An Heritage

Yesterday was Dad’s birthday, marking eighty years since he came to earth--son number three in a household that loved art, music, opera, education and culture. 

Dad is youngest, middle (Curious--from whom do our grand babies get chubby cheeks?)

 
 
  

Dad’s father worked as meteorologist.  His mother was an elementary teacher for twenty-three years in central Wyoming.

  Dad learned to love music, the outdoors, learning, and sharing his light and understanding with others.   I remember sitting on Dad’s shoulders having him point out the Milky Way when I was too little to know what to look for.

I remember listening to Mom and Dad race with “A kid’ll eat ivy too, wouldn’t you” on our summer road trips across twelve states (or at least ten) to visit family “out west.”  I remember Dad wanting to stop and read the historical markers. 

 

I remember learning to count blessings (even powdered milk and textured vegetable protein) as we visited families in the mountains and brought groceries inside makeshift houses with dirt floors. 

I remember moving to southeastern Washington and running in the mornings with my Dad for a mile or so before parting ways for high school and his research station. 

I remember, later, painting a bathroom on a Sunday in my best clothes (Dad style) to get white memoirs on a favorite green dress--if it needed doing, and Dad had an inkling, he would tinker until it was finished.  What are you doing?  We would ask. “Just messing,” he would answer.

I remember waking early morning, eight months pregnant, when Dad and Mom slept on the hide a bed in the front room, leaving the door open.  I perched on a stool in the kitchen while Dad investigated, flashlight in hand, the banging noise against the dryer, Dad’s not afraid!  Long tail and beady eyes looked back at us—a possum!  Asleep later, behind the dryer, an engineer and soil scientist jerry-rigged a ramp to the outside window to coax the intruder up and out!

When Dad and Mom returned from their mission to New Zealand, 

Dad’s finger dexterity was compromised. Living close, I got to be Dad’s hands in planting corn and fixing sprinklers.  I like gardening, but sprinklers held less attraction.  For me.  But to Dad it was the inkling and the tinkering.  And he needed hands. 

One autumn night, when shiver was about to take hold, I remember standing backed up to the corner of his house bordering on the technical college sod-farm.  The sprinkler--the enemy--was forceful.  The air was chilled.  The water was cold.  And it was coming fast.  I remember taking the water together (if I dodged, Dad would fall—there was nothing to be done but stand and receive the blast.)  I remember holding each other through the frigid burst and laughing till we questioned both of our stability!

Today in Relief Society we sang the children’s song, “If the Savior Stood Beside Me” in Spanish.  Part of the lyrics read,

“He is always near me,

though I do not see Him there,

And because He loves me dearly,

I am in His watchful care.

So I’ll be the kind of person

that I know I’d like to be

if I could see [the Savior] standing nigh,

watching over me.”

   [What if we put "my Daddy" into the brackets?] 

Yesterday, I remembered the birthdays of my dad's grandparents Mary Ann Price and Joseph Stucki--a day apart and just before Dad's!

Mary Ann, far left, light colored dress

I remember Great Grandma's raspberry jam
and applesauce from transparent Paris apples

Preparing pan (loaves of bread) for our Patterson neighbors, I chanced upon a recording Dad had petitioned granddaughters to digitize.  Separating the dough, I heard the voice of an older brother

reading aloud of the tarring and feathering of Joseph Smith on a night a father fought for the life of his adopted twins. Toddlers rattling favorite stories tagged with tales of music lessons or young women’s camp, gladden me that Dad persisted (and encouraged us) to keep a record.  

Friday marks the forty-year mark to recall a dance festival practice on Columbia High's football field, with radio announcement broadcast over stadium bleachers of a living prophet extending priesthood and temple blessings to all worthy male members of the Church.  

I rejoice to “have been born of” this worthy male. 

Grateful for a legacy of faith.

Happy to be “an heritage of the Lord.”  (Psalms 127:3) 

"Children's children are the crown of old men, and the glory of the children are their fathers." (Proverbs 17:6)