Constitution of This Land

 

 

(Talk delivered to the Manzanita Ward, Payson, Az by Darrel Fuller, June 30, 2024)

Good morning, Brothers and Sisters. Donna mentioned that we have lived in different parts of the country. This has made me realize a great blessing of the church. No matter where you go, you have friends. I hardly know any of you, but today I am very happy to be amongst friends.

Thursday, our nation will celebrate 248 years of independence.  This brings to mind a scripture in the Doctrine Covenants, Section 101, verse 80. 

    “And for this purpose have I established the Constitution of this land, by the hands of wise men whom I raised up unto this very purpose…”

I’d like to make this verse the focus of my remarks today.  And ancillary to it, I site two conference talks.  The most recent in April 2021 by Dallin H. Oaks entitled, Defending Our Divinely Inspired Constitution.  And the other by Ezra Taft Benson in April 1976, The Constitution—A Glorious Standard.

Had you asked me as a youth if I appreciated the founding of our nation, I might have simply reflected on Fourth of July parades and fireworks.  But a transformation occurred when I served a mission in the State of Virginia.  While there, I was exposed to the state’s rich history. It is home to our nation’s first permanent settlement of Jamestown. It was home to perhaps the foremost of our nation’s founders of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson and James Madison.  It figured prominently in the Civil war.

In my very first area, Hopewell Virginia, I got acquainted with a brother in the ward. This guy was a patriot, a true lover of our country. It was hard to talk with him without the conversation drifting patriotic. To say he admired our founding fathers is an understatement.  He revered them. He took offense at a movement at the time, one that continues to this day, of what he called “defaming” our Founding Fathers.  This brother loved the constitution and kept a copy tucked inside the pocket of his scripture covers.  He explained that the document was inspired of God, so he esteemed it to be scripture, just like the rest of the standard works.  I liked that idea, so I got a copy of the constitution and began carrying it in my scriptures.

I served in Virginia in 1976, the bicentennial of our nation. I was witness to celebrations and emphasis put on our nation’s founding. The United States Treasury released a commemorative $2 bill, in observance of this 200^th anniversary.  I received one as change at the grocery store.  On the face side was Thomas Jefferson, the author of the Declaration of Independence.  On the reverse was a picture of the signers. It was there that I wrote in ink, “D&C 101:80, for for this cause…”   I carried that bill in my wallet for many years and I still have it to this day.

When my two years were up and it was time to go home, myself and other departing missionaries flew from our mission headquarters in Roanoke to Washington, DC.  There was a LDS family there who loved missionaries.  They gave us accommodations for the night. We were able to go to the DC temple.  And afterwards, a brother gave us a tour of Washington, DC. He dropped us off at various locations and waited in the car while we ran to the Washington monument and then the Lincoln memorial.  They were impressive. They were wonderful.  And then he dropped us off at the Jefferson Memorial. The moment I stepped inside the rotunda, I felt something special. I got goose bumps. I was moved.  Some describe the memorial as a “temple” dedicated to Jefferson the man.  But I believe the real power of that memorial comes not from the man, but the principles he espoused. 

In the rotunda, I read, “I have sworn upon the altar of God eternal hostility against every form of tyranny over the mind of man." 

In the Southwest Portico, I read, “"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights, among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” 

In the Northwest Portico was inscribed, “Almighty God hath created the mind free. All attempts to influence it by temporal punishments or burthens...are a departure from the plan of the holy Author of our religion.” 

And in the Northeast Portico was a quote that seems particularly applicable to our day when faith in God is on the sharp decline. “God who gave us life gave us liberty. Can the liberties of a nation be secure when we have removed a conviction that these liberties are the gift of God?”

These were inspired words. They left no doubt that Jefferson was included when the Lord said, “…by the hands of wise men whom I raised up…”

Among others that the Lord raised up were 56 Signers of the declaration of Independence. When they signed, they pledged their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor.  There is some debate over the historical accuracy of these numbers, but it has been reported that five signers were captured by the British as traitors and tortured before they died. Twelve had their homes ransacked and burned. Two lost their sons serving in the Revolutionary Army; another had two sons captured. And nine of the 56 fought and died from wounds or hardships of the Revolutionary War. 

Following the Revolutionary War, the country wasn’t exactly united.  The colonies were more like 13 sovereign nations, each looking out for its own interests. The common bond between them was a very inadequate Articles of Confederation. What we now call the Constitutional Convention, started out simply as an effort to revise the articles.  But our Father in Heaven and James Madison had other plans. We now know that this effort was divinely inspired, but at the time there was scanty evidence.  Delegates met throughout the sweltering summer of 1887. To keep the discussion confined to individuals and not newspapers, they kept the shutters closed. East Coast temperatures don’t compare with Arizona temps, but when stifling humidity is included, conditions were absolutely miserable.

I recall a BYU history professor mentioning that one delegate proposed prayer, but it was never offered. But other sources I’ve read indicate that prayer was offered. Perhaps that point is up for debate. But what isn’t up for debate is that the discussion was sometimes heated. Delegates discussed God-given rights, separation of power, checks and balances and more.  In the end, a divinely inspired document resulted. It was ratified in September of 1787.

I’m fascinated by the Lord’s method in bringing the Constitution into existence. Our Founding Fathers were flawed men, as we all are. Some were slave holders. I’m somewhat partial to Thomas Jefferson, but as I’ve studied his life, I admit to some disappointment.  DNA evidence is inconclusive, but indicates  he may of had an illicit relationship with Sally Hemmings.  I hope it’s not true, but whether it is or is not, the Lord clearly used the man to further his purposes.

There is a lesson to be learned from this.  We all have feelings of inadequacy. We all fall short.  And despite this, the Lord uses imperfect individuals to further his causes and his kingdom.

It’s a fair question to ask, were the Founding Fathers good men?  Wilford Woodruff thought so. In 1877, an apostle at the time but also serving as the president of the St. George temple, he had an amazing experience.  “Before I left St. George, the spirits of the [Founding Fathers] gathered around me, wanting to know why we did not redeem them. Said they, ‘You have had the use of the Endowment House for a number of years, and yet nothing has ever been done for us. We laid the foundation of the government you now enjoy, and we never apostatized from it, but we remained true to it and were faithful to God.’”

Years later President Woodruff reflected on his experience in General Conference. “Those men who laid the foundation of this American government and signed the Declaration of Independence were the best spirits the God of heaven could find on the face of the earth. They were choice spirits, not wicked men. General Washington and all the men that labored for the purpose were inspired of the Lord…”

“Everyone of those men that signed the Declaration of Independence, with General Washington, called upon me, as an Apostle of the Lord Jesus Christ, in the Temple at St. George, two consecutive nights, and demanded at my hands that I should go forth and attend to the ordinances of the House of God for them. (Conference Report, April 1898)

What other evidence  indicates these were good men? Let’s read a few quotes.

Benjamin Franklin: “The longer I live the more convincing proofs I see of this Truth. That God Governs in the Affairs of Men!—And if a Sparrow cannot fall to the Ground without his Notice, is it probable that an Empire can rise without his Aid?”

James Madison: “It is impossible for the man of pious reflection not to perceive in it a finger of that Almighty hand which has been so frequently and signally extended to our relief in the critical stages of the revolution.”

Charles Pinckney: “When the great work was done and published, I was . . . struck with amazement. Nothing less than that superintending hand of Providence, that so miraculously carried us through the war, . . . could have brought it about so complete, upon the whole.” (Essays on the Constitution, 1892)

One last comment on the constitution, it not only changed our country, it changed the world. When it was established, the concept of inalienable God-given rights, separation of power, government of the people, by the people, for the people were uncommon concepts.  Governments of the day were most often monarchies. Laws were dictated, not passed. Now there are more than 200 nations with “constitutions”.  These nations, some of which were formerly under the rule of the British empire, when it came time to exercise their freedom, looked to the United States constitution as a guide.  Again, this document, which came about in the contentious, hot and sweaty confines of Constitution Hall in Philadelphia, changed the world.

This miraculous feat was recognized much more in generations past.  Today, with faith in God diminishing amongst the masses, it goes unrecognized by many.

In April Conference a year ago, President Nelson said, “Whatever questions or problems you have, the answer is always found in the life and teachings of Jesus Christ.”  He was addressing individuals, but his admonition applies to nations as well.  Most often the solution to our country's problems are sought in congressional committees, new policies, new laws, new spending bills.  In reality, the solution to every problem our country faces is found in the gospel of Jesus Christ.  The answer is always Jesus.

With all due respect to George Washington, I declare that the Savior is the father of our country and the constitution which governs its affairs. I pray that our nation will turn to Him once again.

In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

 

 

Otis Eldo Thrasher

 

Eulogy delivered at Otis’s memorial service, December 17^th, 2022, Avondale, Arizona by D.B Fuller

 

“And above all things have fervent charity among yourselves: for charity shall cover the multitude of sins.” (1^st Peter 4:8)

 _________________________________________________________________

Otis Thrasher has been described in many ways.

•  “He was a master of sarcasm and orneriness.”
•  “He was the uncle every kid wanted.”
•  “He was like a second father to me.”
•  “He was like an M&M with a hard outer shell but a soft core.”
• “He had a profound influence on my life.”
• “He didn’t have a college degree, but he was one of the smartest men I’ve ever met.”
•  “My own dad was business-like. Uncle Eldo was Disneyland”
• "El Gringo loco, el gringo loco!” (Shouted by a Puerto Vallarta time-share huckster  when he recognized Otis in a passing cab)
• "He was one of a kind."

Years ago when I was a young starving college student, Otis and my sister Linda let me stay with them while I attended Arizona State. I had a health issue and had to see a doctor in Phoenix. When the doctor came into the examination room, he looked at my file and noticed my address. “You’re from Buckeye?  I grew up in Buckeye.”  When I explained that I really wasn’t from Buckeye, but was only staying with my brother-in-law, the doctor asked, “Who is your brother-in-law?”.  When I said, “Otis Thrasher”, the doctor turned and asked incredulously, “Otis Thrasher is your brother-in-law?”  I nodded. “I played ball with Otis.”  Then the doctor shook his head and said with a wry chuckle, “I could tell you stories.” --  Anyone who knew Otis could tell stories. Let me share some.

The community of Buckeye Arizona was established in 1877. It wasn’t called Buckeye at the time, but when the Buckeye canal brought water to the community and the Post Office was named Buckeye, the name stuck. It was incorporated as a municipality in 1929. Sixteen years later, its residents included Otis and Ovell Thrasher. How this couple came to be in Buckeye is a conversation of its own, but contributing factors were the great depression and the dust bowl. On March 24, 1945, in the living room of their very modest home, Ovell gave birth to a healthy baby boy. He brought good Karma into the world. After all, World War II ended a few months later.

The baby was named after his dad, Otis, but his family always called him by his middle name, Eldo. The country doctor who brought him into the world declared that he was the “Prettiest baby I’ve ever delivered.” At birth, Eldo had a big sister Fern, four years old, and Brother Bob, age six. His oldest sister Wanda was 10. 

Unlike the Buckeye of today, Buckeye of the 1940’s reflected small-town America. There was one main street, Old Highway 80. There were no stop  signs, no stop lights. Everyone knew everyone else. Despite the Thrashers being, “poor as church mice”, Buckeye Arizona proved to be fertile ground for a boy to grow up in. On Saturdays, the Thrashers would pick cotton as a family to supplement their income. Little Eldo was proud when he got his very own cotton sack for Christmas. Another year when there was no Christmas tree, Eldo made do by decorating a tumbleweed.

The Thrasher kids had an Uncle Pete who lived with them for a time. Uncle Pete used, shall we say, rather colorful language. Little Eldo was a quick study and readily made Uncle Pete’s colorful metaphors his own. His siblings thought it was cute when their little brother swore. When Fern told me this a couple of days ago, it explained a lot.

As an adolescent, Otis got in his share of trouble, such as throwing eggs at cars on main street. When someone ratted them out, him and his buddies had to go clean up the mess.

In high school he played the trumpet in the band but his real talent was sports. He played football, basketball, and baseball. While he was good at them all, he excelled at baseball. When he graduated from Buckeye Union High School in 1964, he was offered a scholarship to play at Arizona Western in Yuma Arizona.

This was a great opportunity. Otis was a promising young ball player with considerable potential. But being a young nineteen-year-old kid, the first time away from home proved to be a challenge. Youthful indiscretion got in the way. Yuma was a border town with distracting temptations on the other side of that border.  Years later Otis reflected on his mistakes and was left with a nagging feeling. He always wondered how good of baseball player he could have been. He wondered if he could have played professionally.

When he lost his baseball scholarship, Otis followed in the footsteps of his brother Bob, who he always admired and looked up to.  Otis enlisted in the army.  His mother was not happy. The Viet Nam war was raging.  There was a good chance that Otis would see combat. But after basic training, while the rest of his company was sent to Viet Nam, Otis was singled out and sent to Germany. Having grown up in the Arizona desert, frigid German winters nearly killed him. Other than that, his stay in Germany proved to be a rich experience. When on leave, he was able to travel and see neighboring countries and historic sites.  Visiting one of the Holocaust sites left a lasting impression.

When he was discharged from the service, Bob’s big-brother influence came into play again.  Bob was a police officer for the Phoenix Police Department.  Otis joined the force.  Him and his brother had the opportunity to work together at times. Otis quickly learned the challenges of being a Police officer. One of the first calls he made as a cop came on Christmas day. A young boy had received a bicycle for Christmas and soon after was struck by a car.  The sight of a lifeless body in the street and interactions with hysterical grieving parents were never to be forgotten.

When Bob considered a career change and talked of leaving the Phoenix PD, Otis had less incentive to stay.  He had had a taste of undercover work.  In 1969 when the Department of Public Safety started an undercover group, Otis was intrigued.  More pay and interesting work prompted a career change of his own.  For the next twenty-nine years he worked as an undercover agent for the state of Arizona.

Let’s pause a moment and talk about someone besides Otis. This is an individual who has influenced me in the very best of ways.  In 1969, my dear sister Linda had left her hometown of Prescott, and was living/working in Phoenix. When her job at St. Luke’s hospital grew uncomfortable, she felt like she needed a change. She didn’t have a clue at the time how pivotal that decision would be. Through an employment agency one of her roommates worked at, she found a job at the Arizona Department of Public Safety. 

Linda worked in finger printing and records. When officers made an arrest and processed their prisoners, they brought them to this lovely young lady for fingerprinting. When agents needed access to files and records, they came to Linda. One of those agents was unlike any other.

Otis would tease and flirt with Linda, “We have to stop meeting like this.”  Flirting lead to a date, and another date and in time romance. When the romance became obvious to Linda’s coworkers, some expressed concern. Linda was the proverbial “girl next door”.  She was world-class wholesome. She was pure and innocent. On the other hand, Otis had a reputation.  Linda’s Sergeant expressed concern, and warned her, “Otis is really wild. Are you sure he’s your type?”

Linda wasn’t sure. But then Otis took her home to Buckeye to meet his family. While there, Otis’s brother-in-law jack sustained an injury in a family basketball game. He had to be taken to the hospital. It wasn’t planned, but Linda ended up spending the night and got an insider’s view of the Thrasher clan. What she saw was a home that brimmed with love.  Linda was impressed with how Otis treated his mother. He loved and adored her and would have done anything for her. Yes, he was a “momma’s boy”, but not in a sissy way, but in the very best of ways.  After that, Linda was hooked.

When they got engaged, Linda reciprocated and brought Otis to Prescott to meet her family. As an undercover agent, Otis’ outward appearance was perhaps.., subpar. He was not clean cut.  He had shoulder-length hair and a scraggily beard. Using the vernacular of the day, he looked like a “hippy”. At the time, the term had all kinds of negative connotations. In outward appearance, he wasn’t what most mothers wanted their daughters to bring home. Linda’s mother had reservations. I’m happy to say those reservations dissolved in time.

Linda and Otis eloped on May 24, 1970 in Winter Haven, California. It was a bare-bones wedding. The couple declined the $50 option  for the Justice of the Peace to conduct the ceremony with a French accent. Eloping began the taming of “the wild man”. Fifty-two years of marriage, three kids, and nine grandkids followed. Scott was born in 1971 and Marcie in 1973. When Justin arrived in 1975, their family was complete. 

Otis loved kids. He had a lot of kid in himself. Before he was married, he doted on his nieces and nephews. He’d pick them up for a weekend, or even an entire week. He’d take them on shopping trips. He would play games, which always seemed to be rigged in his favor.  When he got married, he gained additional nieces and nephews on Linda's side. He gave them similar treatment.

In early marriage, Otis’ devotion to family was never more apparent than when his mother was diagnosed with cancer. Him and Linda moved into his parent’s home and cared for her during the week.  On weekends he let Fern and Bob have a turn. When his mom finally passed Otis was devastated and never completely recovered from the loss.

During those early years of marriage, another incident provided a glimpse of the compassion that sometimes hid beneath Otis’ exterior shell. As an undercover agent, he often was issued a nice sports car. While driving with his partner through a residential area, a small boy chased his ball into the street. Otis slammed on the brakes and sent the car screeching sideways but he couldn’t avoid the boy.  The little guy was severely hurt. Fearing he wouldn’t live long enough for an ambulance to arrive, the two agents put the boy in their car and raced to the nearest hospital.  He wasn’t breathing when they pulled into the ER. Thankfully, doctors revived him. His recovery in the hospital took weeks. Otis felt terrible. He visited the hospital every day and talked and offered comfort to the boy and his family.  When the boy finally recovered, Otis kept in touch with him and his parents for years afterwards.

Otis and Linda chose to raise their kids on a very rural five-acre plot on the far outskirts of Buckeye.  Here, the kids learned to work. They were all introduced to hoes at a young age. Not hoes that might be found on the streets of East Van Buren.  We’re talking gardening. We’re talking weeds. And true to form, when Otis brought the hoes home, it was done with theatrics and a flourish. With eyes wide and hands in the air, he exclaimed, “I have a surprise for you.”

Otis was very generous. He was also an excellent mentor to his own kids. He was both when he had them box up many of their toys, gather unused clothes, and other items and deliver them to impoverished residents of a nearby “trailer park” just before Christmas.  Similarly, he and his family blessed the lives of many impoverished Mexicans at Rocky Point.  These people had nothing. Some relied on cardboard shacks for shelter. They were very grateful to receive hundreds of brand-new shirts (confiscated bootleg merchandise), household goods, and even an occasional bike for a kid. Thirty years later, those memories are priceless.

Psychologists use the term “unfinished business” to refer to parents who attempt to fulfill their own childhood dreams through their kids. I suspect that was in play with Otis.  He loved when his sons played sports. He spent hours playing with them at the park. He coached their little league and Pop Warner teams. He was at virtually every one of their high school games.  He was a devoted dad.

When asked about pleasant memories, every Thrasher recalls family camping trips to the White Mountains. On these trips, there was plenty of bonding and conversation around the campfire. There were talent shows. There were various competitions. For each, Otis was the self-appointed commissioner.  He was the commissioner of the hand-crafted boat races. He was the commissioner of fishing. If one found themselves to be the winner of any competition, Otis was quick with a reason why they didn’t really win and why he did. Is it okay to call someone a cheater at their own funeral? It was all done with a sparkle in his eye and with his normal flare for fun.

Otis had a storied twenty-nine-year career with DPS. As an undercover agent, he dealt with the worst of humanity, some very despicable human beings. He made thousands of arrests. He participated in some of the biggest drug busts in history. When serving search warrants, it was his choice to be the first one through the door. He put himself in harm’s way every day.  It wasn’t easy on his wife, but he did it to keep society safe.

As a DPS agent he never gained rank, but that was not his intent. He worked thousands of cases. He put a lot of bad guys in jail. He became a legend in the law enforcement community.  He was well known and respected throughout the state by prosecutors and defenders alike.

Otis could be a work-aholic.  During downtime from his DPS duties, he worked other jobs. An interesting one involved enforcing music copyright laws. His hard work and dedication was rewarded with a Gold-Record. The plaque read, “The Recording Industry Association of America  presents its honorary gold medal to Otis Thrasher, Criminal Investigator, Arizona State Department of Public Safety, in recognition of his extraordinary dedication and zeal in enforcing the laws against counterfeiting and piracy of sound recordings, April 15, 1973.”

In 1976, while on duty one evening with his partner, the two came upon a bad traffic accident. A car was overturned and in flames with a woman inside. There were onlookers at the scene who stood helplessly watching. Otis nearly lost a finger and was burned when he acted. He was subsequently recognized for his valor. One of the awards he received stated, “This certifies that Otis E. Thrasher has a been awarded a Carnegie Medal in recognition of outstanding act of heroism.  Bronze Medal awarded to Otis E. Thrasher, who helped to rescue Gail A. Peacock from burning, Phoenix, Ariz, September 15, 1976. At night, Mrs. Peacock, aged 32, was driving her station wagon when it skidded, overturned, and caught fire. Among those attracted was Thrasher, aged 31, narcotics agent. He and another agent ran to the inverted vehicle, on which flames covered the rear exterior and filled the inside rear compartment. Just after the other agent had tried in vain to remove Mrs. Peacock, who was only semiconscious, there was an increase in the flames both inside and outside. Thrasher crawled into the station wagon to his shoulders and succeeded in moving Mrs. Peacock to the window. He and the other agent then pulled her out of the vehicle and dragged her away as the flames increased. Mrs. Peacock recovered after being hospitalized for burns she had suffered.”

A year later in 1977, his dedication to duty and of a job well done was recognized by The Disabled Veterans Department of Arizona. Their Outstanding Officer of the Year was awarded to Otis with, “Appreciation for your courage and devotion to duty.“ Given the large pool of eligible officers, this recognition was remarkable.  A similar award followed in 1981 from the Fraternal Order of Police. Their Officer of the Year Award was, “For performing law enforcement duties in an outstanding manner, for making significant contributions within the community and performing services outside of your chosen profession.”

Otis worked hard but he also played hard. On the play side, he developed an overzealous love for Mexico. I suppose it started with road trips to Rocky Point, but soon branched out to other Mexican locations, including Puerto Vallarta, Cancun, and others. In time he and Linda accumulated four time shares. This gave them plenty of vacation capacity, but that wasn’t enough.  Otis wasn’t happy unless he was sharing those time shares with family and friends. He was very generous in this respect and took countless individuals on week-long vacations to some very beautiful places. Hawaii was also a very common destination. There are many in this audience who were blessed by Otis’ time-share generosity.

I mentioned earlier Otis enforcing music copyright laws for the recording industry. Over the years, this led to other opportunities in the entertainment industry, particularly pertaining to trademarks, branding, and related bootleg merchandise. In this capacity, he traveled with many different bands.  He toured extensively with Garth Brooks and became his friend. How cool is that?  Other groups he traveled with included Twisted Sister, Guns and Roses, Aerosmith, Brian Adams, Bon Jovi, and Journey. And if your curious, note that Otis liked Steven Tyler. He thought Axl Rose was despicable.

The connections Otis’ made led him to handling merchandising at local venues. For labor needs, he typically turned to family and friends. I’m curious. Could I see a show of hands of all those who have worked for Otis? (Half the audience raised hands)

Brothers and Sisters, let me close with these remarks. I love and have considerable faith in our Lord, Jesus Christ. In the gospel of John, we read of Lazarus and his sisters, Mary and Martha. They were Jesus’ friends. When Lazarus grew seriously ill, his sisters sent word to Jesus to come quickly to heal him. But Lazarus died before Jesus arrived. They wrapped him in burial clothes and put his body in a tomb.  It wasn’t until four days later that Jesus did come. He called Lazarus from his grave and raised him from the dead.  Clearly, Jesus had and still has power over death. He raised himself from the dead and was resurrected after his crucifixion.  Through his power, each of us will also be raised from the dead. I’m grateful for this gift. I thank God that I will walk and talk with Otis, my friend and my brother, once again.

Farewell “Mother Dear” 

“If you want to know what you’re marrying, if you want to know what she’ll be like in twenty or thirty years, look at her mother.” When I heard those words, they rang true. They were offered by a friend and a spiritual mentor, Brother Beck. When I was a teenager four years earlier, he was my seminary teacher. Now, he was offering fatherly advice to a fatherless young man. 

It was 1979. I had been seeing a girl in recent weeks. When Brother Beck spoke the words, my mind went to her mother. My initial encounter with the woman had not been face-to-face, but interesting, nonetheless. 

At the end of our second date, I took Donna home. When I pulled up in front of the house, I turned off the engine and we sat in the dark and talked. We had only known each other for two days. I wanted to get to know her. But five minutes into the conversation, the front porch light began to flash on and off. I looked at Donna, questioning. She offered, “That’s my mom.” That was my introduction to Evelyn, and the abrupt end of a good date. 

In the ensuing weeks, I saw Donna more and more, and got better acquainted with her mother. In the process, I considered Brother Beck’s words. “If you want to know…, look at her mother.” What I saw in Evelyn was a bustling mother, mid 40’s, firm in her faith, anxiously engaged in good causes, devoted to her family. She was a doer, a hard worker, one who cared about others and put their needs above her own. I liked what I saw. 

As weeks passed, I came to the realization that I wanted to make Evelyn my mother-in-law. Oh sure, I knew her daughter would have a say in the matter, but as it turned out, it wasn’t a difficult sell. Donna was agreeable. It’s been 43 years since that fateful decision. With 20/20 hindsight, I can say that Brother Beck was right. His advice was sound. I thank him for it. 

How blessed I have been to count Evelyn as my mother-in-law. It took some time, but I grew to love her like my own mom. She made it easy to do. 

Evelyn, thank you for your love and support for the past 43 years. Thank you for blessing the life of my children. And above all, thank you for raising an exceptional young lady, one whom I’m bound to for eternity. 

“Mother Dear”, the ravages of Alzheimer’s are no longer. Finally, you are free of a decrepit mortal body. I look forward to walking and talking together again. Until we do, I bid adieu.

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.