Dadisms

Up, up, little birdies, the others are all out.

And here you are, still in your nest.  

The laziest birdies are hopping about.  

You ought to be up with the rest, at best!

The words of the poem drifted through the hallways and bedrooms of our home, spoken in a man’s high, falsetto, sing-song voice.  It came before sunrise--before early morning seminary--a call for the family to gather in scripture study and prayer.

Prayer time.  A little dab’ll do ya.

Prayer time.  You’ll look so debonaire.

Prayer time.  The girls will pursue ya.

Simply dab a little in your hair.  

I often fell asleep while on my knees those mornings, even mid-sentence when it was my turn pray.  It was torturous to get up that early, but Dad believed that families should study the gospel and pray together daily, so we did.  It wasn’t easy, but he knew it was important, so he made it happen.  That was how my father lived his life.  Faithfully, dutifully, constant.

Dad's two greatest loves in life were his family, and his Savior, Jesus Christ.  The gospel brought him such joy, that he sought out every opportunity to share his faith with others.  I never tired of hearing him tell his conversion story, how he searched and struggled for years before developing a firm and unwavering testimony of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ.  I never had to wonder whether or not Dad knew the Book of Mormon was true.  He loved that book.  He studied it daily, learned all he could about its source, visited the lands of its origin, and read commentaries on commentaries of the Book.  Because he believed in that second witness of Jesus Christ, he knew that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God and that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the Lord’s true and living church on the earth today.  He was passionate about his faith, and because of that passion, Dad humbly served The Church in any capacity he was needed, willingly and without complaint.  

Dad was halfway through his life and  had been raising kids for nearly 20 years by the time I came along. I remember one day in elementary school, he came to pick me up and someone shouted, "Bobbi!  Your grandpa is here!"  That wouldn't be the only time that mistake would be made.  

Our humble home in Barstow, California was a mansion in my eyes.  Dad built the house on the edge of a desert wilderness, providing my young imagination room to explore.  I spent days and weeks roaming the hills and gullies of the Mojave desert.  An old broken down organ out back was my spaceship.  An abandoned shack in the desert was my playhouse.  Rusty car hoods and discarded tires were the walls and roof of our neighborhood club fort.  Lizards became my pets, and the oleanders in our yard were my own enchanted forest.  There was plenty of work to do around the house, weeds to pull, rocks to rake, grass to mow, carports to paint.  Dad made sure his kids knew how to go to work and get the job done.  There were no slackers in our family!

We had multiple pianos in our home.  A piano tuner and repairman on the side, Dad would bring them home and fix them up, giving the seven of us kids something to practice.  One of those pianos was a big, heavy player.  I remember dressing up in a boa and Mom’s high heels and sitting on top of the tall piano upright, singing while the keys automatically played, “Roll Out The Barrel”.  

When I was in fifth grade, my dad was getting ready to retire.  With four daughters at BYU, my parents decided to move to Utah to be closer to them.  Mom determined to move my sister and me to Utah in the summer, leaving Dad alone to teach his final year and get the Barstow house ready to sell.  I had other plans in mind.  My life, my friends and my desert were in Barstow.  I was not about to leave without a fight.  I stubbornly insisted on staying with Dad in Barstow that last year.  We ended with a compromise: I would stay with Dad until Christmas, then move to Utah with my mom and sister.    

I remember those days living alone with dad being full of happiness and freedom.  It was a coming-of-age time for me.  I had always been the baby of the family, but now I got to be the lady of the house.  I had new independence and responsibility.  I was a roommate in a bachelor pad.  I had freedom to come and go as I pleased.  I learned to do laundry, and fix my own meals.  Many nights, I would instigate tickle wars with my dad.  He was a ruthless tickler, but I was determined to get the best of him.  I never did win a battle, but I never gave up.  

It was during that fall semester that our fifth grade classroom had a surprise visit from the school nurse.  It was time for a routine lice check.  I was one of a handful of kids that were asked to follow the nurse back to her office for further examination.  There, I received a second scrutinizing look, whereupon the nurse exclaimed, “Good heavens!  I’ve never seen so many nits in all my life!”  She promptly sent me home with strict instructions not to return to school until the lice was eradicated.  Dad purchased the proper hair wash products and we got to work.  I remember the wall of the shower being covered with little black bugs after that first wash.  My hair was long and thick, and Dad used a fine-toothed comb to rake the little white eggs out of each strand.  I cried because of the pain and tediousness of the process.  I tried returning to school after a few days, but the nurse sent me back home, saying that the nits were not completely gone yet.  After weeks of hair-combing torture, Dad finally suggested that we cut it all off.  In desperation, I conceded.  He took the shears in hand and began snipping away.  His words were cheerfully optimistic,  “It’s just like clipping an upside-down hedge!”  One glance in the mirror and I cried myself to sleep.  I looked like a boy.  I went to church that next Sunday, where my best friends’ mom insisted that I ride to their house after church.  There, she did her best to “fix” the hedge-cut that my father did.  I will forever be grateful.

As agreed, I moved to Utah at Christmas time.  Dad followed that summer.  Though he hated doing it, he decided to give substitute teaching a try.  I remember one day, I had a friend over after school.  We were playing out back on the swingset, and she was complaining to me about the horrible substitute she had had in school that day.  “This crabby old man with hair growing out of his ears”, she described.  I silently wondered if she wasn’t talking about my father.  “Was his name by chance, Mr. Morgan?”  I asked.  “Why yes, yes it was.”

The next several summers, Dad and I traveled back to Barstow to visit.  I would stay with friends, and he would tune pianos.  Those were long drives, filled with abc games, slug bug, calling “box”, eating gas station hamburgers and countless am/pm soft serve ice cream cones.  I loved traveling with my dad.

Dad always said that he chose to be a school teacher for three very important reasons: June, July & August.  Every summer break from school, we would take a well-planned vacation.  Dad would spend months highlighting routes in his thick atlas book, leading us to national parks and monuments, church history sites and amusement parks, always camping at KOA's that we passed along the way.  One year, we planned a particularly long road trip across the country to see Mt. Rushmore, the Statue of Liberty and Niagara Falls.  Our first day on the trip, we drove all the way to South Dakota, got out our tent poles, tarp and stakes, only to discover that we had forgotten the tent!  Dad bought some rope from the campground store, and we did our best to make a lean-to out of the tarp.  We made do with that every night until we got up into Canada, where the mosquitos were so bad that we couldn’t sleep due to the constant buzzing in our ears and stinging on our bodies.  We packed everything up in the middle of the night and drove until we could find an open store to buy a tent.  Those road trips were full of bonding moments and unforgettable memories.  I'm so glad I got to see the country with my daddy.

By the time I was in jr. high, I was the only child left at home.  My elderly parents were old fashioned and uncool, and I tried to stay out of the house as much as possible.  One night, my best friend and I plotted to sneak out at night, and meet up with some older boys we knew from a neighboring town.  Soon after midnight, I locked my bedroom door, climbed out of my window, and scurried down the street to our getaway car.  There were five of us-- three boys and two girls--driving around the sleepy Utah Valley, looking for something to do.  We found a 24-hour grocery store and wandered down the aisles.  We stopped at a convenience store and bought some soda.  We found a park and threw a football around.  It was all harmless fun, but the city had a curfew, and we were underage.  We panicked when we saw the police cruiser turn into the parking lot.  

After questioning us, the officer sent the boys home in their mom’s stolen minivan, and ushered us girls to the back seat of the police cruiser.  Like convicted felons, we sat, waiting and wondering what our fate would be.  

At the police station, the officer let us out of the car, and there, standing in the parking lot, I saw my dad.  That’s when I lost it.  My tears sprung suddenly without a word from either of us.  Dad didn't yell.  He didn't have to.  All it took was the sad look of disappointment on his face.  I knew I had let him down. Once in the car, Dad spoke with a steady voice, admitting that he wasn't sure what to do with me, and asking for suggestions of what my punishment should be.  That was awfully sly of him.  I’m sure I was much harder on myself than he ever could have been.    

Dad dreamed of one day owning a house a hill, overlooking the valley.  When I was in 10th grade, he got his wish.  We purchased a comfortable home in the foothills of Pleasant Grove, Utah, with a fantastic view of Utah Lake.  I was busy with cheerleading, swim team and choir those days.  I craved independence more than ever, and was a stubborn and defiant teenager.  As ornery as I was, Dad always insisted on a hug and a kiss before I left the house.   One day, I left for school without the accustomed farewell.  So, he got in his car, drove to the school, and called me out of class to get his hug and kiss goodbye.  I did not appreciate it at the time, but I realize now how important it was for him to part ways with affection.  I'm so glad I was able to give him a final hug and kiss a few weeks ago, before we parted for the last time.  

When I went away to college, dad drove the whole way.  I sat in the passenger's seat and cried my eyes out.  I didn't want to leave.  I had spent years just waiting to get out of his house, and when the time finally came, I was out of my mind scared.  He laid his hands on my head and with the the love of a father holding the Priesthood Power of God, he blessed me with strength and courage to do my best and succeed in whatever I set my mind to.  He believed I could make something of myself.

With the nest finally empty, Mom and Dad retired a second time, moving back to California.  How could they resist a place with a name like "Leisure World"?  I lived with them there one summer between my sophomore and junior years of college.  I worked at Disneyland and met a boy.  He was five years my elder, and didn't share my faith or standards.  Dad didn't approve, but he tried to keep his opinions to himself.  He probably knew by then, that I had a tendency to do the opposite of whatever he demanded of me.  Dad respected my wishes to be treated as an adult, and let me make my own decisions.  I stayed out far too late at night.  Dad waited up and worried.  His mind and body would not allow him to rest until I was safe in bed.  One night, I came home in the wee hours of the morning, and found Dad sitting on the couch, reading.  My heart was softened as I saw him there, knowing that I was the reason for his wakefulness.  It was then that I determined to give myself a curfew, for the sake of my father’s peace.  I'm so thankful for his willingness to loosen his grip and allow me the freedom to make mistakes and learn from my own experiences. 

The summer fling ended, and I returned to school.  I met my husband, Justin, during my junior year at BYU.  On my wedding day, Dad wore a tie, though I had promised him once that he wouldn’t have to.  Dad hated ties.  He always felt strangled by them.  My new husband and I moved away to Texas, then to Missouri.  My parents visited us much more often than we visited them.  They came for every birth of every grandchild, every baby blessing, every baptism.  The journey never seemed to be too far.  They wanted to be a part of our lives.  I'm thankful that my parents made and effort to know their grandchildren, even when distance made it inconvenient.

Dad kept a list of things he wanted to do before he died.  Many of them involved some form of flying.  He flew in a hot air balloon, a glider, a private plane.  His favorite amusement park ride was “Soarin’” at California Adventure.  He talked about how he looked forward to the feeling of weightlessness after death, of his spirit hovering over his body, flying high to heaven.  I imagine he is there now, having the time of his life.

Dad loved music.  He loved singing, playing the piano, violin, harmonica and saw.  In later life, he would plan his trips around choir and orchestra concerts, careful not to miss too many rehearsals or performances.  Music was a huge part of his life.  I imagine him now, singing in the bass section of the heavenly choir, and playing “Adoration” on a fiddle made of gold.  How can I feel anything but pure joy, as I imagine him enjoying a long deserved rest, free from every earthly pain and sorrow?  Truly, this is a time to rejoice.

Exactly six weeks after his cancer diagnosis, Dad returned home to be with God.  He went quickly and quietly, at home with his sweetheart.  It was what he wanted.  It was what he prayed for.  I imagine his spirit hovering over his body, looking down at my mother, bidding farewell to the woman who so dutifully served him 'til the end.  In my mind, I see him turning to look upward, and journeying toward a distant light, whereupon he would be met by a joyful reunion, and received in the loving embrace of his mother and father, who have been eagerly awaiting his arrival.  I imagine them showing him around the spirit world, initiating him to his new life there, and answering the many questions burning inside him about the mysteries of God and heaven.  I don't really know what Dad is experiencing at this moment, but he knows.  He is there now, having his faith confirmed, and his doubts absolved.  

"Though I am not anxious to experience it, no longer do I fear death.   It is merely a breath away from the world of spirits.  It is only a heartbeat from where my parents and grandparents dwell.  Death is only one brief instant within an everlasting drama.  Every mortal is a probationary performer in two critical scenes of life.  Because of the atoning sacrifice of Jesus Christ, each is a playwright for his or her own destiny.  When the curtain closes on this act, another act begins.  We are auditioning for him who is our divine director and critic.  Whatever plaudits and acclaim we generate after our next scene will truly be deserved for we will have fully demonstrated that how we performed is the way we wish to perform forever.  Many will voice concern that they have received no curtain calls nor standing ovations.  Others will bow to the adoring adulation of a celestial audience welcoming their triumphant return.  As proven stars they will appear with their director and his already established cast in an eternal dramaturgy when he announces, ’Well done, thou good and faithful servant: thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things: enter into the joy of thy Lord’ (Matthew 25:21, 23)” -Willard Morgan, From Critic to Convert

Dadisms:

Up up little birdie

Prayer time a little dab'll do ya

Full of prunes

I'm fine if you're fine

You only get old once

Flannel shirts

Harmonica happy birthday

Playing the saw 

Whistle call

Finger flicking my nose to wake me up