The True Nightmare of the Empty Nest

Airline Wisdom

2011-11-10T09:30:00.000-07:00

Recently I've been able to witness a very common occurrence no less than 6 times in less than 10 days in one form or another:

No, it's not very exciting. And yes, I mostly ignored it. But after hearing it time after time over the course of one's life there are certain things that begin to make sense in more than just the airplane scenario.

Thank you Elder Uchtdorf.

For instance, that whole part about making sure that your air mask is on securely before you help anyone else. There are some who may see that as silly or even selfish. How hard is it to quickly put a child's air mask on before your own. Isn't that a bit selfish or even dangerous to the child to deprive them of oxygen just so you can get your oxygen first? But there is wisdom here. How can we possibly help a helpless child if we ourselves fall into unconsciousness before we're able to help them? What if they're fear is so great that we have to waste precious airless moments struggling with them in order to put their mask on, and then keep it on?

All kinds of scenarios. All kinds of outcomes. But the basic message is that you have to be in a position of strength in order to give strength to others. If you don't have it to begin with, how can you give it to anyone else?

Lately, that's how I feel. I have no strength. I am weak, weak, weak, tired, tired, tired.

I'm doing everything I can to get back to a position of strength but I think it's going to take some time.

It's hard for me to be patient with myself. I don't want to go back to the doctor and say, "I need more drugs." I really don't think that's the answer anyway. Maybe it's the whole patience thing...yeah, not so good at that.

I take Xanax one night and get 8 hours, I feel gritty eyed in the morning and a bit hung over but it was sleep. I take it the next night and get 6 hours with a couple of toss and turn hours afterwards and a draggy day. I thought I'd take my friend's advice and try 1/2 Ambien at bed time and if I wake up during the night, take the other. It worked for 2 nights but last night I took 1/2, never fell asleep so I took the second half at about two and skimmed the surface of sleep like a skeeter bug. The surface tension of sleep was just too hard to penetrate even with drugs. I understand the a little soap will soften the surface tension of water so that fruit flies will drown...

My brain won't let me sleep. My eyes jiggle in their sockets like nervous twitchy bugs when I try to keep them closed, yet if I open them so that they can fall closed naturally my eyelids hang there at half mast, limp and useless, feeling tired and stupid with my eyeballs hanging like dull red moons just beyond the sails of sleep.

My hot flashes and night sweats have increased uncomfortably, in frequency and intensity, which doesn't help.

I have a lot of questions to ask someone after this life.

Most of them begin with 'Why?'

On the upside: I have a most patient, kind, supportive caring, strong husband who's trying desperately to help me put on my oxygen mask.

I'm going to try some relaxing yoga before bed tonight. I hear that helps.

First Trip Across The Pond

2011-11-01T09:41:00.001-06:00

First of all I'll preface this with the advice that IF you decide to go Transatlantic, either plan on going First Class, where you *might* sleep, or if you decide to go coach just don't plan on sleeping at all. That way, if you do sleep it will be a pleasant surprise.

That said we'll just move on.

Our plane left Salt Lake on Saturday, October 15th at 7:10 am. We arrived in Frankfurt Germany via Phoenix-Philadelphia at about 9:30 am Germany time Sunday the 16th (which is about 1:30 am Salt Lake time). Our arrival was a miracle. At least to me, because I thought that flight would NEVER end. It just kept going and going and going. I have a new idea of Hell and it closely resembles a transatlantic seat in coach right behind the bulkhead with a view into first class where they're actually RECLINING and being served a hot breakfast and orange juice in GLASS glasses *with cloth napkins!*, unlike my place where they *say* your seat is capable of being in a position other than 'upright' but it sure doesn't feel like it. My spine and head and rear can testify to this. I know I looked scary when facing the passport officials but they stamped my passport anyway. I guess they're used to people looking like that, (and the US dollar is VERY welcome).

This is the pickup area at the Frankfurt International Airport.

Munchen is actually what we call Munich...which begs the question: Why don't we just call it what they call it? It IS their city. Do they secretly call Salt Lake City something else entirely? I don't know...

The landscape is very reminiscent of our New England. Rolling hills, trees, rural farm scenes etc... The only thing that let me know that we were in Germany was the architecture and the signs in German.

They drive on the same side of the road that we do, their steering wheel is on the same side, they're cars tend to be smaller, the roads narrower, the city designs less green. Which isn't to say that they're not beautiful, just less landscaping with green things like trees, shrubs etc...

Funny thing - Their exit signs look like this:

Pronounced (h)ousefahrt (House without the 'H' but it's sure tempting to pronounce it with a genteel Auss). For Americans anything with the word 'fart' in it is going to get at least a smirk. There's even a T-shirt sold at the army base that says:

Pretty funny huh? Had I not gone to Germany already in the know about this little tidbit I probably would have asked the same questions because the signs are EVERYWHERE. Just think of all the places you see our EXIT sign. Yeah...all those same places. The word for 'Entrance' is Einfahrt.

Jeni picked us up at about 10:30 or so Sunday morning. It was so wonderful to see Jeni, Fitz and Swede!! As tired as I was I didn't sleep at all until we went to bed that night, even though I'd been up for more than 36 hours by that time. That's what happiness will do to a person. We saw Stephanie, Rue and Al when we finally got to Bergrheinfeld about 2 hours later. Oh how I'd missed my daughters! It was just lovely. Rue is a darling, sweet baby. Swede is as charming as ever and Fitz is a sunny little entertainer. We went for a long walk with the kids in Bergrheinfeld ending up at a little park close to home.

We only saw Al Sunday afternoon and a little bit Monday morning and then he was gone for the rest of our visit on field training exercises with his platoon.

Monday we spent visiting the Army Base in Schweinfurt and aldstadt (old town) Schweinfurt. I love aldstadt ANYWHERE in Germany. They do such a great job preserving their old cities. The courtyards are all cobbled and people just wander around feeding the pigeons. Fitz and Swede love chasing the poor birds but they're so fat they probably need the exercise anyway and it's so nice to watch the kids have such fun doing something so simple. These pictures were taken with Schweinfurt City Hall in the background. Stephanie took a tour of this building and has some nice pictures.

While Steven and Jeni fed the kids at McDonalds, Stephanie and I went hunting for real food. We came back with 4 Döners for the grownups. It's a type of German sandwich which isn't German at all, it's Turkish. Which doesn't really matter in the least because it was first real food I'd had in a while and was so scrumptious I can't believe I ate the whole thing! It had shredded cabbage instead of lettuce, red cabbage too. Very, very yummy.

Jeni picked up some very decadent special order cupcakes that afternoon that a friend had made and we got to meet her friend Jessica and her children when they came for the cupcake party. I went with Stephanie to the local grocery store EDEKA and picked up some stuff for dinner and I was able to see a bit of the town and get a good look at the church whose bells haunted me almost every night, ringing every 15 minutes so you are never in doubt as to what time it is. It's a beautiful old church, by the way, just rather insistent that everyone know what time it is.

It was a bit damp for a few days and we didn't venture forth much. We played with the kids and Steven treated us girls to the Day Spa on base where I got a massage from a large German Fraulein (very strong, never been slapped on the back that hard before) and Jeni and Stephanie got pedicures. It was really nice. On Friday we went to the Mall...which is really just like any other mall except that English isn't spoken. Which does change the shopping experience considerably. We let the kids run around in the play areas...

...and I discovered that eating establishments don't provide any plastic-ware! Just silverware. It became very apparent that everyone is very conscious of what is thrown away. They recycle EVERYTHING. Even in the restrooms they don't have paper towels to dry one's hands with, they have either air dryers or those big dispensers with huge rolls of fabric. They don't want to have to recycle if they can avoid it. Commendable.

This post is getting a bit lengthy so I'll pause here and continue later. Maybe then I'll be able to access some of Stephanie's pictures too.

The Wedding - Daniel & Hillary

2011-09-27T09:01:00.000-06:00

It's been a long time coming. As they said in their announcement:

"Daniel & Hillary

are getting...

married! Finally."

They've known each other for more than seven years. They were planning on getting married two years ago, broke it off, and then got back together around Christmas time last year and made the final decision which culminated in a wonderful celebration on Friday, the 23rd of September, 2011.

We had it in our back yard which seemed roomy and large to us at the time, us being the only two people living at this address right now, but became downright cozy, if not cramped, when we set up 92 chairs on Friday morning for the wedding ceremony that afternoon. I could just kick myself for not taking pictures. I meant to. I had every intention of doing so, but for some reason it didn't happen. Steven extracted some stills from his video footage so I could have something. I'm hoping we can have access to the digital photos that the photographer took.

Of all the pictures that were taken on that day there is one that was taken, with my eyes only, that I'll never forget. I doubt the photographer got it. In fact I'm sure she didn't for her camera was focused elsewhere, as were most everyone's eyes. It's tradition for everyone to stand and look towards the bride when she walks down the isle with her father, glorious in her finery. It's her day. It's her right. I glanced, but I did not follow her with my eyes. Not because she wasn't beautiful, she was breathtaking. And not because I didn't love her, I do. I was looking at someone else. I wanted to see something else, and I wasn't disappointed.

My favorite part of the whole day was my son's face when he saw his bride for the first time in her wedding dress walking down the isle towards him. If he has ever been my Sunshine Boy it was in that moment. It wasn't the dress...no. It was her, and more importantly, her choice to make this commitment to him, and only him. His eyes held all the love I have ever wished for him. I wanted to see that. I wanted to be a witness to that moment and see that devotion, that caring, that commitment. I'm so happy for him. Truly and deeply happy for him.

The refreshment area

Me, Daniel, Hillary, Steven

Daniel's Side of the Family...or most of them that were there.

Daniel's immediate family in attendance

Hillary's immediate family

Photo Table

The reception area

Wedding Quilt Continued - Putting it all together

2011-09-12T21:04:00.000-06:00

One week ago today I started cutting.
At 8:30 this evening I put the final border on and it's ready for the quilter.

It has been asked if the definition of madness might be to take a perfectly good piece of cloth and cut it into hundreds of little pieces, then sew them back together again.

I'm not completely convinced that they might not have a point there. (Double negative intended)

Block 1 pieces -          697
Block 2 pieces -          588
First border pieces -        7
Final border pieces - + 4
           Grand Total - 1,296 pieces

I've participated in greater madness than this, and will probably continue to do so. I find it oddly therapeutic. Which may well confirm the diagnosis.

*Very Deep Sigh*

Wedding Quilt Continued - The Cutting/Sewing of Block #2

2011-09-09T22:47:00.000-06:00

I started cutting for block 2 when we got home from The Greek Festival on Thursday night. Since I was working from a picture of a quilt that I saw online and then drew up in my quilting software, and not from a published pattern, I had to do a lot of the math and figuring myself.

This is one of my worksheets that I'm using for cutting. I've found that quilting has kept my brain pretty limber. I'm grateful for that. As my mother has often reminded me, "Use it or lose it Kristine." Well, I'm using it.

For all of the triangles in this block I had to use templates like the one shown at left. I needed to cut 144 light half-triangles like the one shown, 24 dark half-triangles, and 52 dark full-triangles.

I cut several strips the height of the template in both light and dark fabrics then laid the template on top making sure that the edge of the template sat square against the edge. Then I laid my ruler on top of the template, lining my quarter inch seam line on the ruler exactly on top of my solid stitch line on the template. Then cut. Also trimming the little corners to make it easier to line up my pieces when sewing them together.

In addition I cut 9 dark 2 1/2" strips and 9 light 2 1/2" strips, sewed each dark strip next to a light strip then sub-cut each strip set into as many 2 1/2" segments as I could get out of each set. All those pieces had to come together like this during my Friday sewing session:

Each 12" block contains 32 pieces. (There are 12 of those totaling 384 pieces) Each 12" x 6" block consists of 17 pieces. (There are also 12 of those totaling 204 pieces)

For a grand total of 588 pieces for Block #2.

The Greek Festival

2011-09-09T14:54:00.000-06:00

The Greek Festival last night was wonderful, the food was totally yummy and the dancers were awesome.

...But on the way there we had a bit of a scary moment when cutting diagonally through Pioneer Park to get to the Greek Orthodox Church on the corner of 3rd S and 3rd W.

The sun hadn't even begun to touch the horizon, it was only a little after 6:00 pm. A frantic eyed woman (honestly, she looked and acted a bit...touched?) approached us and said in a panicked voice, "Do you have a cell phone? Do you?"

Thinking she might be some kind of panhandler I said, "No, no cell." When in truth it was nestled safely in my purse slung across my body. Ignoring what I said and walking backward now so as to face us, continuing her warning as we walked in the opposite direction, she spoke more loudly saying, "They're fighting over there. Really arguing! Call the police now before someone gets shot! I don't want to see a murder right in front of my face! I tell you! Someone's going to get killed!" I could hear more of her warning as it faded behind me and I started looking around for what might have frightened her. Ahead and to our right were a group of about 6-8 black men either poised menacingly or shoving and verbally abusing each other near the rest rooms near the center of the park. Even though I was walking with my big strong hubby we began walking faster. As big and strong and protective as he is, he isn't a man of steel and can only stop a bullet as well as anyone could, with much pain and blood involved. I clutched his hand tighter. We kept our eyes forward as we approached, came abreast, then passed the group. I murmured quietly to him through my teeth, "I hope we don't get shot just walking through the park tonight."

I felt a little better as we got further from them and I could no longer hear them when we came upon another group of young-ish men, mostly black and maybe a few Latinos arguing loudly, chins jutting forward aggressively across a couple of picnic tables. I tried to tune it out but I think 90% of their conversation consisted of the F*** word in all it's various forms accompanied by many threatening hand gestures featuring either their middle fingers or clenched fists.

All the stories about this park and the increased police presence there came back to me and I could feel my shoulders drawing up to my ears. A very typical sign of stress for me, and a reason that I see a chiropractor. Steven let go of my hand and gently put his arm around my shoulders as we continued on towards civilization just a hundred feet away. I could even hear the sound of Greek music and smell the food.

Ahhhhh...nothing between my shoulder blades but a throbbing ache from tension. I wonder if it would feel much worse to me in a war zone. Although I do remember seeing stuff like that on a regular basis during my High School years in So. California during the 70's. I don't remember feeling that stressed then.

Oh yeah, that was when I was an invincible teenager.

Needless to say we didn't cut through the park to get back to our car. We walked around it and watched the most gorgeous sunset on our way home.

Wedding Quilt Continued - The Cutting/Sewing of Block #1

2011-09-08T10:42:00.000-06:00

I'm a marathon sewer. When I start it's hard to stop. I just keep going, and going and going. I've had people ask me, "Are you sure that you'll be able to finish this quilt by the wedding?" which is now less than 3 weeks away? The answer is, "No problemo! Unless I get deathly ill, injured or die, it will be done in the time allotted and probably earlier." It's my nature. I only get slowed down by 'sewer's block' which is similar to 'writer's block': when inspiration is thin and/or mangled or I lose interest in a project.

Okay, Monday was the washing day.

Tuesday was the cutting day for Block #1. I started after dinner and finished before 9 pm.

There are two main blocks, when laid alternately, create the overall pattern, or movement in the design.

All totaled for Block #1 x 13 plus 8 half blocks and 4 quarter blocks there are 697 pieces.

Wednesday was sewing Day for Block #1. I was going to take pictures of the process but I got lost in it and forgot.

There are 13 full size blocks (12" x 12" finished - 37 pieces each), 8 half blocks (6" x 12" finished - 21 pieces each), and 4 quarter blocks ( 6" x 6" finished - 12 pieces each).

697 pieces have now been reduced to 25.

Tonight it looks like the Greek Festival for dinner so probably no cutting for block #2 until tomorrow, unless...unless I have time when I get home.

The making of a wedding quilt -

2011-09-05T14:01:00.000-06:00

I thought it might be interesting to do a time lapse blog on the making of a wedding quilt.

Daniel is my third born child and second son, born the day after Valentine's Day, February 15th 1985. He's my sunshine boy. His favorite color when he was a munchkin was yellow and he had/has one of the most contagious smiles I've ever seen.

He's never been afraid of getting his hands, or anything else dirty. He's got a very unique sense of humor which keeps us all going and one of the softest hearts imaginable.

I'm really emotionally invested in this quilt for some reason, not only because it comes from one of the deepest places in my heart to a dear and beloved child but because it's one I've dreamed of making. I'm sure the reality will not begin to measure up to the imagined original but we have to begin somewhere.

First we must begin with the inspiration. When his fiance, Hillary, was over with her mother, step mother and sisters to take a look at the back yard and what could be done with it we discussed colors. I got to see her bridal pictures which were taken out on the salt flats during sunset. They're Bee-Ewe-Tea-Full! I loved the stark lines and dramatic colors in them. The wind was blowing and she looked breathtaking. It was definitely her element. She's going to have lavender in her bouquet and when I mentioned sunset colors for their quilt she seemed to take to the idea. My mind began to race...

Batiks!! I love batiks. Love, love, love them. Whenever I want to treat myself I work with them.

First, I soak them in a water, vinegar, salt solution to set the dye. I was told about this process by a Navajo quilting gentleman. It works. I've never had a problem with colors running when I do this.

I wanted to see how the progression would look wet...hmmm...the darks look really dark and the yellow and medium blue aren't there because they've already been washed and dried.

Here are all the fabrics I'll be using the darks will be more 'present' than the lights in order to create the contrast to see the overall design.

This is going to be so much fun!!

A rambling post about my other addiction and stupid warnings.

2011-08-30T22:25:00.000-06:00

Yesterday as I was cleaning my sewing room, again, I came across a couple of Winnie the Pooh fitted crib sheets that I found at DI several years ago and planned on using in the guest room for grand-kids. I pictured a pretty little crib that would fit nicely in the nook where the dormer window is.

Well - it didn't turn out like that. I can be practical when the need arises and when the first grandbaby came along I realized it might be nice to have something that would be a little more versatile: crib, playpen, indoor, outdoor, camping etc...so I bought a really nice Pack-n-Play that is fairly compact when disassembled and folded up and is also roomy and has several nice features. It has a diaper changing area, a little clip on basket thingy to hold powder, salve, wipes, the mattress/floor can be raised so that a tiny baby can sleep there to be at a higher level, and lowered when the baby gets a little more adventurous. All in all it was a smart buy and I've used it for all three grandbabys so far...

...but the crib sheets don't fit it. *sigh* They're too long and narrow. But as I looked at them yesterday, sad in the thought about not being able to use them, I decided that they could be re-cut and re-sewn to fit, and then the Winnie the Pooh theme would continue as it has begun in that room.

I had two crib sheets, both different but Pooh-ish, and from those I was able to make one fitted sheet for the mattress and two new padded sheets for the changing area. It's darling.

Now here is the scary part. As I was putting the sheets on and admiring the whole effect I noticed, again, some labels that were sewn to the Pack-n-Play. They're just UGLY: construction cone orange and Black-Wordy...ick. So I decided to take them off with my trusty un-sewer, otherwise known as a seam ripper. I took two off. Then I noticed another...then another, and another!! I unsewed no less than nine (9!) 'Warning' labels off this thing in two (2) languages! This thing must be the most dangerous, life stealing, baby bed on the planet! I can't imagine how three of my grandchildren have survived sleeping in it.

So...here is my Winnie-ther-Pooh room so far.

On the left is a view from the bedroom door. How many Pooh-ish things can you count?

That's my blessing dress hanging from the shelf.

On the right is a view from the foot of the bed. I must confess that I *do* have some fabric and screen printed Classic Pooh blocks to make a quilt for this bed. Maybe in January...sweet, January, I'll get to that.

This is looking into the little nook where the crib is set up.

The dresser - I love, love, love these candle stick holders and the collage picture on the wall. I know the story that each picture is about.

The shelf by the window seat - Those booties were Jason's when he was a baby.

I found these wall paper stick-on's on sale at Target a few years ago and re-found them under the bed about a month ago. PERFECT.

I love this room. I really do. And if guests don't like it well...then, they can just close they're eyes (so as not to look at it) and go to sleep, and probably dream of The Hundred Acre Wood. That would be a happy dream.

My children will be the first to point out that Winnie-the-Pooh isn't necessarily confined to this room.

Pooh Shrine

I have a London Pooh sitting on my bed...

...and barely noticeable, insignificant 'shrine' in my living room.

A small menagerie on the hallway mirror.

And a little Pooh wisdom hanging above the door going into my kitchen.

To name a few.

My husband, by the way, is totally okay with this. ♥

Bugs and Boys

2011-08-01T10:51:00.000-06:00

Once upon a time there was a beetle. He was a nice beetle. He lived in Marysvale Utah in a nice RV park. He liked it fine, especially in the tent culdesac where it was mostly quiet. The grass was nice, the river was close by and friendly people would occasionally leave bits of food that were nice for beetles. He often heard exclamations on his size and color and especially his nice large mandibles that looked quite menacing and he could gnash them in a very alarming manner when he was feeling threatened. So far his life was going quite well and he'd grown large and fat...and, sadly, somewhat complacent.

One dewy morning after visiting the place under the picnic table for his breakfast he decided to make his presence known to the nice little girl who was packing up her tent. His shiny carapace glistened in the sun and he gnashed his mandibles in a satisfactory manner as the trundled over to meet her.
---

Once upon a time there was a nice little girl named Krissy. A friendly girl with soft blond hair and sweet smile. She was busy packing up her tent when suddenly she came upon a very large and impressive beetle trundling across the grass. There were exclamations of surprise at the largeness of this fine beetle and squeals of alarm when she witnessed the gnashing mandibles. But curiosity won out over sweeping the tent and she called over her sister and aunt to view this fine specimen. A small stick was procured and the beetle was herded this way and that in order to get a better view. Eventually he was scooped up into a paper cone and deposited on the gravel so that he could be seen and filmed by Krissy's uncle. There were many exclamations at his size, both body and mandible as they herded him from side to side.

---
Beetle was accustomed to being exclaimed over but this was more than he had bargained for. He gnashed his mandibles mightily and scurried from side to side trying to avoid the prodding stick. Ohhh...the humiliation of being turned belly up and having to thrash in such an unbecoming manner to right himself. He had not counted on this. Where were the shrieks of terror? When would he be left alone to find his homey-hole and peace again? Ohhh...he had a bad feeling about this but he gnashed his mandibles again and again, biting the stick and hoping they would eventually have the desired affect. When would this end??

---
Uncle was getting some good shots of the giant beetle and Auntie had brought over Nigel and Sookie to meet this fine beetle. His pinching mandibles were pinching mightily and his legs were scrambling, scrambling to try and get away. When suddenly, without a sound and without warning a giant hammer descends from nowhere and pounds the beetle three times. BAM BAM BAM!!

Yes...I hear your shocked silence.

But it was only a moment of silence for that poor beetle before eyes were raised to the beetle murderer and incredulous voices exclaimed, "SCOTTY! What did you do? You killed it!" Everyone looked down at the poor squished beetle pounded to mush on the gravel of the quiet tent culdesac. No more shiny brown carapace. No more threatening, pinching mandibles.

Why do we laugh in the face of such brutality? But we did as we looked into the eight year old eyes of a smiling little boy wielding the power of a hammer.

Kitties...who can resist them?

2011-07-27T21:41:00.000-06:00

I love kitties. I really do. I've adopted...let's see, Winter, Smoky, Mavric, Chulita, Howard, Nolan, Mimi, and Woody. Are there any more? I can't remember. I'm not going to mention Colin the Urinate-or, or Alan Harvey the Dumb-as-a-bag-of-hammers-cat, I never adopted them and I'm glad they didn't stay, but the others were part of our family.

The problem is that I'm allergic. Not just a little allergic and not necessarily Deathly Allergic but uncomfortably and sickly allergic. I sneeze. I cough. I sometimes get rashes. My nose runs. My throat itches. My eyes weep and swell. It wasn't until we got rid of our last cat that I realized how having kitties in the house affected not only my health, but my general sense of FEELING well on a daily basis.

But still...I love kitties. I love their weirdness. There's a saying in our family that it's redundant to say "Weird Cat" because CAT = WEIRD. It would be like saying 'weird weird' or 'cat cat'. Yes, you see.

And kittens are just adorable, frustrating yes, but adorable just the same.

Do you see my dilemma? Could I possibly adopt another cat? I've said no. No. and NO!

Until...I saw these kitties-

It's purrrrrfect. The name Animeko comes from Japanese: Ani - crochet and Meko - cat. I love needlework, yarn, color and kitties. AND there's No dander. No midnight howlings. No cat fights. No cat pee down the floor vents. No litter boxes. At. All.

So I welcome some new kitties into our house. First there's Sookie, my itty-bitty-yeller-kitty, first born. She has a few booboos but she's darling nonetheless -

And then there's Nigel...he reminds me a bit of Nolan-

There will probably be more...

...with maybe some German cousins, and I'm hoping to document their escapades for Fitz, Swede and eventually Sophie and Rue to follow on http://nigelandsookie.blogspot.com/.

My Future...

2011-03-01T20:56:00.000-07:00

...is as bright as my faith.

I was made aware of this quote a little over a week ago when I met up with a friend I hadn't visited with a while. We decided to go to lunch to do some catching up and she filled me on what was going on in her life. In the last 12-18 months, or longer, she's had to deal with some pretty stressful things. I won't list them all but the list includes an impending divorce and break up of her beloved family, possible bankruptcy, and possible/likely loss of her home. Just those three things alone would be enough to send me to the edge of the abyss, if not over the edge altogether. Her life, through the choices of people she loves and trusted was on the apparent brink, if not of ruin, then at least, of drastic change

As she talked, and I listened, I honestly felt that I had nothing to offer that wouldn't sound trite or thin. We share the same religious beliefs so I know she's heard it all before. I felt for her. I wanted so badly to offer something, anything that might give her some comfort, though limited and/or temporary.

Then she said something like, "I look at my life and I think, 'I should be devastated. I should be alone in my room banging my head against a wall and contemplating the unthinkable.' Yet I am not. "My future is as bright as my faith." And my faith is strong. I know my Heavenly Father loves me and is aware of my life and my problems. I'm going to keep putting one foot in front of the other and doing the right things. The light will dawn and I'll be okay." She went on to say that at this point she'd like to be able to keep her house so when her son comes home from his mission he'll have his ward and home to come home to." At some risk I said, "You know, that may not happen."

To which she replied, "Yeah, I know. But even so I'm working in that direction. I have to have something to work for, hope for, but if it doesn't happen I know it will all be okay. I'll be okay. My children will be okay. I just have to have faith. Just walk with faith."

When we parted I felt like I had been the one comforted and blessed with hope. For her. For me.

"My future is as bright as my faith."

I've been pondering that quote ever since and in consequence, looked up these scriptures in the Doctrine & Covenants (Italics added):

Section 122: 5-9

5 If thou art called to pass through tribulation; if thou art in perils among false brethren; if thou art in perils among robbers; if thou art in perils by land or by sea;

6 If thou art accused with all manner of false accusations; if thine enemies fall upon thee; if they tear thee from the society of thy father and mother and brethren and sisters; and if with a drawn sword thine enemies tear thee from the bosom of thy wife, and of thine offspring, and thine elder son, although but six years of age, shall cling to thy garments, and shall say, My father, my father, why can’t you stay with us? O, my father, what are the men going to do with you? and if then he shall be thrust from thee by the sword, and thou be dragged to prison, and thine enemies prowl around thee like wolves for the blood of the lamb;

7 And if thou shouldst be cast into the pit, or into the hands of murderers, and the sentence of death passed upon thee; if thou be cast into the deep; if the billowing surge conspire against thee; if fierce winds become thine enemy; if the heavens gather blackness, and all the elements combine to hedge up the way; and above all, if the very jaws of hell shall gape open the mouth wide after thee, know thou, my son, (I also add: my daughter) that all these things shall give thee experience, and shall be for thy good.

8 The Son of Man hath descended below them all. Art thou greater than he?

9 Therefore, hold on thy way, and the priesthood shall remain with thee; for their bounds are set, they cannot pass. Thy days are known, and thy years shall not be numbered less; therefore, fear not what man can do, for God shall be with you forever and ever.

Section 98: 1-3

1 Verily I say unto you my friends, fear not, let your hearts be comforted; yea, rejoice evermore, and in everything give thanks;

2Waiting patiently on the Lord, for your prayers have entered into the ears of the Lord of Sabaoth, and are recorded with this seal and testament—the Lord hath sworn and decreed that they shall be granted.

3 Therefore, he giveth this promise unto you, with an immutable covenant that they shall be fulfilled; and all things wherewith you have been afflicted shall work together for your good, and to my name’s glory, saith the Lord.

This is going to be on my mind for a long, long time.

Link to the talk with this quote: http://lds.org/ensign/2009/05/be-of-good-cheer?lang=eng

It was all about CANDY

2011-02-14T09:04:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid it was all about CANDY. When was I going to get my next candy fix? How many pieces? What kind? Would my brother get more than me? Would he make it last longer and taunt me with it? Or, heaven forbid, would someone find my stash and steal some????

If I found a penny on the ground it never crossed my mind to save it in a little bank, though I had one for just that purpose. (I remember once when my little brother had a dime and I had a nickel and I unabashedly traded my nickel for his dime, telling him that the nickel was better because it was bigger. All's fair when CANDY's involved.) I just couldn't wait to walk (run) down to Westside Market in Springville and spend that little token on CANDY. I would pace back and forth before the candy shrine pondering how I would spend that penny...should I get a banana Kits, with FOUR little wrapped morsels inside the wrapper?

...or should I get a little penny sugar daddy that had an animal card inside and I could suck on that baby for at least an hour of caramel goodness?

How about a roll of Smarties? or a Pixie Stick?

That decision could take almost half an hour, or until the old guy at the register got impatient and told me to make up my mind and get out. After all it was only a penny sale. I would make my choice and he'd put my little piece of candy into a teenie-tiny bag and I'd carefully fold the top down a couple of times like a little lunch bag and walk out, my mouth already watering for the first taste of refined, artificially flavored sugar.

If I were to tell you about a 25 cent purchase, which was akin to Christmas in July, it would take more than an hour. For me it wasn't about quality...no, it was about quantity. No 10 cent candy bars could be found in my little bag, although sometimes I'd get a large, and I mean GIANT, 5 cent Sugar Daddy because I could make that thing last F O R E V E R. (My mom, I think, hated to see it hanging out of my mouth for fear it would "pull the fillings right out of your teeth, Kristine!" I did lose at least one loose tooth to a Sugar Daddy.) I wanted as many pieces of candy in my bag as possible. Funny, I rarely bought any kind of chocolate.

I look back on those days with fond remembrance: The cold hard cash in my little hand. The feeling of anticipation as I skipped, yes skipped, to the store. The knowing looks, and wistful smiles, from the 'old people' sitting on their front porches. The mental weighing of each choice, ticking off each penny as it was spent. (There was no Candy Tax, thank heaven). The anticipation of eating it. Which one to eat first? Which to save for last? Which one would I think of trading? For it was inevitable that someone else would have made a choice I wished I'd made. Oh the decisions, the agonizing, wonderful, delicious decisions.

Then...it would be gone and I'd be waiting, waiting, waiting for the penny, nickel, dime to come my way again so I could do it all over. I think all the playing dress up, running in the irrigation water, climbing the cherry tree, playing with the dog, going to the library, and making boats from scraps of wood were things I did to fill the times BETWEEN the trips to the candy store. It's probably a good thing that there was lots of time BETWEEN.

Now...it's not so much about candy. I would rather buy a bag of mandarin oranges, or plastic container of blackberries at Costco for $4.99. I think it might average out to about 10 cents a berry.

TEN CENTS A BERRY!! and NO added sugar!!

Candy's cheaper and I could grow the berries in my yard with some work and patience.

Something's wrong with this picture.

A Dream of Arabian Nights

2011-02-06T08:15:00.001-07:00

Around this time of year I get a bit nostalgic about the place where I grew up. Why? Because it was the only time of year that was magic, (except maybe Christmas...but that doesn't have anything to do with geography, unless you want snow.) The rest of the time it was just hot or I was in school. Well, it was magic when I was a kid anyway...when I turned 15 or so I started to see through the magic and began noticing the tarnish and moth holes, but that's what teenagers do best, isn't it?

When all my Utah friends and family were not building snowmen, riding in one-horse-open-sleighs, and catching snowflakes on their tongues; things they should have been doing in this glorious winter wonderland, I was breaking out my shorts and sandals, again, and dreaming in an Arabian Nights theme wondering if I would ever own a Genie Costume like my friend KayDee, who had a pink one. Seriously, it was the most romantic, beautimous outfit ever. Sheer pink chiffon and shiny satin with sequins and a jeweled necklace placed on her head so that the large pink stone hung on her forehead between her eyebrows. *sigh* KayDee was the youngest of 4 girls, (Karen, Krista, Kathy and KayDee) and they ALL had lovely diaphanous Arabian Nights costumes that, uh-hmmm, showed their tummies, (Purple, Green, Blue and Pink, respectively). They also had curly toed gold shoes, and hats with a sheer scarf that hung down from it so they could mysteriously drape it across their noses and mouths. Their mom dressed up too, her costume was gold and their dad wore a fez and a boiled wool vest with decorative gold braid. Oh how I wanted to have a lovely costume for my very own. I think I even prayed for one.

On Highway 111 and Arabia Street

For, you see, it's February and the Date Festival is about to begin. Queen Scheherazade is soon to be crowned and the desert magic will commence. People, even the men, dress in the most outlandish Arabian costumes with gold lam`e turbans and gaudy jewels. One might even catch a glimpse of a camel or even an elephant just prior to the parade. And the Parade! Oh my goodness. Not only are there beautiful ladies dressed in amazing costumes that shimmer and float gracefully on the slightest breeze but some of them actually ride on camels! And even the camels are dressed up with gold tassels hanging from their bridals with a mysterious sheik leading it. There are also the gorgeous floats, and Spanish riders with their silver studded and tooled leather saddles and accessories, the Senorita's wearing lace mantillas and dresses with yards and yards of ruffles that cascade over the rumps of their horses. The men are donned in black velvet with short bejeweled jackets and flat brimmed black hats. Their horses are amazing! They don't plod along like old work horses, they prance with high arched necks. (I didn't pay any attention to the silly mayor or other boring dignitaries who wave from convertibles. Who wants them in a parade anyway?) Talk about fertile ground for a young girl's imagination! I'm tempted to swoon even now.

Queen Scheherazade and her court 1963

College of the Desert Marching Band

There were, of course the carnival rides, cotton candy and popcorn, the fruit and vegetable displays, the 4H shows, the horse shows etc...that any fair would have be we also had...

Date shakes, (dates are awful, I don't care what anyone else says, they look like giant dead cockroaches

Ewwww...ick

and I can feel my gorge rise just thinking about them, but date shakes are heaven!), ostrich and camel races, and elephant rides,

and...The Pageant.

The Fairgrounds were designed and built like a cheap Disney version of the middle east...kind of. In the center of the fairground is the outdoor pageant stage. There is a minaret, and mid-eastern castle walls and turrets and sculpted doorways large enough for an elephant to walk through. The pageant itself was rather boring if you actually paid attention, but the visual treat was enough to fire my imagination and I created my own story as I watched the colors and textures of the costumed participants, listened to the strange sounding music with it's exotic tones and waited for the beautifully dressed camels and...the elephant.

Entrance Gate

All in all it was pretty amazing up until I was about 15 and I got a job at a concession stand during the fair, selling candied apples, popcorn and cotton candy. I got a free pass to get in every day but it didn't take long for the magic to wear off when I smelled like popcorn, and when I had to blow my nose (and that was fairly often) it was purple, or pink, or blue, due to the sugar dust I breathed in when making cotton candy.

Moral of this story?

If you want to preserve the innocent magic of a place,

it's probably best not to get a job there...

or don't grow up.

Probably both.

A woman's need

2011-02-03T20:06:00.001-07:00

Subculture (definition): an ethnic, regional, economic, or social group exhibiting characteristic patterns of behavior sufficient to distinguish it from others within an embracing culture or society.

I think I've been fairly lonely almost all my life and didn't know why. Which is strange since, not only am I married with four children (two married and starting the grandchildren wonder) I come from a fairly large family (3 brothers, 3 sisters with accompanying spouses and children) and extended family (9 aunt/uncle units with accompanying multitudinous cousins, not to mention the great aunts & uncles, grandparents etc...). We're a large and fairly huggy family as a whole and when there's a big get together there's so much talking and laughter going on that it's almost impossible to hear yourself think. So how is it possible to feel lonely amidst that kind of a crowd?

I've talked with a couple of my sisters about this phenomena and found out that I'm not the only one. (Voila! Not lonely in this feeling.) During these conversations I made a discovery. It's the sharing and understanding and appreciation of a passion.

It's one thing to share a family, a history, a religion. I have all those things in my family and am wealthy beyond measure because of them. It's our common background that bring us together and nurtures love within those bonds. I would be a naked tree on a dry and barren plain without my faith and family. They are the sun and water of my existence. I say that without reservation, and also hint of panic at the thought of losing them. But even within those vital bonds We. Are. So. Very. Different. So where does the loneliness come in?

I suppose it is the need of sharing a creative passion with others who share the same enthusiasm. Mine is the needle arts. I practiced my art, so much of my life, alone. I shared my completed projects with family and friends but all the time I spent stitching was solitary. I may have stitched with others around but they didn't know or didn't care that I literally love doing it. It's a need, not just a want or desire. There were even some who looked at my work and said, "So...what's it really for?", as if it were a complete waste of time and 'why in the heck would someone spend so much time making something that tedious?' I even had a close friend say, "Gah! That looks so BORING. I'd kill myself if I had to do that."

What I love doing brings on the temptation of suicide in someone else? (tearful sniff)

I didn't know that there were groups of women out there who did it socially, as a group. I thought that all went away when women joined the work force and were no longer home to chat over the back fence or sit on each others porches mending breeches or sewing quilt squares.

And getting together to hand quilt?? The general consensus would be 'WHY?' You can go to Walmart and buy a bedspread for far less than it would take to piece and quilt one, and it would ~~probably~~ definitely be cheaper.

BUT...Five-plus years ago I discovered a delicious, heartwarming and thriving subculture. Quilters. Not old biddies who peep through their spectacles and look at you like they've been sucking lemons for a thousand years.

These women are nothing short of amazing. They're talented, savvy, intelligent, generous, amusing, creative...and most of all, they 'get' me. When I say, "I just had to have that piece of fabric, even if it's just a fat quarter and I don't know what I'm going to do with it." I am not met with a blank stare and a change of subject. I hear, "Oooh! Let me see it!" "I love those colors!" "Where did you get it?" "I felt the same way about..." I show them a needle keeper that I spent hours and hours hand stitching and there is not even a whiff of suicide.

It's all, "Pass it over here!" "I want to see that!" "Is this a pattern? Can I borrow it?" I am rejuvenated and validated. And I'm just as curious and excited about what they do and what they're ideas are. I'm often intimidated but they are not at all intimidating.

There you go...the bridge. That lovely bridge that brings women together from all walks of life, ethnicities, religions, ages, family backgrounds, even quilting experiences. They're all welcome. And that's just the beginning. Through this love of the needle arts so many other commonalities are found: books, gardening, cooking etc...

I've come to know and love these women. I care about their families, their cares and woes, their adventures. When one of the group was going through a nasty divorce I took over some fat quarters.

What else could I do? And she said, "Wow, thanks. I'm going to make something beautiful out of this." And I don't think she was just talking about the fabric.

Quilting/stitching as a group is a mending thing. It's not just about thread or fabric or quilts. It demands creativity; thinking outside the box. It's inclusive. It's possible to take a bit of something that's not so pretty, not so tidy, not so aesthetically pleasing and add it to something else and make something gloriously beautiful and striking! I've seen it done. It requires patience, dedication, hope and faith. And why wouldn't those virtues learned while graphing, planning and stitching tiptoe into other parts of our lives? It has engendered in me a feeling of community and encourages a knitting together of disparate things, ideas, and people to create something new. I love it. I love them. I'm so grateful for a wonderful group of ladies.

I know that quilters/stitchers aren't the only healing subculture out there. For one of my sisters it's writing and writers, for another it's animals and animal lovers. I've come to see that I need to acknowledge and appreciate their passions and be so grateful that they've found a passion and a group of friends that fills a gap in their souls and makes them whole and beautiful and interesting and vital.

I love this quote and read it often:

"The Balinese have much to teach us about the (non) art of celebration.

The making of splendid occasions occupies much of their time.

If you ask a Balinese what he does, he will proudly answer,

"I am a Baris Dancer" or "I am a Mask Maker".

If you persist and ask again,

"No, I mean how do you get your rice?"

he loses interest,

his voice drops,

he may turn away,

deciding this is a pretty boring conversation.

"Oh that," he will say. - Cortia Kent

Our creativity, our passions, are our life's blood. Who could live a happy and fulfilling life without them?

Family = Heaven

2011-01-29T15:33:00.002-07:00

The past two weeks have been wonderful in spite of suffering a stinky cold for 8 of those precious 13 days.

Jeni was able to come with the kids for almost two weeks. It was so fun to get a room ready for the children to stay in. Setting up the Pack-n-Play, borrowing a toddler bed then making them up with some warm blankets and anticipating seeing the sweet beings who would be sleeping in them was almost as good as the reality. We picked them up at the airport close to midnight on the 15th. I was able to get a special pass and go through security to meet them at the gate so I could help Jeni with the kids. It was totally unnecessary. She had everything all organized and could have met us at baggage claim without my help but it was fun to see them ASAP. As we were walking the long hallways to Bag Claim we were telling Fitz that we were going to find Papa now. He whipped his little head around from side to side several times while saying, "I don't see him! I don't see him!" He sure loves his Papa and was so excited to see him and come home with us. It was hard to put them right to bed but they were ready as it was about 3 o'clock in the morning for them when we finally made it home.

It was fun to have them in the nursery then next day with me and cuddle and hold Swede as much as I wanted. She was so well behaved and sat in her chair without a problem during snack time. During singing time she was enthralled, trying to sing along or lead the 'music'. 'Ram-Tam-Tam' has become one of her favorite songs and she does it really well.

That evening we had all the kids over for a dinner of Taco Soup and a most delicious coconut cake that Jen made. Jeni, Fitz, Swede, Jason & Jen+Sophie, Daniel, Stephanie & Jon, and Steve's brother Pete were there and we were actually able to sit at the table...with a lot of getting up for the kids.

The days were full of visits and outings: 3 trips to Springville to see Papa & Gramma Great as well as cousins Shannon & Jamison, Melissa and baby Jack, Aunt Lisa and her children and Uncle Kyle.

Chloe came over with her children Max & Xavier several times, and once with her husband Dan. One time included a trip to BYU to the museum.

A baby shower for Jen who's due any time...eek!

Outings with Stephanie to the Dinosaur museum, and to the Mall with her boyfriend Jon.

A cold outing to Gardner Village with a treat of fried breaded avocados with a creamy salsa for Jeni and I and suckers for the kids.

Dinner in Orem with the other Great Grampa.

Visits to friends and from friends.

Amidst all the running around there were tantrums and hilarity, giggles and tears, welcome nap-time and sleep deprived, volatile, zombie-midgets wandering around wailing like melting miniature banshees. I heard the sweetest prayers ever uttered by infant lips as well as the funniest stories ever invented to teach a child not to constantly pick his nose. Who would have thought that "The Three Little Pigs" could be updated to "The Three Little Robots" wherein the homes were made of movies, computers and solid concrete reinforced with steel, and the wolf is now a lonely giant robot who goes, "CLINK-CLANK-KLUNK! CLINK-CLANK-KLUNK!"? Fitz loves that story and Swede would listen, engrossed, while whispering the Swede equivalent of "CLINK-CLANK-KLUNK! CLINK-CLANK-KLUNK!" at the appropriate times.

Papa's leaving in the morning and coming home at night became highlights of the day. Hugs and kisses, feeding the fish, and a visit with the cat-who-sometimes-lives-in-our-garage were moments of awe and delight for them in the morning. Papa was the only one who could do these things with the children and he loved those special moments that were only his. Then we'd raise the blinds in the front window and Fitz and Swede would stand on the window ledge and wave and kiss the glass until Papa disappeared into his car. As soon as the car rolled down the street Fitz would turn and say mournfully, "I miss him!! I miss him!!" with the most tragic face a 2 1/2 year old could have.

In the evening we'd mention that Papa would be coming home soon and there'd be hopeful peeks out the window and eventually he'd come in the door and shrieks of delight and clapping, interspersed with "Papa! Papa!" would erupt from Swede as she ran towards the sound of his voice waving her hands, only to stop just short of him then shyly tiptoe away coquettishly until he picked her up and kissed her then asked her if she wanted to go see the kitty.

We had dinners accompanied by Papa playing the guitar and singing the ABC song along with other silly, made-up songs to keep Fitz in the kitchen long enough to wheedle some bites of dinner into his reluctant mouth. I don't know where he gets all his energy! He must suck it, vacuum-like, from the adults around him because he burns off the tiny amounts he eats running around between bites. Oh my gosh! I've never seen such energetic non-eating dinner times. I was tempted to duct tape him to the chair, but I don't think even the industrial strength tape would hold him for long.

Fitz loved playtime with Papa just before bed. It always involved cars, and fanciful storylines that could include anything from giant babies to dinosaurs, Noah's Ark animals and/or a giant stuffed tiger, all living together in a playhouse...as well as an unwelcome tip-toeing baby sister who could spoil the fun at any time. "NO BABY! NO!" was often shouted in frustration and was sometimes accompanied by an angry shove or slumped shoulders and a tragic face of 'pity me' woe. Poor Fitz. It's so hard to be two.

Yesterday, the last full day they were here, was sweetly memorable in so many ways. I suppose that its being the 'last day' was a big part of that but it would have been wonderful at any time and I was finally feeling better and had my voice back! It had been missing for almost a week.

We decided to take one more trip to Springville so that Fitz and Jamison could play together again. Fitz was a complete pill that morning and was forced to take a nap. Poor Jeni had to listen to pitiful pleas of, "Mommy! Mommy! I love you! Please let me out, open the door! I love you!" as she held the door closed to the downstairs bedroom where she'd prepared a nice nap bed for him. Telling herself, 'He needs this. This will be a good thing for him,' while her mother's heart squeezed in love and concern. He fell asleep and his bad mood was healed. He woke later all smiles and charm. All was forgiven and forgotten. He even had a good lunch. Naps are a good thing. He was able to go on a four wheeler ride with Papa Great. He called the wheeler a 'Tank' and was Very Reluctant to ride. He finally succumbed, but only if he could ride tucked between Papa Great and Nana. But as we pulled away he wailed in fear, "Mommy! Help! Help me Mommy!" He then went on another ride with his mommy and Papa G, but was happy when the motor was turned off. It was the noise. He said, "I no like it! Too nosey, Papa, too nosey!" My dad had such a good time talking to him about it and teasing him about waking the Tank up again, to which Fitz would say, "No, its seeping Papa, it seeping. I no like it, too nosey."

By the time we left late that afternoon, he was calling them Papa Gate, and Gamma Gate and giving them kisses and hugs and knuckle punches. As we pulled away he said mournfully, "I love dem Mama! I miss dem. I miss dem!" Even timid Swede had started to warm up to my friendly, boisterous, teasing father. She has such a charming way of drawing people in with her shy little dimpled smiles and tip-toeing grace. I love that we had that time with my parents. I want my grandchildren to love them as I do.

Last night we had breakfast for dinner and invited everyone over again. Jason & Jen+Sophie and Jen's sister Sarah, Daniel & Hillary, Stephanie & Jon, Jeni, Fitz and Swede and Steven and I.

A wonderful quiche with sour cream and salsa, gingerbread pancakes with lemon, ginger, or real maple syrup and lots of conversation, laughter and love.

I'm so full...of love and sadness, tenderness and and need.

This morning I got to gently wake a sleeping Fitz who responded with, "Mee-me a-wown Nana! I seeping," feed Swede her breakfast for the last time; one more Ram-Tam-Tam and an ABC song. Then hugs and kisses and sweet, early morning goodbyes at the airport. It went way too fast.

It may feel like I'm looking on the abyss but...on to the next thing. Sophie is due at any time and I'm so excited to have Jason, Jen and baby Sophie move in in March for a couple of months or so. Something to look forward to. Time with a loved son and daughter and another new grand-daughter! How fun is that? When a door closes there's always a window for the sunshine to come in. I'm a blessed woman.

What to do in cold January...

2011-01-12T11:41:00.001-07:00

For some reason, after the holiday rush of December, the overindulgence of gastronomical delights, the intense warmth - soul and body - of family gathering and all the extreme emotions that come with the season, I feel pressed into a sort of stitching hibernation in order to reach a comfortable inner balance. It's not just the hours of hand work and the things that get finished, it's the long hours of pondering, and thought sorting that happen during that time that smooths out the rough edges, and calms my spirit. I look forward to January in that sense. Some may dread that boring 'month after the month before' but I treasure it. It's the perfect month for Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, the books of Mosiah, Alma and Ether, the four Gospels, and some vibrant color in the gray coldness of mid-winter. It's the most healing January therapy I can think of.

To give myself some credit, I did have a reason to work on these things other than just therapy. I teach a class every month on a quilt inspired by the Farmer's Wives from the 1920's and decided to feature some things that they might have done in the depths of the bitter months of winter. These are things they might have made sitting next to a warm fire while listening to the radio shows with their families, along with other mending. I have to think that beauty and color were just as therapeutically important to them in that freezing monochromatic time as it is for me.

I dug out my collection of embroidery floss and added a few more colors. Just looking at all these vibrant shades and envisioning them in finished projects made my fingers itch to start a new project...but I promised myself that I must finish some old ones first.

I dug out an old pattern I've had for a couple of years and spent a few days listening to some Charles Dickens while I stitched away. It measures about 4 1/2" x 3 1/4" when closed. I love it. It's stitched over 28 count even weave linen over two threads, except for the tiny flowers which are stitched over 1.

I really got into the Biscornu thing too. The word "Biscornu" is derived from a French adjective, meaning skewed, quirky, or irregular. It is pronounced "biss-core-new". A stitched Biscornu is an oddly shaped tuffet or pincushion. I downloaded several cross stitch patterns and finished this one from last year. It's made from two squares, each stitched off center of the other. They make loverly pincushions. Simply adorable.

If you haven't realized how addicted I am to this type of therapy by now this next one will certainly spell it out for you. It's a scissor fob. I haven't attached the loop that actually fastens to your scissors but it's supposed to identify your scissors so as not to loose them.

It's about 1 1/4" square and has beads layered to make the blackberry. I just think it's dang cute and will probably turn it into a broach or scarf ring.

This next item was inspired by a blank space left on my wall where a small quilt hung but was borrowed for a quilting display at a local museum. It was designed and sewn while listening to "Mansfield Park". I wanted something springish but I also wanted it to go with the romance of February. I call it "Love Grows". I still have to do a bit of embroidery work and quilt it before I hang it in that blank spot though. It's about 36" square and made entirely from my scrap basket. :)

So there, I must be the most balanced person on the planet by now. I should probably act like it.

1's Good

2011-01-01T11:48:00.002-07:00

We went out to dinner last night, or should I say late afternoon. I think we left at 4 pm, so as not to get caught in the crush. The Olive Garden was our destination. It was very yummy. I had Limoncello Chicken Scaloppini and a Berry Acqua Fresca to drink, which was pretty much a dessert too. I would recommend them both. I even have leftovers for lunch today which is even better. (As an aside I will mention that it was exactly 9 degrees outside after dinner at 5:15) Then when we got home we snuggled up on the couch with a quilt and watched a movie together. One of our favorites, "Galaxy Quest". So sentimental and swooney. Not. All in all it was very nice.

At dinner my husband asked me what my New Year's resolutions were. I gave it some thought and told him a few things, (I've since amended them) then I asked him what his were. He said, "My New Years Resolution is to love you forever and ever and for always and always."

I laughed out loud. "You say that every year! Is it that hard that you have to try again each year?" I asked incredulously.

He grinned, "No, it's easy. I like to do easy things. I know I can do this one and I succeed every year. I win!" Then he kissed my hand.

Yeah, he wins. I have a good and loving man who cares about me and my happiness. If that's his New Year's Resolution every year then I win too.

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

I know that time is relative; that the measuring of it is a man made thing. That a new start could begin at any time one chooses, be it in the middle of a day, week or month. But there is something about a New Year that brings with it a sense of obligation to reflect on one's past, a needful pause in one's life for an inward measuring of character and growth, and a renewed energy in the ongoing resolve to be better. Why is that? In any case, it's probably as essential to the world as a whole as it is for the individual.

A new beginning is a good idea. I think it's always a good idea. Not just at the beginning of a new year. I think I'll start 'new' several times this year just to keep in practice.

Therefore my 1st resolution will be:

I'll start "New" whenever I feel like I need to. I won't wait for a New Year. I'll just chuck the calendar when it comes to reflection and change. If the skin I'm wearing becomes too uncomfortable, dry, scratchy, unbecoming, I'll get rid of it. Of course that means I'll have to be Aware, which does take some work. It means I have to Care more, Forgive more (including myself), and...other things. This is already getting a bit heavy. Maybe I'll just stop at 1.

Yeah, 1's good. It symbolizes beginning. It's more than zero which is better than nothing and it always leads to more than one. A nice simple straight line. No curves, no loops. Just...

Okay, I'm done.

I'm glad there's SOMEONE in charge...

2010-12-13T11:45:00.001-07:00

...who knows the end from the beginning.

I'm reading a book called "The Last Ghost Dancer" by Tony Bender. I'm not far into it but so far there are some really good excerpts that speak ironic truth. It makes me smile, but in a cocked eyebrow sort of way.

"From above, this big beautiful blue machine appears to float and revolve in blackness and silence,

but down here, gears clatter and click seemingly in need of grease, and another irritating red stoplight is one car's savior while the station wagon that made the light is obliterated two blocks down the road by a speeding Peterbilt. Meanwhile, oblivious to the divine providence that has saved them, the ones at the red light curse their perceived misfortune.

"So some live, propagate, the family name marches on, and up ahead amidst the smoke, the broken glass, the weeping, the regrets, and flashing red lights, generations vanish unborn.

" I marvel at the way things string together, the way everyday moments bring us crashing together or veering apart. And all the while we are in the passenger seat we believe we are driving."

I've been thinking about this concept for several weeks now, our limited perspective and seemingly constant frustration at the unplanned interruptions in our lives.

Recently when we were on our way down to Utah County and saw an amazingly destructive accident the thought popped into my head, "Whoa! That looks awful!" I winced at my painful gut clenching reaction. "I feel so bad for whoever was in that accident. I'm sure it wasn't on their list of 'Things to Do' today.""

Where were they going? Was it a routine errand? Was it a birthday party? Baptism? Holiday gathering? In any case this is where they are now. All plans have been completely altered: their plans, the plans of those who love and care for them. Instead of what they were all going to do in the days, weeks, months ahead they'll be...what? Laying in the hospital in a coma? Looking forward to hard work and pain in physical therapy? Making hospital visits? Funeral Home arrangements?

The saying "Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans" is indeed true. I'm not absolutely sure but I'm fairly confident that we wouldn't, on our own, put "Get cancer this year and spend days, weeks, months and possibly years seeing a doctor and going through all kinds of unpleasant treatments and possibly die at the end of it" on our list of things to do. Or "Get pregnant then miscarry at 20 weeks". Or "Have a heart attack on Thanksgiving weekend". We just wouldn't do things like that. The most unpleasant things we'd put on our list voluntarily, without circumstances forcing us too, are: Clean the toilet, muck out the horse stalls, get a colonoscopy (ick)...stuff like that.

I suppose it's a good thing that someone else is in charge who plans for us to deal with really difficult things otherwise we'd be pretty shallow creatures with very clean bathrooms. We may know on some intellectual level that it's important to BE a certain way in difficult circumstances but we wouldn't really know if that is instilled in our character until we are tried. HE knows if it's an integral part of us...but we do not. The experience is for our benefit and knowledge, not His.

Case in point. There is a certain amount of silliness to this but it was a revelation to me at the time.

When I was...a lot...younger, in my late teens, I had some contempt for those who fainted or screamed their head off at the sight of a movie star, or lead singer and I was certain that I would never go Ga-ga over any celebrity. I would never be a gawker and had proved it when I was in grade school and was on a field trip to Palm Springs to a museum and we ran into Red Skelton.

All the other kids were just wacko and crowded around him begging for an autograph. I don't think he was having a very good day anyway and he was...not funny...at all. In fact he was rude and abrupt and gave out the autographs with the impatience of one dealing with the unclean. A teacher had some paper and made sure that all of us kids got an autograph. I was so disenchanted with the whole thing that as the bus pulled away I let my little slip of paper with a famous person's signature flitter away out the bus window with no remorse whatsoever.

"Cured", I thought, "Celebrities do not deserve my adulation just because they're celebrities."

Then, when I was twenty and Steve and I went to Sundance to ski, Lo and Behold who should be riding the lift chair right behind me? Yes, the Sundance Kid himself, in all his rugged handsomeness.

I. Could. Not. Take. My. Eyes. Off. Of. Him. Talk about rubbernecking. Oh my gosh. Steve was embarrassed for me and probably a bit miffed too. I honestly couldn't help myself. It was like a powerful magnetic draw. I'm mortified even now. Then later in the lodge, after I'd taken myself in hand and reprimanded myself firmly knowing that I would never, NEVER do that again, he came in and sat at the end of our long table with some friends and, I'm ashamed to say, it Happened Again.

I know...it wasn't anything earthshaking. Nothing truly horrible happened, not even a stiff neck. But it was a revelation to me. I did not know myself as well as I thought I did.

Since then, as I've experienced different things, from the uncomfortable to the painful, from the scary to the terrifying, I've tried more and more to make the connection between how I react, and how I should react.

"And if men come unto me I will show unto them their weakness. I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them."

An apt lesson for this time of year as we celebrate the birth of our Savior and the "Good News".

Motherhood

2010-12-05T10:04:00.000-07:00

When I was a teen I wasn't the kind of girl who went ga-ga over other peoples babies. I had plenty to do at home with my younger siblings. I'm the second oldest of seven so I was initiated into baby care and cloth diapers very early. I never really liked baby sitting and only did it for the money. I started to worry about what kind of mother I would be in my later teens, thinking I might have something wrong with me. At baby showers for friends I had no problem holding their babies and would often be the only one who could soothe an hysterical one but I wasn't itching to hold them or coo over them. I even thought things like, "My gosh, that's not a very pretty baby. His poor mother, look at those ears!"

Then I married and, in less than ten months, was a mother. My first son was born and it was love at first sight. I was shocked by the overwhelming feeling I had for him. I didn't want anyone to hold him except Steven and me. Even my own mother. He was the most beautiful baby in the whole world and I could marvel at him for hours.

It was like that with each one of them...love, love, love, love at first sight and I never looked back.

It has been a roller-coaster for sure. Caring for my young children, in retrospect, was the easiest. It was physically draining and frustrating to deal with daily messes, meals, cleanup, laundry and tantrums but I could also fix things with a kiss, put them to bed at 8, change the subject with a story, and laugh all through the day at their little discoveries, amazing imagination, and petty grievances. I was also humbled by their instant forgiveness and voracious appetite for learning.

As they grew the problems got bigger and kisses wouldn't make a bit of difference. They wanted to stay up, and out, later and later. Changing the subject was putting off the problem that needed to be faced, and laughing was not my first reaction for many of their new discoveries. I felt fear like I'd never felt it before, frustration, anger, and...yes...even despair, until I discovered for myself the true meaning of the gospel of Jesus Christ and the healing and saving power of His Atonement.

Last night, after coming home from visiting with one daughter, her husband, and their sweet beautiful children, I sat down with my other beloved daughter who has taught me more about unconditional love than anyone was ever able to pound into my poor, hard head. She's broken up with her current boyfriend, is dealing with some health issues that will be hers for a long time and is wondering what's in store for her next. She's amazing, strong, and resilient and has grown into a beautiful young woman with a good head on her shoulders but I had to tell her some hard things. I had to challenge her to make some difficult choices which would require some rather drastic course corrections. We held hands through the whole quiet discussion, both of us with tears in our eyes.

We had just looked at a bunch of pictures of Swede: her sweet face and shy smile and I told her about Swede's innocent ways, and sense of humor and delicate mannerisms. She just poured over the pictures and cooed and pointed right along with me like a doting Auntie.

I told her, "I'll always be here for you. Always."
She said, "I know you will Mom. I know that."
"You're my Swede," I said, "My baby girl with the sweet face. You and your sister are my babies, my darling girls. That will never change. I will always love you. Nothing will ever change that. I'll never give up. Never. And I'll always pray for you."
"I know that Mom. Thank you. That's why I come to you and tell you everything. That's why."

Is that a payday? I don't look at it like that any more. The joy and pain is so mixed together, so intertwined that one can't exist without the other. They each enhance the other and become 'one' in the experience.

I am no longer the leader...if I ever was. I am a fellow traveler with my children, grandchildren...as well as with my parents and siblings and ancestors. Not here to 'fix'. Not here to 'control'. Not here to 'save'. Here to help, encourage, forgive, counsel with, cry with, and love.

I love, love, love my family.

Peace or just quiet? I'm not sure.

2010-11-28T08:38:00.000-07:00

Woke to another blanket of snow this morning. Unlike Tuesday it came quietly, without the drama of high winds and forecasts of blizzards, power outages and flight delays.

I woke, and as is my habit, put on my socks and slippers and walked to the window to take a peek at the new day. Though overcast, it has a very pale pink tinge like a rare pearl, and the snow is just barely falling. Tiny, tiny flakes and my mind asks, "Are there really no two alike?" It seems impossible.

I put on my thick red rob, walk downstairs, open the front door, and walk out into the most profound quiet I've felt in a long time. I'd never thought about it before but 'quiet' is quite different than 'silence'. Silence is the absence of sound. Quiet has sounds but they're more reverent, hushed, respectful of life. If it weren't so cold I'd bring my pillow out and lay on the glider and just soak it in. Instead I get a blanket and wrap it around myself and go back out, breathing in and out, watching my breath disappear into the pearly morning. I hear no traffic, no snowplows, no snow-blowers, not even the rustle of the tiniest leaf that might be left on the trees. Just my breath, my heart and the snow falling. A rare moment.

Even now, as I write this, the moment is gone. The snow blowers have started and the pristine blanket of new snow is being shoved aside in favor of concrete and asphalt. Such a shame on this morning. I wonder if I'm the only one who witnessed that perfect, quiet moment. If so, it wasn't wasted. I'm thankful.

PS My neighbor is blowing our driveway. I'm humbled by the noise.

The Brown Horse

2010-11-26T17:21:00.000-07:00

My parents have a large picture in their house of a small herd of five horses galloping madly across a sandy desert dotted with sagebrush. The wind of their flight is savagely tossing their manes and tails. The sky has the dark bruised color of a gathering storm. I can almost hear the sound of their large hoofs pummeling the ground, raising clouds of dust that practically drown out the sight of the last two horses.

This painting has hung in my parent's home forever. For a long time it hung over their bed and I would often lay on their bed with my head at the foot and my hands behind my head, staring at it. I know it so well...The first horse, the one in the lead on the left, is white/silver and beautiful. He looks strong and commanding. His muscles and tendons are prominent and straining as he flies across the desert floor.

The black horse on the far right is a glossy blue/black. His head is turned to the left and his mouth is open...threateningly? or is he just whinnying in the joy of his swift and powerful flight? I always imagined that he might be scared of the storm, but I was a kid and storms could be scary. Now I think he may be a young upstart getting ready to challenge the silver stallion for dominance.

The third horse, the one in the middle, is a sorrel. She's got a bit of a dusty look from that raised by the first two, but her head is raised and her nose is up and she looks determined and strong. The last two horses are mere images and far too dusty to tell much except that they're there.

Anyway, last night while spending some time at my parent's home for Thanksgiving we were in the basement watching slides of when we were kids. The painting hangs there now and I was looking at it again feeling very homey and nostalgic. Two of my sisters were with me and Sheree mentioned to my dad that she wanted that painting, that it was hers because she was 'the horse girl'. 'Yep,' I thought. 'She is the horse girl.' (She has four now.) Then she told of how she would lay on Mom and Dad's bed and stare at it. I thought, 'Me too!' Then she went on to say how she would think to herself how she would love to have a 'blue' horse someday, just like that one. (Tinky is almost black and a real beauty.) I got to thinking about my own imaginings about that painting. (I was a 'horse girl' at one time too and love the idea of having a horse even now.) When I was a girl I didn't so much want to have a horse as I wanted to be a horse. (It is possible. Ask Jeni.) Which one of those horses did I want to be? Well, this is usually how my thought process would go:

The obvious choice would be the white horse. In command, powerful, strong and FIRST!

No, I could never be that horse. Everyone would want that one. Too much competition for that one. They're rare, like unicorns.

I was sorely tempted by the black one. So striking and shiny. I remembered the books by Walter Farley that I devoured one summer: The Black Stallion, The Black Stallion Returns. Wow, now that's the horse to be.

No...I can't be the black one. Too much competition for that one. After all there is only 1 Black Stallion, "The Black". Those books were in print so long because EVERYBODY liked them. I'd have to go through mobs of people before I'd get a chance to be the black one.

Well, there's the brown one. The Sorrel. The one trailing. The one in third.

Yes, I thought, I can be the brown one. I'll be a special brown horse among lots of brown horses. I liked that idea. That was attainable mostly because I wouldn't have to fight through crowds of others to get it. Lots of brown horses out there. Yep. I'll be the brown one. A good, strong, brown horse.

A Loss

2010-11-23T10:23:00.000-07:00

Loss is difficult.

A baby boy was miscarried this morning by my daughter at about 20 weeks gestation.

He was so perfect yet so very tiny.

At this Thanksgiving I'm grateful for a perfect and beautiful plan that brings comfort in the midst of heartache.

Picture Chaos...

2010-11-21T17:27:00.000-07:00

Chaos:

–noun

1. a state of utter confusion or disorder; a total lack of organization or order.

2. any confused, disorderly mass: a chaos of meaningless phrases.

3. the infinity of space or formless matter supposed to have preceded the existence of the ordered universe.

4. (Obsolete) a chasm or abyss.

What kinds of things would fit under definition #1?

A Prison Mutiny
A tornado
An earthquake
Armageddon
Eight Children in the Nursery today.

What kinds of things would fit under definition #2?

A Greek wedding
The main room in the Mental Hospital circa 1900
Your first time using mass transit in a third world country.
Listening to eight children in the Nursery today.

What kinds of things would fit under definition #3?

The Gulf Oil spill of 2010.
My mind after being in the nursery today for almost 2 hours.

What kinds of things would fit under definition #4?

The Grand Canyon
The Mariana Trench
What I would gladly have jumped into when I realized I still had 1/2 hour to go.

Yup. It was that bad.

Did you know that changes in barometric pressure will send a child into hyperactive outer space? Just heard that today from an experienced grade school teacher who also happens to be our Primary Chorister.

I believe it. I have a testimony of it.

Going to go spend some time in my nice, quiet, orderly, dark, hall closet now. Thanks.

Sweet Sweeble

2010-11-13T16:49:00.000-07:00

My heart just goes all soft and mushy for both these little Dirlies.

Some of my favorite pictures from our trip. I wish I'd gotten more of Swede but she's got ESCP (Extra Sensory Camera Perception) and I got a lot of pictures of the back of her head. Steve got some great video though.

She really wanted to just walk right into that pond. No stopping, no testing the water, just go.

She got so frustrated with me for not letting her walk into the water. *hahaha*

Saying Buhbye at the airport in Columbia. So sad. Soooo sad. Missing them.

A Fizzy Face Study

2010-11-13T16:13:00.000-07:00

These are some of my favorite Fizzy pictures...

Fizzy and Grover looking up at the fish in the aquarium tunnel at the Atlanta Aquarium.

I said to Fitz..."Show me your Fizzy Face...

...now show me your happy face!

...Now show me your smiley face!

...Now show me your sleepy face!

...Now show me your smelly face!

...Now show me your sad face.

...Now show me your laughing face!

I Love these pictures, but this next one is my favorite...

This is his "I love my Papa and Papa Loves me" face.

Two very content and happy boys and Grover too.

Priceless.

A new elephant in the family

2010-10-29T21:53:00.000-06:00

Ever since I finished Swede's elephant and gave her away I've been pining to do another one, only in different colors. "What?" you say, "Another finger piercing, tendinitis inducing, eye straining, hand-needlework project?" What can I say to that? I've already allowed the fact that I have a Serious Addiction that Cannot Be Kicked. (It's not like nail biting, and I should know. I was a dedicated nail biter well into my thirties but was able to quit despite all predictions that 'If one does not quit before one is 20, one will ALWAYS be a nail biter.' That is simply not true, and I am proof.)

But this...THIS is far worse. I honestly think it's genetic and hard wired into me (kind of like me being a girl) to the point that if I cannot pet/cut/stitch, fabric or use yarn/thread and hook or needles, I may well perish, and it would not be a pretty sight. I find so much satisfaction, comfort and relaxation when I stitch, be it with a needle and thread, a machine, crochet hook, or even knitting needles, that I cannot imagine life without it. I've been at it so long that I can't remember not doing it. (Just ask my mother.)

Here are a some clues when looking into at how ~~addicted~~ dedicated a stitcher might be.

How many pairs or scissors does she have? (Ginghers, Dovos, dressmaker, pinking shears, embroidery, snippers etc...and just plain "I had to have them because they're so dang cute!)
Does she look at scissors still?
Does she have a special box for each pair?
Does she wear them?
Do you see random pins/needles stuck in her collar or her sleeve?
Can she talk coherently with pins between her lips and without incident?
How many pincushions? Are they cute? Does she wear them?
Are the pins color coded for each one and/or arranged artfully?
Does she make and give pincushions as gifts?
Does she buy boxes of pins just in case...?
How many sewing machines? Boxes of thread (all kinds)? Yarn?
A special handmade envelope with labeled pockets for each size of crochet hook/knitting needle?
Has she been known to use knitting needles or crochet hooks as hair ornaments?
Do you find yourself picking random threads off her clothes?
And fabric?...Well, usually it's measured in Boxes, Bins, Shelves and that would take another page of questions: one that might concern the difference between Twill, Toile, and Tulle.

And, last but not least, does she have a room dedicated to her ~~addiction~~ hobby?

Guilty, Guilty, Guilty...(but not feeling guilty.) I admit it all happily.

So is it any wonder that I would see a new elephant in my future despite the needle pricks, wrist and thumb fatigue, eye strain and the fact that I obviously don't need an elephant, at least not by the standards of your normal non-addicted stitcher?

So..here he is: My Elephant. This one is a boy as you can see by the very masculine barbed wire-like border and the earthy colors. I love, love, love how he turned out. I just have to get him quilted.

If Sweeble's elephant were anywhere near she would be instantly attracted.

The Romance of Snow

2010-10-27T20:09:00.000-06:00

romance of fresh snow...

The quiet falling of lacy snowflakes is mesmerizing, hypnotic, relaxing. Everything inside me tells me it's a miracle that I need to stand quietly still for, and watch with a kind of reverence tinged with awe. Maybe it has something to do with being raised in the desert where the closest thing we had to snow were beige sand dunes, or a long drive into the mountains in the winter for a brief visit. It wasn't practical for a family of desert rats like us to have snow gear so plastic bags over our shoes and socks on our hands had to do, thus the 'brief' visit. After living here in Utah for 21 years now I still get excited about the first snow, and the second, on through Christmas and even January.

I love how it makes things look fresh and new. I love the crunch of it beneath my booted feet when I take night walks through our neighborhood as it falls. My winter breath hangs in the air, a visual manifestation of life, and if cold enough will crystallize into tiny snowflakes and fall, or waft away on the tiniest of frigid breezes. I love to stand beneath a street light and stare up as the tiny flakes descend, making me feel dizzy because it looks like I'm speeding through space, zipping past a zillion stars, but I'm just standing there, staring up into the light, in muffled silence. I love it's natural luminescence and the stark shadows cast by the naked trees. I love how it makes things quiet, and encourages me to slow down and just 'be'.

There is just something about the Pre-Christmas snow that brings to mind so may nostalgic pictures...

Who can resist the idea of a sleigh ride? All bundled up with a fur muff and lap robe with hot bricks under your feet with the sound of jingling sleigh bells and the soft rhythmic whuff-whuff-whuff of muffled hoof beats in new snow. I write this like I know from experience, but I don't. Thanks to L.M. Montgomery, Louisa May Alcott, Charles Dickens and a very vivid and romantic imagination I can tell you all about it though.

What about skating on a frozen pond? Or sledding down a hill?

The ultimate romantic picture that most everyone I know secretly treasures is this one:

Seriously...I'm not kidding. I'm a child again so excited that I can hardly breathe with butterflies in my stomach and dreams that can be real.

One of the best parts of winter is dressing for it. Sweaters, scarves, boots, fluffy socks, fun hats, colorful gloves, wool, down, cashmere...red, green gold, blue...ahhh. Winter phrases: Snuggley soft, Cuddle up, Hot Chocolate anyone?...all so friendly and generous. Yes, cold is my choice. Granted, I have central heat and double paned windows and enough quilts to keep the neighborhood warm. I don't have to chop wood, or light the stove first thing in the morning, or send my husband out into the cold to shoot dinner. And I'm grateful for that. Very Grateful. I can love my snow, and my winter in comfort so that the romance is still alive.

I think it's time to make some tea and sip it from my red china teacup. I wonder if I have a lemon...

A change of heart

2010-10-02T20:09:00.000-06:00

Gianna Jessen. A baby born under miraculous circumstances on an auspicious day: April 6, 1977. When watching the following video that was posted on Facebook a few days ago I was so deeply touched by her story that it has haunted me since.

PLEASE WATCH! Click below.

http://vimeo.com/5387154

For 16 minutes I was riveted to the screen listening to this woman's testimony. For that is definitely what it was: a testimony of Love, a testimony of Life, A testimony of the power of God.

I was shocked and horrified by the inhumanity forced on her before she was even born. I was ashamed by my own attitude on this subject of abortion. But my primary emotion was awe. Awe for this woman who knows, truly knows who she is and why she was born. I love her honesty, her surety, her willingness to stand for truth without equivocation. I love her unabashed acknowledgment of who she really is: A Child of God. She has the courage to call a spade a "spade" and smile while doing it. Without fear that she might be hated for it. Basically she's saying, "I know what I know. So BRING IT! I'm ready. I can take it, because God is my Father."

I've never been a proponent of abortion. I believe it to be a heinous practice founded in ignorance, selfishness, and greed. But my shame comes in here - my recent attitude has been that, heinous as it is, abortion has been around for thousands of years and there will continue to be abortions until every knee bows and every tongue confesses that Jesus Is the Christ. I just don't want to pay for in any way, shape for form. I don't want my tax dollars paying for it or even supporting counseling that proposes it as an option except maybe in extreme cases, (rape, incest, life endangerment for the mother) but even then it should be a well considered and prayerful option. In a nutshell: What's going to happen will happen I just don't want to be a part of it.

Talk about the beginnings of a hard heart. After listening to her I literally hung my head and cried.

I don't believe in the opposite stance either! Where clinics are burned and abortion doctors and staff are targeted for violence. No...but I am ashamed at my backseat detachment. If only more people took to heart the scripture in Psalms 56:11

In God have I put my trust: I will not be afraid what man can do unto me.

Be not afraid to reverently use His Name in public. Be not afraid to acknowledge Him as The Power In Your Life. Be not afraid to be hated for His name's sake. Be not afraid to be outspoken in defense of truth and right. Be not afraid to judge or condemn actions while still loving those who act.

Love. The most powerful emotion in Creation. For it is through love that all good things are created. Even soft hearts.

I will never speak of abortion in such a casual way again. It's shameful.

Apple Pies and me

2010-09-30T19:45:00.000-06:00

Homemade apple pies...mmmmm. There's just something about them. Just thinking about them opens the door of nostalgia with visions of Autumn leaves, pumpkins, heavily laden apple trees and an underlying cool crispness in the air that is refreshing after the summer heat and even that tastes like apples. I. Love. Fall. Love, love, love.

I also love Jonathan Apples. I can feel the slight pucker in my mouth as my salivary glands kick in to high gear just thinking about them. Crisp, tangy, the perfect savory blend of sweet and sour. Love them with caramel. Love them in pies, apple crisp, cobbler. Love them all by themselves. Best. Apples. Ever.

Okay, that said...I hate making apple pies. Just thinking about making one makes me very, very tired. My hands begin hurting at the thought. I look at those little apples and feel OVERWHELMED with the peeling, coring, slicing process. (Ouch!) Jonathons are not hefty apples. They're usually on the smallish side so it takes more than six to fill a pie shell, more like 12-15 or even more depending on the size of your pie dish. On top of that the apple tree in my back yard doesn't get sprayed often enough to keep them bug free. Thus there is an extra step: digging out the noxious little beasts that have taken up residence in my small harvest. Ick.

Yet I crave the warm, tart sweetness baked in a flaky crust topped with, if the world were perfect occasionally, homemade vanilla ice cream. *Heaven!* If Autumn could be put in a pie shell it would taste like Jonathan Apple Pie. So, on rare occasions I will make the effort. Today was one such day. We had a bigger harvest than we usually get and they are delicious. I also didn't bottle any peaches this year therefore I didn't get my fill of Autumn domesticity. BUT! This year is different because I have a new friend at my house who was born to core, peel and slice apples. I kid you not.

This little gadget is Magic! I borrowed one from a friend a few years ago and loved it, then forgot about it until a week ago when I tasted one of our apples and "Apple Pie" came to mind. I went to my favorite kitchen gadget store and plunked my money down and brought this little baby home, in red, to match my kitchen of course. (They did have it in lime green too. It was a tough decision: red, green, red, green.) It's now mine, mine, mine. So this afternoon...with a skip in my step and a song on my lips and without even a twinge of tiredness went to the backyard, picked a bucket of sweetness, washed those little Jons and voila!

I was so excited about getting my pie into the oven that I forgot to add the little pats of butter before putting the top crust on...eek!

So I did what any self respecting descendant of pioneer stock would do...I improvised. I am a firm believer in the truism: Necessity is the mother of invention. I dug out an old medicine dropper, washed it thoroughly, melted some butter, filled the dropper, then injected it evenly into my pie while my supportive and loving husband laughed at me, out loud, not even behind my back. He will eat his laughter right along with his slice of luscious apple pie and apologize with a sticky cinnamon kiss, I'm sure.

Forty five minutes later...

I love kitchen gadget stores. Especially when you have a choice of colors.

The "Daisy Spoon" Syndrome

2010-09-12T12:46:00.000-06:00

The desire or need to be different, elite or special must be hard wired into us. I can't remember an instance in my experience when the following scenario *wouldn't* turn into a disagreeable incident.

You're handing out Popsicles to a group of children. You have 3 yellow ones, 3 orange ones and 1 red one. Tell me, if you know, (and you DO know instinctively) which color will be fought over, hmmmm....? I'm not saying that everyone will clamor for it openly, but deep down each child will want the ONE RED one.

Why? Is it because everyone has a secret desire for cherry/raspberry/red flavor? No. We know it's not the flavor, nor is it the color of the lone Popsicle that makes it desirable. It is the 'lone-ness' of the Popsicle. Its singularity makes it desirable. The one child who ends up with this unique Popsicle will now BE special. All will look to him/her as extraordinary because they now own something that no one else has. Some will try to befriend this now special child so that they too may partake of this Specialness that comes with being near the Red Popsicle. Some will Ignore the Red Popsicle Person in the hopes that the RPP will feel hurt or snubbed and feel sorry for them and share, or that the adult mediator out there will solve the problem by coming up with another Red Popsicle which will then nullify the specialness of The One. Then there are some who will be quite vocal and/or physical about the unfairness of That Person getting the Red Popsicle and the war will start. Thankfully, the Red Popsicle will either be eaten, or land on the ground in the tussle and then no one will want it. The specialness literally melts away and is eventually forgotten.

Thank Heaven. *sigh*

Is this situation unique to children? (Excuse me while I take a hilarity break... *wiping tears from eyes*)

It is because of this quirk in human nature that I make this post public so that I may insure the future happiness and solidarity of my family now and for generations to come. For my family does not call this syndrome the "Red Popsicle Syndrome", it is "The Daisy Spoon Syndrome".

When I was a teen my mother showed me a catalog with samples of flatware and asked me to choose my favorite pattern. I chose a fairly ornate pattern called 'Brahms' because I like the holes in the design. (See them in the handle?) My mother then began to save her Betty Crocker coupons so that she could purchase place settings for 8 by the time I was 18. I got them for my 18th birthday. Very Pretty.

The flowers in the pattern are "Roses", with a rose prominently displayed between the two openings at the top. See? Well, later, after I was married and had some children my mother decided to send me some extras because pieces get lost in sandboxes and such when you have children. I received a box in the mail with some extra spoons and I think some serving pieces. Thank you Mom. ♥

I made a very serious mistake one evening when eating dinner. I noticed that the spoon I was using had a Daisy on it instead of a Rose and made a comment OUT LOUD IN FRONT OF MY CHILDREN on this difference. *hanging head in shame* I know, I know. I asked for it. I truly did.

Everyone had to see. All the children crowded around to look at this Special Spoon. My husband gave me A Knowing Look. I received it with a sense of dismay. "What have I done?...Oh, what have I done." For we were well acquainted with the growing list of Valid Reasons To Fight With Siblings.

The war began. Every meal where spoons were required (That means first thing in the morning EVERY DAY) was a quick check to see who was going to be Special that day. A smug look, a knowing smile was the preface to the inevitable sing-song announcement of "I have the Daisy Spoon...I have the Daisy Spoon." Loud complaints ensued, "He/she ALWAYS gets the Daisy Spoon! It's MY turn for the Daisy Spoon!!" Outraged huffing and occasional wrestling and spilled cereal and sometimes a child would leave the table with threats of not eating...EVER AGAIN. I have to admit that I took some morbid amusement from the situation. It was just so silly! Steve and I would purse our lips and try not to laugh, while also gritting our teeth in futile frustration.

The battle for possession of the coveted Daisy Spoon escalated. It would go missing and I would find it hidden away in someone's sock drawer, or the same person would get it over and over and I would realize that it was being brought to the table in someone's pocket or sleeve and swapped surreptitiously with the spoon laid at their place. Cheating...tsk, tsk, tsk.

You may ask why I kept it in play and I can only answer that it just wasn't a high priority, so many other things took precedence. Most mother's can agree that it's about putting out little fires all day long and that was just one tiny fire of many.

The Daisy Spoon has become part of our family history though and for this reason I will say that when I lay this mortal down that I would like The Daisy Spoon to be securely mounted on the lid of my casket with the inscription: "May The Daisy Spoon also rest in peace". Unless, of course, my progeny can come up with a reasonable visitation schedule for The Daisy Spoon in each home. Everyone needs to feel special now and then.

Meander...it's a nice word, just not very easy for me to do.

2010-09-05T21:55:00.000-06:00

As an experiment, let these words just roll off your tongue: amble, meander, wander, roam, drift, mosey, ramble, stroll. Ahhhh...all such nice words. They taste like sun warmed cherries at the top of the cherry tree. They sound relaxed and easy like smooth stones that fit in the palm of your hand and dwell in your favorite jacket pocket and click together in a friendly way as you walk. These words live on beaches and mountain trails and old neighborhoods with houses that weren't 'built' so much as grown from the earth, with rocking chairs on their porches, overburdened rose bushes hanging heavily over fences, and fronted by old cracked sidewalks. They're comfortable and invite friendliness or solitude, conversation or quiet contemplation. I like these words. I would like to be familiar enough with them to invite them into my life more often. I think the fault is on my side though, not theirs.

After church today we decided to take a drive up the canyon. My husband didn't really have a destination in mind and we ended up stopping at White Pine trail head. We looked at the map and saw that there were a couple of lakes along this trail. It didn't look that far, maybe 10-12 inches on the map. (How far can that be?) Of course the lakes looked like they might fit into a thimble... Ughmmm...we headed up the trail looking for the fork that would take us to Red Pine Lakes (maybe 3" up ahead). My 'destination'. My 'purpose for coming here'.

The day was absolutely lovely: sight, scent, temperature, honestly you couldn't have planned a nicer day if you tried.

On up the trail we blithely went. (He went blithely, my steps were a bit more purposeful.) And when I say 'up' I mean 'UP'. I had visions of a sparkly blue lake as my destination with the scent of pine in the air and a whiff of wood smoke. The further we went the more people we saw coming down. Some looked fine, but many looked a bit bedraggled. Those carefree romantic girls who had picked wildflowers on their journey to remind them of the Beauty Of God's Green Earth were now clutching drooping wads and holding onto them as if they were their last hope. Small boys were no longer bounding along and throwing rocks (I know about small boys on a nature walk), they were watching their stumbling feet and had a stupefied look that said, "We'll *never* be there." My goal began to waver like a mirage. I hadn't planned on a rugged hike, I just wanted a nice walk with a beautiful destination. 'Destination' being the operative word here. I like a goal, a place, an objective. It's really hard for me to just go...with no intended target. When I start on a trail I can't just turn around in the middle of it and what...go back? What would be the point?

So...as we continued to 'march forth' my husband says off offhandedly, "So, I hadn't really planned on, you know, a strenuous hike. When would you like to turn around?"

My mind began to work, trying to find a solution to this problem. 'Where? Where should be turn around? What, up ahead, could be my destination? This wildflower bush?

That's silly. That stunning vista?

No, I can see the road with cars on it. That's not an 'unspoiled view'. How 'bout this spectacular stand of aspens at sunset?

Seriously? There are aspens E V E R Y W H E R E.

We certainly can't go to the lake, the 3" turn off was a 'fer piece' yet, and from the description given by a father-son duo the trail after the turnoff to the lake was 'straight up' and at least another three miles long.' No, no lake today.'

My right ear began to hurt from the cool wind blowing directly into it and the trail up ahead was definitely 'up'. I spoke with breathless cheerfulness, "You know how hard it is for me to just 'turn around'. I'll let you decide. Just tell me when you want to go back." (Did I give the words 'go back' a deprecating sound? Shame on me.) I told him about my ear and continued to look ahead of me for a destination and seeing soooo many possibilities 'just out of sight around the bend'. He didn't complain. He didn't moan. He just kept right on marching forward with me. I began to feel guilty. He's so good to me...I just love this man.

Then...in the distance I see a sign!! and I hear rushing water. This! This could be it! We can stop here and pretend that this is what we came to see! Thank Heaven.

Our Destination.

Yes! The turnoff was beautiful.

We stopped and took pictures and I went a bit further up the much narrower and steeper trail and was Sorely tempted.

It was magical. But I resisted and claimed this destination as final..this time.

With a pang of regret I turned around, and in a few moments we were meandering pleasantly downhill to our next destination:

I'm going to work on making those fine, comfy words closer companions. And a few others that were distinct 'no-no's as a child: dawdle, lollygag and dillydally. I think it would be worth it, if only for my dear and patient husband. ♥

To Nana with love...

2010-08-20T20:34:00.000-06:00

I've been working on a quilt since January of this year called "The Farmer's Wife Sampler Quilt". It consists of 111 six inch traditional blocks. The quilt honors those Farmer's Wives of the 1920's when farms were folding all over the country. Money was scarce and the city beckoned offering jobs, cheap entertainment, and conveniences that were tempting to those accustomed to hard work and sweat. The city also offered things like liquor, speakeasys, crime, dance halls catering to to the young and impressionable and other easy ways to dissolve the family unit,. When "The Farmer's Wife" magazine asked it's readers in 1922 this question: "Would you want your daughter to marry a farmer?"

...the letters came in by the thousands and 94% of all the respondents adamantly said "YES!" The winning letters included in the book for this quilt were well thought out and very articulate in explaining the reasons why. Though they were thrilled with the modern conveniences that would make their lives easier: indoor plumbing, telephones, carpet sweepers etc... they wanted their family life and values to be left alone.

I love the whole idea behind this quilt. I've enjoyed making every block and choosing every fabric. I made it completely from what I had on hand when I started and didn't purchase a thing for it's completion. I guess this shows how deep my fabric stash goes. I should be embarrassed. Anyway I've decided to dedicate this quilt to my Nana; the mother of my dear daddy.

-Winona-

She was a raven haired beauty who loved riding her horse and hated having her hair bound in braids. After her mother would do her hair in tight braids for school she'd unwind her braids on the way to school so her hair would be wavy, and free to blow in the wind. She marked my Papa as the one she would marry, and by darn, she got him. She loved huge billowy clouds and thunder storms, the crackling of campfires and the smell of pine. She loved all the seasons and colors of the world. She was an incredible cook, even when camping, and loved her family well by preserving the bounties of the earth and preparing those bounties in delicious ways to feed her family. She was no stranger to hard work and always had a garden. She was a country girl who loved the wide open spaces and spectacular vistas.

-Wedding Star-

-Streak of Lightning-

When I think of Nana my sense of smell dominates all others: Roses, sweet-peas, lilacs, cinnamon, hot butter, fresh bread, roast beef with gravy and new potatoes, the seductive aroma of damp earth combined with sun warmed tomatoes and garden peas. I even remember eating those straight out of her garden in Dutch John when I was just little.

-Evening Star-

-Shooting Star-

She loved color! Reds, purples, golds, emeralds; the richer and more vibrant the better. Purple was her favorite though, I think. When she got older and her hair started to go gray she used a blue rinse on it and she looked so pretty with her bluey-purpley hair. I loved it. I wished I had hair that color.

-Star Gardener-

-Homemaker-

When I think of visiting her the sounds that come to mind are Gospel music, songs from musicals like "The Sound of Music" and old western tunes about dogies and goober peas. I heard a lot of Jim Reeves, Patsy Cline, Roy Rogers, Loretta Lynn and Tammy Wynette. I came to appreciate The Mormon Tabernacle Choir because when we went to visit Nana and Papa it was usually on a Sunday and MoTab would be the featured performer on their stereo. "How Great Thou Art" became my favorite hymn because I'd heard it so many times in their home looking at pictures of the Tetons. Who could resist that?

-Peaceful Hours-

-Wild Goose Chase-

She had a large wooden rocking chair (it was large then) and over this chair was a Crazy Quilt. When dinner was over and before the evening slide show was to begin I'd curl up in that old rocker and drift contentedly in my cocoon of comfortable safety and love, surrounded by the familiar sounds of the silverware clanking in the sink and the hum of adult voices and occasional bouts of laughter as my dad and his siblings would reminisce around the now cleared dinner table. I would trace with my finger the seams in that old quilt and feel the textures of the different fabrics while listening to tales about when they lived in Canada: the saw mill on Stuart Lake, picking Saskatoon berries, ice skating across the lake in winter to get to school and snow so high it would reach the second story window of the home they built on Stuart Lake in Central British Columbia. No central heat, no indoor plumbing. Outhouse? Yes. Kerosene lanterns? Yes.

-Maple Leaf-

-Strawberry Basket-

She was a pioneer and a devoted wife. She had more than a hint of the gypsy adventuress and the strength it takes to be a mother of eight children, two of those dieing as babies. She had the yearnings of a true romantic and the common sense of a dyed-in-the-wool pragmatist. She may not have been the wife of a farmer but she had what it took: great love, deep faith, strong convictions, a forgiving heart and an indomitable spirit.

-Friendship-

-Night & Day-

I dedicate this quilt to you. I'm so grateful to have known you. I'm so grateful to have inherited some of your characteristics and traits.

I love you Nana!

Reunion 2010: Thoughts on butterchurns and dead fingers...

2010-08-09T19:25:00.000-06:00

It was my beautiful baby sister Lisa's turn to plan the family reunion this year. (I just love this woman. Seriously LOVE HER.)

She decided to have it in Yellowstone and we would all stay at the KOA just west of West Yellowstone. We would get there on Thursday and go home on Sunday. She handed out an itinerary, and menus for three meals that she would provide, and also a list of things that would be going on locally that we may like to participate in. One of those things was The Mountain Man Rendezvous. You can read about the history of this here.

I've heard about these things, the history, the people, the reason they 'are', but I've never been to one. I'm intrigued by these people, past and present, and have begun to wonder if there is a part of me that wants to *be* part of it. Maybe it's in my blood; passed down to me through the generations from those who crossed the plains, homesteaded the American West or even crossed 'The Pond' looking for freedom.

Anyway, it was with a feeling of gleeful anticipation when finally stepping out of our modern covered wagon (our black Grand Jeep Cherokee with a sunroof, leather seats and automatic E V E R Y T H I N G [I'm not bragging, just appalled by the comparison]) after driving for HOURS, at least 5, (not days/weeks/possibly months) to the 'camping spot' (a KOA with bathrooms and flush toilets and a POOL! no less [I have to say here that we did pitch a tent AND sleep in it for 3 nights...on a blow-up air mattress) that it was entirely possible that I may be able to attend this event. I was almost giddy!!

We decided to go on Saturday morning on our way into the park and see what it was about. Okay, I was a bit disappointed by the smallness of it. Admittedly it was early, well 10:30-ish, and there weren't that many visitors yet, but there just weren't that many tents set up. I'd imagined a far bigger 'Rendezvous' after reading about them, with LOTS of people and music and vigorous trading and dickering etc... I had to castigate myself saying, "Self, there just aren't that many mountain men any more. Give them a break. They're doing the best they can."

I took my modern day self and my rugged looking husband wearing his new slouchy cowboy hat into the ring of tents and started looking around. It didn't take long to find some real characters. I swear they were mostly named Grizz or some such rugged and masculine name, except one who's name was Erik. I suppose, being mountain men, they wouldn't admit to a name like Randy or Mike or even Steve (although I happen to think Steve is a Very Rugged, Masculine Name.)

The first tent was manned, or womanned, by a nice lady who is in business with her husband and they are potters. I love hand thrown pottery. I believe anyone could learn to do it but to make a living at it would be very difficult, rewarding, but difficult. I found a beautiful small butter churn. Yay! I'm going to learn to use it too, if only to appreciate those who *had* to do it on a regular basis. AND you never know when something like that would come in handy, right along with my treadle sewing machine.

Other than the potter's tent and a flute maker's tent and the musicians, most of the tents sold the same kinds of things: beads and things, moccasins, furs, leather goods, some old guns, antler/horn knives, and some really nice handmade bows, old timey looking clothes...there were a couple of food places too. It wasn't so much what they sold but who was selling it.

Take this last guy with his ummm...medicine stick? Voodoo Stick? I really can't remember what he was selling, it certainly wasn't his stick. When I asked if I could take a picture of him he was more than pleased to pose for it...in the sun, for good light, and then wanted to know if my husband's camera was on and would we like him to tell us about his stick? He was so friendly and affable if more than a little eccentric. I loved his stories and the reasons for all his little doodads and things and then he started telling us about this one thingy...I didn't really get a good look at it, but my husband, no doubt, got a good close up in living (or dead) color. It was the dried up tip of his, now dead, friend's finger! I kid you not! Nail and all! His friend cut it off himself with his own knife because it was diseased and going to fall off anyway. Then boiled it, dried it and varnished it. It was diseased by all the tobacco he had rolled into cigarettes over his lifetime. After he cut off his finger and gave it to 'Grizz' to make into an 'E A R R I N G' he died about 3 weeks later. Grizz made it into an earring and it now adorns his 'Stick' as a lesson to all those trifling with the idea of taking up smoking. Cured me of even having a nightmare about smoking, so it must have some power.

Notice the small dried alligator head...uhhm...wearing a small set of antlers on the top. I have no doubt that this man could become a millionaire if he wanted to sell this thing to some crazy billionaire who already has everything...but this stick. But that would be like selling his soul. And I say that with utmost seriousness and respect. I don't think that's going to happen. I would be disappointed if it did.

After leaving the Rendezvous my husband wondered out loud how many of these people would actually be 'homeless' if they hadn't honed their talent(s) and found a niche in on what some would call 'the fringes of society'. Actually, I find this so called 'fringe' so full of flavor and personality that I'm absolutely sure that we need them, if only to add flavor to a life that tends to look and taste and feel rather beige and flat. People...amazing people...we are a marvelous and varied palette of color, flavor and texture. I had such a great time.

Ventura Highway

2010-07-26T20:11:00.000-06:00

Nothing can take me back faster to Southern California in the '70's than "Ventura Highway" by America. This song is linked to every one of my senses and it pulls at my memories like a magnet.

It's the end of summer and I'm back from another idyll in Utah. School is going to start in less than a week, and we've celebrated our Opening Social for the youth in our church by spending a day at the beach. It's been a long, fun day with friends that I haven't seen for almost two months. So much to catch up on, so much to tell. The windows are down as we continue to enjoy the briny smell of the ocean.

It's hard to get comfortable. Too many bodies, too close together in the family station wagon. I can feel the first heat of sunburn on my shoulders, thighs, and nose. The sand is e v e r y w h e r e and my hair feels like straw as salt stiffened strands whip and crack against my face from the wind coming through the open windows.

The excitement/dread of a new year at school squirms uncomfortably in my stomach and becomes more palpable with each mile/minute closer to home. This was the last Hurrah! of the summer. There's the new thrill being able to drive as we all have our licenses and two of my friends have cars. We can drive to the beach on a Saturday if we want to! We sing along with the radio to songs by 'Bread', 'The Eagles', 'America', 'Seals and Crofts', 'John Denver', 'Olivia Newton John'...carefree, for the moment.

We trade the damp scent of ocean air for dusty desert heat as we wend our way through the hills on the Moreno Valley Freeway and then down into what I call the 'true desert'. Oleander bushes, tamerisk trees, date and fan palms seem like the only green in the beige, tan and taupe of the landscape all around. The California sun has set behind us now and I can see the ghostly wind trails on the freeway made from the sand skidding lightly across the road. Though full dark it's still ~~hot~~ very warm outside and I stick my hand and arm out the window and let the force of the wind move the changing angle of my hand up and down in long curvy waves and imagine what it might be like to fly like the sea birds I'd seen floating effortlessly and stationary over the crashing waves at the beach. "I would love to be able to do that", I think.

I thought that time in my life would last forever.

Ventura Highway is an 'oldie' now.

Childhood memories

2010-07-25T17:02:00.000-06:00

I was listening to the radio the other day and a song came on called "The House That Built Me" by Miranda Lambert. I was so touched by the lyrics that I decided to write down some of the sights, sounds and feelings that are triggered in me by songs from my youth.
John Denver's 'Sunshine' can take me right back to when I was 15 years old:
I'm at Gramma's sitting on the little hill that slopes down to the big lawn. I'm wearing my cut off jeans and my brother's old blue, button-down shirt. My long hair is making my neck sweaty and I can feel a cool trail begin to run down my back. I'm eating sun warmed cherries from the big cherry three that grows by the car port and spitting the pits as far as I can into the hedges. It's almost time to irrigate and I can smell the water, wet and earthy at the same time, and the languid warmth of the afternoon air is saturated with the aroma of lush, sweet peppermint that grows wild along the ditch bank. There's the sound of a train whistle. I can feel a slight rumble beneath my back and feet when I lay back and close my eyes. The long grass tickles the back of my neck and ears.

I'm thinking about the boy that lives down the street and wondering if he's going to come by this evening after he finishes with his lawns and everyone's had dinner. Maybe we'll get together with my brothers and sisters and neighborhood kids and play hide-and-seek or tag on the big lawn until our parents call us in for bed.

Or maybe we'll just go for a walk and he'll hold my hand...maybe. Anticipation curls in my stomach and I smile to myself. "Now that would be exciting", I think.

Dinner...the age old question. If only it had one answer...

2010-07-23T21:20:00.000-06:00

...let's eat out!

Seriously, it can ruin my whole day if my first thought of the morning is, "What will I make for dinner tonight?" Therefore, I try not to think of it. But it's a question that must needs have an answer when there are male bodies in residence. Male bodies have male minds in which food plays front and center at least half of the time. Male bodies also have male stomachs which in my experience are rarely full. There's always room for a little smackerel of something. Sound familiar?

The question gets bigger as the day progresses. Thinking turns to pondering. Pondering turns to worry. Worry turns to fretting. Fretting turns to anxiety. By around 4 pm, if I haven't figured something out I actually start getting angry that it's always up to *me* to answer that question, "What's for dinner?" If someone were to ask me what I wanted to fix for dinner I would probably say, "Cold Cereal...or how about pudding and Popsicles? Toast? with cheese? Peaches?"

When faced with these answers the beloved male face(s) looks downcast and sorrowful. "No MEAT? No potatoes with gravy? No large burrito smothered in sauce with black beans and rice on the side and maybe ~~several~~ one homemade chocolate chip cookie for dessert?

Its not like I don't know how to cook, or that I'm not a good cook. I know how, and I'm a pretty good one. It's just that I've been doing the 'food thing' in my house for more than 30 years: shopping for food, buying food, putting the food away, getting the food out, deciding what to do with the food, cooking the food, cleaning up after the food, throwing food away...AND,eating too much food...

(I even have a sign above my kitchen doorway that I painted that says, "Go ahead, eat all you want, just try squeezing out the doorway.") Do you realize how much time is used in a day dealing with buying, preparing, eating, cleaning up after, and eliminating, food?
Okay...breathe. *sigh*

For the past year or so we've had an agreement, my beloved man and I, that when I come home from work on Fridays we 'go out' for dinner. It's been nice. I'm not faced with a monumental decision at 6 pm after being on my feet all day. What a relief! I *am* faced with a semi-monumental decision every other week though. We take turns choosing where to go. When faced with that decision a few weeks ago I just wanted to put my head in my hands and cry, "I don't want to choose! You choose!" Actually, I think I did do that. Not the tearful crying jut the frustrated don't-make-me-do-this 'moany-groan' whine. (Hormones) He looked at me in mild surprise and said, "But it's your turn." I think I may have gone into some kind of tirade like in the previous paragraphs detailing how many times I've *actually* been in charge of choosing what we're going to eat, and that he would have to choose every Friday for the next 1,000 years where and what we were going to eat in order to catch up to me. He may have smiled at that, hoping to disarm me so as not to have to deal with too many more 'words'. (He would rather be faced with the prospect of eating 3 family Thanksgiving dinners in one day than partaking of my full day's allowance of words.) I think he chose where to eat that night. (Smart man.) And since then, when it's been my turn to choose he asks me where, and if I have a place in mind, I tell him, but, more often than not, I give him that "please no" look and he drives us right to Paradise Bakery and it's all good.

Someone told me that a very long time ago we fought a war about this right to choose...I just didn't know so much of it was going to involve "What's for dinner?"

The Mountains - a renewing influence

2010-07-04T12:30:00.000-06:00

Eleven-twelve years ago...let's see, that would make Jason 17, Jeni 16, Daniel 13, and Stephanie 10...Yeah, *that* was a busy time, I was standing on my old icky deck with a dirty mop and a dirtier bucket looking at my weedy back yard and knowing that the floor I just mopped would go unnoticed and unappreciated. I wanted to cry. It was one of those days. Anyway, as I was standing there I looked up from my weedy backyard and eastward and there...there were the mountains.

Not the Uintahs but familiar Utah mountains. I was engulfed by memories of childhood camping trips, hikes, summer tobogganing on mountain snow, campfire sing-alongs with Uncle Denny, watching my Papa whittle me a spoon from a piece of kindling, wildflowers and water lilies, tadpoles and polliwogs, glimpses of timid deer and the sight and sound of stones skipping on Mirror Lake in the evening. It was such a healing experience at the time that later that evening I tried to put my feelings down on paper and came up with this...

Being Filled

I stand

with mop and bucket in hand

ready to begin another task.

My eyes, hands and body are

tied to daily chores, and worldly cares.

My list is long

and my cup is empty.

The cup that is drained

by constant giving, giving, giving.

I sigh…

The mountain breathes.

The cool wind

touches my face

and takes with it some heaviness.

As my eyes rise from the ground at my feet

to the towering peaks

my spirit travels the mountain trails,

carpeted with pungent needles.

I walk

in reverence of the beauty.

Splashes of color adorn the upward slopes

and create a symphony of visual music.

Sun on snow and grass and limb

brighten my vision.

Deep, velvet shadows bid me

to pause and listen

to the Creator’s voice.

I close my eyes

and breathe in

the peace and serenity

that my spirit craves.

I am loved.

I feel it permeate my being

and the bindings evaporate.

My soul is lighter.

My cup begins to fill.

This past week I was having another one of 'those weeks' and knew I needed a break from the valley so I suggested that we take a trip into the mountains again. I know I always feel renewed after a visit. So...yesterday Steven and I, along with Jason and his wife Jen, went up to the Uintahs for the day. Jen had never been past Heber so it was all new to her. We visited The Falls below Trial Lake where I used to go as a kid with my dad to 'shower' after a few days of camping. I'd walk away with a cold headache but that didn't matter. I was with my dad doing something 'adventurous'.

The water at the falls wasn't very swift or full, probably because of the new reservoir and dam above at the new Crystal Lake Campground, but there was water and it was still beautiful.

We walked a bit around Trial Lake campground where Steven and I took the kids camping so many times...

…then went over the ridge to visit Mirror Lake Campground…

...and found our old camping spot at the top of the hill, unoccupied. Crazy. Strange. I could pick out the places where we pitched out tents year after year. Where our picnic table always sat. The rock where I used to sit when I watched my captured polliwogs. The trees were different though. So many were gone. A horrible beetle infestation has killed soooo many trees over the past 8-10 years.

I could faintly see the trail we walked daily down to the polliwog pond, (my mother called it the local mosquito nursery) then over to Bonnie Lake…

…where I would pick lilies and lily pads for my polliwogs. I remember when my dad and his brothers would have log rolling contests on Bonnie. They'd find a likely tree, dead, chop it down, saw it into a decent sized log, cut off the offending little branches to make it safe(er), then they'd roll it into the lake, climb up on it and try to knock each other off it, one standing on one end, the other standing on the other end, and they'd roll it with their feet, back and forth. OH! how exciting that was. They all ended up drenched and muddy and laughing thar heads off. My dad was a 'god'. My mother was always so worried but I *knew* in my heart that *nothing* would ever happen to him. It was impossible.

One year, when I was a teenager, my dad and his brothers/BIL (Denny, Brent & Dick) cut down some dead trees and we had a log sawing contest with all the Aunts, Uncles and Cousins. The next day they took the logs down to the lake and with a bunch of rope they lashed them together and made a raft. After that they took two lawn chairs and lashed them to the middle of it, then led their parents (Nana & Papa) onto their raft, seated them like royalty and poled them out onto the lake. With that much weight on the raft the logs ended up sitting just below water level and it looked like everyone, chairs and people were standing/sitting on top of the water, moving as a group. Weird. Wonderful.

I could almost hear the ghosts of our laughter as I wandered. It was magical, that time in my life, and I'm so very grateful for my parents for providing us with a safe place to explore, invent, imagine, and play. I hope Steven and I were able to do a bit of the same for our kids. I think so. Each of them has a love and appreciation for the mountains and nature. That's so important.

The drive was so therapeutic. There were patches of snow everywhere when we got above Trial. We rolled down all the windows and opened the sun roof and listened to John Denver as we breathed deeply. It was funny, I was having some serious problems with allergies before we left. I felt clogged and slow. Steven predicted that it would only get worse when we got into the mountains but...it cleared right up! No problems whatsoever until we got back into the valley and I started sneezing again.

On our way home we stopped and got some awesome jerky at this tiny little store just outside of Kamas, then stopped at "Dick's", a local burger joint in Kamas and had some burgers, fries, and shakes. Very good.

Before we left the spot on the hill Steve carried a couple of large stones from there to the car so I would always have something from that magical place in my childhood. One is resting in my herb garden.

The honeysuckle and roses are overpowering this morning. The daisies are blooming and the snails have decided that they love marigolds for breakfast.

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

2009-12-22T06:58:00.000-07:00

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

2009-12-17T08:30:00.000-07:00

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

2009-12-17T08:28:00.000-07:00

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)

2009-12-17T08:18:00.000-07:00

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

2009-12-14T08:39:00.001-07:00

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

2009-12-13T14:33:00.001-07:00

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

2009-12-12T20:17:00.001-07:00

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

2009-12-11T08:16:00.001-07:00

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

2009-12-10T08:22:00.000-07:00

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

2009-12-09T08:45:00.000-07:00

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

2009-12-08T08:18:00.001-07:00

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

2009-12-07T10:43:00.001-07:00

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

2009-12-06T20:46:00.001-07:00

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

2009-12-05T09:53:00.000-07:00

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

2009-12-04T08:17:00.001-07:00

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

2009-12-03T13:32:00.000-07:00

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

2009-12-03T13:23:00.000-07:00

The Rootbeer Story:

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

2009 Christmas Advent

2009-12-03T13:09:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-15T10:55:00.000-06:00

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)

2009-10-08T18:08:00.001-06:00

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

2009-10-06T19:08:00.000-06:00

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'

2009-10-02T09:21:00.000-06:00

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

2009-09-30T16:37:00.000-06:00

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

2009-09-24T22:06:00.000-06:00

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

2009-01-26T18:24:00.000-07:00

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.