Grandpa Letter #6

Wednesday, November 18, 2015         10:03 a.m.

Provo Utah

My Dear Deisel;

Your mother tells me you’ve been getting better grades in school lately, but your teachers tell her you don’t work very hard. I can understand that completely. When I was in high school I was BORED OUT OF MY GOURD with every class except English and Theater, so I never tried very hard. I was so sick of school by the time I graduated from high school that I vowed I would never get any further education – ever. Lucky for me I was able to get into Clown College right away!

I have enclosed an old photograph I took years ago of your great grandma Ev’s angel cabinet. I know your mother likes angels, too, so you might want to show her the photo to earn a few brownie points . . .

I don’t know why my mother liked to collect angel statuettes. Maybe they reminded her of her own mother, Daisy, who really was a very gentle and loving soul – a real angel here on earth. Your aunt Daisy is named after her.

I never paid any attention to her angel collection until I moved in with her to take care of her during her final illness. She had congestive heart failure and the doctors told her she didn’t have long to live. Hah! She lived for almost 2 more years. She was a tough old bird.

As she began to approach the final dissolution, she would ask me to take the angel cabinet off the wall and bring it over to her in her chair or in her bed. Then she would stare at it for hours, sometimes talking to one of the angels, calling it by her sister Ruby’s name or calling it mother – telling the cold little statue that she would soon be joining it on the other side and asking that she please be there to greet her. She began talking to the angels every day, calling them by the names of her friends and family that had already died.

Except for my dad – she never talked to him when she talked to the ceramic angels. I don’t think she ever thought of him as angel material. (And unless they have a saloon in heaven I doubt very much he’s there myself!)

One day mom rallied enough to want to make a new will. So I drove her over to her lawyer’s office and she had a new will made that split everything she had 3 ways – one third to me, one third to my brother Billy, and one third to my sister Sue Ellen. My other sister, Linda, who had left home as soon as she graduated from high school and told mom she never wanted to see her again, was left completely out of the will – except for the angel cabinet. Mom specified that Linda should get that, and nothing more.

Well, Sue Ellen was fit to be tied. She wanted the angel cabinet, not because it was worth anything, but just because she didn’t want her sister Linda to get it. So, when we moved mom into a hospice center a few days before she died, Sue Ellen let herself into the apartment and took away the angel cabinet. When I asked about it she told me to shut up and mind my own business.

But I didn’t get mad, because a few weeks earlier mom had had me take all her silverware (which WAS worth something) and ship it out to Linda in Oregon. I never told Sue Ellen, and so when it came time to pass out poor old mom’s possessions the silverware was nowhere to be found. Sue Ellen was the executor of the estate, and she was foaming at the mouth about the missing silverware. I finally told her what I had done with it, and she tried to have me arrested for theft. When that didn’t work she managed to get a court order disbarring me from receiving anything from my mother’s estate, and, instead, transferring it over to the Child Support people who were supposed to send it all to your Grandma Amy. I guess they did. At least, I never saw any of it.

That’s when I decided to go back to Thailand to spend the rest of my life – I felt very disgusted with my own family and with the USA in general.

I’d still be in Thailand today, except when my passport expired the Child Support people stepped in again and wouldn’t let me get a new one, so I had to come home.

But after all these years, I’m not bitter anymore about any of it. I’m glad I could take care of my mother; I’m glad my sister Linda got something to remember mom by; I’m glad I got to go back to Thailand; and I’m glad I had to come back and get my life in order so I could go back to the Temple again. I go every Tuesday now, and am enjoying myself immensely!  Just remember, my boy – wickedness never was happiness, and it ain’t tax-deductible either!  

Yer pal, 

Grandpa Letter #5

Wednesday, November 18, 2015.  9:23 a.m.  Provo, Utah.

My Dear Noah;

I have certainly been enjoying your emails to me.  They are most salubrious to my daily outlook.

I have included a photograph of me, standing in front of radio station KIWA in Sheldon, Iowa.  I was the News Director for the station back in about 2009.

Here’s how I got the job:

A year earlier I had been News Director at KICD Radio in Spencer, Iowa. But one morning, as I was putting together my 6 a.m. newscast, I suddenly had an overwhelming desire to go back to Mexico again. I had been there as a young man, before my Mission, studying pantomime.

So I decided, on the spur of the moment, to resign and go back to Mexico, this time to teach English. (By the way, this was a BAD decision – very hasty. I don’t recommend hasty decisions, unless you really get a burning in your bosom about them from the Lord.)

So I enrolled in a TEFL course in Guadalajara, Mexico. I already had a TEFL certificate from Thailand, but I figured if I got one in Mexico it would be a lot easier to get a teaching job. TEFL stands for “Teaching English as a Foreign Language”.

But halfway through the course I was robbed at knife-point as I was walking back to my hacienda from the school. The robber didn’t get much money, but I was so scared and outraged by the incident that, again, I decided on the spur of the moment to leave Mexico and never come back again!

So I did.

I visited my mom up in Minneapolis when I got back, and – surprise! – she bought me a brand new car. I didn’t ask for it, she just up and did it on the spur of the moment. I guess we Torkildsons do a lot of stuff on the spur of the moment.

So I drove my new car back to Spencer, Iowa, to see if I could get my old job back. They said “Sorry, Charlie – no can do”, or words to that effect.

Disheartened, I drove aimlessly around all day – wondering what I was going to do for a living. When I passed through Sheldon, Iowa, kind of on my way down to Oklahoma (where a lot of circuses are located; I thought I might get a job down there.) I noticed the KIWA Radio station on Main Street, and decided, on the spur of the moment, to drop in and ask if they needed a News Director.

Lo and behold, they did!

So I got the job and went back to getting up at 4 a.m. every day so I could get the 6 a.m. newscast ready. When I got to the station I would call the local city police, the county sheriff’s office, and the state Highway Patrol, to find out if there had been any crimes or accidents overnight. Then I would call the Farm Bureau in Des Moines, the capital of Iowa, for any agricultural news they might have about Northwestern Iowa, or Northeastern South Dakota (Sheldon was not too far from the state border between Iowa and South Dakota. Your great grandfather Donald, my dad, was born just outside of Vienna, South Dakota.) Then I would splice together any old taped interviews I had on file from interesting or important people who had stopped by the station in the past week for some free publicity (politicians, sports players, religious leaders, etc.) and use that as my last ‘news’ story.

The rest of the day was taken up with taping more interviews with anyone who wandered into the station and wanted to be on the air. I would also call certain people who were in the news already in Iowa, to do taped phone interviews. I also taped many commercials and had to record some live feeds from the Chicago Stockyards and Schwab’s Financial on pork belly futures, etc.

I was supposed to have Saturday off, but I never did. The demand for news stories every day was insatiable, and I did not have an assistant.

On Sundays I also worked as the DJ, operating the board all morning long for two live church services in town – one from the Methodist Church, and one from the Dutch Reformed Church. They both paid the station to broadcast their church services. I can’t remember any of the sermons – they were super boring. And the choir singing was not as good as ours by a long shot.  

I worked there about a year, and then, on the spur of the moment, I went back to Culpepper & Merriweather Circus as their Publicity Director.

I guess I’m just naturally peripatetic!

Holiday Forgiveness, or Holiday Baloney?

I Hate the Waze App!

Holiday Travel

Grandpa Letter. 4.

November 10, 2015                                                     Timothy Robert Torkildson

1274 West  820 North                                                3:02 p.m.

Provo  Utah  84601

My Dear Ohen;

I’m here at the Provo Library, after having lunch at the Senior Center, just messing around. I just got a call from the Provo Housing Authority, and they have an apartment ready for me – they say I can move in at the beginning of January! I wasn’t expecting to get one so soon, so I’ll have to start saving my money for it. That means probably I won’t be able to get you a Christmas present this year – I hope that is okay with you.  I’ll try to get you something twice as nice for your birthday next year!

Anyway. I wanted to send you a story I thought of today. It’s called:

THE MAGIC THRIFT STORE.

There once was a poor mother with two little children -- a boy and a girl. The father had died and left the family with very little, except a brass belt buckle and a feather boa. (He was a little bit odd . . . )

One day the poor mother, whose name was Helen, took her two children with her into a Thrift Store to look for winter jackets for them. They had nothing but thin raggedy sweaters to wear outside when the cold winter winds blew, and they had to wrap their hands in newspapers to keep them from turning blue with cold.

The boy’s name was Henry, and the girl’s name was Susan. They were good, obedient children, who wanted so much to make their mother happier than she was.

Helen, the mother, looked at the boy’s coats and the girl’s coats, and finally found two that looked like they would be very inexpensive. She took the two coats up to the lady at the counter.

Now, I call her a ‘lady’, but really she was nothing but an ugly old crone who had no heart and liked nothing better than to bring more mischief and grief into the world. She had a rather large black wart on the side of her nose, with one long black hair growing out of it. Maybe this is what made her so malicious.

When she saw Helen coming up to the counter with the coats she thought to herself: “Aha! This mother is very poor, I can see; I shall have to cozen her into giving up something very valuable for those two coats . . . “

“Is that all you want, dearie?” she cackled at Helen. “We have some other very nice items – almost magical items, you might say . . . “

“I’m afraid this is all I can afford today” the mother said apologetically.

The crone at the counter took the coats from Helen, looked them over, and then said flatly “Each coat costs fifty dollars.”

“Oh” said Helen bitterly, “I simply can’t afford that kind of money at all! Don’t you have something a little more reasonable?”

“Heh, heh, heh – well, my dear” said the old bag of bones, “I just MIGHT have something here that will interest you, and help you get your coats. It’s a special purse. And when you say ‘Ish Kabibble’, the purse will grant you as much money as you need for the day – no more and no less. Here it is . . . “

So saying the old woman held up a lumpy old black leather purse.

“It’s only a dollar, my petite sweet. You buy it now and see if it works – if it doesn’t, I’ll gladly give you your dollar back!”

Helen did not believe a word of what the old woman said, but she was so desperate to get some warm clothing for her children that she decided to test out the old crone’s promise. She gave her a dollar, took the purse, muttered ‘Ish Kabibble’, opened it up, and there was a crisp new one-hundred dollar bill – just enough to pay for the coats!

 “Oh, how can I ever thank you!” cried Helen in joy. “This will be a wonderful help to us!”

But the old woman held up a warning hand.

“Not so fast, me little lady. I said the purse costs a dollar, which you paid me – but I forgot to mention that you also must let your little boy and your little girl come work in my store every afternoon after school for one hour. That is the full and honest price if you want to keep that purse!”

“I’ll be glad to do it, mother” said little Henry, although he was not at all comfortable with the way the old crone was leering at him, and licking her lips. Susan also said she would be happy to come help at the Thrift Store, even though she shied away when the old woman tried to pat her on the head.

At first the mother refused, for she, too, had seen the evil glint in the old woman’s eyes when she asked for Henry and Susan to come work for her. But with such a purse she could find them a better place to live and keep them warmly clothed all winter long. And maybe even afford to buy a car so they could travel in comfort and convenience instead of having to walk everywhere in the inclement weather or ride the overcrowded bus. So she gave in and agreed to let her two children come every day after school to work in the Thrift Store for just one hour.

“Very well” said the old woman, chuckling to herself. “Just sign your name here on the dotted line and your problems are over.”

She held up a brown piece of parchment that seemed to move back and forth all by itself, as if a breeze were blowing it (but there was no breeze inside the Thrift Store). Then she rummaged in her cash register until she found a bone-white pen that had a black spider instead of an eraser on it, and handed it to the mother.

“I don’t think I should really be doing this . . . “ began Helen.

“Fine!” snapped the old woman, snatching the purse back from Helen. “You and your little brats can starve and freeze for all I care!”

Henry grabbed the parchment and placed it before his mother, saying “We’ll be all right, mother. I won’t let anything happen to Susan, I promise!’

Hesitantly, their mother signed the document.

TO BE CONTINUED

Grandpa Letter. 3

November 10, 2015                                                      Timothy Robert Torkildson

1274 West  820 North                                                

Provo  Utah  84601

My Dear Katrina;

I hope this letter finds you in good health and fine fettle.

I want to tell you a story. It’s called:

LARRY THE LAZY LEAF.

On a large maple tree in a town park there lived Larry and his parents. They were maple leaves, which, if you think about it, makes absolute sense, since why would you expect elm leaves or birch leaves on a maple tree? That would be something like make-believe!

All summer long Larry did nothing but sway back and forth in the warm breezes. When it rained, he curled up under his parents so he wouldn’t get wet. When the squirrels leaped from branch to branch, scratching the tree bark and nibbling at the leaves in an idle, careless way, Larry trembled like . . . well, he trembled like a leaf, and wished the squirrels would go play somewhere else.  His parents tried to teach him how to be a good little leaf, and to prepare him for the coming Autumn. But Larry was lazy and didn’t like to learn anything, and he especially didn’t like to listen to his parents.

“Larry” they would say, “you’ve got to pay attention so we can warn you about what will happen to all of us this coming October!”

And Larry would just twirl around and pay them no mind . . .

One day in August, on an especially hot and breathless day, old Mr. Caterpillar crawled onto Larry, took a sniff, decided he didn’t want Larry as a meal, and settled down to read his newspaper, the Caterpillar Argus-Tribune. He had just started the Social Butterfly section when Larry gave a slight shiver and spoke to him.

“Please, Mr. Caterpillar, will you go read your newspaper somewhere else? You’re too heavy for me!”

“Piffle!” replied the old caterpillar. “I weigh nothing at all. You just think because I’ve got so many legs I must weigh a ton. Well, I don’t! And furthermore, I never yet heard of a leaf begrudging a little old caterpillar the space and the time it takes to read the Caterpillar Argus-Tribune.”

But when he saw that Larry was going to start crying, he humphed and hoophed and crawled onto another leaf nearby, which, it turned out, was rather more delicious than Larry, so old Mr. Caterpillar actually ate the whole leaf up. As he was finishing up his leafy meal, the stem of the leaf shouted at Larry “Thanks a lot, you ninnyhammer – now look what your laziness has done!”

And then the hapless leaf was gone, eaten completely up by old Mr. Caterpillar, who gave a contented burp and then crawled away, forgetfully leaving behind his copy of the Caterpillar Argus-Tribune.

“It wasn’t my fault” said Larry to himself sullenly. “It could have happened to any leaf on the tree.”

Well, as you would expect, the summer days came slowly to an end and a chill entered the air. Suddenly it started getting darker earlier and Larry’s parents broke out into several brilliant shades of orange and yellow.

But Larry was too lazy to change colors. He just stayed green.  As the night got colder he felt his stem begin to unaccountably loosen.

“Hey, mom and dad” he finally said one bright Fall day, “What’s going on around here? I see some of my friends flying off in the wind and settling down on the grass. And what’s with all these colors and this feeling like my stem is going to give way?”

“Well, Larry, we tried to tell you . . .” began his dad, but just then a puff of wind detached him from the branch and he went sailing away towards the sidewalk. When Larry turned to his mother in horror to find some comfort, he was just in time to see her sailing away on the breeze as well, to land in a trash barrel next to a street lamp.

Larry was now an orphan!

But before he could think too much about that, a very powerful gust of wind shook him so hard that he also left his tree branch, the only home he had ever known, and went flying through the air, going up higher and higher, instead of coming down to land in the park like his parents.

He flew over streets and houses, over canals and factories, until at last he floated lazily down onto the front porch of a very large house with white shutters.

“Well!” thought Larry to himself. “That was quite a ride. I wonder if I can get another ride like that the next time the wind picks up? Maybe I can fly to Franistan or Lippy Land (which are just made-up places; remember that Larry had been too lazy to learn anything about geography when he had the chance).”

As it turned out, Larry actually did get to make another interesting journey, because a little red haired girl named Maisy came out of the front door and saw Larry lying there on her front porch. She squealed in delight.

“Goody! Now I don’t have to go looking for a leaf for my album. There’s one right here. Although it doesn’t look too pretty – it’s kind of a dirty green.”

She picked up Larry and took him inside the house, slamming the door behind her so hard that one of the white shutters fell off into the bushes.

(To Be Continued)