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Tribute to President Hinckley

Back in the olden days, whenever those were, elegant elderly gentlemen walked about in public with elegant walking sticks or canes, as we call them today, even if they didn’t need them for assistance. The walking stick was associated with gloves, a top hat, and a well-groomed beard and/or mustache. These fashion accessories seemed to be acquired along with age and dignity.

Several years ago, when President Hinckley experienced some episodes of vertigo and was advised by his physicians to carry a cane, he obediently followed their orders and carried a cane. We rarely saw him depend on it as an assistive device, however; he appeared to find it useful to wave at the crowds and point out objects of interest in the distance. It became a joyful extension of his hand, his reach, his warmth, and his ability to charm everyone he met.

Soon canes began to arrive at the LDS Church Headquarters Building in Salt Lake City. They were gifts sent by loving members and represented every possible variety of cane or walking stick known to mankind or womankind, I imagine, and they came from many countries and cultures. One day I expect to see this impressive collection of President Hinckley’s canes as a permanent exhibit at the Church Museum of Art and History.

I was privileged to be in President Hinckley’s presence on several occasions. The last time, about five years ago, took place in the Salt Lake LDS Temple in a meeting to launch the Tabernacle Choir’s summer tour of the east coast. Flanked by beefy white-suited bodyguards, the small white-haired man entered the room, which was suddenly quiet as everyone rose to their feet in respect for the Prophet. And President Hinckley did carry a cane that day. It was hooked over his arm, as usual. The bodyguards each had a hand by his elbow, should he need assistance, which he didn’t.

For one moment, as he walked by our row, I was just a few feet away from him. In that moment I gazed directly into his bright blue eyes, and I was filled with an indescribable sense of warmth and well-being and love.

In the meeting, which he conducted, he praised the choir as one of our greatest missionary tools and beamed as they sang to us. Their singing was remarkable, too, as choir members were seated among the rest of the group assembled at the meeting, and simply stood in place in when it was time for them to sing. The effect was surround-sound, one I won’t soon forget. President Hinckley blessed them for their efforts, blessed their families and loved ones, and wished them well on their tour. Then he waved his cane, taking in the whole assembly with the gesture.

“All right, let’s all go home now. It’s dinner time.” And with that he was escorted from the podium and out of the room.

News of his sudden passing surprised us, as he had been following his normal routine and had been seen in public shortly before his brief illness. We always knew he was mortal, but in our hearts we never wanted him to succumb to the inevitable end of mortal life. That was a selfish wish, of course, and though he had expressed his loneliness for his dear wife and said he hoped they would not be separated for long, and though he had announced that he was in the “sunset of his life,” we simply didn’t want to let him go.

Because the cane had become a part of President Hinckley’s public appearances, according to Meridian Magazine, “a group known only as ‘Cane Wave Tribute’ is proposing that Church members line the streets between the Conference Center and cemetery, hopefully with thousands of admirers, waving canes as the cortège passes.”

On Saturday, I’m sure I’ll be touched by television coverage of crowds of respectful mourners carrying canes for the most beloved, elegant elderly gentleman I have ever had the pleasure of meeting.

It’s a lovely thought and should be a remarkable sight. And a fitting tribute to the distinguished gentleman that he was, minus the beard and top hat and gloves. Many have spoken eloquently about the man and his remarkable life and accomplishments, but my favorite memory of our prophet will always be of that warm summer evening, looking directly into the kind blue eyes that sparkled with life and love and wit.

Volunteers

Today's guest blogger is JoLynne Lyon.

Volunteers


I recently was in charge of rounding up volunteers. These people were needed for the glamorous job of shoveling compost for an annual fund-raiser for two conservation districts.
This work was more than dirty; it was hard. Still, I had high hopes.

The fund-raiser had connections to high school clubs with an environmental or a farming focus. Their members knew compost is good stuff, the fund-raiser was for a good cause, and I hoped I could wheedle some help out of them. We would be shoveling in two shifts: one on the day before the event, and one the day of. The compost had been donated by the local landfill, and bags of it were to be given away with the trees we were selling.

As I made my phone calls to the club advisors, I could hear in their voices how proud they were of their students. All three advisors said the same thing: They worked with very responsible kids.

“My kids all have four-point-O averages,” said one, in charge of an environmental club in our valley’s biggest town. “They’ll be there if they can.”

Said another, “My kids are all over-achievers. They’re pretty busy, but we’ll see what we can do.”

The third advisor was as proud of his kids as the other two, but he was not as boastful. Some of his students had attendance issues. He was going to give them the choice between shoveling compost and detention, and he said I could plan on four of them.

The day before the fund-raiser was cloudy. The 20-yard heap of donated compost waited for us on the pavement, looking dark and deceptively fluffy. Compost does not pack like dirt, though anyone who has shoveled it knows it is heavier than it looks. On that chilly spring day the huge pile steamed with heat, generated by organic matter breaking down. Adult volunteers arrived in the early afternoon and joked about climbing into the pile to get warm. Instead, we all started unpacking trees and separating them into customer orders.

When school let out, three teenage boys and a girl made their way over to join us. The boys were big guys with broad shoulders. The girl was cute and blonde, and she was dressed too nicely for the grunt work that waited for her. These were the detention kids. The girl joined in with the guys, scraping the compost off the pavement and shoveling it into sacks. Soon they were working hard enough that they looked comfortable in their shirt sleeves. These were future farmers, and they knew how to run a shovel. They were the only volunteers who came.

“Thanks,” I told them as the afternoon wore on. “You guys are great.”

One of the boys shrugged. “It was either this or sit in a classroom,” he said. He worked with his friends for three straight hours, with no reward except for a can of cold soda.

Steve, an adult volunteer, was in charge of the shoveling crew the next morning. He arrived, saw the small heap of compost, and wondered how we would get through the day with so little.

Then he saw the 200 bags that the teenagers had shoveled and set aside. Steve is a natural smiler, but his grin was wider than usual that day.

Soon, two of the four original teens showed up for more. The girl had dropped out, but a big blond guy came back with his tall, clean-cut friend.

“Hey,” Steve called to me later, indicating the future farmers with his head, “Do you believe these guys are on detention?”

They were the only high school volunteers we saw that day.

The young men went on shoveling. By then we had run out of bags, so this time they scooped the compost directly into the trailers of people who came to pick up their orders.

Jon, the chairman of one of the conservation district boards, stood by Steve and watched the guys at work. He had spent that morning helping customers pick up their orders. Without the volunteers, he would have had to shovel compost, too. Jon was smiling.

“We’re not telling your teacher you showed up,” he said to the young men. “You guys won’t get credit for this, your teacher won’t let you graduate, and if you get in trouble again, we’ll have you back here next year!” The young men laughed and stuck it out until the last of the pile was gone. Then they drank another soda, took the note I wrote to prove they had come, and disappeared.

I don’t know where the over-achievers were. I can’t blame them for not coming. I’m sure I would have had other weekend plans, myself, at seventeen. I am also sure they are as smart as their advisors said they were. They’ll go to good universities and get good jobs.

But those detention kids got my thank-you treats. I took a plateful of brownies and lemon bars to their classroom on Monday, thinking I would catch their teacher during his free period. I miscalculated the time, and found him teaching a roomful of future farmers instead. I recognized a few of them. One of them knew me, too.

“Hey,” the big blond kid said, pointing as I walked in. “It’s that chick!”

I laughed and spoke to his teacher. “I’m sorry I came in during class time. I just brought these for you and the students that helped us out. Thank you for sending them. They were great.”

The teacher shrugged it off. “I’m glad they could help.”

I left and he went back to teaching the people who will soon go out into the world and show us all how to work.

Advice from comedian Jonathan Winters

So how much snow do you have on the ground?

About 18 inches here . . . and Lita's not thrilled.

Spotted in the Salt Lake County Library System!

A routine web search this morning shows that my book is now in the Salt Lake County Library System - the very same system that employed my mother many years ago.

Also, the Milford, Utah City Library

And the Logan, Utah Library, where I spend a lot of time and accrue a lot of fines . . .

"Aunt Tuesday" script is finalist in LDS screenplay competition

January 7, 2008

"Aunt Tuesday," a screenplay written by Janet Jensen, based on a scene from Don't You Marry the Mormon Boys, was named a finalist in the 2008 LDS Film Festival 7- page screenplay competition. A certificate will be awarded January 19, 2008 as part of the ongoing festival.

New Year's Resolutions? I don't make 'em

New Year's resolutions set me up for failure. I'm a little vulnerable at that time of the year - I'm still recovering from Christmas and some unrealistic expectations I sometimes have for the holidays. I am putting away decorations and restoring the house to its previous condition. I'm a little overwhelmed about getting my life organized again. OK, I'm more than a little bit vulnerable this time of year, and grand and noble resolutions are doomed for failure.


As an alternative, I've realized that making a resolution or goal in the moment is more effective for me. This kind of resolution occurs when I'm deeply involved in the creative process, such as:


I will finish this manuscript and submit it to_______. A realistic date is added.


I have an appointment with an editor in March at a writers conference. This provides me with an incentive to work very hard on that manuscript, to write a coherent and compelling synopsis, and to present myself with confidence as I make my pitch. The first three chapters, at least, will be strong and polished, so I can submit them knowing they're my best work. I also need to summarize the novel in one, two, or three sentences (try it, that's very hard!) and blurbs of 100, 200, and 300 words. Sometimes that's all an editor has in hand (and all the time they are given)to pitch a book to a publisher or book buyer, so each word in those little blurbs is essential. They will be written and rewritten many times.

I note calls for submission and periodically submit articles, short stories, essays, etc. to various publications and put them on a calendar. That way, I have ongoing submissions and rejections to track, and I find more submission sources along the way. There's never really a blank on my calendar. I'm always trying to move forward. And I'm always on the alert to new possibilities. Realistically, what have I got to lose? is the question I ask myself. Something is always out there, under consideration by somebody.

A few months ago, as I thought about my writing as a business as well as a creative enterprise, I determined how many workshops I will attend per year, keeping in mind what I want to accomplish by attending them. They are already blocked out on my calendar.

This new year, I have entered a BIAM (book in a month) activity at Tristi's blog. I suppose that's something of a resolution. A big one, in fact. It may help me to finish the rough draft of the work in progress, which is always on my mind, but needs to be on paper, or at least on the computer screen. It will be interesting to see how I do with this challenge. Today is January 2, though, so theoretically I'm already behind. If I don't complete the rough draft by the end of January, at least I'll have made progress.

I'm not one of those "so many thousands of words a day" authors, anyway. I'm more of a "write this scene" author. Also, in this work, a goal is to "include colors" as my main character, an artistic woman, thinks of others in terms of colors. That has led to some interesting research on colors and how they affect our moods and thinking.


Unfortunately, I've not been able to silence that little nagging editor on my shoulder, so I can't write freely and with abandon, to crank out those thousands of words per day. Yet. I know that's the goal of BIAM so I'll try. Good things may happen as I apply myself. But I won't kick myself if the rough draft isn't complete by the end of January. It will be much further along than it is today, though. And that's progress.


As I look at what's there already in the rough draft, specific goals will be written in the margins, which will lead to other creative improvements. It will put me in the moment, where I need to be. Where I love to be. So I'm going to give the BIAM my best shot, Tristi.


Back to resolutions. One resolution I make every year,:

No overdue library books.

Oops, I just checked my online library account and . . . you guessed it. I'm going to receive a polite notice from the library. Now my goal is to put library due dates on my calendar, so Outlook will nag - -- er, remind me.



OK, OK, I just made a resolution. One that's obviously easy to break.