Beach Camping at Assateague Island Nat'l Seashore

Bought myself a new tent and sleeping bag. Owen shared my tent both nights. Below, Chantel talking to Owen through the tent window.Getting settled in.

Grammy, are you awake?

Owen, how did you sleep?

The beach was beautiful but it was strange to see the horizon without the setting sun. Chantel got pictures of the sunrise on the beach the next morning.

Owen running back to join me for a morning walk. "My mom loves beautiful things, so I'm going to give this [shell] to her and I'll be right back!" Notice the absence of people. Lovely.

Owen found the shell of a horseshoe crab.

Chantel and Soren later in the day.

Soren running from the waves.

Owen playing in the water.

Soren loves to climb, especially on his mama.

My view from the chair beneath the umbrella.

The boys loved being buried in the sand. Owen posed for dramatic effect.

A picture of the marsh not far from our camp. The first afternoon I saw two does and two fawns here happily munching away. The downside to the beauty of this was the mosquitoes that also live here. Thank goodness for insect repellent.

A view of the dune that separated the camping area from the beach.

A view of the camping area from the top of the dune. We had neighbors but plenty of space among us.

This island is known for its herd of wild horses. Strict rules apply regarding them which include keeping your food locked up and not feeding, touching or approaching the horses. However, no mention was made of what to do when they approached us! The last morning two stallions came into camp. Our food was all put away and our tents were down, but we still had a bag of garbage to pack out...

Hey come on, I think it's this way...

Helping himself and finding some string cheese to munch...

Oops, I guess I made a mess...

Heading to the next camp while the Calders look on. Unfortunately, the people at the next site left all their food in bags right out in the open. The horses had a feast while the unfortunate couple watched their food being gobbled up right outside their tent. They took it with good humor and it made a fun end to our stay on the island.

Enough

This piece was recently published by Welter, the University of Baltimore's English department literary magazine. A publication party was held on May 13 where authors were invited to celebrate by participating in a public reading. The reading was held on the 5th floor of the Student Activities Center in a room with a glass wall that provided a fabulous view of downtown Baltimore. I went and had a great time.

The inspiration for this piece came from a list poem that I wrote several years ago about all the things to feel guilty for. The 'voices' are from my past--all women interestingly enough--but some are voices from our culture. I'll let you decide which are which.

Being born a little white girl who grew up in the South, a descendant of slave owners and I don’t hate them for it but maybe I should, and having a black maid who had nine children and lived in a house without running water even though my grandmother paid the bills for us and I didn’t understand until long after we left, being angry that I have to explain my history, and just be glad you were born into this family and not some other. Not cleaning my room and your mama and daddy paid good money for this house. Not cleaning my plate even though children in Africa are starving, use your bread not your fingers. Dressing well, not dressing well enough, and do you want the neighbors to see you like that. Not wearing clean underwear although I never once woke up in the hospital like they said I would, not wearing any underwear, not wearing anything, throwing away good food, throwing away bad food that was good but went bad before I could eat it, Mabel, Mabel, elbows off the table. Not saying no clearly and often enough, when they were young, and not saying no, now and you can’t live their lives for them. Saying yes when I should have said no, saying yes when I really meant no, not feeling sorry that I said yes, and I love you too, baby. Not seeing the dentist often enough, not flossing enough, not exercising enough, not having regular pap smears, having a nice car, reading trash, wasting time and if you don’t have anything better to do there’s work waiting in the kitchen. Hanging out, doing nothing, trying to do everything, going too fast, not going fast enough, sleeping in, not sleeping enough and you have to take better care of yourself you know. Being married, being able to have children, not having one more, wondering why they don’t have any and finding out that they can’t. Being divorced and what happened and who are you to ask me. Being angry, speaking up and I’ll wash your mouth out with soap. Talking back and we’ll not have any back talk in this house young lady. Not speaking out, not saying anything, not doing anything about it and you should be more assertive. Not voting, voting when I wasn’t sure, pretending I was sure, pretending to be someone else and you can be anything in this world that you want to be. Losing my temper when they were little, and dumb me for not having child locks on the cabinets and not being consistent, laughing when they did something wrong because it was so funny even though they got mixed messages and I didn’t know until later, but then it was too late. Being depressed when they were young and they don’t remember, or say they don’t but I do. Pretending to be asleep when I didn’t want to, not answering the phone when I knew it was him, spending too much and do you think money grows on trees. Spending too much time, spending too much time worrying, spending too much time worrying about him and how many tears are you going to shed over that guy. Not saving, not saving enough, not starting my IRAs soon enough, not having enough, not being enough, being too much, too spiritual, too sensitive, too passionate, too emotional, having too much good and still wanting more, wanting everything and nobody gets everything they want. Everything I should have done but didn’t, every wrong choice I made, even the ones I thought were right at the time, every evil thought, every bad word to pass my lips, every time I chose me instead of someone else, crying myself to sleep, not being able to cry, slamming the door, punching the wall, slapping his face, scaring the children, swearing at God, enough already, enough and what’s the matter with you, were you raised in a barn?

I Can't Explain It; Not Even to Myself

Ok, so apologizies to those of you who have emailed to remind me that I haven't posted lately. I have finally caught up, so you'll have to scroll down a way to see the entries. I posted in date happening order.

The trip to Memphis was wonderful in that I spent time with my aunt and uncles and felt their love and support. However, the introspective mood I frequently found myself in did not lend itself to blogging. What I will say is this: Memphis is home, and that is never more real to me than when it's storming, or when I smell humidity, springtime, blooming dogwoods, and fresh cut grass. This trip I experienced both.

One night at Aunt Claire and Uncle Dick's, we took turns watching the hurricane warnings on tv and from the wide window, the sky turn black and dense over the Mississippi River. Fortunately, the hurricane turned slightly in its course so that Memphis was spared its fury. I know my aunt was worried. But I have a picture in my mind of what the dark sky and the Memphis skyline looked like from the top floor of the building where we were, and it filled me not with dread and fear, but with wonder and a sense of belonging that I have felt about storms ever since I can remember.

Once as a little girl, I invited a neighbor girl to spend the night. Her parents said no because of the storm. My friend had only to cross her back yard and mine. Such a short distance it seemed. I thought her parents were being overly cautious and I knew that they were afraid, but I wasn't. I stood at the tall kitchen plate glass window watching the tree limbs toss and bend, sometimes almost parallel to the ground, and I would have gone outside in the storm except for my mother who said--No.

Even now forty years later, I have to admit that in my excitement and draw toward the power and beauty of thunder and lightning storms, I forget that hurricanes often result in destruction and death. Nevertheless, I welcome the intensity of their expression passing over and through me. It's something I can neither help nor explain away. Something, someday, will be the cause of my demise, but it will never be a wild, Southern storm. Of this I am certain. Perhaps this is what allows me to stand still and watch, wonder, rejoice, and give thanks, even in the midst of a storm's unleashed passion.

Family Connections

On the way to and from Memphis, I spent the night in Oak Ridge at my sister-in-law's Katheryne's house. We have been friends since we first met at 16 and 18. We went to the same obstetrician and the same Lamaze class, and we had our first babies three weeks apart. We were inseparable in those days. Our oldest boys, Brandon and Ardell, remained close as well. Katheryne is the kind of friend who loves me unconditionally, and we always take up right where we left off whether it's been a week or, in some cases, years. Here are pictures from that part of my trip. Thanks, Sarah, for the download!

Emily, Sarah and Me

Owan and Emily, Sarah and Matt. Emily's baby girl Eva is due on July the 4th.

Sarah and Matt, married 4 years this December. Matt served in Iraq and just recently finished his time in the Marines. Sarah works as a dental hygienist.

Sarah

Emily

Me and Kath.

Ardell and his well-mannered, well-adjusted, obedient and delightful son, Tyler. Ardell is a wonderful father. I'm so proud of you!!

Ardell, Sarah, Tyler and me.

Me, Emily and Sarah. I was so touched that Emily came from Knoxville in a heavy rainstorm in order to see me. She spent the night at her Mom's and we got to spend more time together.

Emily and her husband, Owan.

Uncle Don

is an amazing man. He will be 85 this summer, and like Aunt Claire and Uncle Dick, he, too, is in great shape. He attributes his health to a good diet and staying physically and mentally active. I got a few shots of him on his bushhog before my batteries died.

Don maintains 25 acres of land, about 3 of which comprise the 'front yard.'

A view of the house toward the end of the long driveway.

i

My Cousin, Jean,

I found out, was a remarkable woman with an indomitable spirit and a zest for living equal to Brandon's. I think they would have liked each other very much. It was a great pleasure to get to know Jean through Aunt Claire and Uncle Dick. I had the privilege of visiting her grave site with them on the anniversary of her death. Thank you for including me that day.

Road Trip! Again!!

Leaving for Memphis, folks. Driving again. Love to see unexplored country, take backroads I may never take again. Just my music, me and wide open spaces. The cool part is having an open ended return. I'll stay until it's time to leave. Well, not exactly. I have an appointment on May 9 that I have to be back for, but I am relishing the idea of being spontaneous and coming home when the time is right. Hope to do some more genealogy research while I'm there. I look forward to being with my family though, my aunt and uncles certainly, and some cousins too, if I'm lucky. I'll go see my dad's grave and visit some of the old places, but other than that, we'll see what happens. Because I'll be driving, I'll take my laptop, so look for a post or two while I'm away. See you from the road!

Backyard Fun

April 25, 2008

Potty Mouth; Same Stuff, Different Generation

I was responding to Chantel's recent post about Owen's potty mouth when I realized that I was creating an entry worthy of its own space. So here goes.

Living with the Calders is wonderful, interesting, happy, and safe, but sometimes with a little bit of "Oh, no!" thrown in. I'm referring to the things I see Owen doing that Brandon did 25 years ago. A part of me says, "No. I'm not going there. I already raised my kids. Now I just want to be Grammy." But living with grandchildren creates another whole dynamic that I didn't think much about when I was just visiting. The discipline role is mine by default along with all the other roles that being a grandmother offer. Tel and Austin and I have had talks about what works and what doesn't and I think we do a pretty fair job of being consistent. At least we keep trying. And Owen keeps trying us to make sure that we're always learning. One 'parent' might be stronger or more consistent about bedtime, or table manners, or disrespectful behavior than another, or one may ignore a little more than another before 'counting.' One really doesn't want to be "Monster Grammy" so that one finds herself giving little warnings before counting, but I won't mention which one that is. But no matter what's happening with Owen's growth (and Soren's too, although Owen tests more often right now), there's always the surprise reminder that as much as I learned as a parent, I still fall right back into the old patterns, even though it's been 19 years since I've had a 6-year-old, and almost 26 years since Brandon was one. I always thought if I had it to do over, I'd be such a great parent and so incredibly consistent and wise. Humph! I'm aware of when I'm being less than perfectly consistent with Owen. What keeps surprising me is that the older I get, I'm still just me--imperfections and all. Now having said all that, I'll get to what prompted all this to begin with.

Owen's potty mouth is slowly getting better. But progress is never made in a perfect upward line. It's always two steps forward and a step or two back. Most of the time I either ignore Owen's mouth, or I count, and he's getting better about stopping at 2 instead of going to his room at 3. But once in awhile he catches me completely off guard and I have to turn away so he doesn't see me suppressing a laugh. Once in awhile he even unknowingly creates a situation wherein the best response is to laugh.

For example, a couple of days after coming back from California, Idaho, and Brandon's funeral services, I was feeling pretty dazed. Owen and I were at the table together doing art. Chantel and Austin were outside or down the hall and Marti, Austin's mother, was somewhere in the house too. She had come for a visit. Suddenly, Owen, out of the quiet blue says, "Grammy? My Mom farts. Do you think my mom farts? And I think her farts stink. Don't you think so? Grammy? Grammy? I'm sure my Mom farts--a lot. My mom farts every day. Grammy, are you listening?" Now I didn't think this was funny, but this was one of those weird moments when I was completely ambushed by his quick little mind. I didn't say anything, nor did I even hint at a smile. In fact, I didn't even look up. I just continued to work on my painting. But I quickly realized that this one-sided conversation was getting out of hand. Just like ignoring a situation never worked with Brandon, it doesn't work with Owen either. He became more determined than ever to get my attention. And now that I'm thinking about it, given the terribly sad state of affairs at our house, perhaps he wanted me to laugh right then more than ever. But I didn't. And right about the delayed-reaction moment that I opened my mouth to say something I hoped would be effective, Marti steps around the corner and says something to the effect of, "Owen, you will stop what you're saying immediately and you will talk about something else, do you understand?" It was not only the statement, but the way it was delivered, with the perfect cadence, the precisely perfect inflections in her voice, and the slight but oh so effectively placed pause. I couldn't look at Marti, but I'm certain she had her eyebrows positioned perfectly as well. There's no way one can say something like that without having mastered the technique of precision eyebrow positioning. Owen was stopped in his tracks, while I sat there and wondered if I could have made a delivery with as much authority as Marti did.

In my defense, I claim environment and perhaps even genetics. I was the middle child, the peace maker, the "good one," and the one my younger brother dubbed "Polly Pure Heart." Talk about living up to a standard! Therefore, I have never associated myself with words like "authoritative" or "strict." Even "consistent" had a rather mean sound to it. "Sweet" is the adjective I've most often heard, in fact, as recently as last night on the telephone with my mother! I think it's too late for me. I was the kind of child that an adult had only to raise his or her eyebrow a certain way--and a single one at that--or lift a pointer finger in a silent warning, and I would cease and desist any thing remotely resembling bad or even improper behavior. I never got a spanking. I never had my mouth washed out with soap, and I can't remember even being sent to my room (unless it was for do-overs since shoving everything into a neat pile in the middle of the floor didn't constitute cleaning my room). Probably most of my biggest infractions were laughing at my brothers' potty mouths--partly because they were funny, and partly from the excitement of living vicariously through my them. But I never got in trouble for laughing.

Fast forward 40 years. Owen had just pulled a fast one. I remained stoic at the table that day, but my mouth was probably still hanging open when Marti turned around and left the room after the perfect delivery of the perfect one-liner. I wondered for a fleeting moment if I should feel embarrassed-- a six-year-old getting the better of me, and I think he had been just about to realize that if he hadn't already. Instead of putting myself down though, I felt grateful--grateful that Marti grew up as the oldest of seven children, including a set of twins. Somebody had to do it! And as fast as Owen was on the draw, Marti aimed to kill, and she didn't miss. She comes by her skills naturally just like I do. Mine just don't happen to be in the consistent parent realm. Unlike me, Marti did not grow up with illusions of the power of the eyebrows. She came. She conquered. She left. Just like that! And she made it look easy! But for me it really isn't.

In the future, for serious infractions, like the one Owen made by disrespecting his mother, I hope I'm a little bit faster in speaking up and a little firmer at how I sound. If I pretend to be someone else, I may just pull it off. If, on the other hand, you happen to be visiting and see me turn away from Owen as I try to hide a smile, know that I'm not laughing so much at what Owen has said, although every potty mouth little boy seems to think he's come up with something original. No, I'm smiling because I'm looking back over the years and realizing, potty mouth may be squelched but it will never die. It was around long before either Marti or I came along and it will be here a long time after we're gone. And yet, as parents and grandparents, we're obligated to do our best to at least keep it to a dull roar.

Potty mouth doesn't begin at six even though we continue to hope that we might have it controlled by 6 and 3/4. Unfortunately, it doesn't end at sixteen either, although it does seem to be less prevalent during the dating years, but after that? Well, you tell me. Does potty mouth ever end? Really? How many males do you know who never, ever resort to some comment about body parts or body functions as a source of humor? And I'm not saying that women don't use it too (nor am I talking about filth or abuse of the sacred masquerading as humor). It's just that in my experience, I can't think of a single male, either close friend or family member, who doesn't slip into the old funny once in awhile.

So for those of you who feel righteous indignation that I sometimes laugh at the improper, or the little boy crude I can only, in my defense, tell you that I grew up with an older and younger brother, raised two boys, and heard plenty of potty mouth from other adults (all males mind you) all in the guise of "Oh, boy, isn't this hilarious?" and age was never a determining factor. I heard it throughout my life and given certain company, I hear it still! I'll bet money that even you who don't laugh now, laughed plenty when you were a kid and you're still tempted on occasion. See if you can find someone who never slips up. But asking your boss about this when he's in a three-piece suit doesn't count. Try asking your girlfriend about her ex-husband instead. She might even tell you about the time they were playing this game called "Revenge of the Rotten Eggs"... And I don't care how old you are. When she tells you the truth--you're gonna laugh.

Brandon's Life Sketch

Written and given by long-time friend, Janet Nelson, April 2, 2008.

Brandon Scott Dayley was a bicentennial baby (his birth certificate even has a special seal on it) born in Twin Falls, Idaho, on a Wednesday summer morning—June 23, 1976. He was born to young parents who were very much in love with him from the start.
Three years later a baby sister Chantel, joined the family—and four years after Chantel, Brandon’s brother, Clayton, was born.
Brandon’s earliest years in Burley Idaho were spent as close as he could get to his paternal grandfather. He worshipped his Grandpa Dayley and spent as much time as possible with him in the garden working and watering.
In 1984, the family moved to California. They lived in Oakley for a year and a half. During this time, Brandon was baptized into the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.
His uncle, Dan Dayley, felt very close to Brandon and once took young Brandon on a trip back to Idaho where he wanted to go pheasant hunting. Brandon was to stay in the car while Dan, just outside, managed to quickly shoot down two pheasants. The car window was rolled down, and Dan said he could hear Brandon yelling, “Hooray for my Uncle Dan—hooray, hooray!” Dan said Brandon was always his best cheerleader.
In 1985, Brandon’s family moved to Martinez where they started a tree farm on four acres. Brandon’s beloved grandparents spent several months each year down in Martinez helping out with the tree farm. This absolutely delighted Brandon as he could then ride the 4-wheeler and shoot guns with his Grandpa.
Brandon attended the Martinez schools and spent his high school years at Alhambra High. He especially enjoyed playing football all four years with the Bulldogs. In fact, his senior year he played both offense and defense. His football coach remembers Brandon’s enthusiasm and love for the game.
Brandon had lots of friends. He was gregarious, had a bit of a swagger in those days, and was very interested in being actively involved in life, sometimes too much so.
Elwon Lance tells the story of coming into Brandon’s Sunday school class where he found the teacher hadn’t shown up, so he proceeded to instruct the class. Brandon happened to mouth off in a very disrespectful manner, and Elwon pinned him up against the wall and “counseled” him. Later in the hallway, Brandon challenged Elwon again, and Dane Lance, (Elwon’s son) calmly said to Brandon, “You really don’t want to mess with my dad—he doesn’t fight fair.”
About a year and a half later, Brandon apologized to Elwon and they became good friends. In fact, Marci remembers that it was Elwon whom Brandon asked to ordain him to the priesthood before his mission.
Brandon enjoyed the out of doors. He went on numerous camping trips with my sons. When my son, Chad, earned the Eagle rank in Scouting, it was Brandon whom he asked to speak at his Court of Honor. And Brandon did a fantastic job.
Growing up in Martinez, Brandon was close friends with Elise Bendixen. Elise says they were best friends for over ten years. She appreciated his non-judgmental attitude, his willingness to listen endlessly, and his loyalty. Elise’s little sister remembers Brandon coming over to fix her broken down bike and how nice he was to her.
After high school, Brandon was in a very transitional period. He moved up to Chico to room with his Dad who was attending school there. This is the time when Brandon dove back into church activity. The key was Shane, whom you’ll hear from shortly. Another friend, Ian Farr, had recently returned from his mission and spent time talking with Brandon.
Brandon received his own mission call in 1998 to Argentina. That’s when he took his fateful July road trip to Utah to see his grandparents and Uncle Dan. He also went on a long day mountain hike with my son Dan.
Afterwards, Brandon and his uncle Dan went up to Idaho to see Grandpa and Grandma Dayley. They worked hard all day long trimming pine trees on the property. Dan then returned home to Utah, and Brandon continued into the night to finish the tree trimming project. Then he left for California.
You know the story of the horrific car accident. Brandon was not expected to live, and his uncle Dan called Bishop Renshaw who then called Paul Maughan to go and administer to him. Paul said it was the most stressful blessing he’s ever given. An hour later a nurse called back Dan to report, “Well, two men from your church gave Brandon the last rites, and he’s actually taken a turn for the better!”
During his recovery period, Brandon received numerous letters from friends recounting all their mutual good times. These letters were read over and over to Brandon to stimulate his memory. Some of you letter writing friends are probably here today continuing your support. Chantel was an incredible help at this time also, totally devoting herself to Brandon’s recovery.
Two years later, Brandon was out on a mission—to Dallas, Texas. Yesterday when I spoke with his mission president, I was told the story of how Brandon wanted to spend time in a nursing home as his weekly service project. One day Brandon fell and hit his head so was taken to the hospital. The mission president’s wife said she received a call every hour on the hour from the nursing home as they wanted continual updates on their special friend.
This compassion for older people naturally extended to Brandon’s grandmother. For the last three years of her life, while she herself was in a nursing home, Brandon called his grandmother almost every single day.
When Brandon returned home from his mission, he started attending DVC. His math tutor (Shirley LaFevre) told me that Brandon was ever the missionary—sometimes she would just have to say, “Now Brandon, this is a math class.”
Brandon had to take several classes over, but Marci said nobody could keep Brandon down. He just willed himself to persevere.
As you read in the obituary, Brandon had hoped to gain enough education to work with and help other victims of head injuries. Now, we believe Brandon will be made whole and will be able to use his outgoing, friendly nature to assist others.

And so we bid farewell to Brandon Scott Dayley and remind ourselves—

That life is fragile, and must be treated with prayer. In the name of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.

Owen's Powers of Deduction

We're still on the make believe trail, but today we added a new creature, a beaver, which required that we go onto the internet to retrieve some beaver facts: An adult beaver weighs between 40 and 60 pounds.

How much do you weigh, Owen?

I think 55 pounds.

Then you're the size of a grown up beaver!

Well, Mommy picks me up and holds me. And I'm the size of a beaver, so Mommy can hold a beaver!!

(And I'm sure she would if she needed to!)

Our Trip Home to Idaho

Most people don't realize that we had the privilege and blessing of taking Brandon's body back to Idaho ourselves. When we found out at the mortuary that this could be done, I saw Larry's face and I knew that there was no question whether he wanted to do it or not. Clayton's face had the same resolute look. Larry and Clayton returned to the mortuary after the funeral and helped load the casket into the back of Larry's truck. It was well protected from the elements and tied in place. Chantel and Austin and I with the boys drove separately in a rental car. We met up that evening in Winnemucca, Nevada and stayed in the same motel. The next day we drove the rest of the way to Burley and went straight to the cemetery to pick out the plot. The grounds keeper was expecting us. Chantel and I got there first and enjoyed walking around the cemetery that mother had taken us to so many times. It's a beautiful cemetery near a few small acreages and lots of farm ground. We had our choice of plots with flat headstones only, or plots that allow the uprights. We preferred the uprights and found the ones we wanted with a view of the mountains. When Larry and Clayton arrived we showed them the plots and they liked them, too. Then we went together to city hall to pay for them. Larry bought not just Brandon's but three other plots next to his. One of those is mine and I'm very grateful for it. I have always wanted to be near Mother and Dad and being interred next to my first born goes without saying. Brandon's final trip. Pleasant View Cemetery, Burley, Idaho Near side: Clayton Dayley, Colten Dayley, John Bruch, Austin Calder. Far side: Dan Dayley, Larry Dayley, Kevin Neiwert, Justin Echols. A sweet graveside service was held on Friday afternoon April 4, 2008, a windy, blustery day. The city had set up the site with two heavy tarps as wind breaks, but they did little to help. Larry said that Brandon made a lot of noise and it was appropriate that he left us by making noise as well. About thirty people attended including friends from Salt Lake City and Martinez, California. Austin conducted the service and sang two verses of the hymn "Nearer My God to Thee." Brandon's Uncle John (my brother) gave the opening prayer and his Uncle Dan was the main speaker. Austin singing "Nearer My God to Thee." His clear tenor voice and willingness to sing acapella helped bring the spirit to the service. I was more than happy with how well everything went. Dan talked about Brandon's amazing ability to keep getting up after being knocked down so many times. He also praised Brandon's good humor and his determination to reach his goals no matter what. Dan identified Brandon not only as his nephew, but as one of his "very, very best friends." Members of the congregation were then invited to speak impromptu. Chantel praised Brandon for being such a wonderful uncle to her boys; she also mentioned how safe she always felt with him and referenced an experience she had taking the train to Chico to see him when she was younger; I talked about the example Brandon set for me in facing adversity and how much I'd learned from him these last ten years. My brother John shared a funny memory of a comment Brandon made at his mission return. Then Brandon's very good friend, Justin, spoke about their long-term friendship. He said, "I'm a better man for having known him." Austin shared some personal thoughts and explained the reason we dedicate or set-apart grave sites. Most of us included in our remarks our anticipation of a happy reunion with Brandon someday, as well as joy on the day of resurrection. We buried Brandon with a view of the mountains in the same cemetery as several generations of his ancestors, including his beloved grandmother and grandfather Dayley. Chantel and Clayton with their Bruch cousins: Jantzen, Queston, Kolsen and Garrett. Savanah wasn't able to come because she was ill. A family of four After the graveside service, we went to Beverly's house where she had prepared a delicious meal for all of us. She has been such a wonderful sister and friend. Beverly took care of Dad and then Mother, all the while taking care of her son, Ken, and often her granddaughters Camrai and Katela. I love you, Beverly, and I appreciate your unfailing selfless service to your family and to us these many years.