Aging and Motherhood

I have had terrible bronchitis, sleeping sitting up, drugged up with cough medicine.  You get the picture.

Maybe it was the drugs that caused the dream, but the emotions were so real, nonetheless.

Probably motherhood had defined my life more than any other role I have ever played.  I fell in love with motherhood quite by surprise.  However, it was total on-the-job training.  My poor children had to live with me as I learned.  Many are the mistakes that I made, but I loved the job, hard as it was at times.

Second to the surprise of loving motherhood is the surprise of growing old.  I don't think that anything quite prepared me for it.  I mean you can read about it, but it's all on-the-job training, too. There are things I like and then things I like a whole lot less and there are things I don't like at all. One of the things that was hard for me the other day was seeing a picture of one of my childhood friends. She's had health problems and the picture reflected her stressful life. I remember thinking of her when we were children, climbing trees, playing hop scotch, and jumping rope; and I wanted to cry....for both of us.

In my dream, we were young mothers.  She walked up a hill to me in a park and she was healthy and strong.  It made me so happy to see her so.  I wanted to cry again, sweet tears.  At that point, my son called to me.  He was 3 or 4 year old Nephi.  His hair fell across his brow in that soft way that it did when he was a little boy.  I wish I had touched it more often.  He was crying because something had happened with Clayton that had caused him to scrap the skin on his ankle.  It hadn't drawn blood and shouldn't have been a big deal, but I was filled with empathy for a little boy who had not yet learned how to brush off scrapes.  (He's certainly learned how to brush off much more than that in his 31 years.)  I wasn't the hurried young mother in that moment, the one who was often on to the next task, a tinge of impatience. In my dream, I had the patience and empathy and remembrance of a grammy. I took the time to sooth, to explain, to teach. It was such a tender experience.  I felt warm and happy when I woke up.

How I wish that our bodies started out old and got younger as our minds got older, meeting somewhere in between for the perfect, complete woman.  Okay, even I know that doesn't make sense.

But I believe that there will come a time when we will be restored to the strength and beauty of youth filled with old spirits.  Those bodies and those spirits will have learned all those hard lessons that will serve us into the eternities....meeting in one perfect, complete woman.  And I hope and pray for motherhood and grammyhood in the eternities.

This Is The Day

I have dreaded this a long time.  My father's funeral.  So I've told you about the heel he was since he left.  But what was he before?

He was the parent that I felt loved me and got me.  He was the emotionally dependable one.  He was the one who spanked me, but I never felt the fear that I did with my mom.  I knew that the spankings he gave were from what he knew at the time not from being out of control.  He was the one that thought I was smart and pretty.  He was the one who set and kept rules.  So here are a few of the memories of the man I loved best until he was taken away when I was 15.

My earliest memories of my father were probably of sitting in his lap.  I loved sitting in his lap and always felt very safe there.  I remember loving to dance, particularly doing the twist, and my father would ask me to perform it for every adult he knew.  He had my mother sign me up for dance at the age of 4 and was not mad when I only went for a couple of lessons because I didn't like it.

When I was in the hospital for great lengths of time, he would come and visit me in the early mornings before he went to work.  I loved those early morning visits just the two of us.  My mom had thrown away my stuffed dog, Charlie, because it had gotten too ratty.  It was really like a security blanket to me and I was devastated to lose it.  My dad bought me a red stuffed poodle and brought it to the hospital.  It was a really cute dog but wired inside so it would stand up and not nearly so cuddly, but I loved it because my dad gave it to me.

My dad used to have a beer when he came home from work.  I hated the smell and the fact that he drank beer in front of us.  I asked him why he did it.  He said he liked something cold to drink.  I said that Kool Aid was cold.  He said that if I made Kool Aid for him every day, he would drink that.  And he did.  It was our ritual.  And he always said that he could tell it was made with love.

When I was young, I had a speech impediment and couldn't say my "R's."  I sounded like Elmer Fudd, "That waskcully wabbit."  I had speech therapy and it didn't help.  By early 5th grade, I was being bullied about it and kids would come to school with new words they had hear the night before.  "Joey, say Aurora."  I would sadly respond, "Aworwa."  Ha ha ha ha ha.  Except it wasn't funny to me.  I told my dad and he said, "Joey, the problem is that you just talk too fast.  Slow down and just think before you speak."  I practiced and practiced in front of the mirror and it didn't take long before the problem was solved.

I learned to sew in the 6th grade.  My dad often picked me up from my lessons out in Holladay.  I remember him taking me to the first McDonalds in Salt Lake and explaining how amazing it was that the hamburgers were ready made so there was no waiting. He thought it was an ingenious idea.  He also took me to the fabric store and patiently waited while I perused the aisles and there were a lot of aisles in that store on 57th South and 9th East.  He would take me once for the pattern, a few days later for the fabric and a few days later, I would tell him that I needed thread and a zipper.  This happened again and again and he always seemed to have money for my sewing.  Finally one day, he said, "Joey, I know what's happening and how much you are spending and it would just be easier buying it all at once. You're not putting anything over on me."  He said it with amusement, no irritation.  Perhaps I just liked those extra visits to the fabric store with him.

Once he sent me to the store to buy something.  He gave me a dollar and the change was 10 cents.  I put the 10 cents in a drawer at home.  Later he asked me about the change.  I told him that I didn't think he would care.  He gave me quite the lecture on honesty and how that 10 cents didn't belong to me until he gave it to me and it was very, very wrong to take anything that wasn't mine.  As an accountant, I have appreciated this lesson again and again.  Once, he took his check to be cashed at the corner store, something commonly done in those days.  When he and my mom were going over the money, he realized that the cashier had given him an extra $50.  He drove back to return it.  The cashier was so grateful and gave us a gallon of our favorite ice cream (Orange Cream-O that my mom served us with Apple Jack Cereal on top).  The cashier explained that he would have had to pay the $50 himself out of his pocket and he and his family could ill afford to do so.

When I started dating, he was very protective and very understanding and very angry at any boy who would bruise my little heart.  At the age of 15, I attended my first dance and he was adamant that I would not be brought back after 11:00 p.m.  Everyone else was staying until midnight and even my mother tried to persuade him, but he was decided.  My date left everyone else at the restaurant to take me home to make my curfew and then had to drive back to pick the rest of the party up.  But it made me feel loved and cared about.

When I was in junior high, all I wanted for 2 Christmases in a row was a Schwinn 10 speed bike.  I was convinced that it was the best and that nothing else would do.  I tried to earn my own money, but they were quite pricy at the time and I would never have reached the amount.  One day my mom asked me what color I would want out of the three because I was getting it for Christmas.  My father was so upset that she had spoiled the surprise and he had been so looking forward to seeing my face on Christmas morning when I finally got my bike.  Boy, oh boy, did I love riding that bike.

My friends and I loved to go to the movies at the Avalon theater.  It was quite a way from our home, but they showed old musicals and movies that I loved and loved.  I could always count on my dad to drive us there and back.

He was a story teller.  My mom was, too.  I come from a long line of storytellers.  My dad also loved to tell jokes and would come home with new ones all the time.  They were mostly so corny, but we would laugh and laugh.  Every April Fool's day that I could remember, he would awaken us with, "Wake up! It's snowing."  We would groan and moan. And once in a while it really was snowing which made the joke even more funny.

Once my sister, Kathy, and I were talking late into the night instead of going to sleep.  We giggled and talked and my dad came in for about the third time and told us that it was past bedtime and he was serious that we needed to go to sleep or we would get spankings.  He said, "This is absolutely the last time I'm going to tell you."  I said, "Good.  Now we can talk and laugh in peace without being disturbed again."  He burst into laughter and I knew all was good.  But I do think we went to sleep after that.  No use pushing it.

He loved to sing.  He loved musicals and he told me once that when he was in the navy, having joined at 17 when he graduated high school, he could never go to bars when he was on leave because he was underage.  So he would go to the movies in different ports and they always had American musicals playing.  We watched musicals as a family whenever they came on TV:  "The King and I," "South Pacific," "The Music Man," "Carousel."  It was an event.  We had all of the records and my dad loved to sing to the Baritone parts.  He would often sing, "I talk to the trees, but they don't listen to me," making note that's how he felt in a family of 5 daughters.  We would laugh and laugh and thought he made the song up.  I was most surprised years later when I learned there was a real song with those lyrics from "Paint Your Wagon."

As I have typed these memories, it is the first time that I have cried for losing my dad.  Well, the first time that I've cried since he died.  I really loved my dad.  I thought he was the handsomest and the smartest.  I thought that he loved me best.  He was my port in the storm of my family.

As I visited him in his hospital bed last week, I could tell that this was the Joey he always remembered. This was the one he missed.  This was the one he knew.  And today I miss that Dad that I knew.

I do think there were times he missed us.  Why he didn't keep us in his life, as my sister, Teri, said, "I honestly don't know."

Time today to close the door, to trust in the power of the Atonement of Jesus Christ, in his grace and ability to heal.

Time to thank my Father, my Heavenly Father for his firm, foundational love which never wavers; for doing what a mortal man cannot do and always being there for me.

Losing

I'm so sorry for your loss.  This is what we often say to people when they've lost someone through death or divorce.  Losing someone is a universal experience; but as I've observed, sometimes the loss is instantaneous and sometimes it comes by degrees.  Losses by degrees happen for a lot of reasons....dementia, growing apart, illness.

My father died last night.  He was 81 and had been through open heart surgery, brain surgery, double amputation, and suffered from diabetes and hypertension.  It was probably time that his body gave out.

My sister posted on Facebook that her heart will never be the same again.  My other sister posted that Heaven needed another hero. They are at at a different place than I am.  I can't find comfort in the fantasy figure they've concocted.

When I was 15 I came home from school one day to have my mother explain to me that my father had left her, was moving in with someone else and they were getting a divorce.  They had a rocky, tumultuous relationship and he had cheated on her multiple times, so it wasn't exactly unexpected; but the fact that he didn't say goodbye was a surprise.  First loss.

I didn't see him for weeks afterward.  I remember an awkward visit to the zoo, not too cool at 15 to do with a parent, and a pair of what were then called hot pants (probably purchased by his mistress) for a present for my 16th birthday a couple of months later.  Then he took me to take my driving test in June.  The day my mom took me to actually get the license was the day their divorce was final. We went to the courthouse first and the DMV next.  My father got married the next day.  We were told by my mom.  I hadn't met my new stepmom, or at least not that I knew.  Actually, he had introduced me to her after a lunch of complaining how unhappy he was with my mom.  I just didn't know to whom he was introducing me.  Another loss.

I didn't see him for months and months.  He didn't remember us after that on Christmas or birthdays, perhaps a present for the first bit.  I really can't recall.  But we didn't see him. I think he would take my youngest sister to lunch once in a while and I don't know the contact he had with my other sisters. Another loss.

Both of my older sisters had dropped out of high school before graduating.  They later got their GED's but my father always made a big deal that I would be the first of his children to graduate from high school.  In the weeks before my graduation, I sent him an announcement.  I probably made the mistake of addressing it to him and not to them; but if I did, it wasn't intentional, but naive.  I was too unsophisticated to really resent her.  I was a little blind to all that had happened behind the scenes. Graduation night came and dad did not show up.  I called him the next day and he said he had never received the announcement.  Still, he knew I was graduating and had never taken the time to find out when the ceremony would be.  Another loss.

When I got engaged, I took my fiance up to meet my father.  Sunday afternoon.  Awkward.  Painful. He asked no questions about our plans, but trustingly, I told him I would send him an invitation and the date.  I came home and cried and cried.  The wedding date came and my dad did not.  Another loss.

As a young mother, I determined again to build a relationship.  For one or two Christmases, I took my toddlers and we visited him in the weeks before Christmas.  It was always a stilted visit.  I would bring them a gift and they would have something small for the children, but that was the only time I saw them and it became a duty, an uncomfortable have to.  Another loss.

For years after that, I lived my life.  Every year my father would give me an perfunctory call on my birthday, maybe 10 minutes of exchange of up to dates.  Years of loss.

I divorced, struggled as a single mother, realized in my dating that my dad's desertion had left me with wounds that made it difficult to move on.  On one of those birthday calls, I came clean with him.  I told him how much it had hurt me to be cut out of his life.  I told him that I had felt as a child loved and understood by him.  How valuable could I be if someone who loved me, could so easily discard me?  He told me that he had loved me and thought of me every day of my life and that he would do better.

He did for a while.  He would call more often.  Once, we had a security issue at our house and he told me that if I purchased motion sensor lights, he could come and install them.  I spent hard earned money to buy some and they sat in my laundry room for years before I gave them away when I had to move.  He never did come to do what he said he would do.  Another loss.

In the years after, I would invite him to family functions, highlights really.  Children's mission farewells, college recitals, art shows, weddings.  With the exception of one time, he never came. In the years since his divorce from my mom, he has never been to one of my homes.  Another loss.

When I was engaged to get remarried, I again visited my dad to introduce him to my husband to be. He was determined to attend my wedding.  My sister, Theresa, was picking up the costs and I stressed that I would rather save her the money if he wasn't going to come.  He promised he would.  Wedding day, no show.  Another loss.

So it was a loss by degrees.  The father that made me feel love and affection has been gone for a long, long time.  What my sister said was true for me.  My heart was never the same, but it was changed at 15 years of age, not yesterday.

My father has long since ceased being a hero to me.  He has a new family that numbers over 100 that love and revere him.  He gave his energy and time and love to them.  I can admire that he made such a difference in so many lives for the last forty years.  But I'm not okay with the reality that he left one family behind to do it.  It does not mesh with my own life philosophy.

I don't know what will happen in the eternities when he has had a chance to learn and to regret and I've had a chance to fully forgive.  I can't judge him as a man, only as the father he was to me.

All I know is that I didn't lose him yesterday.  I lost him by degrees.  I've experienced both kinds of loss and I think the degrees is the harder one from which to recover.  I'm not recovered yet.

A funeral to go and then I can shut the door.  Farewell, Father.

Emotions, Emotions

So now I am 56.  Well, I have been for a while.  56 years old.  It sounds so grandmotherly, so advanced. I saw a clip from the movie "Nebraska" where the character says something to the effect that no matter how he looks at it, he's closer to the end than to the beginning.  It's a paraphrase, but the idea resonated with me.

I am closer to the end.  I'm past middle age.  I do not plan to live to 112 years old, so I'm on the downhill slope.

I'm okay with it.  I do feel more and more urgency to touch and to influence and a little less to create. I guess I realize at this point that my talent isn't to create, or at least not anything that will last.  There are no Picasso's or Rembrandts in my soul.  I have no Mozart or Thoreau to give voice that will speak after I am gone. And yet, I believe influence can last.  I believe that influence for good can last; can last for generations.

My best friend and I went to dinner tonight.  Her birthday was Saturday.  She was twinged because her oldest son didn't remember; not really hurt, just twinged.  His wife texted at 11:00 at night.  A text.  That thing that at one time can be so thoughtful and yet so impersonal. Her son didn't remember at all.  She knows he's busy.  She knows that at the family party he will bring her a nice gift.  But I understood.  Somehow in being remembered we are validated in that we have had influence; we have made a difference.

I saw a tribute to an actress the other day.  The actress is in her 70's and a whole room gave her standing ovations and tributes.  They were heartfelt and real.  The actress was so touched.  And I thought how wonderful to get to see your funeral while you are yet alive.  That's a little what a funeral is; the opportunity to show the influence of one life.

So I don't know how much influence I have over my children at this stage.  I begin to see them see me as the mother who is a little forgetful, a little to be tolerated at times.  I understand.  I'm not hurt. Ah, but I can influence my grandchildren.  They are so little.  In a few years, they will see me as old. They will always know that I love them and that will always matter; but when you are ten years old, your capacity to receive love begins to change.  In your independence, you don't drink it up as readily.  But at 3 and 4 and 5 and 6, you can never get enough.  It's so wonderful to be a child and to be the center of everyone's life and you can accept that you are just wonderful enough to fill that center.

So right now I have 8 little souls who are just so wonderful enough to be my center.  Holding them, cuddling them, chomping on their tummies, tickling their feet; they eat it up.  It's never too much.  I love being able to kiss them so freely.  They will outgrow this.  It will be soon.  I'm not done with grandchildren yet.  Other little ones will come.  But this stage will also pass and my influence will change.

I saw a movie the other day called "Period of Adjustment."  It wasn't a great movie, but I was surprised to find that it was written by Tennessee Williams.  I was struck by the good writing.  The character at the end is talking about marriage and she says that marriage is just a series of adjustments.  So is life.  At 56, I'm in yet another period of adjustment.  I'm okay with this one. Comfortable even, and that's just a little surprising.

Have A Good Cry. It Will Make You Feel Better

Okay, when I was a child, I was quite the drama queen.  Hard to believe, no?   (More than a hint of sarcasm.)

I grew up in a family of five girls and I probably had more drama than the other four put together.  And when I was sad, I cried.  When I was mad, I cried.  And it drove my mom crazy.  And I mean, over-the-top crazy. It touched off something in her and she just couldn't handle it. To be fair, I wasn't a soft, little, sniff-sniff cryer.  I was a howling, weeping, balling-my-eyes out mess.

My mom's response was often, "If you don't stop crying, I'll give you something to cry about."  That generation of parenting skills was dark ages, right?  Who would say that now?  But, trust me, I wasn't the only kid who ever heard that line.

It wasn't until I got older that I understood her side a little better.  My mom never could be calm enough to sort out the problem.  As Bill Cosby said, "Parents don't want justice.  They only want peace and quite."  So true in my mom's case.  And, as she didn't have much of either, I can see the frustration in my wailing taking up what little she had.

Then interestingly enough, I have had other key people in my life who can't seem to handle tears any better than my mom did.  Who knows?  Maybe it really is the way I cry that sets people off.

So I learned to fight back the tears.  In fact, for a while I really never cried.

But now I'm learning to cry again.  And do you know why?  It really does make you feel better.  When emotions are building, steam-kettle wise, a good cry is a wonderful, cheap way to let those emotions out.  You are left with an empty, settled, tired feeling inside and the world becomes a little clearer and easier to deal with.

Lest you think I mean this as a downer, I don't.  I guess the point in sharing is that it's a surprising lesson to me.  That little girl knew how to take care of the pressure and now the adult is having to re-learn it. Instinctively, that five-year-old little girl knew that it helped.  Now the fifty-five year old girl knows it, too.

So here's to a good cry!  Nature's natural therapy.

Visiting The Past

 Cleaning up my blog I found that I wrote this 4 years ago and never published it.  Well, here it is:

There seem to be countless Twilight Zone episodes about people visiting the past.  Or at least that's how I remember it.  I've had that experience this week, but only sort of.  You know, visiting the past.

First the setting:  I am in Upper Arlington, a suburb of Columbus, Ohio.  Or near.  If you are from Ohio, don't be angry if I got that part wrong.  It's a beautiful community with tree lined streets, families biking, small shops, houses with awnings over the windows, and a decided lack of graffiti for the 21st century.

Second the circumstances:  One of my daughters had a baby.  She already has a busy, busy two year old and I left my life as an accountant behind to help her out.  Interesting phenomenon in itself.  I had six children and only had minimal help, and that was with only my first and then my last.  The four in between were handled on my own.  Oh, and I also had post-partum depression, crying for weeks on end, brought on in large part by the exhaustion of caring for all of those children alone.  Therefore, I think this helping out is a great phenomenon.  I'm happy, grateful even, to do it.

But I was surprised at the emotions that surfaced once I jumped into this pond from the past.  For example, today I took Thomas to the park.  He is an adorable little boy, a little miniature for his age, but not too much; just enough that people are surprised with how precocious he is, greeting strangers; for example thanking the postal worker for delivering the mail.  Thomas takes delight in life and, as such, he makes people smile wherever he goes.  At the park, I found an odd mix of young mothers and grandmothers.  Most of the other grandmothers had that weary primary care giver look; an older person with less energy having a physically demanding job thrust upon them, for whatever reason.

Then there was me.  This was a vacation from my real, much drearier life.  This is temporary and you always look at things differently when they are just temporary.  It was adventure for me, freeing, and lifting.

However, I wanted to say to those young mothers, "You don't know it, but what you are doing is just temporary, too."  I thought it was forever when I was doing it, but it's not.  You know, the diaper thing, the getting water thing, the being the center of one little person's universe.

Which brings me to the mixed emotion part.  It occurred to me that I am not the center of anyone's universe.  I was once.  I literally sustained six other human beings one at a time, not just giving them life but food for months after.  It's an exhilarating and exhausting task.

Now it's long done.  They are adults and other smaller planets now orbit around them.  It's odd and I feel somewhat displaced.  I'm welcome but not really, truly necessary.  I know that because I did without someone like me when I was a mom.

The words of a character from the movie Marty came to my mind.  One sister, a widow, has been living with her son and his wife.  His wife wants the new little family to have privacy, so she has maneuvered to have her mother-in-law move in with their aunt.  The conversation is between the two older women, one who has one son left at home, Marty.  Catherine says to her sister:

"So I'm an old garbage bag put in the street, huh?... These are the worst years, I tell you. It's going to happen to you. I'm afraid to look in a mirror. I'm afraid I'm gonna see an old lady with white hair, just like the old ladies in the park with little bundles and black shawls waiting for the coffin. I'm fifty-six years old. And what am I gonna do with myself? I've got strength in my hands. I want to clean. I want to cook. I want to make dinner for my children. Am I an old dog to lay near the fire till my eyes close? These are terrible years, Theresa, terrible years... It's gonna happen to you. It's gonna happen to you! What are you gonna do if Marty gets married? Huh? What are you gonna cook? Where's all the children playing in all the rooms? Where's the noise? It's a curse to be a widow, a curse! What are you gonna do if Marty gets married? What are you gonna do?"

Well, that's certainly a lot more downer than I felt, but the vein is a little similar. And it's a couple of generations ago.  The world is constantly changing.

Still, it's odd to come face to face with a life that has been left behind, and not abruptly; rather in bits and pieces like Autumn leaves falling from a tree.  No one notices when the last leaf has dropped.  I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye to that life.  Not really.

Not that it's completely maudlin.  These are new and improved days.  There is a place for people like me.  I'm sort of like frosting.  No one really needs frosting on a cake.  Sure, it makes it a little more fun, but it's not providing any sustenance.  No.  Come on.  You know it doesn't.

But what does this mean for me?  Here I am. What will it mean for my grandchildren?

The Upside:  And, yes, there is one.  I can feel joy in a different way that I did as a mother, maybe not as full but, perhaps with a different kind of depth.  Part of that is because I now know it doesn't last.  So you feel it and keep it close to your heart and rub your face in it while it's before you.  Today while playing on the playground; and yes, I play as I never could as a mother, I can look into a child's eyes and see the beauty, the light, the universe that I was too busy to see when it was my turn carrying the full responsibility.  I can feel the joy of knowing that a child knows that I love them, no strings attached.  Yes, I can love.

After putting these thoughts out there, there is much for which to be grateful.  Thankful to be welcome.  Thankful for health, a necessary trait for a grandma that can play.  Thankful for children who are raising such great kids.  And, really, ultimately thankful for Madison, Peter, Mckinlie, Thomas, Jonathan, Katelynn, Grant, and now Caroline.  Thankful to know them, love them, and be a little sweet frosting in their lives now and then.

Clothes Make the Woman?

I was watching a show the other day.  The wonders of the internet was that I happened upon this fun little show that ran in 2008 and 2009 in Great Britain.  How amazing is that?  The most amusing couple "traveled back in time" to live in a specific era eating the dish, dressing the dress, and walking the walk through 12 different periods, including the 1970's!

It was a total blast from the past.  All of a sudden, I remembered eating things like Space Food Sticks, Tang, and Jello 1-2-3.  But the woman had on an outfit that reminded me of one I had in high school.  "I always felt so pretty in that outfit," I thought.  You know, I really have had a lot of outfits, dresses, blouses in my life that made me feel pretty.  I'm not talking about the major things like my wedding dress, prom dresses.  I'm talking about the feeling that certain clothes gave me just by putting them on.  Do you know what I mean?  You stood a little taller, felt a little saucy, knew you could take on the world because the color, cut or style was so becoming.

I used to sew most of my clothes and as I thought about that outfit, some of those dresses started to parade in my mind.  Loved picking out the fabric and seeing it come to life.  So even though some of them are now returned to dust, for my own piece of mind I would like to commit to the world, my absolute love for these dresses that made me feel pretty, oh, so pretty.

My butterfly dress that tied in the back.  What a cute skirt.
My 1940's style pink suit, so fun to wear in the 70's.
Those cream colored corduroy wide legged pants with the matching vest.
That turquoise and pink print with the full sleeves and big collar.
That pantsuit with the little strawberries on the collar and cuffs.
The dress suit my mom bought me with the little fake cherries on the collar.
My plaid floor-length dress that I wore to our 9th grade dance.
That blue dress that made me feel like a medieval princess.
That orange dress that was like Millie in 7 Brides for 7 Brothers.
My first Gunny Sax dress, before they were popular, that looked like it came from 1910.
Oh, well, all of my Gunny Sax dresses...that period of lace and frills in the late 70's was really fun.
That royal blue dress in the late 80's.
That teal dress with the embroidered bodice.  Perfect color for me.

Oh, well, I guess there are too many.  But really, I know there are people who have lived this life never having that little luxury of putting on the perfect dress.

Simple pleasures really are the best.  Glad that I live in the days of Google, that I drive because I will forever love the feeling of getting places quickly so the party can begin, and that I didn't live in Pilgrim times because while black and white may definitely be the beginning and the end, color and style have added spice to my life.

So what clothes have made you feel pretty?

Sadly, It's Not a Game

So it's here.  It's election day.  I voted early, a few days ago, in fact.  I did it because I kept hearing my parent's voices in my head saying over and over, "It's your duty as a citizen."  So, ever dutiful, I did it.

Ashamedly, I must admit that in voting the local I was as uninformed as I have ever been.  In the past, I would watch debates, read about candidates, research.

This year I couldn't stomach it.  In today's acrimonious climate, how do you really find truth?  News stations are so obviously slanted as not to be able to trust reporting.  Internet sites are skewed and endless.  Even the debates are so filled with rhetoric that fact checkers immediately come on to point out where the candidates were, at best, misinformed or, at worst, lying.

People post and follow and cheer as if it were the Lakers versus the Bulls.  Our team is good and yours is bad.  But it's not that simple.

I listened in vain for the open exchange of ideas; but all I heard were the childish put downs.  "Not him!  Me!  Me!"  I heard precious little of solutions and policies.

A popularity contest was bad enough when it was Homecoming Queen, but it's devastating when it is an election.

If it were the Superbowl, it doesn't matter really whose team wins.  By the time the rioting in the winner's city is over, all is forgotten.  But when it's an election, whether it's the school board or the president, these are people who can and will make decisions that will change my life.  It's a lot of power to give in the name of popularity.

I promise to dig in and do better next go around.  I really am ashamed that I didn't do my part.  I can only hope that in following my gut, I made some decent choices.  Somehow I feel that, in spite of it all, I've let my parents down just a little.

Quilts

In my life, I have only tied quilts.  I have never hand-sewn or even machine-sewn one.  But I have made more than a few tied quilts.

I still remember the first time that I worked on a quilt.  My friend, Jill, invited us to a "Quilting Bee."  I had never attended such a function.  She had a quilt all laid out in her living room with bowls of candy for noshing and we talked and tied and talked and tied.  It was so fun and so feminine.

Since that time I have tied quilts and given them as gifts.  I have tied quilts and used them for my own children.  It's not something I now have much time for, but I love to see how quilts, tied and sewn have woven their way into my life, often a visual reminder of the gift giver.

Right now, as I write this, I am looking at a lovely green and yellow quilt (yes, the colors somehow work) that was done by the sisters in the Relief Society, headed up by Rita Offret, when I got re-married almost 5 years ago.  There's just something about quilts and weddings that go hand in hand.

I also have quilts sewn for me by my good friend, Carol Todd, that are precious because every quilt from her is a labor of love.  And she loves lots and labors lots, not just for me.  But each one reminds me not just of the love I've received through her quilts, but her paintings, her crafts, and her common sense.

But perhaps my favorite quilts are those that were given to me when my children were born.  When each child was born, a friend, visiting teacher, or sister I visit taught, gifted that child with a quilt.  A few of my kids were "blanket" kids and always liked to be curled up with a quilt which watching TV, eating their cereal, or watching fireworks.  Often the chosen quilt was one of those gifted to them when they were small.

Sarah's was given by my good friend, Debbie.  I've known her since we were six years old.  It was a sweet quilt with little bunnies and the yarn was tied in every bushy tail.

Clayton's was a yellow quilt given to me by the Relief Society president of the ward that I lived in at the time.  Sadly, I don't even remember her name and didn't have much association with her.  At the time, my calling was to serve in the nursery (back in the day when RS met during the week).  I was pregnant at the time and took tiny Sarah weekly where we tried to tame children age 3 months to 5 years for 3 hours while their mothers learned and visited.  Still one of the craziest callings I ever had.

When Laurie was born, my mother-in-law was diagnosed with terminal cancer during the same week.  It was a hard time because I loved Vivian dearly, but Laurie was the one bright spot.  Sadly, I remember receiving a quilt; but don't remember who gave it to me.  I think it was my visiting teacher at the time.  I'll have to check with her.  She probably remembers her quilt.  Funny that at 3 in the morning, it won't come to me.  Ah, the drawbacks of age.

Nephi's quilt was given to me by Naomi Telford, who I visit taught at the time.  Nephi never being a blanket boy never was one to carry it around, but it got good use while he was small.

Sean's quilt was probably one of my favorites.  I visit taught this sister who was probably in her 50's when I was in my 20's.  My companion was around her same age, so I was the youngster of the bunch.  When we visited with her, the woman's husband would always come in and listen in, adding much to the conversation.  We never stayed less than an hour.  Our family was moving within a month after Sean was born.  When I went to visit her the last time, she told me that she had heard I had a boy and she had made me something.  She pulled out a quilt that she had "made."  It was one of those machine quilted, pre-printed quilts that were bought by the panel.  Then you sewed a machine formed binding that matched the quilt.  She shyly said that it was the first quilt that she had ever made and she hadn't done the best job of it, but I was so touched by this gift of love.  She and her husband hugged us as we left and told us how much they would miss our visits because we had become such good friends to them.  Ah, how sweet.

Emily's quilt was gifted by one of my heroes.  I had moved to a new ward after Sean's birth and had visit taught Mavis Steadman.  Mavis is a most amazing lady and was the best example of sharing her talents of almost anyone I have ever known.  She taught high school drama and was retiring right at the time I visit taught her.  After Emily was born, she surprised me with a pot of stew (one of my favorite comfort foods) and a love red quilt with rosebuds on it, perfect for a Christmas season baby.  I was so surprised at how she would have the time to do it.  She brushed it off saying, "I was making one for each of my grandchildren and it was not hard to just throw one more quilt on."  Right.  Knowing how busy she was, it had real meaning to me.

Thinking back over these quilts, it reminds me of how much I love women and the feminine world. The desire to create beauty and to share it is embodied so well in quilts, quilts which have warmed and comforted my children.  Indeed, what a lovely thing is a quilt.

Pursuit

I know a young woman.  She's married and she's lonely.  She's not the first lonely wife I have seen.  Why is it that some men (and women) work so hard to win the heart of a spouse only to hold it with little regard after the winning?

With tears in her eyes, she begs the question, "Why doesn't my husband want to spend time with me?"  Why does the girl that was so pursued become the wife that is so neglected?  The causes of neglect are many:  Sports, video games, hunting, cars.  The list of hobbies can seem endless.

I ask this because, as I said, she's not the only woman who has ever said this to me.  Why does the focus shift after the honeymoon?  

And what can a woman do when she can't get her husband's attention?  Nagging makes it worse.  Begging for attention never seems to help.

If you are a man out there, who still has the desire to pursue and cherish your wife's heart after one year, ten years, 30 years, tell me why the desire is still there and how your wife has stoked that fire.

New Year's Resolutions

You know, every year I set a few New Year's Resolutions.  Sometimes I complete them and sometimes I don't.

But I was thinking this year how much I love the New Year.  I don't like it work-wise.  This is my least favorite time at work.  But I love the idea of a new year, a new start.  There's something very hopeful about it, something very clean and shiny.

I remember a comment Kathleen Richardson made once in a Relief Society lesson.  The lesson was on making daily scripture study a habit.  Someone said that such lessons always made her feel guilty and hopeless because she would make a resolve only to break it after a short time.  Kathleen said that she looked at it in a different way.  Yes, she would hear the lesson.  Yes, she would make the resolve.  And, yes, often the resolve would be less strong after a few weeks.  But Kathleen said that each time, she felt she learned a little more from the effort.  Each time she got a little further in the goal.  And she hoped, each time, that this would be the time that the goal would become an iron habit.  And if it didn't, then perhaps the next time would.  But each lesson gave her the encouragement to keep on trying.

I liked the hope in that.  I think of New Year's resolutions the same way.  If they are not met, push on.  The growth comes in the trying not just the completion.  I always tell myself that you haven't failed if you haven't quit.

Someone once said that God's grace may be most powerful when it is giving you the strength to try just one more time.  I won't tell you my resolves this year, my focus.  But I trust that God will give me the grace to try just one more time....until, as Kathleen believes, I will meet my goals or my Maker; whichever comes first.

Always a Starter, Rarely a Finisher?

Okay, it's been forever since I've blogged.  I was going to keep a time journal to see how it went.  I started and then got too sick to really care.  And then for the last six weeks, we've all taken turns passing around stomach bugs and now this is the second cold I've had since September.

So, now I know what I've been spending my time...these last six weeks anyway.  Cough, cough...

Time: My Enemy Or Friend?

I never seem to have time anymore.  I've actually decided to spend a week logging my time.  I want to see where it goes much as I keep up my check book so that I know where my money slips away to.

Isn't this supposed to be when life starts to slow down?  Why do I have less time for reading or cleaning or planning?

So today, here it is, Sunday 9:00 p.m.  I have 15 more minutes because I am trying to limit my computer time.  I fear that's where a lot of it is going down the drain.  So did I spend the majority of time in church?  No, you might be surprised to find that I did not.

I spend 3 hours and 26 minutes making dinner.  The family started arriving at 5:20 and I finished dinner clean up at 8:15.

Loved the time with the kids.  Clayton and Kim are always so cute together.  Clayton makes me laugh.  Sarah is sweet.  Perhaps that's where Jonathan gets it.  A few stolen moments with Emily.  I miss our Sunday nights together.  Serving Sean dinner after everyone had left is always special time for me.

And playing with Pete.  Looking at the world through a 2 year old's eyes is the best.

I'll keep you posted on what I learn this week.

Always, Always Puts a Smile on My Face

We tried (twice) to do a family camp out this year and succeeded the second time.  Best parts were talking with the kids around the camp fire late into the evening.  Then a fun breakfast in the morning.  Oh, and anything with Pete.

Pete acted as if it were Christmas, Easter and July 4th all rolled into one.  It started when I went to his house to get some firewood.  When I walked in the door, he said, "Da Da?"  I said, "No, Pete."  He yelled out, "Nammy, Nammy!" and jumped into my arms.  He immediately wanted to fun to his room to play.  I asked where the baby was and he said, "Nap," and made snoring sounds while pretending to be asleep; all while running and not breaking his stride.  So cute.  Finally, it was so sweet to watch him help me carry stack the wood in the van.

So camping...here's the Pete bullet points:

*Pete yelling from his car seat as soon as he saw me, "Nammy!  Nammy! Open the door!!!" All while he was trying desperately to pull the handle from the inside.  He wanted out of that car.

*Pete running across the meadow once he had gotten out of the car, "Nammy, Nammy!"

*Pete trying to climb up the tent poles.

*Pete trying to be a real man and help Papa put up the tent.

*Pete doing a running jump into the air mattress.  Again.  And Again.

*Pete laughing loudly as he fell between the air mattress and the tent.  "Help me!  Help me! Nammy!  Ha ha ha ha ha!"

*Pete excited about going to the store for extra bratwurst.  "Nammy, Nammy!"  He just had to have that assortment of Tootsie Pops.  Who could say no to that?

*Pete when he's ready to go.  "Bye bye."  Happily driving off.

Yep, couldn't stop smiling that night.  And the cherry on top was being able to feed Jonathan his bottle and looking into those brilliant blue eyes.  What a sweetheart.

So I plan to go to bed with a smile on my face tonight.  Why?  Maddie, sweet Maddie in her watermelon dress.  Kinlie finally starting to warm up to me.  She has a VERY sweet smile.  These two little girlies hold my heart in their little hands.  I love to talk to Maddie, tickle her, read to her.  I love how she will spontaneously kiss me on the cheek; but refuse to do it when you request it.  I loved gathering a little bag of snacks for her and Kinlie to take home tonight.  I love when Kinlie will surprise me with a word or phrase when you least expect it; my shy little Kinlie.  I love when she will ask for more.  It will be so hard when they are gone to New Zealand.  But for right now, I'm smilin' myself to sleep.

Movies On My Own

I've been alone this week in my own house.  Seriously, who would have thought it?  And I've done lots of fun things and not a lot of what needed to be done.

I have:

Posted grandchildren pictures on the Family Facebook page
Posted recipes on the Family food blog
And watched lots and lots of movies

Did you know that movies are a favorite of mine and when I am in the house alone I watch whatever I want.

I'm glad this isn't my life all the time.  But once in a while, it's kind of nice.

Ed Sullivan vs. American Idol

I remember the night The Beatles sang for the first time on Ed Sullivan. I was just under 6 years old. Here I was in kindergarten and everybody was talking about it at school the next day. I mean, it seemed everybody had watched it. Back in the old days you had to catch things has they happened as there was no YouTube to play catch up.

I remember my parents voicing disgust over their long hair and asserting the lack of talent, or so stood Alex's and Wilma's opinions. What kind of lyrics are "Yeah, Yeah, Yeah" anyway? But we thought they were the best! So cool! So hip! And they would have been groovy, but that phrase hadn't been coined just yet. Shirley Hermansen snuck out her parent's old style wooden tennis rackets and we played them as guitars with our hair pulled into our faces. The game certainly beat out dolls and tea parties. Watching Ed Sullivan in February of 1964 was a life changing event even for a 5 year old.

I loved the music of the early sixties. The Beach Boys. The Mama's & the Papa's. The Supremes. Tommy James & the Shondelles. Petula Clark. The Animals. And, especially, The Beatles.

What brings this up is that I can't sleep and I'm watching a PBS special on Ed Sullivan and the music of the 60's. (Wow, is DVR great or what? And I don't even have to feel the guilt to call in a pledge because no one is there to take it!)

As I'm seeing all of these performers, I'm struck by a few thoughts.

1. Many of them had REALLY long careers.

2. The staging was sometimes pretty cheesy.

3. Some of the fashions may have been neat then but they don't hold up. Could the tall fur hat that the guitarist wore in the Mama's and Papa's performance of "Monday, Monday" really have ever been cool???

4. The music still really makes me happy.

5. It's amazing how different voices sound without all of the electronic enhancements.

6. Ed Sullivan's main talent was showcasing talent; maybe his only talent.

Watching Petula Clark sing "Downtown" reminded me of Saturday morning cleanings with KCPX blasting in the background and all of us stopping to bee bop in between chores. It's still a song that can lift my spirits. And I still like going "Downtown" except that in Salt Lake it really should be called uptown (at least from where I am at) and it's really only downtown if you are standing on Ensign Peak, right?

So as I am watching, I'm thinking about the hours and effort that talent scouts went to to find these really big talents. I thought of the work spent to get the performers ready for their minute in the spotlight. It was entertainment at its best.

So how does American Idol compare? Well, I have just a few questions.

1. When did it switch that the audience had to do the scouting for talent?

2. Why are the masses satisfied with substandard, half-baked performances?

3. When did mediocrity start passing for entertainment? Not many of these singers go on to really make a name for themselves.

4. Do we just have no value for memorable performances anymore?

5. Is instant more important than well-planned?

6. Is it just because Americans like competition more than art?

To be fair, I've never watched an episode of American Idol. So I might be the only American who shouldn't judge. Frankly, it never appealed to me. I thought I didn't like to sit for hours and watch people sing. But here I am at 4:00 a.m. watching people sing, so I guess I just don't like watching wannabees sing.

I know there are millions of Idol followers out there that would gladly shout me down. Obviously...the show keeps going on and on and on. But, you know. I think I'm in the Ed Sullivan Camp. Maybe I'm too lazy to weed out the so-so talent myself. Maybe I am just stuck in a time warp.

Check out some of the YouTube videos and decide for yourself....and text your votes if you can find a place to text them to!

Boys Will Be Boys

Pete is all boy. That is indisputable.

As I baby sat him and Jonathan yesterday, we played while Jonathan slept. Pete has a little plastic breastplate, sword, and shield. He also has a little cardboard knife. I put on the breastplate, he hefted the sword and shield, handed me the cardboard knife and we proceeded to start fencing. He has a perfect stance and knows just how to wield that sword while holding the shield steady. Kind of amazing for a 2 1/2 year old little boy. In the heat of the duel, I dropped my knife. I prepared to meet my demise. Pete, keeping the perfect stance and not dropping his shield even a little, leaned down and used his sword to lift up the knife to hand it back to me so we could continue the duel.

I just don't know where he gets it!

Later as I was leaving, he yelled out, "Nammy! Nammy! The moon! The moon!" You know, I think we were all better off when simple things like seeing the moon for the first time each evening was exciting enough to shout about it.

And once again, I was rejuvenated after a very long work day.

The Goodness of People

I attended a funeral yesterday for an articulate and powerful woman. She had been faithful all of her 78 years. It was a lovely funeral.

During the funeral, another sweet, elderly sister slid out of her chair and to the floor. It was so quiet that only a few around her were aware of her distress. I was a few rows away, but the people around were were immediately at her side. A doctor arose from a few rows back and a nurse moved over from three seats away. Other people were quick to get her towels, loan her a sweater for a makeshift pillow, and stroke her arm soothingly until the medics could come.

I was struck with the goodness of people. I hear about inner cities where people fear getting involved. It makes me sad for it is the opposite of what I witness almost every day.

There are a lot of people who really do realize that we are all brothers and sisters and that this is a rough road to travel alone. Helping each other along the way only seems right.

Career...or a Job

You know, some times I really wish I didn't have to work for a living. So here's to the fantasy...if I didn't have to work, tomorrow I would...

1. Walk with Karrie

2. Read that book that I have to take back to the library half finished because I never seemed to have the time to read it.

3. Sew an outfit for Maddie or Kinlie just because I can.

4. Make a dinner that takes 3 hours.

5. Clean up the back yard.

6. Sleep until 7:00 a.m.

7. Not have to get my butt chewed off.

Oh, well.

Fellowship

One of the great blessings of belonging to a ward or any church congregation is the fellowship of others who share your faith.

This morning we had a breakfast to commemorate Independence Day. Church members began cooking at 6:00 to be able to serve at 8:30. We sang patriotic songs, heard a veteran speak, and people wore red, white, or blue. The tables had little firework type centerpieces. We had good pancakes, orange juice, sausage, hash browns and eggs. And, of course, someone forgot the ketchup. (Which I don't like on eggs anyway!)

But I love the feeling of gathering. I sat by Elsie. I've seen her and she knows me as her Sunday School teacher. But as we visited, I found out that she had been a little girl in Germany during WWII. Her father was mistakenly killed after the war was over by someone who hadn't gotten word of the ceasefire. Her mother was left to raise four children alone. Elsie told me of having moved from Hamburg to East Germany before they finally made their way to the States. Elsie said that boat trip was the only cruise she has ever been on.

It turns out that her husband of over 50 years owned Snappy's restaurant in downtown Salt Lake and served President Monson for years when he came in for his lunch. Elsie makes President Monson an apple cake every year for Christmas and every year she receives a personal thank you note. She's saved every one of them.

It was so wonderful to get to know them better.

After the breakfast, everyone chips in and helps clean up. What could take hours is done in short shift with so many hands making light of the work. Women clear tables and men fold them and put them away. It's the most amazing thing to see.

These are experiences I never had in my youth since we never belonged to a congregation. But when I experience them now, I always think one word: Fellowship. Love it.