A visit from Bill

Bill passed to the other side in September of 2010.  But this was not to be the last time I saw him or felt his presence.

In the same year in the month of December I started having a great deal of trouble with my eyes.  I had previously been diagnosed with macular degeneration (the dry type) which seems to plague our family in later years.  My already challenged vision, seemed to take a dramatic change and it was very unnerving.  I had Darrell call the Moran eye center to get an appointment with Dr. Bernstein. Darrell explained my situation and desire to see the Doctor and they told us Dr. Bernstein was out of the country and would not be able to get me an appointment with him for at least 3 weeks.  My heart sunk and I was afraid that if I had to wait that long something seriously wrong would happen to my vision.  The next day Bonnie, from the Moran Eye Center called to ask how I was.  Bonnie had been the person in charge of the eye study I had participated in earlier.  Bonnie had never called me before or since and I felt that there had been an influence on her on my behalf.  Bonnie suggested I go to the Moran emergency center.  I really felt reluctant to do this because it is so hard for me to describe what it is like when you can’t see well.  I asked her what she would do and she responded, “If it was me, I would go.”   I called Val and she took me in.   The next day they gave me a shot to stop the leaking of a blood vessel that was causing the vision problems I was having.

I was so grateful for getting some quick results and help for my situation that I distinctly remember praying on my way down the stairs of my home to give thanks to God for the intervention in my life.  As I walked into the bedroom, I was startled as I saw Bill’s face in front of me,  He was smiling at me.  His face was smooth and healthy and he looked so very good. He looked at me and I got the impression he was saying “ I told you I would take care of you!”  I became aware of him going by me and up the stairs.  Because I was startled all I could get out at the time was “thanks Bill.” 

I have been conscience of his presence at other times since and I know he is aware of what is going on here and I am grateful for his help.

Since Bill died I have also seen my Mother.  It was a dream and she was standing by the bed in her little navy blue dress with little white and pink flowers and a white collar.  She was smiling at me and she looked like she did when I was a kid.  I tried to go toward her and said Mother I am so glad to see you but I couldn’t.  I hadn’t seen her for forty years.  It was so good to see her.

Gone, but not Forgotten

President Joseph F. Smith once said, “I believe we move and have our being in the presence of heavenly messengers and of heavenly beings. We are not separate from them. … We are closely related to our kindred, to our ancestors … who have preceded us into the spirit world. We can not forget them; we do not cease to love them; we always hold them in our hearts, in memory, and thus we are associated and united to them by ties that we can not break. … If this is the case with us in our finite condition, surrounded by our mortal weaknesses, … how much more certain it is … to believe that those who have been faithful, who have gone beyond … can see us better than we can see them; that they know us better than we know them. … We live in their presence, they see us, they are solicitous for our welfare, they love us now more than ever. For now they see the dangers that beset us; … their love for us and their desire for our well being must be greater than that which we feel for ourselves. [ Joseph F. Smith, in Conference Report, Apr. 1916, 2–3; see alsoGospel Doctrine, 5th ed. (1939), 430–31.]


Still thinking of you dad, and trust that you're still working to help your family return to the God, and Father of us all.

Christmast At High Haven

Now that I'm getting into the "swing of things" with my iMovie program, I'm finding it a little easier to dig into the family history videos that we took in the summer of 2010, just before dad died. During the interview and filming process we asked dad, once again, to tell us about that old fashioned Christmas we enjoyed at the cabin. Take it away dad...

Dad wrote a story about about this family experience and mailed it off to Reader's Digest for publication, but they returned it unpublished...too bad. I think dad had a talent for writing. You can judge for yourself someday by reading his article and learning more about this old fashioned Christmas. And just in case you don't have your very own copy of one of dad's favorite Christmas stories, you can find Twas de Night Befurr Chreesmas here.

Notes on the Passing of My Grandfather, Thurman Ahlstrom Gardner

After dad died I had the chance to write down some of my feelings and observations surrounding his passing (See posts from April 2011). While talking with dad at High Haven last year, we spoke about the passing of his father, Thurman Ahlstrom Gardner. I'll let dad and mom tell you about this themselves. Dad was an eyewitness to the event and you can still hear the tenderness in his voice as his speaks about these sacred family moments ....

The music accompanying this video was composed and played by Robert M. Gardner, grandson to Bill and great grandson of Thurman. Thanks Bob!

The Cabin at High haven

Those of us who were acquainted with the cabin and its construction have soft spots in our hearts for a place we called "High Haven." It was a 1 acre parcel of forest land lying in the shadows of Brian Head peak (11,300 ft). At about 9,100 ft the high mountain air, wind whispering through the pines and quaking aspens, verdant forest hues, and cool bubbling springs made this place a piece of heaven on earth. Grandpa Thurman A. Gardner purchased the land from Kerry Mitchell, his brother-in-law. Uncle Kerry, as we called him, also had a place about a mile from High Haven that was called "Jinneybeck."

Perhaps it is best to let dad describe how the cabin at High Haven was built. Watch the video and discover for yourselves...

We knew the mountain forests and meadows surrounding High Haven like the backs of our hands. There was lava country, where Angie our big brown standard poodle almost got a nose full of porcupine quills, the big rock, a favorite picnic site perched atop a splendid lookout over the valley, and secret valley, a wondrous mountain meadow surrounded by a dense stand of trees. One of the great things about all of these places was that our parents accompanied us often on our exploratory excursions and it was during these times that we heard about the lives and times of our ancestors as they experienced the mountain.

One of the things that became a ritual for the guys was to hunt arrowheads. We followed dry stream beds, burbling brooks, or walk through other likely places where the former Indian inhabitants of the mountain would have spent their summer hours chipping and shaping pieces of obsidian into the black arrow tips. We almost always found something, a chip, a tip, sometimes an intact arrowhead. Dad found a beautifully made spear tip during one excursion. I wish I knew where all of those arrowhead and spear tip pieces ended up. The following pictures are representative of the things we found:

Last year in our trip to High Haven to shoot mom and dad's family history videos, I performed the ritual once again. I followed in the footsteps of searches long since passed but found nothing. No pieces of obsidian. No pieces of flint that had even the vaguest notion of being intentionally chipped. New construction, increased population, and changes to the landscape seem to have removed all evidence of the former Indian inhabitants... a foreshadowing perhaps of our involvement with these beautiful mountains.

This post just begins to scratch the surface of our lives at High Haven. I invite others to share their experiences also.

Communing

If I look back far enough into the shadowy recesses of my childhood memories I can see Dad teaching us, by example, how to live our lives close to God. He showed us that a day begins with prayer.

Dad worked at Hill AFB at the time (1970's) and needed to leave home early so that he could make the 45 minute drive to work and get there by 07:30 a.m. For us kids, that meant sleeping in was just a dream because when 06:00 a.m. rolled around, we were rousted out of bed with calls to come to family prayer. No one was exempt from this ritual. We all stumbled out of bed and trudged our way to the family room and the couch, even our dog Angie was there! Those arriving first, knelt down by the side of the couch and tried to catch a few more zzzzz's before the rest arrived. We were generally sloppily dressed in our wrinkled pajamas, a stark contrast to dad's suit and tie and manager's attire.

I think Norman Rockwell would have appreciated the appearance of this daily ritual and made it the subject of one of his paintings. Dad and mom kneeling, heads bowed, sober faces, dad lifting his voice in prayer. Four kids, half kneeling, half slumping, eyes closed, half asleep ... a dog lying on the floor with head resting upon the leg of one of the kids. I can see it in my own mind's eye ... can't you?


In our home, dad was the principle voice for morning prayer. Sometimes he'd call on one of us kids, but I think our sleepiness and desire to get the prayer over with so that we could go back to bed detracted from the spirit and intent of the morning prayer. Communion with God required a more awake and attentive mind, so he prayed most of the time with mom stepping in to pray upon invitation.

Now some of us kids could really expedite a morning prayer (Millie was the best), but lest one think that this was a reflection upon the example of my dad, it most certainly was not. Dad was deliberate in his prayers and often eloquent. He was mindful to approach Diety with humility and respect, always thanking him for the restored gospel, living prophets, scriptures to guide us, and for the sacrifice of His son, Jesus Christ, on our behalf. I didn't understand the full significance of dad's feelings about these topics then, but I'm coming closer to understanding them now. When things were tough, i.e. dad was without a job for an extended period of time, prayers were longer and filled with emotion. He always prayed for us...without exception.

As I got older, I began paying more attention to my father as he prayed. I found myself repeating similar phrases, being thankful for the same things, and praying just as earnestly and with equal emotion for my own family and situation. Now that dad is gone, I find that one of the things I miss is the sound of his voice, lifted in supplication to God. As he got older, his prayers, although still filled with many of the familiar phrases that I had heard all my life, seemed to me to be filled with deeper sincerity, humility, and intent. I suppose this is a natural consequence of aging and moving into the twilight years of life. Although still respectul, his conversations with the Lord, seemed to take on a more intimate feel and I felt blessed for having silently witnessed a genuine conversation with God.

Thanks dad for showing us how to pray with all of our heart, might, mind, and strength.

That's what Dad's are For!

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!

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.

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.

Secrets of Dad's Success

In a reflective moment some time ago, I looked back on my life with dad and tried to figure out what dad liked to do. As a young boy, I guess I never really thought about that, or perhaps selfishly, didn't even care. Now that I have the hindsight of years behind me, I've wondered and discovered something I hadn't realized before ... dad loved to be involved with his kids in ways that made them happy. We were the source of his happiness and he was always willing to help things along. I have penned a few examples below from my own experiences and expect that others in my family could provide similar examples.

Fishing
I never really acquired a love for fishing, but that didn't stop dad from trying to share his love of the sport with me. I think he loved to fish because his dad, Thurman A. Gardner, loved to fish and passed it on to him. I suspect, but can't be sure, that he wanted to pass the love of this sport on to his own children. In my case, it didn't take.

I can remember learning about all of the various pieces of fishing equipment, organizing my own tackle box, and even practicing casting with my very own fishing pole but when it came time to climb out of a nice warm bed at o'dark thirty in the morning and drive to the lake I was less than enthusiastic.

We often fished in Aspen Mirror lake in southern Utah while on vacation to our high mountain cabin. Those mornings were soooo cold! The water was cold, the wind was cold, and even the squirmy, slimy, worms were cold. Dad would help me bait my hooks because I was too squeamish to touch those slimy things myself. I'd cast and then wait. If I was lucky, I'd catch a fish and dad would be there to coach and help me reel it in. That was the only fun part ... the fight with the fish. Grabbing the fish, killing it, and then removing the hook were activities that I forced myself to do, but cleaning the fish was just too much for me. I let dad or Darrell do it for me. Dad didn't seem to mind though and was always willing to get the job done. We went fishing alot when I was younger, but I think my lack of enthusiasm for the sport may have dampened some of his and so he looked for other things to enjoy with his boys.

Photography
In our basement, adjacent to the bedroom that Darrell and I shared for many years, was a small room, a little larger than a storage closet, that we called the darkroom. Over time boxes accumulated and space grew narrower and narrower. One day, while exploring the contents of the boxes in the darkroom I discovered some photographic equipment: enlarger, photographic print dryer, chemicals for developing film, and everything else you needed to setup a full photographic darkroom. I was excited. This stuff was much cooler that the seemingly countless shoe boxes of electronic parts (resistors, capacitors, transitors, tubes, and etc.) that filled many of the shelves.

I asked dad about the equipment and he started teaching me about what it takes to develop a roll of photographic film and make prints using the enlarger and dryer. It wasn't long before the darkroom got cleaned up, with dad's help, and I began developing film and making black and white enlargements and prints. I spent hours in that darkroom with only the dim light of single red photo-safe bulb. My friends thought it was cool too. Although dad had no doubt enjoyed this himself in earlier years, he was content to let me explore the world of photography on my own.

Swimming
Dad could swim and I now only dimly recall some good times with the family in the warm and salty waters of Crystal Springs in Idaho, but it was a rare occurrence when he would gather the family for a swim outing. So I suspect that swimming wasn't his favorite thing to do either. That did not stop him from encouraging us to swim.

As a young boy, mom and dad encouraged us to try different things. I decided to try out for the little league baseball team. I hadn't really played before, except for some rousing family home evening games of back-yard baseball. In those games, dad made me feel like I was a super star in the sport. The day came for little-league try-outs and I was asked by the coach what position I'd like to play. Naturally, I suggested that I should be the pitcher. I don't recall whether or not I even got to try pitching, but I do remember the disappointment I felt as I trudged out to the outfield. I only lasted one practice and then called it quits. That wasn't a satisfactory response for mom and dad so they tried something else.

One day Darrell and I were playing in the back-yard, as was often the case, and we were called in to speak with mom and dad. They suggested that we might want to try out for the swimming team. I don't think we were too excited about the idea. Darrell and I had taken swimming lessons already and didn't have any particular desire to do more there than was needful. Then they sweetened the pot by promising us a "GI-Joe" action figure. Now that was exciting!!! GI-Joe was one of the coolest toys and neither of us had one. We suddenly changed our minds and accepted the offer. So we started swimming for the Brigham City swimming team and I didn't stop swimming until after I graduated from high school. I swam almost 10 years for a GI-Joe action figure! All through those years, mom was the one that drove us to and from practices and attended my swimming meets. Dad would come when he could but that didn't happen often. Mom was the one at my most triumphant swimming meet ... regional championships my senior year of high school. Dad's roll in all of this swimming was more of a supportive one and less of a participative one. Eventually I learned to enjoy swimming and it is still a big part of my life. Thanks dad and mom for the introduction to swimming.

Boating
Since we were swimmers, it was only natural to enjoy all of the other water sports ... skin-diving, water-skiing, and boating. Dad was there encouraging us all along the way, and in this arena it was a big way. Dad bought a boat! It was used and needed a lot of work, but it would pull a water skier and that's all we cared about. I remember taking the Coast Guard Auxiliary boating safety course with dad so that we could operate the boat safely and in accordance with the rules. Dad helped us repair and refurbish the interior and exterior. At times, I think the boat was used more to teach us how to work rather than to enjoy water recreational activities. It didn't matter to us, we could clearly see the reward for our work when it was all done. We spent many weekends on the waters of Willard Bay, Mantua Reservoir, and even once up to Bear Lake. After getting my driver's license, I recall taking the boat out to Willard Bay with my friends. Those were good times and Dad enjoyed them with us.

Go-Carts and Dune Buggies
I was too young to drive but already had tasted its fruits. Sometimes dad would let us "steer" the car on our trips down to southern Utah. We sat next to him as he carefully supervised our attempts to keep the car on the road and in the right lane. Once I even got to drive the car a few feet while at High Haven, our cabin. This was cool! There was a feeling of liberation, freedom, and power that I hadn't experienced with my bicycle.

I was excited to drive and it didn't seem to matter what. I just liked it. In order to satisfy our desire to driver, my friends and I built our own lawn-mower-engine powered go-cart. The frame was made from 2x4's. Dad took us to Smith and Edward's War Surplus store to find some wheels. Because the cart was made from wood it was bigger and heavier than its steel framed commercial counterparts, but we didn't care. We could walk it the two blocks to the church parking lot and then roar around to our heart's content. This phase didn't last long ... wooden frames can't take alot of abuse. Dad supported and helped us solve some engineering design issues, but this was largely a kid thing.

As we got older our desire for a better go-cart turned into a desire for a dune buggy. This was something that we simply didn't have the means to manage. That's where dad came to the rescue. He helped us buy an old VW back-end and then helped us to get a dune-buggy steel frame welded together. I think he had a friend that did the work for us and I don't know what it cost, but we were sure grateful for this little bit of heaven in our lives. A few trips to the auto-salvage yards enabled us to find a front end, steering wheel and other needed parts. The engine never did run very well and I only remember taking our prized dune-buggy up into the foothills a couple of times. All those girls that we'd thought we'd attract because of our cool dune-buggy never materialized. I don't think dad even drove the thing, even after all the time and resources he contributed. He just shared in our excitement and our dream.

Computers
Dad had both a bachelor's and master's degree in electrical engineering. He worked at Thiokol, near Brigham City, UT, for some years developing test equipment for the rockets. Eventually, he was laid off when Thiokol's operations were cut back and was unemployed for many months. I don't remember how long, but things were very tight in our home during that period. He was Bishop of our ward at the time and we were living on our food storage. Eventually he was able to hire on at Hill AFB, UT and became a manager for maintaining/upgrading software for the Minuteman missile. Some of his work projects involved letting contracts for developing computer hardware and software. This brought him deeply into the world of computing and he enjoyed his work. He often would bring home computer components and try to share some of the amazing inventions happening in that world. I'm not sure that we displayed much enthusiasm for his work. That's typical I think, at least that was the case in my own family. It was enough to know that dad had a job and was providing for the family.

Eventually, my own path would embrace the world of computers as I earned a Bachelor's degree in Computer Science and a Master's degree in Computer Systems. In fact, dad was the one that suggested I take a FORTRAN class as a freshman at BYU. It didn't take. I dropped the class in frustration and continued pursuing my degree in Physics. Eventually I came to enjoy working more with computers than trying to solve incomprehensible physics equations. I changed my major, with dad's support and consultation. After retiring from the Air Force, I landed a job at Sandia National Laboratories as a software engineer and can appreciate, now, the work that dad must have been involved with in his work at Hill AFB. We share an abiding interest in the technologies and wonders of the computer world.

Woodworking
Dad had a shop with lots of woodworking tools and he know how to use them well. He was meticulous about his work and as far as I can tell, his projects in cabinetry, seemed to work out better than my own. He enjoyed making things and providing some of our necessities with his own hands and ingenuity. I suppose that I really got interested in wood working when the appropriate motivation surfaced.

I had shared a room with Darrell for many years and wanted a room of my own. Our home was modest and there wasn't much room for expansion, but dad and mom figured out a way for me to section off a small portion of the downstairs family room for a place of my own. It wasn't big. There was enough room for an army cot on one side and a desk and closet/dresser on the other. There was barely enough room between the desk and the cot for me to pull out and sit in a chair at the desk. We didn't have a dresser so dad decided to build one for me. He involved me in every aspect of the work: design, construction, finishing. I was motivated to build something that I needed. Here is where I really began to learn and enjoy the working with wood and discovering how to make things on my own.

I have my own small wood shop today ... a section in our garage, that recently I've come to call the "cave of wonders." It's a place to wonder at things such as: why isn't this square, how am I ever going to fix that, how come this piece is too short, or long, why doesn't this fit, and a million other such questions which are cause to wonder. I don't think dad had this problem in his shop. He was meticulous. He thought and planned things out ... to the last detail. Sometimes this dragged on to the point of shear boredom for me (like watching paint dry), but at least when his projects were completed there wasn't much to "wonder" about. We both shared in this enjoyment for wood working although we rarely had a chance to really engage on a common project together. That didn't seem to matter though, there was always the thrill of finding the next cool tool and sharing what we'd found. When it came to birthday presents, we both enjoyed offerings from the world of tools.

Flying

If there is one thing that dad did love to do, it was flying and this he succeeded in passing on to me. At last there was something that we both loved. I can remember him telling me the stories of his youth and the excitement he shared with some of his friends in learning to fly. He told of the challenges of learning to fly the piper-cub a tandem tail dragger. In the video we took of dad the summer before he died he told of the airplane crash that he was involved in with his friend and pilot, Garth Beechum. That was a close call but it didn't dampen his desire to fly. He eventually joined the Air Force and went to undergraduate pilot training. He learned to fly the PT-19, T-6 Texan, T-28, and eventually the Lockheed T-33 Shooting Star (shown below).

I can remember him telling me stories of his flying days when I was a young boy. Instead of telling fairy tale bedtime stories he often substituted stories about his flying. These did not serve to help me sleep. Instead, I was wide awake with keen interest. One story in particular was exciting to me because it was exciting for him ... an aircraft emergency.

He was flying the T-33 with his instructor over the Grand Canyon in Arizona. They were flying at about 30,000 feet when their engine flamed out and they could not get it restarted. Dad was worried about where to find a place for an emergency landing but the instructor calmly pointed out that the from that height and the excellent gliding properties of the T-33 they could glide all the way back to their airfield at Williams AFB, southest of Phoenix. They setup their max endurance glide and made it back to Williams with plenty of altitude to spare. They landed safely. I was relieved.

I was never able to get the full story about dad's flying career in the Air Force. What he told me once was that he graduated near the end of the Korean War and there was a surplus of pilots. The Air Force would only allow him to fly for one year if he agreed to sign up for an additional four years. He wasn't willing to take this deal so he ended up in Korea as a communications officer. In 1998 I ended up in Korea myself while on TDY for an exercise and explored some of the same areas in which dad served.

With all of the other activities that I was engaged with, the flying bug did not bite until I was a junior in high-school. My friend told me about a good deal at the Ogden airport where you could actually fly a small plane with an instructor for 1/2 hour. They called it an introductory ride and it only cost $5. Dad agreed to take me to the airport and let me try. After the flight I was hooked and wanted to fly in the worst way. And just like every other thing that I wanted to do, dad was able to support and encourage me to do it. I think he remembered how exciting it was for him to fly as a youth and wanted me to have some of the same experiences. This activity was something that both of us were equally excited about ... something we could both share. I started taking lessons and dad found a way to use some of the GI-bill benefits to fund his own lessons. He began working on his own flight ratings while I worked on my private pilot license. Eventually he earned his commercial, instrument, and instructor licenses and was very proud of these. I would follow in his footsteps, join the Air Force and become a fighter pilot flying the F-4G Wild Weasel.

One of the poems that we both lived and loved is called "High Flight". It seems fitting to include it in this section.

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long delirious, burning blue,
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew -
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untresspassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

Gillespie Magee
No 412 squadron, RCAF
Killed 11 December 1941

Summary
I know this is a long entry, but the more I write, the more things I seem to remember in which dad supported my interests and desires. There's more to tell. I hope that in all of this rambling you'll begin to see what I discovered. Dad loved his family and our joys and successes were his. It wasn't solely a matter of him teaching and sharing with us the things that he enjoyed, but rather learning and sharing with us the things that we enjoyed and helped to shape us into the individuals that we have become. I believe that one of the hallmarks of dad's life was his unselfishness and love for his family. He showed his love for us by encouraging, supporting and sharing in our lives. Thanks dad for such an illuminating example.

Notes on the Passing of My Father, Thurman William Gardner

It is 6:35 am on the morning after my Father's death. I can't sleep and so rather than lie in bed with tears slowly dripping from my eyes as I remember dad, I choose to take hold of the quiet morning hours and pen a few lines about this experience for the benefit of those who could not be present for his final moments.

TW (Bill) Gardner died at 9:25 pm on 2 September 2010, just under one month after celebrating his 82nd birthday. Dad was diagnosed with cancer of the kidney a couple of months ago. Because of the location of the cancer and other medical factors he was told that not only was the cancer inoperable, but also that he had not much time to live. Initial estimates gave him about a year … sufficient time to go on a last cruise to Hawaii with mom, enjoy Thanksgiving with the family, spend a last Christmas (where perhaps this time he could take a few minutes and as patriarch of the family pass on some final words of counsel and advice), and then beyond into an uncertain future. In the end, none of those things that he was looking forward to were possible.

Mom called me on Tuesday and told me that dad had taken a turn for the worse. I had previously purchased airline tickets so that I could be with him on the labor day weekend and was now somewhat worried that I might not be with him in his final hours...his life expectancy was now days instead of months. Selfishly, I pleaded with God to preserve dad's life until I could be with him one last time and I am now so grateful to report that God answered that prayer.

The circumstances that bring me to this point are, in and of themselves, somewhat remarkable. In my work at Sandia National Laboratories I am part of a small software team that is working on a project to develop a communications layer for future satellite systems. An upcoming demonstration of the project required that my piece be ready in late August. Accordingly, I began working overtime to meet the deadline and it is just those overtime hours that allow me now to be here with the family. I completed my part of the project the day before my arrival here and I believe that God had a hand in helping me finish on time so that I could be here and not be concerned or worried about my work.

I spent a restless Wednesday night. It was hard to get to sleep knowing that dad's condition was deteriorating rapidly. I awoke about 2 am and then was in and out of sleep until finally rousting myself from bed for my early morning seminary class at 5:15 am. As I lay there I contemplated the possibility of being mouthpiece in giving my father a final priesthood blessing and was blessed to find the words that I would later use.

My flight to Salt Lake City was uneventful, unless you count the number of tears that somehow leaked from my eyes whenever I closed them and reminisced on my life's experiences with dad. On the leg from Phoenix to Salt Lake I sat next to a middle aged father who was taking his three pre-adolescent kids to Pleasant Grove for a family reunion. I observed how carefully he managed his little flock and thought how much he was like my father … a caring and loving parent.

My sister Valorie was kind enough to pick me up at the airport and bring me home. She was in good spirits but it was also obvious that we were both dealing with the same waves of tender emotions about dad. My pockets began to fill with tear stained tissues as I tried unsuccessfully to hold them in. She filled me in on the latest developments. Dad was in a lot of pain and hadn't eaten or really had much to drink for two days.

Darrell, my brother, was shouldering much of the responsibility for administering relief and tending to his physical comfort and mom was holding on.

I arrived at about 8:00 pm to find a house full of family...Darrell and his local family, Dallen and Maako from Phoenix, Valorie, Mom, and later Mike and Mille with Jodie. We exchanged teary hugs and tissues were a popular commodity.

Dad was on his side in a hospital bed provided by a local hospice organization. He lay in a loose fetal position with eyes closed and his breathing labored. Dallen sat at the head of the bed and was lovingly stroking dad's shoulder. Darrell was tending to the pain medications, keeping dad's mouth moist, and was so gentle and loving with his care. I made my way to a stool at the side of his bed and took his hand. I announced my presence to him, but because of the pain medications and my quivering voice, I doubt that he even heard me. There was no visible response. I just sat there looking at the father I loved and tried my hardest to hold back the tears, but they would not be abated.

We spent the next hour taking turns with dad, calling family and apprising them of the situation. Dad would sometimes moan because of pain but Darrell was quick to administer relief. Jody, a licensed CNA, took vital signs, which were faithfully recorded in a small notebook. His condition was deteriorating … blood pressure 60 over 24, heart rate fast and weak. At 8:50 pm dad's moaning became more intense and Darrell provided his next hourly dose of pain medication. We waited several minutes for the medication to take effect and then gathered the family.

Mom offered a simple prayer in which she, with cracked and wavering voice, asked God to bless dad and help each of us. We then passed around the tissues to everyone and the Melchezidek priesthood holders gathered at the head of the bed for the blessing … Darrell, Michael, Dallin, and myself. I acted a mouthpiece. We layed our hands upon his head. It took some time before words would leave my mouth and in my strongest possible, but quivering voice said, “Thurman William Gardner, in the name of Jesus Christ, and by the power of the Melchezidek priesthood that we hold ….”

I told my Father how much God loved him and was looking forward to accepting him back into his presence. I reminded him of how much his wife, children, and grandchildren loved him and thanked him for his example of service and love in our lives. I then released him from the cares and concerns of this mortal life and invited him into the presence of God. I assured him that departed family would be there to greet and joyfully welcome him home. Finally I blessed him with the peace the God promises to those who have been appointed unto death and reassured him that God would be with him in his final moments. I closed the blessing in the name of Jesus Christ.

There have been few experiences in my life that have been so difficult. Only the dedication of my grandfather's grave and watching my dog Shadow being put to sleep rival the upwelling of emotions that I then felt. The family gathered around around the bed as best as we could, each struggling inwardly with the imminent possibility of dad's departure. Few words were spoken as the feeling of the room changed to one of stillness.

Mom took her seat on the small stool next to the bed with Valorie and Mille and her sides. By 9:20 dad's breathing patterns changed from the previous labored breaths to calmer and shallower ones. For the first time he opened his eyes but could not speak. He starred blankly straight ahead into the pillow. Mom stroked his hand lovingly all the while struggling to keep the tears and emotions in check. His breathing slowed and then eventually stopped altogether.

Mom raised up, leaned over the bed, and offered a final kiss good-bye. Dad was gone and God had answered not only our pleading prayers, but also the words of a priesthood blessing. His parting from us was peaceful and I believe sweet.

I so wish that I could report that some of us in the room witnessed evidence that someone from the other side of the veil had come to meet him, perhaps his own father, but such is not the case. There were no clues from Dad in his drug induced state of semi-consciousness, other than perhaps the opening of his eyes, that could signal to any of us such an extraordinary spiritual event was occurring, even though reports of such visitations in the final moments of life are common in our family history.

In the end, God leaves us with one thing to hold to … Faith in Jesus Christ and the promises passed to us, through his holy prophets, of returning back into his presence with glorified and resurrected bodies.

“And, if you keep my commandments and endure to the end you shall have eternal life, which gift is the greatest of all the gifts of God” [D&C 14:7]

Thanks dad for showing us what it means to faithfully endure to the end --

Post Your Memories

Greetings and Salutations to the family of T. W. "Bill" Gardner!

It's been some time since dad died last year and if you're like me, some of the memories of dad's life are fading. During those emotion filled days after he died, I did some searching for his life history. I was sure that he'd been working on it and that he had lots of files archived away on his disk drives. Unfortunately, for all of us, I couldn't find them. It seems that all we have of him are our memories, some photos, perhaps some old letters, and some of his writings/talks.

As I was thinking about his life, the thought came to me that we could all put our heads together and come up with an acceptable set of memories that could capture the essence of his life. Instead of the autobiography that I had searched for, we can be co-authors in writing the story of his life, as seen through our eyes. Each of you has memories that you cherish about dad ... be they funny, sober, happy, sad, thoughtful, or silly. Please share these memories with the rest of the family and help us all remember him as he truly was.

For the moment, this blog can be used by everyone to quickly jot down some notes or details about the things they remember. Later, we can collect this information and publish in a more traditional format for all to have.

Now every good project needs a deadline or it just doesn't get done until "someday" rolls around. So let's set 4 Aug 2011 as goal to post your memories. It seems appropriate that our memories of dad coalesce on this birthday and give life to a document that will live on for years to come. Remember, you can upload photos or video clips of dad too, so don't be shy.