Domo Arigato Mr. Roboto

Sometimes the best thanks are those we feel for the simple, tender mercies that we are blessed with in our day-to-day lives.

I have a rule in my house. My wife and kids think I’m some kind of Thanksgiving Nazi, but RULES ARE RULES and THANKSGIVING COMES BEFORE CHRISTMAS! I love Thanksgiving. I don’t DO Christmas music until tomorrow. Black Friday for me is less about shopping and more about OK-you-can-turn-on-the-Christmas-music. But for some reason, the Costcovites and Walmartians believe that it is OK to by-pass Thanksgiving and skip RIGHT TO CHRISTMAS. How is it that in September in Las Vegas (temperature: 92° F) the aisles of seemingly every store in the valley are filled with lights and ornaments, fake trees and stockings?

Drives. Me. Nuts.

Before I wake up Friday morning, I want Thanksgiving. I love it. I love the turkey and the stuffing and (especially) the sweet potatoes. Pumpkin pie? I’m all over that. Homemade rolls? Yes, have some. Turkey Bowl (or Turkey Trot, this year)? I’m in. Eating too much and watching football on TV and just enjoying time with family? There’s nothing better. It’s my favorite holiday, bar none.

This year, for the first time in my married life, I found myself at my in-laws’ home for Thanksgiving. Truthfully, it’s the first time in my entire life, married or otherwise, that I’ve been to their home for Thanksgiving, having not come to their home BEFORE I knew their daughter either. We’ve done Christmas several times, and we’ve done summer, and even some other times of the year when the kids were on year-round school and had track breaks, but I’ve never been here for Thanksgiving. It’s a first.

The careful reader will recall that the last time I visited my in-laws, some eleven months ago, I had a WONDERFUL time with DELTA (Don’t Even Leave The Airport). The non-careful reader can get up to speed by reading that story here. You would think that I would  learn from my past mistakes, but you’d be wrong. In my own defense, I offer the following: (i) I was the proud owner of several vouchers because of the 2015 debacle; (ii) my wife is loyal to a fault to certain brands, and DELTA (Don’t Even Leave The Airport) is on that list; (iii) my DELTA (Don’t Even Leave The Airport) American Express permits me to bring my suitcase with me when I fly WITHOUT an additional fee (how nice); and (iv) I already have the DELTA (Don’t Even Leave The Airport) App on my phone, and who really wants the headache of downloading another airline’s app? Hence, we flew DELTA (Don’t Even Leave The Airport) again.

Checking in for our flight was mostly painless (see item (iv) in the immediately preceding paragraph). Getting up at 4 in the morning to get to the airport on time was mostly painful. The airport, well, it was a near-disaster. DELTA (Don’t Even Leave The Airport), apparently in a criminal conspiracy with McCarran International Airport, had decided that RIGHT NOW was a good time to completely overhaul the ticketing area, so there was construction everywhere. DELTA (Don’t Even Leave The Airport) also decided that it was NOT a good time to overstaff for holiday traffic. Oh, and EVERYONE AND THEIR BROTHER decided that Saturday morning was the perfect time to fly DELTA (Don’t Even Leave The Airport).

The ticketing line, which was also (conveniently) the line to drop your bags if you’d pre-checked-in, wrapped through approximately three-quarters of a mile of Disneyland-esque switchbacks, wrapped around the elevator and escalator, along the wall of the airport another half-mile to the outside door.[1] There were people EVERYWHERE. There was a DELTA (Don’t Even Leave The Airport) employee who dutifully explained to us that THIS was the line for checking baggage, international flights, domestic flights, it-doesn’t-matter-what-flight-you’d-better-just-stand-in-this-line flights, but we could, if we wanted to, try curbside check-in. Of course, DELTA (Don’t Even Leave The Airport) had exactly two (2) employees at the curbside check-in, and the line extended all the way up the sidewalk. Da*ned if you do, da*ned if you don’t.

[1]All measurements are approximations made under the influence of very little sleep and a healthy dose of irritation.

Oh, and then there were the signs: “BAGGAGE MUST BE CHECKED 45 MINUTES BEFORE YOUR FLIGHT.” We were not going to make this flight. Not. A. Chance.

But we stood in line because that's what good American travelers do, shuffling forward eighteen inches at a time with each person that moved up in line, sliding our bags alongside us. After twenty-five minutes, we still hadn’t reached the Disneyland-esque switchbacks, and the minutes were ticking away. We were not going to make this flight. We were essentially doomed to be stuck living in the airport, waiting for another family of saps that didn’t show up on time to miss their flight so we could take their seats.

Clorinda had wandered off [note to self: consider getting one of those baby leashes to keep her close by in public places] and was talking to a DELTA (Don’t Even Leave The Airport) employee. Clorinda had entertained the idea of trying for the FBI after she’d graduated from college, and she displayed some outstanding interrogation skills in breaking the DELTA (Don’t Even Leave The Airport) employee’s will. Or at least getting her to tell us that we could take our luggage to the gate and they would check it there, AS LONG AS THERE WAS NO LIQUID IN THE BAGS!! This requirement is of vital importance, because although my daughter’s bottle of conditioner COULD NOT be used to blow up a plane if it the luggage was checked directly through DELTA (Don’t Even Leave The Airport), we were certainly putting EVERY OTHER TRAVELER in MORTAL DANGER by bringing it through TSA and then checking it at the gate.

That meant that one of us had to run those half-empty bottles back to the car. Being the fattest and slowest, I was unanimously voted by the other two to be the runner. Nike! Nike! Nike!

Somehow I made it, and then huffing and sweating like a pig, I pushed my way through TSA with my suitcase and my carry-on. Kathryn and I stood several spots in line behind a young mother who was more intersted in taking selfies with her baby than in getting her 23[2] pieces of baby-luggage through TSA, but we finally got through and ran (me sans-shoes) to catch the tram out to the D-Gates. At the gate they took our luggage, gave us a little slip of paper to prove we’d actually checked our bags, and on to the plane we went.

[2]See note [1], supra.

I wish I could say it was all good from there, but, hmm, actually, it was all good from there. Everything DELTA (Don’t Even Leave The Airport) did after 7:30 AM was on point. Well done DELTA (Don’t Even Leave The Airport)! It’s moments like that endear you to my wife. And it’s understanding that makes it possible for people like [me] to tolerate a [company] like yourself.

OK, that’s enough rant. This wasn’t supposed to be a rant entry. (Although that could be a great compound word: “rantentry [rant’-uhn-tree]: to enter or record extravagantly or in a wild or vehement way in a blog, book, register, list, etc.” Get Webster’s on the line pronto.)

Our time here has been great. Clorinda’s dad picked us up at the airport. They tell me that it was 70 degrees and sunny on Saturday morning, but by the time we arrived it was 40 and dropping some form of semi-frozen water from the sky. Good thing I’d come prepared with my best Las Vegas winter-wear: a hoodie. We got to their house and enjoyed a wonderful dinner courtesy of Clorinda’s mom. Sometime after midnight Clorinda’s sister and her husband, with their five kiddos in tow, arrived from St. Louis. (Funny moment: my nephew walked in, looked right at me and said, “Hi grandma!” Either my efforts to get in touch with my feminine side are working, or his grandma has really let herself go.)

On Monday we got to travel to Buena Vista, Virginia, population 6002 and 3 grumpy old people (so said the sign). Kathryn decided that the 3 should be 4 since I was in town. (Anyone looking for a full-time babysitter? I have a 15 year old that is available immediately.) We met Clayton outside his dorm and got the grand tour of the campus. His dorms are probably 60 years old—cinder block walls, linoleum tile flooring, fluorescent lights. His roommate Paul is a great kid and fellow volleyball player. Clayton was introducing his “familia” to everyone. For that matter, he seemed to know everyone on campus. We grabbed lunch with him in the cafeteria (cheeseburger w/ fried egg and a side salad), shopped the bookstore so Kathryn could get a matching sweatshirt, and got to see the arena where they play their games. Clayton had conditioning later in the afternoon, so we left to check into our hotel and then came back and picked him up for dinner.

Clorinda and Kathryn outside of Clayton's dorm.

Selfie (threefie?) right after the mens basketball game.

Clayton took us to his favorite place—a true college-town sports bar. There are three colleges between Buena Vista and Lexington, so there were a ton of young people around. We ordered our food, including an order of wings as an appetizer that were, in all honesty, the best I’ve ever had. Clayton had homework, so we took him back to his room and we went and crashed at the hotel.

<side_rantentry>I appreciate hotels that offer a continental breakfast. It’s convenient and I can usually cobble together a decently healthy meal out of the options. The Best Western had the standard accoutrements: bagels, oatmeal, a waffle iron, fruit, milk, juice, etc., as well as the hot foods. I grabbed some fruit, bacon, and a cheese omelet. The fruit was good, the bacon, while crispier than I prefer, was bacon, and then the omelet. The first bite caused me to believe that they might filming an episode of Chopped in the hotel kitchen. Or Fear Factor. The filling would best be described as (and this is a technical term) cold, curdled goop. I opened the omelet and was presented with a sizeable schmear of (cold) Cheez Whiz. And by “sizeable schmear” I mean there was more Cheeze Whiz than any normal human should eat in one sitting.

I tried. Really I did. But I could not finish the second omelet. JUST KIDDING! I didn’t go back for seconds. Are you kidding? I couldn’t even get the first one down.<\side_rantentry>

The highlight of Tuesday, and one of the absolute highlights of the trip, was the opportunity to ordain Clayton as an Elder. He had called me a few weeks ago excited to tell me that his Bishop had interviewed him and was recommending him for ordination. [For you non-Mormon-ites, the LDS church has a lay ministry and men are ordained to the priesthood and covenant to serve others through their lives. All members have opportunity to make further priesthood covenants with the Lord in LDS temples. It’s kind of a big deal.] Clayton had invited his coach to come and we were there with a member of the Stake Presidency, so it was just a small group. President Clark told us all about his interview with Clayton and how impressed he was by Clayton’s understanding of the oath and covenant he would be making. It was a distinct honor to pronounce a blessing on Clayton.

We headed back up to Pennsylvania later that evening. Clorinda’s brother and sister-in-law, with their four youngsters, came Wednesday. In all there were 19 people (five of whom were age 7 or under) in the house. It was a little bit crazy, but it was great to have them all here. Clorinda’s brother and family live in New York, and her sister’s family are in St. Louis, so we don’t get to see either family very often. (That’s not all of her family mind you. In addition to New York and Missouri, she has siblings living in Texas, Washington, New Mexico, Utah, and Las Vegas. We get to see her brother in Las Vegas pretty regularly, but not the rest of them. That may be by design (theirs, I mean—I’m not the easiest person to hang out with).) It was fun to have all those little kids. And the older ones, too. I particularly enjoyed watching Kathryn win the shy ones over. I even got in on the fun with them.

Kathryn and her cousins.

We were able to Turkey Trot on Thursday with our kids and the older niece and nephews. Truth be told, I was more hobbling than trotting, so Clorinda, her mother, and I just walked it. Clorinda’s nephew took 2nd place in his age group. He thought he was winning only to discover that a kid that looked older and finished just a few seconds before him was actually 16. Augh! There was some cross-over on the course so we got to cheer for Ethan as he was almost finishing before we had made the first ½ mile. Clayton ran well (he had to run one as assigned conditioning) and Kathryn even ran. I did NOT come in last place, although I was neck-and-neck with a senior-citizen pushing his wife in a wheelchair and a woman on crutches. There were some toddlers that had been involuntarily signed up by their parents that gave up halfway through, and I think I beat them.

Kathryn found a pineapple on the turkey trot.

I cannot say enough good about Thanksgiving dinner. My mother-in-law went all out and we had everything I could have asked for. The food was great, the company was wonderful (if loud), and we just enjoyed each other’s company.

The whole crew.

My beautiful dinner date.

Clayton and his cousins.

But I couldn’t shake this feeling of melancholy that had settled in around me. It didn’t feel like Thanksgiving should feel.

Marien left on a mission in June. It’s been five months since we’ve been able to speak to her, and although we get weekly emails, we won’t get to talk to her until Christmas day. I was missing Marien something fierce. My favorite part of Thanksgiving is spending it with my family, and a full one-fifth of my family was not here. Worse yet, Clayton’s campus is less than 150 miles from where she is presently serving, so at one point I was just a couple hours from where she was. THAT was a hard thing for an old man. It was bringing me down.

It’s times like that when the Lord reminds you that he knows who you are. Right after our dinner, while watching a little football on TV, my phone buzzed and there was a text from some random North Carolina phone. Attached to it was a picture of my favorite missionary and her companion smiling ear to ear as they enjoyed Thanksgiving pie. It was truly a tender mercy for a dad that was missing his daughter. (I am such a softie.)

Sister Fontano and Sister Hirsche living the dream.

I am grateful for all of the tender mercies I’ve experienced this week. For Clorinda, who got us tickets through DELTA (Don’t Even Leave The Airport) and then tricked the DELTA (Don’t Even Leave The Airport) employee into telling us how we could actually make our flight on time. For Clayton, who has been adulting at SVU, living on his own, passing his classes, and playing volleyball, and who gave me the opportunity to ordain him as an Elder. For Kathryn, who has entertained her little cousins endlessly through this trip, causing eruptions of laughter and joy from 2-year olds that sometimes act like 2-year olds, and who got out and ran that Turkey Trot. For Marien, who is serving the people of North Carolina and serving the Savior, and for a random person I’ve never met who sent me her picture on a lonely (as lonely as a dad can be surrounded by extended family) Thanksgiving evening. For a mother- and father-in-law that gave us a room to sleep in, warm meals all week long, and who are shining examples of love and generosity. For brothers- and sisters-in-law, nieces and nephews that filled the house with enough laughter and tears, games, stories, gymnastics, jokes, and smiles to last until the next time we can see them, and for a brother-in-law that treated my family to a movie and drinks from the snack bar (giggle-shots, HAH!). There is so much to be thankful for if we just slow down and look for it.

Maybe that’s why it’s my favorite holiday.

Oops I Did It Again

It was the phone call that every parent dreads.

“You need to take your son to the children’s emergency room at Sunrise Hospital tonight. I will call and instruct them to admit him as soon as you get there.”

 What? Can’t this wait until tomorrow?

 “No. It has to be tonight.”

 A call like that will strike fear into the heart of the strongest of fathers, and I am not the strongest of fathers. I’m a mid-forties desk jockey with a pot belly and male pattern baldness. Working out from me involves pushing away from the dessert tray. So when a pediatric orthopedist calls and tells you that your son has a serious bone infection and that he needs to be admitted to the hospital THAT NIGHT it is terrifying.
 
We called our bishop and our home teacher. Neither were home, so we left messages. Before long we had 6 of the best men I know in my house giving a priesthood blessing to my son.

And then we were off to Sunrise Hospital. The triage nurses gave him THE interview (you know, the one about whether your parents are abusive) and apparently we passed. So that was good. And then they wheeled him off to his room.

For about a week prior to all this Clayton had been dealing with some severe pain in his legs. He would wake up and almost couldn’t get out of bed. Clorinda had dutifully dragged him from doctor to doctor for two days—first to the pediatrician, then to the orthopedist, then back to the pediatrician and off to a lab for blood work. He was poked and prodded and examined ad nauseum. Nobody seemed to have any real answers, but we were hopeful that it was something minor that would soon be remedied.

Hopeful, but very, very scared.

The orthopedist’s opinion was not quite so optimistic.

 He diagnosed that Clayton was suffering from a bacterial infection deep in his leg bones. He would have to be hospitalized for at least two weeks, and would have a PIC line for the whole summer (which is just what a twelve-year-old boy wants to hear one week after school lets out) that would permit a course of very heavy antibiotics. 

Summer. Ruined.

Clayton was supposed to leave the following Monday to head to Brian Head for a week of camping, mountain biking, and fishing with the Young Men from our ward. He was so excited to go, and now he wasn’t going to be able to. In fact, he wasn’t going to be able to do much of anything that summer.

We didn’t really tell him that.

 Despite the pain and he less-than-ideal living arrangements, Clayton fell right in with the Hospital staff. He sweet-talked a nurse into giving him a wheelchair, which he would use to cruise the hallways in the Children’s Hospital. (Sidebar: this is actually an incredible talent this kid has—it really doesn’t matter the setting, Clayton will make friends quickly with anyone. I’ve watched him start conversations and make friends in line at Disneyland, sitting in an airplane, and jumping into a volleyball game in Waikiki. He is everyone’s friend.)

And we’re back. The hospital had Playstations and DVD players for the kids in their rooms, so Clayton was all over that. Some friends lent him an iPod that was loaded with all kinds of music and movies, too. The best part was all the Gatorade he could drink (of course, the flip side was that they wanted to measure the fluid passing through him, so he had to pee in a bottle, which he was not crazy about).

We had a hard time getting his doctor to come visit, but the doctor on staff at the hospital was very attentive. When Clayton’s doctor did finally get there, he asked Clayton how he was doing. Clayton was sitting in the wheelchair at the time and literally JUMPED out of the chair to the absolute SHOCK of the doctor. “Wait a minute—you could barely STAND when you were in my office two days ago! What happened?!”

As it turned out, Clayton was in the hospital only four days. Although he still had to take antibiotics, they were considerably less intense than first expected. And they were oral.

So it was all good.

Clayton was able to go on the bike trip and enjoyed a really good summer. Crisis averted.

Clorinda and I are both the oldest of 8 children. Not the same 8 mind you, and none of them, on either side, are children anymore. At least legally. In fact, not only are we each the oldest of 8, in both of our families there were two girls and six boys. Clorinda’s sister is no. 6. My sisters are no. 6 and no. 8. Both sets of parents had a knack for producing boys, and lots of them.

It was a sign. (It’s a sign alright. Going out of business!)

I mean, Clorinda was reading the (herbal) tea leaves from our respective parents’ teacups and decided that we needed to match their outputs. We would have 8 kids too! (Sidebar: we didn’t—we had 3—but that’s a story for another day.) This shows a serious flaw in her decision to marry me. She needed to marry for MONEY (not the thick wavy hair, perfect smile, and “the most beautiful blue eyes” Jerone (a 6’7” 280 lb straight, married black man) had ever seen). Critical error on her part, but DON’T TELL HER THAT! I’m pretty sure she’s already caught on to a number (a LARGE number) of critical-errors-on-her-part, and I don’t want to overwhelm her.

I had always figured I would have a son. You can read a little about that here. But I’ll be honest, the months before Clayton was born, I was terrified. I didn’t know that I could love someone the way that I loved his sister (no really, go read the other blog entry if this sounds bad), and I was SURE that there was no way I could love another child.

Not that I didn’t want to, or that I didn’t want another baby. I was just convinced that I was physiologically incapable of any more love. I would have to divide my love for Marien, but I couldn’t figure out how that would happen, either.

I learned something, though. God makes room for more love. I COULD love this new baby just as much as I did his sister, and it didn’t require me loving her any less. So that was crazy.

Clayton was big, right from the beginning. When he came out he was seriously cone-headed, like Sloth-from-Goonies cone-headed. But he was happy and content and he brought some real joy to our home. He had caught his sister in height by the time he was 3, and people often thought they were twins. When it came time to start school, Clayton stood a head taller than anyone in the class—and he was the youngest in the class! It was never hard to pick him out of a line-up.

High school meant basketball. Or at least that was Clayton’s plan. As luck would have it, the Freshman basketball coach was also one of the coaches on the Football team, and he promised Clayton a spot on the basketball team if he came out for football. 

You know, because no freshman basketball coach wants a 6’5” kid on the team unless he plays football first.

So Clayton played football. He was a tall receiver on a run-every-down team. And he hated it. Basketball season finally came around, and Clayton (surprise surprise) made the team! Also surprise surprise, the linebacker-coach-turned-freshman-basketball-coach wasn’t a very good fit for Clayton, and the season didn’t go the way Clayton had hoped. In fact, he was pretty discouraged by it all.

Fortunately, the school had just hired a new men’s volleyball coach, and when he saw a 6’5” freshman walking the halls, he knew he wanted that kid on the team. Not to say it didn’t take some convincing—Clayton was of the opinion that volleyball was a girls sport, and that he (Clayton) was destined to play golf during the Spring season. But Coach Davis was persistent, and told Clayton that if he came out to play volleyball, they would win state.

Clayton took the bait.

So here’s a fun story: the men’s volleyball team at Clayton’s high school had something like 2 wins TOTAL over the previous 3 years. They were, in a word, terrible. They were the worst of the worst. But this happened:

• Freshman year: lost in the State Championship game in 4 sets.
• Sophomore year: State Champions.
• Junior year: Back-to-Back State Champions
• Senior year: first ever in Nevada Back-to-Back-to-Back State Champions.

But this story isn’t about volleyball. Well, not directly. It’s about airplanes and school.

A year ago I watched as Marien packed up her car and headed off to college. I cried and fretted, no, I worried, nay, I was PANIC STRICKEN at the thought of my little girl heading off to college. Really, you should read that other blog entry—you'll get the idea.

I’m pleased to report that she had a wildly successful freshman year.

So a year later when Clayton decided to head off for college in Virginia, to play volleyball at Southern Virginia University, I thought I would be cool with it. I'd been through this before, I'd survived it. Here was my son, my boy, going off to college. There was no reason to have those same feelings—I mean, this kid is 6’7”, nobody is going to mess with him.

All of that leads to just one month ago (that's hard to believe in and of itself). I found myself sitting in the airport with Clayton waiting for the announcement that it was time to board. When his turn came, he walked to the agent at the gate and I stood behind, off to the right side just enough, and watched. I watched my boy walk down the jetway and turn, just before he got too far, to waive good-bye to his old man.

And wouldn’t you know it, all those feelings came rushing back. Suddenly he was that fat little coneheaded Sloth from 18 years ago. "Hey you guyyyys!"

No, that’s not quite right. He wasn’t Sloth—no, what he was was the 12 year old kid, getting rushed to the hospital to be poked and prodded and MRI’d. My little boy (who even at 12 was as tall as me) was on his way to more testing, more poking and prodding. And I felt like the helpless dad. Again.

But he was (and is) more than that little boy. He’s also a back-to-back-to-back champion.

I found my way over and took a seat right in front of the plate glass window, looking out at the plane. I fought back tears as the plane backed out, and then turned to take its place in line for take-off. He had barely taken off and I already missed him. 

Clayton had sent me a text a few weeks before he was supposed to head out. He was worried that he didn’t have what it would take to go to college. Some pre-game jitters, I suppose. I don’t think he has too much to worry about though—thus far he’s playing college like a champion. I’m excited for this kid, excited to see what is in store for him in Virginia and in the years to come.

I love you son.

20 Years, 8 Months & 19 Days

7568 Days

That’s 20 years, 8 months & 19 days for those of you counting at home. On September 3, 2016, Clorinda and I celebrated our 20 year 8 month 19 day anniversary in the very same place we were married. I’ve shared that story before—you can read it here—but our celebration on September 3, 2016 wasn’t about our wedding WAY back on December 15, 1995. No, this was about a couple of my kids getting married. To each other.

As my nephew Jack would say: “AWWWKWARD!”

Let me ‘splain.

I first met Travis Goldrup in January 2014. He was serving as a missionary in Las Vegas and had just been assigned to our ward. Paul Poteet had been here for six (6!) months, and on the way out he gave me some advice: Be sure to ask Goldrup about the desert in Maine.

What on earth does that mean? I’ve seen pictures of Maine. I had a cousin go to college there. I have read a lot of Stephen King novels. I’m something of an expert on Maine, and I LIVE IN LAS VEGAS so I know a thing or two about deserts, and I KNOW there’s no desert in Maine. Trees? Sure. Coastline? Lots of it. Desert. Um, no.

But if Paul Poteet suggested I ask about the desert in Maine, I figured I’d better ask about the desert in Maine.

Goldrup came to our house for dinner the first night he was here, and I think the desert in Maine was probably the second thing he was asked about. Big, exaggerated eye roll, accompanied by a laugh and something about Poteet. Goldrup (I still have a hard time calling him Travis) proceeded to tell some tale about how his great-grandfather Henry had found this desert in the middle of Maine and had developed it into a tourist attraction.

Desert? Tourist attraction? HELLO! I LIVE IN LAS VEGAS!

But whatever. Travis (there, I did it) was funny and personable and confident. I liked him. And the more I worked with him, I liked him more and more. He was bold and he knew what he was teaching. He was comfortable talking to just about anyone and had a remarkable ability to make people feel comfortable. He worked hard and was valiant in following mission rules.

When you’re a missionary, you have certain companions or leaders that you just come to love and admire. The one that changed my mission and had the longest lasting impact on my mission was a tall, broad-shouldered Clark-Kent of a Mormon Missionary who I’m pretty certain wore blue tights and a red cape under his white shirt and dark slacks—Dave (Dave who?) Dave Brown. Goldrup reminded me of Elder Brown.

And just like that he was gone. Poteet had been here six months; Goldrup was gone after six weeks. Missions are funny that way. Sometimes the Lord needs you here and sometimes he needs you there, and this time he needed Goldrup somewhere else. I was sent two new missionaries (whom I came to love, too), but Goldrup and his companion, JT Hoppins, were off to two new areas.

I ran into Goldrup from time to time. His new companion had been trained in our ward, and they had some leadership responsibilities for the Elders that were newly assigned here, so they were around. But I wasn’t out working with them like I had previously, and he was eventually transferred somewhere else in the valley.

Sometime later I was looking up an article on the Smithsonian magazine website. I have long since forgotten what I was looking at, but on the sidebar where they had all of the most popular stories listed was this little gem: “Why Is There a Desert in Maine?”

What?! It was clickbait at its finest and I was immediately sucked in. The story was all about this desert in Maine and how it had been developed into a tourist destination by some guy named Henry Goldrup. I’m still trying to figure out how Travis hacked the Smithsonian magazine’s website.

Four and a half months after Goldrup had been transferred from our ward, the area was “pink-washed” (meaning I got Sister missionaries instead of Elders. That was a MAJOR change in my life, but it proved to be a real blessing, for me and my family. That, however, is not the topic of this entry).

My third Sister missionary was an adorable, little jar of happiness from Houston Texas, Laekynn Davis.

“Houston, huh, my brother lives there. Did you know any Fontanos?”

“No, I don’t think so. Where did they live?”

“Oh, out on the Northeast side of the city.”

“I didn’t live by there, so no.”

OK, end of discussion. It was easy to love Sister Davis. She is a charmer of the highest order. There is always a sparkle in her eye and a smile that lights up her entire person. She quickly decided that I needed to be harassed often and she never missed an opportunity. She developed a little knock/doorbell version of shave-and-a-haircut that announced her arrival every time she was at the house (that lasted for the rest of the time I had missionaries here, and they still use it when they come back to visit).

One afternoon we were having a correlation meeting in my front room. Somehow the conversation turned to Houston again, and I got thinking about my other friends down in the Hell of Being Cut to Pieces (“Hell of being what?” “Chinese have a lot of Hells”). Sorry, I mean in Houston (having visited Houston in July, I can only presume the Chinese have some kind of Hell name for that place. I’ve been home from that vacation for 7 years and I’m STILL sweating.)

Back to the story, I thought I’d at least ask about the others. “Do you know any Ginns?” “No.”

“How about Haleys?”

Laekynn sat up in her seat, “Yes!”

“Josh and ...”

Before I could even finish my sentence she was off the couch and yelling, “TRISH HALEY! YES I KNOW TRISH HALEY! SHE WAS MY YOUNG WOMENS LEADER!”

Josh and Trish are more appropriately known as Uncle Josh and Auntie Trish to my kids. I could do a whole entry on Josh, and maybe I will one day. Suffice it to say, I met Josh at a youth conference in Hawaii when we were 15 and we became very fast friends. I love him like a brother and love his family. His wife Trish is an absolute treasure. His daughter Sarah is serving here as a missionary now.

And Laekynn grew up in their ward. So naturally we did what any good Ward Mission Leader and Sister Missionary would do. We took a picture and sent it off to Josh and Trish.

And just like that she was gone. Laekynn served her last twelve weeks in our ward and then left to go home. [Incidentally, the transfer that sent Laekynn to me was also the transfer that Travis went home to Maine. You know, back home to the desert.]

She headed to BYU in January and I kept seeing her on BYUtv when we would watch basketball and volleyball games. She seemed to be everywhere (her Dad says its because her cousin is a cameraman at the games, but I’m guessing that’s only part of the story). We traveled up to go to a wedding reception for another friend and went to a volleyball game with Laekynn.

I could go on and on, but she was like one of the family.  We loved to have her visit us, and we kept close contact.

In September 2015, Travis called and said he was bringing his parents to Las Vegas and they all wanted to come by the house. (I suspect that having tasted the thrill of the desert in Maine they wanted to drink in the expansive desert of Las Vegas.) We had them over for dinner and found kindred spirits in Travis’s parents Darrell and Stacey. We had such a fun evening. I’m thinking we need to go back and visit them in Maine so we can see what a REAL desert is like.

In the middle of that conversation I got to thinking about these two kids that I loved so much, and how they would make an incredible couple (Laekynn had been here just a week or two prior). I told Travis that he really should call Laekynn and take her out sometime. He admitted that he thought she was cute, but gave me some lame excuse about her being down in Provo and he was up in Rexburg Idaho going to school, so it was just too much work.

Oh well, I tried.

Several weeks later Laekynn was back in town and we had a similar discussion. I told her what had happened and what Travis had said, and SHE GOT MAD AT ME! Oh, she kept a straight face, but it’s apparently “bad form” to tell a girl about a guy who doesn’t think she’s worth the effort to go after.

Nobody said I was any good at this stuff.

Regardless, the seed had been planted in both of their hearts.

In February we were headed up to Provo. Marien was at school, and we wanted to see her, plus the Provo City Center Temple was having an open house. And BYU had a basketball game AND a men’s volleyball game, so we could make a whole day out of it. Laekynn and Travis had connected on Snap Chat (whatever that is) and so she sent him a message to let him know that the Fontanos were coming to town for a basketball game and he should come down. To see us. Naturally.

Travis bit.

He texted Clayton and confirmed that we were, in fact, on our way to Provo, so he and a buddy came down from Rexburg. We met them at the basketball game, where they sat so coolly, taking a very analytical approach to the game. Laekynn did NOT let that stop her. She cheered and yelled and stood up and made her voice heard.

At the end of the game I was convinced I was wrong about these two. No chemistry.

But Laekynn was not a quitter. After the game she asked where they were parked. She (conveniently) could not remember where she had parked so she asked for a ride. At some point between our good-byes and reaching Laekynn’s car she had tricked them into inviting her out to dinner. The girl had moves.

A few weeks later Clorinda and I were out at dinner and my phone started vibrating. It was Travis, interrupting my date with my wife. Rude. But I took the call anyway. “What’s going on?” I asked.

“Hey, I’m here with Laekynn, and she says you liked Sisters better than Elders, so…”

“Wait. Back up. What do you mean you’re ‘there with Laekynn’?”

Laekynn was in Rexburg and they were headed out to dinner themselves. Turns out they had been traveling back and forth between Provo and Rexburg every weekend to see each other.

Wuv. Twue wuv.

By the end of March they were down in Vegas visiting. One morning I went to the Temple before going to work and when I walked out of the dressing room there they were. The two of them, looking a little sheepish at seeing me. “Guess what we’re doing” Laekynn asked. “Going to the Temple” I guessed. Wrong again. “We’re scheduling the temple for our wedding!”

Oh, they have a little Fontano in them (more accurately, a little Clorinda in them (see the story linked above)) in planning a wedding before they were engaged (that didn’t come until July).

So yesterday these two kids were married. These two kids that were MY kids, my missionaries, were married to each other. They were kneeling at the same altar in the same sealing room that Clorinda and I had knelt at 20 years 8 months and 19 days before, making the same covenants we had made.

Clorinda asked me last night after the reception if I felt like a dad at the reception. I did, but unlike anything I think I will feel again. My parents and Clorinda’s parents were our parents at the wedding, but Clorinda’s dad didn’t feel like he was my dad. There was still all of the suspicion about the sketchy dude that was marrying his daughter. My dad didn’t think of Clorinda as his daughter, although that feeling has come over time. I felt like MY son was marrying MY daughter.

Cue Jack: AWWWKWARD!!

I love both of them like they are my own kids. Luckily they aren’t, they’re just a couple of crazy kids that I thought deserved each other.

Laekynn and Travis, you are a joy to me. There’s an obscure little Book of Mormon verse that struck me a while back. Mormon writes, “And they were married and given in marriage, and were blessed according to the multitude of the promises which the Lord had made unto them.” [4 Ne. 1:11] I hope you will always be blessed in your marriage, that you will find joy in each other. Congratulations! And here’s to another 20 years 8 months and 19 days (plus eternity).

PS. It turns out that Laekynn DID know my brother Pete—she actually lived quite close to him. I was telling Pete the TRISH-HALEY!-SHE-WAS-MY-YOUNG-WOMEN'S-LEADER story and he asked her name. When I told him, he said, "I know Laekynn." Turns out  he had substituted as her seminary teacher during her senior year. Laekynn, you make me smile.

Turn off the lights, the party's over.

It’s been a while.

I actually wrote a really long entry just a couple of weeks after my last post. It was brilliant (naturally). But it was also all about five little kids that I had represented in the state’s case against their parents to terminate parental rights. So I can’t publish it. You know, confidentiality. But trust me, you would have loved it. Since that time, I’ve kind of been in a writing funk.

But not tonight.

Tonight I want to write about politics, mingled with scripture.

After all, what two things aren’t you ever supposed to discuss? That’s right—religion and politics. I’ve done religion, so now I’ll try politics. And maybe I’ll mix a little religion in there.

I’ve been old enough to vote for 26 years. And with the exception of the year I was on my mission, I’ve voted in every election I’ve been eligible to vote in. I consider myself to be a moderate republican (small “r”), and I’m registered with the Republican party. I was raised on the gospel of Ronald Reagan. We were a Republican household. My grandparents were Republicans, my parents were Republicans, and so I was a Republican. That’s just how we roll in the Fontano household.

Nonetheless, I’ve never been a strict party-line Republican. I’m more of a right-leaning centrist. I didn’t vote for George W. Bush in 2000. Of course, I was living in Utah then, so my vote didn’t matter one way or the other. I could have voted for any other person alive and it wouldn’t have mattered—George W. Bush was going to win Utah. I’m certain that CNN called Utah for Bush as soon as polls opened that day.

I voted for McCain in the 2000 primaries. 8 years later, I voted for him again, but he made the horrific decision to name Palin as his running mate, and then seemed in awe of the Obama campaign machine. That race was lost before it even began.

I was behind Mitt in 2012. Part of me is still behind Mitt. To say that I’ve been underwhelmed by the current crop of Republican nominees is an understatement. Rubio? Seems to be in over his head. Cruz? Inflexible and seems to have no self-awareness. Carson? Nice to a fault, and he didn’t exude leadership. Fiorina? I liked her, but she didn’t command attention and never gained any traction. Kasich? I actually like Kasich, but he lacks the flair needed to really put together a campaign.

And then there’s Trump.

Drumpf.

A self-aggrandizing, caustic blowhard who has duped seemingly hundreds of thousands of people into buying his hot air—including a number of people that I respect and consider friends. (Maybe some of you fit that category. Well, don’t take this entry personally. Or do. At this point I probably don’t care.)

If I am underwhelmed by the other candidates, I am downright dumbfounded by Trump.

Crude? Check.
Derogatory? Check.
Arrogant? Check.
Hollow? Check.
Cheater? Check.
Liar? Check.
Racist? Check.
Bully? Check.
Dangerous? Check, check, check.

People apparently like Trump because he “speaks his mind” and “isn’t subject to special interests.” Well, his mind is full of one thing and one thing only—how to further his own special interest: Donald J. Trump. Rest assured, that is the only interest he has. It’s the only interest he has ever had.

Last week Mitt Romney came out and spoke against Trump. He made some pretty damning points about Trump, and suddenly my Facebook feed was filled with Trump-supporting friends that were condemning Mitt. People who claimed to have been Mitt supporters were shocked (SHOCKED!) that Mitt would speak out against a man that had supported him just four years ago (“Well, I used to like Mitt, but I can’t believe he did THIS!”). As if receiving Trump’s endorsement constituted some sort of binding nuptial that obligated Mitt to return the favor. That because Trump had endorsed Mitt, Trump was somehow qualified to serve as commander in chief. (I guess Trump will be similarly obligated to support David Duke if he runs for president.) Several echoed their supreme commander and called Mitt a loser, you know, because he’d lost the election, and made crude comments about getting on his knees to beg. (Of course, they fail to note the irony in that their supreme commander had endorsed the loser.)

But my favorite was some guy on NPR. He wasn’t Mormon, but he was offended by Mitt’s comments because “Mitt was violating tenets of his Mormon faith”, apparently because he hadn’t returned Trump’s endorsement, and, more telling, had said something mean about Trump. In the three minutes he was on the radio he must have dropped that phrase four times.

Did Mitt violate the tenets of his faith by opposing Trump? No. His assessment and predictions about Trump were consistent with Mitt’s faith. He sees a dangerous swell in this country to support a man whose words and acts are tangible examples of behavior contrary to the tenets of Mormonism. I’ve been attending the Mormon church faithfully for 44 years. I am very familiar with the doctrines and tenets of the faith, but I am completely unaware of any tenet of the church that would preclude someone from being involved in a political discussion and sharing his position. In fact, members of the church are encouraged to be vocal, active participants in politics. Was Mitt violating tenets of his Mormon faith when he spoke out against Obama four years ago? No, no he wasn’t, and he wasn’t here either.

You want to know what does violate the tenets of Mormonism? Racism. Bullying. Arrogance. Lying. Cheating. Even when you do those things to “make America great again.” In the Book of Mormon, a prophet-king warned about this situation. Nearing the end of his life, and his sons having declined to assume leadership of the kingdom, Mosiah recommended that the people govern themselves through elected judges. He said,

Now it is not common that the voice of the people desireth anything contrary to that which is right; but it is common for the lesser part of the people to desire that which is not right; therefore this shall ye observe and make it your law—to do your business by the voice of the people. 

And if the time comes that the voice of the people doth choose iniquity, then is the time that the judgments of God will come upon you; yea, then is the time he will visit you with great destruction even as he has hitherto visited this land.

Mosiah 29:26-27. Reasonable minds can disagree on things like the size and scope of government, financial and social policies, and legalization of marijuana. I have yet to see a candidate or elected official in ANY office that perfectly reflected my positions, nor have I seen one that perfectly opposed all of my positions. There have been presidents that I’ve disagreed with fundamentally on issues, but I’ve never felt that
any had the capacity to lead the people to iniquity and destruction. Not until now.

You may not be a believer. You may not think that God or anyone else for that matter can render judgments on the people. That’s your choice and I respect your beliefs. Or non-beliefs as it were. But here’s what you should see. If we put a man in office whose tenets are arrogance, self-service, racism, fear-mongering, that will become what our nation embraces, and it will lead to our downfall.

Yep. If Trump represents the Republican party, then the party’s over—it’s time to go home.

To the Pain

“They always happen in threes,” Clorinda said as she was reading a story on Facebook.

“What does?” I asked.

“Celebrities’ deaths.”

“Who’s your third?”

“David Bowie, Alan Rickman, and now Celine Dion’s husband.”

Well, the conversation broke down a bit there, ‘cause some of us don’t consider the spouse of a celebrity to count toward the three, but I’d heard that before. I may have even repeated the comment before, but I was NOT counting René Angélil. And then suddenly there were three. Dan Haggerty, aka Grizzly Adams, also passed. Now there is a celebrity from my childhood. There is literally nothing cooler than a mountain man who has a bear as a pet. Although I hadn’t thought of Mr. Haggerty in years, I was saddened to hear of his death.

Death is a hard thing. In this case, David Bowie and I are birthday-buddies, so we celebrated our birthdays together, in different places and with different people, every year for the past 43 years. We were, in a word, tight. I’d tell you to ask him, but unless you have a bellows handy, he probably won’t be able to confirm it.

Alan Rickman was a mainstay in my household. I have a daughter who is slightly obsessed with Harry Potter. Like she’s read the entire book series 20+ times over (NOT an exaggeration, by the way). The movies, which are verbally dismissed because they’re “not as good” as the books and “don’t follow the books perfectly,” etc., are watched all the time. I feel like Professor Snape lived in my house, or was at least a regular house guest. There are other roles, too. Three of my favorites are Marvin (Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy), Alexander Dane/Dr. Lazurus (Galaxy Quest), and the Sheriff of Nottingham (Robin Hood Prince of Thieves). We lost a friend of the family when Mr. Rickman gave up the ghost.

And Grizzly Adams, of course. What more can I say than has already been said.

They apparently always come in threes.

Just sometimes, they’re not celebrities.

Last month I was asked by a friend at work if I could help put together some end-of-life documents for his dad—a living will/health care power of attorney and a general power of attorney. I got the documents done and we drove out to visit his dad. He was part of the “greatest generation,” a man’s man and a real gentleman. We had opportunity to visit as we went through the documents and he just impressed me. He was genuinely grateful for the work I’d done for him. It was a blessing to be there and get to know him.

I was only at work for a week after that, then we went out of town for two weeks. I was only back in the office a week when I was told that this good man had passed away. His son, a former submariner in the Navy, couldn’t bear to look me in the eyes as he described the events surrounding his dad’s passing. The love and bond between a father and son were readily apparent.

About the same time I got word from my mother that my dad’s aunt Elaine had also passed on. Elaine was married to my paternal grandpa’s older brother, Ted. Ted and Elaine. They went together like peas and carrots. Ted was a crack-up. He had been born in Switzerland and raised in California. He had a sense of humor that I can only dream of. He was a teaser with a sparkle in his eye. I remember when my grandpa, his baby brother, passed away in 1989. At the funeral, Ted’s emotions were high and he wept in agony as they closed the casket following the viewing.

Elaine was Ted’s equal. She was a firecracker of a woman who had an opinion on everything. She loved people and loved to tell stories—stories about her and Ted’s adventures with my Grandpa and Grandma, like times at the cabin in Tahoe (why oh why did they sell that place?), their missions to the temple in Switzerland, and working together, stories about her own children and grandchildren, stories about family history and Switzerland and just about anything else you can imagine. She was a strong woman and fiercely loved her family. She was a crack-up, too—oh, could she joke with you. Perhaps my favorite thing about Elaine, though, was that she loved you. Didn’t matter who you were, when she talked to you, you were left feeling like you were the most important person in her life.

I was also surprised to learn that her name was Martha. Who knew?

She was the last of a generation in my family. Grandpa died in 1989. Ted not too long thereafter. Grandma passed in 2002. My mother’s dad died in 1993, and her step-mother in 2004. (My mom’s mother died when she (mom) was just 14, so I never got to know her). Elaine alone remained from that generation, at least that I enjoyed a real relationship with. It was her time to go, though, so she did. She will be missed.

The third one is an old elementary school friend, Carson. Carson lived not too far from me. Our ward (congregation) at church had a ton of boys our age, and Carson and I were just two in the crowd. He was a real athlete, as were his older two brothers. I lost track of Carson after my family moved to Hawaii when I was 14. Through the magic of Facebook, I had found Carson and caught up a little through his pictures and posts, but even though he was living in Vegas and St. George, we did not reconnect. Imagine my shock last week when I opened Facebook and Carson’s brother posted his obituary. Carson had been killed in a car accident. It was surreal—this was a peer, a friend from my childhood, someone my own age, gone in an instant. I couldn’t believe it.

I was happy to learn that Carson had found real happiness in his life. He had fought demons, but through the gospel of Jesus Christ was able to find real peace and save his family. One of our mutual friends shared a link to an entry Carson had posted online a short while ago. It was remarkable.

Because of the passing of these celebrities and my own personal celebrities, I’ve thought a lot about death recently. All of these deaths, with the possible exception of Elaine, have been so sudden. It seemed that David Bowie and Alan Rickman would live forever. They were both so talented and their work had an immortal feeling to it. Although their work will live on behind them, their time on Earth is over.

I expected Grizzly Adams to live forever, because, well, he had a bear for a pet. If you can have a bear for a pet and avoid death by mauling, then you should never die. Alas.

Why is it that death brings such a feeling of loss? I know that each of these people live on—not in their physical body, but in their spirits. Their bodies have stopped, but their spirits have gone home to that God who gave them life. They are freed from pains of cancer, old age, and other physical ailments. They can enjoy real peace.

So why is it so hard for those of us left behind? I believe it’s because we love them and the feeling of loss is a loss of the interaction, the times of joy and friendship and togetherness. We are left behind and we’ve lost, at least for a time, those relationships. But one of the great truths of the gospel of Jesus Christ is that we can be together with our families again. Death is not the end, it is merely a change. And that brings peace, even in the midst of sorrow and loss, it brings peace.

I will miss, on some level, each of these people. For some, like Bowie and Rickman, I can revisit and enjoy again their recordings and movies. I can think back fondly on Aunt Elaine and Carson. I can share time with my friend at work and remember the blessing of that one simple meeting. Yes, I will miss them. But I am grateful to have known them, to have shared in their lives in some small way.

I had a STOP THE PRESSES moment today. I had started writing this early today and had to shut down for a while. When I reopened, midway through my thoughts on Elaine, I was dismayed to learn that another celebrity, one that is both real and personal to me, had passed away today. Glenn Frey, one of the founding members of the Eagles, had died. As much as I enjoy David Bowie and Alan Rickman and even Grizzly Adams, none have had the influence on me that the Eagles have had.

When I was 8 years old and living in Carson City, a neighborhood friend named Jeff introduced me to the Eagles. We would rock out in his bedroom playing the Eagles on his hand-me-down record player. When my family was preparing to move to Utah, Jeff decided I needed an Eagles tape. We played his vinyl, cranked as loud as we could stand, and put a tape recorder right by the speaker (because that would allow me to play the tape twice as loud). And in just one moment, my life as an audio tech was over..

Without Jeff’s guidance, I didn’t follow the Eagles in the ‘80s, since they broke up and weren’t releasing albums together; however, as a teenager driving from Kahala to Hawaii Kai, “Take It Easy” came on the radio and a little voice inside my head said, “Hey man, is that freedom rock? TURN IT UP!” In an instant I was reconverted, and for almost 30 years the Eagles have been my favorite band. My very first CD was Eagles Live. In 1994, I rushed out to buy Hell Freezes Over and listened over and over and over. In 2003, after we had lived a life of poverty during law school and then dealt with the time and stress of bar exam prep and taking the bar exam, the Eagles came to Las Vegas and Clorinda and I went. It was my gift to myself. They did not disappoint, and they did not cheat us out of anything. They played EVERYTHING—the concert must have lasted 3 hours. It was heaven in the MGM Grand Garden Arena.

I have never felt real sadness when a celebrity passed away, but today I went out to my truck, put an Eagles CD in the stereo, and cranked up “Take it Easy.” I felt like I was supposed to pour out a beer or something, but I’ve never been trained in non-Mormon mourning customs, and I don’t have any beer anyway, so I just sat there with the stereo blaring, missing Glenn Frey, thankful for the memories of the times we’ve rocked out together over the years. And for CDs.

Don’t Even Leave The Airport

I’m sitting at 30,000 feet in a 757, returning to Las Vegas after a week’s stay in Pennsylvania visiting Clorinda’s parents. (Note: this was written on Wednesday at about 6:00 p.m. EST, somewhere over Indiana. It is now Saturday, but a series of unfortunate events has precluded me from posting until just now.) By all accounts, I should be sitting at my desk working, but Delta had other ideas. Yes, that Delta. Don’t Even Leave The Airport. We were supposed to fly home Tuesday morning at 6:00. (Note: that is a miserable time to fly from the East coast when your body is on West coast time. I didn’t schedule the flights, though, and for all her wonderful qualities, the person who did schedule the flight failed to consider my body clock when weighing the pros and cons of a 6:00 a.m. flight).

We had returned home late after visiting two of my cousins that I’d never met (or at least not since I was too small to remember meeting them) and we’d just finished packing. Kids were in bed, and Clorinda was finalizing some things so we could get up at 3:30 (again, I did NOT schedule the flight) to get to Harrisburg for the flight home, and Delta (Don’t Even Leave The Airport), being the hip company that they are, sent me a text at about 1:00 a.m. to inform me that our flight was delayed. We would now be leaving at 8:30 in the morning instead of the previously scheduled 6:00. Best text I received all night.

We finished up what we were doing, said our good-byes to Clorinda’s family, and I went to bed about 2:00. Of course, the new departure time meant that we would be leaving Harrisburg just minutes before our connection was leaving Detroit, so Clorinda decided to call Delta (Don’t Even Leave The Airport) and confirm our connection--or some connection--was still good. I’d no sooner closed my eyes than Delta (Don’t Even Leave The Airport) came to the same realization, so they texted me AND emailed me to say that our flight was no longer at 8:30, it was going to be at 1:30. On Thursday. Two days later. On New Years Eve.

Insert really tired sounding swear words here.

Clorinda had gotten through to Delta (Don’t Even Leave The Airport) customer service about the same time I got downstairs to let her know of the new news, but the customer service rep had beat me to it. We spent the next two-and-a-half hours, Clorinda on the phone and me on the tablet, searching for flights into Las Vegas. Harrisburg was out of the question. Delta (Don’t Even Leave The Airport) had nothing. Southwest? Yeah, every flight sold out. American? Don’t even ask. United suggested I fly out of DC to Newark, take a train from Newark to NYC, and then go NYC to Vegas. It would only take about 26 hours, total. Jet Blue wanted to fly me to Boston, have me spend the night, and then fly to Vegas. All for the paltry sum of $1100 per person.

Finally, I found a flight on Virgin out of DC, going to San Francisco, then on to Las Vegas, and it had five seats. Of course, by the time the Delta (Don’t Even Leave The Airport) agent pulled it up, four of those seats had been snagged by some other stranded passenger.

Delta (Don’t Even Leave The Airport) did offer at one point to fly us out of Dulles in DC. It was a 6:00 a.m. flight. DC is two hours from my in-laws’ house. This was after 3:00 in the morning. Not. Going. To. Work.

As luck had it, they finally found something about 4:30 in the morning. An hour after I was supposed to be getting up to head to Harrisburg. We would fly out Wednesday afternoon from DC and go through Salt Lake. Two of us (yeah, not me) will head on to Las Vegas, and the other three of us will go to St. George and drive the last hour-and-a-half to Vegas. But at least we’ll get home in time for the kids to go partying for New Years Eve. (Note: I made it home on Thursday morning, about 15 minutes past midnight.)

In 1999, I drove from Las Vegas for what I thought was the last time. I’d moved down in 1995, met Clorinda, got married, had two kids, and decided to go back to school before the kids were old enough to know we were poor. June 1999, I was on the I-15 cruising toward Provo, not even bothering to check the rearview mirror. I was leaving Las Vegas and was never coming back. The heat? They can keep it. The “adult” entertainment? Not my scene. The traffic? Almost as good as Delta (Don’t Even Leave The Airport). Nope, I was NOT going to miss it.

And I almost kept true to my word.

About four months after I'd left, Clorinda convinced me that I needed a plan “B” with school. Law and Order was on TV, so I said “OK, I’ll go to law school.” I had to (quickly) apply for schools, register for the LSAT (didn’t even know that was a thing) and whatever else one does to get into grad school. I applied to four schools: BYU, Utah (what?), American (something about DC), and Penn State’s Dickinson School of Law, which is located in Carlisle PA--home of the Army War College and Clorinda’s parents. As it turned out, I got into BYU, so we didn’t have to move, but we were close, really close, to moving to Carlisle back in the summer of 2000.

On Tuesday, when we should have been on a plane heading to Las Vegas, we were instead driving through Carlisle to pick up a loaf of bread for Clorinda’s mom, and we drove past Dickinson. I don’t know why I have an affinity for a school that I’d never attended (although they did accept me), but I look at the school whenever I drive by and wonder “what if?”

This week was no different.

Except that it was. I started thinking on what I would have missed if I had attended Dickinson instead of BYU. Obviously, my law school friends would not even be law school acquaintances. Summer jobs would have been different—you can’t commute to Salt Lake to work for the US Attorney (for free) from Carlisle PA with quite the same convenience as from Provo. Probably would not have ended up in the Sacramento DA’s office. And I almost certainly would not have applied to clerk for Judge Adair in Las Vegas in November 2002.

That of course led me to think of all the friends I’ve made in Las Vegas in 13 years since I returned. I cannot begin to list them—I would inevitably miss many of them, and those I would remember would run for pages. I know there would be other friends, other experiences, to replace those I would have missed not being here, but I wouldn't have had the friends and experiences I gained in Provo and in Las Vegas.

Suffice it to say, little choices in life have long-lasting effect on our lives. Had I gone to Dickinson, I probably would have stayed on the East coast after graduating, raised my kids in a place of green grass, big rivers, and snowy winters (except this year). More than that, I would have driven to Carlisle for Christmas, and I would have driven home on Tuesday. Probably not at 6:00, but I certainly would not have been receiving text messages from Delta (Don’t Even Leave The Airport) in the middle of the night.

A Three-Decker Sauerkraut and Toadstool Sandwich, With Arsenic Sauce.

I have a couple of absolutes at my house. First, we don’t cheer for the Utes, but only slightly less well known is this: We do NOT do Christmas until after Thanksgiving. I don’t want Christmas music playing, I don’t want to see Christmas lights, I do NOT want Hallmark Christmas movies on my TV until AFTER I’ve had my Thanksgiving.

This (perfectly rational and appropriate) position has earned me more than my share of name-calling. I cannot tell you the number of times I’ve been called the Grinch or Scrooge. People seem to get particular joy in trying to get a rise out of me (I’m looking at you, Marien). The thing is that I cannot really disagree. When we watch A Christmas Carol, I listen to Ebenezer complain about music and cheer and everything associated with Christmas and I sympathize with him. (Side note: hands down, the best version of the Christmas Carol in movie form is the Muppets Christmas Carol. It freaks Marien out a bit (she’s not a muppeteer), but it is absolutely hilarious. I love it, BUT NOT UNTIL AFTER THANKSGIVING!)

Like Dr. Seuss's Grinch, I bemoan all the noise Noise NOISE NOISE! I struggle a lot with the commercial side of Christmas, the very thing that brings many people so much joy. When the radio stations begin playing Christmas music right after Halloween, I block the stations on my car stereo. Even after Thanksgiving, I steer clear from those stations because I can really only handle about 2 days of Madonna singing "Santa Baby." Then I’m ready to scream. (OK, the truth is I can't handle even 20 seconds of that song, regardless of whether its after Thanksgiving. It's the rest of the modern standards that drive me crazy within 48 hours.)

I am notoriously bad about getting presents. Don’t get me wrong, I love to give gifts. I really put a lot of thought into gifts that I think would be most appreciated. But I’m usually out running from store to store on the day before Christmas looking for things at the last possible minute. Of course, that means I’m crowding aisles along with hundreds of my fellow procrastinators, not all of which share my sunny disposition, which only leads to more yuletide dissatisfaction.

I haven’t always been this way. For a long time, I really loved the pre-Holiday traditions of Christmas in the Fontano household. My parents raised us doing Twelve-Days of Christmas for friends and neighbors. The best job one could get would be delivering twelve-days, because it meant (i) you got to stay up late, (ii) you got to go outside, in the dead of winter, late at night, and (iii) you got to creep up to people’s houses, stealthily crunching through icy remnants of winter storms, strategically placing that night’s gift and then RUNNING FOR YOUR LIFE so that they wouldn’t catch you. (Note: that was fun even in Hawaii, which lost all of the winterized elements of the night.)

Clorinda and I don’t do twelve days. We tried, but she is not (by her own admission) a “crafty” person, and although I am generally a walking pinterest board, it simply doesn’t happen. We do other “secret Santa” stuff, but it’s different.

Another Fontano tradition is Christmas stories. My mother compiled LOTS of Christmas stories that became absolute favorites: "For the Man Who Hated Christmas", "Trouble at the Inn", and "An Exchange of Gifts" all come to mind.* My mom would read a different story, sometimes two or three, every night before we would all be sent off to bed. Even as a teenager I would sit and listen.

[SPOILER ALERT!] I would cry when Mike’s family put white envelopes on the tree, cry again when Wallace Purling invited Joseph to stay in HIS room, and cry one more time when Marty slammed into the electric fence.

[* I've pasted copies of the stories after the blog entry. It's my gift to you.]

My kids don’t have the same attachment to those stories that their old man does.

And so on Sunday I found myself in the kitchen making fudge (yet another Fontano tradition) and listening to It’s a Wonderful Life playing in the next room. Although it was Jimmy Stewart's voice, I heard myself when George Bailey complained about being stuck in a town he didn’t want to be in, in a house that was old and drafty, and about having all those kids. [Just kidding about the kids part. Kind of.]

Tonight the part of Jim Fontano will be played by Jimmy Stewart, in the form of George Bailey.

I guess that means my adversaries will have yet another name to call me, although I don’t think calling somebody “George” or “Mr. Bailey” has quite the same impact as “Grinch” or “Scrooge.” Alas.

As I recognized myself, I thought more about being a Grinch, and a Scrooge as well. I was discouraged. It was the Sunday before Christmas and I was still the pre-conversion Grinch/Scrooge/George Bailey. I didn’t want to celebrate Christmas. I was tired of the same. old. routine. Christmas had lost its novelty to me. More importantly, I had lost the spirit of Christmas.

Tonight, Christmas Eve, it finally came. It came later this year than any year in the past. Even today I was at Target getting stocking stuffers and buying shaving cream for my son. The aisles were crowded with people who didn’t want to be there. The checkers clearly had lost all will to live (who can blame them, really?). I had to park way out toward the highway because there was no room in the inn, er, in the parking lot for the gargantuan rental SUV (I needed Wallace Purling to say, “Jim, come back! You can have my stall!) 

Maybe Christmas doesn't come from a store.

I returned home, we had a huge take-out-Chinese-food-Christmas-Eve Dinner (thank you Alina!), and then we migrated to the living room. After everyone (else) had decorated the tree, my father-in-law sat down at the grand piano and started banging out the carols. We sang all the classics, from We Three Kings to God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, everyone was singing as Cloyd pounded out the notes. Someone asked whether I Heard the Bells was in the book. It was, and as we sang I started to feel the cries trying to break free. The words of the third verse sounded like me:

And in despair I bowed my head:“There is no peace on earth,” I said,“For hate is strong and mocks the songOf peace on earth, good will to men.”

Finally, a Christmas carol that understands me. And then this:

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:“God is not dead, nor doth he sleep;The wrong shall fail, the right prevail,With peace on earth, good will to men.”

Sweetly, quietly, the Spirit testified that it was true. God is not dead, nor doth he sleep. He knows me and my struggles and frustrations, and he brings peace to my soul.

A few minutes later I thought I’d make it tough for my father-in-law. Toward the back of the book I found a carol that was filled with flats and notes galore, and I flippantly suggested the song on page 75, more in hopes of getting a laugh than actually singning. I forgot how talented Cloyd is, and he started playing O' Holy Night. The family joined in and sang along:

O holy night! the stars are brightly shining,It is the night of the dear Savior’s birth;Long lay the world in sin and error pining,Till He appeared and the soul felt its worth.A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices,For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn;Fall on your knees, Oh hear the angel voices!O night divine, O night when Christ was born!O night, O holy night, O night divine!

Led by the light of faith serenely beaming,With glowing hearts by His cradle we stand,So led by lights of a star sweetly gleaming,Here came the Wise Men from Orient Land.The King of kings lay thus in lowly manger,In all our trials born to be our friend.He knows our need, To our weakness is no strangerBehold your King, before Him lowly bend!Behold your King, before Him lowly bend!

Surely He taught us to love one another;His law is love and His gospel is peace;Chains shall He break for the slave he is our brother,And in His name all oppression shall cease.Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we,Let all within us praise His holy name;Christ is the Lord, Oh praise His name forever!His pow’r and glory evermore proclaim!His pow’r and glory evermore proclaim!

I stopped singing and instead listened, not just to the voices of my daughters sitting next to me, or of the rest of the family surrounding the piano. I listened to the words and the message of the song. Indeed, I am a witness that Jesus Christ, the King of Kings, was born in a lowly stable over 2000 years ago. He is my friend and he knows my needs. He brings strength to me in my weakness.

Even when my heart is two sizes too small. Even when I complain about towns I don’t like or houses that aren’t my ideal. He softens my heart and fills me with love and peace.

Merry Christmas all you Whos down in Whoville! Merry Christmas Bedford Falls! And God bless us, everyone.

===============

For the Man Who Hated Christmas.

By Nancy W. Gavin

It's just a small, white envelope stuck among the branches of our Christmas tree. No name, no identification, no inscription. It has peeked through the branches of our tree for the past ten years or so.

It all began because my husband Mike hated Christmas--oh, not the true meaning of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of it--overspending... the frantic running around at the last minute to get a tie for Uncle Harry and the dusting powder for Grandma---the gifts given in desperation because you couldn't think of anything else.

Knowing he felt this way, I decided one year to bypass the usual shirts, sweaters, ties and so forth. I reached for something special just for Mike. The inspiration came in an unusual way.

Our son Kevin, who was 12 that year, was wrestling at the junior level at the school he attended; and shortly before Christmas, there was a non-league match against a team sponsored by an inner-city church. These youngsters, dressed in sneakers so ragged that shoestrings seemed to be the only thing holding them together, presented a sharp contrast to our boys in their spiffy blue and gold uniforms and sparkling new wrestling shoes. As the match began, I was alarmed to see that the other team was wrestling without headgear, a kind of light helmet designed to protect a wrestler's ears.

It was a luxury the ragtag team obviously could not afford. Well, we ended up walloping them. We took every weight class. And as each of their boys got up from the mat, he swaggered around in his tatters with false bravado, a kind of street pride that couldn't acknowledge defeat.

Mike, seated beside me, shook his head sadly, "I wish just one of them could have won," he said. "They have a lot of potential, but losing like this could take the heart right out of them." Mike loved kids - all kids - and he knew them, having coached little league football, baseball and lacrosse. That's when the idea for his present came. That afternoon, I went to a local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes and sent them anonymously to the inner-city church. On Christmas Eve, I placed the envelope on the tree, the note inside telling Mike what I had done and that this was his gift from me. His smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year and in succeeding years. For each Christmas, I followed the tradition--one year sending a group of mentally handicapped youngsters to a hockey game, another year a check to a pair of elderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground the week before Christmas, and on and on.

The envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always the last thing opened on Christmas morning and our children, ignoring their new toys, would stand with wide-eyed anticipation as their dad lifted the envelope from the tree to reveal its contents.

As the children grew, the toys gave way to more practical presents, but the envelope never lost its allure. The story doesn't end there.

You see, we lost Mike last year due to dreaded cancer. When Christmas rolled around, I was still so wrapped in grief that I barely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me placing an envelope on the tree, and in the morning, it was joined by three more.

Each of our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed an envelope on the tree for their dad. The tradition has grown and someday will expand even further with our grandchildren standing to take down the envelope.

Mike's spirit, like the Christmas spirit will always be with us.

==========

Trouble at the Inn

By Dina Donahue

For years now, whenever Christmas pageants are talked about in a certain little town in the Midwest, someone is sure to mention the name of Wallace Purling.

Wally's performance in one annual production of the Nativity play has slipped into the realm of legend. But the old-timers who were in the audience that night never tire of recalling exactly what happened.

Wally was nine that year and in the second grade, though he should have been in the fourth. Most people in town knew that he had difficulty keeping up. He was big and awkward, slow in movement and mind.

Still, Wally was well liked by the other children in his class, all of whom were smaller than he, though the boys had trouble hiding their irritation when Wally would ask to play ball with them or any game, for that matter, in which winning was important.

They'd find a way to keep him out, but Wally would hang around anyway—not sulking, just hoping. He was a helpful boy, always willing and smiling, and the protector, paradoxically, of the underdog. If the older boys chased the younger ones away, it would be Wally who'd say, "Can't they stay? They're no bother."

Wally fancied the idea of being a shepherd in the Christmas pageant, but the play's director, Miss Lumbard, assigned him a more important role. After all, she reasoned, the innkeeper did not have too many lines, and Wally's size would make his refusal of lodging to Joseph more forceful.

And so it happened that the usual large, partisan audience gathered for the town's yearly extravaganza of crooks and creches, of beards, crowns, halos and a whole stageful of squeaky voices.

No one on stage or off was more caught up in the magic of the night than Wallace Purling. They said later that he stood in the wings and watched the performance with such fascination that Miss Lumbard had to make sure he didn't wander onstage before his cue.

Then the time came when Joseph appeared, slowly, tenderly guiding Mary to the door of the inn. Joseph knocked hard on the wooden door set into the painted backdrop. Wally the innkeeper was there, waiting.

"What do you want?" Wally said, swinging the door open with a brusque gesture.

"We seek lodging."

"Seek it elsewhere." Wally spoke vigorously. "The inn is filled."

"Sir, we have asked everywhere in vain. We have traveled far and are very weary."

"There is no room in this inn for you." Wally looked properly stern.

"Please, good innkeeper, this is my wife, Mary. She is heavy with child and needs a place to rest. Surely you must have some small corner for her. She is so tired."

Now, for the first time, the innkeeper relaxed his stiff stance and looked down at Mary. With that, there was a long pause, long enough to make the audience a bit tense with embarrassment.

"No! Begone!" the prompter whispered.

"No!" Wally repeated automatically. "Begone!"

Joseph sadly placed his arm around Mary and Mary laid her head upon her husband's shoulder and the two of them started to move away. The innkeeper did not return inside his inn, however. Wally stood there in the doorway, watching the forlorn couple. His mouth was open, his brow creased with concern, his eyes filling unmistakably with tears.

And suddenly this Christmas pageant became different from all others.

"Don't go, Joseph," Wally called out. "Bring Mary back." And Wallace Purling's face grew into a bright smile. "You can have my room."

Some people in town thought that the pageant had been ruined. Yet there were others—many, many others—who considered it the most Christmas of all Christmas pageants they had ever seen.

==========

An Exchange of Gifts
By Diane Rayner

I grew up believing that Christmas was a time when strange and wonderful things happened, when wise and royal visitors came riding, when at midnight the barnyard animals talked to one another, and in the light of a fabulous star God came down to us as a little child. Christmas to me has always been a time of enchantment, and never more so than the year that my son Marty was eight.

That was the year that my children and I moved into a cozy trailer home in a forested area just outside of Redmond, Washington. As the holiday approached, our spirits were light, not to be dampened even by the winter rains that swept down Puget Sound to douse our home and make our floors muddy.

Throughout that December, Marty had been the most spirited, and busiest, of us all. He was my youngest; a cheerful boy, blond-haired and playful, with a quaint habit of looking up at you and cocking his head like a puppy when you talked to him. Actually, the reason for this was that Marty was deaf in his left ear, but it was a condition that he never complained about.

For weeks, I had been watching Marty. I knew that something was going on with him that he was not telling me about. I saw how eagerly he made his bed, took out the trash, and carefully set the table and helped Rick and Pam prepare dinner before I got home from work. I saw how he silently collected his tiny allowance and tucked it away, spending not a cent of it. I had no idea what all this quiet activity was about, but I suspected that somehow it had something to do with Kenny.

Kenny was Marty's friend, and ever since they had found each other in the springtime, they were seldom apart. If you called to one, you got them both. Their world was in the meadow, a horse pasture broken by a small winding stream, where the boys caught frogs and snakes, where they would search for arrowheads or hidden treasure, or where they would spend an afternoon feeding peanuts to the squirrels.

Times were hard for our little family, and we had to do some scrimping to get by. With my job as a meat wrapper and with a lot of ingenuity around the trailer, we managed to have elegance on a shoestring. But not Kenny's family. They were desperately poor, and his mother was having a real struggle to feed and clothe her two children. They were a good, solid family. But Kenny's mom was a proud woman, very proud, and she had strict rules.

How we worked, as we did each year, to make our home festive for the holiday! Ours was a handcrafted Christmas of gifts hidden away and ornaments strung about the place.

Marty and Kenny would sometimes sit still at the table long enough to help make cornucopias or weave little baskets for the tree. But then, in a flash, one would whisper to the other, and they would be out the door and sliding cautiously under the electric fence into the horse pasture that separated our home from Kenny's.

One night shortly before Christmas, when my hands were deep in dough, shaping tiny nutlike Danish cookies heavily spiced with cinnamon, Marty came to me and said in a tone mixed with pleasure and pride, "Mom, I've bought Kenny a Christmas present. Want to see it?" So that's what he's been up to, I said to myself. "It's something he's wanted for a long, long time, Mom."

After carefully wiping his hands on a dish towel, he pulled from his pocket a small box. Lifting the lid, I gazed at the pocket compass that my son had been saving all those allowances to buy. A little compass to point an eight-year-old adventurer through the woods.

"It's a lovely gift, Martin," I said, but even as I spoke, a disturbing thought came to mind. I knew how Kenny's mother felt about their poverty. They could barely afford to exchange gifts among themselves, and giving presents to others was out of the question. I was sure that Kenny's proud mother would not permit her son to receive something he could not return in kind.

Gently, carefully, I talked over the problem with Marty. He understood what I was saying.

"I know, Mom, I know! … But what if it was a secret? What if they never found out who gave it?"

I didn't know how to answer him. I just didn't know.

The day before Christmas was rainy and cold and gray. The three kids and I all but fell over one another as we elbowed our way about our little home, putting finishing touches on Christmas secrets and preparing for family and friends who would be dropping by.

Night settled in. The rain continued. I looked out the window over the sink and felt an odd sadness. How mundane the rain seemed for Christmas Eve! Would any royal men come riding on such a night? I doubted it. It seemed to me that strange and wonderful things happened only on clear nights, nights when one could at least see a star in the heavens.

I turned from the window, and as I checked on the ham and homemade bread warming in the oven, I saw Marty slip out the door. He wore his coat over his pajamas, and he clutched a tiny, colorfully wrapped box in his hand.

Down through the soggy pasture he went, then a quick slide under the electric fence and across the yard to Kenny's house. Up the steps on tiptoe, shoes squishing; open the screen door just a crack; place the gift on the doorstep, then a deep breath, a reach for the doorbell, and a press on it hard.

Quickly Marty turned, ran down the steps and across the yard in a wild race to get away unnoticed. Then, suddenly, he banged into the electric fence.

The shock sent him reeling. He lay stunned on the wet ground. His body quivered and he gasped for breath. Then slowly, weakly, confused and frightened, he began the grueling trip back home.

"Marty," we cried as he stumbled through the door, "what happened?" His lower lip quivered, his eyes brimmed.

"I forgot about the fence, and it knocked me down!"

I hugged his muddy little body to me. He was still dazed and there was a red mark beginning to blister on his face from his mouth to his ear. Quickly I treated the blister and, with a warm cup of cocoa soothing him, Marty's bright spirits returned. I tucked him into bed and just before he fell asleep, he looked up at me and said, "Mom, Kenny didn't see me. I'm sure he didn't see me."

That Christmas Eve I went to bed unhappy and puzzled. It seemed such a cruel thing to happen to a little boy while on the purest kind of Christmas mission, doing what the Lord wants us all to do--giving to others--and giving in secret at that. I did not sleep well that night. Somewhere deep inside I think I must have been feeling the disappointment that the night of Christmas had come and it had been just an ordinary, problem-filled night, no mysterious enchantment at all.

But I was wrong.

By morning the rain had stopped and the sun shone. The streak on Marty's face was very red, but I could tell that the burn was not serious. We opened our presents, and soon, not unexpectedly, Kenny was knocking on the door, eager to show Marty his new compass and tell about the mystery of its arrival. It was plain that Kenny didn't suspect Marty at all, and while the two of them talked, Marty just smiled and smiled.

Then I noticed that while the two boys were comparing their Christmases, nodding and gesturing and chattering away, Marty was not cocking his head. When Kenny was talking, Marty seemed to be listening with his deaf ear. Weeks later a report came from the school nurse, verifying what Marty and I already knew. "Marty now has complete hearing in both ears."

The mystery of how Marty regained his hearing, and still has it, remains just that--a mystery. Doctors suspect, of course, that the shock from the electric fence was somehow responsible. Perhaps so. Whatever the reason, I just remain thankful to God for the good exchange of gifts that was made that night.

So you see, strange and wonderful things still happen on the night of our Lord's birth. And one does not have to have a clear night, either, to follow a fabulous star.