Harold Angus Merrell b. July 9,1903, d. January 30,2007

Great Grandpa Merrell, (the stately gentleman shown above in the blue shirt & tie) passed away last night. He was 103 1/2 years old, and though his eyesight and hearing had declined, his mind and his humor were still completely in tact until the day he died.

He once told me that he had loved me since the first time he had ever heard about me. He always made me feel special. I loved him, and I will miss him.

To give you a feel for the kind of man that he was, here is an excerpt from his oral personal history:

"Ross and I were coming home from a party. We saw some girls walking ahead. Ross said, 'Let's go get a girl to walk home with us.' I walked up to Marie and put my arm around her and said, 'Could I walk home with you?' Marie slid her left arm around my back . . . and you might not believe it, but I felt sparks all along my arm where it touched her back. It was warm and like an electric shock. I can still feel it. I had walked other girls home, but I never felt like that. I kept wanting that same feeling again. We went together for about two years before we were married. We were married in the Salt Lake Temple, August 19, 1925. Then I went with her for another 78 years.

"For a date we used to go to the picture show. They didn't have sound then only words written across the bottom. Most people sat at the back, but Marie's eye sight was so poor that we would sit at the front and I'd lean my head over and quietly read the words so I wouldn't disturb the others."

What a sweetie! Good-bye Grandpa Harold! You will be missed!

My Boy!

My baby!

OUCH!!

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That's what a 7 1/2 month-old has to say about her mom accidentally cutting her little finger. Any minute now the motherhood police are going to show up and confiscate my badge.

Is there an 'underground' for basically good parents who inflict pain on their little ones unintentionally?

I'm actually not sure who it hurt most: Brianna, whose finger it was; me, who made the stupid mistake and caused the pain; or Ben, who, I think, felt the pain as intensely as his sister.

When it happened, I'm not sure what I yelled, but Ben came at once to see what was wrong. Brianna was, of course, screaming and bleeding. I explained to Ben how I accidentally cut her. He began taking quick steps, on his tip-toes, in place, while bent slightly at his waist. He was so anxious about his sister and the pain she was feeling. He finally said, "I'll get a band-aid!" I said that was a good idea.

In the meantime, I applied direct pressure. He soon returned-- in that same quick tip-toe step, and still slightly bent, as if he felt her pain right in his gut. He came with one band-aid and five different medicines for me to choose from. As he approached me he said, "I think she'll need some surgery too, mom."

As I applied the medicine and the band-aid, Brianna was still screaming. Ben was pacing and rubbing both hands through his hair. He finally said, "I'm getting out of here!" He went down-stairs, got his coat and shoes on, and went out on the front porch. It is dark and about 3 degrees outside with the wind-chill. I begged and begged him to come back inside. Finally, I had to make him come back in. He did so, after Brianna's crying subsided.

After Ben was in bed, asleep, I discovered that he had thrown the scissors that had cut her finger into our kitchen garbage. I didn't pull them out.

If you'll excuse me now, I think I need to go put some medicine and a band-aid on my heart.

"Try, try again! Never give up!"

At the encouragement of my brilliant younger sister, and with the picturing of a gun to my head, I have agreed to give this "blog" craze a go. However, as I sit here, looking at this blank "posting" template, I find myself somewhat intimidated. Actually, as of just over a year ago, I had no idea what a blog even was. Now I am jumping in with both feet.

I have always had trouble keeping a journal, for the simple reason that I always felt that I had to write something meaningful, or clever, or both every time. I read once that to get past those kinds of thoughts, you have to give yourself permission to fail. And so, I give myself permission to fail, and fail miserably. It really is a good philosophy that frees me up to try things I otherwise wouldn't (such as a blog, for instance). And, it applies to so many things.

I have to tell my son many times when he's trying something new, that it's o.k. to mess up. One of his favorite things to say is "Try, try again! Never give up!" (Of course, that usually applies to his parents when we have failed to do something that he has requested of us. But, occasionally he will listen to his own advice.) It is good advice.

Any other good advice for a first-time blogger?