"Two sets of lines" on the way home from Paris

Since we've been married, we've put a lot of miles on our trusty Chevy Malibu.  One thing we started doing on our long drives was making videos of Hyrum's memories that we later type up.  He has a terrible memory and no journals.  This way we can have some semblance of a family history before he forgets everything.

A few days ago I was transcribing a video we recorded last spring on our way home from Paris.  It's a bit strange see us driving down the road together... we haven't been in the same car for 5+ months.  But it's fun to remember what 'normal' is: long car trips, petty bickering, lots of laughing, travel, stories, etc.  I miss all of that.

Right in the middle of Hyrum's "friends narrative" (coming soon!) I found this gem:

 

In case you missed it:

"There are two sets of lines, so you can pick whatever fits you best.  Heather likes the yellow; I like the white ones."

Camping Memories [from Hyrum]

We’re here camping about an hour south of Amberg—I don’t really know where we are exactly.  While we’re camping, I’m going to take advantage to record some memories of camping.  I think the first time I went camping was with the Young Men.  When I was growing up we didn’t go as a family, but more with the youth groups.  Because I was the youngest of my siblings, I remember them going camping with the youth but I was too little to go.  I saw them packing, and my dad even bought them two sleeping bags because they were camping so often.  (They were really thick Coleman sleeping bags!)  They’d usually go over the weekend, but there was also a big youth convention once a year with the whole stake, like Youth Conference. Most activities were 14 and older.  Sometimes they’d go where there were pools and cabins, but other times they went places where they had to camp in tents. 

When we moved to Estaca Granada, Magdala Ward, there were between 12 and 15 young men so it was a lot of fun to go camping together.  There’s a nice camping site that was about an hour outside Bogota called Neusa.  It’s beautiful!  There’s a huge represa (dam) where people fish and swim, and it’s surrounded by forest.  The ground is covered in fallen pine needles.  You set up your tents in-between all the trees. I remember going there a lot with the youth because we had a bishop who put a lot of his own resources into the trips.  We’d camp like kings—a lot of food and other things.  

When I was 16 or 17 I had a good friend named Felipe Gonzalez.  We went everywhere together. He wasn’t a member of the church, but he even went with me to seminary at 5 in the morning.  We played tennis together… everything.  His dad lived in the United States, and sent him a really nice tent and he was so excited.  We wanted to go use it.  We decided to go right after Christmas.  (In Colombia we celebrate on the 24^th).  So on the morning of the 25^th, when everyone else was still drunk, we got up and left.  (Or just never slept the night before.) 

We lived 10 or 15 blocks from the highway, where we could catch a bus to Neusa.  So we walked with all our heavy gear, including pots, the 30 minutes to the highway.  Then we waited for the little bus to come.  It only made the trip twice a day, so we had to make sure not to miss it.  From where the bus dropped us off it was a long walk to get to the camp area—two or three hours.  Most people that go to Neusa go in cars, but we were only 16 and without cars.  To get in, we had to pay our entrance (a certain amount per person) and also a fee for the tent.   

Before leaving we made a list of what we needed, and went to the grocery store to buy all our food.  While we camped, we ate sandwiches, rice, and other things; I made some great rice that we cooked over the fire. 

The 25^th was always very empty at the campground because people were still at home.  It was nice to be by ourselves.  Then in the following days more people would come. 

We were always hesitant to leave our tent and go out hiking; we were afraid people would steal it.  We’d put a lock on the zipper of the tent door, but we were still nervous because we thought people would just take out the stakes and roll up the whole tent and take it, or even cut the lock off.  It was always nice to get back and see the tent still there. At night we would talk and talk and talk and get scared because it’s really dark, and the people who took care of the camp area would go around on horses, so it was creepy to listen to them walking around.  We went a few different times, and typically stayed 3 or 4 days.  

Called to Serve

On our first date, as we were driving to a restaurant, Hyrum and I were talking and getting to know each other.  I think it came up that I'd been home from my mission for almost a year.  He said, "Yeah, I've been home almost the same time."  Then there was a long silence, during which I was thinking, "Oh man this guy is way too young!!"  Then he started laughing and said it's been a year, plus several more.  So that makes him not quite so young. :)  

Yesterday, Hyrum celebrated 10 years since he returned from his mission!  Time flies!

Hyrum as a missionary in front of the Santiago temple

Hyrum with his family (mom, aunts, cousins) as soon as he got back to Colombia.

Celebrating yesterday in his Chile soccer jersey.  We ate "calzones rotos"--a typical Chilean dessert.  :)

Adios Colombia

Hyrum's experience in moving to the United States:

My papers to go to the United States as a resident started being processed in 2000 or 2001 when my mom first moved there. It’s an unpredictable process that can take many years.  I went on a mission and returned to Colombia in 2003.  When I finished my mission I decided that even though my parents wanted me there with them in Utah I was just going to start making my life in Colombia, and not focus everything on an unpredictable move.  I thought if it happens, it happens.  I just trusted that after going on a mission, if I kept doing what I was supposed to do, then anywhere—United States or Colombia—I would be happy; I would be able to live my life.  Moving to Utah wasn’t a big concern. Plus, I was enjoying my life there in Colombia.  I was a returned missionary.  I was single.  I was partying.  I was living on my own (with my cousin or brother).  I had a lot of independence.  I was going to the National University.

During the years that passed after my mission, my dad would call to say he had contacted the immigration office and it didn’t seem like my application was moving forward at all.  For some reason they had sent my papers to Santiago, Chile.  Probably they got confused because I served my mission there and every time you move you have to notify them. That delayed the process.  I never really saw the process as having an end.  It didn’t seem real. 

In January of 2007 I was the financial clerk in my stake, and one Sunday we were there in the afternoon doing an audit.  My dad called and said, “Son! Congratulations!”  I had no idea what he was talking about.  He said, “Your visa has been approved!”  I was like, “Whoa, whoa, whoa...  Hold on a second.”  It shocked me because at the time I was making plans for my future—I was going to keep studying, and was involved in a pretty serious relationship.  In the moment, I was more shocked than excited.  I said, “OK, but you need to give me time to wrap things up here.  Probably in 2 or 3 months.”  He said, “No, we already bought the ticket.  You’re coming in 20 days.”  My jaw dropped.  I was shocked.  I needed more time, but they already bought the ticket and were excited for me to come. 

Initially I didn’t tell anyone except my cousin and brother.  I hadn’t told any friends.  One day when I was with William I asked him to come with me somewhere. I went to an office of the airline and before going into the building I said, “Man, do you know why I’m here?”  (He had no idea.)  I told him I was picking up my plane ticket because they approved my visa, and I was leaving in 2 weeks.     He was sad, but he said he was happy for me.  I told him I wasn’t going to let everyone know right away.  First, I needed to talk to the girl I was dating, and then tell everyone else. 

One thing I had to wrap up was my work.  (I had a small auto parts business.)  I had to find someone to replace me.  I tried to leave the business to my cousin but he randomly disappeared and ended up in Ecuador.  I’d already gone with him to visit a couple of customers and providers, so that was disappointing, and wasted my time.  I ended up leaving our customers with a provider of ours who was friends with my mom and had been good to us.  I knew she’d take care of the customers. School was luckily in between semesters, so I wasn’t enrolled at the time. 

Everything happened so quick, it was crazy.  I was visiting people to say goodbye.  My friends had a big farewell at the church with a lot of people, and a lot of crying. 

The two nights before leaving I didn’t sleep at all, because I’d put off packing until the very end.  I’d get home from visiting people around midnight and then pack.  I had so much crap I couldn’t take with me.  I was exhausted. 

When I got to the airport my friends were all there—Johan, William, etc.  There was a lot of crying because it wasn’t like I was leaving for a limited time.  I didn’t know if I’d ever be back to live in Colombia.   It was really sad, but it’s what was prepared for me, and I made the decision that it’s what would be best for me.  (And it ended up for the best, because I met my wife!) 

So I got on the plane, and was so tired I slept immediately.  My port of entry was Houston.  When you get there you give them your passport, and since it was my first entry I didn’t know what to expect.  They told me I had to go to a different room, and I was a bit anxious because of my connecting flight, and I thought it was related to how they typically treat Colombians who are traveling—lots of interrogation and patting down.  When I got to the room there were about 60 Asians all speaking languages I didn’t understand.  They didn’t look like businessmen, they were definitely more humble people.  I wondered what I was getting myself into.  Eventually they called me back and started asking me questions.  I explained that my whole family was living in Utah.  They took all my finger prints.  They were asking questions in English and wanted quick responses back, so even though I could answer, I think they were frustrated.  Then they said, “Welcome to the U.S”, stamped my passport, and told me I could go get my bags. 

By the time I’d run to my next flight, the plane was gone.  I called my family to tell them I’d be late—and they were all waiting, excited.  My next flight was also delayed, so I ended up being even later.  I finally arrived in Salt Lake City around 8pm.  It was cool to see all my family there at the airport. I’d never met my niece and nephews before.  When we got out to the van they were fighting to sit next to me. They were talking a lot and trying to get my attention.  It was cute to me because they’d try to talk to me in Spanish—but it was funny Spanish.  Manuel Andres was there at the airport, too.  (A friend from Colombia who had moved to UT).  We all went out to eat at Applebee’s.  I was getting used to the American system—free refills!  Seriously?  Bring me more! As we drove through Salt Lake and everything seemed so new and different—the streets, architecture, houses, etc.  I got home finally and they had balloons all over, and my room was decorated. 

Over the next few days I got to sleep a lot and catch up with my family.  I played with the kids, and also started working with my brother-in-law, Lindsay, at his landscaping/snowplowing business.  It was wintertime, and shoveling snow was something new for me.  I was the “shovel man”.  It was fun the first day… not as much fun the second day.

It had been a long time since I’d lived with my family, and even though Utah was new to me, I felt like I was home.  

Semana Santa (Holy Week) in Colombia

Another story from Hyrum:

Procession leaving the church in Turmeque.

In Colombia, we celebrate Semana Santa because people are primarily Catholic.  I always found that the celebrations were fairly compatible with our beliefs.  Elementary, high school and some college students have off the whole week of Semana Santa, but other colleges just had off the Thursday and Friday.  Everyone in Colombia has off work on Thursday and Friday, so it becomes the longest weekend of the year. 

My family always celebrated Easter in Turmeque.  I went as soon as I got out of school (usually on Friday or Saturday, a week before Easter.)  My parents would come a few days before Easter. 

In Turmeque, by Thursday, there were at least 30 people there.  It made the week interesting and more fun, with cousins and other friends and relatives around.  The house was always crowded.  And my grandma loved to cook every time someone showed up.  It was her way of showing love.  It was normal for her to have at least one employee that helped with cooking and cleaning, and during Semana Santa she also hired one or two extra women to help with the food and preparations.  (There were always people from the vereda—rural area—looking for those kind of jobs.)  My extended family was all Catholic, so we ate a lot of fish around Easter.  My Tio Henry had the job of going fishing at the river in Turmeque and brought back trout, which we ate fried.  I went with him a few times.  Like all other holidays, we ate arequipe, and a lot of fruit from the huerta (garden). 

On Thursday and Friday Colombian TV channels have a marathon of New Testament and Old Testament movies and other super productions.  (Most of them are American or Italian movies that just had Spanish recorded over.)  We’d watch about the creation, the 10 Commandments, Noah and the Arc, Quo Vadis and other stories from the time of the apostles, and about Roman gladiators.  Each one lasted up to 3 hours, and sometimes were split over two days.  They were long!  People would come and go in the house watching tv.  A lot of the kids liked Noah and the Arc because it had a lot of animals. 

Every year outside the church there was a play about the crucifixion.  They’d bring in huge pines to make up the backdrop.  It was held in the atrium in front of the church, on top of the stairs, so it could be viewed from the entire park.  The local Catholic Church sponsors it, but there’s a lot of support from the people in Turmeque.  It was fun to see that every year.  There were also processions of people going around the pueblo carrying religious statues and figures.  They’d transport them from the church to the chapel (by the cemetery.)  Some of them were very heavy, but for the people it was an honor to carry. 

At night there were a lot of people out drinking, and music playing. 

My grandma attended mass during Semana Santa, because normally she was too old/sick to go.  The church was crowded because people from the surrounding areas would come to town.  It was good business for the [family] pharmacy because people came in and bought stuff while they were in town.  (The pharmacy was always open as long as someone was around). 

In Colombia we don’t associate Easter with candy, or the Easter bunny. (That was a weird custom for me when I got to the United States).  We celebrated the entire Semana Santa, without any extra emphasis or traditions on “Easter Sunday”.    

Semana Santa in Turmeque.

Riding Solo from Turmeque

Here's another installment of Hyrum's chidhood.  Just to set the stage, Turmeque is the small town where his dad grew up, outside Bogota.

Turmeque Main Plaza

Little Hyrum

Growing up we visited Turmeque many times during the year, and I always went with at least one of my parents.  The first time I took the trip alone is when I was living in Turmeque, and went to visit my parents for summer vacation—June and July.  It was a weird idea to be going ‘home’ for vacation.   I was 8 or 9 years old.  At the time it would take 3.5-4 hours to get from Turmeque to Bogota in flota (a big bus that ran between towns) because everywhere someone wanted to get on, the bus stopped.  And it stopped a lot to let people off.  My Tia Miriam bought the ticket and we went to the main square where the bus leaves from.  She put me in one of the first seats near the driver, so it felt more safe. My aunt told the driver “Hey, drop this kid off in such-and-such place.” (Like a Fed-Ex package). Then at that stop in Bogota, my dad was waiting for me.  All I had to do was sit in the seat and eat what they packed me.  My grandma always packed a lot.  Every time someone went to Bogota, my grandma sent food for people—us, or other relatives.  It would be a huge box several feet wide with fruits, arequipe, and stuff from the huerta (garden/orchard).  So imagine a little boy, with his little clothes, and little snacks and stuff, and a huge box!  I sat there on the bus and tried to sleep, but couldn’t because the campesinos (farmers) smell bad.  They carry their ruanas (poncho) and smell really strong.  It was traumatic.  That’s how I started my independent traveling life.

Colombian Flota

Recollections of Soccer

My soccer-obsessed husband caught in the action. 

For the last few years, we've been trying to document Hyrum's childhood.  We have very few photos, no videos, and no journals.  Just his memory--which sometimes is a little rusty.  I'd like to write things down before he forgets it all.  So on our long drives to the temple we took several videos, and I'm going back trying to write them all down.  I figure this is a good place to keep them organized.  Here's a fun one about Soccer, which is kind of like a foundation of his life.  (Oh wait--that's probably the gospel, but soccer is built right on top of that.)  So in Hyrum's words with my editing:

Becoming a Fan

Hyrum wearing his Nacional pride in Chicago.  

When I was in second grade I had to walk to and from school, and I used to study in the afternoon.  When I got out of school it was around 5:30.  Around that time (in about 1989) the team Atlético Nacional was playing in Libertadores (the most important club competition in South America).  I remember walking back from school, and I stopped in a little shoe repair store where the guy was “working”.  He had a little TV on, and I stepped into his store trying to watch.  It was awesome, and I stayed there for the whole second half until I realized what time it was and I had to go home.  I think I don’t have recollections of soccer before that because I have a bad memory, and because my dad was never that into soccer. But that game is why I was “born green.”  (Nacional’s team color). The second game I watched with the guy, he already knew who I was, so he said to just come in and watch.  Before I was kind of shy—a 7 year old kid watching his TV.  I saw him commenting on games, so I kind of learned that from him.  I always watched games there, probably once a week for about 6 months.  One time my dad got mad because it was already dark and I hadn’t come back from school because I was at that shop watching soccer.

One day I discovered how deep my love was for Nacional when they were playing Millonarios.  We weren’t watching the game, but I went with my dad to the panadería (bread store) and the game was on the TV.  I started watching when the game was almost over.  Nacional lost, and I started crying. My dad said, “What in the world… stop crying!  They only lost a game.”  But I kept crying like a little girl.  My team is from Medellin, and my friends never understood why I was a fan.  They all liked teams from Bogotá.

Playing Soccer

In the first grade I studied in a private school that was a house adapted for a school.  We went to a big park to do sports, which made me not very enthusiastic about it.  Then I went to public school in second and third grade.  We played in a school tournament, with practice during gym class but games played during our mid-day break.  When I was in third grade our team won.  I remember one kid who was such a good player that they called him “Little Maradona”.  I admired him.  I didn’t realize if I was a good player when I was little.  It wasn’t until I moved to Turmequé in 4^th and 5^th grade.  Things were more competitive because the 5^th year was like being “seniors” of the school.  We had a team for the whole school and we played teams neighboring schools.  My school’s team was so bad, and I was the captain.  I think I started to have my own style of being aggressive and a leader—lion—on the field.  I was kind of on a loser team and the guys got discouraged really easy, and I learned to fight. The only thing I liked about the team were the uniforms.  They were white with the Adidas design from the 1990 World Cup with a Colombian flag. 

Playing soccer in Mexico. 

I always played defense.  That came natural to me.  The tendency of most kids is to go forward and try to score goals.  For me, it would be great to score, but I saw that if no one stayed in the back then the other team would score against us. I realized I could touch the ball a lot back there, and I received a lot of recognition for being a good defense player.  That motivated me to keep playing there.  I know myself better now, and recognize that I like to sacrifice for things.  I like to be the last guy on the defense.   

Blast from the past

Last night Hyrum and I decided to look through some of "his pictures", aka, the pictures he brought with him to this marriage.  It's always fun to see stuff from his past.  Here are a few of the highlights:

Hyrum in 2006... before moving to the US, having fun at a YSA convention.  There was a recurring theme of really large clothes. 

Hyrum and his BFF's, back when they were all single.  Five of the guys I met when I was in Colombia last summer, and he still keeps in touch with them.  Three just got married in the last 6 months.  

Then he moved to the states, and got shipped off to boot camp.  And lost all his hair!

Along with learning to shoot guns (my bad, "weapons"), he learned how to build houses (which he's completely forgotten).

As he spent his 27th birthday alone surrounded by fresh high school graduates, he realized he needed to settle down and get married soon.  (Lucky realization for me!). 

Graduation. 

Finally back in Utah with family.  Army torture = over.  

Hyrum went back to Colombia to celebrate Christmas and visit family and friends.  Here he is, back in Turmeque, population 3000, plus three kings and three donkeys. 

Hyrum and his best friend, Johan, and wife Judith.  We stayed with them last summer.  They've been friends for  almost 2 decades!!

Notice a change?  No one could believe how much bigger he was.  Boot camp does a body good.