Memories of "Sorens" by Rich Holdaway

Bonnie, your blog is looking very festive, but I know that is not a complete reflection of your heart right now. The holidays bring on a flood of memories with "Sorens" stamped all over them for me too.

I too spent precious moments with my best friend - in a land far away – but a warm couple of winters they were - he made them such. New memories born minute by minute when we were together. Just the sharing of the same room, or park bench, or Metro car was enough to etch a lifetime of memories unlike any other. You see - things happened! 

It was the feeling of course - that we gave one another - like a type of ripe, lucky radiation! Few were privileged to feel it - even fewer understood it! I wonder if his dad shared the real Sorens, or his mom. With me he could sigh a sigh of relief and just be himself... the real "Sorens".

His guard was down with me, complete confidence ran like like blood between the two of us. We were on the same page - with thoughts like mirror images, pouring from the demented brains that were ours. To be thinking new thoughts in unison. Is it madness of a sort or the harvest of similar backgrounds? You know, hours at the drawing table rushing to put on paper that which was visionary in our minds. Or the required reading: "Mad" magazine and the equivalents of "Mad"...and time under the hood - you can never disqualify the bloody knuckles and greasy elbows  - and the sweet sound of a well-tuned flathead engine! To quote Sorens... "...and...THAT'S what it IS!"

That's what it was for us those winters in Versailles, then Caen, then Le Mans. The breeding grounds they were. References to those days have kept us busy for 40 years - recalling even the fine nuances of a flight (on foot) down the Rue de la Paix to the grocery store at the bottom of the hill in Le Mans, only to be over-shot by 100 meters and stopped only by the bridge at the bottom of the hill. Sorens in front, then I'm in front - then Sorens. He resembled a giant bird...his black London Fog blowing in his wake made giant wings. At times I thought he would lift-off. Due to the nature of the occasion, I felt like flying with him.

For some reason Le Mans comes to mind right now, maybe because I have been out in the snow all day today. It’s December and it’s cold. Let me tell the tale. Now is as good a time as ever.

Le Mans, where Sorens was currently assigned, wasn't exactly a picturesque "postcard" sort of town in December. The gray sky hovered over colorless, gray structures of hard stone casting nary a shadow on the stone-gray cobblestones. Sorens and I could care less - we were making plans.

I had most of the day - a Saturday - "D" Day as we called it -  to spend in Le Mans on District business. The last train to Caen left around midnight. Right now that departure seemed a world away and at the same time the train deadline was an annoying deadline that we would have to deal with, so our plans began to take shape.

You may think that "Blowing something up" would have been at the top of our list - but we were hungry. No tete de veau (calf’s head) for us - no way...or fois de gras! Heck no! We'd encountered those mysterious vittles in the homes of the Francais before. I was still apologizing to the horse upon whose loins I unknowingly feasted upon in a brother’s home. You see – being polite can put you in a lot of trouble when you don’t know the least bit about what may be the main course at dinner. Being polite just gets you deeper into trouble. Just ask anyone who has spent time on a foreign mission. They all would have a favorite story to tell about some unedible delicacy placed before them…like… horse!

I now go back to when Sorens was a “greenie and another Saturday. This time in Versailles. We were on foot, trying to get somewhere quickly as we could and I, knowing how to navigate the town, was leading the way through an open-air “Marche” (Market). We rounded a corner and – Wham – we came face-to-face with a whole head of a horse! Neither of us could imagine what a decapitated horse head would be doing amid the onions and Brussels sprouts. We were enlightened when we looked around and discovered many other animal body parts heaped on long tables. Phew! …but we had a good laugh later.

Back to December in Le Mans.

Today we were planning a feast! Baguettes with salted French butter, the best yogurt we could find - preferably framboise (raspberry). The French dairy products were really exceptional. A kilo of white potatoes for Soren’s fries…yummm…he made the best fries – a la Sorens!  And we had steak in mind – good steak, not the thin, raw gristle that the French sit down to. We went to the butcher determined to get a cut to meet our standards, which, by the way, violated all that the butcher and every French citizen held to be correct about beef! “Minimize” is what they taught. Make do with only the bare minimum of substance. Economize! Walk or ride a bicycle so as to not use fossil fuel. Eat your beef steak as thin as paper!

With that thought in mind, picture us, definitely Americans, somewhat arrogant by nature, (hey, we were just freewheeling – having a great time and were not holding back on the fun of it). We find a butcher shop and go in. It’s typical; a short line of neighborhood populace, quietly waiting to buy their little piece of beef. We, on the other hand, appear to be the odd ones. “Americans, and quite young”. …"wonder if they speak French". "What a funny place for them to wander…didn’t all single American boys eat in restaurants"? And hark! "They are ordering in French", and they seem to know just what they want, "but listen…there seems to be a problem". The butcher, M. LeBoeuf, is getting a little agitated at the Americans. They can’t seem to agree. What is it the Americans want? “Epais, plus epais! (Thick, very thick)” the Americans demand.

M. LeBoeuf hovers over his choicest hunk of beef with a long knife but cannot make the cut…then finally gives in to the Americans’ wishes…with his eyes shut. “Que est ce que je fait” (What am I doing?) he murmurs to himself as he reluctantly slices into the meat.

“Deux comme ca” chant the Americans with much enthusiasm, “S’il vous plait”. “…ahhh.merci!” “Que c’est bien" and the Americans leave with much gusto and noise.

In the kitchen Sorens is still bummed at how thin the steaks are even if they are four times the normal thickness of a regular “French” cut. But the steaks are of a very fine cut and turn out perfect – American style, with onions.

We had found an upstairs room at the church with a stove…and a table. We were alone and no one was looking for us. This was the best – no phones, no concierge to tangle with – just the two of us with time to get caught up. We spent the rest of the day and half the night talking off and on about our imaginary Isle of Hemi, always referred to it with a bit of reverence. I remember strumming Sorens’ 12 string guitar as he built a model car – plenty of automobile noises included.

We laughed and schemed right up to the last minute. Then I had to make a dash to the Gare. My ride to Caen was at hand. It would be the last train for the coast – I had to be on it. Typical of his behavior, Sorens flew like a giant bird by my side, coat tails sailing, as I hurried to catch the train. He exhibited concern, friendship, and nostalgia all at the same time as we tried to say good-bye. He didn’t seem to be having much luck. There was a slur of salutations and good-byes. The feeling was one of amputation – each of us was about to lose something valuable and essential. We had no idea when we would see each other again. The situation became almost stressful.

Sorens was driven to make hollow promises of how he could get away and get out to Caen. It was his defense against a bitter separation. We had gone through this a couple of times before and weren’t becoming any more skilled at parting. Finally the train had to depart and feeling our anguish, we were pulled apart one more time.

Just a footnote to his promise: He did break-away from Le Mans and did come to Caen.

You have encouraged me to write about the events of that visit. Namely: Burning up the plastic car at the Chateau Joeul. But as you see here, I have written enough for one session. I promise to add that Caen trip soon.

And then there’s his birthday at the Sacre Coeur, and the figue and more stories. I will have to be able to take a break from the remodeling to get my thoughts together and with the keyboard. Mostly, when I write about Sorens, I thrill at reliving some of the highlights of my life. That’s good. So I look forward to the times that I can write.

May the Lord be your companion this season to help you enjoy what you have and for what you are – two things essential for peace.

I pray for your peace Bonnie,

Love, Rich 

The Star Sapphire

When Grammy (Ella McKinnon) died, Pop gave Charlene her wedding and engagement ring and he gave me her Star Sapphire. I was thrilled because I was there when Pop gave it to Grammy. Because my mother taught school, I stayed with Grammy every day.  I loved her so much.  I wanted to grow up to be just like her. Since she was a good cook, decorated cakes, and made homemade hand-dipped chocolates, I  wanted to learn how to do all of these, too.

One afternoon when I was about four, Pop came home early from the bank. He found Grammy and me in the back bedroom where I was helping her change the sheets.  Pop got a small blue container from his pocket, opened it, and put the most gorgeous ring I had ever seen on Grammy's finger. To show how amazed I was, I pretended to faint and fell to the floor.

Ever since the day of her funeral, I have worn her ring every day as a reminder of what a wonderful woman she was and also because the star in the ring teaches me an important lesson in life.  When I am indoors, I cannot see the star unless there is a very bright light shining directly upon it--even then it is not that brilliant.  When I go outside, the star is still not visible on a cloudy day, but if direct sunlight shines on the ring, the most brilliant star pops out of the ring giving it an almost three-dimensional effect.

On December 20, 1964, I was attending church in my home ward in Price, Utah, since BYU was on Christmas break. Price Second Ward had several very bright chandeliers hanging from the ceiling in the chapel.  I casually looked down at my ring and was surprised to see at least 3 different stars in the ring.  None could compare to the one brilliant star that sunlight could produce, but there were 3 discernible stars in the ring, just the same.

At that moment, Grammy's ring became a metaphor of my life.  I found a piece of paper in my purse and wrote the following poem as I sat in Sacrament Meeting that Sunday before Christmas.

                       The Sapphire

I walked into a court of kings one day.

I thought of one who came to earth--they say

Of humble birth and yet became a King,

A man so great He cause the Heav'ns to sing.

But I knew not this Master they called Christ

And who was said to have been sacrificed

That all mankind may live eternally.

My heart cried out, "Oh, what is Christ to me?"

I knelt before the king seated on his throne

and asked,

"Just who is Christ,this Man whom Thou hast known?"

Then silently the king removed his ring

And placed it on my hand, that it might bring

To me the truth of what I wished to know.

I gazed upon the gem and watched it glow.

I walked into a darkened, dismal room

And watched my ring intently midst the gloom.

Its brilliant colors seemed to slowly fade

As I did leave the light to seek the shade.

I left the gloom and soon beheld a sight

Where many chandeliers of brilliant light

Were hung along a crooked tangled row.

To my surprise an image seemed to grow

Within this blessed ring that I did wear.

Not just one star but several were there.

The true significance was still not clear

Until the glow of an exalted sphere

Was captured by a single dazzling star

Which surpassed the glorious sun by far. 

My life is like unto this hallowed ring

Given me by the wisdom of a King.

Satan's angels bring not the slightest beam

Of truth; they hide even the smallest gleam.

Too many treasures can only result

In a blurred image of toil and tumult.

The direct of light of Jesus Christ must be

The one way to bring out His Star in me

And with His help, may my soul's star be seen.

Christ is my Light, my Redeemer, my King!

          Written by Bonnie Sorenson, Age 20

Baby Deer

This is Rupert.  He is baby deer whose pregnant mother was hit by a car. Tiggywinkles Veterinary Hospital in Buckinghamshire, England, tried to save his life by taking him C-section. He's so little that he fits in the vet's hand. Isn't he adorable?  

Merry Christmas from Randy

Here is a card that Randy started but never finished.  

It is his way of saying hello and wishing you all 

 Merry Christmas!  

Christmas Dreams

My Christmas Dreams

Christmas should be spent

With loved ones so it seems,

So I'll be home for Christmas

If only in my dreams.

Bubbling lights and toasting logs

Did set my heart aglow,

And I loved to tease my friends

By hanging mistletoe.

All those who entered in our door

Became a special guest.

The warmth and love we gave to all

Is what I remember best.

There were cookies, luscious candies,

Fruit cakes, and popcorn balls.

And the joy of children's laughter

Gaily echoed through our halls.

But underneath the tinseled tree

The real meaning lives.

The true spirit of this season

Is in the heart of one who gives.

The miracle of Christmas

Is found within the heart.

A metamorphosis of love

That sets this day apart.

                                            Written by Bonnie 12/16/1967

Although I wrote this poem the first year I was on my mission in Japan, Randy could almost be saying it.  Dee's friends have told me how much they loved coming to the Sorenson house at Christmas time. Who could forget the Looney Tune Tree with the Tazmanian Devil for the tree topper instead of an angel or the lighted Christmas balls Randy made out of plastic cups?  Randy loved to have his children and grandchildren come here for Christmas with all his heart.  Randy made it Christmas.

Randy may be home for Christmas

And maybe not just in our dreams. 

Cosmo's Ready for Winter

Here is Cosmo in his new sweater.

He never squirms when I put it on him.

I think he really likes it because he knows

it keeps him warmer.

Doesn't he look cute?

I also put pictures of baby Beagles 

on my November 23 post

so you and the grandkids can vote 

as to which baby is the cutest 

and which one looks like Baby Cosmo.