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Sunday, November 24, 2019

My Father Jim - Thanksgiving Angels on I-80

This is a family story gem about my father, Jim, which occurred 45 years ago. It took place around the same time of year as it is now--the Thanksgiving holiday. There's a lot to be grateful for since things easily could have turned out a lot worse! Below are my father's own words:


James E. Hartley: Thanksgiving Angels on I-80

There are guardian angels out there. I know because I was rescued once by two of them—one heavenly and one human.

They rescued me in 1974 while driving home for the Thanksgiving holiday from Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah. Typically, I would have been part of a “ride-share” group of three to five homesick students carpooling home for the short holiday. The drive from Provo to the San Francisco Bay Area required about 12 to 13 hours—if you drove straight through on Interstate Freeway 80. This time, I drove alone and I chose to drive all night.

I was about three-quarters of the way home. I had just crossed Donner Pass and was on the steep, western downhill-side of the Sierra Nevada Mountains in California. I had entered that magical invisible boundary where a person can feel a wonderful change in the atmosphere. The dry desert air behind you gives way to the moist welcoming embrace of the Pacific Ocean waiting some 200 miles in front of you.

I Panicked! I Was Driving Blind!


It was early morning, about 5:00 am. The November sky was moonless and completely dark. I’m pretty sure I had already passed Truckee and Norden. I was cruising happily along in my 1967 Pontiac LeMans at about 75 or 80 miles-per-hour on the winding mountain freeway. Suddenly everything in my car went completely dark. My headlights, signal lights, dashboard, overhead lights, and hazard lights all stopped working!

My 1967 Pontiac LeMan’s safely parked at home
Strangely, the car’s motor didn’t have any problems. But there were no overhead lights along that stretch of the freeway. I couldn’t see where I was going. I couldn’t see anything—I was driving blind! A cold, paralyzing fear seized me from head to toe. I panicked! I had no idea where the road was! I fully expected that I would soon crash into one or more of the tall pines in the dense forest along the freeway. Or, maybe I would drive off of a cliff! 

My Guardian Angels 

I began to tremble hopelessly. Just then a heavenly navigator inspired me to brake firmly and steer gently to the left. In the night’s blackness, I could feel the car leave the smooth freeway and coast onto a rough shoulder on the right side of the road. When I stopped, I had a hard time believing that I was still alive! My eyes welled up with tears and a million megawatts of prayerful thanks were beamed heavenward!

As I turned off the engine, more promptings entered my mind—these were more urgent: “Cars on the freeway can’t see you. Pull your flashlight from your glovebox. Stand behind your car. Turn on the flashlight and wave it so no one will hit you.” I zipped up my coat against the frigid morning air and quickly followed the promptings.

Fortunately, there was very little early morning traffic on that stretch of I-80. As the occasional vehicles flew by, I could see from their headlights that my car was off of the freeway, but not by much. I was still in a dangerous situation. I wasn’t sure what to do. My heavenly angel had stopped prompting me. So, I simply stood behind my car and waved my flashlight at each passing vehicle.

It wasn’t long before a car slowed down and pulled up behind me. An older gentleman—my Good Samaritan human angel—got out to investigate what was wrong. Together we talked through a checklist of possible problems. He asked me to see if the car would restart. It did; the motor turned over without any problem. But I still had no lights of any kind. Then he instructed me to follow him. Using his car’s lights to guide me, he led me to the nearest service station.


I-80 outside of Kingvale, California

I followed his lead for about five miles to the Kingvale off-ramp where there was a Shell service station. But the station was closed and wouldn’t open until 7:00 am. So, I parked my car next to the station and gave an extremely heartfelt thank you and good-bye to my human guardian angel. I then bundled up for a two-hour wait.

As the sky brightened in the east, a service station attendant arrived to prepare for the day’s business. He took a look at my car and quickly discovered the problem: a tiny three-quarter inch fuse had blown. He had the fuse I needed and within about 20 seconds I had lights once again. At about 7:30 am, I was gratefully back on the road headed home.

1967 Pontiac fuse box
That year, the Thanksgiving holiday took on a much deeper meaning for me—thankful beyond words for two guardian angels on I-80 in the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

And, since that time, I have always kept a working flashlight in my glovebox!


Written by James E. Hartley, November 2019

Sunday, October 27, 2019

My Sister Angela & Niece Kadence: Facing MCADD Together

I solicited my father, Jim Hartley, to summarize and prepare a great family story about my sister Angela's experience relating to MCAD deficiency that her daughter, Kadence, inherited genetically. Angela has done a great job documenting the struggles over the years in dealing with MCADD, and both my father and mother were there first-hand for much of it.



Angela and Kadence:
Facing MCADD Together



An unexpected telephone call on July 4, 2012 nearly put Angela into cardiac arrest.



Newborn, Kadence Davis
Five days earlier, on June 30th, Angela Hartley Davis had given birth to her first child, a beautiful daughter they named Kadence. Angela delivered at the state-of-the-art Women and Newborn Center in the Intermountain Medical Center in Murray, Utah.



From all appearances, their new baby was perfect. Kadence had all her fingers and toes and a healthy cry. She weighed-in at seven pounds, nine ounces and was 20.5 inches long. Their precious little one was a healthy pink and had all the normal baby responses.



At home, all the essentials for a newborn’s nursery were in place, except one—a rocking chair. In fact, when the life-altering phone call came on July 4th, Angela’s husband, Sterling, was out with his dad buying a rocking chair for her. Thus, when her phone buzzed, Angela was alone, weakened from delivery, and exhausted from Kadence’s frequent wails for nourishment—in other words, Angela was a typical new-mom zombie.



Reluctantly, Angela answered her phone. At the other end was a specialist from Primary Children’s Hospital. He got straight to the point: Kadence’s newborn screening revealed a rare defect called "medium chain acyl-CoA dehydrogenase deficiency." Deficiency? Medium chain what? The specialist briefly explained that Kadence had a metabolic disorder and that Angela needed to get Kadence to a metabolic specialist as soon as possible. The man’s next instruction was nearly heart-stopping. With deliberate, punctuated words, he warned, “You must feed Kadence every three hours or she could die.”



Angela had only been home from the hospital for two days and was having troubles breast feeding. This was the “straw” that nearly “broke the back” of the inexperienced, bone-weary new mom. Shocked. Panicked. Frightened. Desperate. Overwhelmed. Angela broke down and wept from the depths of her soul.



Dr. Nicola Longo
Kadence’s pediatric metabolic specialist was Dr. Nicola Longo, a brilliant Italian doctor. At their appointment, Dr. Longo explained what medium chain acyl-CoA dehydrogenase deficiency is. The condition is more commonly known as MCAD Deficiency, or simply MCADD.



The government’s National Institute of Health (NIH) estimates that one in 17,000 people in the U.S. is born with the deficiency. It’s a genetic disorder in which specific enzymes for digesting foods are missing or do not function properly. Consequently, a person’s metabolic system doesn’t break down certain fats into energy for the body. Therefore, the person’s health and energy rely on glucose (sugar).



Unfortunately, glucose gets used up in the body relatively quickly. Once used up, the body then normally metabolizes fat … unless you have MCADD. With MCADD, the fat can’t be metabolized and the body loses its ability to create energy. Hypoglycemia—severely low blood sugar—sets in and toxic substances develop in the blood. Without glucose, people with MCADD experience lethargy, fatigue, clumsiness, trouble talking, confusion, a feeling of hunger, sweating, shakiness, and weakness. A cascade of organ failures can occur—liver, heart, and brain—leading to a loss of consciousness, seizures, and death.



Therefore, it is essential for individuals with MCADD to eat frequently to keep their glucose levels up. The younger and smaller the person is, the more frequently they must eat—in newborn Kadence’s case, at least every three hours round the clock. And because their metabolic systems cannot convert certain fats into energy, the person’s diet must avoid specific fats—those containing medium chain fatty acids, such as coconut oil, palm kernel oil, and whole milk from cows, goats, and sheep. They also must religiously maintain a “heart healthy” diet that is low in fat and high in carbohydrates and protein.



To stress the importance of feeding Kadence every three hours, Dr. Longo warned Angela in his thick Italian accent, "You must wake up and feed her every three hours. If you do not, you will wake up in the morning … but she will not!"



At an early stage in life, even being 30 minutes late could be fatal. Angela learned that the hard way. One night, she was so tired she slept through the normal feeding time. She was suddenly awakened by a voice calling her name—a voice she feels came from a divine source. She looked at the clock and panicked. She had overslept by about a half hour. She quickly prepared a bottle and hurried to Kadence. The baby was limp and unresponsive. As Angela worked to coax Kadence to drink, her panic grew and grew! Finally, the baby took the nipple and life slowly returned to her tiny body.



In addition to regular feedings, Kadence would require a twice-daily measured dose of a prescription liquid called carnitine. Carnitine is a natural substance that helps body cells make energy. It also attaches to excess fat cells and waste that the body can’t break down so they can be expelled. Carnitine would become Kadence’s best friend for the rest of her life.



Kadence battling stomach flu
Angela also learned that the vital timing of eating and benefit of carnitine are threatened by illnesses that cause appetite loss, such as fever, vomiting, and diarrhea. For people without the deficiency, those kinds of illnesses may be miserable. But for Kadence and others with MCADD, they can be life-threatening!



It was about 18 months before Angela could enjoy a normal night’s sleep. Kadence could finally go up to 12 hours without eating. But by age three, Kadence and her mom had already made many trips to the hospital because of illness, especially during cold and flu seasons. In fact, two Christmases had been spent in the hospital.



Angela has always tried to help Kadence understand the dangerous nature of MCADD without using words that might frighten her. During one teaching moment, when explaining to her preschooler what could happen if she didn’t eat, Kadence just didn’t understand. Finally, Angela succinctly told her, “Kadence, if you don’t eat, you could die.” After a moment to process what her mom had just told her, Kadence’s eyes grew very wide, her jaw dropped, and she dramatically replied, “And that would be very, VERY bad!”



A spoonful of sugar in ginger ale
helps the carnitine stay down!
When Kadence becomes sick, Angela goes into high-alert “caretaker mode”: Children’s Tylenol for fevers, Zofran for nausea, and bribery and coaxing to get Kadence to consume anything high in sugar—marshmallows; fruit juice; and Gatorade, ginger ale, or 7 Up spiked with added sugar. If Kadence doesn’t respond, she can quickly become very lethargic (highly uncharacteristic of a normally extra-active girl), and Angela will then go into “emergency mode.” She makes an anxious phone call to the geneticist, then to the hospital to have a special glucose IV prepared and ready for their arrival.



Arrangements are made for their son, Jackson, and their dog, Titan. Angela then quickly packs a tote with essentials, such as toothbrush, toothpaste, change of clothes, extra-comfy pajamas, etc., and it’s off to the hospital with Kadence—a race against the merciless metabolism clock.



Angela has a Facebook page called “Living with MCAD Deficiency.” In excerpts from her entries of March 27 and 29, 2017, she gave the following blow-by-blow account of her emergency mode. Kadence was four years old.



March 27, 2017



At 8:00 pm last night, Kadence ate an entire cup of cottage cheese for her bedtime snack. She also had eight ounces of Ovaltine and slept like a dream for 12 hours. Upon waking, I gave her about three ounces of cran-grape juice, three Banquet link sausages, and three strawberries. She drank her juice, but only ate one bite of sausage (normally she devours those) and half her strawberries (something else she devours). Hmmmm, suspicious....



A short while later, she told me her tummy hurt. And when I got out of the shower around 10:00 am, she yelled "Mommy, I throwed up!" Sure enough, there on the carpet were her half-digested strawberries.



Plan B: sugared ginger ale! One tablespoon of sugar in three ounces of the soda and she gulped it down. At noon, she threw up all the ginger ale. That meant she had gone 16 hours without being able to keep food down. And that's dangerous! I didn't even bother calling her geneticist. I just called the ER at Primary Children’s Hospital, told them we were coming, and loaded her into the car.



She was very lethargic and fell asleep in the car. I had to look back periodically to make sure she was still breathing! She had never gone that long without food before. She threw up in the car and that only added to my worry!



To the hospital's credit, once we got there, we didn't have to wait. A room was ready for her and her IV fluids were ready. Within 10 minutes of arriving at the hospital, she had her IV in.



She threw up twice more in the ER and as soon as IV fluids were going strong and she had been given some Zofran, she was pretty much back to her energetic, happy self.



March 29, 2017



Well, what I thought was going to be a quick, 24-hour visit to the hospital has turned into one of our longest visits yet!


We're now on our third day in the hospital and Kadence is happy, energetic, and charming all the nurses, but she won't eat! She won't be discharged until she eats, so we're just waiting around until she wants to eat!
She's now on her third IV because they keep infiltrating [leaking fluid into surrounding tissues], and it's looking like a fourth IV is on the way because her arm is starting to swell and hurt. *Sigh*



Fortunately, as Kadence grows older, those kinds of MCADD episodes are happening less and less often. But the treacherous disorder is a reality that Angela and Kadence have fought since Kadence’s birth and will continue to fight all of Kadence’s life.



Napoleon Bonaparte observed: “Courage isn’t having the strength to go on—it’s going on when you don’t have the strength.” With that definition, MCADD has made the word courage a middle name for both Angela and Kadence.

Adapted by Jim Hartley, October 2019

Sunday, September 22, 2019

Grandma Betsy’s Ginger Cream Cookies

This is a great family story written by father, Jim Hartley. I never met my great-grandma Betsy, but I can attest to the goodness that ginger cream cookies have brought! 

Elizabeth Catherine Martin Hartley:
Grandma Betsy’s Ginger Cream Cookies

Enjoy the little things in life because one day you’ll look back and realize they were the big things.” This tidbit of wisdom was expressed by a modern American writer, Kurt Vonnegut. In my experience, his observation is profoundly true! 

Take little things like cookies for example, more specifically, Ginger Cream Cookies. They are the top-of-the-list, best in the galaxy, absolute favorite cookie in my family. That little, soft, moist, can’t-eat-just-one, frosted molasses morsel is really just a small thing, but it has become an important defining aspect of the Hartley family. It’s OUR cookie! It’s THE Hartley cookie! And when I say my family, I’m referring to five generations!

Ginger Creme Cookie
We were introduced to Ginger Creams by our sweet Grandma Betsy—Elizabeth Catherine Martin, born in Ft. Wayne, Indiana in 1882. She married Charles Alton Hartley, Sr. in 1903. Grandpa passed away in 1937, leaving Grandma Betsy a widow at the relatively young age of 55. She sadly lamented in her autobiography, “The dark hour which must come in every life came to us on June 4, 1937, when our dear husband and father was called suddenly. Life seemed to end for me. The passing days, however, proved life to be very interesting as the life of the little folks grew to envelop me.” The “little folks” were her grandchildren. I have the privilege of being one of them.

Even though I wasn’t quite six years old when Grandma Betsy passed away, I still remember her. To me, she was the ideal grandma—small in stature, but a giant in terms of cheerfulness, kindness, and love.

Grandma Betsy was an angel of compassion and help for her children and their families when they needed it. For example, her son, Jack. After spending more than three years in gruesome combat in the northern Pacific in World War II, my dad’s brother, Uncle Jack, returned home to a devastating welcome—his wife had filed for a divorce and she left him and their son, Mike. Grandma Betsy moved in with Uncle Jack and Mike, and became a strong, loving, stabilizing influence for both of them until Uncle Jack married Aunt Louise about five years later.

In 1942, shortly after my brother, Bill, was born, my mom began having severe back pains. It turned out to be a ruptured appendix and gangrene had set in. Mom had to be in the hospital for two weeks. During that time, Grandma Betsy stayed in our Salt Lake City home to help Dad take care of baby Bill and their two older sons, Bryan and Chuck.

Four years later, in 1946, my two-year-old sister, Raylene, was tragically killed by a milk truck. Grandma Betsy was there to help our family get through the trauma and sadness.

After Mom’s and Dad’s fourth son, Richard, was born in Butte, Montana, in 1949, Grandma Betsy came to help out.

Butte, Montana, 1949; standing in the back, left to right—my
brother, Chuck, cousin Mike, and my brother, Bryan; seated in
front—my brother Bill, Grandma Betsy, and baby Richard (also
pictured, our dog, Pete)


Grandma Betsy reading to my
brother, Richard, and me in San
Lorenzo, California; about 1956

When Grandma Betsy visited us in Butte, Montana and in San Lorenzo, California, she would read to us, play games with us, and let us help her with chores. I remember helping her wash dishes (all by hand—we didn’t have an automatic dishwasher in those days). She taught me the right way to hold a sharp knife when drying it so I wouldn’t cut myself. A small thing, but it meant a lot to a five-year-old. Not only was it a great revelation, I also knew that she cared about me. And believe it or not, I still think fondly about her whenever I dry sharp knives.

Even at a young age, I sensed that Grandma Betsy’s gentle goodness was somehow connected to her strong religious beliefs. She was a devout Roman Catholic, and in my young eyes, she seemed to have an extra warm glow that many people don’t have. I suspect it was her deep faith. Whenever she visited, we made sure she could attend mass at the local Catholic parish.

I loved that Grandma Betsy shared the Ginger Cream recipe with our Aunt Edna and our mom. In fact, one of the many reasons why I loved to visit Aunt Edna was because she was always well-stocked with Ginger Cream Cookies. (But typically, her supply was completely gone well before we left!)

For more than 25 years, I thought the recipe for Ginger Cream Cookies was an old, secret family recipe, handed down from Grandma Betsy. I was shocked when I opened our 1977 Betty Crocker’s Cookbook. There on page 137 was Grandma Betsy’s secret recipe! How did Betty Crocker steal one of our most cherished family secrets?



When I asked my mom about it, she confessed that many years ago, Grandma Betsy got the recipe from a bag of Gold Medal Flour, and the company that makes Gold Medal Flour is the same company that makes Betty Crocker cookbooks, cakes, frostings, and other popular baking products.

I was deflated by the news! I felt like I had been deceived—kind of like when I found out that certain things about Christmas and baby teeth under a pillow weren’t true! (I was even more deflated when I found out that Betty Crocker isn’t a real person— just a fictitious marketing persona like Aunt Jemimah, Uncle Ben, and the oatmeal Quaker!) 

I did a little research into Ginger Cream Cookies. Its recipe may not have originated with Grandma Betsy, but it is a long-time favorite of a lot of people besides our family. In fact, Betty Crocker named Ginger Cream Cookies as the best cookie in America for the decade from 1910 to 1920! (The folks in that decade really knew their cookies!) No wonder Grandma Betsy gave it a try. No wonder it continues to be a favorite more than 100 years later!

Okay, so Ginger Creams are not a secret family recipe. But it’s still THE Hartley cookie. And for me, that incredibly delicious little, soft, moist, can’t-eat-just-one, frosted molasses morsel will always bring extremely fond memories of my Grandma Betsy. That cookie has linked five generations of our family … and still counting!

Kurt Vonnegut was right; looking back, it’s the small things in life that become big things. So, thank you, Grandma Betsy, for Ginger Cream Cookies!

-----------------------------------------
Written by James E. Hartley, Elizabeth Catherine Martin Hartley’s grandson (September 2019) 
-----------------------------------------



Sunday, July 7, 2019

My Uncle Ronald Frye - The Thousand-mile Motorcycle Miracle

On July 21, 1999 my uncle Ron wrote these words to his daughter: 
I've just returned from my Canadian motorcycle trip, and I wanted to place on paper my thoughts of the trip before they are dimmed by a failing memory. I am very emotional right now, and have been for the last couple of days. You see, I've been the recipient of rich spiritual blessings, and a modern miracle. I don't know if you'll agree with me, by the time you've finished this letter, for you see, words are totally inadequate in expressing such feelings and experiences... The trip can best be described as one of extremes... emotional, physical, spiritual [...]

With his permission, I share an adapted account of the experience close to the 20-year anniversary of his arrival. He had left for his trip on July 6, 1999.


Ronald West Frye: 
The Thousand-mile Motorcycle Miracle 
Manning Park, B.C., Canada, to San Ramon, CA, USA

People familiar with the Bible will remember the New Testament story of Jesus miraculously feeding 5,000 people with just five loaves of bread and two fishes (Matthew 14:13-21). In that story, enormous consumption miraculously never depleted the small supply. Could such a miracle happen with a motorcycle engine and motor oil? For me it did on a 1,000-mile journey that I’ll never forget.


Virago XV535 motorcycle
On Tuesday, the 6th of July, 1999, I left home on my sweet, highly-customized Virago XV535 motorcycle. I had joined a local chapter of the Virago Owner's Club, an international organization. There was going to be a “ride-in” for Virago owners to be held in gorgeous Manning Park in British Columbia, Canada. And even though I was 53 years old and riding alone, I was on my way.

I took two-and-a-half days to ride the 1,000-plus miles. I chose a route that would bring me through the east entrance of the park. My final stretch was on Highway 3, one of the most beautiful and enjoyable roads I have ever traveled! The curves are long and sweeping, the pavement smooth, and the scenery absolutely spectacular, with towering mountains on both sides of the road! Guard rails are seldom used on the road, therefore much more is seen, and the plentiful, colorful wildflowers and grass hug the shoulder of the road, making it appear as though the area was naturally carpeted. This road runs along the base of a long mountain valley with its glistening river and foothills thick with trees.

In that final stretch, the July heavens were alive with patches of bright, baby blue sky playing hide-and-seek through billowing clouds; some white, some gray, some pink, and some dark—almost black—ready to burst forth their load of rain. That spectacular sky became accented by brilliant lightning flashes and rolling thunder. Breathtaking! It was difficult to concentrate on the road with such visual splendor! It began to rain, but I didn't mind. This was an adventure and experience of sights and smells I had never had before, and I was going to enjoy every exciting second of it!

Once in Manning Park, I joined the other members of Virago Owner's Club for three days of magnificent, two-wheeled adventure and discovery in the Canadian Rockies.

Entrance to Manning Park, British Columbia, Canada
Manning Park, British Columbia, Canada

Somewhere along the way, my sweet Virago XV535 turned a little sour. An oil seal had burst in one of the engine covers and it was leaking oil. This caused me a great deal of worry, and I asked for advice from the local experts that were part of the club. I was told to watch it very carefully on the way home; if it became worse, I'd have to stop and have it repaired. That would mean waiting somewhere for the needed part to be ordered and hoping the mechanic knew how to work on a Virago.

For me, this problem would pan out to be a modern-day version of the miracle of "loaves and fishes,"—or, in my case, the miracle of the “motorcycle engine and motor oil.”

On Saturday, the final day of the club’s ride-in, we had breakfast at the "Chaps" restaurant. After breakfast, we said our good-byes and dispersed from the restaurant at about 1:00 PM, all going our separate ways home … except me. My Christian faith is very important to me, so I decided to stay an extra night at Manning Park in order to avoid traveling on the Sabbath (Sunday).

Meanwhile, my worries about the bike became overwhelming. My oil tank only held three quarts. Given the rate I was losing oil, I was certain I wouldn’t get very far before the oil was gone, my bike’s engine would seize up, freezing the rear wheel, and I would be thrown face-first onto the highway at 70 miles-an-hour. I can remember specifically pleading with the Lord in prayer that the oil leakage would not be a problem.

On Monday morning, I started westward for the town of Hope (an appropriate first stop under the circumstances). As the bike warmed up, the oil once again began streaming from the gasket seam, and boy did it stream! It streamed all the way—42 miles—to the little town of Hope. At the gas station I checked the bike’s oil level, and surprisingly it registered “full.” “Hmmm. It must have been overfilled," I thought. How else could there be a large pool of dripping oil beneath the bike and still have a full oil tank?

A Serious Oil leak
I had originally planned on riding home via Vancouver Island, BC, and then down the scenic coasts of Washington, Oregon, and California on highway 101 and 1. But because of the problem with the bike, I decided to take the quickest, most traveled routes: 5, 505, 80, and 680.


About every 100 miles for two-and-a-half days, I stopped for gas. Between each 100-mile leg, the oil streamed and streamed from that broken seal, covering the rear of the bike and making quite a mess of things. In fact, oil began to coat the tread of my rear tire, and at several stops I had to find a car wash with a power sprayer to clean the tire so I wouldn’t lose traction. At each stop, I would fill up with gas and my heart would sink every time I saw the large pool of oil forming under the bike. Yet incredibly, every time I checked the oil level in the engine, it always read "full," all the way home!

Except for a very long trail of oil from British Columbia to San Ramon, CA, there were no serious problems along the way. I felt like kissing the ground upon arriving home. And the level of the oil after more than 1,000 miles? ... As usual, it read “full!”

I took the bike to a repair shop 25 miles from my home. In those few miles, it had lost over a quart of oil, one-third of its three-quart capacity! The mechanic looked with alarm at the large pool of oil building under my parked bike. When he started it up, more oil streamed from the gasket, just as it had all the way home from Canada. Whoa! he exclaimed. At that rate you won’t get very far!”

I didn't have the heart to tell him it had been that way for over a thousand miles, never having to add a drop of oil, the level always registering “full!”

I’m convinced that two things played a key role in this miracle of the motorcycle engine and motor oil: prayer and keeping the Sabbath Day holy. A Bible passage in Isaiah 58:13-14 seems to express my miracle perfectly:
13 If thou turn away thy foot from the sabbath, from doing thy pleasure on my holy day … not doing thine own ways, nor finding thine own pleasure …
14 Then shalt thou delight thyself in the Lord; and I will cause thee to ride upon the high places of the earth …
With age I have become more and more frail, and keeping an 850-pound motorcycle upright became more and more difficult. For this reason, I very reluctantly gave up my beloved hobby. The sweet bike was sold and the insurance canceled.

But this is a story of what I consider to be my own personal version of the Lord’s miracle of the loaves and fishes—enormous consumption [leakage!] miraculously never depleting the small supply. I’ll never forget it! In fact, even decades later, I cannot think of this experience without becoming extremely emotional. Like Isaiah promised, God let me ride the high places of the earth … one of the greatest experiences of my life. I am truly humbled and grateful, knowing first-hand that Heavenly Father cares about me!

Ronald Frye (left) at Manning Park, British Columbia, Canada


***

Source:
A Lifetime Remembered, A Lifetime Forgotten - An Autobiographical Sketch of the Life of Ronald West Frye
Adapted by James E. Hartley, brother-in-law to Ronald Frye. Reviewed and approved by Ronald Frye. Posted by Tom Hartley, nephew to Ronald Frye.

Monday, May 13, 2019

My Sister Angela - A "Band Geek" Rescued from TMJ

Angela Hartley: A “Band Geek” Rescued from TMJ

Angela Hartley grew up in a family that placed high value on learning to play musical instruments. Her mother played violin for a couple of years when she was young, and she has played piano for more than 60 years. Her father played trumpet for 20 years, and for four years in high school and college he also played French horn. He has also noodled on a harmonica for several years. Nearly every member of the family has had instrumental music training of some kind.


Angela as a budding 10-year-old classical pianist
By the time Angela was 16 years old, she had dabbled in viola and clarinet, had nine years of classical piano training, and five years of experience on the alto saxophone. Instrumental music had infused itself into her personal identity and she was proud to be a “band geek” … and an excellent geek at that. She was one of the rare students who earned a position in Murray High School’s highly-awarded jazz band as a sophomore.


Ten-year-old Angela (on the left) playing viola
Angela showing a little junior high school saxophone swagger
Angela at the 2004 state
high school jazz festival in
Park City, Utah
But at age 16, her life dramatically changed. Instead of basking in a joyful sweet-16 birthday celebration, she was in tears. She was cursed with temporomandibular joint (TMJ) disorder. Intense pain coursed through her jaw from her ears to her chin. At times her jaw joint would lock making it extremely difficult and painful to eat ... and impossible to play saxophone.


Angela after jaw surgery in 2004
Her TMJ was so bad that it required surgery to reposition disks in her jaw joint and tighten the surrounding muscles. Her recovery included six weeks of painful physical therapy and a liquid diet.

But Angela’s TMJ disorder was not just painful physically. It devastated her emotionally. It permanently ended her blossoming high school saxophone career in jazz band, concert band, and pep band. It forced her to cancel her weekly private saxophone lessons with a local professional musician. It was heartbreaking when she had to sell her treasured instrument. And possibly worst of all, she lost her close associations with her band friends. Emotionally, all of that combined to wield a devastating blow to the teenager’s sense of self-worth and proud identity as a “band geek.”

Angela and her parents prayed earnestly for divine guidance and help to get her though an extremely painful and depressing time.


Rob Wilson, Murray High
School’s instrumental music director
Not long after her TMJ recovery, Angela learned that the jazz band’s pianist was graduating. Angela wondered if she could become her replacement and be part of the band’s percussion section. But, the odds of rejoining the jazz band as a pianist were highly against her because she only had two weeks to prepare for an audition—an audition with Murray High’s outstanding and very exacting instrumental music director, Rob Wilson. Furthermore, she was never trained in jazz piano. There is a huge difference between Debussy and Duke Ellington! Jazz requires a much different approach to piano than her nine years of classical music had taught her.

Her dad felt inspired to contact Dr. Ray Smith in Provo, Utah. Dr. Smith was the faculty director of Brigham Young University’s highly acclaimed jazz band, Synthesis, to see if he could recommend a teacher for Angela. Dr. Smith referred him to one of his former jazz piano students, a recent BYU music graduate named Amy Ward. Amy was working at Daynes Music in neighboring Midvale, Utah.

But when Angela’s dad telephoned Amy, he discovered that her rates for lessons were much higher than they could afford and she wasn’t willing to reduce them. Before allowing the call to end, he silently prayed for guidance, then explained Angela’s challenging situation. Out of sympathy, Amy reluctantly agreed to let them buy half of a lesson—just 30 minutes—to see how well things would go.

Angela’s “half lesson” went astonishingly well! Amy and Angela developed an instant rapport. Together they enjoyed Angela’s discovery of jazz piano so much, they seemed to lose track of time; the lesson ran more than an hour. Angela proved to be an extremely fast learner. Her dad was awestruck by what she could do after just one lesson! So was Amy!


Arturo Sandoval, Cuban-
American jazz great
Amy agreed to continue to work with Angela for the next two weeks at half her normal price. She gave Angela a very challenging audition piece to learn that was composed by the famous Cuban-American jazz great, Arturo Sandoval.

After only two weeks of tutelage from Amy Ward, combined with intense, concentrated practice, Angela sailed through the audition, totally surprising Mr. Wilson! She earned a spot in the jazz band’s percussion section, which included sharing duties on the piano. She transformed from a person out of harmony with herself into someone with confidence and purpose! She was a proud “band geek” once again!

While in the band’s percussion section, Mr. Wilson taught Angela to play a variety of instruments referred to as mallets: xylophone, vibraphone, and marimba. In the process, she expanded her musical talents and joined her school’s outstanding percussion ensemble and orchestra.




Angela’s love for mallets extended into her college years. In her first freshman semester at Brigham Young University-Idaho, she auditioned for the university’s elite percussion ensemble, Rix Stix. That audition may have been the shortest one in BYU-I’s history. Knowing she had trained under Mr. Wilson at Murray High School, and seeing her technique, the university’s music director stopped her after only one minute into her audition and declared her a member of Rix Stix! Her successful audition also generated an unexpected cash award from the school’s Music Department.


Angela (center, above the university’s percussion director)
in BYU-I’s percussion ensemble, Rix Stix

Angela was blessed to be able to turn the terrible stumbling block of TMJ into stepping stones of new opportunities and personal growth. With divine intervention, people and opportunities were placed in Angela’s life that repaired her jaw, expanded her musical talents, and perhaps more importantly, restored her sense of identity and self-worth as a proud “band geek.”

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Written by James E. Hartley, Angela's father, May 2019 and reviewed by Angela herself.