My Sweetie's Funeral Talk by Bossy - Part 2

In the early 90s, when the West Jordan house was bursting at the seams, it was time to build the dream house. I remember the thought, care and prayers that went into selecting the perfect lot in the best neighborhood. I remember touring the model home and watching my dad’s keen eye finding inefficiencies in layout and design, the redesigned kitchen perfect for canning and gatherings, and changing the open floor plan master to accommodate the large jetted tub. Growing up the son of a plumber, my dad had an appreciation for a jetted tub, especially an oversized one. He understood what was necessary to re-enforce the floors and he planned every step. He was darn proud of his tub.

When building the house, Dad wanted the future. He planned for a security system and an intercom and to afford it. we wired everything ourselves. We spent hours at the new house pulling wire with Dad up and down the ladder while he taught by skill and example. He really could have built a home from the ground up and I depended on him many times to learn the skills that helped me with my own home. The carefully selected lot for the big house was planned for a perfectly placed home triangulated by the schools so we could always walk to school safely. This was a lesson learned the hard way at the Creekwood house where a scary open canal and train tracks made them bus kids to elementary school. Though, looking back on it, I think we were driven to school more than we rode the bus to school. For some reason, we just chronically missed that early bus.

At the new house, we could walk to school, but the option of early morning band happened. Mom asked grandma for her old plastic clarinet. And Dad, who always wanted a saxophone player to play like the guy from Eddie and the Cruisers, purchased an alto sax for Neal. But Neal’s hands were too small and pretty soon I was in both advanced and early morning band getting rides to school 4 days a week. There were no crossing guards available for early morning band, and soon we were given that ride to school

every morning. Without big sis, of course, the younger kids couldn’t walk, so my dad delayed the start of his work day to transport us to school ever day. That ride was Dad’s check in time. Those were quiet alone moments where he got tabs on us and felt out how we were doing at school, with friends, and at church; semi-private dad conferences that I didn’t appreciate. 

As I was thinking over this talk, I realized this was the start of the "unsolicited fatherly advice" my dad was so famous for. As we graduated and became parents ourselves, these check-ins took place on the front porch in the green rocking chairs. My final long drive home with Dad happened this July. It was strange to be the one in the driver’s seat; we all knew Dad hated to be driven because he never wanted to be stranded.

You didn’t wager with Dad. After Calder died, Paul and I went to a fertility specialist who very bluntly told me if I wanted to have more babies, I needed to lose weight. And so in a seeking "fatherly advice" on the subject conversation, I was listing excuses as to why I didn’t want to lose weight and at the time the biggest barrier was I didn’t want to have to buy new clothes for work. So Dad said, "If you lose 100 lbs, I’ll buy you a whole new wardrobe. Some time later, after my surgeries and 150 lbs weight lost, I had just shared the news of being pregnant with Ryker to my dad on his birthday. I brought up the new wardrobe, hinting that I would be wanting new clothes after I was done with this pregnancy and he better be ready to pay up in March. My sly dad said, double or nothing. Instead of a new wardrobe if Paul and I had 10 kids he’d give me $10k. I didn’t really care about the new clothing and honestly the odds of hitting 10 kids when I had 4ish seemed impossible, so I took that bet. Two years ago, after Denver was born, Paul was teasing Dad about how Denver was number ten and it was time to pay up.

Dad quickly started counting the babies. Ultimately, he decided that I could count Cat and Dakota as kids because they had lived with me for several years, but he wasn’t going to count Elizabeth in the total kids for the bet because she hadn’t lived with us. Therefore, we were at nine kids. On Father’s Day, when Denver wore his big brother shirt and it clicked, Dad shouted for joy and quickly turned to panic when Paul said, "Yup, number 11." 

"Dad, this is a crappy way to get out of our bet."

My dad loved cars. Some of my earliest memories are of sitting in the front seat (it was the 90s) and helping “shift” while Dad drove. I distinctly remember being taught how to shift on our way to  Montessori from the condo. I also remember the elicit gas station breakfasts on these school trips. Perhaps the only “selfish” thing my dad did was the purchase of the G8. Before the G8, Dad always had the hand-me-down commuter car which were usually given to me eventually and driven to their demise. The Escort, the Suzuki; I remember when dad was sideswiped driving to L3 and the Suzuki was totaled. Neal bought the Suzuki because he wanted to learn how to drive a stick and there are very few manual cars that could accommodate his size and allow it. Eventually it was gifted to Paul and it became Paul’s everyday commuter until Cat needed it and she eventually wrecked it. It was mostly cosmetic, but our insurance refused to cover repairs so we gifted it back to Nephi who also wanted to learn to drive a manual and fix up the car. And while that project has been sitting and has since been gifted down, I hope the project is actually fixed and Kori does get to drive it, because year before that, it was Dad’s daily commuter and fatherly advice is woven into the fabric of the car. No pressure, little brothers.

With the Suzuki wrecked, dad drove the big van and after months of commuting and the parking nightmare, he decided he wanted to buy the G8. It was researched and planned. And too expensive, something mom complained about the first time he needed to buy his special tires for it. But dad was so proud of that G8. Although to this day. I do not believe he ever let my husband drive it, not even to play driveway shuffle. Sorry Paul, you shouldn’t have rear-ended Andrew Clark in the snow at 5 miles an hour the first winter we were married.

Back to building the dream house; Dad’s childhood house was magic, more than the pull up bar on the stairs and the unfinished wraparound porch with the excellent climbing rocks. It had the shed full of Grandpa Christensen’s tools, and the larger than life garden and sandbox. So when my parents  purchased their third of an acre lot, it was no surprise that we would have a big garden and mom had consented to a sandbox similar to the small garden we had that the West Jordan house. I remember the day the dump trucks brought the sand. Yes, I said trucks. Now dad claims it was a miscalculation when he ordered 2 trucks and a pup worth of sand for our sandbox, but I know that man knew how to calculate materials correctly. And that sandbox was the 9-year-old boy's fantasy. I could spend the next hour telling stories of flooding the sandbox and playing hard in the yard with Dad. But few appreciate the work and efforts he has made over the last 30 years to maintain it as a sandbox and not an outdoor litter box. First, it is high quality sand, not the construction sand that was in his Dad’s sandbox. 

He worked hard to keep it weed and pest free and I have never found any animal waste in that sandbox. It has always been a safe clean space for imaginations to run wild.

Last part tomorrow...

My Sweetie's Funeral Talk by Bossy

Bossy's talk will be split over several days because of the length. But you won't be sorry, it is worth the read; funny and heart-warming.

I was almost five when my dad’s dad, Grandpa Christensen died. Same age as Ryker and Oakley, a little bit younger than Thomas, Gavin, and Josh. In those beginning years, Neal and I were college babies; we had young and financially strained parents who lived a great distance from their parents. We would visit when we could; during fall and winter break, other holidays to can and raid the food storage, and to see our grandparents. I believe there is one photo of me with grandpa Christensen, but I don’t remember him personally. What I remember is the superhero tale told by my father, when he was growing about his father. Grandpa Christensen was stronger than Superman, he could withstand the force of multiple blows to the head with a 2x4. He ran faster than a deer. He fought hard for our country, so hard that his hair turned white overnight. The man, the myth the legend, kept alive by the artful storyteller that was my own father.

In many ways I have two stories to tell, the twenty years he was my dad and the twenty years after I had bestowed him with the title “Grandpa.” The best example I can give of my dad growing up, and forgive me if it is way off base, Kiyna, I have a confession. I stopped halfway through book five and never finished the series, but my dad was Hagrid.
Big guy, long hair, leather jacket, strong, loyal, and scary if you crossed him. He was a gentle giant who was also my spiritual rock.

Let’s start with the long hair. Most of my childhood, my dad and I were in competition for who had the best hair. I concede now that I likely lost this contest in my childhood, but my dad knew that in my insecure world as the chubby, socially-awkward child that when I was home, stewing about the mean girls at school, he could always turn my mood around by instigating a who had the longest hair contest. We would rally the judges and we each took turns, my dad with an exaggerated half back bend and myself contorting far more flexible, ever trying to will my hair to touch my butt and win. As a teenager, when the hair game became silly, instead my place to hide my insecurities was stealing his beloved leather jackets and hiding inside them. His shield protected me from the insecurities of an overweight teenager in a world that idolized anorexia.

Growing up, one of our favorite Grandpa Christensen stories was my dad sharing his own bratty behavior. We loved hearing about the time grandma-great threw the tv out the front door because her boys were being naughty, but a classic replay was the bike. My dad, the preteen, was over at a friend's house who lived up the street, uphill from their
house. He had ridden his bike over there. At some point, he entered a battle of wills with his mom and started being disrespectful. The mistake was that his dad was present
and had he heard him. My dad caught the look and knew he was in trouble. He made his exit plan and grabbed his bike. It was the 70s, so picture the banana seat with the handle on the back. Grandpa Christensen told him to apologize to his mother. And my
dad positioned himself carefully at the top of the hill ready to ride. He said “No!” and promptly took off as fast as his legs could pedal from the top of the street knowing he was free; he was on his bike and his dad on foot. Legend says he was to the neighbor's driveway when the strong arm encircled his waist to keep him from flying over the handlebars as his dad’s other hand grabbed the handle on the bike seat and swiftly ended his escape plans. Dad was marched back to the neighbor's house to apologize to his mother. 

We had heard this story hundreds of times growing up, so it shouldn’t have

been a surprise that we have our own version of this story. Neal was between 11 and 12, not yet 6’4” or whatever ridiculous height he is now. I was still taller at this point. We were
in the kitchen and Neal was mouthing off to Mom, Dad came around the corner and quietly and firmly in the don’t mess with me voice told him to straighten up and apologize. Of course as big sister, I was gleefully watching with popcorn. Forgetting all
the warning tells of Christensen boys who sass their mothers, Neal dug in with a “No!” We were inside, so he didn’t have a bike to escape on, so he planned a distraction, he knocked over a Pepsi. We will have to ask him, I don’t remember if Dad was holding it or it was on the counter, but with his distraction in play, he created a mess and fall hazard and took off
like it was Mario cart and the banana would assure his victory and escape. I’ve never seen my father move so fast and gracefully as he channeled his inner Superman and grabbed Neal by the ankles and proceeded to use his hair to mop up the Pepsi while
lecturing him on treating mom with respect and apologizing. He was strong.

Dad was so proud of his kids. I know that the secrecy of L3 and his work and not being able to bring us in and show off his lab was difficult for him. Even though we only got to see his office once during the special L3 party, I already knew what his office would look like. The model yellow Chevy Nomad I had gifted him with my own money, and a bookcase with 12 photos lined up; pictures of us kids. Dad would constantly brag about us and share our happenings. I am sure many of his coworker friends here know more about us than we know about them.

My earliest memories of my dad include, silly songs, pillow forts and the video camera. I swear he had the video camera for an arm from 87-93 recording the mundaneness of our everyday lives. Those home videos of slides and jumping into pillows were not special occasions that was our every day growing up with a dad who called himself a 9-year old boy. We were trained by the best, as children waiting for Mom to get out of class or

finish a Tupperware party, we knew where all the good parks and slides where Dad was always there alongside us, never afraid of getting stuck in a tunnel slide. And so grateful because it was difficult to make that 9-year-old angry. Neal and I got away with practically murder for naughty behavior growing up during a brief obsession with Cool Runnings.
We turned the staircase into a practice track with bunkbed mattresses and laundry basket
bobsleds, ruining the mattresses, baskets and putting holes in the wall. My dad just replaced and the patched wall. . By the way, the mattress stair slide sans baskets continued to the Bridle Oak house and nearly middle school. I am pretty sure at least once my dad also slid down the stairs to see how fun it was. He did, however, make us haul the matresses to the downstairs stairs because the open hallway was safer than landing into the wall at the bottom of the main floor.

At his childhood home it was the equivalent of the pull up bar on the stairs. Neal and I were too short to reach it, but that didn’t stop us from jumped from several stairs up trying

 to be cool like Uncle Greg. Eventually, Dad would come over and lift us up to reach and catch us when we could only hold on for a few seconds.

Come back tomorrow for more.

Time to Hear from Me

I'm so sorry that others have taken over writing for me. Everything is just so raw and new, and I am so tired. I don't sleep at night, but then I doze off during the day. My most embarrassing moment was at Baby Doll's volleyball game. I was actually visiting with one of the moms I have known for a long time. I thought maybe I had just zoned out, but she said, "You need more sleep." And we shared a laugh. 

Yes, I still laugh. It's just that the laughter is fewer and further between. I know and understand that my Father in Heaven's plan is much better than the one I had, but that doesn't take away the intense longing to hold my sweetie's hand or to hear about his day at work. 

Today, I spent hours taking his clothes and shoes out of our closet. I don't know what I will do with all the extra room. He always had more clothes than me. He loved to dress up in his fedoras and colorful Jerry Garcia ties. He had about a dozen different dinner jackets and SO many shirts!! I gave some to the Dog Walker and the others boys are taking a few. We will take everything else out to Deseret Industries. They always told me they loved the bigger sizes, so this should really make them happy. 

My sweetie's best work friend brought home the contents of his office in 3 small boxes. He had a bunch of plaques and trophies, but he always said his most prized possessions were the 12 little frames that held pics of our kids. 

We are working hard to find a new normal. You know, we spent a week out of real life, planning and then having the funeral, but life didn't stop for those around us. More school assignments were given, more PTO was used, and even some unpaid leave. Now we are trying to catch up. Curly is pretty good, but Baby Doll still has some assignments to do. Some of her teachers were kind enough to excuse some of the busy work and that has helped too. 

Baby Doll has another volleyball game tomorrow and Friday is Senior Night at the Homecoming Game for Curly. Can you believe they only have away games left? It seems like the season just started. I have been so impressed with their teammates. Nearly all of the volleyball players (over 30 of them) showed up at the viewing at the same time!! They gave Baby Doll the love and support she needed at the perfect time. And Curly told me the team was showing up for the funeral, but I thought he meant the coaches and his friends. But as I stood up to follow the casket out of the room, I looked up and was greeted with this sea of football faces! Curly said about 45 out of 60 players were there to support him and that is saying something because they had to get out of school, dress nice, all of it. I stood with him at the door as they exited the church, each grabbing him in a giant bro hug. Why are those darn tears always so close to the surface??

So for now, while my feelings are still so raw and tender, I might just have someone else post for me. Please keep coming back and supporting my kids, because they are hurting too. How long does it take for the pain to go away? I asked Scout to take my sweetie off speed dial today. Yesterday, I was at the mortuary again, going over financial stuff and choosing a marker for our grave. Today, some guy who went to high school with my sweetie called me for the second time since the funeral a week ago. BLOCK! Yeah. I need real life again. I don't really like this new normal.