On the blessings of family and … I forget what else (vol. xxviii, no. 7)

Dear Family,

One of the downsides of writing a letter at the end of every month is that important events at the beginning of the month tend to get short shrift, if not forgotten entirely.

This is definitely shaping up to be one of those months, especially since almost all of this letter is being written on the flight home, on July 30th, following 10 mostly blissful days visiting family in Utah with Crystal and Grace.

At the start of each new month, I tell myself I need to journal more during the first two weeks in order to provide a more faithful accounting of those events when the end of the month rolls around. I seldom succeed in this, however, and this month was no exception.

Fortunately, you don’t have to rely on me for the latest details on Sophie’s eventful life in Latvia (here) or for Ari’s latest musings (here).

As for my own life, hang on while I scroll through the camera roll on my phone and see if that jogs any memories…

July 4th

It looks like I took precisely three pictures on the Fourth of July — all of them during an early-morning bike ride with a couple of running friends, Joe and Laura. The ride confirmed what I had always suspected: that in addition to being much faster runners than I, Joe and Laura are much stronger cyclists, as well. But they are also kind and patient people who let me hang with them for 40 miles and it was a perfect way to start the holiday.

At the end, I said good-bye to Joe and Laura and rode to the White Oak Ward’s annual Fourth of July pancake breakfast. Don’t remember what happened there exactly but I’m sure it was nice.

We watched the fireworks over the National Mall from just across the river, atop a tall office building in Rosslyn (i.e., downtown Arlington, Virginia) where, by a cosmic coincidence, Aaron Webb and I both happen to work.

You may recall (but probably don’t) that Aaron and I were freshman roommates at BYU some 33 years ago and had not seen each other since — until we ran into each other working the Saturday afternoon shift at the Washington D.C. Temple last year and I subsequently discovered that Aaron’s office is on the 19th floor of Arlington Tower, where I happen to work on the 12th floor.

I’ll pause here while you try to work out the odds of that.

And so our families got together at our shared place of business (a conference room at his office, actually, since it’s higher and the rooftop — one level up — was wet and crowded) and celebrated the birthday of our nation. It was great fun.

Running with Luke

I’m sure many exciting things transpired in my life between July 4th and July 20th, when we left for Utah. Actually, I’m not sure of that at all. But I don’t remember any right now. So let’s skip ahead.

Our flight to Utah did not depart until late in the day on the 20th. This meant I had time in the morning to join Sophie’s fiancé Luke at the Matthew Henson Trail 5K. I’m not sure, but I think this might have been Luke’s first 5K race. (Luke, if you’re reading this, let me know if any of this is wrong.) Luke was a football player in high school and, it would seem is attempting to transition into more sustainable athletic pursuits, which makes me happy.

It was great seeing him there, and he was smart enough not to finish ahead of his future father-in-law. We’ll have to see how long that wisdom holds up.

Northern Utah

The journey to Utah was mercifully uneventful and I uncharacteristically made it through the whole airport/airplane/airport/car rental ordeal without being a total grouch. Strangely, I seem to have found this unusual bit of serenity by encountering a small shoe while waiting for the shuttle bus from the parking garage to the terminal at BWI.

The shoe was small enough that I didn’t think it could have belonged to a child who had been walking for more than a couple of years. My mind first flashed back to how much I did not enjoy traveling with children that young and then flashed forward to the argument that was inevitably transpiring between the shoe owner’s parents: “Where’s his other shoe?” “Do you have his shoe?” “I thought you had his shoe.” “How does a kid lose a shoe?”

Knowing that I was not those parents put me at ease and reminded me how happy I was to be traveling only with my wife and 19-year-old youngest daughter.

Sharing a hotel bathroom with my 19-year-old daughter got complicated at times but not as much as I feared.

Our flight from BWI to SLC was delayed — as 4:55 p.m. flights almost always are — but not by a lot. We still arrived pretty close to on schedule. We picked up our car and headed south to Orem, where Hannah and Emma live.

Emma, if you don’t already know, is Hannah’s girlfriend and domestic partner. We like her. Other than hair color, the two of them are basically the same person. They are both psychiatric nurses at the Utah State Hospital in Orem. They work the same shifts (usually nights). They both just completed masters degrees in health informatics. And they are both relaxing for the next year or so before beginning their work toward psych nurse practitioner doctorates.

And I don’t think they would mind my telling you that they are both a little cooky. Their political views are not mine, but then again, hardly anyone’s are. (Which is why I rarely discuss them — even though I like to think that I’m bringing the country together by uniting progressives and conservatives in their shared loathing of people like me.)

Saturday was the rare night when Emma was working and Hannah was not, and so Hannah alone met us at the our hotel in Orem — the luxurious Fairfield (Marriott respectfully asks that you no longer refer to it as a Fairfield Inn, but old habits die hard) on 8th North in Orem, just off I-15 and right next to a large, charming cinderblock building that houses the “Get Some” Guns & Ammo shop. (Tuesday was ladies night at the shooting range, but Crystal and Grace did not take advantage.)

We spent Saturday evening playing a board game Hannah brought over (I can’t remember what it was — something involving dinosaurs — but it was fun) and listening to Hannah point out my various neurodivergent traits.

(Hannah also believes that I suffer from at least a mild form of POTS. She’s probably right, but, owing at least partially to my neurodivergence, I’m unlikely to do anything about it.)

The next morning was Sunday and so Crystal, Grace and I drove back up to Salt Lake to catch the live performance of the Tabernacle Choir’s weekly Music and the Spoken Word broadcast from the Conference Center. (Hannah did not join us because, as she put it, “That’s not really my scene.”)

But the Tabernacle Choir is 100% my scene and it was magical. As we made our way from the parking garage elevators across the beautiful Conference Center lobby and toward the enormous, 21,000-seat auditorium, we were met by an army of friendly greeters. One of them gave me what seemed like a knowing look, approached me and asked if was “Steven” (or some other name that wasn’t mine — I can’t remember the name she said. Someone important, I guess, that I resembled. It happens to me more often than you’d think.)

“No,” I replied. “I’m Tim. I’m nobody. Just here to see the choir.”

The woman almost recoiled in shock. “You are not nobody,” she exclaimed in the most Utah way ever. “You are Tim, and we are delighted that you are here!”

I don’t know why but it made me feel happy.

We walked into the hall as the choir was finishing its pre-broadcast rehearsal. I just stood there and absorbed the sound and majestic beauty of my surroundings. And then, as seems to happen to me more and more these days, I started to cry.

It’s just such a beautiful choir. I sincerely doubt there’s anything else in the world quite like it.

We moved as close to the front as the little velvet rope barriers would allow us and enjoyed the performance.

We spent the next couple of days mostly hanging out and doing low-key stuff with Hannah and Emma. We walked along the Provo River Parkway Trail, explored the beautiful grounds of the hospital where they work, and paid two separate visits to “Nickelmania,” a suspiciously inexpensive video arcade, which might have been Grace’s favorite part of the whole trip.

Hannah and Emma also took us to some of their favorite queer haunts in Salt Lake. These places, to paraphrase my daughter, were not at all “my scene,” but they make Emma and my daughter happy, and so I’m glad they have them.

(Oh, and in case you’re still collecting evidence that tipping culture has gotten out of hand: in Provo, I was given my first opportunity to add a tip at a drive-through window. Don’t get me started…)

Also, Crystal and I also watched one really pretty sunset over Utah Lake — a fact I mention only so I have an excuse to show you this pretty picture I took of her:

This is the Race

On Tuesday, we returned to Salt Lake so I could pick up my race packet for the Deseret News Marathon, which is held every year on Pioneer Day, July 24th (hence the event’s clever tag line: “This is the Race” — if you get it, you get it; and unless you’re from Utah, you probably won’t.) A week earlier, I had decided to drop down from the marathon to the half-marathon since my marathon training this year was not progressing as quickly as I would have liked.

In hindsight, I’m pretty sure it was a wise decision.

After picking up my packet (at the This is the Place heritage site) Crystal, Grace and I returned to the Conference Center (this time with Hannah) to catch the daily noon organ recital.

Again, we got as close to the organ as the velvet ropes would allow:

The organist, Andrew Unsworth, stuck around after the recital to answer questions. He was quickly “mobbed” by me and perhaps a dozen other organ geeks exactly like me who can think of nothing cooler than to breathe the same air as a real live Tabernacle organist.

When he asked if anyone had any questions, Hannah’s was the first hand up. She asked, “My dad is your biggest fan. Would it be all right if I took your picture with him?”

”Sure,” Brother Unsworth replied…

Then, as we were exiting the elevator in the parking garage, I thought I spotted none other than Brian Mathias walking into the stairwell. I ran over to stairwell, grabbed the door before it had closed all the way and called up to man who was already halfway up the stairs: “Brian Mathias,” I nearly shouted up at him.

He turned around and said, “Yes?”

“Are you Brian Mathias?” I asked.

He said he was, and I told him I was his biggest fan and asked if maybe, possibly, it wouldn’t be too much trouble if he had his picture taken with me.

“Sure,” he said.

Together, the two photos complement the picture I got with Richard Elliott two years ago, thus completing my set of all three current full-time Tabernacle organists. I don’t know whether these guys are accustomed to being hounded and accosted in public this way, but they ought to be because they are out-of-this world talents. Freaks of nature, really.

Anyway, back to the race…

Crystal drove me to Rice-Eccles Stadium (on the campus of the University of Utah) at 3:30 a.m. on race morning (Wednesday) so I could catch the bus up Emigration Canyon to the starting line. As we approached the stadium, which, you may recall, hosted the Olympic Winter Games in 2002, the first thing I noticed was that the Olympic torch was lit.

Thinking it strange, I asked someone whether it was always lit like that. I was told it wasn’t, and it was only lit because, just an hour earlier, Salt Lake had been awarded the 2034 Winter Games.

So that was pretty cool timing.

I rode up the canyon and the race began at 6:00 a.m., just as the sun was coming up. As the starting line pack thinned out into more of a line, I found myself running alongside two older guys. We introduced ourselves and one of the first things they asked me was how old I was.

When I told them, they said, “Good, then you’re not competing with us.”

They said they had finished first and second in the 65 – 69 age group last year. They were pleasant company and so I hung with them for 10 miles or so. It’s funny because pretty much every picture of me on the race course is with me next to these same two guys:

I was feeling pretty strong, and so I dropped the two old guys with about three miles to go and accelerated (ever so slightly) to the finish line.

So it turns out that I’m actually a pretty decent runner for a 65 year old (I would have won that age group). It’s too bad I’m only 52, for which my finishing time was somewhat more pedestrian.

Southern Utah

On Thursday, we bade farewell to Hannah and Emma and made our way south to the biennial Willis Family Reunion — a gathering of the now well over one hundred descendants of my paternal grandparents, Jean Cannon and Bertram Trowbridge Willis.

The event differed from past reunions in at least two notable respects (from my perspective): 1) It took place in Southern Utah, just outside of Zion National Park (they usually happen in Park City), and 2) I actually showed up (I don’t think I’d been to one in at least 15 years).

I’m really happy I showed up. It’s easy to get tripped up by inappropriate superlatives when writing about things I really like (or, more often, really hate), but it’s genuinely difficult for me to envision a friendlier group of people than my extended Willis family. It occurred to me more than one during our long weekend together that I was quite possibly the least nice person there. (And I don’t consider myself a particularly unfriendly person.) I also found myself well below the 50th percentile in any number of other desirable characteristics that it probably won’t do anybody any good for me to rattle off, but it just astounds me that a such a hard-charging group of successful doctors, lawyers, Harvard MBAs, entrepreneurs, airline pilots, engineers, software designers, and I don’t remember what else could be so universally gosh-darned nice. If any of them are the slightest bit arrogant about their accomplishments, they do a remarkable job concealing it.

The venue for this year’s reunion matched the caliber of the attendees. We gathered at Zion Red Rock, a collection of four fabulous properties just outside the park: the “Oasis” (which sleeps 56, hosted most of our group meals, and includes an indoor soccer field and a movie theater with fully-reclining stadium-style seating, among many other things), a “Villa” (which sleeps 58 in spectacular comfort and hosted most of our indoor activities), a “Chalet” (which sleeps 22), and a small inn. The Oasis, Villa and Chalet properties adjoin one another, and the inn is a few miles away.

We completely took over all four places. Crystal and I slept upstairs in the Villa (where the two of us had our own bedroom with en suite bath), while Grace joined a bunch of other “kids” in the Oasis bunkhouse. I have no idea what all this would have cost ordinary people, but my cousin Betsy and her husband Justin own the joint, and so we got it for basically nothing. (Thanks, guys!)

It had been forever since I’d seen many of these relatives — I was shocked by the degree to which several of them had come to resemble their parents — but I nevertheless felt a closeness to them that made it seem like I was better acquainted with them than I actually am. It made for easy and comfortable interactions without any of the angst that I typically experience in large group settings. I didn’t make it to every activity — my occasional need to quiet my overstimulated amygdala (and to escape the 100-degree heat) caused me to miss the vaunted Willis olympics, and the sprawling properties provided ample space for that — but I got to most things and really had a lovely time.

One highlight was the Saturday morning run I took with my cousin Jeff Huber, whom I probably hadn’t seen in decades but still felt a close connection to because we follow each other on Strava. I was planning to repeat the beautiful (but admittedly less interesting) run I had done by myself the day before. But Jeff suggested we run up to the top of the nearby Wire Mesa and catch the sunrise.

The climb almost killed me (I had to walk part of it) but Jeff was a patient guide and the sunrise did not disappoint!

Other highlights included reflections by the “second generation” (my father and his five surviving siblings) about their sister Francine, who died in 1976, and, more poignantly, their sister Florence, who died last Christmas. The other “formal” gatherings (testimony meeting, talent show, etc.) were really nice, too. But most of what I loved was all the unstructured time just hanging out with people that I feel close to but don’t see nearly enough of.

It was just wonderful seeing so many of you!

Well, we are now circling the airport in Baltimore, hopefully waiting for some weather to clear. It’ll be interesting to see if I can get this posted before we land. (If so that will be a first. While many issues of the Famlet have been primarily composed on airplanes, I don’t think I have ever actually posted one from the air. If it’s hard to follow, you can blame the kid five rows up who’s been screaming the entire flight.)

In any event, it’s been a great month — I’m so happy to have been able to see so many of you — and I can’t wait to see you again!

Love,
Tim