I was sixteen and could date, if I wanted to. I didn't. It's not that I was against dating, I wasn't. It's just that I was too shy to even dare try. Talking to girls made me very nervous. Asking them out on a date was unthinkably nerve wracking.
It was Christmas time. Dad and I were in Gibson's doing some last minute shopping. We had exhausted our efforts (and patience) to find the perfect gifts for everyone and decided to call it quits with what we had. The store was full of people--as you would expect during the end of the Christmas shopping rush. We got in one of the long lines and began to shuffle forward to the register as those ahead of us checked out.
As we shuffled, we talked and gawked. I happened to notice that our checker was a very cute girl about my own age. I was intrigued but not about to attempt to strike up a conversation of any sort. I think dad must have noticed the subject of my intrigue and began to do the things that all parents do ... try to help. When our turn at the register finally came, we placed our items down and watched as the girl rang them up. I was attentive but not talkative. Finally dad looked at me, looked at the girl, and let loose with a big grin and said, "Hey Mike, she's cute ... you should ask her out on a date." I immediately flushed and wished that the earth would instantly open wide and swallow me up. What do you say in a moment like that???? I don't recall what I said, probably something amazingly brilliant like, "yeah." I wanted to crawl under a rock.
Well that's what dad's do when they love their kids and want to help. Less anyone think that I did not learn this lesson, I will proudly admit that I asked more than one girl on a date for my own son after he came back from his mission. Bob was a good sport and played along. He didn't search for a rock to crawl under, although I'm sure he was a little embarrassed when it came time to finalize the arrangements with the girl. I on the other hand, was sure dad would have been proud of me for trying to help and would have approved of my meddling. That's what dad's are for!
These are memories of Bill Gardner ... A recounting his life and times as seen through the eyes of his immediate family and descendants.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
There I was ...
One of the things that dad was good at was finagling good deals from his associates, whether at work, church, or elsewhere. Some of the computers used in the testing of the minuteman missile needed some refurbishment and rather than ship these computers from Hill AFB to the various sites, dad arranged to deliver this himself--not by car but by plane. I guess dad was able to show that it would save the AF money if he rented a plane and did the delivery (but it was also a great deal for dad in getting some cross-country flying hours under his own belt at minimal cost).
I was excited about the prospects as well, because dad invited me along for the journey too. (It would have been difficult to stop me at that age for I was hooked on flying!) Mom came along as well. Our trusty steed on this mission was to be a 4-seat Cessna 182 Skylane with retractable gear. I had never flown one of these before and I was very anxious to try. Here's a picture of a 1980 model that is probably very close to the one we flew.
On one of our legs across the mid-west we decided to stop and stay the night at North Platte, NE, Dad was flying left seat and I was trying my best to be a good navigator in the right seat. Mom was in the back reading. Now you should recall that dad loved gadgets, especially tools, and when it came to flying, dad had a good share of them.
One of the gadgets that we employed on this hop was a runway computer. It looked more like a circular slide rule than anything else I can think of at the moment. It allowed you to dial in both your aircraft's heading and that of the runway. Then with a little imagination you could picture where you were in relation to the airfield and what kind of entry you would need to make into the traffic pattern for your desired runway. I thought it was cool, but wasn't very proficient at using it. I guess I lacked a little of the situational awareness that I later developed as pilot in the Air Force.
So, there we were, approaching North Platte Regional Airport. Dad contacted the flight service station for an update on the weather and the current runway in use. Dad told me to get out the runway computer and figure out which way we needed to turn to enter the pattern for the current runway.
Here's a picture of airport as it exists today. It's pretty close to what we were heading for back then.
As you can plainly see, there are two runways, a north-south runway and an east-west taxi-way, that I believe back then was a shorter east-west runway. At the top right of the picture is a new longer runway that runs northwest-southeast. (I don't think it existed back then)
As requested, I dialed in our aircraft heading and the current runway heading into the computer. I told dad where we needed to go and he followed my instructions dutifully. He contacted the tower and reported our approach to the runway. The acknowledged our call but did not have us in sight. It wasn't until dad reported a short final that they spotted us ... heading for the WRONG runway! Tower immediately told us to abort our approach and reenter. With some embarrassment, dad aborted the approach and headed out away from the airfield to reenter the correct traffic pattern.
Dad was a little flustered, and so was I. This was not to be my first flying mistake. I began recomputing and dad was now looking over my shoulder and flying. He wanted to do it right the next time. We again reported final approach and again the tower reported that we were not in sight. Oh no, I thought, not again! Sure enough, tower again aborted our approach to the WRONG runway. Time was running out and so were the number of runways that we could mistakenly line up on.
This time we are both flustered and doubly embarrassed. Dad abandoned the computer and I stopped trying to use it. I was lost and didn't have any clue as to how to make things right. Dad maneuvers us again to final approach on the runway and reports our position to the tower. They acknowledge and immediately tell us to break off the approach, we were lined up with WRONG runway again. Tower was now watching us very closely. I'm just glad we couldn't hear what they were saying about us.
Arrrgggghhh! With only one more runway to try, dad made the approach and finally got clearance from tower to land. We landed, but we were not happy campers. Mom was listening and watching during the shenanigans and decided it was best not to interject into the already tense atmosphere in the cockpit.
By the time we taxied to our position on the tarmac, tempers had cooled a little, and we were just very grateful to be down safely and in one piece. We gathered up our belongings, secured the plane, picked up our rental car, and headed for the hotel. As we discussed the flight over dinner, we begin to realize how comical the situation was and could finally start to laugh at our buffoonery. Dad was a good sport about the whole affair, and especially about my part in the incidents. We thought a good night's rest would erase this from our memory and perhaps even allow us to walk with our heads held high, as respected, adventurous, and heroic pilots.
Not so fast buck-wheat! When we arrived at the airport the next day we stopped into the flight service station for a weather briefing. The attendants asked us for our aircraft call sign, but when we told them, something suddenly became very funny and the men began to chuckle. Then one of the guys said, "here they are, the guys who couldn't find the right runway yesterday!" We were famous! Not as heroes but as buffoons. Our heads and halos drooped visibly as we left the station and headed out to our plane.
Neither dad nor I have ever forgotten this experience. It was embarrassing to the max. Sometimes when situations got tense and were in need of a little humor, it was not unthinkable to utter the words, "remember North Platte." Magically, smiles eased themselves into the corners of our mouths, spirits lifted, and even a chuckle born of memories long since passed could well up in the throat and find expression.
Thanks dad for the good times ... and even the tough and embarrassing times too.
I was excited about the prospects as well, because dad invited me along for the journey too. (It would have been difficult to stop me at that age for I was hooked on flying!) Mom came along as well. Our trusty steed on this mission was to be a 4-seat Cessna 182 Skylane with retractable gear. I had never flown one of these before and I was very anxious to try. Here's a picture of a 1980 model that is probably very close to the one we flew.
One of the gadgets that we employed on this hop was a runway computer. It looked more like a circular slide rule than anything else I can think of at the moment. It allowed you to dial in both your aircraft's heading and that of the runway. Then with a little imagination you could picture where you were in relation to the airfield and what kind of entry you would need to make into the traffic pattern for your desired runway. I thought it was cool, but wasn't very proficient at using it. I guess I lacked a little of the situational awareness that I later developed as pilot in the Air Force.
So, there we were, approaching North Platte Regional Airport. Dad contacted the flight service station for an update on the weather and the current runway in use. Dad told me to get out the runway computer and figure out which way we needed to turn to enter the pattern for the current runway.
Here's a picture of airport as it exists today. It's pretty close to what we were heading for back then.
As requested, I dialed in our aircraft heading and the current runway heading into the computer. I told dad where we needed to go and he followed my instructions dutifully. He contacted the tower and reported our approach to the runway. The acknowledged our call but did not have us in sight. It wasn't until dad reported a short final that they spotted us ... heading for the WRONG runway! Tower immediately told us to abort our approach and reenter. With some embarrassment, dad aborted the approach and headed out away from the airfield to reenter the correct traffic pattern.
Dad was a little flustered, and so was I. This was not to be my first flying mistake. I began recomputing and dad was now looking over my shoulder and flying. He wanted to do it right the next time. We again reported final approach and again the tower reported that we were not in sight. Oh no, I thought, not again! Sure enough, tower again aborted our approach to the WRONG runway. Time was running out and so were the number of runways that we could mistakenly line up on.
This time we are both flustered and doubly embarrassed. Dad abandoned the computer and I stopped trying to use it. I was lost and didn't have any clue as to how to make things right. Dad maneuvers us again to final approach on the runway and reports our position to the tower. They acknowledge and immediately tell us to break off the approach, we were lined up with WRONG runway again. Tower was now watching us very closely. I'm just glad we couldn't hear what they were saying about us.
Arrrgggghhh! With only one more runway to try, dad made the approach and finally got clearance from tower to land. We landed, but we were not happy campers. Mom was listening and watching during the shenanigans and decided it was best not to interject into the already tense atmosphere in the cockpit.
By the time we taxied to our position on the tarmac, tempers had cooled a little, and we were just very grateful to be down safely and in one piece. We gathered up our belongings, secured the plane, picked up our rental car, and headed for the hotel. As we discussed the flight over dinner, we begin to realize how comical the situation was and could finally start to laugh at our buffoonery. Dad was a good sport about the whole affair, and especially about my part in the incidents. We thought a good night's rest would erase this from our memory and perhaps even allow us to walk with our heads held high, as respected, adventurous, and heroic pilots.
Not so fast buck-wheat! When we arrived at the airport the next day we stopped into the flight service station for a weather briefing. The attendants asked us for our aircraft call sign, but when we told them, something suddenly became very funny and the men began to chuckle. Then one of the guys said, "here they are, the guys who couldn't find the right runway yesterday!" We were famous! Not as heroes but as buffoons. Our heads and halos drooped visibly as we left the station and headed out to our plane.
Neither dad nor I have ever forgotten this experience. It was embarrassing to the max. Sometimes when situations got tense and were in need of a little humor, it was not unthinkable to utter the words, "remember North Platte." Magically, smiles eased themselves into the corners of our mouths, spirits lifted, and even a chuckle born of memories long since passed could well up in the throat and find expression.
Thanks dad for the good times ... and even the tough and embarrassing times too.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Hallelujah!
Dad had a wonderful bass voice, a gift I didn't recognize until later in my life, and a gift which I'm am confident brought him a deep sense of joy. I don't know when he started singing but I do remember him telling us that he sang in college (Branch Agricultural College now known as Southern Utah University) as a member of the "Master Singers." I was able to pull a little history about the group from the web. Here's a short history of the group:
THE MASTERS SINGERS were first organized in 1946-47 under the leadership of Edward Sandgren with Irene Hyatt and later, Virginia Larsen as accompanists. “Ed” had great organizational skills and was asked to form the chorus as the Iron County performance group for the centennial celebration of the pioneers arrival in Utah in 1847. There were eventually seventy five men in the original chorus. In a ten day period in the Spring of 1948, The Master Singers performed eight concerts in Las Vegas, Salt Lake City, Provo, Ogden, Brigham City and Logan. During the Salt Lake visit they also presented a half hour show which was broadcast by KSL.
It was during their performance in Salt Lake City that dad arranged to meet personally with Elder Spencer W. Kimball and it was during that interview that dad told Elder Kimbal that he wanted to go on a mission ... and also to get married. He wanted to do both...have the cake and eat it too! Elder Kimball thought for a bit and suggested that this was a rather unusual request, but then said that if he was serious about this, he should go home, get married right away, and then live together as husband and wife until the mission call came. Dad happily followed the counsel of Elder Kimball, and Marjorie and Bill were married on May 14, 1948.
As a young boy I recall Dad as Bishop and then as Stake Executive Secretary for many years. His time to enjoy choral singing was put on hold in favor of serving faithfully in these other positions. I moved away from home, went on a mission, and then started my own family. I sang with dad on visits home when we attended church together. I liked sitting next to dad at church and would try to match his voice as we sang the hymns of the church. His voice was strong and sure, and he rarely missed a note.
When we were assigned to Hill AFB in Dec 1993, we moved to Bountiful to be near mom and dad. Dad was recovering at the time from surgery on his colon, and we felt it blessing to be close. During our two short years in Bountiful we began singing with the South Davis Civic Chorale. Pat sang soprano and I sang bass. This was an exciting time for us for we were now part of a group with some really outstanding talent (many of the members were former members of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir) and oh what beautiful music we sang. Each year at Christmas the Chorale put on a presentation of Handel's Messiah. It was a rigorous task to get the Chorale into shape for the performance. We practiced for two hours every Sunday evening from September until December.
In our second year with the Chorale, we encouraged other members of our family to join in singing with us. Carolyn joined and sang alto. Bob joined and sang bass with me. Dad also agreed to sing with the Chorale and that made three Gardner basses. We sang each Sunday night and leaned on each other to learn our parts. The Messiah is filled with exquisite melodies and sacred lyrics, and while difficult to learn, it was also a spiritually moving experience for each of us.
I can remember at one of the Christmas performances during the Hallelujah chorus how magnificent it felt to sing "Hallelujah to God and the Lamb" at the top of my voice. The chorus crescendos to a triple forte (fff), and there I was joining my voice with the voices of my son and father in singing praises to God--each singing as loudly as possible, each letting the spirit and message of the music filling us up to overflowing with gratitude to God. There was no weakness or sign of age in dad's voice that night ... he sang as the rest of us sang, with all of our hearts. I can think of few other experiences where I have been moved so deeply by the music and the moment.
As I think back on dad's life, I feel privileged to have shared these musical moments with dad. These were treasured opportunities for dad to show us and teach us, this time in song, of his great love for the Savior of the World.
THE MASTERS SINGERS were first organized in 1946-47 under the leadership of Edward Sandgren with Irene Hyatt and later, Virginia Larsen as accompanists. “Ed” had great organizational skills and was asked to form the chorus as the Iron County performance group for the centennial celebration of the pioneers arrival in Utah in 1847. There were eventually seventy five men in the original chorus. In a ten day period in the Spring of 1948, The Master Singers performed eight concerts in Las Vegas, Salt Lake City, Provo, Ogden, Brigham City and Logan. During the Salt Lake visit they also presented a half hour show which was broadcast by KSL.
It was during their performance in Salt Lake City that dad arranged to meet personally with Elder Spencer W. Kimball and it was during that interview that dad told Elder Kimbal that he wanted to go on a mission ... and also to get married. He wanted to do both...have the cake and eat it too! Elder Kimball thought for a bit and suggested that this was a rather unusual request, but then said that if he was serious about this, he should go home, get married right away, and then live together as husband and wife until the mission call came. Dad happily followed the counsel of Elder Kimball, and Marjorie and Bill were married on May 14, 1948.
As a young boy I recall Dad as Bishop and then as Stake Executive Secretary for many years. His time to enjoy choral singing was put on hold in favor of serving faithfully in these other positions. I moved away from home, went on a mission, and then started my own family. I sang with dad on visits home when we attended church together. I liked sitting next to dad at church and would try to match his voice as we sang the hymns of the church. His voice was strong and sure, and he rarely missed a note.
When we were assigned to Hill AFB in Dec 1993, we moved to Bountiful to be near mom and dad. Dad was recovering at the time from surgery on his colon, and we felt it blessing to be close. During our two short years in Bountiful we began singing with the South Davis Civic Chorale. Pat sang soprano and I sang bass. This was an exciting time for us for we were now part of a group with some really outstanding talent (many of the members were former members of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir) and oh what beautiful music we sang. Each year at Christmas the Chorale put on a presentation of Handel's Messiah. It was a rigorous task to get the Chorale into shape for the performance. We practiced for two hours every Sunday evening from September until December.
In our second year with the Chorale, we encouraged other members of our family to join in singing with us. Carolyn joined and sang alto. Bob joined and sang bass with me. Dad also agreed to sing with the Chorale and that made three Gardner basses. We sang each Sunday night and leaned on each other to learn our parts. The Messiah is filled with exquisite melodies and sacred lyrics, and while difficult to learn, it was also a spiritually moving experience for each of us.
I can remember at one of the Christmas performances during the Hallelujah chorus how magnificent it felt to sing "Hallelujah to God and the Lamb" at the top of my voice. The chorus crescendos to a triple forte (fff), and there I was joining my voice with the voices of my son and father in singing praises to God--each singing as loudly as possible, each letting the spirit and message of the music filling us up to overflowing with gratitude to God. There was no weakness or sign of age in dad's voice that night ... he sang as the rest of us sang, with all of our hearts. I can think of few other experiences where I have been moved so deeply by the music and the moment.
As I think back on dad's life, I feel privileged to have shared these musical moments with dad. These were treasured opportunities for dad to show us and teach us, this time in song, of his great love for the Savior of the World.
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