A Friend and a Mentor

Nearly six years ago Donna and I moved from Newberg Oregon to Butler, Pennsylvania. The move was a new beginning, with new geography, new shopping, new home, new friends. Church introduced us to Clyde and Heritha Davis, an older couple who welcomed us into their home. Friendship was instant. We visited regularly.

 

Our new home lacked what was most important to someone who loves to cook, an adequate kitchen. Additional cabinets and a countertop were a must. Contractor prices were mind boggling. Could I make cabinets? Despite having no prior experience, I jumped into the project. 

Clyde Davis was a blessing. He was a life-long professional woodworker, a true artisan, a master craftsman. During my visits, he was generous with his knowledge. As I equipped my shop, he made recommendations. You’ll want one of these. Get one of those. He asked about equipment. “What brand of table saw did you buy?”

As my shop came together and I began to produce, I’d take pieces with me when visiting Clyde. He’d hold one of my cabinet doors in his hand, feel the finish, look closely, scrutinize the joints and offer advice. When he said, “That’s nice,” I considered the source and took it as high praise. This pattern continued as my list of projects expanded. 

Yesterday I put the finishing touches on my most ambitious project to date, a new entry way door for our home. I stood and admired the finished product. I marveled at the transformation from 9-foot rough-cut lumber to an eye-catching portal. I did what Clyde would have done. I ran my hand across the silky-smooth finish. I inspected the joints. I marveled at the exquisite grain of the Brazilian Cherry wood. Then I said, “That’s nice.” 

Tomorrow I’ll attend an intimate graveside service and bid a heart-felt goodbye to Clyde Davis. The world has lost a good man. I’ve lost a good friend and a mentor.

 

Al Stone

 

 

When I found the obituary online, I was saddened but not surprised. When we last spoke more than fifteen years earlier, he told me about Huntington’s disease, a neurodegenerative disorder passed genetically from generation to generation.  The disease had reduced his dad to having the “mind of a five year old”.  Al had it too. He wasn’t sure what the future would bring, but suspected a similar fate.

First time I met Albert Paul Stone was in Mrs Templeton’s third grade class, Miller Valley School.  Mid-morning, a new kid was ushered in, a new move-in. He was assigned a desk in the back of the room next to mine.  As Mrs. Templeton droned on in front of the class, Al and I engaged in conversation. It was the beginning of a years-long friendship.  Not long afterwards, I found myself at his house after school. 

When Al moved to a house down the street from me, we hung out more.  I was in sixth grade when I got my first paper route. A few months later Al joined the ranks.  When we collected our papers each morning at a 24-hour laundry, there was plenty of adolescent shenanigans as we rolled our papers and prepared our individual deliveries.

Al joined my Boy Scout troop, a church-sponsored unit. The two of us and a dozen other rambunctious adolescents drove our Scout Master crazy. Brother Blair wasn’t the most patient of souls. On one outing, our middle-of-the-night mischief prompted him to empty a five-gallon can of water on our campfire. Intentional or not, our sleeping bags caught some of the deluge. On another camping trip, Brother Blair led us on a “short hike”. When he got turned around and lost direction, our outing turned into a grueling hours-long affair, accentuated by a dozen thirsty, hungry and whining boy scouts. 

Al’s mom and dad always welcomed me into their home. I slept over at times. A hilarious giggling fit at 1:00am woke Al’s dad. He came into the bedroom with veins bulging, threatening our lives. Ha ha - I was honored. Mr. Stone treated me like his own.  I was thrilled to be invited on a family camping trip,  my first trip to the White Mountains.

Al’s grandpa ran a second hand store. When Al’s dad took a trip to Phoenix to pick up inventory for the
store, Al and I tagged along. While Mr. Stone did business, Al and I slinked off to a nearby bike shop.  It was in that shop that Al first laid eyes on the irresistible, a Schwinn Orange Crate. It was the coolest bike of its day. I wanted a new bike too. We saved our money for months. Al bought his Orange Crate. I opted for a “10-speed” French racing bike.  We were cool.

Our BB-gun stage of life began with Daisy lever-action rifles. Later we graduated to more powerful Crossman air rifles.  I recall shooting at plenty of birds, but not hitting much. I was never more grateful for a missed shot than when I pointed my gun at Mrs. Stone’s parakeet, “Precious”. The bird was perched in her cage on the other side of the room when I took aim. I had no intention of pulling the trigger, but when the gun fired I nearly died on the spot. Thankfully the BB grazed a piece of metal which made up the cage and deflected enough to miss Mrs. Stone’s beloved pet.  The deflection saved two lives, the bird’s and mine.  Mrs Stone surely would have killed me.

Our junior year of high school, Al got a job cooking at Kentucky Fried Chicken. When the store needed additional help, he alerted me.  As teenagers, we sort-of ran the place. We often worked for weeks at a time without seeing the store manager. He preferred to spend his time at the local bowling alley. We had keys to the store and came and went as we pleased.  When cruising in our cars late at night, we would often drop into the store for a cold soda or a snack. I missed out on one such store visit. Al and two friends were confronted by a gun-wielding cop who suspected them of breaking in. All three were handcuffed and loaded into his police cruiser. Only when the store manager was alerted and drove to the police station were the boys released from custody.

Al and I both paid hard-earned cash for our first cars, mine a 1955 Ford Fairlane, Al’s an orange-ish/pink 1955 Chevrolet. They were old cars with plenty of miles, anything but sporty, but they were ours and we were proud of them.

On a cold December night, as four of us were driving around in Al’s Chevy, someone proposed toilet-papering a girl’s house. It seemed like a great idea, despite the fact she lived on the well-travelled main street of town. Part way through the job, with rolls of toilet paper in hand and streamers hanging from the trees, a police car pulled up. We didn’t wait to be confronted by the officer. The four of us streaked into the backyard and down the ally.  The officer pursued in his police cruiser, lights flashing, accelerating from one end of the ally as four frantic teenagers scrambled down the other.  In desperation we streaked into the darkness of a creek bed. We lay motionless, hiding behind brush and debri while the officer directed his spotlight in our direction. He saw no movement, no sign of life. Rather than venture into the potentially muddy darkness on foot, he slowly drove away.  Dirty and nearly frozen, we waited before venturing out of the creek and walking several blocks back to Al’s Chevy.  We were anxious to jump in his car and make our final escape, but from a distance we saw the cop, staking out Al’s car, patiently waiting for the owner to return. We detoured to my car and went home for the night.  In the end, we got away free. Al picked up his Chevy the next day.

The summer before our senior year, our job-overlap continued at Sears Roebuck, where we both worked as stock boys. On our breaks, we would often put a dime into the pop machine in the break room.  The glass bottles were so cold, when we popped the top, tiny ice crystals formed in the bubbly liquid. The most memorable coworker at Sears was Ed, who drove the delivery truck. Al and I competed to accompany Ed on customer deliveries. Ed had a colorful and entertaining repertoire of words. A nit-picky busybody of an old lady who worked in the catalogue department was labeled a “bald-headed bastard” to her face.  While enroute to deliver a refrigerator, a thunderstorm struck.  Ed peered out the windshield and marveled, “…raining like a horse pissing on a flat rock.”  Al and I got a kick out of Ed’s colorful metaphors.

Our senior year of high school we remained friends, but but began to drift apart.  Graduation came and we went our separate ways.  I left for college. Al joined the Navy. My pompous 18-year old self viewed his path a bit inferior to my own.  I became an engineer, a successful one by most standards.  Al got the last laugh. Post Navy, he got in on the ground floor of Intel, moved up the corporate ladder, managed a huge semiconductor fab, made a lot of money and retired in his early 40’s.  I tip my hat to my old friend, who’s hard work and determination paid big dividends.

As years passed, phone calls happened but not often. I last spoke to him around 2002-ish.  We shared stock-trading experiences from the “dot com” bubble. He told me about his wife Diane and how marriage had turned him into the father of two beautiful young ladies. And he told me about Huntington’s.  When we hung up, it never occurred to me it would be the last time we spoke.

Al is gone and I’m left to wonder about the last years of his life. Learning of Al’s death rekindled a boat load of memories. Together we shared many good times, a lot of growing up, considerable adolescent fun and miscues. Together we learned the value of hard work and play. To my old friend Al Stone, I bid adieu.

 

Black Lives Matter

Recent events in our country have left me perplexed and uneasy. Family and friends, who I love and respect, have marched in support of the Black Lives Matter movement. Others I know and love are more aligned with, “All Lives Matter”. I’ve sorted  through my own feelings on the issue. I’ve reflected. I’ve studied. I’m convinced that news media, activists, politicians, and the general public either ignore or don’t understand the root cause of the problems facing African Americans.

Being raised in a western white community, leaves me at a disadvantage on the subject. On behalf of my five-year-old self, I apologize to the first black person I ever saw. While shopping downtown, my mother’s car wouldn’t start. When a tow truck arrived, I couldn’t take my eyes off the driver. I’d never seen anyone like him. I was mesmerized by his black skin and lighter palms of his hands. He gave me a smile, despite my inquisitive but rude staring.

Also, to put my comments in perspective, I am the proud decedent of Edward Fuller, a Mayflower pilgrim. His journey to America was driven by faith and conviction. Had he arrived on a Gold Coast slave ship, facing a life of bondage, my views on race and the country I love might be different.

George Floyd’s death by a knee on the neck is gut wrenching. Also troubling are the violent protests, arson, vandalism, looting, and murder that followed. Unspoken sympathy for these actions is bewildering. How can so many celebrate Martin Luther King Jr and his contributions to America, yet totally disrespect his peaceful approach.

My views being different from many, is cause for reflection.  Statistics show that African Americans are arrested, prosecuted, imprisoned and killed in numbers that are disproportionate to their population. The data is clear. There is no argument. What I find both puzzling and disheartening is intolerance to the simple question; Why?

The obvious answer to many is America’s history of slavery and the century of Jim Crow that followed. They believe the aftermath continues today, with “systemic racism” prevailing in every aspect of society, from our police departments to corporate America. To some, this is so obvous, only a racist would question. 

I cringe at the very thought of slavery and man’s inhumanity to man, yet I celebrate progress made. I have deep respect for the 360,000 Union soldiers who gave their lives in the cause of freedom for all.  I am grateful for civil rights pioneers of the 50’s and 60’s. I take pride in a country that can elect a president of any race. I delight in watching a good ball game, without a thought of whether players are black or white.

As the relative, and friend of a retired “cop”, a man who risked his life often for the sake of public safety, I’m disheartened when police are painted unfavorably with a broad brush because of the despicable acts of a few. I don’t understand the intolerance of many in the BLM movement to the phrases “Blue Lives matter” or “All lives matter”.

The offical BLM website advocates “creating a world free of anti-Blackness”. (ref) I want to stand on my desk and shout to the world, “ME TOO!” But when I read further, I grow uncomfortable.  When co-founders describe themselves as “trained Marxists”, I have to take a step back. (ref)

I love that the Washington Post data base on police killings is available to all and is downloadable for analysis.  Killing of unarmed individuals is rare, 55 total in 2019, 25 white, 14 black, 11 Hispanic, 4 Asian, and 1 native-American. Today’s climate puts all focus on black. Other races are ignored. (ref)

When a black president was elected, it seemed the war on racism was drawing to a close. Based on Gallup polls, he wasn’t the unifying force hoped for. Satisfaction-with-race-relations dwindled from 55% in the eight years preceding his election to 30% when he left office. (ref)

"White privilege” refers to societal benefits which white individuals enjoy over non-white. I would gladly trade white privilege for Asian privilege. (ref) This would halve the odds of being raised in a one-parent household, reduce by a third the chance of being killed by police, double the odds of being a doctor, quadruple the chance of getting into Harvard…, and on and on it goes. This is remarkable considering the historical oppression of this group, ranging from the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1885 to World War II internment. I’m convinced their success has nothing to do with nationality or skin color and everything to do with solid families and the resulting culture.  And therein lies the answer to many of our nation’s problems.

The correlation between fatherless children and illegal behavior is staggering. Eighty-five percent of youth in prison come from fatherless homes. Children without a father are four times as likely to live in poverty. Fatherless youth are twice as likely to drop out of school, twice as likely to commit suicide, and three times as likely to deal drugs. Ninety percent of the homeless come from fatherless homes. (ref)

The Moynihan Report, “The Negro Family: The Case for National Action”, penned in 1965 by sociologist and Assistant Secretary of Labor, Pat Moynihan, is both eye-opening and prophetic. Astonishingly, it predicted decades in advance, the demise of the black family. In regard to crumbling family structure, Moynihan said, “So long as this situation persists, the cycle of poverty and disadvantage will continue to repeat itself.” (ref) Those that attribute black America’s problems solely to white racism are likely to side with Moynihan’s leading critic, William Ryan, who coined the phrase, Blaming the Victim. (ref) Moynihan was an advocate of vocational training and jobs, strengthening the roll of a father, opposed to welfare, which he argued would  undermine it. Had Lyndon Johnson adapted Moynihan’s recommendations, I'm convinced the black populace would be in much better economical and social standing today. 

I admire professor Walter Williams of George Mason University. Lest one assume him to be another biased white, he is African American. "The No. 1 problem among blacks is the effects stemming from a very weak family structure…..  Children from fatherless homes are likelier to drop out of high school, die by suicide, have behavioral disorders, join gangs, commit crimes, and end up in prison. They are also likelier to live in poverty-stricken households.” (ref)

Out-of-wedlock-birth rates among African Americans increased from 18% in 1960 to 75% seven decades later. Statistics for other races increased too, but the black rate is nearly double the national average. (ref)  When former NAACP president Kweisi Mfume was asked if white racism or the absence of fathers posed a greater threat to black Americans, he replied without hesitation, “The absence of black fathers.” (ref) Did slavery contribute to today’s weak family structure?  I think so. Has the welfare system contributed to the demise of the black family? Very likely. Will the problems confronting many African Americans be resolved without strengthening the family unit? The answer is no. Why isn’t this part of today’s conversation?

Youth that grow up without a strong family will forever be at a disadvantage.  No politician, no act of congress, no social program, will ever substitute for loving parents. No amount of welfare, affirmative action or reparation will ever provide the affection, the discipline, nor the urging required to get teenagers to do their homework, chose good friends, be moral, work hard and succeed in life. Regardless of race - white, Black, Hispanic, Asian, or Native-American - the family is critical to society. When the family fails, society fails.

Children need their dads. Should I ever march in the streets, I’ll hold my banner high, “All Fathers Matter”.

 

Sharon Fuller Cox

Sharon Fuller Cox

Eulogy delivered at Sharon’s memorial service, Janaury 25^th, 2020 in Camp Verde, Arizona by Darrel Fuller

“And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.” 

(1^st Corinthians 13:13)

 

I am truly honored today to pay tribute to one of my favorite people. I pray for strength to get through this.

While November 5th, 1943 might be a reasonable beginning to my remarks, bear with me as I make a slight detour.  About an hour’s drive from here, up on the rim, lies Pine, Arizona.  As you come into town, if you take a left onto Pine Creek Road, about a quarter mile down on the right, you’ll see a modest home. If you pull into the gravel driveway, you’ll see a bronze plaque that pays tribute to Alma Moroni Hunt.  It was faith in God that brought Alma to Pine in 1891. He was one of the founders of the community.  He was a man’s man. In today’s vernacular, he was a stud. How else do you describe a man who caught and killed a deer with his bare hands?

Of similar ilk, was Revilo Fuller. He had an unusual name, Oliver spelled backwards. Like Alma, Revilo was a pioneer, one of the first settlers of Pine and a man of faith.   These two men and their wives,  cleared the land, planted crops, built homes, tamed a harsh wilderness, and raised large families. The couples lived long enough to see grandchildren. One of those was Loran, born to Harry and Etta Fuller in 1915.  Two years later Lois was born to Isaac and Florence Hunt. As children, Lois and Loran attended church and school together. I’m not sure when the spark of romance began to burn, but it was a veritable blaze when they eloped to Flagstaff in 1935.

Fast forward eight years to 1943, when these two loving parents were blessed with their first daughter.  They named her Virginia after an aunt, but always called her by her middle name, Sharon. Sharon was the first of their children that was born in a hospital. When Sharon came into the world, she already had two older brothers, seven year old Leon and four year old Loran Dennis.  Over the next thirteen years, at the pace of every two or three years, she gained another sibling, beginning with Jerry, then Linda, Doug, Jeanette, and last of all, when she was thirteen, her littlest brother, Darrel. If you’ve lost track, that’s eight children.

When she was a child, Sharon’s dad worked in the timber industry in some very remote areas.  Most notable was the small community of Pleasant Valley. There were few modern conveniences. Electric power lines wouldn’t reach this valley for another generation. In the evenings, butane lamps provided light. Water came from a hand pumped well out back. Her mother was thrilled to get a butane-powered refrigerator, and a gasoline-powered wash machine.

Lack of television was indeed a blessing. Sharon’s mother was an exceptional storyteller. Sharon would gather with her brothers and sisters to hear Goldilocks or The Three Billy Goats Gruff.  Her mother also read them Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn, and other classics.

Sharon’s dad owned a sawmill. Years later she recalled two work horses that were used to move and handle logs.  Sharon loved those horses so much she just wanted to kiss them.  One day she was startled when standing close to one, it took a long drink from the trough, turned its head and gave her a big wet-tongue kiss right across the face. She didn’t wish for that again.

Before she turned five, she was eager to be like her older brothers and go to school. The reality of school didn’t mesh with her dreams. She thought her teacher, Mrs. Stockett, was one of the meanest teachers ever. Her practice was to crack her student’s knuckles with a ruler if they weren’t doing their work or if they were talking.  Sharon’s best friend was Laverne.  They loved playing jacks, jumping rope, swinging, and spinning in circles until they both fell down.  When they got a little older, they played red rover and baseball.

When Sharon was in fourth grade, her dad leased his sawmill to a third party. The family moved to Phoenix. It was quite a change from the rustic setting of Pleasant Valley. They lived comfortably in a nice home. It had electricity and indoor plumbing. But then the individual defaulted on the sawmill lease. Money became scarce.  The family moved from a nice home to one not quite as nice, and then another a tier below that.  When utility bills couldn’t be paid, Sharon and her brothers would walk to a neighborhood gas station to fill up water jugs.  Life had gotten hard.

Sharon’s Aunt Virginia lived in Prescott.  When Sharon was in the 5th or 6th grade, Aunt Virginia talked Sharon into living with her for a time.  This aunt loved her niece and promised her some new dresses if she came.  Aunt Virginia had some fabric, actually used flour sacks with printed flowers.  She hired a seamstress to make Sharon dresses. Sharon was grateful. Despite her aunt’s love, she was unbearably homesick. She missed her mom.  She missed her brothers and sisters.

During this time, tragedy struck her family back in Phoenix. Three of the kids waited in the car for their mom.  When the family dog jumped out of the widow, Jerry got out to retrieve him.   When he had trouble, five-year-old Linda got out to help, leaving strict instructions to her three-year-old brother Doug to stay put. Three-year-olds don’t always listen. Doug followed his sister, got into traffic and was hit by a car. Linda heard the screech of brakes and turned to see her little brother’s limp body come to rest and lay motionless in the street, tire tracks evident across his body.

While Doug lay in a coma, on the brink of death for ten days, eleven year old Sharon blamed herself. If she had only been home, she would have been there, she would have been in the car with him. She wouldn’t have let him get out and get into traffic. For those of you who don’t know the happy ending, Doug is with us today, sitting in the fifth row.

In telling the story of Sharon’s life, to understand her strength, her resolve, her work ethic and her faith, one must know her parents.  Her mother was a proud woman, independent, sometimes a little gruff.  She dedicated her life to her family. She was a woman of faith and did her best to instill the same in her children. Sharon remained very close to her mom throughout her life and shared many of her qualities.

Sharon’s dad was a good man, but one who became entangled in the tentacles of addiction. Early in life he was a successful businessman, the owner of a sawmill. His alcoholism eventually cost him his business, wreaked untold pain on his family, and inflicted mental illness on himself. In the end, his addiction cost him his life. I think Sharon would agree, that we were not thankful for the hardships that our dad caused our family, but we are so grateful for the life-long bonds it forged between us kids.

From Phoenix, Sharon’s family moved back to Pleasant Valley for a short time, and then moved for the last time to Prescott.  Here, Sharon lived her teenage years. Out of necessity, her mother was forced to go to work. As result, big responsibility was heaped on this 13-year-old young lady.

Soon after I was born, Mom worked the 3-in-the-afternoon-to-11-at-night shift at a local plastic factory. Who would watch her kids? Sixteen-year-old Dennis would race home from high school and watch the younger ones until Sharon got home from school. Dennis would then leave for his job at the A&W Root Beer stand, leaving Sharon to watch her younger siblings through the evening. She fed us, helped with homework, “bossed” us and got us in bed. I was a baby and Jeanette was only three years old. For us, Sharon was almost like a second mom.

She could be a prankster. The “grasshopper” gravy she made for dinner one evening may have been hamburger gravy, but she was convincing enough to cause concern.  When I was a little older, she convinced me that everyone was born with a tail. “You can feel your tailbone where your tail used to connect. The doctor cut it off at the hospital before you came home.” I believed her.

The late 50’s/early 60’s were the Elvis Presley era.  Sharon loved Elvis and his movies. In the afternoons, she watched American Bandstand. (The younger crowd will need to Google that).  While watching, she would practice dancing the jitterbug and other dances. Sometimes her partner was a friend, sometimes the bedroom door.

Let me share one experience from the darker side of life. Sometime during her teen years Sharon started experiencing severe stomach pain.  Later she was diagnosed with appendicitis and had surgery, but at the time didn’t know the cause. This unfortunately coincided with a drinking binge by our dad. When under the influence, he could be downright crazy. On this occasion he chased Sharon and her mother around the yard with a butcher knife. Sharon would run until she was doubled over in pain, mom would distract the drunk mad man, then Sharon would run some more.  There were other ugly instances that might be devastating to a teenage girl, but Sharon never let them get in the way of life.

She learned to drive when she was 16, taught by her brother Dennis in his 1950 Ford.  It had a flat-head V8, the preferred choice of most hot rodders of the day.  Sharon loved to drag race.

Her love for one of her little brothers was severely tested when he sold her diary to a neighbor kid. Another time, a boy came to the house to pick her up for a date.  She really didn’t want to go out with him. Seeing his car outside, Sharon told Doug, “Tell him I’m not home.”  So Doug opened the front door and did just that.  The boy obviously was skeptical since he offered money and asked, “Where is she really?”  Doug was quick to grab the cash and rat out his sister. “She’s hiding in the closet.”

In the believe-it-or-not category, is the occasion that Sharron broke her dad out of jail. He was in for some minor infraction, almost certainly alcohol related. The low-risk prisoners were allowed outside the jail for work detail at the city dump. Dad snuck away. Sharon was the get-away driver. Inside the car was her accomplice, her brother Jerry.  Anyone that knew our mother will be absolutely dumbfounded to know it was done at her urging. Sharon drove dad to Williams, outside the Yavapai county line. All these years later, I find it hard to get my head around this incident, but it’s absolutely true!

Our mother eventually went to work at a rest home, the Pioneer’s Home in Prescott. She worked the midnight shift.  Sharon didn’t have a car of her own.  One night, I’m not sure who she was with, either a brother or some friends. They went to the Pioneer’s Home and hot-wired mom’s car.  She and her cohorts did what teenage kids did back in the day, drove around, cruised Gurley (the main street). When Sharon drove back to the Pioneer’s Home to return the car, her stomach sank when another car was parked in the parking space.  When Mom found her car in a different place, Sharon was busted.

She attended Prescott High School, and subsequently went to beauty school. Whether termed a hair stylist, a beautician, or a cosmetologist, she was a natural.  Later in life she was the co-owner of her own shop.  For 37 years she was hairdresser, confidant, therapist, and friend to countless patrons of the Hair Escape salon in Cottonwood.

In March of 1961, at the tender age of 17, Sharon became a mother. She named her baby Lynette.  I was one happy kid, only four years old at the time. Technically I was an uncle, but in practice, Jeanette and I sort of gained the little sister that we never had.

In 1964, Sharon’s soul mate entered the picture.  She was on a date with another guy when she met William Charles Cox, known to all simply as Bill. Sharon later exclaimed that he was, “The most handsome man I had ever seen.” She ran into him again at a dance.  The two started dating.  They eloped and were Married in Las Vegas in May,1964.

I feel safe in saying that our mother initially had reservations about Sharon’s choice of a husband, but Bill was quick to change her mind. He loved his mother-in-law like his own mother. He helped her financially and was generous in so many ways.  Bill had similar interests to many of Sharon’s brothers. He fit in well with the family and was a great addition.

On November 16th, 1964, while still living in Prescott, the couple welcomed their son Mike into the world. Not long after, Bill joined the Union of Operating Engineers and became a heavy equipment operator.  Road construction took the family around the state. The eleven places they lived included Black Canyon City, Flagstaff, Page, Holbrook, and St. George Utah.

It was during their stay in Flagstaff that their family was completed.  Anna was born, November 16, 1967.

After bouncing around the state, Sharon and Bill bought land here in Camp Verde and built the house that they would both call home for the rest of their lives. When I say, “they built it”, I mean that literally. There was no contractor. It was a family affair, which included Sharon’s brother Jerry.  With shovel in hand, Sharon helped dig the footings. Lynette was allowed to ditch school to help with the effort. Mortar was mixed, blocks laid and walls framed. They did it all.

Sharon enjoyed the outdoors.  When she was younger, she loved to hunt with her brothers. When Sharon and Bill bought a motor home, there were plenty of weekend trips to Lake Roosevelt. She loved to read, mostly cheesy romance novels. Her entire life, she loved to play cards with family and friends. And of course, she was a homemaker. She canned vegetables out of the garden and fruit from her trees. But above all, she was a mom.  She loved her kids.  In more general terms, she loved all kids, including her nieces and nephews.   When grandkids arrived, she loved them too, and then great grandkids.

I can’t tell Sharon’s story, without including an extraordinary experience that occurred almost 21 years ago. It was life changing. I mentioned earlier that she was very close to her mother, even to the extent of being called a “mama’s baby”. When her mother was diagnosed with a rare virus and was pronounced terminal, Sharon was devastated.  In fact, our entire family was devastated. The weeks that followed leading up to our mother’s death were filled with sorrow and anguish, but also brought an eternal perspective.  The Spirit of the Lord rested upon our family, as strong as I’ve ever felt. Many hearts were touched, but perhaps none more so than Sharon’s.  It sparked a desire and determination to be more like her mother, to live closer to our Father in Heaven, to have a better relationship with our Savior.   Our mother passed away, but Sharon’s resolve lived. She never wavered.  She made changes. She went to the temple.  From that point on, a very good woman became even better. We can all learn from her example.

Now, if I were to summarize my closing remarks in one word, it would be STRENGTH.  She was in her thirties when first diagnosed with cancer. She beat it. For a long time, she suffered from stomach ulcers.  She was diagnosed with Lupus and suffered for years with this very painful immune system disorder. She had bladder cancer. The diagnoses of non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma resulted in an initial round of strong chemotherapy, followed by another round after that. During the second round, after four doses, she put the brakes on.  She had had enough. Only then did the doctors tell her that most people could only handle two. At the time, a nurse practitioner only expected her to last a few weeks. That was more than six years ago. I call those bonus years. They might be attributed to a change in diet or simply the grace of a loving Father-in-Heaven. Regardless, they most certainly wouldn't have happened without Sharon's strong will, her resolve, and uncommon strength.  

My heart is full.  I thank God that my life has been graced by this good woman. Like many of you, I have been so blessed by her unconditional love.  I take comfort in the resurrection, for I know that I will walk and talk with my dear sister again.

My Big Sis

“You don’t mind if my little brother comes, do you?” That was not a question any teenage boy wanted to hear, especially when picking up a beautiful girl for a drive-in movie date. Not in 1960, not in decades since. There was only one polite response, probably spoken with a disappointing stammer.  “Uh.., well…, no, of course not.” 

I don’t remember what movie we saw but do recall one or two trips to the snack bar. Sharon’s date was either generous with his hard-earned cash or assumed the way to a girl’s heart was through her little brother.

Stocked with popcorn, candy and soda, we made our way back to his car. I was one happy four-year-old. This was kid paradise. I had the backseat to myself while I peered through the windshield at the movie screen and overdosed on sugary treats.

Bringing a little brother along on a date might have been a simple act of kindness.  If viewed cynically, it may have been a teenage girl dealing with a boy she didn’t like. In my eyes, it was neither.  It was my big sister showing uncommon love - love I’ve enjoyed my entire life.

                                                         

I was the caboose, the last of eight kids. Before poverty level was even a phrase, our family defined it. By the time I arrived in the world, dad was an alcoholic, unable to hold a job for long. By necessity, our mother became the breadwinner and worked outside the home. Sharon was at the difficult age of 13 when her after-school responsibility was watching her baby brother.  We bonded. Sometimes she spoiled me.

As a kindergartner, I attended school in the afternoon. I was playing with the neighbor kid one morning when my big sis called me to get ready for school.  I didn’t want to go.  Sharon shrugged.  With a simple, “Okay,” she let me stay home. Whooohooo!  Later when our mother found out, we both caught her wrath. But as the responsible older sibling, Sharon took most of the heat.  Ha ha! My big sister rocked!

Even when I did her wrong, Sharon loved me without reservation. I was about seven when she asked to take the family station wagon to go meet a friend. In the darkness of evening, I stowed away in the back seat without her knowing.  While Sharon and her girlfriend drove around town and engaged in girl-talk, l laid low.  Finally, I tired and sat up in the back seat. Sharon’s friend was shocked. “I didn’t know your brother was in the car.”  Sharon wasn’t happy and threatened trouble when we got home. I worried, but nothing became of her threats. She let me off the hook.

After marriage, my dear sister continued to dote on her little brother.  Bill Cox was very tolerant of his wife’s deep affection for me.  As a youngster, we were too poor for Disneyland vacations.  Sharon offered something better, summer-time visits to her house. Some of my fondest memories are hanging out with my big sister and her family.  Since Bill was a move-around construction worker, the location varied across the state of Arizona, from Camp Verde to Black Canyon City to Flagstaff, to Page, to Holbrook.  I loved them all.

In the movie, A Christmas Story, nine-year-old Ralphie  desperately wanted an “official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle.”  As a nine-year-old, I too dreamed of a BB gun for Christmas. Given my mother’s finances, it probably wouldn’t happen.  But thanks to a big sister and her supporting husband, there was one under the tree Christmas morning. I loved that BB gun.  I may have unintentionally plinked a few windows with it but didn’t shoot my eye out.

Aside from spoiling me, Sharon always made me feel special, expressed confidence in me and made me believe in myself. This was never more obvious when I was a college freshman.  I was a long way from home, a bit homesick, and too broke to buy all of my textbooks. How grateful I was when $200 came in the mail. Sharon and Bill were not rich. It was a sizeable sum.  But it was also a sure indication that my sister loved me and was willing to invest in my future.

A year later when I left on a two-year mission to share my faith with others, Sharon joined other family members who generously offered financial support. This experience was life changing and provided a foundation for my entire adult life.

In a few years I’ll retire from a successful career.  I’ve made a name for myself in my industry niche. I feel respected by my peers.  It’s been a career that has enabled my wife and I to provide a stable home to five wonderful kids. They’re all grown now, most with families of their own.  Without knowing it, they’re indirectly indebted to their Aunt Sharon.  She nurtured their dad, loved him, invested in him, was there for him from infant to adult,

As I look back on life, my heart is full.  How blessed I have been. Thank you, Sharon Fuller Cox for your unconditional love.  Thank you for so many contributions to my life.  Thank you for being the best biggest sister a little brother could hope for.