Wilma Boltz: Birthdays Can be Fun Even at 89!

Wilma Boltz: Birthdays Can be Fun Even at 89!

Darrel Hammon

"Birthdays should always be celebrated, no matter how old or how feeble you may feel."

John, Joanne, Mother Boltz, Lou Jean, and Kevin

On Saturday, January 18, 2014, the Boltz family gathered in the Wilkinson Center at BYU in Provo to officially celebrate Mother Boltz’s  89^th birthday. It was a grand affair. All of the Boltz children—Kevin, Lou Jean, Joanne, and John—were present. It isn’t often when the four siblings gather in one place, but that Saturday they were. Unfortunately, not all of the grandchildren attended, but a goodly number made it a special time for Mother Boltz.

All that beauty....

For being 89, Mother Boltz looked pretty good! LaWane, John’s wife, had previously taken Mother Boltz to the “beauty parlor” to have her hair done, something she thoroughly enjoys. She looked spectacular!

The Beauty Queen, even at 89....

Helen, Kevin’s wife, had brought a gorgeous golden crown for the birthday girl. She looked like the queen that she is.

BYU catered a delicious potato bar with BYU’s famous mint brownies and even more famous Creamery Ice Cream. I had the honor of preparing Mother Boltz’s potato. Since she lived with us for five years, I thought I knew what she liked and didn’t like.

For the most part, she is one of those true Idahoans who desires everything on a baked potato. By the time I finished, the potato looked topped out, a perfect blend of sour cream, butter, cheese, onions, and chili. I thought, perhaps, I had applied way too many toppings. I carefully took it back to where she was sitting and said, “Do you think you can eat all of this?”

She just looked at me, smiled in her subtle way, and said, staring anxiously at her baked potato: “Oh yes! This looks delicious.” With that, she began eating.                                                                                                                                

Birthday Cake

As with all birthdays, birthday cakes are ubiquitous, even on your 89^th. Of course, you almost cannot make a cake big enough to handle that many candles. So, two candles stood stoically on the cake. 

 

And we wonder what might have been her wish....

After we sang two robust rounds of “Happy Birthday to you,” Mother Boltz blew out the two candles with a little help from Kevin. It was precious!

Joanne and Lou Jean, two sisters

Of course, the grandchildren wanted to know whether there would be a 90^th. Mother Boltz, in her candid way, stated: “I hope not.” She is funny, to say the least—and honest. Her health is holding. In fact, Kevin thought she was looking better than ever. So, perhaps, her 90^th will be another celebration!

Mother Boltz with her two daughters, Lou Jean and Joanne

It was a delightful evening with the Boltz Family and friends, celebrating the 89^th birthday of Mother Boltz, Grandmother Boltz, Great-Grandmother Boltz, and yes, even Wilma Boltz from Annis, Idaho. 

Kevin and his mother, deep in conversation

Tears rolled down several cheeks, laughter lingered even after clean up, memories and stories flowed with great abundance, and a feeling of love and being loved touched everyone who was there. Once again, we were gently reminded about the importance of families and their sacred nature.

So, Mother Boltz, we shall see you on your 90^th!

The Boltz Family

Snow Tubing and Sipping Hot Chocolate

"Snow Tubing and Sipping Hot Chocolate"

Darrel Hammon 

Snow—something that the Caribbean and the Dominican Republic have never seen and probably will never see, except, maybe in pictures. Of course, when I was growing up, the snows came in thick bundles, and then the perennial eastern Idaho winds blew the snow until it piled high in driveways, on the roads, and over our fences. 

The winters in Menan, Idaho, bring memories of snow and more snow. Dad pulled us on sleds or tubes behind the car, particularly the white station wagon and the old tractor. Even then I didn’t think much of the dangers. I’m sure Dad was driving safely and exercised all points of caution. The best part of winters, it seemed, was going tubing.

When we lived in Lewiston, Idaho, some years ago, we had to drive out of Lewiston a few dozen miles to places where snow actually stayed on the ground. That particular winter, we had a Korean exchange student living with us. What an experience that was! After the big snow storm, we joined her group of exchange students at Field Springs, a local tubing hot spot. 

She had never been tubing before so Hailey, my then 11-year-old, showed how it was done. But it took our student time before she conjured up the courage to go. Finally, she and another Korean student climbed on an old tractor tire tube and sped down the hill. After that, we had a difficult time getting her to quit and go home.

When I was a kid, tubing in the winter was as common as snow itself. And the best place to tube was the sand dunes between Rexburg and St. Anthony. In the summer, they served as the basis for picnics and frolics in the sand. In the winter, they metamorphosed into wicked hills with awesome jumps and dangerous moguls. I’m sure if I saw my daughters doing what we did, I suspect I wouldn’t let them even go tubing.

The tubes usually came from John Deere 4020s or maybe smaller or maybe even a Massey-Ferguson or two. To young people, those tubes were huge. Some of them carried patches over previous wounds. If we ever had to patch a tire, we just loaded up the tube in the back of the pickup and headed over to the Menan Co-op. Usually, either Melvin or Elmo Hall or Milt McIntire took great care in patching the tire while talking to us about what was going on.

We always bundled up, either in a snowmobile suit or insulated coveralls. Mother made sure we had warm socks to wear inside those awful green snow pacs. Some of the others wore snowmobile boots or galoshes over their cowboy boots, the ones with pointy toes. Feet needed to be dry and warm.

After making sure we were warm, we hit the slopes. At first, we tackled the easy ones with very few bumps, just long gliding stretches that enlivened us. The worst part was walking back up the hill. Before too long, though, we were ready for the more dangerous hills.

We sauntered to the edge and began the preparations. We made trains of tubes, often two or three kids on one tube. We stretched our legs to the next tube where the riders clung to our legs. Soon we were ready to sail down the hill. Someone usually had to push us to get us started. Or we just scooted our feet along the ground, gaining momentum on the way.

It was quite a sight to see a train of almost a dozen tubes with a couple dozen young people flying down a particular hill with a wicked jump either in the middle or at the end or both. The best part was being a part of the train, the worst being in the middle.

Often, the jumps took their toll on the riders. Frequently, we sailed so high—or at least in our minds we sailed high—that we failed to hang on to the legs of those in back of us. Consequently, the flying tubes became enmeshed with flying people and flying boots and sometimes even gloves. Even more often, we all ended up at the bottom in one giant heap, the bottom people yelling for everyone else to get off. After we rested for awhile, we climbed the hill to try it again. 

As I look back on it all now, I wonder how we walked away without more injuries than we did. Granted, a few bumps and bruises, a broken arm, and a sprain leg or arm became the norm on most trips. How we managed not to break our necks or back still mystifies me even today.

Perhaps the best part of the tubing trip was gathering around the vehicles, sipping hot chocolate from Styrofoam cups and discussing the proceedings of the day. With each sip, the jumps turned larger than life, the air we caught even more so. But it was nice to crawl into a warm car and reminisce about our adventures as we trundled back home.