Tarragona, Spain!!!

Climbing the stairs to the Balcony of the Mediterranean, one can see the coast below, spread for miles. The train station is across the rails from the beach. A warm breeze blows over our face and toward the Rambla Nova, which extends at our back into the city.
 
We are in the port city of Tarragona, known in the days of Augustus as Tarraco. With the exception of Mérida, it has more Roman remains than any other city on the Iberian Peninsula. Kaitlyn and I enjoy the view, stopping to take a photo. We are on a day-trip from Barcelona, having caught the regional train.
 
A short walk leads to a large Roman amphitheater, also overlooking the sea. It is possible to wander around the perimeter and enjoy the view for free. Although for a small fee you can gain an up-close experience and learn more about the history. We pay 3,70€ to enter the site.
 

Amphitheater of Tarragona.

A basilica and cemetery were built in the center of the amphitheater several centuries after the Romans.

The amphitheater was built near the end of the first century. Below the arena are two underground galleries, over which large beams used to support a wooden floor, keeping them hidden from the spectators. A series of trap-doors could open allowing gladiators and animals to be raised into the arena for a triumphant entry. At its peak the amphitheater could seat 15,000 spectators.
 
The amphitheater was also used for public executions. In 259 A.D. Bishop Fructuosus and his two deacons were burned alive. After falling into disuse, a Visigoth basilica was built in the arena in memory of the martyrs, using stones from the amphitheater. In the 6th century a cemetery grew up around the basilica. In subsequent years it was used as a monastery, and then as a prison for prisoners who were helping build the port in 1780. Again the site fell into disuse. It wasn't until the 20th century that the glory of the old Roman amphitheater was rediscovered and restoration began.
 

Old street in the medieval quarter of Tarragona.

By this time it is becoming hot and we are getting hungry so we climb another set of stairs and enter the old medieval labyrinth of Tarragona. Here the streets are narrow and many are devoid of any shops.
 
We find a small café on a corner and sit at a table on the cobblestone street. Our meal comes in two courses. I order a plate of melon and thin slices of jamón, each arranged separately, but meant to be eaten together. Kaitlyn chooses calamares a la romana, which are calamari rings, deep-fried like onion rings. For my second course I order morcilla con cebolla, which is blood sausage with onions. It tastes surprisingly good.
 

Cathedral of Tarragona, Spain.

Detail of Cathedral.

We wander a little longer in the old part of town, up a flight of stone stairs to the cathedral. The old section of Tarragona is complete with city walls and a Jewish quarter. There is so much more to explore, but being pressed for time we return to the Rambla Nova to find the bus stop. Along the way we run into the sister missionaries and talk with them for a few minutes.
 
On the Rambla Nova there is a tall statue of a human tower, which is a popular pastime in Catalunya. Known locally as Castellers, these towers are created as participants climb to stand on each others' shoulders to a height of six or seven levels, and sometimes higher. A child of 8 or 10 years old will climb to the pinnacle and raise his or her arm to signal that the tower is complete. The tradition originated in the town of Valls, which is near Tarragona. The statue on the Rambla Nova is life-size and the human replicas are stacked several levels high.
 

Statue of Castellers on the Rambla Nova.

On Avinguda Prat de la Riba we find the stop for bus number five and pay 1,50€ each. The bus takes us on a roundabout and to the outskirts of town where we are now on the autopista. Just a couple miles out of town, we are dropped off on the side of the motorway, which at first glance appears to be nowhere.
 
We walk up a hill to a car-park and find several paths that take off in different directions. They all lead to different parts of The Ferreres Aqueduct, also known as Pont del Diable, or "Devil's Bridge."  This Roman aqueduct has stood the test of time for nearly 2,000 years. Twenty-five arches span the canyon and at one time brought water to the populace of Tarraco.
 
Now days the visitor can walk across the top where water once flowed. The aqueduct was a major architectural feat, consisting of hundreds of large stones, built into arches, perfectly fitted together to create a massive bridge.
 
We walk across the top and then scamper down the hill along a trail through the brush until we are directly below the gigantic structure. It is amazing to think of the labor that must have went into such a project.
 

Pont del Diable, a Roman aqueduct that brought water into the city of Tarraco.

Distorted image of aqueduct.

After exploring all that we can of the old Roman aqueduct, it is time to catch the bus again. At this point, I am not exactly sure of the best way to return to Tarragona. Our bus stop is located next to the busy highway and is only for north-bound buses, which is the opposite direction we want to travel. We wait for twenty minutes without seeing a bus, with the exception of one or two whizzing by in the opposite direction. We are the only people at the stop and are worried about being stranded, as it is a two-mile walk back to town.
 
At last, a red and white number five bus slows down and comes to a halt in front of us. The conductor assures us that the bus will eventually loop around and head back into town. In the meantime, we enjoy the view as we drive through the small suburb of Sant Salvador, before coming back around to the highway and then into Tarragona proper, dropping us off on Avinguda Prat de la Riba.
 

Looking down Carrer Major from the cathedral.

At this point, Kaitlyn has two priorities that she seeks to accomplish. We find a men's clothing store with neck ties displayed in the front window. We step inside and peruse the collection. After several minutes, Kaitlyn finds a purple tie that satisfies her requirements as a gift for her boyfriend, and stays within budget. Priority number one—checked off.
 
We walk further down the street and find a pastry shop selling all sorts of confectioneries: napolitanas de chocolate, croissants, cañas. What a delight and olfactory pleasure it is to walk inside a Spanish bakery! But when it comes to cakes, or tortas as they call them, they come up short. We find a few single servings that appear to be soaked in rum, but that's not what she's looking for. At last she finds (as close as we will get) the perfect slice of cake. We purchase the pastry for 3,75€, and the lady packages it for us inside a cute brown box. Priority number two—half checked off.
 

Roman Forum.

Juxtaposition of the old and new.

On the Carrer (street) del Cardenal Cervantes, surrounded by urban apartment buildings on two separate blocks connected by a bridge, is the Roman Forum. A couple thousand years ago, this was the center of activity in Tarraco and site of several government buildings. Today, all that remains are four roman columns, two arched niches, and several low-walled ruins that were once complete structures.
 
I pay 3,50€ to enter the fenced enclosure, while Kaitlyn decides to wait for me on a bench near the street. I spend twenty minutes wandering around the ruined buildings. There are a few interpretive signs, but most goes unexplained. I can only imagine how many homes and other structures existed during the prime of Tarraco that are now lost to time, or buried beneath the sea of apartment buildings.
 
As the sun moves toward the western horizon, we have one more item of business to take care of. We walk toward the formidable line of railroad tracks that separate us from the sea. Certain that there is a passageway to the other side, but not certain where that might be, I decide to ask a lady walking down the street. She motions down the road and to and underground staircase on the other side of a park. We thank her and follow directions.
 

Sea-side promenade.

After another twenty minutes of walking to arrive at a point that could have taken five had we been able to move in a straight line, we find ourselves at the water's edge. We descend a short flight of steps, remove our shoes, roll up our pants, and feel the smooth sand as it forms around our feet. This is nice! The sun is low in the sky and the gentle waves lap across the beach. We lay our belongings over a towel and enjoy wading in the water. Kaitlyn takes a stick and writes in the sand before a destroying roller comes in and obliterates her message.
 
Then comes time to complete priority number two. Kaitlyn unwraps the cake from the cute brown box and she holds it up and poses for an eyewitness photograph. Then she eats and enjoys. It is a tradition of hers to eat a slice of cake at every beach she visits.
 
Although we could stay much, much longer, it is time for us to leave. We brush the sand from our toes and replace our socks and shoes, shake off the towel and roll it back up, and slip it into the pack that I pull over my shoulders. We walk back toward the port and then down the stairs that go beneath the tracks, and then back to the station. When the train comes, we get a seat next to the window that faces the sea. As the sun goes down and the hues of the sky turn pink and sight of the sea and turns dim, I sit and watch and wish I could stay longer. ♠ 

El Raval

El Raval once had the reputation as the rough part of town—the area you wanted to avoid when in Barcelona. It was riddled with petty crime, drug trafficking and prostitution.
 
All this supposedly changed around the time of the Barcelona Olympics in 1992 when the area was cleaned up.
 
I thought I was in the clear when I booked a hotel for four nights in the Raval District with my 17-year old daughter. But then, just before arriving, I read an article in a Spanish newspaper about a street fight in Raval, with the two combatants wielding knives. The dispute was over drugs. Upon further investigation, I learned that drugs and violence were on the rise. Unwilling to change my plans, I was anxious to see what kind of experience I was in for.
 

The view from our hotel window.

El Gat de Botero.

We arrived in early afternoon and found our hotel on the corner of two narrow streets. The window of our seventh-story room opened to a sea of rooftops, satellite dishes, and T.V. antennas. Not a street could be seen. In the distance—a good view of Montjuïc.
 
We didn't waste time in our hotel room. I was anxious to get out and explore. We soon found ourselves back on the street, walking through passageways just wide enough to fit a car. The apartment buildings were stacked high and packed tight, making this area dense in population. A small grocery store fronted a narrow street. We saw a used clothing store and the occasional bar.
 

Back side of the Church of Santa Maria of Montalegre.

Front side of the Church of Santa Maria of Montalegre with kids playing basketball.

As we made our journey, we passed by the old and new. The Barcelona Museum of Contemporary Art is a sleek white building with glass windows. The Church of Santa Maria de Montalegre is over 100 years old and has its origins from a monastery built in the 14th century.
 
During our walk we came across three different plazas or courts, each hidden in their own little nook. The three nearly touched each other, only separated by a passageway. One of the plazas served as a neighborhood playground. School boys shot baskets on a paved basketball court surrounded by apartment buildings. Grown men sat on chairs and shot the breeze.
 

Parish of Sant Pere Nolasc Mercedaris.

The Monastery Sant Pau del Camp dates back to the 12th century.

As we arrived at the Carrer dels Tallers, the congestion of foot-traffic increased. This is one of the main corridors between the University area and The Rambla. The street was dotted with music stores and tattoo shops. I took a moment to make sure my backpack was securely locked up.
 
I will admit, there weren't really any “attractions” in the Raval that we sought to visit. Most of our exploration came from wandering indirect routes to and from our hotel. There were times we could have taken the Metro to get us “home” for the night, but instead we chose a new path through El Raval.
 

Graffiti in the Raval District of Barcelona.

Fruit shop on Carrer de Sant Antoni Abat.

You never knew what you would find. Sprinkled throughout the Raval are churches and monasteries from the medieval period and later. More modern is the sculpture of a giant cat on the Rambla del Raval called El Gat de Botero. Much of the intrigue is that you don't know what you will find around the next corner: ancient, modern, Catholic, Muslim, Catalán, Turkish. El Raval was once known as Barri Xino, or Chinese Neighborhood. It is not, nor ever has been, a typical Chinatown like those in other cities. Instead, the name was given (probably pejoratively) to denote the large foreign population that lived there.
 
One day we ate lunch at a bar in the Plaça del Pedró. I watched through the window as pedestrians passed by. They wore shawls, tunics, and were certainly not of Spanish descent. Kebab shops in that neighborhood were plentiful, as well as fruit stands. Even the owners of restaurants that sold tapas and paella were of foreign lineage.
 

Plaça de Pedró

Saturday evening we were in our hotel room when I could hear pyrotechnic blasts coming from somewhere on the street. The view from our hotel window was a sea of rooftops and I couldn't see a thing. I felt like I could judge the direction of the din, but this was difficult to discern considering the way sound can echo off buildings. The noise persisted and at last I could make out a faint wisp of smoke. I told Kaitlyn that we had to go down immediately to investigate.
 
I followed the street in front of our hotel and crossed to Sant Antoni. There, in front of the market, was the center of attention.
 
It appeared as if we were in the middle of a battle zone—explosives going off all around us! It was 9:30 at night and becoming dark. Dozens of people dressed in orange (probably fire-proof) over-shirts with hoods, with the words “Diables de Sant Antoni” on the back. A giant pig-on-wheels stood in the middle of the cordoned street. These people held torches with a fountain of “sparklers” shooting from the tips. They ran up and down the street and even onto the sidewalks, whisking the torches into the spectators, causing us to crouch for cover. Meanwhile it sounded like a constant stream of missiles going off, creating a squealing that was so high-pitched it was deafening. We couldn't hear ourselves talk.
 

Unexpected fiesta on Carrer Comte d'Urgell.

Amidst all the noise a band of at least ten people pounded on drums and blew their horns. They swayed to the music and wore uniformed shirts.
 
Then they lit off fireworks. For the next ten minutes explosive colors streaked into the sky and popped over the rooftops, their booms echoing off the buildings. Then, the giant pig became attached with swirling arms that shot sparks as it raced down the street.
 
For about thirty minutes (after we got there) all around was chaos. Then, suddenly, it came to an end. Before it ended, the sweepers in yellow jackets used their brooms to brush the empty casings into piles in the middle of the street.—This is an example of what I love about Spain. It is possible to bump into a local celebration at any time and any place.
 

One of my favorite places to stroll at night was El Raval. All streets were well lit and many were full of people, mostly youth, heading to the bar for a night of drinking. There was an aura of danger. I always made sure my backpack was locked and that I was not carrying my camera around my neck. Most of the storefronts were closed, but the bars and restaurants were alive, as well as most of the small grocery stores. All the streets were narrow and I enjoyed wandering and “getting lost” at a whim. A couple of times we had to sit down and pull out a map to figure out where we were in relation to our hotel. While some of the streets were alive with people, others were empty, but still well lit. On these streets the only noise came from the balconies and through the windows where we could hear people talking and the sound of television.
 
In addition to the party-goers, I found kids in the streets and shop owners sitting in front of their store on a stool, shooting the breeze and smoking cigarettes. I saw couples pushing a stroller near midnight, and two older ladies slowly walking arm-in-arm, chatting with each other.
 

Barcelona is well awake after midnight.

Typical street in El Raval.

On our final night in Barcelona, Kaitlyn and I had to make one final pass through El Raval. Even though it was approaching midnight, the streets were alive as ever. The nocturnal nature of Spain never ceases to amaze me.
 
Although we aimed for the purpose of soaking up Raval's atmosphere one last time, our secondary goal came of an epicurean nature—to find churros y chocoloate. It wasn't hard to find. We found a bar with a table next to the window. The setting felt cozy. Wine bottles stacked the shelves behind the bar. A leg of ham sat on the counter, ready to be sliced. Stone walls along the backside made our chamber feel centuries old.
 
When our order finally came—a cup of thick hot chocolate and a piping-hot churro in the shape of a bow-knot—we savored every bite. Through the fatigue of a late evening, we inhaled every scent, listened to every sound, took in the jumble of sights. This was our last night in Spain and we wanted to remember every second of it! ♠ 

The Rambla of Barcelona

My favorite street in the world used to be the Rambla of Barcelona. Don't get me wrong. I still love the street and it still comes near the top of the list. But I will admit that on this last visit I was a little disappointed.
 
The Rambla that I grew to love was the most fascinating street I had ever seen. Stretching from Plaça Catalunya to the Columbus statue on the harbor, this pedestrian thoroughfare was full of kiosks, bird vendors, artists, and street performers. It was the street performers I liked best.  A typical act was a man dressed as a Roman soldier and painted bronze.  He would stand on a pedestal and hold stock-still until someone put a coin in his bucket. Then he would move to another position. They were good. You had to look closely to see that they were real.
 

Street performer on the Rambla in 1994.

I remember a soccer player who spent dozens of minutes bouncing a ball on his knees, shoulders, head, and foot without ever letting it touch the ground. I swear he had a flat head. And then there was the quartet of college kids in their street clothes playing Vivaldi's Four Seasons. This is just a sampling. The Rambla was a smorgasbord of unique talent and pleasure.
 
After an absence of 17 years, I was anxious to show my daughter, Kaitlyn, what the Rambla was all about. I was shocked when our first passage down the infamous street found no street performers. Maybe we came too late. Again we tried, but earlier in the day. Still nothing. We walked up and down on four or five separate occasions, and only once did we see a performer.
 

Outdoor tapas restaurant, like this one, seem to be the new trend on the Rambla.

I don't know what has changed, or if we had really bad luck. I didn't see any bird vendors either. There were still a ton of people and a lot to entertain the eye. But it wasn't the same.
 

Street artist on the Rambla in 2000.

Ariel view of the Rambla, snaking its way to the port, from our airplane window.

The word “rambla” comes from Arabic meaning a dry riverbed or sandy tract. In the olden days of Barcelona, this is literally what it was. Just outside the city walls there was a stream bed that collected sewage and was an important drainage. In medieval times it was decided to extend the city walls to include El Raval and the riverbed was diverted. Gradually it turned into a street.
 
Technically, the stretch from Plaça Catalunya to the Columbus statue has several names: Rambla de Canaletes, Rambla dels Estudis, Rambla de Sant Josep, Rambla dels Caputxins, and Rambla de Santa Mònica. There are other Ramblas in Barcelona such as Rambla de Catalunya and Rambla del Raval, but none of them have enough notoriety to be known simply as “La Rambla.”
 

The Font de Canaletes.  Legend says that if you drink from this fountain you will fall in love with Barcelona and always return.

Today the Rambla is a wide promenade with plane trees growing on the sides for shade. One lane of traffic flanks each side. There are many landmarks along the three-quarter mile stretch, including La Boqueria food market, the oldest and largest in the city. The Liceu Theater, an opera house is little further down.
 
Our daily strolls also came with a somber note. It was on this street less than a year ago that an act of terror horrified the city of Barcelona. Beginning near Plaça Catalunyua, a man in a white van jumped onto the Rambla and zig-zagged for nearly half a mile, destroying anything in his path. The vehicle finally became disabled on the Joan Miró mosaic that lies near the center of the promenade. The killing spree left 13 dead and 130 injured.
 

Joan Miró mosaic that lies in the center of the Rambla.

On one of our final walks along the Rambla, Kaitlyn and I tried to take it all in. We inhaled the smells of the sidewalk cafes, listened to the jumble of languages, and even sat down and watched people walk by. Then we came to a tree, one of the many plane trees that gives shade to the walkway. On the mottled white bark were many notes, written in Spanish, Catalán, and English.  They all paid tribute to the victims of the terrorist attack.  One of them read:
 
“Once again an act of terrorism . . . This time in my beloved city. You have left a hole in our heart and in our many families. Forever Barcelona ♥ No more victims” 

A Tribute to Brother Scott

On the nightstand next to my bed sits an intricately carved wooden statue. It is ten inches tall, and of a man holding a book in his left hand, with his right arm raised and finger pointed to the air. The lecturer is standing, as if teaching a sermon, and speaking through a thick wooden beard. He wears a subtly etched tie on his chest. Over the nape of his neck and extending to the small of his back is a ponytail clasped together. There is no doubt that this wooden figurine is a portrait of the sculptor himself, Dave Scott.
 
In real life, Dave Scott wore a long unkempt gray beard and stood over 6 ½ feet tall. His imposing figure demanded attention anytime he entered a room. Some said he looked like Gandolf. It didn't take long, however, to learn that it wasn't his height that set him apart, but his giant heart. Dave always took a genuine interest in what you and your family were doing, not only toward me, but toward many in our community. Each Sunday at church he would find a seat near the back row of the congregation where he was affectionately known as Brother Scott.
 
Dave never married. I don't know that he ever had the opportunity, but I think it was something that bothered him. Especially to be around so many people that had happy families, he had no choice but to return to an empty home. As with many single people, he didn't know how to cook. He once tried cooking a ham, but burned it. But he loved to eat, and at church parties he would often be the first in line at the food table.
 
But he knew how to carve wood. I guess this isn't surprising considering that he looks like a mountain man. He spent several years living up on the mountain in Duck Creek Village where I'm sure he spent countless hours whittling branches of pine and aspen. There are many more figurines such as mine that Dave created throughout the years, including some that are life-size. Others are smaller and carved from a single block of wood, but in a way that seems impossible. One that I recall is a wooden ball inside of a double-layered cage. The two cages can move and so can the ball. There are no seams or any possible way to have placed the ball inside the cage, other than to carve it there. He had several other “puzzles” of similar ideas, and it is mind-boggling to imagine how he did it.
 
For me, my personal connection with Dave was that we both enjoyed running. Of course, he ran a lot more than I did. At one point I believe he was running seventeen miles a day. That was amazing for a 65-year old man. Often we each ran the Snow Canyon Half Marathon, and I remember warming up in the pre-dawn freezing staging area among 2,000 other runners, and happily coming upon Dave Scott, my neighbor down the street. I was proud to know him because it was kind of like knowing a celebrity at those race events. Dave would genuinely talk to me for a few minutes, but then, without fail, there would be someone else come along, anxious to talk to the tall man in the long gray beard.
 
When Dave ran a race, the bathroom situation was always important. As he got older, he developed health problems, including a shortened intestine. He had to stop at every porta potty along the route, in addition to having to make an escape or two into the bushes. Eventually his health issues put him more on the sidelines than on the race route.
 
There was one year that I registered to run the “Huff to Bluff,” a marathon in Bluff, Utah, but I got injured. Mindful as always, in every year that followed, Dave Scott never failed to ask me if I was going to run the Huff to Bluff, and he even knew the date it would be held. He also had a knack of memorizing every finishing time of many of my half-marathons. I later learned that mine weren't the only times he memorized.
 
One day at church he handed me a page torn out from a running magazine that showed how to treat plantar fasciitis. I had some running pains, and obviously he spent as much time as I did trying to find a solution. I still have the folded page in my suit jacket.
 
Dave was also very conscientious in other areas. After my daughter passed away, he knew that she loved apples. He said, “Don't be surprised if one day you get a knock at the door and find a box of apples on your front porch.”
 
As I mentioned, Dave developed health issues that kept him from racing as often as he'd like. Often he served as a volunteer. The last time I saw him alive was near mile 12 at the Parowan City Half-marathon. As usual, he became the tallest, loudest and most masculine cheerleader I ever had. No matter how fatigued or worn out I may have been, to see Dave Scott's gesticulations and to hear his voice was a breath of fresh air.
 
He died suddenly and unexpectedly a month later. He had been experiencing some severe pains in his stomach and drove himself to the hospital. They discovered he had advanced liver cancer. Dave's aversion to doctors had cost him his life this time as the sickness had grown undetected.
 

David Scott's headstone in the Bountiful City Cemetery in Bountiful, Utah.

Dave's unique signature is etched on the backside of his parent's headstone.

Thirty-eight people showed up at his funeral, most of them from our church. Not only had Dave been unmarried, but he had no siblings, nor any known living family. That is, except his aunt, Marjorie Webb, who was 93 years old and on oxygen. She wasn't able to make it.
 
I knew every person in the room, except for one man, Phil Simonson. He was a High School friend of Dave.  Phil spoke to the congregation and shed valuable light on the early years of Dave's life, an era that none of the rest of us knew much about.
 
The two were neighbors in Bountiful, Utah. In 1966, they found a job working at Lagoon (an amusement park) for 90¢ an hour. He graduated in 1967 and studied mathematics at Weber College in Ogden, where he graduated cum laude. After his father died, he took care of his mother. After his mother's death, he chose to move out of the area. He was an admirer of John Moses Browning, the famous designer of firearms. He used to run past his grave at the cemetery in Ogden.
 
Even though Dave didn't have any next-of-kin or blood relatives, I couldn't help but think during the funeral that those in that room were his family. His aunt Marjorie said that he was never happier than when he had found the church. Not only does the church teach a gospel of peace, but it brings one into a closely-knit family. He visited with us in the chapel, the youth performed service at his home, the ladies brought warm dinners to his door, and the men made him one of their own. I can't imagine how lonely he would have been had it not been for the church.
 
Once in a while I will make the 6-mile run home from my work. As part of my route I cut through a field and onto a dirt road, then past Dave Scott's simple single-storied house. Without fail, I always expect him to be outside working in his yard and asking me if I've signed up for any races. Then, my heart always drops in sadness as I remember that he is no longer here.
 
It has been over two years now since Dave's been gone. I'm not sure if they ever found a will. With no next-of-kin, it has been a long process to figure out what to do with his meager possessions. I was surprised when, a month ago, I received a telephone call asking if I would like to have one of his sculptures. I was honored that they thought of me and gladly accepted the offer. As I described earlier, it is his self-portrait that sits on the nightstand next to my bed. Now, there is hardly an evening when I don't look at that figurine before I turn off the lamp and think of Brother Scott, even if just for a moment.
 
Dave is buried alongside his parents at the Bountiful City Cemetery. ♠

The Greatest Generation

One of the greatest men I ever knew was my grandpa Lacy.
 
When I was a teenager, he and my grandma would travel to Las Vegas, and when they came home they would often bring me a new pair of shoes—the first was a pair of high-top Reeboks. I once asked him why he did it and his response was that he grew up during The Great Depression and often-times they went with no shoes at all, something he didn't want his grand-kids to experience.
 
Tom Brokaw wrote a book entitled, The Greatest Generation. Those he wrote about were men and women who were molded by The Great Depression and then World War II. Although there are great people in every generation, these were a cut above the rest. I couldn't agree more. Although my grandfather didn't serve in the war, his character was certainly sculpted during that era.
 
Growing up in the Mid-west, my grandpa's father was a wrestler with the carnival. They had an old Diana Eight that pulled a small trailer and that is how they lived when they traveled around. He said his dad was always fixing flats because the tires were never good.
 
He further explained the conditions of that era: “There wasn’t any money. We were struggling hard and nobody had any money back in those days. We didn’t eat too high on the hog. When we got out to either grandparent’s place we ate better. Of coarse they still didn’t have any money, but they had farm produce and eggs and stuff like that. We ate good, but we didn’t eat any fancy stuff. If you got a candy bar or a bottle of pop, you were in tall clover. You felt real good. Of course, back in those days you could take a penny and buy some penny candy, take a nickel and buy a Snickers bar or a Milky Way and a bottle of pop, but those days are gone. Yeah, I remember eating a lot of cornbread and beans, and I like cornbread and beans. It got tiresome back then.”
 
He recalled observing that none of his grandparents had any money. What little cash they had came from selling cream from their farm. His Grandfather Seals used to go into town on Saturday (from Coolidge, Kansas to Holly, Colorado), and even then, didn't spend any money: “They would park on Main Street and open the doors up, and anybody that would walk by that they knew, they would visit with them and everything. I'd never see them spend money. They must have spent some, but I'd never see them do it.”
 
Unlike kids (and adults) of today, Grandpa Claude didn't spend hour after hour absorbed with entertainment that came from a screen. In fact, they didn't own a television in those days. His main source of entertainment came from a small family radio. On Sunday mornings he enjoyed listening to programs such as The Shadow and The Green Hornet. He remembers distinctly on December 7, 1941—the day Pearl Harbor was bombed—and being on the fight because none of his programs were on!
 
When he was older the family lived on a farm outside of Wellington, Utah. Claude was athletic and played three sports in high school: football, basketball and wrestling. After practice and games, there was no “late bus” like there is now days to take the players home. Instead, Claude and his older brother, Earl, had to rely on hitchhiking the nearly nine miles from Carbon High in Price to their home. Sometimes they would find a ride all the way to Wellington and then they would have to walk the final three miles to the farm. Other times times they couldn't find a ride at all and had to trudge the entire distance in the dark. Once they got tired along the way and spent the night in an abandoned cabin.  “Dad, he didn't come and get you. Of course, he had a beat up old vehicle that might not have made it. He didn't worry about you. When you got home, you got home. That was the way he was raised.”
 

My Grandfather, Claude Lacy.

Forty years later I watched my grandpa and concluded that “the way he was raised” must have worked. I saw my grandfather as a tall, soft-spoken and gentle man who was “tough as nails.” I knew of the accomplishments of his past, but to me he was the man who took me out for ice cream and to Bill Foy the barber to get a buzz. Not once did I hear him raise his voice, and all he knew respected him. Never did he boast.
 
Grandpa was always frugal and wise with his money. I surmise that much of this came from lessons learned during The Depression. From nothing he eventually amassed a modest amount of wealth, although you would never guess this from looking at him. The house that my father was raised in was once in a mining camp in Hiawatha, near Price. Grandpa paid $150 for the house and then paid $1,500 to have it moved to Blanding, a distance of 200 miles. He put it on a lot that he purchased for $225.
 
Later in life (when he was in his fifties) my grandparents moved from the Hiawatha house and built a home on a hill. He chose to build on a hill because that's what my grandmother wanted. Unlike the mansions we see today that are being built by people in their thirties or forties, the home of my grandparents was very modest. His sister, Alice, once asked him why he didn't go out and buy something fancy with all the money he had. His response: “Because I would rather have the money in the bank than have something fancy.”
 
As I grew older and started a family of my own, he would always enjoy spending time with me when I came over to visit. He would ask how each individual was doing, and was genuinely concerned.
 
Probably the greatest hallmark of my grandfather is how he loved my grandma. During the final years of my grandmother's life, she became afflicted with Alzheimer's Disease. Even when she became difficult, he chose to take care of her.  It took a great toll on his health. During this period I watched him change from a healthy and active person to a frail old man. After several years, when he could no longer care for her himself, he finally admitted her to a nursing home. He was down there several times a week and would sit with her and talk to her, even when she no longer remembered who he was. He loved her until the day she died, and on that December day he wept because he didn't want to lay her to rest in the cold ground, because she hated the cold.
 

Grandpa loved my grandma to the very end.

Recently I had the privilege of going to lunch with my wife's ninety-year old grandmother.  Joe Ann Smith, or “Gram,” as she is affectionately known, is very much of The Greatest Generation. We picked her up at her home in Bountiful. Like a true lady, she was dressed for the occasion with her hair and makeup done up nicely and wearing pearl earrings, dress pants and a striped shirt jacket. She can't walk as well as she once did, carrying a small limp with each slow step. She chose to eat at a locally-owned Italian restaurant called Robintino's.
 
As we sat together at our dining table, within a busy and bustling atmosphere, I listened intently to the words Gram spoke. I knew there was wisdom and experience behind her words. She was very personable, and asked us direct questions about our lives, especially to my daughter, Kaitlyn, who was about to enter the National Guard.
 
She explained that during The Depression they would repair their shoes to make them last as long as they could. Sometimes her father would use cardboard from cereal boxes to patch up the holes. She told us about “party lines” in the olden days and how 4-6 families would use the same line, and how you could pick up the phone and listen in on another conversation. She also talked of her own generation, and how she once went to a class reunion where 95% of the couples were still married. “We didn't give up on things just because they were difficult. We worked hard at it.”
 
In her memoirs, Gram tells a story about the first Christmas she can remember, which was during The Great Depression. While many men had a hard time finding one job, her enterprising father had four. One evening he came home with a purse full of coins collected from one of his debtors. He poured the change into his hands to show his wife. This would be all the money they for Christmas that year.
 
Gram writes: “This was my wonderful Christmas. Dad had saved scraps from his building to make me a little doll bed. It was a darling little bed. He saved a little piece of chicken wire for the bottom of the bed. The sides were slats, and they were painted orange and white. Mother had soft flannel to make a thin little blanket to cover the chicken wire. Another little piece of flannel was used to make a blanket that covered my doll. She had also made a nightgown to dress my dolly. My beautiful little baby was about six or eight inches long. I had an orange and an apple and some pieces of candy. I thought I had the world by the tail! I couldn't have been happier! What the other six siblings received, I was totally unaware. This was my Christmas!”
 
This is certainly a contrast to our current society, where we are so materialistic that our homes are cluttered with “things” of which we have forgotten, or that we don't appreciate. Often times we don't even know what to buy someone because they already have “everything.”
 

(L-R) Great-granddaughter, Gram, and Granddaughter.

Gram's sweetheart passed away several years ago and she misses him every day. To us he was known as “Papa,” but to her and many others, he was simply, “Howard.” The two were married in 1947, but not before Howard fought in World War II.
 
He enlisted in the Navy at the age of seventeen. During the war he spent much of his time on an aircraft carrier in the Pacific, fighting the Japanese. It was his job to load the bombs onto the plane, and then take off with the plane, where he became the tail gunner. The story is told about one day after loading the bombs, the officer in command decided that Howard would stay behind on the ship to load more planes, rather than go up with the bomber. When the plane returned, the tail gunner (who had went in Howard's place) was mutilated with combat fire, so severely that the corpse was barley recognizable. Howard knew that this could have been him.
 
Like many of his generation, Howard rarely talked of the war. “It doesn't do anybody any good,” he would say. When I asked his daughter how the war influenced him, she explained that it made him grow up really fast. In high school he was a typical cocky, spoiled kid, but when he came back from the war he was humble, grateful, had a softer heart, and was more devoted to his home, church and country.
 
Howard and Joe Ann married sometime after the war and raised a wonderful family. They built a modest home where they would spend the rest of their lives. I came into the picture much, much later when they were well into their golden years. Great-grandkids were already in the picture and I could surmise from witnessing their fruits that Grammy and Papa had done a good job. All their posterity adores and respects them. They are very honorable people.
 
On more than one occasion I have heard Gram say that if she had a choice to come to Earth now, or back when she was born, she would undoubtedly choose back then. This always comes to a surprise to the younger generation, who can't fathom a life without all the technological advances of our times.  She states they were happier back then and life was much more simple.
 
“I had the best, one of the most challenging, but the best and most wonderful times on this earth. We learned how to work hard! How to give! How to share! How to trust, and how to be trustworthy. How to learn and how to help. I thank my Heavenly Father for all of this!” ♠

Howard (on right) during his time in the Navy.