Mutual Dell Beckons former senior missionaries who had served in the Dominican Republic

Mutual Dell Beckons former senior missionaries who had served in the Dominican Republic

Darrel L. Hammon

A drive up American Fork Canyon into the Uinta National Forest creates an instantaneous “awe” as one cannot help but gasp at the majesty of the craggy canyon walls, the American Fork River gurgling its way out of the canyon, and the acres and acres of forested hillsides.

Los Crismon, Kilgore, Glazier, Jensen--good food and even better company

 Around 4:30 p.m., we began our wanderings up the canyon with Elder and Sister Crismon who had taken our place as Welfare Specialists in the Caribbean Area Welfare Office. Just eight weeks into their missions, Hermana Crismon fell and broke her hip, which required a quick exit from the DR via a private plane to Florida where she had her hip replaced and within a week she was back home recuperating.

President Glazier and Elder Kilgore with Sister Glazier looking on

 We passed by the guard gate and headed up the canyon, driving slowly and enjoying the incredible views. Soon, we turned into the Mutual Dell, a sprawling congolorament of well-cared for lodges, campsites, and open fields for recreation. Our campsite was a group of picnic tables beneath a solid wooden canopy structure just across the river. 

Elder Atkinson introducing the campfire activity amid the smoke

We pulled our car into a parking spot when we spotted Elder and Sister Atkinson chatting with another couple. The other couple turned out to be los Roberts who had arrived before we did to stake the claim to our site and ready it for the rest of us. Los Roberts won the prize for coming the farthest—Idaho Falls, Idaho.

 

Los Atkinson and Sister Hammon--"Food looks good!"

 Soon, the former missionaries began to arrive—los Atkinson, Brown, Berkeley, Bowcut, Crismon, Eickbush, Ford, Glazier, Hammon, Kilgore, and Roberts. Along with the missionaries the food began appearing on one of the tables—cakes, cookies, salads, fruit salads piled deep with watermelon and cantaloupe, chips, and salsa.

 

Elder Atkinson and los Ford

 Elder Atkinson clicked on the new gas grill that had replaced the charcoal one. Apparently, Mutual Dell has done away with the old-fashioned charcoal grills in each campsite with these new, electric start mega-grills. Had everyone brought a piece of meat, it would have all fit on. Thankfully, Elder Eickbush, ever the Boy Scout, brought a host of BBQ utensils.

Elder Jay E. and Lona Jensen

 The highlight of the evening was listening to Elder Jay E. Jensen, an Emeritus member of the Quorum of Seventy and former member of the Presidency of the Seventy. He and his lovely wife Lona joined us for a night of questions/answers/commentary.

Elder Jay E. Jensen addressing the group

 Since he had spent a good portion of his professional life working in the Church Educational System, teaching seminary, writing curriculum, and training prospective seminary teachers, he brought a wealth of information about learning and teaching. He spoke about the new teaching and learning curriculum for the youth and urged us all to go to www.lds.org, seek out, and watch the 23 teaching videos found under “Come, Follow Me Learning Resources for Youth.” 

Los Jensen and Elder Eickbush having a deep conversation

 He also introduced the concept of “divine rendezvous,” something we have all experienced. He told a story of a Chinese woman who was told to look up a missionary when she went to Toronto, Canada. Now, Toronto is a big place. She saw two young missionaries at an apartment next to the one where she was staying. She stopped them and asked if they were missionaries. They said yes. She then asked them if they knew Elder So and So. One of the elders pulled back his jacket to reveal his name—the same name of the missionary the woman was told to search out when she went to Toronto.

los Brown y los Eickbush enjoying the campfire and the discussion

 He has known the Brethren for a long time. He told a few President Packer stories. One important saying many of us say is this: “We need to get the water to the end of the row. President Packer doesn’t necessarily like this particular saying. Instead of just getting the water to the end of the row, we need to make it rain so that the entire field is covered. Thus, he believes it needs to rain revelation to help us all.

 

Aren't these two of the cutest hermanas you have ever seen? Ford and Hammon

Overall we enjoyed (disfrutamos) a wonderful evening of BBQ, excellent food, even choicer conversations with our fellow missionaries, Dominican Republic updates and reminiscings, picture taking, saludos y abrazos, a glowing campfire, questions and answers from Elder Jensen, and knowing we were basking in the midst of one of God’s greatest creations.

los Berkeley, Roberts, Eickbush, Bowcut--more good food and company

Gracias a todos por haber venido y participado!

 

los Brown

Los Ford

Essentials of Fatherhood: What My Father Taught Me

I published this recently at http://familyshare.com/essentials-of-fatherhood-what-my-father-taught-me, and I wanted to reprint it here to shout out a Happy Father's Day to all fathers and those aspiring fathers. You are amazing people who deserve huge accolades. But I also know that fathers can do even more.

Essentials of fatherhood: What my father taught me 
Darrel L. Hammon

My father: the Dean Hammon and eight children

Becoming and being a father can be both a scary and wonderful thing. Unfortunately, there is no undergraduate or graduate program in fatherhood. Fatherhood is a learned art — often on the job after the children come. Some of us have had exceptional fathers. Others do not care to talk about theirs. Still others say their fathers taught them a few things, not necessarily through what they said but by their actions.

My father was one of those whose grounding emerged from being the youngest of 12 siblings. When my father was 11-years-old, his father passed away. Thankfully, he had plenty of grown-up brothers and sisters to help him toe the line although the line sometimes blurred. He entered the military at an early age and learned hard things on ships and being stationed in Japan.

My father was not the type for sit-down conversations and flowery dissertations. Rather, he taught us through a variety of methods, probably gleaned from several sources, including his older brothers and my mother. But taught he did.

Here are five fatherhood essentials my father taught me through his example:

Fatherhood is being a leader through example. My father spent time in the Army as a drill sergeant and often we felt we were part of his platoon. He liked to see things accomplished and done correctly. Consequently, he often showed us once how something was supposed to be done and expected us to learn quickly and carry on after he was gone. Granted, he did check up on us periodically to make sure we had completed the task. Often, he had to re-show us how it was to be done, but he did not hover over us.

Fatherhood is helping others and teaching your children to do the same. Some time ago, my wife and I were reminiscing about our fathers. Both of our fathers have passed away. What impressed us both about each of our fathers was the fact that they would help anyone with anything.

Joanne's father would be the first one out on a snowy day and shovel all the walks and driveways down the street. Although he had to drive almost 40 miles to work each morning, he always took time to get up early and do what the neighbors needed done.

My dad and my sisters

My father taught me the same thing. I remember getting up early and going with him to shovel the walks of the widows and older people in our neighborhood or working in their yards and pulling weeds. On his days off, my father would go and help others with their roofs and fences. He did not ever expect to be paid, and he taught us that helping others was just part of the service we performed as good neighbors.

Fatherhood means spending time with your children. What a revelation this is! Whatever event that happened in my life, my father tried to attend even though he worked shift work most of his life. I suspect there were times when he did not have much sleep before he left to go to work. The former drill sergeant who I thought was the tough guy was really a marshmallow underneath. He teared easily when he talked about the achievements of his family. I remember when I received my doctorate from the University of Idaho, my mother and father journeyed almost 600 miles so they could be with me and share in my success.

Fatherhood means teaching children how to work. One of the challenges I have heard numerous leaders lament is the lack of work ethic in recent college graduates and young people. My father would probably cringe if he heard that. He believed in a strong work ethic — true hard work.

One thing I learned early was never complain because my dad would always find more work for us to do. He specifically built a home in the country so we could have animals — cows, chickens, horses, pigs and sometimes lambs. Plus, we had a big garden, which became one of my responsibilities in the summer. From these many projects and chores, I learned to rise early, work hard and be responsible. I still rise early, even though I do not have outside chores to do. I still have a garden and I love rising early and working in it.

Fatherhood is being happy. My father loved to tell jokes, and his laugh was contagious. I remember going to one of the Call Me Trinity movies with him and some of my friends, and I thought my friends and I were going to die laughing not at the funny scenes in the movie, but at my dad laughing at the funny scenes.

One of things my dad loved to do was yodel. He said he learned to yodel while tending sheep in the high mountain meadows. One of the treasures we have as a family is a short recording of Dad yodeling. My siblings and I have compiled “Deanisms,” and our children now often pan when we use one, “Sounds like he is turning into Grandpa Hammon.”

Fathers are natural leaders and examples. Mine was no different. Often, though, his teachings never came from a direct conversation. Rather, they came through working with him and watching him help others as if it were just part of his normal, everyday life. I can only hope I can continue teaching my children and grandchildren through a good example. 

My father with my two daughters in 2004 in Quartzsite, Arizona.

Kneeling first behind sage brush is the best way to catch fish

Kneeling first behind sage brush is the best way to catch fish

Darrel L. Hammon

Summers in the west are incredible and ever-changing. One day it is beautiful—the trees sway in the wind while the sun gently beats down on the tender shoots of wheat in the fields. But the next minute, the huge gray purplish clouds gather in the east and soon send pounding rain and hail to the ground, and, yes, sometimes snow in the mountains. Water gushes down the gutters to the tiny drains at the end of each road. When I was younger, summer pretty much meant one thing: fishing season.

One of my most favorite places to go was Birch Creek, mainly because the Fish and Game stocked it with fish just like one of the Mart stores stocks its shelves—full. We used to ramble up there in one of our station wagons packed to the gills with stuff. Initially, we set up tents, but it wasn’t too long before my mother talked my dad into buying a small camp trailer. It made life more pleasant, especially during those late snows that often came around July 4^th in the mountains.

One particular family reunion/camping trip to Birch Creek, I was determined to catch my own fish. I was probably five or six at the time and had caught fish with my dad. Up until that time, catching fish meant I reeled in the fish after dad hooked them. I don’t remember when I finally figured it out, but I knew that wasn’t real fishing. I’m sure for the first five or six years of my life that was all right, but I wanted to become a real fisherman which meant I had to catch a fish all by myself with my own pole and me baiting my own hook.

So, one day I decided it was my time, and I trotted downstream to a huge hole in the bend of the creek, not too far from camp and within sight. Becoming a fisherman didn’t necessarily mean I had to cut all ties. I still wanted to hear the laughing and the faint voices of my parents. Of course, I can attempt that now. But not then. I think I thought I was far enough away to be independent.

When I arrived at the hole, I climbed down the bank and stood just away from the water. My dad had taught me to sneak up, real quiet like, so as not to spook the fish. I stood behind a small sage brush and baited my hook.

According to my dad, baiting a hook was the key to catching fish, and it had to be done just right. If you didn’t thread the worm just so on the hook, then the fish would look at it and say to the rest, “Look at this shoddy job. This kid can’t even bait a hook.”  Then they would all laugh, steal the worm, and swim away, leaving the fisherman with an empty hook and shattered hopes.

I was determined to have one of them pay the price for laughing at a young boy’s feeble attempt at baiting a hook so I was extremely careful about threading the worm. When I finished, it looked pretty good to me. Only a few bits of flesh hung off the hook.

Just like my dad had shown me, I tossed in the line at the top of the hole and let it float in. It sat for awhile then swirled downstream. Nothing. I tried the drill again. This time, it sat for a longer period of time. Then the tugging started. My heart pounded, I hesitated once, and then I yanked too hard because the line came flying out of the water and onto the bank behind me. I scrambled to see what had happened.

My worm was gone. I figured I hadn’t thread the worm just right because the fish that struck my line pulled it off like some worm bandit. It dawned on me this was one smart fish. It knew the drill better than I did. But I was determined to catch this fish.

I reached into my bait can, really nothing more than an old Band Aid box, and pulled out a juicy worm. I carefully threaded it on, making sure every bit of it fit on my number six hook. Then I cast it upstream and let it float into the hole.

Sure enough. That worm bandit was waiting for me. But I wasn’t quite fast enough for it. When I reeled in the line, the worm was gone again. I pulled another worm, a bigger one this time, from my box, and threaded it better than the other two.

This time I did something different. I knelt behind a sage brush and said a little prayer. I figured if God could help Peter catch a huge net full of fish, He could surely make one little fish jump on my hook.

After I finished, I sneaked back to the bank and confidently tossed in my hook. When the line got to the place where my last bite had been, I was ready. I didn’t have the same tug as before. It was bigger and stronger. It must have been the bandit’s bigger brother or sister. When he tugged, I pulled, in fact pulled so hard I yanked the fish clear out of the water, and it went sailing off into the sage brush somewhere behind me.

I was so excited. I dropped my pole and started looking for my fish. I could hear it flopping. I knew I had to find it because fish have this uncanny sense of flopping about until they can find water. And I surely didn’t want that to happen.

Within seconds, I found it. I grabbed it between both hands, scrambled up the bank, and headed for camp, yelling all the way, holding my fish high above my head. The whole camp must have thought something was definitely wrong because when I arrived, everyone had gather to see what the commotion was.

By the time I had run that short distance, the fish was dead. I had squeezed the life out of him. Everyone congratulated me, and my dad lined it up with the rest of the fish caught so we could measure the size. Mine was the biggest one of the bunch.

I guess this catch made me a true fisherman. Since then, I have caught a lot of fish on my own, many of them much bigger than that first fish. Somehow, though, one’s first catch is always the biggest and the best.

Some say fishing is an art, and it is all in the way you hold your mouth. I always thought it was how long you kneeled behind a sagebrush.

 

Boltz-Andersen Tour de Cemeteries

Boltz-Andersen Tour de Cemeteries  
Darrel L. Hammon 
 

Larry Taylor, whose mother was a Boltz, places

We have all heard of the Tour de France. But what about the Tour de Cemeteries? Today was the inauguration of the Boltz-Andersen Tour de Cemeteries.

The Boltz-Andersen clans met at 1:00 p.m. at Tautphaus Park Shelter #3 in Idaho Falls, Idaho, to share in the quintessential sharing of potluck! Any time you connect families like the Andersen and Boltz families and say “potluck,” everyone comes with delicious dishes of food, no one goes away hungry, and you have to ask where did they learn to prepare food like that? Truly it was an incredible delicatessen experience. 

Larry, Joanne, John, Mother Boltz, Jean, and Lou Jean--all from the Boltz family

             Then came the Tour de Cemeteries. Each cemetery breathed stories of those who were buried there, some written and some ad hoc from those present—cousins (even those twice removed), daughters, aunts, uncles. Lots of tears were shed, but more laughter and funny stories seeped out, spilling over everyone who was there.

Lou Jean Hales, whose father was a Boltz, reads stories to all of us.

 Each cemetery was beautiful in its own right—hoards of different kinds of trees, immaculate lawns, stunning gravestones, and a plethora of flower arrangements delicately placed by loving hands. Peace and comfort seeped over us as we roamed in and among the various headstones remembering our loved ones.

Rosa Boltz, the Matriarch of the Boltz clan.

           We initiated the Tour next door to Tautphaus Park at Rose Hill Cemetery where Rosa Boltz, the matron of the Boltz clan, was buried. She was one of those independent souls, transplanted from plains of Nebraska to the high mountain desert of Idaho. Before she died, she proclaimed, “I do not want to be buried in Nebraska.” So, the family buried her in Rose Hill, alone, beneath a tree. Her husband died before she did and was transported back to Nebraska.

Many of the Andersen clan listen to stories

           Rose Hill was close in and steeped in history and lots of trees. Fielding Memorial lay sprawled what used to be way out on Yellowstone. The Lewisville Cemetery is just west of Walker’s feedlot, between mooing cows and sage brush. The Ucon Cemetery was not quite as large but lay in an open expanse. You could see the Ririe foothills and beyond there. The Ririe-Shelton was the farthest out but beautiful. It was breezy there, nestled on top of a hill overlooking acres and acres of farm land. Sprinklers oozed gallons of water over other fields that used to be dry farms.

John, whose father was a Boltz; Jean, whose mother was a Boltz

By far, the loveliest of them all was Annis-Little Butte Cemetery (I am a bit biased here). This beautiful cemetery is nestled on the back side of a volcanic butte and in the shadow of the mighty Snake River and the Menan Buttes. The bulk of the Andersen and the Boltz families claim this as their final resting spot. Everyone had a story to tell about those who lie here. One of the stories spoke of Luke Boltz and his annual ice skating rink in the back of his house on 9^th Street. Joanne and others talked about the hours her dad would spend outside in the bitter cold, spraying water on the rink and making sure it was smooth as glass.  

Aunt Esther whose husband was an Andersen

          Perhaps one of the most poignant stories told happened at the Ririe-Shelton Cemetery.

Karen, Aunt Esther, Julie, and Brian--from the Andersen family

            Jack Pickering married to Fran Boltz Pickering went ice fishing one day with two of his relatives. While fishing, he felt something was wrong, and asked Brian, one of his fishing buddies and an Andersen, to get him one of his nitroglycerin pills. Brian quickly found the pill, gave him one, and said, “We ought to get you to doctor.” He utterly refused and waved him off, stating he was feeling better all ready. Brian set him up in one of the ice holes and went about auguring another hole. When he looked up, his Uncle Jack was slumped over the hole. He had died doing what he loved: fishing.

The Andersen clan whose husband, father, and grandfather was an Andersen

                Overall, the day was wonderful, long, and enlightening. We learned things about those who had passed. Perhaps, though, we learned more about those who were there. Some were well acquainted with each other; others had not met some in the Tour. Yet, we were all family, now and hopefully forever.