...going on fourteen

"Grandma says we're going to make valentines," I informed Claire when I picked her up today after their school valentine party was already history.

"For who?" she asked bluntly.

Hm. Direct challenge to adult rationality. From a six year old. She's going to be some teenager.

"Lucas gave me a transformer," she said.

The non sequitur threw me for a moment.

"A girl's transformer?" I asked. In the past, she's shown distinct antipathy toward boys' toys.

"No."

"I guess that means he likes you."

"He does."

"How do you know?"

"He only talks to me when he's around me -- or when I'm around him."

"Do you like him?"

Pause. "Yes. We met in the hall today and had a little chat."

I didn't dare pursue that any further. Hope the hall is well chaperoned.

Claire's Swimming Update

Today's open-plunge session was 2 hours (because Mommy stipulated that it shouldn't be longer than that). We spent about a third of that time in the 9-foot Olympic racing pool.

Claire enjoyed finding new toys to play with including a bin full of yellow water-polo balls. As floats go, they're a little hard to keep under control and they get away from you very easily, but Claire stated that water-polo was going to be her sport of choice (though she insists on calling it water-soccer).

She was also pleased to find the stash of huluhoops (used in her swimming class). She even tried them out on land for the purpose for which they are designed. It's not quite the same as the WII Fit, but she progressed from 3 loops before it found itself around her toes to almost 10 loops. But she gave that up after a few minutes and took it into the water with her.

She instructed me on how to hold it (vertical, mostly under water) and proceeded to push off from the bank, swim through it, and come to a halt some distance from the bank and not an insignificant distance from me -- in 9-foot water with no float.

Be aware that she has never been taught to tread water. Her classes are conducted at the 3' 3" level where she can comfortably touch the bottom with only a bit of a tippy-toe stretch. I mentioned last time that she showed she could tread water -- once, for about one second -- but Michelle blew it off with a bit of amusement disbelieving that this short time frame could really be considered treading water.

So here she was, treading water, several feet from me. This made me acutely nervous -- a number of things she does make me acutely nervous -- but I held myself in check to see what she would do.

Still treading water, she turned to me, grinned, and commented on her swimming prowess (not her water treading prowess which was freaking me out). Then she giggled.

I decided that there was not too severe a crisis in the offing.

Dad (Nephi L. Head)

I have used blogging to record some of my most precious past experiences and epiphanies, but I realized this week that I have never recorded the single most defining event of my life: the death of my father.

Here is some background. During my teen years I developed a paranoia that became nearly a neurosis: I became terrified that one of my parents would be killed. In my early teens, I became aware that there was a cruel world out there ready to do us harm. The Korean war was a daily source of bad news, and 1952, the year in which I was 13, was remembered as a year of record-breaking automobile accidents. It was the first year that US auto fatalities exceeded 50,000. (Since then it has seldom exceeded this number by a great deal, due presumably to safer vehicles and roads.) People were dying everywhere and everyone knew victims. That scared me and I became almost pathologically frightened of my patents being caught up in this carnage.

When I was nineteen, my worst fears were realized. Dad died as a result of an accident. It wasn't an auto accident, but it was just as deadly. He was painting the eves of our house and the ladder collapsed under him. For three weeks, he was in a coma, and then he passed away with mother holding his hand.

Those three weeks were a hell born of desperation. Subsequent weeks and months were a hell born of hopelessness. There was no joy in the universe. Joy was impossible. The only thing that could possibly bring joy would be for Dad to return to normal life and routine. That wasn't going to happen. The universe had been irremediably broken. Nothing was ever going to be right again, ever.

Helen arrived from Canada for the funeral and stated that she couldn't believe it. To her, Dad was still someplace else -- a long distance away just as he had always been while she lived in Canada and we lived in the US. And she knew that this perception was true. It helped her.

I had no such help. Dad lived with us. He was always an immediate presence. Dad and I had, virtually up to the day of his accident, been daily carpoolers. He worked at the VA hospital across the street from where I attended the U. We'd had daily opportunity to converse and visit about any and every subject imaginable -- not as a parent and child, but as two adults discussing deep and significant temporal and spiritual matters. Dad's intellectual command was immense and he stretched my intellectual muscles. In those couple of years, I had grown closer to him than I'd ever been. His absence was an intolerable void that could not be filled. I envied Helen. I also envied Lawrence and Kitchener who still had full families and homes to which they could return -- homes that continued, unabated, without ghastly voids. Mother and I were in hell, a hell from which there was no redemption. We fled to Canada for respite. And while we were gone, Lawrence and Kitchener finished the house which had been Dad's death.

In Canada, I read my first church book: "How to Pray and Stay Awake." I read it as avidly as any novel. Religion had suddenly acquired relevance. I was no longer satisfied with Sunday School answers to vital questions. I wanted to know that the Spirit World existed and what it was like. I wanted to know that Dad still lived and I wanted to know what he was doing now.

The next year was a year of huge change for me. I became an avid student of religion. Even before Dad's death, I had become quite enamored with the recently discovered evidences for the Book of Mormon. That was the basis for my testimony. The Book of Mormon was hard to explain away by rational, unbiased, thorough scholars. To me that meant that it leaned solidly toward being true. And that was putting it mildly. If it was true, Joseph Smith was a true prophet. If he was a true prophet, the church he founded was true. If the church was true, then the Church's teachings were true. If they were true, then the Spirit World existed and Dad was alive and active and a part of some great movement somewhere.

This line of reasoning became an urgent verity for me. It had to be true! It had to be. It not being true was simply not imaginable.

I studied vigorously with a concentration on anything and everything pertaining to the afterlife. This provided a framework for the mastery of an ever broader range of Gospel topics. I loved the way it all fit together and I acquired more than a bit of unrighteous pride in my mastery and understanding of the kingdom's mysteries.

And, with time, the broken universe restructured itself into something more exiting and more beautiful than ever. I had experienced the very worst that I could imagine and I had survived. All my childhood demons were swept away. I was afraid of nothing. Death was either no more than a necessary step in our eternal progression, or it was the end of consciousness. Either of these was OK with me, and I found that powerfully reassuring. "It" no longer had to be true, but I enjoyed the reason-derived probability that it was, and I liked that better.

I was amazed at the alteration in myself, and I stated, definitively, more than once and to multiple people, that Dad's death had been the greatest thing that ever happened to me. Why can't we go through the same transformation without the need for such traumatic and final events as the death of a loved one? The universe doesn't work that way, I assumed. "There is a law irrevocably decreed..." and all that. Too bad.

But my testimony was purely rational. Reason trumped faith, and I knew that it shouldn't. My testimony was as dry and lifeless as a parched desert. It hadn't changed me. It didn't have the power. What had changed me was the experience of Dad's death and the reordering of the universe. The Gospel was powerful, itself liberating, capable of creating in an individual all the amazing transformations I had experienced and more -- without the traumatic tragedy. I needed to tap into that power to complete my metamorphosis.

I was aware of something called a "spiritual testimony" and I even understood what it was to a degree and that I lacked it. It was the luxuriant rain forest as opposed to the parched desert. Perhaps flashes of Holy Ghost enlightenment had touched my soul and imprinted upon it a numinous awareness of something just out of reach. I understood a "spiritual testimony" to be a direct communication by the Holy Ghost to one's spirit -- spirit-to-spirit -- more believable and convincing than anything acquired through the senses -- that had power to change attitude and nature. I wanted such a testimony and I prayed for it.

I entered the mission field a year almost to the day from the day Dad died.

My lack of a spiritual testimony proved to be a serious problem. All those wonderful things I had experienced and the amazing absence of demons and the fearlessness did not protect me against depression. The first three months of my mission, with me banging my head against the wall of rejection and persecution, attempting to bear a testimony that remained lifeless, and trying to do it in an unknown language, dragged me down into a hell that was different from the one I'd experienced a year before, but it was nevertheless a hell that made life seem not worth the effort.

Then, in the third month of my mission, during the third week of September, 1959, my prayer was answered and I did receive a spiritual testimony that proved to be more than I ever imagined. That's another story. Let's just say that it continued the transformation that had started with Dad and seemingly would not have been possible without Dad.

When Jerilyn died several years later, I thought, "Wow. Lawrence and Dorrine now have a huge, unfillable void. A 17 year old daughter -- a beautiful butterfly that has just emerged from its chrysalis and spread its lovely wings -- and is then crushed before the wings even dry. What could be worse? They are experiencing the same thing I did -- perhaps even more intently."

When Lawrence asked me to speak at her funeral, I was shocked but I recognized that it would be cathartic. I felt that I knew what they were going through and I could express it -- and express my own feelings and perceptions as well. This funeral talk is on the family web site under Jerilyn's page. I have thought that it expresses my impression of life and death so well that I would like to have it played at my own funeral -- I, myself, speaking at my own funeral. Poetic, no? Carolyn has strong reservations about that. I recently listened to it. Maybe she's right...

Claire's Swimming Progress

Claire's now in the middle of her second 6-week swimming course. She's making good progress but not quite to the point where we'd be comfortable giving her access to deep water without very close supervision.

It would seem to make little sense that the only swimming she gets is in a swimming class. Where's the concept of home work and practice? So we decided that I should go with her to "Open Plunge" Saturday afternoon. We've done that for two weeks. It now looks like a firmly established tradition.

Open Plunge is a different environment from the classes held in the same pool. The slides, fountains, jets, and lazy river are all in full function -- and the patronage is dense to the point of infestation -- squirming, crawling, splashing, half-naked creatures of all shapes and sizes. You can't do anything without bumping into something living. No one even bothers to say excuse me, otherwise it would be a constant "Excuse me" chatter. And, as always, my job is to stay close to Claire and do everything she asks.

She expressed curiosity about what she could see through double sets of glass doors. Over there was the Olympic-size racing pool. We wandered over. It was empty except for a half-dozen people in one corner and one old man (my age) doing laps in one of the lanes. Quite different from the playground pool. I asked the only official there if "Open Plunge" included this pool. He looked up from his work of repairing and adjusting the lane floats to answer, "Sure."

Claire studied the numbers painted on the edge. "Nine feet!" she exclaimed. "That's deep!"

That was unique. I've never heard my barely 6-year-old granddaughter express shocked discovery and realization before.

"Remember when you were jumping off the diving board," I reminded her. "That was nine feet."

"Oh?" she said. "I didn't know that...." The last sentence trailed off to thoughtful contemplation.

That was even more startlingly unique. When had she ever expressed humble surprise before?

I could almost hear the gears grinding in her little brain. What were we to do with this huge, intimidating place?

She decided that this end was a little too intimidating. The opposite end was clearly the place to start and she took off in that direction. As per rule and tradition, I followed her without being directed to do so.

The other end turned out to be nine feet also. Well, we'd just have to make do with what we had. "You go in first, Grandpa." Obediently I jumped in and she jumped in after me.

After a period of getting used to it and trying all sorts of floats, boards, and even some flippers she dug out of a bin -- the smallest set still too large -- she settled on a float comprised of pipe insulation -- four-foot lengths of 4 inch diameter, flexible cylinders that fit across the chest and under the armpits. They were a variety of bright colors. (I wasn't aware they came in any color but black or dark gray.)

With this, she proceeded to flutter-kick/doggy paddle the entire length of the pool! She seldom lets me in on her intentions and plans, so this was an amazing surprise to me. In the very middle of the pool where the banks all appeared to be impossibly far away, I was sure that she was going to come to her senses and give up. When she made it to the end, I assumed that her appetite for the Olympic racing pool would have also come to an end, and she would now be content to go back to the playground pool. How surprised I was when she turned around and immediately set out to retrace her path back to the original end!

She repeated this several times, stopping once to trade her 4-foot section for a 2-foot section. That concerned me because it didn't seem substantial and secure enough, but she was overjoyed with the greater maneuverability and seemed more than satisfied with the result. The only other time she paused was to tell me, "Let's rest. I'll show you how we rest here." I followed her lead as we got out of the pool, sat on the bank with our feet in the water, and kicked vigorously for 5 seconds. Then back in the pool.

Once she actually did lose her float. At that point, she demonstrated that she can tread water! That demonstration lasted one full second before I could grab her.

Meanwhile, I was pacing her with a half water-tread and side stroke. It was not the most efficient or relaxing way of getting through water. Whenever I settled into a full, relaxed, gliding side stroke, she would say, "Grandpa! Don't try to pass me!" She insisted that she be the one to win every lap. She even had me move to the next lane so that we could be fellow competitors. The result was that I was getting tired. The single 5-second bank flutter hadn't done it for me.

"Are you sure we want to go again," I asked as we made it to the end of a lap. "I'm tired!" She looked at me with disdain and took off.

This only ended when she said, "I have to go potty!" She jumped out of the water and added, "I have to go potty bad!" I have studiously avoided letting her in on the dirty little secret.

One serious problem I have with all this is that Claire pops in and out of the water at will and with rapidity. As a boy scout I learned how to quickly and easily get in and out of deep water, (Claire has never needed such instruction) but my lack of shoulder rotator cuffs makes this technique impossible, so my efforts to get out of a deep pool -- or even a shallow pool -- is similar to a walrus ooze-flopping onto the beach. And I have to do it quickly, because Claire moves quickly. She has learned to walk/run just fast enough to avoid a shrill whistle and rebuke from an official. To keep up with her is also a bit of a stretch for me to avoid the same whistle/rebuke.

We completed our open plunge in the playground pool after which I finally succeeded in my many attempts to convince her that she'd had enough and wanted to go home.

The whole was a three-hour stint.

America's Choice

I walked into the Bountiful Temple and noted that only one of the two recommend stations was manned. A bit of a line was forming. In front of me was a lovely, tall young woman.

An ordinance worker walked up to the unmanned station and began fiddling with the computer. The young woman moved over beside him presumably to split the growing line into two, but from the computer machinations, it appeared that it would be some time before the station was ready to scan recommends. I motioned to her to resume her place in front of me where she would be next in line.

She held her ground and said, "I'm being taken care of." She smiled. She seemed to smile easily.

My recommend was scanned and handed back to me. Before continuing into the temple, I turned and stared directly at her from the front. She returned the favor with obvious amusement.

"You're Miss Utah!" I said. I hope I didn't point at her, but I'm afraid I probably did. Bad form.

She appeared startled and I assumed that I was mistaken though the resemblance was uncanny.

"I am!" she exclaimed. "I was," she corrected. Then she flashed a dazzling, completely unmistakable smile. "Thank you," she said.

"Hard to miss," I muttered as I turned and continued into the temple.

It's no surprise that I couldn't remember her name, but I wished that I had muttered something like "People's Choice" (actually, should have been "America's Choice") to cement the identity.

A contemplative temple meditation session was out. I hurried home to get onto blogger and clear my brain of Jill Stevens. Yes I remembered her name -- significantly during the endowment.

Atkins was Right, or Beauty is More than Skin Deep

For nine years, conventional wisdom has told me that my predilection for cream and cheese is killing me, a view that people have constantly reminded me of. The issue, apparently, is arteriosclerosis, also known as "hardening of the arteries" or "plaque buildup."

This conversation occurred at the completion of a carotid artery ultrasound ordered in the aftermath of my recent "TIA" episode:

"I don't suppose you can comment on the results?" I asked the technician, hopefully.

"Well, the radiologist will come up with the numbers," she said, "but you're beautiful!"

"That's flattering," I said, "but I was asking about the ultrasound."

She giggled. "I look inside people's bodies every day, and that's where I find beauty. You're beautiful! There's no hint of plaque in your arteries, and, for a man your age, that's rare!"

The official radiology report later confirmed her assessment: "No significant fibrocalcific plaque...[and]...no evidence for hemodynamically significant stenosis." See a copy of the report on our family web site.

Significant is the fact that it is now nine years that I have been curbing carbs and welcoming fats -- with the encouragement of Atkins and with the biochemical explanation of "Syndrome X."

During that time, I have been criticized by people for being misled, reckless, and foolish. I most certainly had arteriosclerosis and was in danger of keeling over from a heart attack at any time. Particularly in light of Lawrence and Kitchener both having had heart trouble, I was placing myself at great risk.

Although Syndrome X's findings and explanation seemed compelling and my own blood tests showed improvement, still when conventional wisdom keeps getting hammered at you for a decade, you begin to wonder and doubt.

This doubt is now cleared up. Atkins was right. Syndrome X is right. Conventional wisdom is flat-out wrong. I'm not going to die of heart problems.

Instead, I'll die of cancer. I've had three different forms of it already. All of them originated before nine years ago, so I don't think low-carb/high-fat has had anything to do with them, but....

Six Year Old Ambiguity

Tom, with a bachelors degree in sports medicine, travels with the Ute girl's volleyball team to provide first-line treatment for injuries and other medical issues. As the girls have swept into and through the national play-offs, Tom has been out of state more often than at home, including the entire Thanksgiving weekend.

Six year old Claire follows the exploits of the girls team with interest and appreciation, but she does miss Daddy and has become aware that his extended absences will terminate only when the girls lose.

The girls swept the preliminaries and made it to the "Sweet 16" in Seattle -- where their long winning streak ended.

"Guess who's coming home," offered Michelle.

"Daddy!?"

"Yes."

"Did the girls lose last night?" Claire asked, disgruntled.

"Yes."

"Awesome!" she stated without the slightest disgruntle.