January 18, 2011

The doctor at Indice Clinic/Hospital looked and sounded like a younger version of President Uchtdorf, but Mom handled it pretty well and didn't swoon. He spoke good English, learned at a French school, and said to her, you may speak English. He hardly spoke to me. She has Achilles tendonitis inflammation, painful but not debilitating. Slow to heal; of unknown origin. The first course of treatment, while he is on a three week vacation, is an anti-inflammatory patch, daily pain meds, and physical therapy. He also recommended she wear a higher heel to take the stretch out of her tendon, so today we went shoe shopping and she found a cute pair she liked. Hope it helps.

At the hospital, hardly any waiting at all, we only had to go to four different places, they were very nice, but they changed Mom's name to Jane Tack Betty. Cute, don't you think? We're having to have new name tags made: HERMANA BETTY, just like Mississippi. Here the women introduce themselves by first name only, because to say all four names confuses us poor North Americans. I still can't explain it. They have an extra last name, and women don't take/ or may add their husband's last name—Betty Jane Forsyth O'Neal del Pack. Sometimes the last last name is abbreviated by its initial-P. or A. or J. Ask Kevin Blair Pack, F.

It's Saturday night after laundry, (with no dryer our apartment looks like a weekend ghost convention), preparing our Sunday lessons, vacuuming, going to the produce market, (cherries are waning, but grapes are coming in at 90 cents a pound, but will drop in coming weeks), and the mall. Not nearly as crowded as before Christmas. Yesterday we ate at a stand-alone McDonald's which was empty. The food had been cooked in anticipation of customers, so when we showed up we got it, hard and stale. I took mine back and got another one just like the first.

One girl on the playground calls to another: “nina, nina”, which means girl child or daughter, but is used instead of hey you, whatever your name is. Parents also call their children to them by calling “nina” or “nino”, unless they are mad. I don't know what they say then, but we hear almost no anger, impatience, scolding or arguing. Parents call: kids come. We haven't heard even a hint of a domestic dispute, no slamming doors, shouting, squealing tires, broken glass. Good neighborhood.

Mom may become an internet junkie. Last night and this morning she spent two hours each surfing news and department store sites. The other day she was home alone and Skyped all by herself. She is learning to use a mouse and cursor, where we all had to start, and navigates pretty well. She's found her news source. We really miss the news.

This week paying bills I hit it just right at one bank and went straight to the window without waiting for anyone, and yesterday we had to wait only an hour to pay our rent. One hour to serve 22 people. We and the office elders and the good citizens waste a lot of time waiting in line. The economy could benefit from some cultural and administrative adjustments. Are we the only ones complaining?

The Christmas mail is still coming by the truck load. Well not exactly. I think they have a box or bag they fill with our mail each day at the sorting facility. That much and no more. The rest will eventually get to you. The maximum volume seems to be the same every day. The truck it comes in is about the size of a minivan. Then next day there will be nothing. Somebody got tired of all this foreign mail. Let 'em wait. We know how to get their cabritos (another word for kids, or kids).

We are well, in a better state of mind than last week. That's all I'm going to report. Instead of a long email, included is a long story, and a short one, the same story in fact, and Mom's weekly poem.

Poem of the week:

GETTING OLDER?

I think I'm getting older.
I forgot to check today;
Couldn't recall where my purse was,
That I had put away.

Why did I come into this room?
I know there was a reason.
Is this part of the saying,
To everything there is a season?

I forgot to turn the water off,
Because my phone began to ring.
Was there somewhere I should be,
And something I should bring?

Oh! Someone's knocking at the door;
My neighbor's come to call.
I can't remember her name;
It'll come to me in a while.

My granddaughter tells me,
Grandma, it's me, Emma;
Not Sophie, not Ella, not Ava.
Who else could it be?

I know who she is;
I can still see.
It's that there are so many;
The count is seventeen.

My cup runneth over,
With eighteen on the way.
I'm the luckiest, most blessed person alive;
What else can I say?

But I AM getting older;
It is plain to see,
My walk is not as steady,
As it used to be.

Never mind the wrinkles,
The wobbles and the aches;
I' m still as happy as can be;
What difference does it make?

Hermana Jane Tack Betty, age 69, January 10, 2011, Santiago, Chile
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------(The long and the short of it. Same story twice)

I'LL TAKE CARE OF IT

I'm not a very good driver's ed teacher. That should be no surprise because I'm the kid who wrecked the prophet's car. No, I'm not proud of it, but I'll never forget it. When my kids became teenagers and wanted to get their licenses to drive I thought I'd save 75 bucks, times five, and teach them myself. I'm a pretty good driver; I've never had a serious accident—except that one.

I required them to log 100 hours practice at the wheel with one of their parents on board giving helpful tips, like LOOK OUT!! DIDN'T YOU SEE THAT GUY? They had to parallel park, drive a stick shift, and learn to properly merge onto the freeway. My dad took me to the fairgrounds parking lot and taught me how to do and undo a skid on the ice. Cool. But there is no ice where we live. While we did their practice driving we never had a scrape of any kind. White knuckles, sudden stops, close calls and coronaries, but no actual bodily damage to car, driver, or parent.

So each in turn finished the course, passed the required Mississippi driving tests and got his or her official certificate to cruise--anytime, anywhere, with anyone in the car. Not exactly. We still put some limits on who, when and where, trying to be wise guardians and save innocent lives.

But they reminded Dad now and then that his own driving record was not unblemished. Come on kids, it was only a little scrape on the driver's side door. OK, it was the whole door. Alright, both doors. Details. They never let you forget.

We put an insurance card, phone numbers, a comforting note about the relative value of people and things, in the glove box, in an envelope “In Case You Have an Accident.” They did. Each, within a few weeks of finishing The Most Comprehensive Driver's Education Course in the Entire Civilized World, had a wreck with the family car. No blood, some bruises to body, ego (mine), and the old Ford/Dodge/Chevy station wagon/van. Since our policy was not to buy them a car of their own, this meant we were all without transportation for a while—a daily reminder of their folly.

Speaking of reminders: Dad, tell us again about the time You Wrecked the Prophet's Car. You were about our age, right? Close, I was eighteen, getting ready to go on a mission. Banking some cash the summer before I left. So it was a long time ago and those youthful misjudgments need to be forgiven and forgotten.

I've never met anyone else who Wrecked the Prophet's Car. Surely, I'm the only one stupid enough to do that. I thought I was doomed to the depths of a bottomless pit. But instead, He forgave me. He forgave me. I was forgiven, on the spot, by President McKay himself, face to face, person to person, prophet to trembling-with-fear teenager.

Right Dad, so don't you think you could, you should, you must forgive us? The Lord and His Prophets may forgive whom they will forgive, but of you, Dad, it is required to forgive all men—and teenagers, especially your own flesh and blood, right?.

Was there blood? No, but there was a lot of sweat and tears and my veins were full of ice. Yours would be too, if you had Wrecked the Prophet's Car. You'd feel like running as fast as you could, as far as you could.

Well, why didn't you? I considered it. The world record mile run had just been shattered beyond belief, under 4:00 minutes. Not humanly possible, for me anyway, the chubby, non-athletic, pitiful boy who Wrecked the Prophet's Car--just ten minutes before he was due to drive it (he was near ninety then) away from the Hotel Utah where he lived the last few years of his life. Ten minutes at 4:00 minutes per mile. . .mmmmm. . .I could be two and a half miles from here before my hero appears from his 9th floor suite and the jig is up for you, kid. You are not going to get the penny-a-car safe driving bonus this month, pal. For sure, he's not going to give you his usual 25 cent tip. Hey, that was real coin in those days. I only made four times that in an hour.

He really was my hero. When I turned 11 and became a Boy Scout, one of the first events of my illustrious stage career was to be in an all-church dance festival. No, it wasn't at the Nauvoo Parade Grounds; and no, Joseph and Brigham did not attend. It was at BYU, two hours bus ride from Logan, and President McKay was there just to see me dance. Well, me and ten thousand other kids from the whole church (read: Utah and Idaho).

We got there early, practiced in the hot summer sun, waited for others to practice in the hotter afternoon sun. It was a long day for a tired kid with no water or sunscreen, and by the time we did our dance (read: callisthenics; you know-- jumping Jacks, side-straddle hops, push-ups) I was ready to hit the road in the back seat of the bus, if I could beat the bigger kids to it. Not likely.

Anyway, after all the dances, they announced that the new Prophet, President David O. McKay was there and wanted to shake hands with each one of us. What? It's after nine o'clock and we've got a ten hour bus ride ahead of us. How long is this going to take? Well, it took a long time, standing in a long line with nothing to eat or drink. This sunburned Boy Scout wished he had been better prepared. I couldn't wait for this torture to be over.

Finally, when the line turned, I could see, at the other end of the football field, our destination. Is this what they mean by a five mile hike? Then, as I crossed the fifty yard line I could see the kids step up onto a stage and shake hands with a white-haired old man. An OLD MAN? I endured all this to shake hands with an old man? It took a couple more first downs, but my attitude began to change. He's been out in the sun all day, too; he probably doesn't have anything to eat or drink either. I'll bet he's tireder than I am. Why is he doing this?

Gradually, it started to dawn on me. He was enjoying it. He said something to every kid. He had the kindest smile, the most interesting face and the most amazing head of shiny white hair. And he was Big. My dad was over 6'3”; this guy—excuse me—this prophet of God outweighed my dad by 50 pounds and was not fat; he looked fit at 80-something. Why would he do this? Oh, I get it. He has to shake all these other hands so he can get to me. Yeah, that's it. Not. Maybe I've been waiting all this time so I can shake His hand and touch a prophet of God and hear his voice speak to me in person. Yeah, that's it. That's pretty cool. Wow! I'm almost next.

I did. And I never forgot it. That's why it was so gut wrenching 6 years later to realize: you just smashed the driver's side of President McKay's brand new shiny black Cadillac. When he called for it an hour ago someone had washed and waxed it down in the four-level underground parking garage where I was a valet parking guy, driving hundreds of cars of every make and sticker price every day. What an amazing job for a teenager in 1960. I was Kookie Burns in person. (Ask someone as old as me who Kookie Burns was. Hint: 77 Sunset Strip.) What a stomach dropping, gut wrenching, spine melting moment. From stardust to dirtbag in a flash, or a CRASH.

Do you know what an awful noise one big Cadillac rippppppping a four foot gash in another big Cadillac makes? Everybody for a block heard it and came rubber necking. That kid just Wrecked the Prophet's Car! What an idiot. Man, is he in trouble. Here comes the boss; he heard it too. Mr. Newman didn't say much: just, get back to work it's rush hour. I'll call for you when President McKay comes in about 10 minutes.

Do you know how long ten minutes can be? Not long enough. Eternity couldn't be much longer. On the other hand, in an instant—it seemed—as I was bringing up a car in the elevator, I pulled out and there they were. Mr. Newman, President McKay, and THE PROPHET'S CAR. It looked worse than I remembered it and Mr. Newman was not smiling as he saw me and motioned me to come take my licking.

I tucked my whipped-puppy tail between my legs, laid back my ears, lowered my head and started on that long lonesome one-way path to outer darkness. Then I looked up. President McKay was stepping toward me with his arms widespread. He was coming at me. . . to HUG me. As he wrapped his ample arms around my sorry self I felt as if I were in the arms of Jesus. And when he said, don't worry son; I'll take care of it; I always buy an extra set of fenders and doors, I thought I had died and gone to heaven, in a good way. In an amazing way. Unforgettable. Forgiven.

Do you know what it feels like to be forgiven? I do. And I'll never forget it because I wrecked the prophet's car and he said don't worry, I'll take care of it. Glory be. He paid for my mistake and forgave me. He and the Savior.

Will you please forgive me? I forgive you. He does, too. He took care of it all. I know it.

10 Enero 2011, Elder Blair Pack (Gramps), Santiago (Maipu), Chile

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Same story, Short version:

In 1960, a year before my mission, I was working at the Hotel Utah in Salt Lake City as a valet parking attendant. I took cars down the elevator to the underground parking garage and returned them to the surface when the owners came for them and gratefully put a coin in my palm, after checking the fenders and doors. It was a great job. I was in teen heaven.

One day at mid-day rush hour President David O. McKay, who was then living on the ninth floor of the hotel, called for his car to be ready at 1:00. About ten to one I was turning another car around in the driveway and smashed both driver side doors of his shiny black Cadillac with another big Cadillac.

I wanted to run away as fast as I could, but the boss, Mr. Newman, heard the crash and he came running instead. He told me to get back to work until President McKay came for his car, which he soon did.

As I came out of the elevator with a customer's car I saw Mr. Newman showing President McKay the damage. He motioned me over, and I went to them expecting to be reprimanded severely. Instead, President McKay opened his arms and hugged me saying, “Don't worry son. I'll take care of it. I always buy extra fenders and doors.”

I felt like I was in the arms of the Savior. I felt the unbelievable joy of being forgiven. I was relieved beyond expectation, and I have never forgotten the feeling. It didn't matter that I lost my penny-a-car safety bonus or that I didn't get the usual 25 cent tip from President McKay. His forgiveness meant everything to me.

A few years earlier, as a new Boy Scout, I had met President McKay and had the honor of shaking his hand following an all-church dance festival at BYU. It had been a long hot day and I wasn't very excited about waiting in a long line to shake an old man's hand. But as I got closer the excitement grew and it turned out to be an unforgettable experience.

President McKay was my boyhood hero, and the fact that I wrecked his car has been a bittersweet memory all these years. I hate what I did to his car, but I cherish how he frankly forgave me. It has helped me look forward without fear to meeting Jesus Christ and being embraced and lovingly forgiven by Him. This has been an important part of my lifelong testimony of the Savior and His prophets. I love them both.

12 Enero 2011, Santiago, Chile, Blair Philip Pack, M., age 68

WHICH ONE DID YOU LIKE BETTER?


Jan. 18th

A couple more things. We both taught our lessons this week, with uncertain results, but we keep preparing and trying. We would love to speak passable Spanish before Kevin and them come in March. We note slow progress; maybe there is hope. A little.

Today going to and coming from the coast with the mail, we saw where sunflower oil comes from. Endless acres of brilliant yellow heads all turned toward the sun. Stunning. They also grow canola and corn oil, but I haven't seen any soybeans. They use a lot of oil in their diet. The days are crystal clear and hot. But in the shade it is tolerable and at night there is a lovely breeze to cool everything down. On the highest mountains we can still see snow or glaciers, on a smog free day. The fruit trees and vegetables love it. They just keep growing and growing and growing.

Good news! I get to work with my dear friend, (expresident) Hector Cerda in Young Men; we're first and second or second and first counselors in the branch YM. We've also heard that he is the new Stake YM Pres. His family just returned from a beach vacation. Most of the branch seems to have gone to the beach. We wondered how they did it without a car. Today we saw how.

The little yellow school buses (minivans) in one of my fotos have a second life in the summer. We saw dozens of them stacked and packed with all the people they could cram inside and all the stuff they could pile on top, (stretch your imagination) headed west. Then back to the east, empty. Many employers give paid vacations and the self employed just close up shop and leave for a while. A national tradition. We're glad they get to take a nice vacation with their families, maybe the neighbors, too, from the looks of some of the vans.

The beat goes on. We're pretty well settled in. More stories in future editions. I'm working on about a dozen. This is the only life history I'm going to write. Tell us one of your favorite stories. OK?

We love and cherish you all.

LUV LUV LUV ALL IT TAKES IS LOVE. From: Grandma and Gramps (and the Beatles)