-committed way.  Not after this.

Sooo...long aside, but necessary to set up the other part.  As I began my junior year, in the fall of 1970, David O. McKay was the prophet, and had been for 18 years...nearly a generation.  He was quite feeble by this time, but it still felt like he would be there forever.  I think we were all taken by surprise when he passed away in January, 1971. 

In the 18 years since he had been sustained as the Prophet, the church had nearly doubled in size, so there were many who had never been through the experience of sustaining a new prophet.  As a result, rumors abounded both inside and outside the church about who would replace President McKay...a popular choice was Hugh B. Brown, one of his counselors, or N. Eldon Tanner.

In the midst of this, Matt and I got a call from Brother Mouritsen.  He was going to Salt Lake City to the Tabernacle to see President McKay's body as he lay in state, and wanted to know if we wanted to ride along. We jumped at the chance.

On the way up, we discussed a number of things, among them the true order of succession.  Joseph Fielding Smith was the President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, and as had been the pattern throughout the Church's history, he would be called as the next Prophet and President.  The problem was, at 95 years old, he was a year OLDER than the man he was replacing.  This was the reason many assumed he would be passed over in choosing the next Prophet.

The viewing was a very solemn occasion...not much conversation among those in line; a few wiped away tears.

On the way back, Brother Mouritsen shared an incident from the writings of Harold B. Lee, who would be the new President of the Quorum of the Twelve.  President Lee was taking a tour of Nauvoo and Carthage; when they got to the part about the martyrdom, the guide offered "there were many who died spiritually when the prophet was martyred".   President Lee observed that that has been a pattern; each time a prophet dies, some die with him, more willing to follow a prophet no longer able to interpret his own teachings rather than the living prophet.

Brother M. also told us that at the next conference we would be privileged, in a solemn assembly, to stand with other priests and sustain the new prophet.  That sounded amazing to our young minds.

Fast forward to April.  The solemn assembly was to be held Friday morning.  For some reason we were out of school, and we thought it would be a great idea to drive up the canyon, have some breakfast and a little testimony meeting, then head back down to one of our homes to view and participate in the solemn assembly.  Our usual group was composed of me & Matt and three young ladies our age: Ruth Welsh, Dale Infanger, and Vickie Scholes.  Things went quite well , but the cooking wasn't as efficient as we hoped, so we were running behind as we piled into my car to make the trek back down the canyon. 

You could also get conference on KSL radio in those days, so we were keeping track as we drove as quickly as we safely could down the winding road. At last it became clear we weren't going to make it, so shortly before it was the priests' turn to stand up and be counted, I pulled the car  over to the shoulder and put it in park.  Matt and I got out, and when our turn came, we proudly raised our right arms to the square. 

It sounds a  little silly now, but we felt the spirit in a new and different way that day...the first of many opportunities we would have in years to come to sustain a new Prophet of God.     
           

                       

More About Trees

I realize this may seem like I am forgetting my other dalliances with the animate forms of nature, but I didn't finish my thoughts about trees.

I had other favorite trees of my youth, though none other shared the name "Favorite Tree".  My Aunt Erma in Payson had a very tall tree...I believe it was a poplar...that grew in her front yard. It went almost straight up, so it was not great for multi-party climbs, but I believe it is the tallest tree I ever scaled.  Its branches were perfectly proportioned for climbing...just the right thickness so you always felt secure putting your full weight on them, and just about the right distance apart for legs from 5-10 years old.  One of the first things I would do when we got to the Jaspersons, sometimes even before I said "hi", I would head for that tree.  I used to think it was the closest I would ever get to climbing Jack's beanstalk, as it seemed to almost reach the clouds.  As I neared the top of the tree and took in the 360-degree panoramic view of the entire world (or at least all of Payson, Utah), I could forgive the Babylonians for wanting to build a tower that reached the heavens.

It was not the only Payson tree that was good for a climb.  Across the road from Aunt Erma's & Uncle Roy's (known to us as Dogie) was the home in which my Mom grew up.  

Grandma, Erma, Vera, & Mom on the side of the old homestead.

By then it was occupied by my other Aunt & Uncle with cousins my age, Vera and Claude Newton.  In front was an ancient and huge mulberry tree that in season produced buckets of sweet mulberries It was there I first learned how evil the word "stain" was to our mothers.  But in season or out it was a fantastic tree in which to climb.  It was not nearly as tall as Aunt Erma's poplar, and you had to have someone boost you up to the first branch, but its branches were wide and strong enough to hold all the cousins.  We had some great times in that tree.

Last but far from least of the Payson trees was an old cherry tree in the northeast corner of the Jasperson property.  When I was about 8, Uncle Dogie built a tree house for his son Randy (2 years my senior) that seemed like a castle in the sky.

When we heard the term "tree house", all we ever thought of was a few boards nailed as flat as you could get them across a couple of branches.  This was beyond our imaginations.  It was literally a one-room cabin in the tree...with walls, a roof, glass windows, stairs leading up, an electric light with a switch...I don't think it had hot and cold running water, but I could be wrong.  Uncle Dogie had some carpentry skills, and he had built his son a dream house.  We felt it a rare privilege to be invited up into its rarefied atmosphere.

There were, of course, other purposes to trees than scaling them.  We also became adept at availing ourselves of the bounties of the fruit trees.  The orchard in which our "Favorite Tree" resided was in decline by the time our family moved in, and by the time I was in high school, it had been sold for further development.  But in those halcyon years the cherry trees still produced enough that we would come home sticky with cherry juice, often accompanied by a case of the stomach gripes, and followed by some serious bathroom time.

I also remember a morning after a pretty stiff overnight windstorm when we were walking along the east bank of the canal (we were probably 10-11 by then, not as much at risk as when we were smaller), behind some homes along 400 East, and we found an apricot tree with an entire branch full of apricots blown off.  We assured ourselves that the owner would never want these downed apricots, so we threw the entire branch in the canal, then shepherded it downstream until it was near our houses, pulled it out and had a wonderful bounty (I wish to point out here that this was after I was baptized, but before I held the priesthood).

Trees continued to play a meaningful role throughout my life.  They still do.  I am grateful to Providence for creating them.     

In Memory of Trees

A constant theme in my formative years was climbing trees.  I loved to climb trees, especially when they were in full leafage.  Hidden among the branches of the bing cherry trees that grew in the orchard next to our dead-end road, we felt shut off from the world.  It was like a magic place where no one could see you or hear you.  You could plot all your most diabolical undertakings in absolute secrecy.

We actually had a favorite among these cherry trees and being the creative geniuses we were, we called it "Favorite Tree".   It was dead-center of where our road would have gone if it hadn't dead-ended, and it seemed proud of that.  It grew a lot wider and a little taller than the rest of the trees, and there were enough high branches for whoever in the neighborhood wanted to join us.  From the camouflaged turrets of this fortress, we would often call out barbs and raspberries to anyone happening to ride their bike near the end of our road, believing that they would never know where the taunts were coming from, nor recognize our voices if they did.  Amazingly, they did not seem to care  much.  

One adventure we had one late spring day taught us a natural lesson we never forgot.  It was just Peevis and I that morning (AKA Steve Christiansen, my across-the-street neighbor...we will get into nick-names another time).  We had reached about the second tier of branches when we heard next to us really loud CHEEPING.  There right in front of our faces was nest full of baby birds...probably five or six.  We found later they were baby robins (from the color of egg-shell remnants), but right then and there, all we knew is they were NOISY.  We figured they must be hungry, and their mother seemed to have abandoned them.  The only humane thing to do was to take them "under our wing", so to speak, nest and all, and find them some food.  

So we took the nest full of cheeping birds (I never knew anything could open its mouth so wide as these nestlings were able) to the north side of Peevis's house and set out to find some food.  Easier said than done.  We knew birds like bugs, and the most readily available supply of those were pill bugs (we called them potato bugs) that were everywhere grass met concrete.  All we had to do was pull back the grass growing near the foundation of the house, and we had all the pill bugs these birds could consume.

Unfortunately, we had not factored in that these birds were too young for pill bugs.  We would place a bug inside each gaping mouth, and it would crawl around and around until it finally found its way out...and the CHEEPING went on unabated.

We decided maybe we needed to find some worms and smush them up.  Worms were not nearly as provident...we found a few with the pill bugs, and dug for a few more...the birds seemed to be able to handle these better, but as soon as we would put some in an open mouth, it would close for a nano-second, then open wide again, CHEEPING as before.  

Well this was our first taste of parenthood, and we were failing miserably.  We were in a near panic when Peevis's Mom found us.  She was surprised, but it did not take long for her to assess the situation. She agreed that we would not be able to keep up with the voracious demands of five baby birds.  She suggested we take the nest back and place it as carefully as we could exactly where we found it.  She told us it was a real possibility that the mother bird would not take the babies back and said we should never take a baby animal of any kind out of the wild.

We did as she recommended, and watched the nest for perhaps 30 minutes.  We were grateful, and our guilt assuaged, when we saw an adult robin return to the nest again and again with food for the hungry babies.

This was one of our first forays into the mysteries of nature and life, but it would not be our last... 

                

William Fraedrich photo.

There are TONS of Williams in the Fraedrich line.  This William, I believe, is the father of Alvina Fraedrich who wrote "A Pioneer Story"

The "Rest of the Story" (sort of) about Alvina Fraedrich Lindemann

Below is another article from a newpaper that was in mom's genealogical papers.  It is not nearly as interesting as the earlier artical "A Pioneer Story"

For the record, here then is a brief account of the Lindamann family and how it grew.

Ferdinand and Julia Petrich Lindemann lived near Berlin, Germany.  Julia was the widow of his brother and had a small son, Carl, when she married Ferdinand.  Their family grew to include five more sons: John, Fred, William, Paul and Robert; and four daughters: Augusta, Ida, Hulda and Minnie.

Ferdinand was content in Germany but Julia worried about her sons who were reaching the age when they would be taken into the German army.  Many of their relatives were planning to emigrate to Dakota territory, at the urging of Wm Krueger, who had settled earlier at Chaffee, among them his three sisters, Mrs. Kraft, Mrs. Bleese and Mrs. Petrich.  Julia was a sister of Mr. Petrich and, finally, they decided that they too should try their fortune in Dakota.  With eight of their sons and daughters, they set sail for America.  Only John and Augusta remained in Germany.

The Krueger farm was the arrival point and the numerous relationship filled all the available space, including the granaries.  Mr. Krueger gave them a horse and wagon to look for a homestead.  They soon found a claim where an earlier settler had built a house and purchased a “relinquishment”.  This is the farm now owned by Maynard Lindemann.  Ferdinand took a claim in the N.W. ¼ of Sec. 24 (?), Pontiac Township, while Carl filed on the S.W. ¼.   As each of the sons grew old enough, they filed for homesteads or purchased land in the area, married and raised substantial families of their own.  Since many of their neighbors were relatives, the area immediately north and east of Enderlin became, for practical purposes, one big clan. 

Carl Lindemann took a claim in the same section as his.  This farm is still owned by his family.  He married Louise Keiselbach and they raised four sons: Leo, Lawrence, Rex and Bodo, both of the later long-time Enderlin Businessmen.  When he retired from active farming, he built a house at the south end of town which was perhaps the biggest home in the city.  It has since been torn down. 

William Lindemann took a homestead directly north of Enderlin, on the Maple River.  His wife was Ida Crockett.  They had four sons; Adolph, Harry, Rudolph and Russell, and a daughter, Rosy, later Mrs. Tom Bickel, who is now deceased.  After some years of farming, William worked for the Soo Line and later purchased a business in Enderlin, which he operated until his death.

Fred Lindemann homesteaded also in Section 24 of Pontiac Township.  He later moved northwest of Enderlin and farmed there until his death.  He married Anna Stange and they had five children: Martha (Mrs. Menge), Herbert, (deceased), Marvin, Clarence and Fred Jr.(Julius).  Mrs. Lindemann died in child birth and he later married Lena Menge.  To them were born three children: Hildegarde (Mrs. Freeman Green), Sieghard and Harold.

Robert Lindemann and his wife, Alvina Fraedrich Lindemann, lived on the home farm with his parents.  This farm is now owned by their son Karl.  All but two of their eleven children still live in North Dakota.  They are Agnes (Mrs. August Geske), Esther (Mrs. John Brun), Werner, Alice (Mrs. Victor Peterson)(of  Arthur, N.D.), Reuben, Maynard, Leona (deceased), Doris (Mrs. Ervin Utke), Karl, Kenneth, West Fargo, and Willis, Florida. 

Paul Lindemann homesteaded six miles northwest of Enderlin. He combined farming with auctioneering and was widely known in that field for many years.  He married Alvina Eckelberg and they raised a family of eight:  Walter, Thelma (Mrs. Keeler), Reinhard, Paul Jr., Ella, Alfred, Elmer and Herbert, who farmed the home farm until his death a few years ago.  It is now operated by his son, Stanford.  Of the Paul Lindemann family, only “Reinie” is still living a short distance east of Lucca. 

A fishing photo

This is a photo from my mom's genealogical papers.  Below is the exact caption:

Wm. Fraedrich's birthday party.  L-R  Tom Fraedrich, John Creswell, Albert Fraedrich, Julius Fraedrich, August Fraedrich, John Albert Fraedrich, William Fraedrich, Bey Greene with the fish in his pocket. Lincoln Greene, Edward Rhinehart and Peter Goodman.  Fishing at the Sheyenne River.

Julius is my great-grandfather.  His brothers are Albert, August, Wilhelm (William).  John Albert and Tom are not brothers.  Must be cousins.

A Pioneer Story

The following story was found in my mother's genealogical papers.  It was on two pages photocopied from an unknown book   The author, Alvina Augusta Bertha Fraedrich, is my great-aunt.  Her father, William (or Wilhelm), was my great-grandfather Julius's brother.    Jeanne

The claim shanty where I was born was built like most of them at that time, 83 years ago.  They first dug in a side hill and put boards over the dugout for protections while building the house.  It was usually attached to the dugout which was later used as a root cellar.  Snakes often crawled in here and hung down from the ceiling (this was terrible!)

The first few summers of my life were spent running around in the tall grass and beautiful flowers.  My mother Anna Oehlke Fraedrich told me she would look for a white head bobbing up and down in the tall grass and then she would know where I was.

The grass was very bountiful where we lived and my father, William Fraedrich, would care for neighbor’s cattle in summer.  This also meant a little extra money.  There were no fences and often at night the cattle would start moving against the wind when the mosquitoes were bad.  Some cattle had bells and they should be easier to locate at night, but it wasn’t easy to get up and find them and get them back home.  My father finally built a fence of willow branches to keep the cattle in.  this worked fine until the following spring when the fence took roots and began to grow.  Then the cattle ate the fence. 

We lived five miles east of Enderlin and two and a half miles north of Sheldon.  The farm now belongs to my nephew, Leon Heuer.  Relatives and friends always stopped on their way to Sheldon and when they came back.  My father had four brothers and two sisters living along the Maple north of us.  It seems like we always had company.

My father did threshing for many farmers.  This meant that we needed to prepare for 25 to 30 men for meals and a place to sleep.  It was an exciting time for me for it meant a trip to town for groceries.  A pig or beef was butchered, lard rendered.  Dishes and kettles were marked.  Usually a notch was put in with an iron file.  Neighbors borrowed these from one another during the time they fed the men.  Even then you didn’t always get your own dishes back.  I remember one lady who had only one large cooking pan.  She used to cook coffee in it and then clean it and use if for frying or cooking the rest of the meal.  When my father saw this, he offered to cook for the men while he was there to do the threshing, for he wanted them to have good meals. 

Breakfast consisted of fried potatoes, boiled eggs, bacon, cooked cereal, cookies or coffee cake, with lots of coffee.  Pies were either custard, currant, or a dried fruit grape, but which looked like a huge raisin.  Then there were the dried fruits like apples and prunes.  The farmers had chickens, eggs, milk, cream, butter and cottage cheese.  Wheat could be taken to a mill and ground for flour, at first at Lisbon and later at Enderlin.  We never canned any vegetables.  Root vegetables kept well until spring in the root cellar.  Sauer Kraut, dill pickles were put up in large crocks or barrels.  For meat, we had only to go to the smoke house, where hams, bacon, sausage and smoked fish kept very well.  We sometimes roasted barley to mix with the coffee beans.  Coffee was 12 pounds for $1.00.  It was called Arbuckle Brand and had a picture of an angel floating on the paper bag it came in, which I often wondered about.

To seat the men in threshing time we brought in saw horses and long planks for table and chairs.  Boxes outside held pails of water and soap for the men.  We always locked the door until everything was ready and the food was on the table.  The men stormed in like a mob.

Many of these men came back to work each year.  One of them who returned for many years was Black George Walker.  He used all his money for liquor and would come back in the spring looking ragged and thin.  My father did not pay him one year until he was ready to leave.  He took him to Sheldon and bought a suit, shoes and other clothes and gave him the money left over.  He was grateful that anyone should care to do this for him.  He told my father that he was well educated in law, but started to drink and could not keep his position.  He wrote to his brother and told him he had an accident and could not work.  Since this was not true he could not return to his home.

My mother made the lye we used to make soap.  Foe this we filled three large salt barrels with wood ashes.  The tilted barrels were set on a container.  The ashes were kept moist.  It took a couple of months.  Lard and cracklings were mixed with the lye solution and cooked in huge kettles.  It made a soft, sudsy soap that cleaned almost anything.

In the winter and again in the spring, the men in the neighborhood would go to the Sheyenne to fish.  One time they got a wagon box full of fish.  They would sooner go fishing than to a party.  They did not enjoy so much the trips to the Sheyenne to cut the supply of wood for the year, for it was cold hard work and often they did not get home until long after dark.

One stormy night we were sitting around the stove, enjoying the warmth and comfort of a good fire.  Father said that the wood was very good that year.  Someone looked up and discovered smoke around the stovepipe.  We discovered that the roof was on fire.  There was a storm outside and we could not locate a shovel or other implement.  My father crawled on the roof and tore the burning shingles from the roof with his bare hands.  Mother tried to help, but the wind blew her off the roof.  He got the fire out before it did too much damage.

I attended school in Highland Township when I could, but my mother was often ill and then it was up to me to do the housework.  My sisters, Ida (Mrs. Kaatz) and Pauline (Mrs. Heuer) and I always walked to school.  It was two and a half miles.  During the cold weather the school was closed.  There were always 20 or 30 pupils. 

What a joyous time was Christmas – visiting and having company, candy, cookies and apples – just about everything we could wish for.  There was always the tree.  Father got a large branch from a boxelder and they would wind green fringed paper around the branches.  Sometimes we found a little of this paper and that meant Santa was working and we had better not disturb him.  The tree was decorated with apples, candy and cookies.  What a wonderful time it was!  One year I got two presents – a pair of overshoes and a religious booklet. 

I was confirmed by Pastor Dieter when I was 13.  The first church I remember going to was at Sheldon.  It was while singing in the choir that I met my husband, Robert.  I remember the ones who sang in the choir.  They were Pauline Kunst (Mrs. Aug. Geske), Carolyn Kunst (Mrs. Spitzer), Augusta Kunst (Mrs. Fraase), Ameliea Fraedrich (Mrs. Petrich), Minnie Kaatz, Tillie Finger (Kaatz), William Finger, Gust Hohnse, Albert Fraedrich, Carl Schroeder, R.T. Petrich, Emma Kaatz (Finger) and Robert Lindemann, and it was directed by Mrs. Dieter.  The first choir, however was directed by Henry Fraase.  He had two mules which were always decorated with red tassels on the bridles.  He used to start early in the evening to gather his choir. 

Robert and I were married in 1901.  Like all weddings, there were many guests for diner and lunch in the evening.  The Enderlin Coronet band played in the afternoon.  Robert and I lived with his parents on the farm now owned by our son, Karl Lindemann.  Robert’s mother and father were very good to me.  She loved the outdoors and was always planting flowers and trees.  Whenever she saw someone driving down the road, a half mile away, she would put on the coffee pot and have everything ready when they came.  Each afternoon when possible there was milk with coffee and sugar in it and bread and butter for the children when they came from school.

For Grandma Lindemann, Saturday evenings was a time to prepare for the church services on Sunday.  She put on a clean apron, put a shawl around her shoulders and sat by the west window where the rays of the setting sun made it easier to read her Bible. 

Robert’s most loved pastime, next to amusing his children, was hunting.  One afternoon, I cleaned 30 ducks.  I don’t think anyone had more patience with his children than my husband.  He had some of the children with him always, whether going to town on business, to the river to fish or hunt, or to inspect the fields. One year there wasn’t much snow, he hauled water on a hill to make an ice slide for them and their homemade sleds.

I can’t call any of this time difficult or a hardship.  Some evenings we were very tired, but many evenings Robert would play the violin and we would sing and really enjoy ourselves.  All but one of our children live in North Dakota.  They are Verner, Karl, Reuben, Maynard, Doris (Utke), Agnes (Geske), Esther (Brun), all of Enderlin, Willis in Florida, Kenneth in West Fargo and Alice (Peterson) at Arthur.

Where Would We Be Without Our Kids

I thought maybe this week I might depart from talkin' on myself, and bring up a couple of memories of our family growing up.

The first one was stimulated by a Stake talent show we went to in Anthem's very nice park.  Normally it would have been a very nice activity during this time of year, but...what are the chances...it rained for most of the time.  Not torrential, but a steady sprinkle, and the temperature dipped to 70, so the program, 20 songs long, seemed much longer.  When, about three-fourths of the way through the program, Jeanne thought one of the groups inserted an unscheduled  song, she was scandalized!   It reminded me of when...

Elise was about seven and was involved in the University-sponsored "String Project".  They had a recital one Saturday morning...a bunch of little kids playing 30-second pieces, so there were a bunch of numbers...I think maybe 40 or so.  The whole thing probably didn't last more than about thirty minutes, but time can be very different when you are small.  About half-way through, 4-year old Steve Jr tugged on my sleeve and whispered in a desperate voice, "How much longer?".  I figured saying "15 minutes" would be meaningless to him, so instead I showed him the program, and pointed to the halfway-mark in the list of numbers.  He just crumbled in a heap of tears...it was more than he could wrap his young brain around.  I put my arm around him and tried not to laugh out loud.  It still makes me laugh as I write.

Probably four and a half  years earlier, several months before Steve joined us, I was in my first semester of law school, and was home alone with the four girls that made up our family then (I think Jeanne was magnifying her Young Women calling that evening).  I had put Beckie to bed (she was still a baby), but she was a little restless.  I was trying to get in some studying, and I think I must have set the other three girls with some books (we didn't yet have a TV) for a little pre-bed entertainment.  At any rate, in spite of several increasingly annoyed "shushes", the volume got louder and louder as they laughed themselves silly making frog sounds: ribbet, ribbet, RIBBET RIBBET.  I finally lost it, stomped in and in very loud, stern tones gave them what can only be described as a tongue-lashing.  At the end of my tirade I said, only slightly less loudly, "Well, what do you have to say for yourselves???" as I looked each one in the eyes.

Then, from a very remorseful-looking Elise (2-1/2   years old) came this:“ribbet”   Again it was all I could do to keep from paroxysms of laughter.  

These and so many more everyday happenings are the substance of life that add flavor and color to life, and I would not trade a single one.   

               

The "Canal"

The word canal doesn't sound like much when I say it now, but in my boyhood it was like a magic incantation.  Whenever in planning our days and deciding among the realistic options we had, the word "canal" would slip in, it was on another level.  "Canal" represented fun and adventure and unusual possibilities like floating our scrap-lumber ships with their nail  gunneries, tied to a long string so they wouldn't escape; or hastily crafted milkweed-pod canoes with toothpick or matchstick oars, which we would try to sink with large rocks.  Sometimes we would grab a long willow stick and pretend like we were fishing for record trout as we harvested chunks of moss and seaweed or large leaves as they floated by.  Add a little danger in the mixture and the undeniable attraction of being forbidden, and it is no wonder our mothers knew right where to find us if we were out of sight. 

We thought they (our mothers) had some secret technique of spying on us that we could never figure out.  Super-telescopic eyes?  Clairvoyance?   We didn't know how, but they always knew we were there...we always got caught red-handed (or wet-handed).  The truth is, even though it was not a large canal (probably 12-15 feet wide and 30-36 inches deep), it was dangerous.  The flow was powerful enough to knock a young person's feet out from under them, and scarcely a summer passed that we did not hear or read about a child that had drowned or nearly so in those very waters.  The parental concern was not wasted.

Nevertheless, there was a day (spoiler alert: some of you have heard this story, this is for those who may have missed it or were not paying attention:-)) when I managed to elude the secret spy method with a neighbor a couple of years older than me, Roger Lee. I think this was the summer before my kindergarten year. He was not really a friend or very often a playmate, as he was at times kind of a bully; but on this glorious summer morn we were off on an expedition. We decided it was a great day for moss-fishing, as there seemed an unusual number of larger than normal chunks floating by.  We selected our willow poles and sat on an abutment to the wooden bridge that crossed at this point.

Things went very well, and we were having a great time when the biggest chunk of moss I'd ever seen was coming toward us.  It was clear it would be beyond my normal reach without a longer willow, but there was no time.  In one  of those failures of discretion that snap-judgments often are, I decided that if I stood with one foot firmly grounded and one over the edge, I could stretch out far enough to harvest that beauty.

Well, of course, the next thing I know I am floating helplessly...my momentum had thrust me near the middle.  In a miracle that I considered then and since my first evidence that I had a Heavenly Parent interested in my survival as much as my earthly parents, I was prompted to throw my hands up, and they reached the deck of the bridge. I was strong enough and motivated enough to hold on , but not to  pull my self up.  

I hollered for help from my neighbor, himself only about seven.  He danced momentarily along the shore, not sure what to do, but to his everlasting credit he followed what must have been a prompting and became a hero to me that day.  He completely disrobed, then eased himself down in the water, holding onto the bridge.  He was enough taller and stronger that his feet reached the bottom, and holding  on to the bridge, hand over hand he worked himself to where I was.  I gradually changed my hand-hold, one at a time, until my arms were wrapped around his chest,  and he worked us both back to the shore.  

I was thoroughly soaked, and his clothes were completely dry, but we both agreed it would be a good idea if we went to a collection of tree stumps and branches that formed a pile a few hundred feet away and sorted out our options.  We decided it would be a good idea f we stayed there until I dried out.  We further determined it would be better if neither of us spoke of this event, the result of our disobedience.  

I don't know when, if ever, Roger ever revealed his brave act to his parents, as avoiding the consequences of our disobedience was our primary concern.  For my part, it came up inadvertently in a conversation around the dinner table many years later when I was about ten.  I blurted out something, I think, about drying out on the log pile.  Further interrogation led to a full confession.  There was momentary shock, then gratitude.  I think the five years softened the effect a little.  I won't say (because it would not be truthful) that I never went near the canal again; but I will say this was the first time I was conscious of someone beyond my view watching over me, and it gave me great comfort.