Stan's Drive In was located approximately 2 blocks from my childhood home. Each Monday night Stan's would host its' infamous buy one get one free shake night. People would flock from everywhere! Almost each Monday evening until close, a line of shake seekers would be out the door and encircling the small square building. As each proud, "free" shake eater licked their ever toppling, above the rim, sugary sweet milky creation when they exited the building, the rest of the line would salivate and change their initial flavor choice a million times before their actual order.
Stan's was that good. There was any shake flavor a heart could desire. Fruit, cookies, candies, flavor syrups. Even the popular shake-of-the-month was to die for. Like pumpkin for October, peppermint/candycane for December, and some years, eggnog. Peach was nearly always the hit of August
By the time I was old enough to cross busy 9th east, I made the weekly trek up to Stan's with my friend Sara. It became our Monday night tradition. Whether or not Stan's put MSG in their shakes which seemed to keep us returning, we couldn't resist them. We would gather money, orders from family members, maybe grab a few other neighborhood friends to join us head up through some apartments and parking lots and we were in heaven.
On any given Monday when it was only Sara and I craving a shake, we could then make best use of our money by combining the cost of one shake and get the other one for free! Reece's Pieces or Butterfinger were nearly always my top choices. If we were lucky enough, there would be a seat in the diner where we could put our feet up and swap flavor bites from each others cups.
No doubt all my hard earned child labor money was spent at either Stan's or the nearby 7/11 or Crest gas station. That is until Sara would give up shakes for Lent, helping me save some money. Sara was Catholic and practiced this Christian tradition forty days before each Easter. 40 days! That was usually six whole Mondays with no shakes. She impressed me with her ability, specifically when she would tail along with me to Stan's retrieving my families requests and watch me eat my shake on the walk home while she held one, maybe two under her nose.
One year, no doubt after the summer I attended Sara's Bible Camp, I chose to give up shakes for Lent too. It was hard work, but thinking of it now, I recall the spiritual, physical, monetary benefits of stopping something that was addicting, something that was tempting.
I tried giving something up for Lent again in 8th grade. We had vending machines at school full of packaged cookies, dots, candy bars and chips. After lunch, it was customary to swing by the machines and pick up a sweet bite to eat. Unfortunately by this time, body image began to be important to almost every teenage girl and I was no exception. Choosing to reduce my "chunkiness" I gave up sugar for Lent, and avoided it for almost 5 months.
Giving up a temptation and choosing to deny it by not valuing it is something I want to begin doing again. This post reminded me of the great impact Sara and her practice of Lent had in my life. Beginning March 9th, Ash Wednesday, through Easter I will be honoring "Christ’s fasting and wandering in the wilderness before his ministry" by celebrating Lent and denying myself one of my temptations, tendencies or habits. I'm also hoping it will bring me closer to Him, through His help.
What will it be? I have some ideas. Stay tuned on March 9th.
Would you like to give up something for Lent with me?
Showing posts with label History 101. Show all posts
Showing posts with label History 101. Show all posts
Friday, February 18, 2011
Monday, August 16, 2010
10 Summers Ago, Take One.
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| October, 2000. Last Day as "Ranger Jen", Timpanogos Cave National Monument |
Exactly one day after graduation, I started my first real job. Interpretive Park Ranger for the National Park Service. Never mind that it was a seasonal position which did not require a higher degree in anything. What did I care? I was finally working for the Park Service, doing what my degree promised I'd be ready for. An introductory job putting into action my passion, education and booked up love for the natural world. Doubling my college wage came only as an added plus to working ten hour days hiking in and speaking about nature and her wonders.
It was that same summer I first read Desert Solitaire by Edward Abbey. In his book, Abbey journals his conflicting views of romantic nature and the development thereof for recreational purposes while a Ranger for the Park Service. Needless to say, I hiked my journal to the cave everyday. I had dreams of writing Desert Solitaire take two- the mountain/cave version while hiding out on the lunch bench.
Located over a short rock wall and a few steps behind the grotto was the lunch bench. Rangers retreated there for a half an hour each day to escape people overload, eat lunch and refresh for more hours of conversing. It was a prime piece of real estate. 12 square footage of cliff side viewing. With a backrest of cold rock, the wood plank seat overlooked trunks of white firs that had seeded into the limestone cliff growing horizontal until they found sunlight that forced their growth upward against gravity. Rushing of river water rolling across the canyon floor and the whistling of birds muffled screams of children in the grotto or a Rangers reminder to take nothing but pictures, leave nothing but well placed foot steps.
No master piece of writing ever came from my lunch bench visits, not even one sentence. Each chance passed as quickly as the stratus and cumulus clouds moved up and over the canyon as I often lied back to watch them. Jovial lunches with fellow Rangers, or soaking up my surroundings took precedence.
I spent time searching the skies for red tailed hawks, once seeing a UFO touch down on the other side of the canyon. For the first time in my life as I raised my index finger with the intent of having a nearby butterfly land on its tip... it landed and in a fleeting second, was gone. I listened to black capped chickadees singing in response to my mimicking, and watched stellar jays with their deep blue tail feathers rest quietly on branches. Occasionally I'd summon a golden mantle ground squirrel for a run across my booted toes or possibly up my green panted leg. With the promise of discarded crumbs or trail mix nuts, they would spook and run when denied an easy meal.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Valentines Day 9
I Love:
Grandma Brown
I've been blessed to be surrounded by great women in my life. Grandma is near the top of that list. She has been everything a grandma should be: supportive, loving, nurturing, and a timeless example of wisdom.
As a young girl, the lesson I first remember Grandma teaching me, was not to pick my nose (although mom had tried). I remember this vividly for the the mere fact that I was embarrassed she had caught me. "Pretty girls don't pick their nose", she told me.
Grandma was always a proper lady. She took pride in looking and acting her best. She still does. At her house, her nail dryer was my favorite toy. I recall her painting her nails often and she is still never seen without a file nearby. Even today, without a dishwasher, grandma has elegant hands with beautiful nails. It is no surprise that grandma taught me how to paint my own nails and how to keep my hands looking nice.
As a child, I used to believe I was hand model quality by the way grandma told me my nails were arched and my skin was so perfectly fair. "Don't get any scars" she used to tell me "you could be a hand model, but they don't like scars"! For years, even through warts on my nail beds, I never got a scar until, I fell on my roller skates, and in catching myself, ironically jabbed my long, strong, no doubt beautifully painted, right thumb nail into the top of my left hand. My skin holds the scar to this day. So much for hand modeling, though I'm sure they just cut and paste in whatever hand looks better then the current one in the picture anyway. Do hand models even exist?
It was a good self esteem booster anyhow.
Grandma did get me into modeling, not for hands, but for Mervyns department store kids clothing. She told me they would love my pretty smile. Turned out I had a pretty smile, but was too shy to show it to the camera. Acting was awkward. Modeling lasted a few stints in the paper until another cute girl came along who could act and smile on cue. The part I liked about it, was that grandma took me, and we were able to have a girls day.
When I was eight, grandma was the one who took me to get my ears pierced, by her hair dresser- of all people. After the first ear was pierced, I wanted nothing to do with the second ear feeling that same pain. I cried and cried demanding not to follow through with both ears. Grandma was patient and sympathetic when she explained how funny I would look with only one ear pierced. I endured the next ear, then cried on her shoulder while that ear was flaming hot.
Grandma always spoiled me ROTTEN! I was the only granddaughter who lived close, and she liked to shop. I never felt anything but well loved. She's a shopper and when a good deal is found, she takes advantage of it, especially if it is female related. Even now she loves to spoil my girls with cute outfits, and I don't mind a bit. Somehow, I missed getting the shopping gene.
I could write about grandma until I ran out of space. She was always supportive of my endeavors as a child and now. She is always interested in how and what I'm doing in my life. She values my work at home with my children and understands my struggles. She loves my husband, treating him as her own, and he loves her. My girls love grandma great, and enjoy spending time at her house. She never misses a birthday with a phone call, card or present. She always shows she cares. Grandma taught me to quit complaining and count my blessings and to appreciate laundry day (as much as one can) with modern washers and dryers.
I love you grandma. What a wonderful woman you are in my life. I have been so fortunate to have you close for these 32 years. Here's to enjoying many more.
As a young girl, the lesson I first remember Grandma teaching me, was not to pick my nose (although mom had tried). I remember this vividly for the the mere fact that I was embarrassed she had caught me. "Pretty girls don't pick their nose", she told me.
Grandma was always a proper lady. She took pride in looking and acting her best. She still does. At her house, her nail dryer was my favorite toy. I recall her painting her nails often and she is still never seen without a file nearby. Even today, without a dishwasher, grandma has elegant hands with beautiful nails. It is no surprise that grandma taught me how to paint my own nails and how to keep my hands looking nice.
As a child, I used to believe I was hand model quality by the way grandma told me my nails were arched and my skin was so perfectly fair. "Don't get any scars" she used to tell me "you could be a hand model, but they don't like scars"! For years, even through warts on my nail beds, I never got a scar until, I fell on my roller skates, and in catching myself, ironically jabbed my long, strong, no doubt beautifully painted, right thumb nail into the top of my left hand. My skin holds the scar to this day. So much for hand modeling, though I'm sure they just cut and paste in whatever hand looks better then the current one in the picture anyway. Do hand models even exist?
It was a good self esteem booster anyhow.
Grandma did get me into modeling, not for hands, but for Mervyns department store kids clothing. She told me they would love my pretty smile. Turned out I had a pretty smile, but was too shy to show it to the camera. Acting was awkward. Modeling lasted a few stints in the paper until another cute girl came along who could act and smile on cue. The part I liked about it, was that grandma took me, and we were able to have a girls day.
When I was eight, grandma was the one who took me to get my ears pierced, by her hair dresser- of all people. After the first ear was pierced, I wanted nothing to do with the second ear feeling that same pain. I cried and cried demanding not to follow through with both ears. Grandma was patient and sympathetic when she explained how funny I would look with only one ear pierced. I endured the next ear, then cried on her shoulder while that ear was flaming hot.
Grandma always spoiled me ROTTEN! I was the only granddaughter who lived close, and she liked to shop. I never felt anything but well loved. She's a shopper and when a good deal is found, she takes advantage of it, especially if it is female related. Even now she loves to spoil my girls with cute outfits, and I don't mind a bit. Somehow, I missed getting the shopping gene.
I could write about grandma until I ran out of space. She was always supportive of my endeavors as a child and now. She is always interested in how and what I'm doing in my life. She values my work at home with my children and understands my struggles. She loves my husband, treating him as her own, and he loves her. My girls love grandma great, and enjoy spending time at her house. She never misses a birthday with a phone call, card or present. She always shows she cares. Grandma taught me to quit complaining and count my blessings and to appreciate laundry day (as much as one can) with modern washers and dryers.
I love you grandma. What a wonderful woman you are in my life. I have been so fortunate to have you close for these 32 years. Here's to enjoying many more.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
History 101- Faces
Each winter during my childhood and teen years, a cold seat would be backed up against my rear nearly every weekend. Even today, no matter the temperature outside, my backside keeps its own steady, sub-zero temperature that I attribute to sustained 'usage and acclimation'- but my rear is a topic I'd rather not mention more about.
The culprit was either a snowmobile or a chairlift; never mind sledding.
Twenty or so feet off the ground on a ski lift, I felt in flight and at home. Perhaps the closest thing I could muster compared with wings, the cold metal and barely-there black padding would set me sailing upward and onward with wild chill stinging my smiling red face and chapping my lips.
A Homo sapien/Fowl variety? One can dream.
Heights never scared me and the peaceful quietness of being near the tops of snow sagging trees, flying parallel with a good slope and a birds eye view was equal in greatness to flying down runs on my skis.
As I've aged and ventured to a ski resort less often then I wish, I breathe in the brisk air feeling cold steel on my back and appreciate the rest time that the lift- or flight- affords me. I feel less and less like a bird and more like a whale in air as my ski laden 'wings' hang heavily on my knees.
No longer do I search out the nearest human snowball victim tumbling down the run so I can sing "Another one bites the dust" in my loudest recognizable voice. Now I remember those times with fondness when I witness a new victim and smile silently to myself as Queen sings in my head.
Gone are the carefree days of stolen kisses under the night ski stars and the freedom that comes from being stuck on a lift under someones arm. Flying with courage. Wing to wing. Waiting for the right moment. Such trepidation! Strange how memories make a sudden appearance when your forced to touch thighs with a stranger for a short flight to the top of a run. I'd welcome Mick with a cozy thigh on the seat beside me now if it weren't for his decrepit knees, though if those were well, we would surely separate anyhow to ensure one on one with the girls. Soon enough.
After an it-has-been-WAY-too-long absence away from skiing, Aspen and I hit the slopes for her first ever ski adventure. We were both nervous. Her, for the fear of death that Mick so gratefully (I say sarcastically) instilled in her, and me for lack of faith in my old broken body's ability to recall its necessary form and function of a skier.
Aspen is a quick learner. She had a short lesson, perfected her wedge and with a few wide turns and spills, she was off!
As soon as I set my rear on the cold seat of Little Beav, fear left me, my eyes closed and a smile set my chin. Peace set in, memories flooded back as the wind hit me square, and I took a deep breath letting the lift carry my grounded wings upward and onward and ready for the journey downhill.
The culprit was either a snowmobile or a chairlift; never mind sledding.
Twenty or so feet off the ground on a ski lift, I felt in flight and at home. Perhaps the closest thing I could muster compared with wings, the cold metal and barely-there black padding would set me sailing upward and onward with wild chill stinging my smiling red face and chapping my lips.
A Homo sapien/Fowl variety? One can dream.
Heights never scared me and the peaceful quietness of being near the tops of snow sagging trees, flying parallel with a good slope and a birds eye view was equal in greatness to flying down runs on my skis.
As I've aged and ventured to a ski resort less often then I wish, I breathe in the brisk air feeling cold steel on my back and appreciate the rest time that the lift- or flight- affords me. I feel less and less like a bird and more like a whale in air as my ski laden 'wings' hang heavily on my knees.
No longer do I search out the nearest human snowball victim tumbling down the run so I can sing "Another one bites the dust" in my loudest recognizable voice. Now I remember those times with fondness when I witness a new victim and smile silently to myself as Queen sings in my head.
Gone are the carefree days of stolen kisses under the night ski stars and the freedom that comes from being stuck on a lift under someones arm. Flying with courage. Wing to wing. Waiting for the right moment. Such trepidation! Strange how memories make a sudden appearance when your forced to touch thighs with a stranger for a short flight to the top of a run. I'd welcome Mick with a cozy thigh on the seat beside me now if it weren't for his decrepit knees, though if those were well, we would surely separate anyhow to ensure one on one with the girls. Soon enough.
After an it-has-been-WAY-too-long absence away from skiing, Aspen and I hit the slopes for her first ever ski adventure. We were both nervous. Her, for the fear of death that Mick so gratefully (I say sarcastically) instilled in her, and me for lack of faith in my old broken body's ability to recall its necessary form and function of a skier.
Aspen is a quick learner. She had a short lesson, perfected her wedge and with a few wide turns and spills, she was off!
As soon as I set my rear on the cold seat of Little Beav, fear left me, my eyes closed and a smile set my chin. Peace set in, memories flooded back as the wind hit me square, and I took a deep breath letting the lift carry my grounded wings upward and onward and ready for the journey downhill.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
One Last Honor of Chief B. - then I'll rewind to Christmas
As stated in my 2009 afterword and my previous two posts, Grandpa Brown passed away. His health was declining and his death was expected for a while now, though I do not think the expectation made the loss any easier to endure. I wish it were that way.
I come from Brown stock. The best kind of stock. One of quiet pride, honesty, service, hard work, dedication, loyalty and love. Grandpa lived these attributes and made sure to pass them along. Over the past 4 years I had the opportunity to interview him several times and have loved this time we shared. I learned so much I never would have known had I not asked. He truly was a great man. Mick even remarked that he never knew of all the great things Grandpa did in his life, most likely because he never boasted. He was a quiet, gentle man.
Our last moments together I spent asking him about his love of Grandma and their 62 years of marriage. They always lived an exemplary married life. He would answer my questions simply, and then switch subjects to speak about his work, his service, or his beliefs. I dreamed of long drawn out answers about his sweetheart, romanced up a bit. Love is simple in reality. Now, I think he may have wanted certain things to be known about his life. He had me laughing so hard over a few things he mentioned- those stay between grandma, grandpa and I, that I left that day forgetting he wasn't as healthy as a horse. It did not hit me until half way home, that I might not see him again.
Just a day later he suffered a heart attack and died in his home a day and several hours later. Luckily I was able to make the return trip and be with him and the rest of my family on his passage to the other side. Although I will forever recall the terribly long, difficult passage of time it took him to leave, the tears, the smells, the sounds, and the sight of him dying, I feel blessed for the whole experience. I've never been more certain of my beliefs about where we come from and where we go after this life. I know he had a sweet reunion with his parents, his siblings and his daughter and son who preceded him in death. He did not want to leave this earth without grandma. He told me he wished she could go with him. I know he waited until she left his side for a quick minute to use the bathroom, so he could finally depart. Broke my heart for grandma after she had spent the entire day at his side. For grandma, time will be long until they are reunited. As for grandpa, he's now on God's time.
In the wee hours of the morning of December 30 after grandpa had passed, the mortician came to remove grandpa's body. That was rough. I had never given much thought as to what happens after some one dies. I still hear the sound of the body bags zipper when I lay my head down at night. That sound was too much. I was so proud of grandma for handling her grief with such grace and strength. She is such and example to me. "He devoted his life to service" she remarked to the mortician, while giving final kisses to grandpa. "Not a day went by in 62 years that I didn't know he loved me". How many can claim that?
The next day, Grandma and Aunt Teri asked me to speak at Grandpa's funeral services. How could I say no? I was honored, but have never been so scared to speak in all my days. If I never have that experience again in life, I will live happy. I think many prayers on my behalf helped me to hold it all together. Below is my talk- spoken word so it sounds funny when read, but I wanted to have a copy to remember a few things I spoke about him.
*
Grandpa's internment services were like those out of the movies, I could not help but feel proud of grandpa and his life and honored to have known such a fine man. After the fireman's honor guard had stood guard over his body during his viewing and funeral services, they had one of the last trucks he had purchased as Chief waiting to escort the hearse that carried his body to the cemetery. Firemen truly honor their own.
A few fire vehicles blocked traffic for a funeral procession (even though ironically a cement truck got in between us- grandpa was also a cementer.), and then had an X made out of firetruck ladders which we crossed under as firemen stood watch. Amazing reverence, I tell you what.
The honor guard stood watch and a bagpiper played as the pallbearers brought grandpa's casket to it's final resting place.
Then, a final call for Chief Brown was broadcast on the state 2-way radio. It was emotional to say the least. After the dedication of the grave was done, the American Legion did a three shot salute for Grandpa and presented the American flag to grandma in grandpa's honor.
The playing of Taps was included. I'm certain not a dry eye was in attendance. It was a wonderful service, and it made me so proud to be grandpa's granddaughter. I know grandma was so proud of him and felt such honor from all the special tributes, and such peace from her family that surrounded her. I love grandpa, he was good to me. I will miss him.
Stanley Gerald Brown- Funeral Talk- January 4th, 2010
Today I'm honored to come as you do, to celebrate the life of Stanley Gerald Brown, my grandpa, and to reminisce a little and describe some of the life lessons he taught me, and many of you along his journey.
One of the earliest memories I can recall with grandpa came on a rainy day at Grandma and Grandpa house. I was being snotty with grandma and arguing about going outside to play. Grandpa walked into the kitchen just as I was in the middle of exercising my stubbornness and determination, which are Brown traits I'm certain I inherited from grandpa. According to grandma, my clothing was not suitable for weather conditions but I did not care. My stubbornness won out in my fight with Grandma and I marched down the steps and out the side door into the rain. Grandpa followed after me and provided me the first of many lessons he would teach me through the years.
He bent down, looked me in the eye and said in a gruff tone complete with pointed finger, “you don't talk to your grandmother that way. Now come inside before you catch a cold”. Of course I waited until I was good and soaked and it eventually became my idea to go inside, mostly because Grandpa had scared me silly, but he set me straight, and I don't think I was ever snotty with grandma again, that's for sure.
Be extremely honest in every thing you do- was grandpa's motto. As a young child grandpa learned a hard lesson in honesty from his mother. He had stolen a quarter from her and she knew. She questioned him about it and he lied. He told me that that day his mother took a leather razor strap to his backside and that it produced a fire of honesty in him from that day forward. For Grandpa's 80th birthday I interviewed he and grandma's good friend Joyce Hadfield, who said that Stan was as honest as the day was long, and I believe it. In his work, service or family obligations her never wavered in speaking truth. I asked him once what had changed the most in his 80 years, and I expected him to say something about the amount of fish in the waters, the shrinking sizes of buck, or the change in automobiles through the years, boy was I wrong. His reply was “Provo City, especially the administration. Some people are good, some are bad. I'm honest, if I don't like them, I let them know”. I believe grandpa became more respected because of his honesty, even through his work in politics.
Hard work was another lesson I learned from grandpa. Because I arrived in his retirement years his hard work was most evident in his love for tending to his garden, both vegetables and flowers. Not a year went by when he didn't have a beautiful, productive garden to feed the tummy and spirit of whomever made their way down to his back lot with an empty sack. He could load anybody up with produce. Believe me when I tell you that there was never a weed to be seen, or a plant or furrow out of place. A few years back as the weeds in my garden were near 3 feet high, I asked him how his garden was so weed free and he said “if it's big enough to hoe it, I hoe it, like this one here, see it”, and in a flash that weed was gone and I kid you not, it was probably only a 16th of an inch high, if that!
This last summer as grandpa's health was failing him, others planted the garden and got a few honest words of advice from him after the tomatoes were planted too close together and the furrows were crooked. He worked perfection as a green thumb, even to the point of making notches in his hoe that determined how close to plant different vegetables. Grandpa always had a prized pumpkin waiting in his patch for every grandchild, or great grandchild to enjoy each Halloween. This was a special treat and I remember picking mine out and watching it grow each Sunday I would visit as a child.
Grandpa's love of vegetables and hard work started early. Before High School when his sister Mary sent him out to find a job, he searched every business on down center street and was denied until he came to the IGA grocery store where he was hired for $9 a week to take care of produce, wait on customers and as he said it to “deliver grocery's to the homes of the rich ladies on Center St. who would tip him a nickle or quarter each time, and that was good money at the time”.
Grandpa's love of vegetables and hard work started early. Before High School when his sister Mary sent him out to find a job, he searched every business on down center street and was denied until he came to the IGA grocery store where he was hired for $9 a week to take care of produce, wait on customers and as he said it to “deliver grocery's to the homes of the rich ladies on Center St. who would tip him a nickle or quarter each time, and that was good money at the time”.
My brother Jeff mentioned that “grandpa was a Man's Man” and he was. He enjoyed fishing, hunting, camping, working hard, playing even harder and having a little money in the bank to support his family financially. I recently asked him why his marriage was so successful and a key element he mentioned was that he and Lois never missed a payday. How's that for tried and true marital advice that we could all wish to follow?
One thing I always admired in grandpa was what a great citizen he was. He always honored his right to vote and be an influence for good in local, state and national politics. He educated himself about issues and debates that were important to his moral compass and to his quality of life in Provo City. It was important to him to be one of the first to the voting polls on any election day and grandma tells me that he would wake up almost a half an hour early just to be voter number 1 through 6. He was actively engaged in making a difference any way he could. Recently during the last Presidential Election, I loved having discussions with him about the candidates, especially Hillary Clinton and Barak Obama. He would get so fired up and I loved to see that in him.
(Didn't talk about this, as it was spoken of during his life sketch) Grandpa was a a great leader and serviceman who spent his life in service to his country and community. He served for two years in the Navy During WWII. He served as President of the 20/30 club for two years, and also as District Governor for Utah, Idaho and New Mexico. He was President of the Utah State Fire Chiefs Association for 2 years and also a lifetime member of that and the National Associations of Fire Chiefs. He served as President of the Utah State Fireman's Association and was a lifetime member. He was Fire Chief for 13 years and at the beginning of his assignment, had 35 people under him and by his retirement after 34 years, he had 60 people to lead. He was active in the Lions Club, President on two occasions and District Governor of Utah and Idaho. He took over as President of the Provo Police and Fire Credit Union until he retired. He served on the Provo City Council for one two year term and 2 four year terms, helping to create lasting changes for Provo City. He served as Chairman of the council twice during his last four years, and once during the other times.
Grandpa was devoted to family. He loved deeply. I believe growing up without his parents gave him a sweeter perspective on the importance of loved ones in his life. He told me he first knew he wanted to marry grandma after their first date together. He took her out to the State Fair and even though Lois had to be home early, they just couldn't separate from one another. So at 1:00 am they left for home but nearly ran out of gas at the point of the mountain. They were able to gather all the gas left in the pump hoses at every gas station until home, eventually making it at 4 am. Stan's sister Mary- who he lived with at the time, couldn't quite see why Stanley would keep a lady out til 4 a.m! Grandma and Grandpa's love for each other was such an example through the years. Even through their sorrows of losing two children, they experienced great joy. They loved, celebrated and cherished one another.
There is so much I could say about grandpa, so this was a daunting task, but I'm grateful for the opportunity. Since grandpa couldn't stand long meetings I will close by saying that he was a great man and I will miss him though I know he is in a better place. What a sweet reunion it must have been to see his mother and father after all this time, to be with all his siblings and Sam and Kate once again. Thank you.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Write up about Grandpa, Provo's Daily Herald
Stan Brown, former Provo fire chief, dies
PROVO -- At about 12:20 p.m., the cuckoo clock in Stan and Lois Brown's living room starts honking. Instead of a bird, a tiny fire truck pops out of the clock and lays on the horn. Time to get out of the way, apparently.
"It doesn't keep good time," Lois said. "I should send it back, but he liked it."
Stan Brown, Lois's husband of 62 years and father of her four children, died Wednesday of a heart attack. He was 83. He was fire chief of Provo for 13 years and on the Municipal Council for 10. He had struggled with kidney failure and other health problems for the last few years.
During his time in city service, Brown got two fire stations and the training tower built, he was part of the council that got the Ironton area moving forward, he was instrumental in purchasing new ambulances for the fire stations and helped get the paramedic program started for the firefighters.
He loved being Stan the fireman to the neighborhood children, his wife said, and the opportunities that came from his civic involvement. But she still remembers him from more than six decades ago, the night she went to the same dance as her cousin, who was on a date with Stan.
"She introduced us, and she told me, 'I knew right then I wouldn't have any more dates with him,'" Lois said.
Stan grew up in Utah until he was drafted into the Navy after World War II; Lois said he built an airport in communist China during his service. His brother suggested he work for the fire department, so he applied, fresh out of the Navy and not quite 21, making about $20 a month painting fire hydrants until he was old enough to actually be a firefighter. He spent 34 years in the Provo Fire Department.
Stan Brown's funeral will be at 11 a.m. Monday at the LDS Bonneville Stake Center, 85 S. 900 East in Provo, with a viewing an hour before the service. There also will be a viewing from 7 to 9 p.m. Sunday at Berg Mortuary, 185 E. Center St. in Provo.
"It doesn't keep good time," Lois said. "I should send it back, but he liked it."
Stan Brown, Lois's husband of 62 years and father of her four children, died Wednesday of a heart attack. He was 83. He was fire chief of Provo for 13 years and on the Municipal Council for 10. He had struggled with kidney failure and other health problems for the last few years.
During his time in city service, Brown got two fire stations and the training tower built, he was part of the council that got the Ironton area moving forward, he was instrumental in purchasing new ambulances for the fire stations and helped get the paramedic program started for the firefighters.
He loved being Stan the fireman to the neighborhood children, his wife said, and the opportunities that came from his civic involvement. But she still remembers him from more than six decades ago, the night she went to the same dance as her cousin, who was on a date with Stan.
"She introduced us, and she told me, 'I knew right then I wouldn't have any more dates with him,'" Lois said.
Stan grew up in Utah until he was drafted into the Navy after World War II; Lois said he built an airport in communist China during his service. His brother suggested he work for the fire department, so he applied, fresh out of the Navy and not quite 21, making about $20 a month painting fire hydrants until he was old enough to actually be a firefighter. He spent 34 years in the Provo Fire Department.
Stan Brown's funeral will be at 11 a.m. Monday at the LDS Bonneville Stake Center, 85 S. 900 East in Provo, with a viewing an hour before the service. There also will be a viewing from 7 to 9 p.m. Sunday at Berg Mortuary, 185 E. Center St. in Provo.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
History 101- Friends From Yesteryear
Nearly seventeen years have passed, though every time I see an old hearse I'm taken back to a day.I'm 15, give or take a year, riding along in the front of Brian's big black death taxi. We're perusing the city streets and I'm glancing at sympathetic passersby, laughing and knowing that despite what they think, no deceased person is riding in the rear of this beast with us. We are all alive in this wagon my smile reads. Riding windows down, carrying on about anything or nothing as we see fit.
Brian and I, most times with other faceless friends journeyed to the simple places. To school and home, to Reams grocery store, the gas station, the canyons, friends homes, Brian's grandmothers cute little pink house near 9th west where I waited outside because she wasn't a fan of him riding around with girls. We caught a few drive-inn movies too, which is a given considering we had a theater(if you can call it that) in town and a hearse to accompany us.
Brian was a year older, funny, good at conversation, confident, kind and so much himself without apology that he made it easy and comfortable to spend time with him... and share a seat in his cool car.
*
Facebook lends an interesting perspective to a life I lived so long ago. Suddenly a modern day picture exists of a 'friend' that has continued to exist in my memory as a fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, or eighteen year old. Are these people as different yet very much the same today as I am? This happens for me with nearly every old 'friend' I've recently come back in contact with since the Facebook revolution.
Reflection of people and our places and times together breeds nostalgia for a brief moment. But, it is in that fleeting flashback to the past that I contemplate not necessarily what we spent our mindless teen years doing, but how great a particular person was at such a critical time in my life. I think about what they taught me, what good attributes of theirs that I adopted and rely on to this day. Mostly, I wonder if I gave them the best of me, because let's face it, I was a teenage girl after all.
So, it makes my heart happy to know that I'm not just remembered as 'the girl that rode in the hearse with me' but someone who has "always been in my thoughts as one of the sweetest people I have met".
Thank you Brian.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
History 101- Crushes: Cooler Boy
(Proof that Chris even shaved his head (most of it) for me after I mentioned my love of a good looking shaved head! The only picture I have of him, ironically enough.)
How he spoke my name alone, had me twirling my hair around my finger, smiling from ear to ear, my knees buckling and completely forgetting my place. That is to say, until I woke up from my pleasant day dream, saw him, and found myself sitting front and center in NR (Natural resources) 102 hearing his tongue speak words like ecology, sustainability, biology, wetlands, wild flowers, mountain ranges, and savannas in his ever so addictive accent.
Chris was my teacher, or Teachers Assistant. Not a good combination with having a crush when you believe in making good grades based on knowledge, not flirting skills. But still, I found myself reading my text book more intently, never missing a lecture and raising my hand to answer questions. I always made sure I was looking my cute natural self for class and even stayed after on a few occasions to ask him a specific question about an upcoming assignment. Secretly, I already knew the answers. I was even unabashed enough to venture to his office a few times.
Unfortunately all my advances, subtle or not so subtle, never advanced. Finals arrived. Christmas break came upon us and my crush and I parted ways. He traveled East to Boston and I went home after seeing my extra-well earned A posted nicely on his office door. In the very least, I had received quality eye and ear candy, romantic crush daydreams, plus a good grade for the past three months. Not bad for a romantic at heart. He soon fell out of my head as the snow fell from the sky.
*
January of 1997 marked the start of winter quarter. The Logan cold was bitter, so I decided to trade in frostbite from a frigged walk in wind chill temperatures for a shuttle bus ride to campus. As I peered around the crowded bus for an empty seat I saw Chris ushering me to the seat beside him with his trademark smile .
Here was my quarter long crush, my teacher...except now, he was no longer my teacher. That thought held intriguing possibilities. Eager to hear how his Christmas break had been I sat down next to him and we struck up conversation. He mentioned that he was baptized into the LDS church the Saturday after finals. Assumptions had led me to believe he was not LDS and I had no clue he was investigating. This fact definitely made the possibility of dating him easier, but changed my perspective of him.
Chris was a Frat boy who appealed to my wild side. I'm certain he had been around. No doubt he had experienced a college atmosphere in Boston quite opposite of mine in Utah. Other than him, the Fraternity boys held no interest for me. They were only out for one thing. Chris was different. He was put together, older, clean, focused and had direction.
We arrived on campus, walked to the Biology and Natural Resources building together where he followed me to my class before venturing to his office. Needless to say, spending the short bus ride with Chris, as my peer, made the cold winter day slightly warmer.
Later that night while I was at work, he phoned my apartment. The sneaky guy apparently lacked a little nerve and asked a mutual friend for my phone number instead of me. My quarter long crush, MY TEACHER, had called me. I could not believe my crush was reciprocating. Not only did he call, leave his number and then want me to call him back; but he wanted me to call him back when I got home...even though he understood I would not be home until midnight.
So I came home, heard the news, jumped for joy and then thought about my next move. Do I call him? Will I look too eager? Should I wait till morning and hope to see him on the bus again? I've never been one for game playing and since I knew the possibility for sleep was null and void due to my giddiness, I picked up the phone and dialed his number.
*
Chris had been waiting up for me. We talked until 3:30 in the morning. He shared with me nearly everything you would inquire in a first real conversation. We spoke about his family, about Boston, his conversion, how he missed his sister who was his best friend; his likes and dislikes while dealing with the sheep he was studying for his doctorate in Micro Biology. Yes, he was the complete package: a handsome nature loving, hiking boot wearing genius!
We shared an intellectually stimulating conversation about religion, our testimonies, future goals and aspirations and he even offered to tutor me in math! Ahh, a math man! I thought I had died and gone to heaven. Any guy who understood and loved math immediately held a place in my heart! Chris was no exception and he was brilliant at mathematics. The thought of him tutoring me made me feel once again like his love struck student.
He asked me out for the following night and told me he had really wanted to take me out the previous quarter, but since I was his student he did not want to bridge the ethical divide. I respected that and blushed thinking about all my assumed failed attempts to have him notice me. He must have loved me chasing him as much as I loved the chase, though he never let on otherwise. He told me he had been attracted to me from the first day of class and looked forward to teaching every Tuesday and Thursday just to be able to see me. I bathed in all his sweet honest words and issued this in return,
“So that is why I received an A?”
He laughed and said in his eastern rich tone, “no, your smart and the fact that you're cute didn't hurt”.
As we ended our conversation we laughed at how long we had been talking on the phone when we figured out we only lived a block away from each other and could have just met up! I went to bed with thoughts of Chris and our impending date dancing around in my head.
*
I walked around with wings on my feet the next day in anticipation of our date. Chris picked me up and was very much a gentleman. He took me to a fancy restaurant in town, a movie, and enchanted me with good conversation and flirting. As the evening wore on, rather too quickly it seemed, we wound up at his apartment talking, cuddling, listening to music, and looking at pictures till 4 a.m!
I had to work early the next morning, and my good girl self needed to get home fast! He drove me the block home, walked me to my door and continued to give me the sweetest, softest, littlest of a kiss on my forehead. Being with him had me skipping in a drunken haze to my bedroom, but that kiss left me craving him even more. Could not sleep and work have waited?
Sunday arrived and I promised him I'd call. The apartment was quiet so I invited him over for a movie. Our bodies sat entangled on the love seat while A River Runs Through It was a blur on the television screen. For three hours I was in bliss anticipating his lips while his fingers fell through my hair. As the movie ended we watched the credits roll on, both awkwardly anticipating where to go next. Walking the few hand held steps to the door for our goodbye was full of intrepidness. He lightly grabbed my face, lifted my chin as he leaned in for a kiss. We spent the next half and hour leaning against the door- talking, kissing and laughing until I finally forced myself to bid him goodnight.
Could life get any sweeter then the culminating events of my crushing daydreams? I think not.
Chris and I continued kissing, I mean dating. I let him flop around in the cooler with vitality for a while in which time the steam whistle from the hot kettle waned, the crushing candle flickered out and we equally decided not to date each other anymore. We fostered a close friendship that even lasted until the next year, but besides our obvious physical attraction for each other, and my love of his vocal inflections, crushing on him seemed sweeter then the capture.
I never made it anywhere closer than the thought of Mrs Christopher Titus, but hindsight being 20/20- I always knew Jennifer Titus sounded a little quirky anyhow. At any rate, thanks to Chris, crushing on him and all that daydreaming got me through a tough 18 credit quarter, full time work, and a long cold Logan winter, all the while providing a good 'hot for teacher' story that goes down in my history books!
Thursday, August 20, 2009
What Qualifies as a Crush? - History 101
After reading this post on Segullah and hearing an old song that took me back to a day, it got me thinking.
First off, what qualifies as a crush? Is it the constant thought of someone, but never the ascertaining of said person? Or maybe the secret longing, flip of the stomach sensation that one gets caught up in while pursuing the eye of a certain person who just so happens to turn their eye to FINALLY notice?
Basically does a crush qualify as one who gets caught on the hook for a fleeting second before he slips through the fisherman's grasp and swims down stream with the rest of them, or does he stay alive flopping in the cooler with vitality for a while until eventually dying? Possibly both examples apply.
Crush, as described by this online dictionary either means a hard blow, or an object of temporary infatuation. Sounds like a daters life to me. Often the crush (IE: temporary infatuation) leads to a crush (IE: hard blow) I have many said stories, that are nostalgic to say the least, but three in which to share. One, where the fish got away, one where the fish stuck around for a while in the cooler, and one who baited me in, hook, line and SINK(HER)! Interestingly enough, these three happened simultaneously in my life.
First up is cooler boy, Chris Titus. Second is Dustin Ivory, the fish who got away. Third is Dainon Moody, bait(her) boy.
Stay tuned...
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
History 101
Today, I'm linking you to this blog.
I absolutely loved this post!
I'm hoping that the near future affords me more adequate time to answer it's specific questions and recount my personal history in more detail.
I've been contemplating recapturing my days-gone-by with my adult eye- in writing. That is to say, instead of the teenager mentality that lies within the pages of my journals that are stashed in the archives.
I've had occasion to dust off bindings and open journal pages as of late and the hindsight that I now possess is incredible. And I thought I was smart and level headed then...my old self has nothing on me now.
I treasure the memories somehow forgotten that got me from point a to b, c, and even z. I'm thankful my teenage brain took the time to write them down. Now, it's high time to unfold my secret past with my all seeing eye. For the sole benefit of one day sharing many of these writings with my soon to be teenagers! And, so I don't forget anymore.
Also, there is a poem that keeps entering my mind recently. It reads:
I think we are all well advised
To keep nodding terms with the people we used to be,
Whether we find them attractive company or not.
Otherwise they turn up unannounced and surprise us,
Come knocking on the mind's door at 4 am.
Of a bad night and demand to know who deserted them,
Who betrayed them,
Who is going to make amends.
We forget the love, and betrayals alike,
Forget what we whispered,
Forget what we screamed,
Forget who we are.
-Anonymous-
In my quest to find myself over the years (do we ever?), I think I've forgotten some of who I am. This is my aim at desiring to remember. My old self has been 'knocking on (my) minds door at 4 am.' all too often lately.
So, stay tuned for History 101- and know I must be getting braver! It takes a certain strength to bridge the past with the present. Will I possess it? If you find yourself in the pages of my history- know that you are there out of love. Others of you lucky enough to read, may find more than you ever wanted to know.
I absolutely loved this post!
I'm hoping that the near future affords me more adequate time to answer it's specific questions and recount my personal history in more detail.
I've been contemplating recapturing my days-gone-by with my adult eye- in writing. That is to say, instead of the teenager mentality that lies within the pages of my journals that are stashed in the archives.
I've had occasion to dust off bindings and open journal pages as of late and the hindsight that I now possess is incredible. And I thought I was smart and level headed then...my old self has nothing on me now.
I treasure the memories somehow forgotten that got me from point a to b, c, and even z. I'm thankful my teenage brain took the time to write them down. Now, it's high time to unfold my secret past with my all seeing eye. For the sole benefit of one day sharing many of these writings with my soon to be teenagers! And, so I don't forget anymore.
Also, there is a poem that keeps entering my mind recently. It reads:
I think we are all well advised
To keep nodding terms with the people we used to be,
Whether we find them attractive company or not.
Otherwise they turn up unannounced and surprise us,
Come knocking on the mind's door at 4 am.
Of a bad night and demand to know who deserted them,
Who betrayed them,
Who is going to make amends.
We forget the love, and betrayals alike,
Forget what we whispered,
Forget what we screamed,
Forget who we are.
-Anonymous-
In my quest to find myself over the years (do we ever?), I think I've forgotten some of who I am. This is my aim at desiring to remember. My old self has been 'knocking on (my) minds door at 4 am.' all too often lately.
So, stay tuned for History 101- and know I must be getting braver! It takes a certain strength to bridge the past with the present. Will I possess it? If you find yourself in the pages of my history- know that you are there out of love. Others of you lucky enough to read, may find more than you ever wanted to know.
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