Memories I Wish I Had

After the entry yesterday I spoke with my brother-in-law who reminded me of the tales my dad would tell of deer camps in Northern Michigan with the Alpena branch of the Quantz family; his cousins.

This branch of the family was headed by Patriarch John Quantz who was born in Canada in 1837 and died and was buried in the Spratt County Cemetery in 1924, next to his wife Catherine who died in 1917.

His grandfather Melchoir, called Michael by his neighbors, left Hamburg, Germany in 1772 – some say under duress from a pursuing constabulary – and joined the English army that fought against the American rebels in the Revolutionary War. When the war ended, he returned to England where his son Frederick, was born. At some point after that, he returned to the New World and settled in Philadelphia but left for Canada with one William Berczy, known as the founder of the town of Markham, Ontario, Canada.

After establishing the town, Berczy left and lived the rest of his life in Montreal.

At some point after Berczy’s departure, someone in the Quantz family decided to change the spelling of the last name to a more anglicized Quance. Melchoir died – I am not sure when – and is buried in the Buttonville Cemetery.

The area settled outside of the town of Markham by the Quantz family became known as Quantztown, despite the new spelling of the last name.

Over the next few years the several of the children migrated to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan seeking work in the iron mines. When the mines played out, John Quantz went south and homesteaded a farm near the Alpena area of Michigan. One of his sons, my grandfather, William Robert Quantz, left for Iowa when he was in his early twenties to work as a hired hand on a farm. There he met my grandmother, Alma Christiansen, who was working as an indentured servant to pay off a debt her parents made while she was a little girl in Sweden.

My grandfather kidnapped her and they were married and had a daughter and a son before they moved to Comstock, Michigan on the banks of the Kalamazoo River in southwestern Michigan. Their only son, William Robert, Jr. was my father.

The Alpena branch of the family was legend in ours. They were really primitive people. I remember once, when I was seven, we visited their home where we had to use an outhouse for our business… even at night… when it was dark and spooky. I seem to remember their lamps were all oil lamps but I could be wrong about that.

There were stories of moonshine and murders and at least one suicide in that group. These tales made for goose-bump nights when my father told them. Mostly though, he talked of deer camps with his dad, uncle and cousins.

Although I don’t remember many details I do remember a seeing in my mind’s eye, thin, bearded men, who chewed and spat through stained teeth with gaps between them. I saw red wool shirts with green trousers, also of wool and pie pans with beans heated on a campfire; the same fire that heated cast iron pots full of thick, tar they called coffee.

By the time I would have been old enough to go to this sacred camp, most of the Alpena Quantz men were either in or just out of the state penitentiary or found hanging in the smokehouse. My dad had also become Mormonized to the point he would not have wanted me to hang around that kind of riff-raff. What a shame…

What a damn shame.

The Season Has Begun

On April 30th, the Michigan trout season opened but alas, it was on a Wednesday and I was working. I have not found any free time since either and it makes me grumpy.

For some of the things I love, it's the idea that is the most romantic; like deer hunting.

I used to love hunting deer, or better, the society of deer hunters. There is something deeply stabilizing that occurs around Autumn campfires where old men tell stories of the giant deer of yesteryear when they were boys at the heals of their fathers and grandfather.

My first deer camp took place when I was 12. My dad and I had been invited by the Ferron twins to hunt big Mulies somewhere in the mountains of Utah. It was in November of 1963 and our family was en route from Hawaii to my dad's new duty station at Fort Hood, Texas.

The Ferron twins were mostly responsible for my parent's reactivation in the Church five years earlier, also at Fort Hood, Texas where they had both been stationed after being drafted immediately after they served their missions. This was the old "Senior Aaronic" priesthood days and my dad was still a teacher when I was of the age for baptism so Alvin baptized me and his twin, Calvin, confirmed me. They have remained friend since and it was natural for my parents to visit them as we passed through Utah in the Fall of 1963.

I remember riding up into the mountains with Alvin and my dad the day before the opener and meeting with a number of the Ferron clan already camped at the base of a mountain horse path that lead to a large meadow that was legendary for holding trophy mule deer.

Most had campers but a few, like us, had a tent. That night we sat with Alvin around our own little campfire and ate hot dogs. One of Alvin's cousins, however, had brought his wife and they made steaks that smelled delicious. I jumped at what I had perceived as a offer from the wife. My father whispered to me that it wasn't really an offer to us and I felt as embarrassed as I had ever felt before. I remember and re-create the feeling now, just by writing the memory down.

What little sleep I got that night was ended abruptly as I was rousted from my sleeping bag long before dawn. We ate a sandwich and went to the horses.

There were 6 of us and only 4 horses so I and Calvin's 16 year-old brother-in-law walked behind the men on horseback. It was a steep trail littered with steamy piles of horse crap into which I was destined to step frequently... too frequently.

I remember being terrified that I would step off the trail and careen down a 1000 foot cliff that I was certain bordered both sides of the narrow trail.

When we finally arrived at the sacred place, I was told to stay with the young man with whom I had been walking. and sit on a flat rock that overlooked the lower section of the meadow.

At 12 I was too young to legally hunt deer in Utah but even if I had been old enough, my dad would not have sprung for the out-of-state license. The brother-in-law - whose name escapes me - had a beautiful rifle. It was a Savage, .300 magnum. I know now it was way too much gun for the occasion but when I was 12 it was just right. I envied him.

As the sun rose and it became legal to shoot, I looked around and saw what seemed to be hundreds of deer, peacefully walking in the meadow, completely unaware of what was about to happen. Then the first of a battery of shots broke the stillness of the crisp, morning air. I saw large bucks fall and others run off with puffs of dust from missed opportunities in the dirt behind them. My hunting partner had not even raised his rifle to peer out of the scope. I was confused.

When I asked him about it, he told me, essentially, to shut up and that he was waiting for a big buck. I shrugged and shut up.

Within minutes of that brief exchange I saw a very, large buck and pointed it out to him. Apparently he agreed so stood up and began firing away... and missing.

The buck didn't seem to notice and kind of stood there looking around. Why someone else didn't drop him I'll never know, but when I looked at my partner all I saw was that he was literally shaking with every shot.

The deer was between 80 and a hundred yards away, standing on the edge of a small grove of Quaking Aspen. I quietly suggested that he try shooting from the prone position but he ignore me.

I can't be sure, but he had to have fired 10 times. I know he reloaded once and fired a couple of times after that. Still the buck didn't seem to notice. I suggested again that he either lay down or sit down to shoot. This time he because angry and said something stupid.

"If you think you can do any better, then prove it." He handed me the rifle.

I should preface the rest of this part of the story with some informational detail.

A few days prior to the deer hunt, Alvin had taken my dad and I to some wilderness prairie in the southern part of Utah to sight in his 30.06. We all sat on the side of a foot hill while Alvin shot at jackrabbits below. It seemed a good way to sight in a gun.

When it was where he wanted it, he handed the rifle to me and asked if I wanted to try. It would be the first time I had ever fired a caliber larger than a .22. I shot 5 times and killed 5 jackrabbits. My dad even complimented me; but he really deserved the credit as he had taught me how to shoot straight with a .22 and the concept was the same although I never shot a .22 with a scope.

So, back to the flat rock in the meadow and my hunting partner is a mocking challenge handing me his rifle. I took it.

I laid down on my stomach and rested my left elbow on the rock as I shouldered the Savage. I put the cross hairs where I thought the buck's heart ought to be and squeezed the trigger. KERBLAM!!!

The buck jumped once and then fell. My hunting partner grabbed the rifle and headed down the hill toward the buck. I ran to catch up and when I did, he told me to get back to the rock. This time I told him I wouldn't. I wanted to see my first buck up close. That's when he threatened to beat me up if I told anyone I had shot the deer. He was going to claim it as his kill. I didn't say a word.

My dad had seen me head off the flat rock and he and Alvin met us at the deer. My partner immediately began telling everyone how he had shot it. That's when I decided to risk getting beat up.

I know it was not much of a risk with both my dad and Alvin standing there but I was twelve and not all that familiar with risk assessment.

"Actually, he missed it a bunch of times and let me try. I killed the deer." I said, or something similar.

The kid's face turned red and he clinched his fists; not like he was going to hit me but like he was going to throw a tantrum... which he did. It was a great tantrum too.

In it he claimed I was lying but he also threatened to call the game warden and tell them I had killed a deer without a license, etc. etc.

Alvin and my dad just looked at each other and then at me. "Come on, Scottie," Alvin said, "why don't you finish the day with your dad and me."

As reluctant as I was to leave my deer, I did. As we walked to where they had been sitting, Alvin told me that his twin brother's brother-in-law was somewhat of a spoiled brat who had been given everything he's ever wanted, etc. etc.

My dad was pretty silent so I asked him if he was mad at me. He smiled and assured me that he was not. He did say that I should have refused the offer to shoot the deer only because what I had done was technically illegal. I then began to worry that there would be someone back at camp with handcuffs, but Alvin assured me that the tag on the buck would have my former hunting partner's name on it and that it had been killed with a bullet from the gun owned by the same.

The day ended with Alvin, my dad and me field dressing a medium sized buck that Alvin had shot. I helped by not getting in the way while I watched closely how it was done.

The two men lashed the buck to one of the horses and then we all three walked, my dad leading the second horse and Alvin the one holding his deer, back to camp.

In the daylight, I saw there were no cliffs on either side of the trail but that there was a stream that ran on one side, that looked like it would be loaded with cutthroat trout. I remember feeling as near to being a man as I had ever felt before, walking with these two men and being part of a trio of men who hunt.

When we arrived at the camp, there were about 20 deer hanging from stands but the deer I had killed was nowhere to be seen; nor was my former hunting partner. Apparently he had not made it back yet. I remember thinking that he didn't have a horse and wondered if his reputation had kept the other men from offering to help him; help he would have needed because it was such a large animal.

We broke camp and headed home. The next day was Sunday and there were church services to attend. The day after that my family loaded of the station wagon and headed for Texas.

In Texas I was already old enough to hunt deer legally and the next season my dad took me after the legendary whitetails of the Blue Bonnet State. The Christmas before he had given me the Model .94 Winchester that his father had given to him and in November of 1964 I killed my first legal deer.

Because of the Vietnam War, my dad and I didn't hunt deer together again until the Fall of 1968 when we went with my cousin to hunt the Early Winters area in the Cascades outside of Twisp Washington. We camped and hunted for a week. My dad killed a grouse which we ate for dinner one night and I killed a doe for which I had no tag. We ate as much of it as we could and left the rest for the magpies and crows. I swear I saw antlers before I shot.

That was the last time I hunted deer with my dad. 1968 marked the beginning of a long list of lasts with my dad. Vietnam had changed him and I really couldn't find any direction where he was concerned, except away.

So, what's all this have to do with the opened of trout season in Michigan in 2008?

Nothing really, it was a tangent that grew from this comment: "For some of the things I love, it's the idea that's the most romantic; like deer hunting."

Trout fishing is different. While the idea if great, the doing is better. Perhaps because it is something that is best enjoyed alone.

I never saw the Calvin's brother-in-law again but a few years after Deb and I got married we moved to Utah and we visited Calvin and Diane Ferron at their home in Farmington, Utah. I asked about him and learned he had served a mission, returned and got married and was raising a family as he served in the bishopric of his ward.

I have often wondered over the years, if the head of that giant mule deer could be found hanging somewhere in his house and if he ever felt guilty about stealing it from me.

The Best Way to Learn

I think I have formed another band.

I don't know this for sure because no one has really said "Hey, we're a band!" and because, if it is a band, it's not a very good one. Of the three consistent regulars who show up between 5:30 and 6:00 PM on Wednesday afternoons, I am the only one who has ever really played in an official band where we were paid money, from time to time, to play for people who really wanted to listen. The other two have played their guitars in their living rooms and occasionally with other people who have not played in real bands. There is one man who shows up from time to time, who has played professionally before. When the four of us play and the other two screw up the changes, we look at each other and share the same thoughts as we smile and start over.

We have been asked to play at the upcoming ward campout on the Friday evening of Labor Day weekend. There is no way we will be ready enough for anyone to sincerely say "You guys are great!" This is particularly problematic because one of the guys agreed to an hour's worth of music when we might have been able to pull of two songs... maybe. An hour is a set and a set contains at least 15 songs unless they are all the long versions of "Light My Fire", "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida" and "El Paso". Then you only need 4. No one but me knows "Light My Fire" or "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida", the other former pro knows "El Paso" but the key change between stanza and chorus kills the other two.

Still, in three weeks, we will play for an hour and people will pretend to like it.

During the last rehearsal, the request was made that I not just give them lyrics and a chord progression like this:

/ C Em Am C / F Am Dm F / G G7 Em G7 / C Em Am C /

We skipped the light fandango

Turned cartwheels 'cross the floor

I was feeling kind of seasick

But the crowd called out for more

But rather something like this:

C Em Am C

We skipped the light fandango

F Am Dm F

Turned cartwheels 'cross the floor...

etc. through every one of the five verses and the chorus of this song.

Then I have to show them, often, how to play the minor and 7th chords. Heaven forbid we have a song with major 7ths or 9ths!

I asked them why they needed this and they both explained that they couldn't remember the words and the chords if the chords were not directly above the lyrics. I said that is why we practice at home and during rehearsal... but it really came down to making it easy for them to learn and for them, theirs was the best way.

Later that same Wednesday evening, I had the occasion to sit with a friend who serves with me in the High Priest Group leadership in our ward. For a number of weeks know, he has been carrying a heavy, secret burden that, a week earlier, he had confided to me and for which I gave him a priesthood blessing last Monday morning.

During this conversation he asked me what I thought was the best way to learn, explaining that he had lost all confidence in learning through experience. This because he had known one thing to be true for 35+ years and only learned when he was 50, that he was wrong about it.

As we talked it because clear that he had not really gathered this misinformation through experience, but through supposition that was based on fallacy. I suggested to him that rather that trust our assumptions, especially when they make no logical sense, we should test our assumptions on others. In this particular case, he believed he had been sinning for those 35 years but after reading a book by Elder Packer, he learned that he had not. He was 50 when he read the book. I asked him if he had ever consulted a bishop to repent of what he thought was a sin over that time period and he had not. I made the case then, another value of confessing to one's bishop. It just might be that there is nothing really to confess!

That conversation, as all do, wandered off into strange and diverse paths until I kicked him out of my truck sometime after 10:00 PM.

Since then, however, I have been considering what might be the best way to learn. I have determined that it depends very much on what we are trying to learn.

One cannot learn history by experience unless one has access to a time machine or panoramic, prophetic vision. I have neither so I have to read history books or listen to historians who, presumably, have read history books or the sources for them.

I cannot, however, learn how to cook by reading a cookbook. That comes with the application of the information found in the cookbook.

Paul taught us that the Savior: "Though he were a Son, yet learned he obedience by the things which he suffered..." (Hebrews 5:8)

The Lord, in the 105th section of the Doctrine and Covenants teaches that we are probably supposed to learn obedience the same way:

"And my people must needs be chastened until they learn obedience, if it must needs be, by the things which they suffer." (V. 6)

This verse may give us an "out" with the "if it must needs be" caveat; but I don't think so.

As I pondered those passages, I thought of others, including the entire 93rd section of the Doctrine and Covenants wherein we learn that the glory of God is His intelligence which is light and truth, which light and truth forsake the evil one...

The 26th through the 28th verses are quite enlightening as far as this topic is concerned:

"The Spirit of truth is of God. I am the Spirit of truth, and John bore record of me, saying: He received a fulness of truth, yea, even of all truth; and no man receiveth a fulness unless he keepeth his commandments. He that keepeth his commandments receiveth truth and light, until he is glorified in truth and knoweth all things."

Section 130 teaches the same principle really, that intelligence, knowledge, light, etc. are the results of obedience to the commandments of God. That's how God got His intelligence and, according to the 88th section , God knows all things (see verse 41).

I conclude, then, that the foundation to all learning is obedience and that the method means little to nothing unless that method hinders obedience. So my friends are perfectly fine in their method of learning how to play and sing songs but my other friend, because of his disobedience to the council that we confess our sins for complete repentance (D&C 19:20) did not learn that what he thought was a sin, was not.

The next time I see him, I will tell him what I learned...

Smashing Snails and a Bloated Body

Yeah, I know I already blogged today.

As the blog is titled however, during the typing of the first, I was reminded of a story. The story itself is a non sequitor to the previous post this morning and the reader of both will never understand what it was that helped me regurgitate this memory because I can't and it's my memory.

In my life I have seen a number of corpses. The first of my memory was that of my Grandfather Yarberry. I was 9 when he died and he was 63; pretty young by today's standards. He had led a libertine life, however, where wine played a much larger role than did women or song although they both occupied full stanzas in his raucous ballad of life.

I believe it was 4 years later, when I was 13, that I saw my second dead body. It was not nearly as pretty as Grandpa after the Lampasas mortician had prettied him up.

It was the summer of my 15th year of life. We were living at that time in Copperas Cove, Texas, in a tract ranch on the outskirts of town in a subdivision with other houses that looked almost the same. Behind my house there was nothing but central Texas prairie full of all the things boys of my age in Texas find fascinating. I killed a number of rattlesnakes there, including one that had invaded our backyard after my pet guinea pig which was housed at my mother's mandate in a shaded cage near the back entrance to the garage. In retrospect, I should have let the rattler have his way with the little fellow as, just a few days later, he died a horrible death because I had forgotten to fill his water dish and move his cage into the garage and out of the sun. I killed a pet rat in a similar way a couple of years earlier while we were living in Hawaii. After the guinea pig, I gave up rodentia as pets.

There were lizards of many variaties with the famed Horned Toad as this boy's favorite. We called them "Horny Toads" however, innocent of the sexual implications of that particular nickname.A little over a mile from the back of our chain-link fence was a farm pond chock full of Blue Gills and Bullheads. Almost everyday during the summer, I would take my fishing rod and my dog Chris, a canteen and a peanut butter and jelly sandwhich and make the hike to catch a stringer of gills for my mother to either cook for dinner that evening or freeze for future fish fries. There was no bait store nearby nor was there money for worms; and with the ground too dry anywhere near the surface to support life for a worm, I found an alternative bait what was both abundant and free... snails.I would gather dozens of them during the hike from the stems of weeds and off the ground as they traveled toward whereever it is that snails go when the sun gets too hot. Pond-side, I would smash their shells with a rock and attach their fleshing bodies to the hook. The Blue Gills loved them.

This nearly daily ritual was more than just a fishing trip for me. It gave me an opportunity to excape my mother's "episodes" with mental illness and, from time to time, chores what were not part of my assigned list but represented my mother's queenly control over her children.Years later, after I had grown and gone, my mother was diagnosed as manic-depressive. I think they call it bi-polar now. That summer, however, she was just great one week and demonically evil the next. The only way I could cope with the inconsistency of it was to escape whenever I could.

On one particularly hot Monday morning, after not fishing on either Saturday because of family stuff and Sunday because of God's stuff, I opened the back gate of the fence and, with Chris, headed to the pond, capturing snails along the way.A few yards, maybe 50, from the pond, I began to smell something awful.

The aroma of dead things was not unusual in the summer in a Texas prairie. Things were always dying... but little things. Little things that had fallen victim to coyotes or foxes which, after eating their fill, left the carcasses for the turkey buzzards and the red ants. The smell that morning, however, was worse.

A few steps further I found the source of the stench. It was a dead man, bloated by the heat and surrounded by pecking vultures.I don't remember many details nor did I ever hear the story of who, what, when, why and where. I do remember his skin being almost black but not because he was an African American, but because of the sun in Texas in the heart of the summer.

I ran home fishless and told my mother who called my father who told her to call the police. I thought for sure I would be called upon to lead the posse to the body but all they asked me to do was point. And it wasn't a real posse; just two local cops. From the security of my back yard I watched a pick-up truck owned by one of the departments; fire or police, I never knew which, drive toward the pond.

I know there was no way they could miss the body. It stunk too much and the buzzards too loud and numerous.

While I never learned any details, I made a story that aged well as I recounted them to my friends. It is likely the poor fellow was some drunk who lost his way and then his life but in my tale he was a the target of a mob henchman who had crossed the Big Boss and paid dearly for his disloyalty; the mob, of course, having and huge contingency in Copperas Cove, Texas.

My pals pretended to believe me.

The call of the pond overwhelmed my fear after a week or so and I returned to my sacraments of smashing snails and hooking Blue Gills and avoiding, wheneve possible, the dark side of the mom.

My celebrity didn't last longer than the summer and by the time school started in September, only John Kinman and me ever talked about it; and he was just being polite.

Within a few weeks of starting school my father received orders for Vietnam and we packed up and moved to Michigan to wait for him. This was 1965, long before the Tet Offensive but not before American soldiers were sacrificing their lives for a cause that would eventually be lost. 60,000 Americans died in that "crazy Asian war" with another million-plus in total deaths. My father saw a portion of those and it changed him and not for the better. The next dead bodies I saw were on my mission in Guatemala and El Salvador where death was common and often public. After my mission it was probably my Nana's. I was older and married when she died and more prepared for a viewing.

While there were likely a few others between whose names I don't remember, the next one of importance was that of my father who, like my grandpa, died at 63. Shortly before he died, he was grizzled by a long illness and hard-eyed from the anger he lived with. He was mean to his family during the last weeks, hoping, I think - I hope - to make his eventual passing easier on us. He was long-bearded and bible-clutching to the end. The morticians in Kalamazoo gave the pre-Vietnam dad back to us.

In the casket he looked at peace, finally.

I Am a Lazy Blogger

I can't believe it's been seven months since I last posted an entry to my blog. But the blog doesn't lie.

Today I received an e-mail from dear friends who are serving as missionaries in India - their second mission there, by the way - wherein they gave me the link to their mission blog and a promise to update it monthly. It was when I placed that link on this site that I noted how long it has been since I posted anything.

Assuredly, it's not because I have nothing to say. My wife would attest that I always have something to say. Neither can I blame it on being too busy, although I am busy enough.

Since I last blogged I have been called as the High Priest group leader in my ward. This is an assignment that can be demanding from time to time, but not all that time-consuming. I am in the middle of budget crunching for '09 at work, but I still have time to goof off a little. I started playing in a little porch band again, but we only play together for an hour or so, a week. In fact, calling it a band is a stretch.

I try to catch "Survivor" on Thursday evenings when it's on, but that's only an hour... I spend a few hours on Saturday with my wife running errands and taking in a movie or something and on Sundays I am committed to 6 or 7 hours of Sabbath keeping if I go visiting; 5 or less if I don't.

Assumming I am awake for 112 hours a week and that I can only account for 80 of those hours (if I am generous with myself), that leaves 32 hours without any activity I can remember.

The point of this rambling is that I can't find an excuse for neglecting the blog.

I have had thoughts, however, about the vanity of such an endeavor as a blog, at least for me.

What do I have to say that is so important that I publish it for the world to see?

That question alone highlights my vanity. Though the world has access to the blog, there is nothing to suggest that more than a few people who are friends and family would have the slightest inkling to read it.

It's not as though I or the things that I do are interesting. I don't have the talent to transform the everyday events of my life into interesting for provocative commentary as does my friend Barney (his blog is linked with "People Who Write". My daughter Erin (her link is there too) writes beautifully and poignantly and often with great humor. Both theses people also also diligent bloggers.

The title of this blog implies that I have a lot of stories. This is true enough, but who doesn't have a lot of stories?

Someone close to me said they wished I would be more diligent with this blog because it was a kind of legacy wherein they could get to know me better. Well, that ought to be enough motivation.

So, I repent and promise to try harder... Whatever that means.

Real Men Love Jesus

Recently, during my drive home, I saw a bumpersticker that read "Real Men Love Jesus".

I immediately thought that I, then, must be a real man; if the sticker was correct. Because of the traffic and the long, long delays, I started think about what it means to be a real man where Christians, specifically Mormon Christians, are concerned. My thoughts over time, have evolved here and there. As they perculated, I wrote them down and later, re-read them only to find myself changing the direction of my commentary as I focused more and more on two things; loving Jesus and being a real man.

While I will address these thoughts to men and boys, I hope the women and girls who read them might find some value as well.

My first, early thoughts, were of a young man from the scriptures. His name was Abiathar.

He was the son of Ahimelech, one of the priests murdered by Saul after he has shown kindness to David by giving him bread from the temple, to eat.

Abiathar was able to escape and took with him one of the ephods worn by one of the 100+ priests slain by Saul in his rage and jealousy.He ran and found David who promised he would be safe.

A short time later David asked the young man to put on the ephod, which was likely very large and bulky to the boy, and seek the Lord's counsel as to what his strategy against both Saul's armies and those of the Philistines. In the pocket of the ephod, were the urim and thummim.

No doubt somewhat overwhelmed by the sheer weight of the ephod and the responsibility of wearing it, Abiathar sought God's counsel which counsel led David's small band of rebels to both victory and safety. This young man eventually became the High Priest of Judah, after David was on the throne and remained loyal to him until David's death.

Thinking of this story, I remembered how often in my youth I might have had some good ideas to offer adults at various times for various reasons and never once have them ask my opinion.

I suspect that part of the reason they didn't was that my choices as a youth were not always what they should have been; but I also believe adults, myself now included, often never consider the experience and councel from someone young will be of value even it it's considered at all. Fortunately for Israel, David was not that kind of adult.

I concluded then, that being a real man in the Lord means asking for and listening to wise counsel from any source but particularly that found in the hearts, minds and experiences of young people.

Now for a little advice to the young people. If you want your opinions to be considered and taken seriously those opinions need to be based on facts and founded on principle. They cannot be products of selfish motivations or the desire for personal achievement. When asked for counsel, make sure the counsel is righteous and not stupid. Also remember that Abiathar was reluctant. He was humble and understood that David was not really asking his opinion of anything but was seeking counsel from God through an authorized holder of the priesthood.

Also from the story of Abiathar, I conclude that he was a real man who loved the Lord.

You young men need to remember this story and look for ways to incorporate Abiathar's example into your own lives by paying attention to the things going on around you and weighing their spiritual value on the scales of eternal principles that can be found in the scriptures, in the words of our modern prophets and in quiet moments of fervent, sincere prayer.

You fathers of young men need to consider David's example in this story. You need to particularly pay attention if you are the father of a holder of the Aaronic Priesthood, which priesthood authorizes worthy bearers to receive personal and private ministering - or teaching - by angels (D&C 84:26). Perhaps you would be quicker to ask advice or counsel from sons when you consider that Peter referred to the Aaronic Priesthood not as the lesser priesthood but as a Royal Priesthood (1 Peter 2:9).

Fathers and sons might consider that on April 6, 1830, Joseph Smith was 24 years old and stood at the head of the newly restored Church among five other men, the youngest of whom was five years older than Joseph. Think that 10 years earlier God the Father and His Son determined to appear to the 14 year-old Joseph and call him to his holy assignment to open the last dispensation. Just three years later Joseph received the angelic message that his name would be had for good throughout the entire world (Joseph Smith - History 1:31).

In 2 Samuel 23, there is a detailed account of the actions of the finest soldiers under David’s command. At one time, only 37 individuals out of the huge armies of Israel were considered good enough to receive the coveted title of “mighty man” . (2 Sam 23)

In 2 Chronicles 12 we learn learn more about the qualities of this outstanding group of soldiers. In Chronicles we read: “They were armed with bows, and could use both the right hand and the left in hurling stones and shooting arrows out of a bow” (2 Chron. 12:2).

They were “fit for the battle, that could handle shield and buckler, whose faces were like the faces of lions, and were as swift as the roes upon the mountains” ( 1Chr. 12:8).

These mighty men had developed the skills of a warrior to a very high degree. They were determined and, as with the faces of lions, completely without fear. They were prepared for any battle.

One inspiring account tells of three of these mighty men who overheard King David long for a drink of water from the well of Bethlehem. Apparently, in Bethlehem at that time was a well of particularly refreshing water of which the king wished for a drink. The king did not place a demand or order for the water; he simply expressed a desire for a taste of the cool, refreshing liquid.

Without command or assignment or even duty, three of the mighty men broke through enemy lines, at great personal risk, to travel to Bethlehem. They drew water out of the well and returned, again at great risk through the enemy lines, to bring the wonderful refreshment to David. David was so overcome by this act of personal, unsolicited service that he refused to drink the water. He considered the act so brave and wonderful that he poured the water upon the ground. The scripture says, “He … poured it out unto the Lord”.

These were men who could "keep rank" and were not of a "double heart" (1 Chrn. 12:33)

They understood the need for an organization which would stay in place during difficult and challenging times. They did not have a “double heart” which compelled them to seek their own personal interests ahead of that of Israel. Because of their single heart, manifest by pure motives, they did not aspire to a different position or rank within the armies of David. Each of the 37 could absolutely depend upon the others to fulfill the assignment which came to them, whatever their rank.

Then in 1 Chronicles 12:38 we read: “All these men of war, that could keep rank, came with a perfect heart to Hebron, to make David king over all Israel: and all the rest also of Israel were of one heart to make David king”

This quality was the condition of their “perfect heart,” which was demonstrated by complete devotion to building the ancient kingdom of Israel. They had no agenda, personal or otherwise, which was separate from their commitment to the king and the building of Israel. They understood the divine nature of David’s station and offered their complete loyalty and devotion to him. Theirs was a perfect heart. So were the mighty men of Israel! They were real men.

Real Men Have Perfect Hearts

In 2nd Chronicles 12 we read the names and some of the deeds of the men we call David's Mighty men. The entire chapter is an exciting glance at a few real men; but I want to focus on one of the groups mentioned. The sons of Issachar in verse 32. The verse reads:

"And of the children of Issachar, [which were men] that had understanding of the times, to know what Israel ought to do; the heads of them [were] two hundred; and all their brethren [were] at their commandment."

I startles me to think that one of the duties of the real men of Christ, is to have an understanding of the times and to know what we, a remnant of Israel, must do and, I might add, when we must then do them.

So what must real men know of our times?

The airwaves are flooded with information. There is never a minute on any day that those with access to television or radio cannot watch something deemed as "news" by those who broadcast it. I think it is not unlike the apocalyptic visions seen by Moses. Elijah and others, where all the catastrophes, both temporal and spiritual in nature are set before us with amazing speed and scope. It's enough to turn an optimist into a cynic. Yet real men in Christ are not cynical. They are hopeful and they are joyful because of what they know with respect to the eternal nature of all things even if the temporal nature is dark and dreary.

Most Christians must rely of the scriptures and the interpretation of scriptures in the form of sermons delivered by mostly well-meaning preachers. They, like us, can rely on the arm of Jehovah to guide them through these last days of trouble and gloom.

As Latter-day Saints, however, we are blessed with a richer, deeper, and more critical knowledge which places the mantle of watchmen squarely on our shoulders. Those men of other Christian sects do not hold the priesthood. We do and, in effect, carry the burden of the ephod and its attendant urim and thummim.

Real men teach their families how to understand the times and lead them in that which they should do.

Real Men Know the Times and are Watchmen on the Tower

A few months ago, I sat in a stake priesthood meeting and heard two statistics. The sources of those statistics were named but I don't remember what they were. In any case they were shocking.

1. The state of Utah has more hits to porn sites on the internet, per capita, than any other state.
And:

2. In the Church, in the United States, one out of every three men participates in pornography at least once a week.

I don't know about you, but to me, those are stunning and tragic numbers.

How can we call ourselves real men in Christ if we are so eager to indulge our lusts? How can we look our sons in the eye and explain the value and necessity of chastity when we are participating in such vile entertainment?

I certainly don't pretend to have the solution to this problem except to suggest that anyone who might be participating in this activity, see his bishop and begin the repentance process.

Real men in Christ do not indulge in pornography.

Another startling fact in the Church surrounds the real sin of spousal and child abuse in all its ugly forms.

The priesthood gives men in the Church more responsibility, not more power over our wives. We must honor our wives, brethren, if we are to gain their respect and merit their love. We cannot honor them if we mistakenly believe we rule over them.

As for our children, can we be justified in our surprise if, after years of shouting, beating or other abuse, they leave the Church? How can we expect them to even seek a personal witness when they witness and are victims of such abuse during their childhood.

Real men in Christ do not abuse their wives or children.

There was an old story going around the Church a few years ago of a conversation between three Aaronic Priesthood boys.

"My dad always gets his Home Teaching done by the last of the month." Donny the Deacon said.

"My dad is better than yours because he always gets his done by the 15th." Tommy, the Teacher answered.

"Well," said Petey the Priest, "my dad has you both beat. He always does his the day BEFORE the first day of the month!"

Rare is the priesthood meeting in the Church where someone doesn't encourage us to do our Home Teaching. Oh, that our only encouragement would be that we do it better!

What good does understanding the times if we don't share that understanding with our friends in the Church? Are we real men in Christ if we hoard the knowledge for ourselves?

The Home Teacher represents the Elder's quorum president or the High Priest group leader, who in turn, report to the bishop. Home Teachers feed the flock, particularly that part of the flock that is wandering on strange paths or stuck alone in some corner of the meadow, alone and afraid.

Real men in Christ do their Home Teaching.

Three years ago President Hinckley issued the challenge to all members of the Church to read the Book of Mormon by the end of that year. The response of the members was overwhelming. In every corner of the world, faithful members cracked open their copies of the Book of Mormon and began reading. For many, even some who had been members their entire lives, it was the first time they read the book from cover to cover. For me, the impact was stunning. During that time I saw two friends who had left the Church for various reasons, return and both are not in full fellowship and finding joy in their testimonies once again. After each session of reading, during my prayers, I would ask the Lord to help my friends remember the peace that comes to the faithful.

Certainly others were praying for these people as well, so I can't take all the credit... I really can't take any of the credit. That belongs to my two friends and to God. Still, I think there is a thin thread of a connection.

The one mentionable miracle in my personal life that came from our reading of the Book of Mormon was the closeness I felt to my wife as we read together. I would not have believed I could love her more than I had before our reading. Sharing the scriptures with her, however, made our spirits connect is a way that doesn't generally occur outside of the Celestial Room.

We still read together almost every morning.

Real men in Christ read the scriptures regularly.

This list could go on and on and should include things like:

Real men in Christ pray always.

Real men in Christ pay a tithes and offerings.

Real men in Christ sustain their leaders.

Etc.

Each attribute of worthy manhood could be the subject of many sermons but I finally rested on two things real men in Christ will always do.

In the 22nd chapter of Matthew we find the Pharisees attempting to confound our Lord.

After centuries of arguing over the law and attempting to prioritize not only the nearly 400 articles legitimately associated with Mosaic law but also the thousands of traditional laws created by those who had lost the real meaning of the law and having no success in this prioritzation, they came tempting the Lord.

"Master," one Pharisee asked, "Which is the great commandment in the Law?"

The Savior, without any indication of hesitation answered this question of the ages.

"Jesus said unto him, Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment.

And the second [is] like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.

On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets." (Matthew 22:37-40)

Thus it was that the Lord taught us not only the two great commandments but showed me that real men love our Heavenly Father and His Beloved Son and love and serve their neighbors.

If we demonstrate our manliness by obeying only these two commandments it is a witness that we have past the Lord's litmus test of our love found in John 14:15 "If ye love me, keep my commandments."

It is my prayer that we may all begin a daily regimine of spiritual calesthenics that we might be numbered among the Lord's mighty men.

Changes

I look forward to General Conference with both anticipation and anxiety. Whenever there is a major change in among the General Authorities, an upcoming conference fills me with curiosity.

My curiosity was abated last Saturday when Elder Henry B. Eyring was sustained as Second Counselor in the First Presidency and Elder Quinton Cook called to fill the seat in the Quorum of the Twelve vacated by Elder Eyring.

I had, like many members, tried to guess who the Prophet would select as a counselor but as much as I love Elder Eyring, his name had not entered my mind. I had thought that perhaps someone from Latin America of an Asian would fill the apostolic seat but that just goes to show how little regard God has for political correctness.

Once my curiosity had been satisfied, I hunkered down to watch the balance of the proceedings thinking they would be as they had generally been. This was not the case, however.

I spent the next 10 hours of conference alternating from shedding tears of joy, feeling the need to seriously repent, feeling extremely inadequate as a husband, father and priesthood holder and feeling deeply blessed as a member of Christ's only authorized Church. Ultimately, I felt deeply and often the profound effect of the Atonement as the Spirit whispered the confirming truth that I am really a child of a loving Heavenly Father.

This conference for me, was the most powerful one I have witnessed in my memory.

So along with the changes made among the General Authorities, I am making the commitment to change a few things about myself. I think it will be easier to be successful if I publish them here so the few people who read this will offer their encouragement through word and prayer in my behalf.

I Will Be a Better Husband

1. I will spend more time in conversation, prayer, study and recreation with my wife and less time on the computer at home or engrossed in some television show.


2. I will be slower to irritation and quicker to understand the pressures my wife faces in her life and the worries that weigh her down.


3. I will ask my wife's opinion more often concerning decisions I face in my life.


4. I will listen more carefully when she talks to me and try to remember the things that are important to her.


5. I will ask her to pray with me more often.


6. I will support her completely in her Church assignment.

I Will Be a Better Father and Grandfather

1. I will do a better job of contacting my children every week just to let them know how much I love them.


2. I will remember important events in their lives and recognize them in our conversations.


3. I will do a better job of recording my life's history that my children might learn from my mistakes and my triumphs.


4. I will be a peacemaker between my children and other branches on this diverse and interesting family.


5. I will remember my responsibilities as a patriarch to my children and invoke God's blessings where they are deserved and intervention when my children struggle or stray.


6. I will speak to my grandchildren at least twice a month.


7. I will bear my testimony more to my family.

I Will Be a Better Servant of the Lord

1. I will be a dutiful and observant Home Teacher


2. I will prepare my lessons by first asking God to teach me by the Spirit and then follow better, the manual.


3. I will offer more service to my quorum and my ward.


4. I will take the time to learn the names of members of my ward.

I Will Be a Better Employee

1. I will complete my tasks in a more timely manner.


2. I will be exacting in the quality of my work.


3. I will treat those who report to me with greater respect and confidence.

I Will Be a Better Latter-day Saint

1. I will begin working more diligently on my family history.


2. I will, with my wife, attend the temple more regularly.


3. I will find ways to demonstrate my love for my neighbor.


4. I will practice more diligently, personal prayer both morning and night.


5. I will seek ways to share the message of the Gospel with others.


6. I will repent more quickly and fully.

These commitments are real. They may seem too big but they are not and writing them down will help me to remember them more readily.

To start this process, I want to bear my testimony to any and all who may read this.

I know that my Redeemer lives; that He loves me and is keenly interested in my personal happiness; so much so that He gave His life that I might attain it.

I know He restored his Gospel and His Church through the Prophet Joseph Smith and that we have a living prophet today in Gordon B. Hinkley.

I know the priesthood was restored under the hands of John the Baptist and the apostles Peter, James and John to Joseph Smith and Oliver Cowdery in 1829.

I know of the power of the Atonement when we repent. I know because I have personally experienced it's power in my life.

I know God's love is infinite and eternal and that His plan for us is designed for our eternal happiness even when we experience terrible trials during our brief sojourn in mortality. I know of God's love because I know that I love my children - even in its mortal deficiency.

I regret the horrible decisions of my past that have injured those I love and pray they will be able to forgive me as the Lord as forgiven me.

I invoke a father's blessing on all my children and their families; that God will grant them power from on high as they seek to love one another and serve one another. I ask God for a special dispensation of patience for those of my children who wander or who struggle with life's curve balls and I plead with Him to grant them the strength to "o'er come."

Finally I want them all to know that I love them. I love Matt, Laura, Alexandra, Jordon, and Maddy. I love Sam, Kathy, Hunter, Hannah, Spencer, Hyrum and the soon-to-be fifth child of that family. I love Erin, Dan, Daniel, Clara and Carolina. I love Mary and admire her desire to serve. I love Will for his strength of purpose in the face of challenges to which I cannot relate. He is my example. I love Deb as deeply as I love all these and more. She is my rock, my shield and my shoulder. She is my friend and lover. I thank God for her.

There are others I love whom I have hurt so badly they want nothing to do with me. I cannot blame them but still I pray for the day they can find joy that comes with forgiveness.

My foundation in the Gospel is firm and my reliance on God is fixed as i seek that broken heart and contrite spirit in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.