So many overlapping memories --- First memory, seated in a high chair after Sunday evening services at someone else's house, eating ice cream before riding home in the car after dark, with Dad driving as the lights twinkled by. Running in the sunshine on the lawn at the little house among the orchards near Buena (pronounced Byoo-anna). That house was the first of many construction projects. Dad worked on it when he wasn't working hard elsewhere. I remember the inside walls were unfinished when I had just learned to walk. During that time, Dad was a mechanic at a garage in Toppenish. He also worked for area orchardists, including as a beekeeper.
I remember being happy after I had a little sister, Deanna. We moved to Boise, where Dad and Mom were houseparents at the Christian Children's Home. We ate our meals with everyone else, herded along with the other kids. Later in Boise, Clyde was bit by a black widow spider. When Polly was born, I caught my foot in the bicycle spokes riding double while Mom was in the hospital, so she had two helpless kids. I couldn't walk for about six weeks, and still have the scar on my right ankle. Dad bought a little Vespa-type scooter and took us for rides. Even then, he was trying to save on gas. I also remember when he threw a skillet out the door into a field, because food stuck in it --- Mom retrieved it.
We later moved to a juvenile delinquent home in Boise. One day, Dad climbed up a very tall poplar-type tree to trim the branches, and fell the entire length of the tree as Mom and I watched, scraping the skin off the inside of his legs. He was fortunate it wasn't much worse. Dad taught welding and auto mechanics to the young miscreants, bumping their heads together when they fought. Mom was threatened by one of the younger kids.
When we moved to Iowa, Dad worked very hard as a bag boy in a supermarket and as a mechanic while going to school, studying Greek and other intensive subjects. When David was born, it was touch and go. He was very sick, struggling to breathe with an enlarged thymus gland and subjected to radiation treatments many times the strength used today.
As we drove over the Continental Divide, with Grandma Smith driving the car hooked to the utility trailer through the ice and snow in Wyoming, we spun out and ended up in a snowbank, many of our worldly goods smashed beyond repair. We were glad to be alive. And as we traveled, David got better.
We stayed in the trailer at the farm in West Valley for awhile, then moved into Yakima to the house on 11th Avenue. I've driven by it in recent years --- it seems so small with its flat roof and stucco exterior. Dad was working as a fleet mechanic for Carnation. We traded the 11th Avenue house with Grandma and Grandpa Smith for the West Valley chicken farm.
That was a great place for kids. We had chickens in one of the chicken houses, rabbits in the upstairs of the barn, a huge garden and boarded a couple of horses. During that time, Dad preached at the little Indian mission out by White Swan after the Augustines left.
Wapato was the next move, as Dad helped start a congregation there. The move into that house was a bit protracted. Although the sale went , the people in the house at Wapato took their time leaving. We lived at least a couple of months in the camping trailer Dad had built in the driveway in Yakima. Can you imagine how that must have been for them --- seven kids in a cramped little space?
While at Wapato, we had our own milk and beef, even making our own cottage cheese and butter. The big garden and vegetables from the Elliotts and the Lumaguips and fruit from nearby orchards kept us well fed. I remember Dad getting us up at 6 a.m. during summer vacation to cut milkweed and irrigate the pasture. On the fun side, he took an old wrecked automobile and turned it into a 'tractor' with a seat, and little else, plus a governor on the motor so it couldn't go over 12 mph. For us, driving that thing over the bumps and the irrigation ditches while bringing in the hay was like four-wheelin'.
Dad was a stern disciplinarian, complicated by the fact he worked long hours and Mom was also working, mostly nights. It must have been hard for them, with a tight budget and a bunch of rambunctious kids.
After Deanna coughed her lungs out for a year, we had to move to Arizona. Dad moved us to the Longmark mobile home park --- it was new and connected wtih the trailer manufacturer. Years later, I borrowed a lamp from that Longmark trailer. I had it in my backroom office for several years, but Dad didn't forget that I had it. A couple of years ago, he asked, "Do you still have that lamp?" He said it was all that was left from that trailer, and he wanted to keep track of it because he still had a beef with the trailer's manufacturer.
I remember Dad making complaints or writing letters to Sears or other stores. He had high standards. He also pulled over drunk drivers a couple of times to make a citizen's arrest, with kids in the car. He got a letter of commendation from the police, but they also said maybe he shouldn't tackle law breakers by himself the next time.
When I left home, things were very rough between me and Dad for several years. As his eldest, I had disappointed him. For more than a year and a half, we didn't speak at all. Over time, we became reconciled and I did my best to prove myself to him in my own way. I know that he loved me, to the very end.
Hard-working. High expectations for his children and everyone else. And in the end, forgiveness. Thank you, Dad.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Tribute by Frankie Grammon
Jan. 28, 2008
Dear Precious Family,
Dad and I are so very blessed, beyond anything that we ever imagined. God is so good and we love Him so much, for many answered prayers through the years, when we didn't think some of you would make it. You all know about some of those times. We had to leave Iowa, because the doctor said we had to get David to a better climate, in November of all things and we travelled through ice and lots of snow and the closer we got back to Washington State the better he got, including the wreck in a blizzard in Wyoming, of all things, but we made it. Praise God! Then in Wapato we had to sell the farm and go to Arizona because Deanna was so very ill and God wanted her to make it too! Then in Vancouver Polly walked in front of that truck and scared David and Arnie, who saw it happen and she was in a full body cast for most of a year, but God wanted her to live! Every one of you were meant to be and I will tell you now that you are all good singers, because that is another answer to my prayers. Early on I was listening to a family at church, that were singing , where I don't remember, and I remember asking God for a singing family like that! So there is your answer to why!!
All our Love and Thankfulness,
Mom and Dad
Dear Precious Family,
Dad and I are so very blessed, beyond anything that we ever imagined. God is so good and we love Him so much, for many answered prayers through the years, when we didn't think some of you would make it. You all know about some of those times. We had to leave Iowa, because the doctor said we had to get David to a better climate, in November of all things and we travelled through ice and lots of snow and the closer we got back to Washington State the better he got, including the wreck in a blizzard in Wyoming, of all things, but we made it. Praise God! Then in Wapato we had to sell the farm and go to Arizona because Deanna was so very ill and God wanted her to make it too! Then in Vancouver Polly walked in front of that truck and scared David and Arnie, who saw it happen and she was in a full body cast for most of a year, but God wanted her to live! Every one of you were meant to be and I will tell you now that you are all good singers, because that is another answer to my prayers. Early on I was listening to a family at church, that were singing , where I don't remember, and I remember asking God for a singing family like that! So there is your answer to why!!
All our Love and Thankfulness,
Mom and Dad
Tribute by Deanna Holsinger
Sorting out a complex jumble of memories and feelings from the storehouse of a lifetime. When small, your parents loom larger than life—All powerful, All knowing, All controlling. The very fabric of your life is woven from the threads of their approval, their disapproval, their big and small decisions.
When I was growing up, Dad’s rule was absolute. His was the window through which I viewed the world. It was only as I grew older and my world expanded to catch glimpses from other windows that I started to perceive some of the distortions that skewed his, and therefore my, window on the world. Of course, my own perceptions and memories of him are also viewed through my own flawed window.
It is interesting to look back now at my childhood with 57-year-old adult eyes. Goodness—the vast majority of my childhood memories and impressions were formed when he was much younger than I am now. By the time Dad was 57, I was a 30+-year-old mother with three kids. I look now at pictures from 40 or 50 years ago and realize how young that Dad really was! Was he as unsure of himself at 35 as I was? By the time he was 35, he was responsible for feeding seven hungry little mouths and keeping shoes on 14 growing feet! Where did the impetus come from that prompted the many chapters of his pilgrimage?
How did a farm boy from Kansas find the courage to uproot from Kansas 1500 miles to the Yakima Valley? What drove him to travel with his pregnant wife to Canada? To then move with three little ones from a comfortable little house built with his own hands and a secure job to Idaho? To pursue a totally different life path? To uproot his growing family and then move to Iowa? I could go on and on—so many moves, so many decisions.
I guess I had always flippantly chalked much of these moves and decisions up to wanderlust, restlessness, or an adventurous spirit. Recently, though, my reflections have led me to a much different conclusion. The common thread, I believe, in these paths was faith. Faith? In this flawed, contradictory, complicated, contrary man? Yes, faith.
By faith… By faith, Dean Grammon made all these difficult life decisions and changes because he was thoroughly convinced each time that it was what God was calling him to do. Did he hear God correctly? Was his understanding of God accurate? Was he even consistent in following his own perceptions of what his God required of him? No—none of us are. It is a good thing that perfect obedience isn’t the measurement standard that God uses! By faith—Noah (getting drunk, maybe overwhelmed by responsibility??) Abraham (lying, coward) Jacob (conniving scoundrel) Moses (murderer) Samson (hot-headed womanizer) David (adulterer). All were flawed human beings, all in need of God’s grace, all capable of amazing steps faith and also of disastrous decisions. Disappointingly human.
Did these “hall of fame” heroes of faith even fully understand the God they followed? Did they obey even what they did understand? No—but in the core of their being they all had one thing in common—Faith—“the assurance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen”. “Without faith it is impossible to please Him”—God held them up as examples because of their faith. God has always honored faith over perfect performance. Genesis 15:6 And Abram believed the LORD, and the LORD counted him as righteous because of his faith. NLT Romans 4:1-3 Abraham was, humanly speaking, the founder of our Jewish nation. What did he discover about being made right with God? If his good deeds had made him acceptable to God, he would have had something to boast about.
But that was not God's way. For the Scriptures tell us, "Abraham believed God, and God counted him as righteous because of his faith. " NLT Galatians 3:6-7 In the same way, "Abraham believed God, and God counted him as righteous because of his faith." The real children of Abraham, then, are those who put their faith in God. NLT
This is what I recognize in my Dad—a flawed human being, like we all are, who loved God and who desperately wanted to follow Him wherever He led him. Hebrews 11:13-16 All these people died still believing what God had promised them. They did not receive what was promised, but they saw it all from a distance and welcomed it. They agreed that they were foreigners and nomads here on earth. Obviously people who say such things are looking forward to a country they can call their own. If they had longed for the country they came from, they could have gone back. But they were looking for a better place, a heavenly homeland. That is why God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them. NLT
Mar. 4, 2008
Deanna Holsinger
When I was growing up, Dad’s rule was absolute. His was the window through which I viewed the world. It was only as I grew older and my world expanded to catch glimpses from other windows that I started to perceive some of the distortions that skewed his, and therefore my, window on the world. Of course, my own perceptions and memories of him are also viewed through my own flawed window.
It is interesting to look back now at my childhood with 57-year-old adult eyes. Goodness—the vast majority of my childhood memories and impressions were formed when he was much younger than I am now. By the time Dad was 57, I was a 30+-year-old mother with three kids. I look now at pictures from 40 or 50 years ago and realize how young that Dad really was! Was he as unsure of himself at 35 as I was? By the time he was 35, he was responsible for feeding seven hungry little mouths and keeping shoes on 14 growing feet! Where did the impetus come from that prompted the many chapters of his pilgrimage?
How did a farm boy from Kansas find the courage to uproot from Kansas 1500 miles to the Yakima Valley? What drove him to travel with his pregnant wife to Canada? To then move with three little ones from a comfortable little house built with his own hands and a secure job to Idaho? To pursue a totally different life path? To uproot his growing family and then move to Iowa? I could go on and on—so many moves, so many decisions.
I guess I had always flippantly chalked much of these moves and decisions up to wanderlust, restlessness, or an adventurous spirit. Recently, though, my reflections have led me to a much different conclusion. The common thread, I believe, in these paths was faith. Faith? In this flawed, contradictory, complicated, contrary man? Yes, faith.
By faith… By faith, Dean Grammon made all these difficult life decisions and changes because he was thoroughly convinced each time that it was what God was calling him to do. Did he hear God correctly? Was his understanding of God accurate? Was he even consistent in following his own perceptions of what his God required of him? No—none of us are. It is a good thing that perfect obedience isn’t the measurement standard that God uses! By faith—Noah (getting drunk, maybe overwhelmed by responsibility??) Abraham (lying, coward) Jacob (conniving scoundrel) Moses (murderer) Samson (hot-headed womanizer) David (adulterer). All were flawed human beings, all in need of God’s grace, all capable of amazing steps faith and also of disastrous decisions. Disappointingly human.
Did these “hall of fame” heroes of faith even fully understand the God they followed? Did they obey even what they did understand? No—but in the core of their being they all had one thing in common—Faith—“the assurance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen”. “Without faith it is impossible to please Him”—God held them up as examples because of their faith. God has always honored faith over perfect performance. Genesis 15:6 And Abram believed the LORD, and the LORD counted him as righteous because of his faith. NLT Romans 4:1-3 Abraham was, humanly speaking, the founder of our Jewish nation. What did he discover about being made right with God? If his good deeds had made him acceptable to God, he would have had something to boast about.
But that was not God's way. For the Scriptures tell us, "Abraham believed God, and God counted him as righteous because of his faith. " NLT Galatians 3:6-7 In the same way, "Abraham believed God, and God counted him as righteous because of his faith." The real children of Abraham, then, are those who put their faith in God. NLT
This is what I recognize in my Dad—a flawed human being, like we all are, who loved God and who desperately wanted to follow Him wherever He led him. Hebrews 11:13-16 All these people died still believing what God had promised them. They did not receive what was promised, but they saw it all from a distance and welcomed it. They agreed that they were foreigners and nomads here on earth. Obviously people who say such things are looking forward to a country they can call their own. If they had longed for the country they came from, they could have gone back. But they were looking for a better place, a heavenly homeland. That is why God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them. NLT
Mar. 4, 2008
Deanna Holsinger
Tribute by Dave Grammon
Memories from David…God’s Word was important to Dad. Some have shared about Dad’s quest for learning God’s Word and wanting to be equipped in teaching. I think the only thing that was more of a passion than learning scripture was to teach it to others. I remember going with Dad on several occasions to teach people the gospel using the Jules Miller filmstrips. I watched those filmstrips so many times that, I think I had them almost memorized by the time I was 13.
One of the most memorable times was when we shared the filmstrip series in Northwest Portland. Some of those that responded to the gospel then, are in the ministry today. That continued to be a passion later on in his life…even after Altzeimers had progressed to the point of being unable to put words twith his thoughts.
Mom tells of one evening watching a television program together, when he sat up and clearly asked her about the amount of money they had in savings. He wanted to take it and purchase Bibles to be sent to missions because, “people needed the Lord.” What a tremendous testimony of what was still on his heart and mind, even to the end.I was able to spend time in reading scripture to Dad over the last two months. I count that time as precious. He especially loved to hear about God’s promise for eternal life.
I close with these well known verses:For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life. And this is what God has testified: He has given us eternal life, and this life is in his Son. Whoever has the Son has life; whoever does not have God’s Son does not have life. I have written this to you who believe in the name of the Son of God, so that you may know you have eternal life. Stay with what you heard from the beginning, the original message. Let it sink into your life. If what you heard from the beginning lives deeply in you, you will live deeply in both the Son and the Father. This is exactly what Christ promised: eternal life, real life! (John 3:16; 17:3; I John 2:24, 25; 5:11f)
Dave Grammon
Mar. 4, 2008
One of the most memorable times was when we shared the filmstrip series in Northwest Portland. Some of those that responded to the gospel then, are in the ministry today. That continued to be a passion later on in his life…even after Altzeimers had progressed to the point of being unable to put words twith his thoughts.
Mom tells of one evening watching a television program together, when he sat up and clearly asked her about the amount of money they had in savings. He wanted to take it and purchase Bibles to be sent to missions because, “people needed the Lord.” What a tremendous testimony of what was still on his heart and mind, even to the end.I was able to spend time in reading scripture to Dad over the last two months. I count that time as precious. He especially loved to hear about God’s promise for eternal life.
I close with these well known verses:For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life. And this is what God has testified: He has given us eternal life, and this life is in his Son. Whoever has the Son has life; whoever does not have God’s Son does not have life. I have written this to you who believe in the name of the Son of God, so that you may know you have eternal life. Stay with what you heard from the beginning, the original message. Let it sink into your life. If what you heard from the beginning lives deeply in you, you will live deeply in both the Son and the Father. This is exactly what Christ promised: eternal life, real life! (John 3:16; 17:3; I John 2:24, 25; 5:11f)
Dave Grammon
Mar. 4, 2008
Tribute by Pauline Davis
As I read the tributes to Dad my other siblings have shared, I have identified with many of the stories: the sights and smells of the camper-building project, the many marathon family trips across country, Dad’s “making a joyful noise” in church. I certainly share in the residual effects of Dad’s Life Lessons: his can-do drive and his perseverance. I would not have been able to go back to graduate school in my mid-forties without his example of determination to follow a dream.
My favorite memories of Dad center on his “softer side”. In with the true grit and Midwestern stubborn streak, he had many tender qualities. He was gentle with animals, spoiling many of his house pets with treats or people food (like the infamous oyster stew and a certain white cat), and grieving when animals died. He was a man not afraid to cry at touching stories or songs. One would see Dad’s face light up as he held a new grandchild, delighting in being able to soothe the fussiest infant with his expert touch. A very early childhood memory is of Dad dashing back and forth from the car to carry us kids through the torrential rains of an Iowa thunderstorm into a church meeting. He became thoroughly soaked, even as he used his own coat to protect us from the elements. Many times as I heard the song "No Never Alone", with the line about the lightning flashing, I remembered being carried by Dad through the storm.
Dad had a talent for cooking that may have also seemed incongruent with his tough-guy mechanic persona. Those calloused hands could whip up delicious dishes. Many people were treated at potlucks and family reunions to his legendary baked beans, blue-ribbon pickles, and homemade peach ice cream. I remember Sunday night suppers, when Mom had the evening off from cooking for the brood, and Dad would make mammoth pizzas or chocolate pudding cake, his specialty. Last month, I baked chocolate pudding cake in his memory for my three grandsons, sharing the treat with the next generation. I also remember the delight Dad showed in photographing family and special occasions, commemorating birthdays, holidays, and weddings. I was fascinated by his hobby of developing photos in his darkroom, in the house on 11th Avenue. Several of my siblings have taken up the photography bug. Grammon birthdays were always special events, with Dad immortalizing in pictures or slides the home-decorated cakes Mom made. Once, the seven kids were even awakened in the middle of the night for a belated birthday celebration after Dad had returned from an emergency truck repair. I also recall the beautiful cards Dad gave Mom for her birthday, Mothers Day, and Valentines Day, a touching testament to his love for her.
Another facet of Dad’s personality was his lifelong zest for learning. His command of the English language, numbers, and facts served him well in the many years of Scrabble, Trivial Pursuit, and Dictionary games. Sadly, as Dad’s health deteriorated, this was also where it began manifesting. Until his last year, he could talk with anyone about just about anything. Last week as I relaxed in the hot tub and looked up at the night sky, I recognized the Big and Little Dippers, the Bear (Ursa Major) and Orion, reminding me of childhood stargazing sessions with Dad in the backyard in Yakima. As I looked up, I couldn’t help but think that now Dad was seeing the beautiful constellations from the other side, and I laughed and cried in remembrance. Thanks, Dad, for your softer side!
Love, Pauline
Mar 3, 2008
My favorite memories of Dad center on his “softer side”. In with the true grit and Midwestern stubborn streak, he had many tender qualities. He was gentle with animals, spoiling many of his house pets with treats or people food (like the infamous oyster stew and a certain white cat), and grieving when animals died. He was a man not afraid to cry at touching stories or songs. One would see Dad’s face light up as he held a new grandchild, delighting in being able to soothe the fussiest infant with his expert touch. A very early childhood memory is of Dad dashing back and forth from the car to carry us kids through the torrential rains of an Iowa thunderstorm into a church meeting. He became thoroughly soaked, even as he used his own coat to protect us from the elements. Many times as I heard the song "No Never Alone", with the line about the lightning flashing, I remembered being carried by Dad through the storm.
Dad had a talent for cooking that may have also seemed incongruent with his tough-guy mechanic persona. Those calloused hands could whip up delicious dishes. Many people were treated at potlucks and family reunions to his legendary baked beans, blue-ribbon pickles, and homemade peach ice cream. I remember Sunday night suppers, when Mom had the evening off from cooking for the brood, and Dad would make mammoth pizzas or chocolate pudding cake, his specialty. Last month, I baked chocolate pudding cake in his memory for my three grandsons, sharing the treat with the next generation. I also remember the delight Dad showed in photographing family and special occasions, commemorating birthdays, holidays, and weddings. I was fascinated by his hobby of developing photos in his darkroom, in the house on 11th Avenue. Several of my siblings have taken up the photography bug. Grammon birthdays were always special events, with Dad immortalizing in pictures or slides the home-decorated cakes Mom made. Once, the seven kids were even awakened in the middle of the night for a belated birthday celebration after Dad had returned from an emergency truck repair. I also recall the beautiful cards Dad gave Mom for her birthday, Mothers Day, and Valentines Day, a touching testament to his love for her.
Another facet of Dad’s personality was his lifelong zest for learning. His command of the English language, numbers, and facts served him well in the many years of Scrabble, Trivial Pursuit, and Dictionary games. Sadly, as Dad’s health deteriorated, this was also where it began manifesting. Until his last year, he could talk with anyone about just about anything. Last week as I relaxed in the hot tub and looked up at the night sky, I recognized the Big and Little Dippers, the Bear (Ursa Major) and Orion, reminding me of childhood stargazing sessions with Dad in the backyard in Yakima. As I looked up, I couldn’t help but think that now Dad was seeing the beautiful constellations from the other side, and I laughed and cried in remembrance. Thanks, Dad, for your softer side!
Love, Pauline
Mar 3, 2008
Tribute by Clyde Grammon
I was riding ahead in the "98" Olds with dad, pulling the 8'x40' Pan-American house trailer(!?!), (by the way, that rebuilt wreck, that was realy a "truck" under it's automotive skin, was another of those "unbelievable" tall stories that are, every one, TRUE).The rest of you were a few miles back, Grandma Smith driving, in the Chevy coupe with the utility trailer behind . I remember the look on Daddy's face when you didn't show up in Laramie, and the l-o-o-o-ng ride back. I remember our crushed sled symbolically being "sent", (in frustration--no doubt), over the edge with the other unsalvageables. I was to repeat that same back-tracking process years later, when Mama didn't show at the top of Cape Horn, (the week Carrol Anne and I were married). All of these were, in retrospect, Heaven's interventions. (If we only knew how MANY times the Lord had a "future" for us that trumped, in that moment, the laws of physics and nature--not for our convenience, but for His Glory! If we had a glimpse, we would tremble in WONDER.)"Can't" was not in Daddy's vocabulary. It has been both his greatest strength and weakness, to have such abilities--and to depend on them. I remember being the "apprentice" at age 9 & 10, helping Daddy build a camping trailer--from the welding of the frame up--Saturdays and many late nights, outfitting it with sleeping space for eight + a trundle bed for Lois, that later became a rolling toy box when she outgrew it. I learned how to build a lightweight but strong frame, and to "form" the masonite around all of the curves; how to form and crimp each joint in the external sheet metal. Granted, it was mostly by watching and being the "holder", but I never thought, after that, that there was anything I couldn't do. Thanks Daddy, for expecting the impossible from a little boy--somehow it's turned out for my unbelievable blessing. Amazingly, I now have a son, who not only understood and laughed at Daddy's special brand of humor as a boy, but now with that same creative genius, builds guitars and wires amplifiers and speaker systems like there was never any doubt that he could. (But he SINGS...and plays them incredibly well, too!) "To God be the glory, great things he has done!" P.S. We actually LIVED, for a month, in that 16-foot camping trailer, while waiting to take possession of the house on the farm in Wapato. Just to write it out seems to hint of insanity, now, does it not?
Clyde Grammon
Jan. 28, 2008
Clyde Grammon
Jan. 28, 2008
Tribute by Arnie Grammon
Some of my earliest childhood memories were of the Toppenish Church, sitting up straight on those hard oak pews, and getting thumped by Dad for whispering. A part of those distant memories were of singing Dad's favorite songs. One song he always requested - and enjoyed singing good and loud - was "Power In The Blood". This, in spite of his slightly off-key singing. It is a mystery to me how all seven offspring inherited the in-tune, perfect pitch singing voice of our Mom.
Dad and Mom would set right next to one another (or with two or three chillens between 'em), and Mom's beautiful voice gave us all the standard to reach musically. But on Dad's favorite songs, his voice would dominate. He was singing with his heart. Good and loud, because he was singing about His Saviour. It's like he couldn't help himself. He was not singing to impress those on the pew ahead. He was singing about the amazing, free gift of salvation, bought by the precious blood of Jesus. Thanks Dad, for teaching us to sing with passion and gusto - with our hearts - good and loud.
Jan. 21, 2008
The Hard Way
For years I could out-dig anyone, especially in rock-free ground. For a summer in my late 30's, I worked for a ditching company that installed fiber optic cable on the campus of Eastern Oregon University. The crew gave me the name of "Shovel Boy", and would call me into the ditch to clean up where the backhoe couldn't reach. I'll admit I took a certain amount of pride being able to out-dig 24 year-old 6-2 linebacker types. I learned shovel technique by what most would consider to be "the hard way".
Digging ditches and postholes at the Skamania house was an 'adventure' I will never forget. Of course, as a 14 year old I considered it the worst form of human torture imaginable. There were days when I thought my dad really did have it out for me. Digging ditches and holes with a pick and shovel in fractured basalt requires perseverance. It generally means you must remove one rock at a time. Sometimes by hand. And always painfully slow and tedious. My hands would ache as I used pick and shovel, day in and day out. Meanwhile, I would daydream of doing something more glamorous like fishing, or hunting, or........pretty much anything but digging 4 foot deep ditches. Out of near-solid rock. I am convinced the joints and ligaments of my hands suffered permanent damage during those times. Inevitably, Dad would line me out for the day, leave for work with a defined goal or mark on the ditch, and one that I would regard as frankly pie-in-the-sky.
Coming home for the day, he would take one look at my "progress", register scorn or disgust on his face, and mumble some comment about me "sitting around taking it easy all day". He would then climb down in the ditch and proceed to give me another lesson on proper digging technique. In his mid-fifties. I was convinced that I would never measure up to his standard of ditch-digging excellence.
However, I did finish the job, albeit with his help. The ditch has long since been covered over with purchased topsoil, and become a distant memory. Until now. Strange as it sounds, I look back on those times with a certain measure of pride. Although my 14-year-old mind could not grasp this principle, he was teaching me how to work until the task was done.....finishing the job.
Looking back on my life accomplishments, whether it was sticking to an especially tough place of employment, or completing my Master's Degree, or any number of things that required perseverance, I am convinced the tenacity required was due in part to a little ditch-digging lesson.We all tend to learn differently. I am not proud of this fact, but I was always someone that tended to learn best by life experience. For me, I have found that finishing a task, and doing it well, has been comparatively easy. Of course, it's all relative to a certain ditch-digging experience in a glorified rock garden called Skamania.
Arnie Feb. 2, 2008
Post-Script:This is the same reason I have evaluated every purchase of land based on what comes up with the shovel. AFTER digging test holes. Here's my rule of thumb...if there are more than two rocks the size of a golf ball in the shovel, then that place gets crossed off the list. Hmmmm......I wonder why that is? ; )
Dad and Mom would set right next to one another (or with two or three chillens between 'em), and Mom's beautiful voice gave us all the standard to reach musically. But on Dad's favorite songs, his voice would dominate. He was singing with his heart. Good and loud, because he was singing about His Saviour. It's like he couldn't help himself. He was not singing to impress those on the pew ahead. He was singing about the amazing, free gift of salvation, bought by the precious blood of Jesus. Thanks Dad, for teaching us to sing with passion and gusto - with our hearts - good and loud.
Jan. 21, 2008
The Hard Way
For years I could out-dig anyone, especially in rock-free ground. For a summer in my late 30's, I worked for a ditching company that installed fiber optic cable on the campus of Eastern Oregon University. The crew gave me the name of "Shovel Boy", and would call me into the ditch to clean up where the backhoe couldn't reach. I'll admit I took a certain amount of pride being able to out-dig 24 year-old 6-2 linebacker types. I learned shovel technique by what most would consider to be "the hard way".
Digging ditches and postholes at the Skamania house was an 'adventure' I will never forget. Of course, as a 14 year old I considered it the worst form of human torture imaginable. There were days when I thought my dad really did have it out for me. Digging ditches and holes with a pick and shovel in fractured basalt requires perseverance. It generally means you must remove one rock at a time. Sometimes by hand. And always painfully slow and tedious. My hands would ache as I used pick and shovel, day in and day out. Meanwhile, I would daydream of doing something more glamorous like fishing, or hunting, or........pretty much anything but digging 4 foot deep ditches. Out of near-solid rock. I am convinced the joints and ligaments of my hands suffered permanent damage during those times. Inevitably, Dad would line me out for the day, leave for work with a defined goal or mark on the ditch, and one that I would regard as frankly pie-in-the-sky.
Coming home for the day, he would take one look at my "progress", register scorn or disgust on his face, and mumble some comment about me "sitting around taking it easy all day". He would then climb down in the ditch and proceed to give me another lesson on proper digging technique. In his mid-fifties. I was convinced that I would never measure up to his standard of ditch-digging excellence.
However, I did finish the job, albeit with his help. The ditch has long since been covered over with purchased topsoil, and become a distant memory. Until now. Strange as it sounds, I look back on those times with a certain measure of pride. Although my 14-year-old mind could not grasp this principle, he was teaching me how to work until the task was done.....finishing the job.
Looking back on my life accomplishments, whether it was sticking to an especially tough place of employment, or completing my Master's Degree, or any number of things that required perseverance, I am convinced the tenacity required was due in part to a little ditch-digging lesson.We all tend to learn differently. I am not proud of this fact, but I was always someone that tended to learn best by life experience. For me, I have found that finishing a task, and doing it well, has been comparatively easy. Of course, it's all relative to a certain ditch-digging experience in a glorified rock garden called Skamania.
Arnie Feb. 2, 2008
Post-Script:This is the same reason I have evaluated every purchase of land based on what comes up with the shovel. AFTER digging test holes. Here's my rule of thumb...if there are more than two rocks the size of a golf ball in the shovel, then that place gets crossed off the list. Hmmmm......I wonder why that is? ; )
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