A change of heart

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

Autn:reference - http://scriptures.lds.org/ps/56/11#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

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

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.

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...

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...

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.