The Little Red Wagon

I was five years old in 1937 in the heart of the Great Depression.  I had few toys, but my one most treasured possession was a little red wagon.  I hauled everything in it, coasted where I could with one knee in the wagon and the other leg pushing.  That little red wagon was the joy of my life.  And then the handle broke, the metal just fell apart, and I could no longer play with my wagon.

I remember clearly the day when I was told to go up to Grandpa Wasden's, three-quarters of a mile or so from where we lived.  I walked up the road and went over to his blacksmith shop, and he presented me with my wagon, the handle welded together again.  Grandpa Wasden was a self taught master at fixing things and the forge and anvil in his blacksmith shop are part of our indelible memories of his life.  With a light heart and, I am sure, a smile on my face, I pulled my treasured wagon back to our house.

When things are broken, we try to fix them.  Some things we can fix, other things are not fixable.  We feel a sense of relief and, some times, a sense of joy when we can fix something that is dear or important to us or that we need in our daily lives.  And we feel a sense of despair when we realize that we must cast something aside or accept things as they are and make the best of them. 

As we grow older, our bodies begin to  betray us, and we seek fixes and repairs for whatever we can find remedies to help us.  The fixes and repairs become more problematic, more uncertain, the older we get.  And, at times, age is no respecter of betrayals in the ways our bodies work.  One of the most difficult lessons in life is to learn to fix the things we can fix and to live with the things we cannot.  Typically, this means our activites are curtailed; we can no longer walk or run as we once could, our hearts act up in uncomfortable ways, the rows of our pill bottles expand from year to year, and the frequency of our doctor's visits seems to multiply.  Our bodies, once free from pain, are often racked with excruciating pain.  And life becomes uncertain and unsettling.

Out of all of the experiences and changes and attempts to fix the things we can fix, though, our lives become more peaceful, more tranquil and settled, when we learn to live with what we have been blessed with.  Each morning, we have another day, another sunrise, and each night the curtain on the world comes down and we welcome the dark and the rest that comes with it.  And, over time, our thoughts go back to the little red wagons in our lives, and to the joys we experienced when we could fix them. And then we thank heaven once more for the moment that is now ours, for the chance we have to fix what we can, to mend the fences, to take take care of business, and to find the happiness and peace from having done all we can do to take care of ourselves and those whom we love.

Friday Morning December 7 2012

Who remembers December 7, 1941?  Some of us were playing in the yard in Ralston when we were called in to listen to the radio when the attack on Pearl Harbor was occurring.  Our lives were never the same after that day.  Similarly, we remember other days.  I was home with a cold and everyone else was gone when the news came on the radio that FDR had died.  I had just finished the oral exam defense of my doctoral dissertation at the U of Michigan when I stepped out into the other room while they voted and discussed my plight when the secretary said, the President (JFK) has just been shot.  I immediately returned to the exam room, interrupted their deliberations, and broke the news.  Several of them had held high positions in the Kennedy administration.  My exam was over.  Not another word.  Just a somber, dark and heavy pallor over the group of distinguished economists.  It was ironic that their student was the one to break the devastating news to them.

Our brains are seared with the landmark events of our lives, which forever haunt us with sadness and forever permeate our perspective and respect for life and remind us that our existence is temporary, often fraught with fear and disaster, but still blessed with a new day, a new sunrise, a new appreciation for the beauties of the earth and of the sky.

I soon became ill after that December 7 day, and spent three and one half months home in bed.  A little radio Dad was throwing away was sitting on the shelf.  I tinkered with it, took out the tubes and replaced them, and behold, it worked.  That radio became my lifeline to the War and the world outside as I still remember Edward R. Murrow from the rooftops of London and H.V. Kaltenborn and the somber and fearsome moments of the war.  Now we reminisce, and give thanks for all those who sacrificed and for the wonders of each new day.

Penrose Christmas Chronicles December 17 2011: A Tiny Bag of Candy for Louise

The Penrose Church house was in use until the mid 1930s for various activities, and remained in use for occasional activities like elections, dances, community meetings and the like until the 1950s when my Dad and Uncle Norman dismantled the building.  For 13 years or so our Grandpa Wasden was Branch President and Bishop.  Some time in the mid-1930s, a Christmas party was held in the Church house. A large decorated Christmas tree was set up at the front of the meeting room.  I don't remember if a program took place.  All I remember is how excited I was waiting for Santa, because I knew he was going to pass out little bags of candy to each of the children.  Instead of just going around and passing out the candy, Santa had a list of names.  How could Santa get the names of the Penrose children?  And finally Santa called my name: "Dwight."  How could he know my name was Dwight?  I eagerly went to the front to retrieve my Christmas bounty, so very, very rare in those dark days of the Great Depression.  As Santa handed me my bag, I said, "But my sister Louise is home sick and couldn't come tonight and she won't have a bag of candy."  And, lo and behold, Santa retrieved another tiny bag of treats with the name "Louise" written on it.  So I took our two little sacks of treats home and gave Louise her own candy sack, feeling relieved.  I was sorry she had not been able to go to the Church house and see the tree and have it personally handed to her by Santa, but at least Santa had not forgotten her, and I was glad.  I have never forgotten this event, another enduring childhood Christmas memory that has stayed with me forever.

The Mystery!

Upon my grand arrival home from my unplanned week away, this was waiting for me at the back door. How classy! The attached note stated that the "lost" had been "found".

Lost refers to Mother's hand pushed cultivator which Ann, Steve and I appropriated to use for imaginary transportation for cats and dolls, via train, car or pony. Since it was a favorite, there were occasional squabbles and some coveting when someone else had it.

One day Mother was canning beets and her hands were stained with juice. Steve had the cultivator, I wanted it. I took it and hid it behind the garage door and he told Mother. I reported to her that I didn't take it and Ann said she didn't take it. I was more convincing at lieing than Ann was at telling the truth. Ann got spanked with beet stained hands.

I did confess to Mother much later and I have often felt that I owed Ann for the pain she endured. And now I feel that I owe Steve his lost turn to play with my new cultivator.

In the meantime, it will reign in my garden and each time I see it, I will think of each of you and how you have loved me........but not more than I love you.

Thank you to all who have made this reunion possible.