2009 Christmas Advents #'s 18-25 just aren't going to happen

The rest of the posts just aren't going to happen. I'm going to post this for 18-25:

I love my family. I loved the time I spent with my children when they were small. I'm glad I took pictures. I'm glad I wrote things down. As for my regrets? I wish I had done more of those things and less of the selfish things that I did do.

Would I push rewind?

Probably not.

I look at Jeni, Al, Fitz and Swede and at the end of the day I'm just tired. There's a reason why most 50 year old women don't have small children. I love 'em! I adore 'em! They amaze me! I feel soft in the heart every day.

They wear me out.

And I'm thankful...that I'm not the one getting up for a 2 am feeding or a nightmare. With my door shut and the reduced hearing in my left ear (I usually sleep on my right side) I don't even hear it.

-------------------------------------------

The next few days are going to be a blur. I hate that. I'm going to be living on Motrin (for fever, aches and pains), Airborn, and Zicam. I'm keeping this bug at bay so far but it's a nasty flu bug. Just watching Jeni still coughing makes me KNOW I don't want this thing.

I have to work today, and part of tomorrow and plan and cook a Christmas Eve dinner for 17 the next day.

I'm looking for Christmas. I hope *it* finds me and the flu doesn't.

2009 Christmas Advent #17

This post kinda reminds me of Fizzy and *his* single mindedness. Right now it has everything to do with CARS. Although, he did start out with balls too. Daniel too moved on to cars and wheels

2009 Christmas Advent #16

BATH TIME

One of the cutest things when the kids were babies was to bathe them in the kitchen sink. I guess it was the whole idea of being small enough to immerse an entire person in such a small tub. That, and I didn't have to bend over to wash them, it was all done at a comfortable level. *Ahhhhh!*

2009 Christmas Advent #15 (Late)

In 1989 we decided to move from No.CA to Utah...jobless...insuranceless...and try to make our way. We didn't do it without inspiration and guidance though. We knew it would work out okay but it would be really hard. My grandmother who had just turned 90 that summer graciously allowed us to live in her home with her during the interim. It was squeezy for about 9 months then we were able to get a home of our own (the one we're in now). I'm so grateful for a patient and loving grandmother. She was an angel then and is a real one now. She died almost 8 years later in her home with love all around her. My children got to know her and still remember her. This was written in a letter to my parents during that time. October 1989
I had it in my mind to write a nice long newsy letter but one of my beloved children is whining and writhing on the floor at my feet and occasionally kicking my chair. Another one has a full can of tinker toys and is trying to wake up Grandma Great by dumping them in her lap. Jason's cake for Pack meeting is staring at me and making me feel guilty because it needs to be frosted. Jeni's pants need a button and a patch, which I promised would be done last week. Jason's pants to his Halloween costume need to be cut out and sewn today because he has to dress up tonight for pack meeting. (So do I, for that matter, I think I'll be a harried housewife.) Stephanie's nose is running like a faucet and Daniel is mad at me because I asked him to pick up his mess BEFORE going out to play. (I must be out of my mind!) So this will have to do.

2009 Christmas Advent #14

This picture was taken about the *time* of the story but not *for* the story. I was too angry at the time to do anything but be angry.
Fall 1985
We were living in Costa Mesa and Jason, Jeni and Daniel were all sharing one room. They were small so it wasn't too crowded. At this time Daniel was probably close to 1, Jeni 3+ and Jason 4+. I believed, and still believe, in afternoon naps. They are good for children but even better for mommies. It gives us a chance to regroup and sometimes even catch up on a little shut-eye ourselves.
This had been an especially trying day and I had fed the children their lunch and was really looking forward to some quiet time. The children knew the drill: eat lunch, have a small drink, story time and...yes...lay down and take a nap. YES!!! I was probably pushing it with Jason, he was a little old, but was going to push it to the very edge if I had to for those 2 hours of bliss.
It went mostly as planned but for some reason it just wasn't getting quiet. I decided to wait and see if they would settle down. They didn't, if anything they only got louder and wilder and more hilarious. "What is going on?" I wondered.
I opened the door and what met my eyes was a little confusing. What is making the air so cloudy? Why are my children so white? (Jason is usually a nice brown color.) What is going on?

The next sense to register was the overpowering but pleasant scent of baby powder. Then I knew. I saw two happily smiling children, covered in a thick layer of white talc, each holding a jumbo container of baby powder.
Just then they demonstrated the skill they had perfected over thee past 20 minutes: If you pound the side of the baby powder container you can make amazing shooting clouds! It was then that I took in the enormity of the mess. It was everywhere!! On everything!! Bedding, toys, clothes, carpet, curtains, and on my baby too!!
I wanted to cry. In fact I think I did, as I lost my temper and yelled, letting them know in clear and certain terms that I WAS NOT HAPPY!! THIS WAS NOT FUNNY!! MY PRECIOUS QUIET TIME WAS RUINED!!
And what about my poor little innocent baby Dano? He was laughing too as he slapped his hands against his crib mattress and watched the clouds rise and slowly settle.

So it was three against one and after a few hours of vacuuming ans wiping up the mess I did see the humor in it. Maybe it was longer than that.

2009 Christmas Advent #13

Dano & Stephie under the desk at Gramma Great's. They thought it was a nice 'house'.

This story really has nothing to do with the picture above except that the 'actors' in the 'play' are the same. I wrote about this experience to my Sweetheart when he was in Utah with Jason and Jeni, getting them into school and looking for a job, and I stayed in CA packing up the apartment and taking care of these two. It was a month long separation. Very difficult for both of us but we each did a lot of growing, and the letters helped.

Letters to Steven:
9/12/89
We went to the library today and Daniel got two books on taking baths??? One is called "No Bath Tonight" and the other one is King Bidgood's in the Bathtub". Stephanie just picked out any ol' two books, but they are cute. She likes to be read to...well, she likes to sit on a lap and be in charge of turning pages. Daniel also picked out an instruction tape called "Kid's Karate". He and Stephanie are practicing right now. I had to leave the room because I was afraid I'd laugh. I wish I had the movie camera. Steph likes to practice the kicks the best but several times now has not been able to make up her mind which foot to use and so ends up trying to use both, then lands on her bum. She always has such a surprised look on her face! But no crying. She just plugs her mouth with her thumb and thinks about it then climbs to her feet and tries again. Daniel is making better progress but is a little self-conscious when I'm in the room. I wish you where here to watch.

I had to put carpet fresh on Daniel's carpet because of his peeing in there. It smelled so bad!! One day when the room had not been aired most of the day and he had wet his bed the night before. I walked in and the smell almost floored me. Daniel walked in and wrinkled his nose and just looked at me. I had had a busy, long, tiring day and in exasperation I said, "This room smells AWFUL! It smells like Stephanie's diaper pail!"

Daniel looks accusingly at Stephanie who looks curiously at her diaper.

Daniel says, "Maybe Stephanie pee-peed in here."

Now he KNOWS who really did it and he knows *I* know.

I said, "There is pee pee on the bed and on the floor, right there, and there, and there!" I said pointing to each place."

Daniel, there is pee pee all over this room!!!" He just stares at me as he holds himself protectively, then looks around and says helpfully, "Well it's not on the ceiling. I didn't pee pee up there."

I tried so hard not to crack up, but he looked so anxious to please me and give me some good news.

Such is the life of a young mother with young children. Oh the joys. I don't think I've ever laughed so much OR been so frustrated. I'm so glad it was a rented apartment and not our home. Ick.

2009 Christmas Advent #12

I loved it that I was able to ask my mom and dad to take care of the kids when I had Daniel. We only lived about 2 hours away so when Daniel was born my folks drove up to Anaheim and picked Jason and Jeni up at the hospital after they met their new little brother. I had a week just getting to know my new little boy and they were able to go to Indio and have fun in the sun in FEBRUARY!! I'll tell you, that wouldn't happen in Utah, at least not like this.

I love these pictures because they're having such a good time, not really missing me at all. It was a nice interlude for them.

In the last picture you can see the poinsettias just losing their blooms. They grew like weeds and when I was a child we had to cut them back every year but we had some gorgeous color at Christmas time.

2009 Christmas Advent #11

Daniel...though he has one of the most tender hearts you can imagine, is a boy's boy/man's man. He loves deeply, is intensely loyal, treats animals with tender loving care and even has a cat named Karen (his choice)...but I'm thinking he should have been born in the Wild West. On the other hand, he would have been one of those who would have disappeared in the wild west-iness and we'd never have seen him again, but books would have been written about him, I'm sure. This picture was taken just after his 5th birthday. The following was written in a letter to my parents.

March 13, 1990

(Excerpt from letter written to Grandparents Wood)

Daniel has his mind made up that on his 8th birthday he's getting a pocketknife. He's making sure that I won't forget. (I'm hoping he will.) He reminds me daily, and drools over the pocketknife display every week at Allens. Yesterday when we were grocery shopping he excitedly dragged me over to the glass case to show me the "pocketknife" that hs his name on it. I look at the cute little knives at the top of the display trying to guess which one has the most gadgets.

"That one, I'm sure, is Daniel's ideal," I think as I look at one of them.

I was disappointed at my mother's intuition when I pointed it out and Daniel didn't even pause when he said, "No, not that one...THAT one!"

I looked at his little pointing finger...pointing at the longest switchblade I've ever seen! I look at Daniel to make sure that this sweet innocent little face is really sweet and innocent. I see visions of this very knife sticking out of Stephanie's little chest, or poking Daniel's eye out, or miscellaneous little fingers laying around the house, and I shudder. All this while Daniel is trying to make me promise that I'll get it for him for his 8th birthday.

I say something vague like, "We'll see..." and I'm saying to myself, "NO WAY! NOT IN A MILLION YEARS!!!"

Daniel is persistent and I'm saying things like, "Maybe, but we'll have to wait and see...you might change your mind...you might see something else you'll like better..."

Pretty soon he's quiet. I take a detour down the toy isle just to get his mind on something else. All is forgotten.

Then...down the juice isle he says, "Mommy?"

"Hmmmm?"

"I've changed my mind." ("Whew!" I think, "Thank you!")

" I want something else when I turn 8," says Daniel.

"Oh yeah? What do you want?" ("Anything," I pray, "Anything but a knife!")

"I decided I want a gun."

!!!

2009 Christmas Advent #10

JASON

...has a great deal of love and affection in his soul. They say that the characteristics that come naturally in a child will manifest themselves permanently in the adult (despite the temporary loss of them in the adolescent years when the child is powered by hormones and peer pressure. GAH!!) Some may take comfort from this and others...

well, might be scared.

I'm one of the comforted ones.

Love has always been a motivating force in this child's life,

and will continue to be so, I'm sure.

And now he has someone else to love, comfort, laugh and grow with.

Isn't this what all mother's want for their children??

Thanks Jen, for taking us on as part of your family. I love you.

2009 Christmas Advent #9

Stephanie...she's always looked like a little angel, especially in Blue...

but there was a mischievous side too.

Hard not to laugh though...too hard.

2009 Christmas Advent #8

Daniel, alias "Dirty Dano", loved the dirt. He loved it wet, dry, cold, hot, up and down. This was taken in my Grandmother's backyard where there was a wet spot due to an underground well. It didn't take long for Dano to find it and make use of it. Needless to say the 'spot' grew into a puddle, which grew into a pit. He played in it every chance he got.


This picture was taken after a trip to a cub scout day camp where his brother had been for the day. I pulled up in the car and went around to get Daniel out of his car seat. I unbuckled him and he leaned over too far and fell to his hands and knees into the softest, smoothest, silkiest dirt he, or I for that matter, had ever felt. In a matter of minutes he was throwing it and crawling through it and burying his cars in it and generally making a mess. This was very common to me and I figured it would be more work and frustration to keep him out of it than just give in and let him be a boy. After about 1/2 hour a member of the bishopric came up to me and asked me to try and stop him as he was filling the air with dirt and it was getting in the food. (I think it was also a bit disconcerting for him as Daniel was making it look like so much fun that his son and a couple of other boys had joined in and were contributing to the mess.) I sighed, grabbed him, and gathered up the rest of my brood and went home. This was what he looked like when we got home. We had to fill the tub three times to get him clean. He looks so dang happy though! Who can resist that grin???

2009 Christmas Advent #7

I'm not quite sure why "The Blanket" becomes so important to a child but I'm sure it has been so for thousands of years. This little crocheted blanket was made when I was pregnant with Jeni. It was the first attempt in many years to do something like that and the irregularities were very apparent. It ended up looking more like a trapazoid than a square but to this little girl it didn't matter at all. And did this warm a mother's heart? Yes, indeed. The blanket was dragged all over California and Utah in her childhood. It's been to Texas and who knows where else. It's still a part of her life. I'm so glad she has a piece of her childhood with her wherever she goes in this wide world, and that may be far and wide considering...

I hope she knows that a mother's love is packed in every strand.

2009 Christmas Advent #6

Children and their fearlessness. The laws of physics don't apply. They never think of consequences. They just move forward with what they want. In this case Jason wanted a toy on the other side of the box, but instead of going around the box, he just goes *over* it, never thinking that the cardboard box might collapse...well, it didn't. Daddy is holding it up with his foot. Jason didn't fall on his face...that time. No wonder their perception of reality is a bit skewed. We just keep bridging the gap for them and they're so single-minded that they never know how close they come to catastrophe every single day!!!

Maybe that's what Heavenly Father does for us...every single day.

2009 Christmas Advent #5

Stephanie is our caboose. Jeni was so excited to get a little sister that she almost cried, and promised to share everything with her and love her.

We even have that on video!
I love it when there's love between the brothers and sisters. They're some of the most important relationships ever. I don't know what I'd do without my own 3 brothers and 3 sisters. I love them dearly.

2009 Christmas Advent #4

I've always found children's artwork really interesting and fun to look at, especially when you can get them to tell you about it. The following was a drawing done by my 4+ year old Daniel who was REALLY into cars. The explanation of the picture was written in a letter to my parents.

June 12, 1989 (A letter to Grandparents)

I just had to send this little picture that Daniel drew this morning. He's finally able to sit down and draw a discernible picture. This is one of his more detailed pictures. Most of them deal with a single subject...Cars. This one contains three subjects. First of all there is a self portrait. As you can tell he has a buzz. He can't stand for his hair to get more than "fuzzy". If it doesn't "fuzz" when you run your hand backwards, from front to back, on the top of his head, it's too long and needs to be buzzed again. I noticed that he even put eyebrows on himself! I commented on this 'first', and he gave me a tolerant smile and said, "Those aren't my eyebrows. Those are my scabs." Sure enough he has two scabs, which will soon be pits, high on his forehead in about the same place. How silly of me!

The second subject is his bicycle. As you can see it has handlebars, a seat, peddle, tires, and if you look closely, you'll see air nozzles on the tires. At first I thought it was 1 spoke. He volunteered their true identity. I'm glad I kept my mouth shut or esle I would have deserved another of his tolerant smiles.

The third subject, of course, is the car, and he's driving it. I was afraid to ask what the little marks are beside the wheels but I did anyway. They are the 'SHHHHHHHH' sound the car makes when it's going.

This child has one of the most contagious and engaging smiles of anyone I know.

Our Dano.

2009 Christmas Advent #3

Jeni and babies...As I've watched Jeni with her babies and heard her say, "She's just so TINY!!" There was a time when babies weren't so tiny for her. She was almost 3 when her baby brother Daniel was born. He was just shy of 9 pounds. Jeni got to hold him in the hospital when he was just hours old. He wasn't what you'd call a "tiny" baby but he was still little, but he looks giant compared to his 2 year 9 month old sister! See the difference now?

2009 Christmas Advent #2

The Rootbeer Story:

And that's all I have to say about that.

2009 Christmas Advent

This should be Day One, but I came up with the idea late so...here we go.

For this year's advent it took me a while to come up with an idea. As I've been around Jeni and her children it brought back so many memories that I thought I'd do an Advent using some of my favorite pictures and/or stories of my children. So...a day late, here is#1.

Remember Kindergarten and that first day of school? Awwww....

Memory Lane...it lasts a lifetime.

Friar Thomas & the Western Express - Chapter 4

Chapter 4
Dirty Jasper was itching for coin
To throw after women and song,
Old Lenny was sure that some trinkets would cure
His thirsting for booze before long.

But Slim was just there for the fun
Of hearing another man scream
Buckeye Joe, who was wanted in three states or more,
Reckoned he’s just a-living his dream, lads,
A true desperado’s great dream.

Their pistols ablazin’ and lassos swung high,
They closed on the coach with a yippee-ky-yi!

First Dirty Jasper crested the team
And Slim leapt onto the seat
The brave coachman fought for the reins but he lost,
And tumbled down head over feet.

With Slim tugging hard on their reins
And Jasper controlling their heads,
The horses were forced as a matter of course
To leave their poor driver for dead, my lads,
They left their poor driver for dead.

The family inside prayed their lives would be spared;
Of them our four villains were yet unaware…

Lenny and Jasper went way back. They went so far back they even shared a father, or so the rumor had it. Growing up where they had with the mothers they had, it sure was possible. Also in favor of the argument was the way their eyes squinted and their mouths puckered up when they were thinking hard, which happened often. Many things required Lenny and Jasper to think harder than the average person. That was one of the reasons Slim liked riding with them so much: when the thinking got too hard and started taking too long, he could tell them what to think and they would accept it, grateful to be spared the strain of figuring it out themselves. Slim sneered at their stupidity even though he knew it was to his own benefit. He was cruel as they come and had escaped the gallows by sheer luck, though every lawman in the West would love to get a noose around his neck. He was cold, calculating, and took pride in his nefarious gift for outlawry. Slim, as they say, was the brains of the outfit.
Too bad Buckeye Joe, the fourth of their gang, was a little too smart for Slim’s liking sometimes. Slim wasn’t quite sure why Joe tagged along with them. He had just appeared one day, reckoned he’d come with them on a bank robbery, and hadn’t left since. His eyes always seemed to be nearly closed and Slim couldn’t tell half the time if Buckeye Joe was fully awake or not, but dang it the man was a surer shot than any Slim had seen before, and no matter what Slim tried Joe seemed to hang around like a tick on the back of a dog.
When Slim heard rumor that a stagecoach fat with payrolls and the belongings of a wealthy traveler would be traveling west along the route to California, he had decided his posse would pursue it. Pickings had been scarce for a while, and he dared not dismiss a rumor which sounded so enticing. Problem was, the informer had said the coach would be coming along their way no sooner than four days hence, and what Slim had overlooked was the fact that it had taken the informer three days just to reach them with the news. Thus he and his posse were ready and waiting a safe distance from the trail a good day and a half after the stagecoach had already passed.
Buckeye Joe had been the first to figure it out. Long chafing under the sarcastic tongue of Slim’s leadership, Joe had been delighted to point out Slim’s mistake to the other two, taking pains to explain it in small words they were sure to understand. Lenny and Jasper had understood, all right – they’d understood, as Slim sat furiously on his mustang, that all possibility of booze, poker and good times were nearly a two-day ride ahead of them. Slim had done his best through clenched teeth to woo back their loyalty, promising Lenny all the drink his gut could handle, and Jasper – sometimes called “Dirty Jasper” because of his fondness for brothels – the finest burlesque the closest two-horse town could muster. But Buckeye Joe was still smirking to himself, and Slim was not confident in his promises.
They rode hard after the coach, pressing their mounts as much as they dared to catch up. Now it took shape on the horizon as a cloud of dust, growing larger by the hour. The tracks it left on the trail before them were distinct, implying a heavy load. The four men grinned at each other in anticipation of what could make that kind of weight. Slim’s spirits lifted even more when he perceived the stagecoach was actually stopping up ahead. This was going to be a cinch!
He signaled to the others and they swooped off the trail, planning on taking the coach as much unawares as possible. Of course they would be spotted soon enough, but the closer they could get before then, the better. All went according to plan, and before they knew it the coach was scrambling for speed before them like a juicy hog in a fresh mud hole. The men whooped and hollered excitedly as they moved in for the kill, swinging their lassos for the necks of the team of horses pulling the coach. No one but Slim seemed concerned that five people other than the coachman had jumped inside the stagecoach before it started to move.
Brushing that fact aside as best he could, Slim steered for the side of the stagecoach and drew his pistol out at the ready.

Friar Thomas & the Western Express (Chapter 3)

Chapter 3
Behind the Express was a posse,
Bold outlaws on mustangs astride
Their black hats pulled low, ‘cross the sagebrush they go
Their lassos with knots ready tied

For two days did they follow this stage
On the wagon trail come with a load,
So heavy with riches the four wheels left ditches
In the hard prairie land of the road, lads,
The sun-baked packed land of the road.

But what will they do, these desperate thieves,
When the treasure they find is not what they seek?

Friar Thomas accidentally overslept. Somehow the dull tolling of the monastery’s bell had crept into his dreams in the form of the glorious pealing of a church bell, signifying to the world that two souls had been joined in the sight of God by holy matrimony. Sometime during the night he had stopped resisting the pure but tenacious advances of the beautiful Mary, to the delight of her father the Mayor. Forsaking his solitary life as a cowboy crime fighter, he had wed Mary properly and was just about to press his lips to the sweet pink petals of her mouth when a gentle but definitely masculine touch to his arm awoke him.
There he lay, habit still on backwards, broken star clattering from his startled hand to the floor, with the pile of old newspapers resting on his chest, and a monk standing over him looking at him with great concern. Two other monks peered in at the doorway.
Friar Thomas leapt to his feet, tugging his robe back into place. His face was red, his mouth was dry, and his palms began to sweat profusely. The nearest Friar had already picked up the papers and was reading them with some interest. The other two monks drifted silently in to join in the inspection. Friar Thomas picked up the fallen badge and was turning it nervously, guiltily, in his hands when the three Friars looked up at him with identical expressions on their faces. Friar Thomas felt his stomach lurch. He knew he was doomed.
The possession of these papers was not exactly the same as, say, sleeping in past the tolling of the bell. Sleeping in was the sin of laziness which could be corrected with chores. Friar Thomas’ Westerns denoted secrecy, idolatry, coveting, discontent…Thomas ran over the many sins in his mind, wondering what the punishment for them all would be. At the same time he didn’t know that he wanted to be punished for them. Repentance was far from his mind, for he didn’t want to forsake his sins. What would the punishment for that be? The three monks led him straight to the Abbot’s private study where the Abbot already sat studying the scriptures by the first light of day. The quaint picture of the grey-haired old man, his robes woolly with dust motes and his bald pate shining like a halo in the soft glow of early morning, made Friar Thomas with his grievous sins heavy on his conscience feel low and mean in comparison. Still, a defiant burning had begun in his bosom and he held it to himself the same way he held the broken star in his hand: as if he would absorb it into his skin if he could. The Abbot received the newspapers and the whispers of the three informers with placidity. He dismissed them with a gesture, then indicated to Friar Thomas that he should sit in a crude wooden chair. Friar Thomas somewhat reluctantly obeyed while the Abbot took a seat in the only other chair in the room, also crude and wooden.
“Friar Thomas,” he breathed, “what is the meaning of this?” His rough hands spread out inquiringly over the newspapers. Friar Thomas did not respond. He didn’t want to be rude, but he also didn’t want to condemn himself with his words. He didn’t know what to do so he started kicking one bare heel rhythmically against the leg of the chair, sticking out his lower lip while he thought. “My brother,” the Abbot continued after a pause, “I sense…unhappiness in your soul. You have been a Friar here for ten years now, is that correct?” Friar Thomas nodded. “You know,” the High Monk whispered, “being a monk is not for everyone. For some it is a lifelong calling, but others…” he trailed off as he glanced down at the stories before him. “Do you know,” he began again presently, “where our beautiful windows came from? No? You may have wondered before why a monastery, built for men who forsake all luxuries, located in the middle of nowhere, has such beautiful stained glass windows. A certain Abbot took a journey to the Old Country on purpose to salvage them from an abandoned monastery going to ruin. It was a much larger monastery than ours, converted from an old church. It was the monastery he had taken his vows in. The window you see, as well as those in the chapel and dining hall, came home without him. He had found another life while on his journey and chose to pass the reins of Abbotship on. Even an Abbot can find another calling in life, you see, but the works of God can still be glorified in the process.” He gestured above him to the window in his study.
Friar Thomas could hardly believe what he was hearing. True, he had known for at least a year now that someday he would leave the monastery, but he’d always imagined it would involve months of secret planning, the slow gathering of stolen supplies from the barren kitchen, and maybe an unwilling accomplice. After escaping in the dead of night he would run for days through the depressing landscape, trailed by an angry posse of monks running with their habits held high, frothing at the mouth with righteous fury. He’d never thought that he could leave quietly whenever he wanted with the Abbot’s blessing!
The Abbot had been watching him with a faint smile, as though he knew exactly what Friar Thomas was thinking.
“You mean,” Friar Thomas said hesitantly, “I can just…walk away? Forsake my vows just like that and leave the monastery with your blessing?” The Abbot chuckled quietly as he rose from his chair and put a gentle hand on Friar Thomas’ shoulder.
“My brother, of course you can’t just walk away,” he said with mild amusement. “We’ll provide you with a burro to ride. You would die on foot in this country. And as for my blessing, well…God will not accept an unwilling servant. It is not for me to force the priesthood upon anyone. Go with God’s blessing, if a blessing you would seek.”
His head whirled. He could leave! Would he leave? He looked at the SHE FF badge that lay in his palm, and the Abbot looked at it too.
“Would you like a pin for that?” he whispered. “I have one that would do. Perhaps it will prevent it from losing another owner.”
Friar Thomas’ eyes filled unexpectedly with tears. He swallowed hard as he accepted the pin, and in his heart the knowledge that he was leaving burst upon him with excitement and sorrow. He was leaving the life he’d known since the age of seventeen for the life he’d dreamed of for only a few years. His courage wavered for just a moment before steadying again: he was leaving!
The Abbot accompanied Friar Thomas to the kitchen and oversaw the packing of a satchel of their modest food. They then headed out to the stable where half a dozen burros were housed, and Friar Thomas was given an old female named Esther whom nobody liked to work with anyway, and who was too old to bear any more young. They did not return to Friar Thomas’ room for anything because there was nothing in there to take; all of his clothes and prized possessions were contained on his person.
Friar Thomas had mentally pictured himself leaving quietly on foot, leading the donkey, while the other monks carried on unsuspectingly with their chores. They wouldn’t miss him until dinner and would be left to wonder in silence whatever had happened to him. However, the twenty other brethren of the order lined up to bid a silent but cheerful good-bye to him. Friar Thomas hadn’t heard a word spoken to indicate what was going on, yet everyone knew. He had no choice then but to mount the reluctant donkey and ride off into the desert morning with his former brethren waving him off, armed only with a beaten up old SHE FF badge, a few old newspapers, and a sack of crummy food.
Is it any wonder, then, that his heart soared with the freedom of the hawks that circled above him? With his back now to the other monks he pinned the badge to his chest where it rested over his heart. The wind rustled his fringe of hair, the donkey picked up her feet bad temperedly at his request, and Thomas – Friar no more! – sallied forth bravely into the wild, Wild West.

Amusing placards at Conference

So...my parents are service missionaries at Temple Square and have been for about a year. They act as ushers at the Conference Center or the Tabernacle when there are events such as Conference, The Spoken Word or any other event. They love it and I get to hear about a bunch of things that I wouldn't necessarily ever know. Anyway, my dad called tonight to find out what my favorite talks were because he wasn't able to hear any of them as he was serving outside on both days. During our conversation he told me about some our favorite people who come to the Conference Center every spring and fall: the protesters and street preachers. They just can't stay away, can they? My dad was really amused by a couple of interesting placards that were being marched around. The first one was being held by a young woman in her twenties. She was holding it high and proud as she paraded around the faithful and the not-so-faithful. It read:

I ♥ MORMONS.

She got a lot of smiles and 'thumbs up'.

Another was a young man dressed in black suit with a top hat and cape with red fringe on it and carrying a pitchfork. His large placard read:

"Hi, I'm Satan

and these

street preachers

are my missionaries"

!!!

That one got a lot of laughs.After conference the young woman and young man met up and walked off together. Ya gotta love Conference. *smiling*

Fizzy, Bear, and 'no'

Fitz has so much going on in his little head. He really cracks me up. He doesn't talk except with some basic "mamama nanana dadn" sounds and some really complicated glottal noises in the back of his throat but he makes himself understood nonetheless. He really likes having an entourage when he does things, and *expects* all present to participate in his doings. Instead of taking my hand when wanting me to come, he gets behind me and pushes at my legs to get me moving. He also thinks that the word 'no' is the funniest thing ever. He used to take me seriously when I said it but not so much any more. He grins and laughs the does the 'no' thing with more gusto than when he started before the word was said. He laughs at his mother as she says 'no' as he heads towards the street...running! He laughs when I say 'no' before he throws his food to the floor, or starts pushing buttons on the DVD player.

Fizzy has a good friend here at the house. He's a very large floppy bear that Stephanie left here. He's bigger than Fitz and Fitz just loves hauling him around and flopping on him and generally treating him like a much beloved pet. Bear sits in a chair while Fitz eats and will be fed some items off the tray. Bear also has a new button sewn on his tummy so that Fitz can point it out when identifying parts of the body.

Bear has become quite the friend for Fitz and is most always part of the entourage. Fizzy pushes him around and hauls him by the fur, and lays on him and generally abuses him without any complaint from Bear.Last night as Jeni was eating dinner, Granpa was playing with Fitz and bear in the living room. Granpa was making Bear walk behind Fitz and talking to him when Fitz decided that he wanted to play with the things on what Steve calls my Winnie-the-Pooh Shrine table. We've pushed them all to the back of the table so they're hard to reach but he tries anyway. Welllllll...this time as Fitz was reaching for the no-no's, Bear, in a deep and softly solemn voice says, "Nooooo Fitz, don't play with those." Fitz turns around,stunned, and looks at Bear, whose shaking his head, standing there with Granpa behind him. Then looks at Grandpa, who says in his own voice, "Bear says no," sounding a bit stunned himself. Then Fizzy's little face crumbles and he starts crying, inconsolably! Jeni and I were in the kitchen and Jeni says, "Dad, what happened?" and Granpa carries the crying Fitz into the kitchen and tells her the story, as Fitz continues to cry alligator tears of very real sadness and disappointment. Jeni and I look at each other, stunned ourselves, then we start laughing! Jeni, so hard that I thought she wouldn't be able to catch her breath! and Fizzy still crying like his heart would break. His best friend, his malleable companion, his patient-in-all-things buddy has told him 'no'. I'm not sure now if their friendship will survive or if we'll have to be really careful of what Bear says and does so as not to take advantage of his influence over this small boy. It's funny what kids get into their small heads.

Friar Thomas & the Western Express - Chapter 2

Chapter 2
Inside the coach sat a man named King,
With a wife and two sons to boot,
And a daughter whose eyes were dark midnight skies,
And ringlets of ebony soot.

Come from Virginia to settle the West,
Chasing the glory of gold
But whether they’ll find a fortune in mines
Is an outcome that’s yet to be told, lads –
A story that’s yet to be told.

As of yet Mr. King is poverty struck
A former ship’s cap’n just down on his luck…

Mr. David King, his wife, and their family of three children bumped around miserably in the Western Express stagecoach. It was hot. It was dusty. The delicate handkerchief Mrs. King held in front of her face was no longer white; it was streaked with brown, and when she took it away from her face to speak to him he could tell from where the dirt began and ended on her face where she had been holding it.
“David,” she said wearily, “are we there yet?”
He sighed as he patted her knee. “No Jessebell, we’re not. And we won’t be for days.”
His twin sons, Saul and Jonah, had long since given up their excited chattering about the adventure of moving to the West. They were even too disenchanted to hit and poke each other any more, which was a mercy because Mr. King was heartily sick of trying to keep them from touching each other or breathing on each other in this close space. Only his eldest, Delilah, had been relatively patient about their long and arduous trek.
Ah, Delilah. Mr. King gazed at her fondly as she tried to nap against the jostling coach. His beautiful girl – a woman grown now! Her fine looks and good behavior had earned her an enviable place among the other young women of their hometown in Virginia. None had been able to hold a candle to Delilah at her seventeenth birthday celebration, the last big party the Kings had been able to throw before receiving word that their cargo of tobacco had been captured by pirates as it sailed on the family ship to foreign ports. By the end of the week their creditors had descended on the home, and Mr. King was left a shameful debtor. Even now his eyes stung to think of it. And now they were on their way to the West, chasing rumors of gold and fleeing the prying eyes and wagging tongues of their former friends and neighbors.
Delilah’s magnificent raven locks were rough with the wear of travel. Her dress was stained and limp. The jewel of the family and pride of his heart was covered in dirt, bedraggled but still pretty enough, even if the men who had so admired her before would now be more likely to offer her a hand-out rather than offer their hand. Her father had certainly seen her looking better, and chose to close his eyes to what he’d reduced his little girl to and remember her instead as he’d seen her at her birthday party, the belle of the ball…
The stagecoach began to slow. The horses needed a rest and the driver did too. He’d been paid handsomely by the Kings for his services, enough so that he wouldn’t take any mail along with him. Though he had protested mightily, being a firm believer in the delivery of mail, Mr. King had insisted that carrying mail meant risking highway robbery.
“Mail coaches attract thieves like flies to manure!” Mr. King had said. The coachman had seen his point and his thick wallet, and had agreed. However, he’d since come to suspect that Mr. King’s thick wallet was thicker with moths than it was with cash, and had decided that he wouldn’t kill himself or his team getting to California.
Mr. King noticed the coach slowing and rapped on the ceiling. “What’s going on?” he demanded. “Why are we stopping again?”
“Horses need to rest!” shouted back the coachman, not really caring what Mr. King thought about that.
Mr. King grumbled a bit to himself but really didn’t mind the chance to stretch his legs one more time. His family was stirring as well, brought to life by the possibility of escaping their rattling prison for a time. They hadn’t been out of the coach more than three minutes, however, before their driver muttered a curse and yelled for them to get back into the coach quick. He launched himself onto his seat and continued hollering as the family scrambled, clearly anxious to get going as fast as possible. The door to the coach hadn’t even been shut before he’d whipped the team with a sharp “Hee-yaw!” As they lurched forward Mr. King pulled the door shut, the ground already moving quickly beneath them.
“What the devil is the meaning of this, sah?” he shouted at the driver. He didn’t often use curse words in front of his family, but confound it, what did the man mean by stopping the coach and then yelling at them so rudely to get back inside? “I demand that you answer me! How dare you – “
“We’re bein’ followed!” hollered the coachman. “Bandits! Thieves! Outlaws!”
“Impossible!” Mr. King retorted even as his blood turned to ice. “We don’t have any mail! Why would they come after a coach that doesn’t have any mail?”
“They steal things other than mail, you idiot!” was the answer, and the coachman applied the whip over the backs of his straining horses.
The Kings sat in stunned silence at this revelation. Mr. King had never considered that they would be pursued just for the merest possibility of something worth stealing. Didn’t outlaws only steal mail, payrolls and such? His wife clutched his arm and searched his face for comfort he was unable to give. His boys looked at each other with faces aglow: finally, something exciting was happening! He felt pity for them, these innocent boys who never considered what might happen if the outlaws actually caught them. These were desperate men, no doubt; men who would do anything to satisfy their carnal desires and raging greed.
“No worries,” he tried to say cheerfully. “I’m sure they’ll give up soon when they find they can’t catch us. Besides, we have nothing they could want.” And then Mrs. King whispered a single word in his ear that caused his gut to churn: “Delilah..!”

Jeni's Story - Friar Thomas & the Western Express

This story was written by Jeni and was the inspiration for this quilt that has blocks named after events/people/items in the story. This is the first Chapter. I'll hand out a chapter a week. I love to create suspense. Please don't copy this unless you have permission from me or Jeni. Thanks.

Friar Thomas & the Western Express

Chapter 1

The sun burned high in the sky that day,
The heat made waves in the air,
And not a soul stirred but the critters and birds
For no others dared to live there.

Then the trail rumbled with thunder
And the critters all fled in distress,
Like a shot from a gun it came by at a run
T’was a stage from the Western Express, lads!
A coach from the Western Express.

The horses’ flanks steamed but their man paid no heed,
Onward they flew as he whipped them to speed…

Friar Thomas of the Eddystone Light of God Monastery sat quietly during his morning meal, sipping his weak vegetable soup. He always sat quietly during the morning meal, and the evening meal too for that matter. All the monks did. Friar Thomas had taken the vow of silence willingly ten years ago when he joined the order, but lately it seemed his voice prowled restlessly in his throat like a caged beast, desperate to get out. Sometimes Friar Thomas had to bite his tongue to keep from suddenly bursting forth with a mad tirade of gibberish at the top of his lungs. Other times, like right now, he had to bite his tongue to keep from shouting a curse at the rock-hard biscuit he’d absently picked up and stupidly tried to nibble. Instead, he dropped the biscuit, pressed his hand to his lips and cursed silently but with great feeling in his head. His curse went something like, “Dadblast it! Dang stupid git! Blast yew to tarnation, yew yeller-bellied fool of a biscuit!” He let the string of profanity hang in his head for a satisfying second before repenting. Friar Thomas had learned his curses from a few short cowboy stories published weekly in Eastern newspapers: his cherished, secret sin. The newspapers had been left several years ago by a lost traveler – a cowboy hopeful from Delaware – who had stayed at the monastery for a few nights. Friar Thomas thought about the much-creased, well-loved papers tucked under his thin mattress and wondered, not for the first time, if he should get rid of them. While he was debating internally the effect that contraband was having on the state of his immortal soul, his traitorous fingers again found the biscuit and brought it up to his mouth. The monk next to Friar Thomas jumped slightly as the biscuit rocketed back down to the rough wooden table a second later.
Maybe the biscuit really was an omen for the rest of the day, or maybe Friar Thomas just allowed it to be an omen. In any case, Friar Thomas had a day that felt a lot like breaking his teeth on a hard biscuit. After breakfast he followed a few other friars into the monastery’s garden to participate in some farming. When he was done pulling weeds from the sandy soil and trying to water the struggling vegetables with buckets of water from the river, he assisted in the gathering of sparse native grasses for the small herd of burros kept in a crude stable. Following his session of farm duties Friar Thomas was assigned to participate in some sewing chores. The monks lived in an isolated part of the Texas territory, the nearest neighbors being about one hundred miles away. Isolation might be ideal for a life of prayer, but it sure put a cramp on bartering. Due to the lack of other resources, the monks grew all their own food and made most of their own things, though once every year two lucky friars would make the journey to the nearest trading post for some needles, thread, cloth, dried venison, and other items the monks couldn’t make for themselves. Friar Thomas had never been selected to make this trek. He wished he would be, because he would do his best to bring back some better cloth than what was usually procured. All the monks sewed their own unmentionables and habits, but things like sheets and bedding were a group effort. Today the brethren were working on a quilt for the Abbot, who was getting old and frequently caught chills in the night. Friar Thomas surveyed the beginnings of the Abbot’s quilt with dismay. The monks lived a life of poverty and economy. They also believed in the use of coarse cloth both in clothes and bed sheets, hence their habits were made from a brown fabric that was also used to groom the donkeys, and their bed sheets were burlap. A few small piles of familiar brown and straw colored squares sat at each place of the table, and two friars were busily snipping away at old habits, creating more squares for more piles. He sat down in resignation to his spot at the table and began sewing square after square of coarse brown cloth and burlap together in rows. Eventually he ran out of burlap and had to sew brown square after brown square together. The monks doing the cutting were paying more attention to using the least worn pieces of the cloth than they were to how large or small their squares were, the end result being that the squares weren’t all the same size, so the rows of the quilt varied in length, height, pattern, and direction. Several other monks joined the quilting bee throughout the day and by dinner time the quilt was finished. It was roughly in the shape of a rectangle with interesting growths sticking off here and there, had a piecemeal burlap backing, and one monk had the bright idea to tie the quilt with some spare pieces of twine. Beautiful it was not, but the Abbot accepted it gratefully.
The evening meal differed from the morning meal only by the length of the prayer that was offered. Thomas ate another bowl of vegetable soup, the broth of which wasn’t strong enough to affect the biscuit, which sat like a stone at the bottom of his bowl. He absently used it to sand the table while he waited for the other friars to finish eating.
After nightly prayers and silent scripture study, all the monks returned to their cells. Friar Thomas flopped wearily onto his cot, all monkish dignity abandoned. The molten rays of the setting sun ran like syrup down the bare walls of his room, marking the end of another blistering day on the banks of the Eddystone River. Friar Thomas lifted his silly bangs to wipe his brow as he bid good riddance to the sun. Life as a monk was not easy, he thought to himself. Besides the terrible biscuits and perpetual silence, the rough habits they wore that chafed the skin, the rising at dawn and sleeping at sunset, and the laborious farming of scrawny vegetables, he mostly resented the confounded sun beating mercilessly upon his shaven skull. It was too hot to wear a cowl all day while working under the sun. This autumn it would be his turn to keep aside some corn husks to weave a breezy hat with, but until then his poor pate suffered.
“Why do we have to live in this sand pit anyway?” Friar Thomas muttered with hushed rebellion. He often did this at night; to hear the sound of his own voice even in a whisper was to know that it still worked. Did the other monks do it as well? He’d probably never know.
“Of all the places to build a monastery…I mean, thank God for the river, but the soil is still so poor it’s almost not worth the effort of farming,” he continued. “And would it really hurt our spiritual welfare to have some bread we could actually chew? It doesn’t have to taste good, just be chewable.” At this point several scriptures began creeping into his head to admonish him. To stave them off he reached under his mattress and pulled out his “Westerns,” as he liked to call them. Secular books were forbidden in the monastery so no one knew Friar Thomas possessed these unholy reading materials.
His calloused brown fingers traced over the deeper creases with loving concern. His Westerns were falling apart. Did he dare copy them onto stronger paper? Where would he get the paper, let alone the ink? Suddenly, Friar Thomas remembered the surprising discovery he had stumbled upon that morning while he was fetching buckets of water from the Eddystone. How grateful he had been to find himself alone at that moment! Tiny treasures were not exactly forbidden; he knew several friars had found pretty stones here and there and kept them, but he feared the other monks would perceive how much more than just an interesting object this was to him – how it shone to him like a beacon, beckoning him to a life of gun-slinging sin… He slipped it out of his habit and held it up reverently in the final glow of the dying sun. He knew from his reading that real sheriff’s stars had five points and were of polished silver that sent bright, piercing rays of intimidating justice into the dastardly eyes of desperados. But even though this star was broken, boasting only four remaining points, and though the metal was tarnished and rusted, he could still make out the original title in firm, no-nonsense script pounded faintly into the face: “SHE FF.” To further tickle his imagination was the unmistakable bullet hole where the “RI” should have been. He fingered the star gently for a long time.
Finally, after creeping to the door to peek out to satisfy himself that there was no one out there, Friar Thomas gleefully turned his habit around and wore it backwards. Pulling the cowl up like a bristly bandana, he straddled his narrow bed like a horse and, holding the star in place on his chest, brandished his other hand in a finger pistol. Suitably armed and ready, he proceeded to capture four bank robbers, a murderer, and two corrupt town officials single handedly. After the dust settled Friar Thomas stopped just short of allowing himself to woo or be wooed by the Mayor’s beautiful daughter, Mary, whose hair shone with all the yellow glory of a Texas rose, and whose eyes were as guileless as a pair of newly sprung bluebonnets. No, his monkish conscience preferred instead to remain a mysterious, lonely menace to the lawbreakers of Eddystone. So he merely tipped his hat politely in response to her breathless thanks for saving her life, and left her sighing in time with the clink of his nickel-plated spurs as he moseyed back to his steed. Off he rode into his dreams, lulled to sleep by the gentle ‘clop clop’ of his faithful mustang and the howls of distant coyotes, clutching the broken star in his hand.

The True Nightmare of the Empty Nest

Actually, it's not really a nightmare. I was searching around for a name for this blog and my eyes lit on my "Mom's Calendar" that I got for Christmas and the current quote for the day started out...

"This is the true nightmare of the empty nest:..."

the rest is as follows...

"Your children are gone

and they were the only ones in the house

who knew how to use the remote control."

Not exactly true, as my husband graduated with highest honors in the Remote Control class and is working on his masters degree. I think we possess at least 5 remotes for the working TV's (that includes VCR's, DVD players hooked up to said TV's) and a few more for unworking TV's and some CD players, and I know how to at least do the minimum.

The true nightmare of the empty nest is that you have no one to blame your messy house on any more.