Bennionousity

Angel's Landing

2011-01-03T17:02:00.000-08:00

At the request of a friend I am re-posting a previous blog entry from my former Blog site. Enjoy.
Mike

My family and I were reading the Book of Mormon one morning some years ago. We read the following:

And it came to pass that while my father tarried in the wilderness he spake unto us, saying: Behold, I have dreamed a dream; or, in other words, I have seen a vision. 1st Nephi 8:2 The Book of Mormon And it came to pass after I had prayed unto the Lord I beheld a large and spacious field.

And it came to pass that I beheld a tree, whose fruit was desirable to make one happy.

And it came to pass that I did go forth and partake of the fruit thereof; and I beheld that it was most sweet, above all that I ever before tasted. Yea, and I beheld that the fruit thereof was white, to exceed all the whiteness that I had ever seen.

And as I partook of the fruit thereof it filled my soul with exceedingly great joy; wherefore, I began to be desirous that my family should partake of it also; for I knew that it was desirable above all other fruit.

And as I cast my eyes round about, that perhaps I might discover my family also, I beheld a river of water; and it ran along, and it was near the tree of which I was partaking the fruit.
And I looked to behold from whence it came; and I saw the head thereof a little way off; and at the head thereof I beheld your mother Sariah, and Sam, and Nephi; and they stood as if they knew not whither they should go.

And it came to pass that I beckoned unto them; and I also did say unto them with a loud voice that they should come unto me, and partake of the fruit, which was desirable above all other fruit.

And it came to pass that they did come unto me and partake of the fruit also.

And it came to pass that I was desirous that Laman and Lemuel should come and partake of the fruit also; wherefore, I cast mine eyes towards the head of the river, that perhaps I might see them.

And it came to pass that I saw them, but they would not come unto me and partake of the fruit.

And I beheld a rod of iron, and it extended along the bank of the river, and led to the tree by which I stood.

And I also beheld a strait and narrow path, which came along by the rod of iron, even to the tree by which I stood; and it also led by the head of the fountain, unto a large and spacious field, as if it had been a world.

And I saw numberless concourses of people, many of whom were pressing forward, that they might obtain the path which led unto the tree by which I stood.

And it came to pass that they did come forth, and commence in the path which led to the tree.

And it came to pass that there arose a mist of darkness; yea, even an exceedingly great mist of darkness, insomuch that they who had commenced in the path did lose their way, that they wandered off and were lost

And it came to pass that I beheld others pressing forward, and they came forth and caught hold of the end of the rod of iron; and they did press forward through the mist of darkness, clinging to the rod of iron, even until they did come forth and partake of the fruit of the tree.

And after they had partaken of the fruit of the tree they did cast their eyes about as if they were ashamed.
And I also cast my eyes round about, and beheld, on the other side of the river of water, a great and spacious building; and it stood as it were in the air, high above the earth.

And it was filled with people, both old and young, both male and female; and their manner of dress was exceedingly fine; and they were in the attitude of mocking and pointing their fingers towards those who had come at and were partaking of the fruit.

And after they had tasted of the fruit they were ashamed, because of those that were scoffing at them; and they fell away into forbidden paths and were lost.
And now I, Nephi, do not speak all the words of my father.

But, to be short in writing, behold, he saw other multitudes pressing forward; and they came and caught hold of the end of the rod of iron; and they did press their way forward, continually holding fast to the rod of iron, until they came forth and fell down and partook of the fruit of the tree.

And he also saw other multitudes feeling their way towards that great and spacious building.

And it came to pass that many were drowned in the depths of the fountain; and many were lost from his view, wandering in strange roads.

And great was the multitude that did enter into that strange building. And after they did enter into that building they did point the finger of scorn at me and those that were partaking of the fruit also; but we heeded them not.

These are the words of my father: For as many as heeded them, had fallen away 1st Nephi 8:9-34

And it came to pass after I, Nephi, having heard all the words of my father, concerning the things which he saw in a vision, and also the things which he spake by the power of the Holy Ghost, which power he received by faith on the Son of God—and the Son of God was the Messiah who should come—I, Nephi, was desirous also that I might see, and hear, and know of these things, by the power of the Holy Ghost, which is the gift of God unto all those who diligently seek him, as well in times of old as in the time that he should manifest himself unto the children of men. 1st Nephi 10:17

For it came to pass after I had desired to know the things that my father had seen, and believing that the Lord was able to make them known unto me, as I sat pondering in mine heart I was caught away in the Spirit of the Lord, yea, into an exceedingly high mountain, which I never had before seen, and upon which I never had before set my foot.

And the Spirit said unto me: Behold, what desirest thou?
And I said: I desire to behold the things which my father saw.

And the Spirit said unto me: Believest thou that thy father saw the tree of which he hath spoken?

And I said: Yea, thou knowest that I believe all the words of my father.

And when I had spoken these words, the Spirit cried with a loud voice, saying: Hosanna to the Lord, the most high God; for he is God over all the earth, yea, even above all. And blessed art thou, Nephi, because thou believest in the Son of the most high God; wherefore, thou shalt behold the things which thou hast desired. 1st Nephi 11:1-6

The words jumped off the page as I finished verse six! "...thou shalt behold the things which thou hast desired." The scriptures had seemed much richer with meaning to me since our family had been making a special effort to read the scriptures together each morning. Now, today, these words seemed to sink deeply into my soul. Nephi had desired to know, to see the things his father, Lehi had seen--to see the vision of the Tree of Life, the straight path, the iron rod; all of it. He had believed that he could see. then he pondered. He thought deeply. He prayerfully considered, and he saw! Could I also see? Might I be able to behold what Lehi and Nephi saw? Was there a reason why it might be important for me to see? Was I being presumptuous in my desire to see these things? The questions were exciting but unsettling. The more I pondered, the more I was impressed with these thoughts.

I finally came to the conclusion that it was time to take up the question with the Lord. In my prayers at the conclusion of scripture study I said something like the following: "Heavenly Father, I have been excited by what I have just read in the Book of Mormon. The words of Nephi, and his faith and desire, have cause me to ask many questions. I desire to see what Lehi and Nephi saw. I don't know whether it is important or even necessary to see this vision of the Tree of Life. Perhaps it may not be in my best interest to see these things. Maybe I am unready or unworthy to see them. Thow knowest I have the desire that thy will should be done in this thing, but if it would be helpful instead of hurtful for me, and if it be Thy will, someday, in Thine own good time I desire to see what Nephi saw. I ask it in the name of Thy beloved Son, Jesus Christ, Amen." Then I went on with my day, largely forgetting about the prayer and the concept.

Several weeks later, my son, Shawn, who had some free time to spend with his father, said to me, "Dad, can we go on a hike this weekend? "Sure, son, where shall we go?" "I don't know, maybe Angel's Landing, we been up there yet and it's supposed to be really cool up there." So Angel's Landing it was. I was slightly apprehensive. Angle's landing's reputation had preceded it: A 1,500 foot high red rock monolith looming over the Virgin River, it protruded into an ox-bow bend of the river in the middle of Zion National Park. In the days before highly skilled climbers and park rangers had labored mightily to build an access trail to the top, the climb would have been impossible for slightly overweight, middle-aged, day hiking types like myself. Even now great energy and effort would be required, not to mention a measure of courage in the face of great heights and sheer drop-offs. The park map described the trail as strenuous, described the last part of the climb as traversing a narrow hog-back ridge, enjoined extreme caution and recommended against anyone with a fear of heights making the attempt. The round trip was estimated at four hours.

We left in the chill of an early winter morning. Lack of snow this year had made the hike possible but the temperature was sufficiently cold that we appreciated jeans and sweat shirts. Anticipating the need for all our energy, we packed light: A canteen, granola bars, apples and string cheese in a day pack. The sun had not yet reached the valley floor as we crossed the bridge over the river at the trailhead. After half a mile or so of easy walking on a concreted path, the trail slanted steeply upward. Shawn's 15 year old legs, lungs and heart carried him quickly forward as he took the lead. My somewhat older body parts protested as the path steepened into a series of switchbacks that must have been blasted out of solid rock. The trail, though strenuous was still easily passable, having been concreted. Occasional deer tracks and footprints showed where man and beast had stepped too soon after the pouring. We entered a narrow hanging canyon whose chill was welcome after the exertions of the lower trail. Blue sky above the crevice promised warmth at the top. Coming around a corner we faced "Walter's Wiggles", a series of switchbacks that were as crooked as Lombard Street in San Francisco. We began this ascent as our pulses soared once again. At the top of the wiggles the concrete of the trail reverted to the more customary dirt and stone.

Several hundred more yards and suddenly a prodigious view yawned at our feet! Fifteen hundred feet below, the Virgin River crawled past a parking lot where buses the size of pin-heads negotiated a string of a road. People, if they were at all visible, resembled dust mites. On the opposite side of the valley, red rock cliffs reared up toward the sky in a dizzying procession, topped by white sandstone above the oxide stains, they reminded me of a row of bare-headed farmers; white foreheads above sunburned faces. A microscopic fringe of fir and pine topped the cliffs. Our journey was only half complete. The real work lay ahead. The path now headed up solid slick-rock, steep enough that the steel chains that lined it were necessary. We pulled ourselves upward, hand-over-hand, breath coming harder and feet more cautiously placed. Gaining a supposed summit we now found ourselves on the narrow spine of the hog-back ridge. Looking ahead we saw what appeared to be sheer cliff. "Surely," I thought, "this must be the end of the trail." Then, looking upward, I saw, to my consternation, tiny steel chains on the summit of the cliff. Immediately ahead a single large flat-topped boulder about 15 feet long and six feet wide made up the entire edge of the ridge. Two 3 foot metal poles joined by a single strand of steel chain were the only concessions to safety on top of the boulder. The drop-off was 1,500 feet to the left an d800 feet to the right. The path ahead showed not much promise of widening out.

Trying to act brave and nonchalant for Shawn, I forged ahead, taking a grip on the chain so tight that my shoulders and neck would protest for several days afterward. My eyes were riveted ahead on the straight and narrow path. My mind was steeled against the chasm that seemed to pull me toward it. I think it was about this time that Shawn said, "Dad, are you afraid of heights?" I answered, "No...but I have a very healthy respect foir them! As a matter of fact, this feeling comes as close to the scripture, 'Fear God and give him glory...' as anything I can think of."

The Spirit of God suddenly rested upon me with great glory and intensity. My being was flooded with warmth, assurance and joy. The still small voice inside my mind and heart said, "What beholdest thou?" In reverence, I answered, I see a great gulf with a river of water running through it. the water is muddy or filthy. I see a straight and narrow path. I see a chain or "rod of iron" leading beside the path, so I may be safe and not fall. I see huge cliffs like great and spacious buildings, rearing themselves above this mountain, and ahead, at the top of Angel's landing, I see a tree, the "Tree of Life" where the path ends." The Spirit whispered, "God has answered your prayer. You have seen what you prayed to see. The Father need not show you a vision or give you a dream. He led you, by the Spirit, to this place, where you can see what you desired to see, and believed you could see. All things testify of Christ and His Father. Bear witness of them and rejoice in them."

The view from the top seemed eternal. Perhaps it was.

Layers of Tradition--Memories and Promises on the Tree

2010-12-19T20:18:00.000-08:00

This quiet Sunday slips toward a close as music drifts through our home--soft sounds that warm the memory. The Christmas tree shines with symbols from times and places past. Memories and promises live there.

The bright star at the top reminds me of the light that came into the world on a silent night in Bethlehem over two millennia past and of the guiding sign that led seekers to the light. I remember a bulletin board in Mrs. Olsen's fourth grade classroom that we stayed late one December afternoon to help her design. A silent night view overlooking a darkened City of David made of scraps of fabric and bright sequins; the tableau showed three wise men richly attired descending into town bearing gold, frankincense and myrrh to a child hidden somewhere in the tumble of flat and dome roofed dwellings in the distance. High above the scene, on a midnight blue construction paper sky speckled with yellow sequined stars, was The Star, resplendent with an eight pointed radiance beckoned to the future. The memory glows in my heart even now--one of the first times I clearly remember the spirit of Christmas. The lights on the tree echo the star but also remind me of the fruit of God's love. A prophet spoke of this fruit as sweet beyond all other sweetness and white beyond all that is white. The glow shines against the rich green of eternity. The Christmas tree is a tree of life.

Icicles dangle from the branches reflecting the light. I placed them there taking my cue from a song written by Edvard Grieg.

"Like the Viking we are praying, homage to the highest paying. Spirits tremble, hearts are bounding, joyfully his praises sounding. That thy faith may strong be builded, pure as ice by sunlight gilded, rise from nature’s best endeavor, seek thy God, seek Him forever. Seek thy God.”

Grieg Landkjenning (Discovery)

Brass trumpets remind me that "the trumpet shall sound and the dead shall be raised incorruptible." and bells suggest the sound on a cold clear snow covered Christmas eve in Norway as the church steeples sound a welcome to the newborn Child. I put Norwegian flags on my tree as well. They remind me of my two years of service to God on a mission to teach the gospel. The flag's red field reminds me of the Savior's sacrifice, the deep blue cross of his crucifixion and the white cross surrounding it of his perfection. All the richness and goodness of a traditional Norwegian Christmas Eve is wrapped up in that flag and in the tiny red spotted toadstools and Christmas Elves (Nisser) that also grace the tree.

Sheaves of wheat speak of the covenants made with God to stand as a witness of God at all times and in all places, to keep his commandments and to always remember his son that I might have his Spirit to be with me always. Nutcracker soldiers signify that Israel means "soldier of God" and that I am enlisted of my own free will in his cause, pledged to serve him all the days of my life. Ten penny nails tied up with red ribbons remind me that Christ was "wounded for my transgressions and bruised for my iniquities and by his stripes I am healed." He binds me to him by his love and I accept his yoke which is easy and his burden which is light.

My gifts and talents are meager compared with God's mighty works. I do not know all things and I cannot touch all people with what I know. But I can touch those who read what I write. It is part of all I can do and Christ's perfection allows my imperfect praise to be sufficient.

May each of you feel the joy and love of this sacred season on your own silent nights.

"How silently, how silently the wondrous gift is given. so God imparts to human hearts the blessings of his heaven. No ear may hear his coming, but in this world of sin, where meek souls will receive him still the dear Christ enters in." Brooks, O Little Town of Bethlehem

The Cry of the Innocents

2009-10-03T00:12:00.000-07:00

My son, Shawn has a special place in his heart for jazz. It began when he first picked up a trumpet. He learned to play jazz. He learned its stories and those who created it, played it and lived it. We had taken him to the Jazz museum in Kansas City, and to Beall Street in Memphis Tennessee, where he borrowed a trumpet from a wonderful black man and jammed with him. Shawn can tell seemingly endless stories about Louis Armstrong, and Charlie Parker and a hundred others in the same way that I have gathered Civil War stories, names, dates and battles.

Last fall, My son took me with him to the University of Chicago where he was taking a graduate class in conjunction with his Master's degree at Purdue University. We drove through miles of Chicago Suburbs, ande Shawn told me stories of jazz and the blacks who made it live as we drove. I live in Las Vegas, Nevada and have worked with a veritable "United Nations" during my years in retail and am used to working with all sorts of folk but that morning my son and I were the only people of our race that I saw for the better part of an hour. Then suddenly, we drove through a park, entered the University of Chicago and once again there was diversity.

This morning I was reading the morning's news online. I read that four students were under arrest for beating another youth to death in Roseland, a Chicago suburb, near the path of last year's morning drive. The thing was, that someone had taken a cell phone video of the gang war that killed the young man. Suddenly, with a left click below my laptop mouspad, I witnessed the murder of Derrion Albert.

Last Thursday Derrion, a 16 year old honor student was walking to the Agape Center where he did Bible Study. He never got there. Instead he ended up between two gangs. In the ensuing brawl, Derrion was beaten to the ground by another black teenager swinging part of a splintered railroad tie. When he trie to get up another teen hit him with another board. He was then kicked and beaten as he lay senseless on the ground. His friends dragged him to the Agape center but it was too late to save him.

I thought I had been shaken by the experience of watching his death and then I read the comment below, about Derrion's death, in the Huffington Post.

"This is why I believe in unfettered access to abortion. If just one of the four young men who beat Darrion to death had not been born, Darrion might be here. The loss of a future felon might have prevented this horrific tragedy."

"Parents like Darrion's mom are clearly swimming upstream alone. My heart breaks for his mother, and the other four mothers have nothing but my disdain and hatred. If they had wanted to do the world a favor they never would have brought four unwanted, utterly useless lives into the world. Nothing these young men do from this day forward will make up for the atrocity they committed. I don't want to stand next to them on a train, cross paths with them in a store, or defile my own being by carrying out a death sentence."

"Clearly the four young men involved in this atrocity were not monitored by their parents they way they should have been. I will certainly be giving generously to Planned Parenthood, because there is no reason that unwanted and unloved children should be loosed on society to kill those who would do good."

"I would be ashamed before my neighbors if any of my sons ever behaved in such a fashion. It would pain me immeasurably to think that I had brought forth such a loser, and here we have four.

"

So this poster would multiply the cruelty and horror of Derrion's death by making him a poster child for the abortion movement. Words fail me.

The day Dad flew the Buick

2009-04-13T22:32:00.000-07:00

It was December 23, 1968. We were living in Laramie Wyoming while Dad got his Master's degree. The six of us were stuffed rather snugly into a two bedroom student apartment with cinder block walls painted approximately the color of Crest toothpaste, (which explains why students who were moving out often bought Crest to cover the nail holes in the wall.)

We were living on the cheap that winter, but Dad had promised to take us and our friends for one really good ski trip to Steamboat Springs, Colorado. The day had arrived. The air was full of excitement, and the car was full of people. There were eight of us going on the trip. Dad, Dave and I and five of our friends. The gold Buick Wildcat had our ski rack secured to the roof with eight pair of skis in place. Dad had put them all carefully in their place pointing forward, tips up.

Soon we were off like a herd of turtles. We always thought that the object of driving was to pass everything on the road. Dad was our shining example here, and he was doing his best to hold up that fine tradition that wintry morning; we were just barely hitting the high spots as the 465 cubic inch brute of an engine powered us along. I suspect Dad was doing ninety something and we were driving into a rather fearsome headwind as well.

Suddenly, Dad got a bewildered look on his face and rocked the steering wheel back and forth gently a couple of times. The Buick appeared to ignore the prompting and continued straight forward. The front facing skis had created a perfect wing and the front tires were several inches off the ground. The Buick was now literally taking flight! There was a wrenching sound of metal on metal and a thump as the ski rack detached itself from the Buick. The tires came back to earth and Dad swerved and recovered control. I was in the back seat. I craned my neck and looked heavenward to see the ski rack flying proudly, at 100 feet, the sun glinting majestically off the skis.
Abruptly, the ski rack did a wing-over that would make a dive-bomber proud and crashed into a drift several hundred yard out in a snowy alfalfa field. Ski's flew everywhere.

We scrambled over the fence and began recovery operations. Remarkably, there were no broken skis. However, the rack was K.I.A. We reloaded the car. four people in front, four in back and eight pair of skis on the laps of the back seaters, sticking out of the right rear window and the heater going full blast.

We arrived safely though somewhat chilled at Steamboat. We all got our skis on and headed up the lifts. While skiing from the first chairlift down to the second, I hit a mogul that was disguised by the flat shadowless grey of a solid overcast. I caught an edge, tried to straighten out, caught my left ski tip and twisted it nearly 180 degrees.
I heard the distinct sound of two bones breaking as I sailed through the rarified Colorado air and landed in a painful heap.

I moaned but got my skis off and attempted to stand up. Bad Idea! Someone sent for the Ski Patrol, and soon I was bundled up on a stretcher toboggan and headed down to the first aid station. Dad was just getting his skis on after getting everyone else together, when he was paged. I was ambulanced to the Steamboat Springs Hospital which has an entrance for "Ski Fractures Only". (No kidding!).

Several hours later found me on a gurney with a new cast on my left ankle and only my briefs on the rest of me. There was at least a sheet to cover my quailing 15 year old form. Dad had pulled strings and mentioned that Mom was a nurse so I wouldn't have to stay overnight in the hospital. Without further ceremony I was wheeled out to the entrance. The sheet was removed and Dad scooped up my scantily clad self and dropped me in the front seat of the Buick.

The trip back to Laramie was accomplished with three people in the front seat. My Dad Drove. I sat with my new cast on his lap and Dave had the window seat. Now there were five in the back seat, eight pair of skiis, a window down...the heater on, and a partridge in a pear tree. (Just kidding about the partridge).

At home, Dad was equally considerate of my teen aged embarrassment. And I spent the next several days on the couch in the living room, watching men circle the Moon.

I could also tell you about the Christmas Turkey, two days later, with smoked oyster stuffing gone wild that made the whole bird taste like one giant smoked oyster. Or I could tell you about winning a bet over the Second Super Bowl a month later. But those are stories for another day.

The Coach

2009-03-31T20:48:00.000-07:00

Last week I was out for my evening walk, stretching my back form several hours of writing on the computer. The soft evening air and setting sun took me back to a time, not so long ago, when I stood at the high school track and timed my daughter, Liesel as she practiced he 800 meter run. She had lagged a bit on the back stretch and I knew that this time would not be her best. I made a mental note to stand over there next time she ran to cheer her on. I should still have time to cut across the field and check her time at the finish line. She approached the line red-faced and spent but pushed forward and leaned into the finish as she had been taught. My stop watch showed a time of two thrity-seven; not bad, but not Liesel's best. Her questioning eyes clouded with disappointment when I called out the time. She jogged the track slowly, cooling down, then came back to stand by me.

"What am I doing wrong Daddy?" She sighed. "I felt like I got a good start and the first lap felt good, but I started to run out of steam on the second lap." I looked for ansers, got an idea and started to give it to her, then paused and remembered that she would learn more if the idea cam efrom her.

"Do you remember what Coach Kidd talked about the other day?" I prompted. "Well," Liesel pondered, "I guess she would say that I started out too fast, ran out of steam and didn't start my finishing sprint until I was on the home stretch."

"Yes, that's it", I encouraged, "and she also said that if you imagine that the last curve is a slingshot it will help you remember to kick in your sprint early enough to finish strong. Now why don't you try it again and start off just a bit slower? Remember, 'Rise up on the wings of eagles, run and don't be weary.' "

She smiled and put her toe on the line. I raised my hand and then dropped it and off she went. This time the stop-watch read two thirty-four, a new personal best! Liesel grinned from ear to ear. "Thanks Daddy!" "You did it Sweetie, I just reminded you of what you already knew."

I smile at the memory, get out my cell phone and call Liesel's number. She answers after a few rings. "Hi Daddy." "Hey Sweetie, how's track?" I ask. "Oh, I'm kind of discouraged. These girls don't seem to want to pay attention when I try to coach them, and one of them, who is really good, seems to feel like she knows more than I do. I'm a bit intimidated by her."

I'm tempted to tell her what to do and then I remember that 800 meter run. "What's your plan?" I ask. "Well, I thought maybe I would take them on a long run tomorrow so they can see that I can keep up with them, and then I'll ask Callie, (she's the good one), if she will be the captain and help me teach the others how to get their best time on the 800." "Good plan, Sweetie. I better hang up. I love you." "I love you too Daddy, thanks."

Last night Liesel called. she was just home from the first track meet of the season. "Daddy, would you believe it? My 800 meter medley team came in second place and Callie got a personal best!" "Good job, Sweetie!" I smile. Coaching the coach is pretty good work if you can get it.

A Tiny Patch of Blue

2009-03-03T22:42:00.000-08:00

My Grandpa Boyd was divorced from my Grandma Mabel long before I came along.
My Dad had a hard time reconciling everything that had happened, but he tried to see that we had opportunities to know our Grandpa.

Grandpa Boyd was a rough character. He had been a game warden and spent most of his life out in the "wide lonesome". He had been in on the search party when Earl Durrand killed some of the law sent to arrest him for poaching, and had stopped the car Earl was in, sticking his pistol into the window and ordering the driver, in pretty colorful language, to stop or get his head blown off. Durrand escaped the car and later was killed in during a bank robbery in Powell, Wyoming.

Grandpa was known for his legendary feats of driving skill, like the time he took a tank truck full of trout fingerlings across a swamp by chaining an aspen log to the rear wheels over and over again, or the time that he rode the ridge line for miles because it was swept free of snow by the howling Wyoming winds, when the highway between Meeteetse and Salt Lake was closed by a blizzard. He led countless pack trains into the back country and was a resourceful and skilled hunting guide.

That's what he was doing, one summer in the early sixties, when he invited Dad to bring my brother Dave and I up to the camp for a weekend. We were thrilled. The days between the invitation and the trip went by so slowly, and the anticipation was almost unbearable. Dad had even found Dave and me, suede vests and matching chaps so that we would "look the part".

The Friday afternoon before we were to leave, an unusual low pressure system descended on the Big Horn Basin. Usually, this time of year, the only moisture consisted of passing afternoon thunderstorms, but this looked more like a winter storm, with deep dark low overcast and a cold, heavy, sustained rain. The weather report said that it would continue all weekend long with no break. Dad broke the news to us as gently as he could that we might not be able to get up the Northfork to where Grandpa was, and even if we did, Grandpa might not be able to ride the miles from the back country to come and get us. Two disappointed little boys got ready for bed that evening.

Later that night I went to my Dad and said, "Daddy, I just prayed and asked Heavenly Father to let it not rain so bad so we can go see Grandpa, and He said O.K. Can we at least try to go up tomorrow? I know it will be all right." What does a Dad say to that? To his credit my Dad said, "We'll give it a try. Now go to Bed. we have to get an early start."

So early on Saturday morning we loaded up the Chevy and headed up the Canyon toward Pahaska Teepee. The further we went the worse the weather got. The clouds were so low that they became fog and the rain drummed steadily on the windshield. Dad kept saying, "Boys we should probably turn around," Each time we would beg him to go just a little further. Two hours later found us at the trail head to Camp Monaco, just a few miles from Yellowstone Park.

Dad pulled the car into the soggy gravel of the turnout and stopped. Just then the rain, which had not stopped since Friday night, petered out, but he clouds were still just as heavy and all the trees hung low with moisture. It looked like the rain would begin again any time. Dad said, "Boys, I don't think the trail is dry enough for Grandpa to make it down from the camp, maybe we should just go home."

"Dad, could we just get out of the car for a minute?" I asked. Dad sighed and opened the door. As we stepped out into the mud we looked up into the sky. Just above us was one tiny patch of blue sky in the otherwise gloomy mass of clouds. "Could we just walk up the trail a little ways?" We pleaded. Dad got out our backpacks and with some misgivings headed up the trail.

The tiny patch of blue seemed to be our friend. It followed us up the trail. It was raining all around us, but our little part of the trail was not getting any rain at all. We stopped about a half mile up the trail and sat down on a log. Dad was just getting up the nerve to tell us that we had to go back, when we heard a noise. We looked up and saw Grandpa, in his poncho, leading a string of horses down the trail. "Hello Bruce, let's get these kids on the horses and get them back to camp." He said.

All the way back to camp, that little patch of blue sky followed us, like a lonely puppy. Nary a drop of rain fell on us on the trail. But when we got to camp and were safe in the tent, the little blue patch disappeared and the rain came down in buckets. The rest of the week was beautiful, though, and we had the time of our lives. That was the only trip that we ever had with Grandpa. I will never forget and always be grateful for God's answer to my trusting little boy prayer, that let a tiny patch of blue guide us safely to camp.

A Story About Grandpa Ben

2009-03-03T22:18:00.000-08:00

As long as we are talking about grandpas and guns, I have another story to get out of my system. It has to do with another Great Grandpa. This is the story of Grandpa Ben and the Antelope.

Grandpa's name was Edgar Bennion. His son Boyd, my grandpa, was a game warden.
Edgar was a poacher. he had grown up in the time when there weren't "seasons" on shooting game. If you wanted some meat you went out and shot it.

One day he and my Dad, Bruce, whom Grandpa Ben called "Buddyben", were driving between Cody and Meeteetse, Wyoming. Grandpa saw an antelope out across the barbed wire fence along the road. "Get me my rifle, Buddyben." said Grandpa, and Dad handed him his Thirty ought Six. Grandpa put down the antelope with one shot and he and Dad dragged the carcass under the fence, threw it in the trunk and headed for home where they planned to butcher the meat in the garage.

As they crossed the Greybull River Bridge and drove down Meeteeetse's main street, a sudden and terrible clatter arose from the trunk. Dad said that bulges appeared in the back seat upholstery and dust rose as the car rocked to and fro. It was apparent that there had been an antelope resusitation. Strange glances were seen from bystanders on the boardwalk outside the bank the drug store and the Meeteetse Mercantile. Up the hill toward Grandpa's house the two culprits sped, accompanied by the commotion of confined but flailing hooves.

Reaching the garage, Grandpa pulled in, closed the door and said to Dad, "Buddyben, get me my pistol and stand back." Then Grandpa unlatched the trunk, whereupon the captive sprang from it's automobile prison and began to run in panicked circles around the car. Grandpa followed in hot pursuit, pistol waving as he tried to acquire the target. Finally he got a good bead and put the fugitive out of its misery.

As Dad finished the story he said, "Of course the meat was ruined, to much running and too much adrenaline." Thus ended the sad tale of a poaching gone awry.

The story of Grandpa Peoples and the Wild Night in March.

2009-03-01T22:09:00.000-08:00

(Photo is Grandma Peoples and her parents. She is middle of back row. Her name was Mary Barbara Feyhl)

Elisha Walter Peoples (My Great Grandpa)

Grandpa and Grandma Peoples lived in Meeteetse, Wyoming. He was a tough old cowboy and she was a sweet refined lady. He had herded cattle and driven stagecoach. (He had a bridge collapse under him between Red Lodge and Meeteetse, and break his leg.) He was about forty and she about 20 when they married. They opened a bar and restaurant on the dirt road that was the main street in Meeteetse. He ran the saloon and she ran the eatery. He had a crooked finger and once a drunk tried to straighten it by smashing it with a bottle. Grandpa knocked him flat.

Late one wild and windy March evening, Grandpa closed up the Bar and headed for home, about half a mile distant up the hill. He had all the day's receipts in a money belt about his waist, to be deposited at the bank the following morning. It is possible that Grandpa had imbibed in a bit of his own stock to fortify him for the trip home, it was, after all, blustery and cold. Be that as it may, as he passed the school yard, a dark shape loomed in the shadows, beneath the waving branches of the trees.

Grandpa knew a possible ambush when he saw it, so he drew his six-shooter and yelled, "Get yore hands up you blankety-blankin' no good hoss thief!" There was no answer from the ominous shape. "Ya answer me you cussed so-n-so or I'll blast ya ta kingdom come!" Still, there was no answer. Grandpa aimed his gun and blazed away, all six shots! Then turned and ran like a rabbit for home where he arrived safe and out of breath, but otherwise no worse for the wear.

The next morning, when the school janitor went to retrieve the pot belly stove that had been taken outside in the yard for cleaning, he was chagrined to find six bullet holes stitched from top to bottom. Grandpa may have had an overactive imagination, but there was nothing wrong with his shooting.

The Address of my Previous Blog

2009-02-26T00:16:00.000-08:00

This is where I used to write.

http://angelslanding.blogtownhall.com/default.aspx

My New Blog

2009-02-26T00:00:00.000-08:00

It's time to launch my new blog. I have titled it "Bennionousity", which denotes a particular state of being. In this particular case; left-handed, history reading, geneology doing, family loving, battlefield tromping, deep thinking, Jad-Doking.