Have I Mentioned Yet

how much Lego we own?

Roger wanted to be sure our future children had plenty, so we started investing in it when we got married. Christmas presents. Birthday presents. We collected it for nine years before Jack was born. Then after he was born we kept collecting it. Christmas presents. Birthday presents. (And, okay, bribes for good behavior.)

I don't think we've stopped yet. Jack gets a monthly catalog from Lego. Roger gets regular email updates from lego.com. Not ten minutes ago he showed me the one offering free shipping on the awesome new camper van set.

One time I made the mistake of asking whether we had enough Lego. Apparently it is impossible to have enough Lego.

I Hope It's Okay I Made Him Tell Us His Life Story

We made a nice new memory tonight spending the evening in Salt Lake City with my sister Maryann's boyfriend Lars who is visiting from Pittsburgh.

Laugh With Those Who Laugh

Roger came up with a funny idea for my family for Christmas (shh, no hints). Jack laughed when he heard about it, so we're going to make it happen. In fact, we've already got the main component.

As we talked about it, I could imagine my brother Robbie laughing out loud when all the individual pieces were opened and it suddenly dawned on him what it all meant. He always loved a good joke.

I felt it deep in my heart. The missing it.

Scared, the Sequel

A friend of mine posted a story today about a movie theater in England that accidentally showed the beginning of a horror movie to an audience full of kids who were there to see an animated film. I would have been one of the kids having nightmares after that! Not okay.

When I was in elementary school, my best friend's older brother David used to come babysit us. He was a great babysitter, but I'll never forget the time he turned on the TV to watch Hawaii 5-0. It was the very first time I ever saw someone get killed. Of course, I knew it wasn't real, but I was used to watching shows like Gilligan's Island and My Three Sons! 

I still remember how shocked and sick it made me feel, and it was a long, long time before I started watching detective shows after that. And then, how easy it was to become desensitized.

P.S. I just realized that this is not the first time I have written this year about being traumatized by scary shows when I was growing up. See here. Huh. 

One Secret to a Happy Marriage

This post is courtesy of being curled up in bed after a long hard day of getting Jack to school on time, grading papers for two hours, teaching three classes (each over an hour long and two involving excruciating details about comma usage), attending two hour-long meetings, driving at least two hours in the car getting from place to place, trying to concentrate on a book while Jack had his saxophone lesson, shopping for groceries and making sure we got fed.

Here it is:

Roger and I each brought a twin-sized duvet into our marriage. We decided to go on using them because they made it easy to share a bed without fighting over the covers (which I may or may not have a habit of doing).

Using twin-sized duvets has also turned out to be especially nice when the weather turns cold. I can swap out my summer cotton cover for a thick flannel cover and it doesn't affect Roger, who keeps his light-weight year round, at all.

Oh, I am so cozy. Must sleep soon.

Groovy

Here are the first three record albums that were my very own and no one else's. Up until then, I only owned singles. I think I was in sixth or seventh grade when I got these for Christmas, along with my very own turntable and speakers. I still have the Jim Croce album on the shelf in our family room. Don't know what happened to the other two. Maybe they're in my parents' family room?

I Know a Guy

During the spring of 2008, I was asked to transform the shop at our Springville art museum in anticipation of a Wayne Thiebaud exhibition. To see before and after pictures, click here. It was a crazy whirlwind, imagining and executing the project--which included painting the walls--in less than three weeks.

One of my goals was to brighten the shop up and add color wherever possible so it would be reminiscent of Thiebaud's work. With that in mind, I decided to use fabric panels in a variety of patterns and colors in back of the shelves.

I got all of the panels put together at home, and then Jack and I brought them to the museum to install. What happened next was one of my favorite memories of this project (the other was meeting Mr. Thiebaud).

Jack, who was only eight at the time, immediately took charge. He hopped up on the counter and figured out the most efficient way to take down each set of shelves, put the fabric panel in, move brackets to adjust the shelves to the right levels (which sometimes required a pair of pliers), and then put the shelves back in. I just took orders as his assistant, holding things and handing things to him.

It's good to know a guy who can get a job done!

A Friendly Face

In Utah, adoptions can be finalized after six months. Here we are with our judge, who also happened to be one of my LDS bishops while I was a college student. It was a happy day made that much happier by a familiar and friendly face!

(And oh, man, I miss that six-month-old Jack. I do love 13-year-old Jack, but he sure was an adorable baby to hang out with!)

If We Stand Together

Jack had a choir concert at the high school tonight. All of the choirs from both the junior and senior high schools performed, then came together to sing one final song. It was darn impressive. The quality of the music programs in our schools is just one of the reasons I love living in our community.

As we sat in the auditorium, I remembered another reason. For several years I was on the committee for our city-wide book club, Springville Reads. We'd select a thought-provoking book (sometimes two or three along a similar theme for different ages) and encourage everyone in town to read it and have conversations about it.

Shortly after 9/11--a critical time for us to consider carefully who our enemies are--we selected the book When the Emperor Was Divine, a beautifully written novel by Julie Otsuka about a Japanese-American family interned at Topaz during World War II. Elegant and so powerful in its spareness.

We invited two speakers for our kick-off event, which involved a crowd that filled the high school auditorium (!): Michael Tunnell, local author of a non-fiction book called The Children of Topaz, and a gentleman from the Japanese American Citizens League with personal connections to Topaz.

Now a dozen or so years later, it feels as though we've lost ground in the lessons we tried so hard to learn then. But the final number at the concert tonight--all the choirs together more than 250 voices strong--gives me renewed hope.

Thawing Out

Roger sometimes laughs at me because I get cold easily. He doesn't.

One time we were driving in his old blue topless Land Cruiser, and he sped through a mountain stream that was crossing a dirt road in a narrow sunless canyon. A wall of icy water went up over the windshield and landed on our heads.

While I can be a good sport about things, I wasn't a good sport about that. I was cold. Freezing cold. Roger laughed. I didn't.

At least not until I warmed up again.

The Switch

Something about a situation one of my university students is dealing with reminds me of a college friend.

Colleen had gone blind as a teenager due to diabetes. She recruited me to help her study for her French class by reading the textbook to her. I readily obliged because I was taking a similar class and thought it might help me be more disciplined about studying.

As the semester progressed, Colleen's health degenerated, again due to diabetes. I continued to study with her even after she went into the hospital. Eventually it became clear that she was too sick to finish the course. But we still studied together.

Then one day, she just let go of studying French. We stopped working and simply hung out together. It's like a switch flipped in her mind and she knew she wasn't going to recover so there was no point. Not long after that, she passed away.

My student is not dealing with a life or death issue, but I worry that in his mind he might believe he's lost all chance of completing his degree. I'm hoping the switch doesn't flip.

Getting a Lift

I loved the fluttery feeling in my stomach when I rode in the back of our family station wagon over the Wisconsin hills in the summer.

I loved the days my friends and I were in the backseat of the school bus and the driver would drive up the unpaved bumpy hill at the end of Wampus Ave. to avoid turning left at a busy intersection.

I loved discovering that the best car to ride in on a roller coaster is the one in the very back.

The Check Was in the Mail

When I was in high school, I went on a camping trip with some of the girls from church and our leaders. We loaded into my parents' station wagon and headed north to somewhere in New Hampshire.

On the way home, I realized that we were going to run out of gas. We stopped at a gas station to fill up and then realized that no one had thought to bring cash, not even the adults. Credit cards weren't an option either.

Somehow I managed to convince the gas station attendant to let us put enough gas in the car to get home, and I promised to put a check in the mail that very day.

We either looked very trustworthy or so pitiful after a night of camping that he was willing to write off the cost of gas to help us out.

I mailed a check that very day.

Shorthand

Families tend to develop shorthand references to certain phenomena, and we are no exception. Here are three of ours.

Struts: A friend of ours once worked as an illustrator for computer-based flight training programs and she regularly met with engineers known as subject matter experts. At one of the meetings, a SME told a story that he ended by holding up his two pointer fingers about six inches apart and exclaiming "the struts were like this!" Everyone else in the room busted up laughing, and our friend realized that she had no idea why it was funny. Were the struts too big? Too small? At a weird angle? What? Whenever someone says something that flies right over our heads for whatever reason, all we have to do is hold up our pointer fingers six inches apart and we bust up laughing.

Cow Painting: Years ago, Roger and I went to the Park City Art Festival. At one of the first booths, we fell in love with a watercolor of a cow in a field, but decided that since we had just gotten there we we'd come back to buy it later if we still wanted it. After visiting all of the other artist booths, we still wanted it. Of course, it was gone when we went back. Whenever we have to make a decision and we realize we'll miss our chance if we don't act straightaway, it's a cow painting.

Bryce Points: A friend of mine came into work one day really cheesed that he'd gotten in hot water with his spouse for buying a new TV without consulting her first. "I should get credit for all of the times I didn't buy something I wanted!" he raged. Roger and I now regularly report our own Bryce Points to one another when we see something we want but resist. We've got a load of credit built up.

Ooooooooh!

When leaves turn, the days get noticeably shorter, and the fall rain comes, it reminds me of the October my junior high school English teacher assigned us to read Daphe du Maurier's Rebecca. Creepy novel. Perfect time of year to read it.

And I learned that even though the story was scary, I didn't have to be afraid of thick novels with small print written for grownups long before I was born.

Legacy

My father-in-law's funeral today was just what it should have been. All seven of his children spoke. Many of his grandchildren participated. I marveled at the family Bob created with my mother-in-law Betty, and more than once, I thought about how much it has grown and changed since I first met them 27 years ago.

During the service, our nephews Brian and Glen contributed a beautiful rendition of Abide with Me on piano and cello. They were born about the time Roger and I got married and are university students now.

Early in our marriage, Roger and I took care of his sister Christine's three children for a day. Brian is on the left, his brother Eric (who is in Indiana with his wife and son and attending medical school) is in the middle, and Megan (who is expecting her first baby in January) is on the right.

After our adventures that day, Brian needed a nap. But he was so wound up and exhausted he couldn't sleep. I took him into a quiet room and held him close while he cried and cried, releasing tension for more than half an hour. At last he relaxed and nodded off with his head on my shoulder, his sweet blonde curls matted with sweat. I held him while he slept. My reward.

I watched Brian at the piano today. He's an accomplished musician, confident and sure. A grown man. And, like his grandfather, a good man.

Burned into My Brain

We had a very near tragic moment tonight when Doublestuff (one of our cats) nearly got squished by the garage door. It's an image that I'm afraid is burned into my brain. Thankfully, he's okay.

Thinking back, I can remember two near tragic moments when my own life was in peril.

One was when I was in my twenties, driving home from the airport in an icy storm. All of a sudden realized that I had absolutely no control over the car. I calmly asked all of my friends in the car to make sure they had their seat belts on, then held my breath until I could feel the wheels grip the pavement again some long moments later. Thankfully, the car in front of us maintained a constant speed. If it hadn't, we would have crashed right into it.

The other time was during my first experience kayaking in the Snake River. No one told me that I needed to keep paddling when I hit the rapids, even though they were fairly mild. I lifted my paddle, thinking I'd ride them out, and immediately tipped over. The water rushed past me so fast, I couldn't understand why I wasn't being ripped out of the boat. I tried to get upright. It proved impossible, but I did manage to get my face out of the water for a breath of air. Thankfully, I finally remembered to pull off the skirt, and as soon as I did that I immediately slipped right out.

My family, including my poor mom who still shudders at the memory, were all in a raft ahead of me, watching and worried. It's an enduring family story that I apparently will never, ever live down. But I'll be okay.

Just before the fateful moment. Oh, and it was really cold that Labor Day weekend.

Shoot

We're heading toward that time of year. Cold and colder.

The coldest night I ever remember was a night one January when Roger, Jack and I were driving near Cove Fort, Utah, and the thermometer in our car dropped to around 22 below. We were very glad that we didn't break down along the highway.

The Blues

Jack's saxophone teacher introduced him to the blues tonight during his lesson, and they did a little improv together. This is going to be a fun new adventure for him!

When I was a college intern in Washington, DC, some of my friends and I agreed that we needed to experience some live jazz. We looked up the weekend events in the newspaper and decided that the Ice House Cafe in Herndon sounded good.

We had no idea how long it would take us to drive from our apartment in Alexandria to Herndon.

We drove and drove and drove. We started to get punchy. That led to many bad jokes. "I went to the doctor because I thought I had a herndon." Eventually we made it, and it was definitely worth the drive.

Now I'm looking forward to Jack bringing some of it home. Here he is on the right, his teacher Ben on the left, the two of them taking turns. Jack did well for his first time ever! Oh, yeah.

The Gospel Truth

Many years ago while visiting my grandparents, we attended church in New Canaan, Connecticut. Someone had invited a member of the church from another congregation to sing during the service. She was an exuberant African American woman who played the piano from one end of the keyboard to the other as she joyously praised God in song.

It was one of the loveliest experiences I have ever had in church, and I was thrilled that we'd broken out of our usual staid reverence in favor of some heartfelt revering.

While she was singing, I glanced at the church leaders sitting on the stand. One was beaming; the other was mortified. A perfect illustration of ambivalence in our culture.

As for me? I seek truth wherever it is found.

About Bob

Roger's dad passed away late this afternoon. It wasn't unexpected, but it still feels like it happened too soon. Bob was a great father to Roger, a great father-in-law to me, and especially a great grandpa for Jack. A good, good man.

One of my favorite things about Bob was his curiosity about the world, which led to his chosen profession: he was a geography professor. I loved hearing family stories about living in far-flung places like Guatemala and Spain, exploring industrial sites, and being quizzed on what was growing in nearby fields as they sped past them in the car. Talk about an awesome family to marry into!

I also loved Bob's sense of humor, his broad grin and his gleeful laugh. He enjoyed wordplay, and in his last years, he recorded many of the little ditties he wrote, like this one:

I had my physical exam
So they could tell me how I am.
I have no get, no up, no go.
I once was fast but now I'm slow.
The doctor turned and said to me,
"There is no problem that I see.
Your trouble is you're eighty-three."
If that's the problem, I've the cure.
Next month I'll be eighty-four.

Rest in peace, Bob. We sure love you!

Namesake

When Jack was born, I told the neighbor kids we named him after them. They were named Zack and Jessica. Great kids! I wonder if they believed me.

Oh!

I am writing this in memory of a Facebook thread that began yesterday as a serious conversation about political civility and devolved today into, well, a conversation that inspired this.

My Aunt Mary and Uncle Uli were on sabbatical in Munich, Germany, in the early 1980s when windsurfing was becoming all the rage. During one of my visits, they decided to teach me how.

We drove out to a little lake on the outskirts of the city, rigged the windsurfers, discreetly changed into our swimming suits, then put on wetsuits because it was chilly.

Because the wind was perfect for learning, it didn't take long to become functional enough to enjoy it. The hardest part was coming about, which required some fancy maneuvering of the sail and some fancy footwork--both of which took a beginner like me a bit of concentration.

After coming about successfully for the first time, I looked up in triumph to see if my aunt and uncle had noticed, but something was blocking my view. Not ten feet away, another surfer was cruising by, grinning and buck naked.

I lost my balance and fell off my board. He turned and laughed, then sailed away.

Luring Them In

This is a picture of our friend Amy, taken by her husband Justin. He currently has a photography exhibit in the library at BYU (30 Strangers). We went to the artist's reception tonight, and enjoyed listening to Amy read an essay that she wrote. (I will be begging her to send me a copy of it because it was really very good.)

We met Amy when she became a customer at our bookstore. We decided that we liked her an awful lot, so when we had a job opening, we asked her if she'd like to work with us. She said yes. Lucky, lucky us.

That's usually how we found people to hire. We'd like them, target them, then lure them in. We had many truly awesome employees friends over the years.

The person we had to wait for the longest before luring in was Shelley, pictured here with her family's dog Walter. Her mom was one of our very first customers, and when we opened I think Shelley was just a freshman in high school. As soon as she graduated, we snagged her. Totally worth the wait.

Not Fair

In 9th and 10th grade, I took individualized science courses. Biology in 9th, chemistry in 10th. It was nice to move through the material at my own pace.

I don't remember all of the grading criteria for each unit, but I know that one of the things we were graded on was how well we worked on our own.

When I came to the unit on blood types, I couldn't bring myself to prick my fingertip to collect a sample. I ended up asking my teacher to prick it for me.

She totally dinged me on points because of that. It's like she drew my blood twice.

Magnified

Studying the Oxford English Dictionary, March 2005

Interpretations, Anyone?

I used to have recurring dreams quite often when I was younger. Not so much anymore, though I still dream a lot. Here are some of the recurring ones I remember.

The odd:

• Going into some kind of building with a vestibule full of ironing ghosts. Yes, ironing. With boards and irons. Ghosts.
• Losing teeth and watching them turn into lima beans.

The classic: 

• Being able to run in huge leaps and bounds from one end of town to the other in mere minutes.
• Being able to breathe while swimming underwater. I think this was my version of flying.
• Discovering while waiting for the school bus that I have forgotten to get dressed.

The last one morphed into discovering that I was registered for a class in college the day before final exams. Then when I finished college it morphed into trying but failing to find some mysterious box in the basement full of financial paperwork that I needed for any of a variety of reasons. Thankfully, I haven't had any dreams like that for years, though I'm not sure why because I have a million things I should be doing but don't.

At Their Mercy

Besides the time I was born, I've only ever stayed in a hospital once. It was shortly after Roger and I got married and I developed a bladder infection--yes, go ahead and snicker at my cliche life--that wouldn't respond to standard antibiotic treatments. I was there for three nights.

Being in the hospital reminded me that even if we have a good imagination and even if we listen carefully to other people tell about their experiences, we still can't quite know what some things feel like until we experience them for ourselves.

The way your life is suddenly not at all on your terms. The interruptions. The vulnerability. The orders. The gowns. The procedures. The way you must humble yourself over and over so they can get--let's just say--a proper sense of how your body is functioning.

But also the toasty warm blanket that a kind nurse brings and puts right up against your skin when you're so cold in the middle of the night and wait longer than you need to push the call button because you don't want to be a bother. And the realization that you aren't.

Hole in the Wall

One time I was so mad at my brother that I kicked a hole in my bedroom wall. My dad made me fix it. At least I learned how to repair drywall.

On the Road

I loved school field trips when I was growing up.

Some of the clearest memories I have include going to China Town in Boston to conduct social studies research and inadvertently walking past the Combat Zone, going to a science museum in Worcester, taking a tour of the kitchen at our local McDonalds, visiting the Peabody Museum and being genuinely confused about how archeologists could draw such specific and various conclusions about implements that looked an awful lot alike, and visiting the Wonder Bread factory where we got free twinkies.

I loved riding the school bus with friends who weren't on my regular bus route.

And I loved getting a can of soda (a rare treat) to drink with my sack lunch. I usually picked orange or grape.

The Book of Changes

While Roger and I were organizing all of the pieces we needed to put in place before opening our bookstore, we hooked up a trailer to our Jeep and drove across country, looking for ideas and fun things to sell.

On the way home, we stopped to visit my Grandma Jan outside Chicago. She was excited about our plans and announced that she wanted to give us some of her books to sell at our store. She'd been working on paring down her collection, but wanted to pare it down more before moving to a retirement home.

She had us pull all the books off the shelves and put them in stacks on the floor. Then she went through them one by one.

Every single one was a treasure. A book she loved, a book given to her by someone she loved, or a book she read at a time in her life or in a place she loved. One by one they all went back on her shelf. She couldn't part with any of them.

Except for one.

When she picked up a copy of the I Ching, she said without a trace of sentiment, "You can have this one. I never really understood it." And she handed it to us so we could take it away.

Wool in the Dye

A high school friend of mine recently took up weaving on a big loom. She posted a picture of her first completed project: a set of placemats made with bamboo warp and scraps of fabric she'd saved up over the years. It reminded me of a time I went to visit my Uncle Tom and Aunt Sandra in Illinois.

The summer I turned 12, I was invited to stay with them for two weeks to help take care of my two little cousins. I'm not sure I was particularly responsible, but I tried my best. It's entirely possible that we watched too much television because I wasn't a very imaginative babysitter.

My aunt Sandra had several looms and loved weaving wool that she carded, dyed, and spun herself. One day she sent us out to gather wild flowers from the fields around their house and flowers that grew in her garden. She boiled them up in big pots on the stove to dye the wool.

I will never forget the way it smelled.

Fluffernutter

When I was a kid, one of my favorite sandwiches was a peanut butter and marshmallow fluff sandwich. If I had access to marshmallow fluff out here in the west, I would make me a fluffernutter sandwich right this minute. All we have here, though, is a marshmallow cream and it's just not the same.

I was envious when I discovered that by the time my sisters were in elementary school, a fluffernutter sandwich was always the third choice on the lunch menu.

Once in a while someone brings us a jar or two of fluff from back east. A few years ago, my uncle sent us some through the mail (one of the plastic containers exploded just a little, but since he had the foresight to pack each one in a ziplock bag, we were able to salvage it all).

Oh, fluff, you are too far away from me tonight!

Infinite Loop

Spent the evening grading papers. Brought back too many memories of grading papers.

Horsing Around

One year for Christmas, my parents covered the extra fee required for a riding class at college. I had very little experience with horses, and in fact needed to overcome a bit of a traumatic moment from my childhood. My dad and I were on a horse somewhere in a Utah canyon the summer I turned six. Dad got off the horse for some reason. The horse decided to eat some grass by the side of the road. I was left staring down its neck and over the edge of a steep cliff.

I enjoyed the class a great deal. We spent the whole semester inside an arena with a very flat floor.

One of my favorite parts of the present, though, was the drawing my friend Sally did for the card.

Deux Histoires de Pain

1.

Thirty summers ago in Paris I met my grandmother's friend, Madame Ascoli. Every few weeks or so, she would take me somewhere in her car for an adventure.

One day we ended up eating bowls of noodles at an Asian restaurant. The only utensils they gave us were spoons, and the noodles kept slipping off them.

Madame Ascoli scowled and complained that it wasn't civilized to serve food without bread. A true Frenchwoman, she just wanted to use some bread to hold her noodles on her spoon so she could eat them with some grace.

2.

The year before that, I stayed with a French family in Avignon for a couple of weeks. One morning, the mother, Madame Augier, shook me awake and pressed some coins into my hands. She urgently explained in French that I needed to go out into the street to meet the truck selling bread and ask for "deux gros pain." So I did.

When I got back with the bread, I learned that Madame Augier had a long standing feud with the driver of the bread truck and she thought we'd get better quality bread if he didn't realize it was for her.

Steeped in History

Roger gave a interesting, well researched, and (I thought) charming presentation at the Utah State History Conference today about Frank Beckwith, a man who was fascinated by a wide variety of subjects and who edited and published the newspaper in Delta, Utah, for many years.

Frank Beckwith traveled far and wide by horseback and then by Model T Roadster and even airplane to document things like industrial projects, petroglyphs in Nine Mile Canyon and day-to-day community life; to collect things like fossils, trilobites and geodes, which he often passed on to the Smithsonian; and to explore areas like Moab, which led to his appointment as director of the survey expedition to the then-proposed Arches national monument.

As I listened to Roger speak, I realized that I was married to a Frank Beckwith soul mate: curious about his surroundings, naturally drawn to notice things that most people don't even see, interested in documenting what he finds with images and the written word, driven to explore the unbeaten path (particularly in a high clearance vehicle).

Someone at the presentation asked Roger how he discovered Frank Beckwith. It was not surprising that his answer involved an adventure to find some mysterious ruins on top of a remote dormant volcano. Roger wanted to know what the ruins were and it took a bit of digging. Turned out the ruins were part of an old wind power project Beckwith had followed.

We have a happy family memory of picnicking on the top of that remote dormant volcano in the shadow of those old ruins. Because, of course, Roger wanted to share his discovery with us!

The Hair on My Head

One of my high school English teachers told me to stay after class one day.

"What have I done?" I worried to myself. I was generally such a goody-goody, I couldn't imagine why I was in trouble.

After the rest of the class left, she said, "I just wanted to ask you something. What did you do to your hair?"

"My hair?" I was mystified. I hadn't done anything to my hair.

"The streaks," she said. "The blonde streaks in the front. I want to do the same thing."

"Oh, well, nothing. It just is that way," I answered, disappointed that I couldn't help, but glad I wasn't in trouble.

I wonder if anyone will ask me now what I've done to get the silver threads in my hair.

An Early Effort

I wouldn't have guessed I was a cat person in the second grade. Maybe it was an assigned topic. How about that penmanship?

A Bunch of Weiners

We talked in my writing classes at UVU today about the importance of seeing things from various points of view. I used the following story as an illustration.

In the early 1990s, Roger and I lived in Highland, Utah, and one of our neighbors worked for the R.C. Willey in Orem. Every Saturday, the store served free hotdogs and they'd hire various youth groups to work the event. A couple of times our neighbor arranged it so we could take a group of teenage girls from church to raise money for camp.

The lines were always huge. At least I heard they were huge. I always spent the whole time out back on the loading dock grilling the hotdogs.

Inevitably the girls who were serving them up would hear complaints about the way they were cooked (sorry, that would be me not pulling them off the grill in time) or that they had too much ketchup or mustard on them. We'd talk about it on the way home, everyone wondering why people thought they had a right to complain about something that was free.

It was true no one paid money for the hotdogs. But they did pay with their time in line. An hour, maybe even more! Imagine investing that much time only to be disappointed. That's not too hard to understand.

Still, it doesn't justify whining at my girls.

Foundation

We went to hear author David McCullough speak at UVU this evening about the U.S. Constitution. One of the things he talked about was how the founders studied existing state constitutions as they drafted and debated and redrafted the U.S. Constitution.

Likely inspired by the fact that he was delivering his address at an educational institution to an audience who would especially appreciate it, he shared one of his favorite passages from the constitution of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. I've put in bold some of word choices McCullough especially loved. I love them, too.

Chapter V, Section II

The Encouragement of Literature, etc. 

Wisdom, and knowledge, as well as virtue, diffused generally among the body of the people, being necessary for the preservation of their rights and liberties; and as these depend on spreading the opportunities and advantages of education in the various parts of the country, and among the different orders of the people [as in everyone, he added], it shall be the duty of legislatures and magistrates, in all future periods of this commonwealth, to cherish the interests of literature and the sciences, and all seminaries of them; especially the university at Cambridge, public schools and grammar schools in the towns; to encourage private societies and public institutions, rewards and immunities, for the promotion of agriculture, arts, sciences, commerce, trades, manufactures, and a natural history of the country; to countenance and inculcate the principles of humanity and general benevolence, public and private charity, industry and frugality, honesty and punctuality in their dealings; sincerity, good humor, and all social affections, and generous sentiments among the people.

I feel lucky to have received an excellent education at the following schools that were born of this extraordinary vision: Paul P. Gates Elementary, Acton-Boxborough Regional Jr. High School, and Acton-Boxborough Regional High School. Thanks for reminding me of that tonight, Mr. McCullough.

Down the Drain

Jack and I are reading a book with a character named Alice (who is actually an alligator). The whole time we were reading about her tonight, this song my mom used to sing to us was running through my head.

Alice, where are you going?
Upstairs to take a bath.
Alice, with legs like toothpicks
and a neck like a gir-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-rafe.

Alice, into the bathtub,
Pull out the plug and then . . .
Oh my goodness, oh my soul,
There goes Alice down the hole!

Glub. Glub. Glub.

A Good Beginning

Jack reveling in a book, circa 1999

Broken Heart

I suppose I should really mention at some point during this year of posting memories that I did have a serious relationship with someone before I met my husband.

But I don't want to get into lots of gushy, angsty details. So here's the story in a nutshell.

We met in the dorms our freshman year, and by the time school got out in the spring we had declared our love for each other. He came to visit me in Boston a few weeks later. He wrote me passionate letters while I was in Paris that summer. I walked along the Seine, wallowing in the knowledge that I would not see him for nearly two years. Before I got back to school in the fall, he left for an LDS mission in Sweden. I visited his family in Seattle for Thanksgiving once while he was gone.

He wrote to me every single week from Sweden. He said he loved me in every single letter he wrote. Every single letter, that is, until the very last one.

When he got home, he came back to school, took me snowshoeing in the mountains once, then dumped me. I hear he eventually became a podiatrist.

Yeah. That's about it.

A New Look?

Since we rarely take family pictures, I thought I'd post this one of us at the wedding this past weekend, which was held outdoors at Camp Wandawega.

The bow ties may be a one time thing for the boys, though one never knows. Roger did say that it was surprisingly comfortable compared to regular ties, which he despises but has to wear at least five days a week during the school year.

And it looks pretty darn awesome with those reading glasses.

Together

I always love when my dad and his siblings get together. They are full of stories and laughter!

Photos taken by my cousin Julie at Talia's wedding last Saturday. From left to right: Uncle Tom, Aunt Mary, Dad, Uncle Stuart (aka Tooey).

But I Will Still Hope

This is updated from a post I wrote on September 11, 2006, called "Random 9/11 Memories."

Watching the news unfold on one TV, while 2-year-old Jack innocently watched Sesame Street on another. I was overwhelmed by the feeling that he would be growing up in a very different world than I had.

Doing business over the phone with people all over the country in the days that followed was charged with this sort of electricity. We rarely talked about what happened, but the mutual grief and shock seemed palpable over the wire. The customer service rep at one small publisher headquartered just outside New York City was so thankful that I called to place an order a day or two after 9/11. They were terrified that their business would come to a grinding halt.

Waking up on 9/12 and seeing the flags that the local boy scout troop placed in each of our yards. My emotional reaction caught me off guard--I'd never really put much thought into what the flag meant to me. What it meant to me that day was that we were all in this together and that we would all pull through it together.

The flags are flying in our yards again today. Even though the veneer of our unity has cracked over the past eleven years, I want to believe that at the core of it we'll all move forward together and triumph in the ways that truly matter. I want to believe that. But honestly? I am not as hopeful as I was in 2006. The cracks seem pretty deep these days.

They Do

We're just barely home from a whirlwind trip to Wisconsin for my youngest cousin's wedding.

I was thinking on the plane flying home that I've been to nearly all of my first cousins' weddings. Not that I have that many cousins--just eleven--but I do have many good memories of many lovely family celebrations, welcoming exceptional people into our fold.

On my mom's side of the family, I saw Tracey, Sandy, and Lillan all married in Connecticut where they grew up.

On my dad's side of the family, I saw Sally, David, and Talia get married in Wisconsin, Megan get married north of San Francisco, and Julie get married in Washington, D.C.

The weddings I missed were Charles' in Japan and Tom's in New York. At least I think he got married in New York. I don't think anyone actually knew about his wedding until after the fact. Maybe his parents did. Maybe they didn't.

Sarah is the only cousin who is not married yet, but she's well on her way, engaged to a great guy. Whether they quietly elope one day or have a big party, I'm happy for her!

Makes Perfect Sense to Me

I've been quizzing Jack--who is feeling a lot better tonight--on state geography for his U.S. history class.

We had a wooden puzzle of the United States while I was growing up, and we used it to teach my little sisters the names of each state.

I loved my sister Linda's logic when she called Utah "Mytah."

Breathe

Poor Jack hasn't been feeling well with a cold for the past few days and tonight he developed a fever and is having trouble breathing. He took a long steamy shower and is trying to get to sleep as I type this. Bronchitis maybe. We're keeping a close eye on him.

When he was less than a year old he developed RSV and the doctor had us use a nebulizer several times of day to administer his medication in the form of mist. He wasn't an easy patient and struggled against the treatment. I didn't handle that very well, which probably made it worse. 

It's so hard to sit by and not be able to do much to help. 

Breathe, sweet boy.

Cold Feet

It's cold and rainy where I am right now. Time for some good warm memories.

Like the fourth of July bonfire we built on my grandmother's beach on Long Island Sound one year. Or the time I slept at my friend Sally's old farmhouse and her mother put rocks that she'd heated up on the stove and wrapped in towels at the foot of my bed.

Hmm. That doesn't help. Maybe some bad memories.

Summer cross country drives without air conditioning, peeling myself off my seat every time I stopped for gas. Heat waves that made sleeping even under a thin sheet unbearable. Being trapped on a plane for hours on the tarmac at Washington National without proper ventilation.

Still not helping. Still cold. I'm going to go find some more layers. And socks. Socks would be smart.

Return of the Pink Panther

Roger just discovered our complete set of Pink Panther cartoons on dvd that went missing a few years ago. Though our house can be a bit of a black hole, they were lost somewhere else.

One of my favorite memories of Jack--and something I still enjoy though it doesn't happen quite as often--is listening to him laugh and laugh at cartoons like the Pink Panther, or especially Tom and Jerry.

Do other parents breathe a sigh of relief and pleasure like I did when I first heard Jack laugh at something that was truly funny? I was so happy to discover he had a good sense of humor.

Slide

Isn't this what stairs are for? (2007)

Family Meal

Utah is a fabulous place to bring up a boy who likes dinosaurs. At the College of Eastern Utah museum in Price circa 2003-2004.

Guest Post

BY: Jack Layton :D

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One of my favorite memories is when I first got my cats. It was late afternoon when my dad came in and said we can go get the cats, who were kittens. At first I was excited, but then my dad said that we only get them if the house is clean. So I got to work, and I cleaned the house in about five minutes. My dad was actually surprised that I got it done so fast, so he had to take me to get the cats.

Oh, and my mom was there, too.

P.S. That was the same day that we saw the space station orbiting in the skies above Utah.

What Lies Beneath

One summer I swam across the reservoir in Spanish Fork. I was about in the middle when I saw something under the water out of the corner of my eye.

It looked like a pale, bloated body, floating upright, arms raised above its head.

I stopped short, treading water, heart pounding. What should I do, what should I do? If there's a dead body, what should I do?

"If" was the operative word. I had to make sure I saw what I thought I saw. So I screwed up my courage and stuck my head under the water to take another look.

Dead tree. Branches reaching. Relief.

My palms still sweat when I think about it.

No Fear

The first time Roger held my hand was when we were heading into a carnival haunted house. Smooth move, eh?

The Way Back

Riding in the way back of our Cherokee tonight to make room for three of Jack's friends, I reminisced about the time I rode for more than 2,000 miles in the back of our Wrangler without a seat.

It was part of a grand adventure Roger and I went on before Jack was born. We left the seat at home to make room for all of the stuff we thought we might need along the way. Which was fine until we met up with my sister Maryann in Tucson to take her with us to Mexico and down the Baja Peninsula.

We kept our duffle bags and put the rest of our stuff into a storage unit, then picked Maryann up at the teepee she was living in. Here she is with Eddie Bear, our trip mascot.

Both Roger and Maryann are prone to car sickness--especially on some of the crazy roads we drove on--so I got to ride in the back the whole way. Here's Eddie Bear peeking out the window.

It wasn't really that bad. I got to make myself comfortable on our bags. The only real inconvenience was when we stopped and I had to wait for someone to let me out. That was a bit awkward with all of the military checkpoints along the way.

We also got out of the Jeep from time to time for some adventure. Here is Eddie Bear kayaking on the Sea of Cortez.

And hanging out on the beach. He didn't get to come with us in those teeny tiny boats you can see past the mudflats that we took whale watching. They were darn tiny boats for watching darn big whales.

On the way back across the border into the United States, we were stopped for an inspection. Roger and Maryann got out of the Jeep and opened the back door to let me out. The border patrol agent looked at our Utah license plate, looked at Roger, looked at Maryann, looked at me, looked back at our Utah license plate, then got a little grin on his face. We got through just fine.

Triumvirate

I got home late, late from book club tonight. Stayed after chatting with friends I haven't seen enough of since spring.

The first book club I joined was a neighborhood club when we moved to Springville nearly 20 years ago. I remember hanging out with all of these women who, on the surface, seemed very homogenous. But as we discussed the books we read, I realized how different we were in so many ways.

I loved it.

I loved getting to know the women who laughed with abandon and the women who rewarded us with rare smiles. I loved getting to know the women who spent every spare minute with their noses in books and the women who never read anything but the book we were discussing that month. I loved the women who connected with many of the the ideas we explored and the women who couldn't care less about them but who enjoyed being there to bask in friendship.

Books. Talking about books. Talking.

Love. Love. Love.

Spiked

The one and only time I've ever been to an event where the punch was clandestinely spiked was in the dorms at BYU my freshman year.

Multiple people tested and retested the punch to make sure it was spiked before we dumped the bowl of it down the drain. Didn't want to waste it unnecessarily. So funny to watch a group of people who have never had alcohol try to decide if there was, indeed, alcohol present.

A few years later, I was talking to one of my friends, laughing about the incident.

"Did you really think it was funny?" she asked.

"Sure!" I said, "It was so ironic, after all."

"Truly?"

"Yes."

"It was J. and me. We spiked the punch," she confessed. "We were ticked because no one asked us to the dance." Classic.

BYU may be voted the driest university every year, but that doesn't mean it never gets a little wet.

A Matter of Perspective

As part of the "Research Rescue" fall campaign to encourage students to use the university library, Roger photographed a variety of dogs wearing little red research rescue vests. I went with him to Eagle Mountain last month to photograph this friendly St. Bernard, who was much larger in real life than he appears in this picture.

I don't have a lot of experience with dogs, but some of my earliest experience was hanging out with a St. Bernard at my friend Judy's house when we were kids. He always seemed like such a huge dog for such a not-so-big house.

Mostly he napped, but once in a while he paid attention to us. Because I didn't have much experience with dogs, he scared me a few times. Like when we were loudly practicing our tap dancing on the hardwood floor in the living room and he suddenly jumped at me, teeth bared.

It never occurred to me that I might have been the one who scared him.

A Dollar

When my brother and I were in elementary school, my mom wanted him to be more independent in the kitchen. She focused on encouraging him to learn how to crack an egg, but he was scared. She offered him a dollar if he would do it.

Even though I was almost three years younger than him, I already knew how to crack an egg. But, oh no. No dollar for me. I'm quite sure I whined disproportionately to my perceived injustice.

Sorry, Mom.

Random and Slightly Creepy

I had a roommate in college who collected all of her brightly painted nail clippings in a jar. I didn't discover that fact until well into the school year.

Clueless

Summer 1980, southern California, dancing in the middle of a pavilion at Magic Mountain.

Rock Lobster by the B-52s plays.

At one point in the song, every single person lays down on the floor wriggling like they are slices of bacon frying in a pan. Every single person, that is, except me.

I just stand there turning around and around staring at them all, realizing that I was culturally clueless.

Or maybe California is just ahead of Massachusetts with that kind of thing.

Or maybe I was just clueless.

Burn

There's another fire in the valley tonight. This has been a bad year for fires.

Photo taken this afternoon by Tina Calderwood

Over the years we've lived in our house in Springville (marked with a red arrow in the picture below, which can be enlarged by clicking on it), we've seen every single mountain surrounding our immediate area burn at least once.

180

Late night drive home from work tonight. Heart aching with the news that an inmate I'd met with ended up back in jail. He'd been so optimistic before he was released last month. Alcohol.

I drove on the overpass over I-15, recently widened as part of a huge interstate construction project. Flashed back a dozen or so years to another time I was driving home late, going over that overpass. It was slick with ice, and suddenly, before I knew it, I'd done a 180 in the Jeep. I ended up in the other lane, facing the opposite direction. Luckily I was the only one on the road.

I thought about the guy sitting in a cell in a place he hoped he'd never see again. I wished he could suddenly do a 180 and find himself headed in the opposite direction. Darn.

Memory Hole?

Time for a random excerpt from an old journal. From early 1983, my sophomore year in college.

January 13: "I went to a dance last Saturday with a good looking guy named Jerry. We had an excellent time. (Well, I did at least.)"

I have absolutely no memory of this good looking guy named Jerry or the excellent time we had at the dance.

Teen Idols

Of all of my teen star crushes, I liked Shaun Cassidy the best.

And I wanted to be like Kristy McNichol the most.

Funny. They look an awful lot alike.

Update posted October 13, 2012: We were looking at family pictures yesterday and came across this one. Look closely at Roger as a teenager on the far right (enlargement below). I did marry Shaun Cassidy!

Contrast

This morning I had to set an alarm so I'd wake up in time to get to some adjunct faculty and committee meetings at UVU, where classes start next week. My head is swirling with bits and pieces I need to incorporate as I update my syllabus.

When my meetings ended, I met up with Jack at the junior high open house. We found his locker, met all his teachers, and picked up a new gym uniform. (Where last year's ended up is a complete mystery.) Tonight we're setting an alarm so we'll wake up in time to get him to school for his first day of eighth grade.

We've basically gone from zero to sixty in one day as we transition from summertime.

I loved this time of year when I was growing up. (Of course, we didn't actually start school until September, after Labor Day, which is eminently more civilized than facing it the third week in August.) The first day of school was always exciting, and I reveled in the sense of having a fresh start with all sorts of unknown adventure ahead.

Jack mostly doesn't see it the same way. But I do think he's a teeny bit excited. At least about playing the saxaphone in band. That'll have to do.

The Far Side

For a very long time this was one of my favorite cartoons. In fact, it still is. Not really sure what that says about me.

Just One More and It Rocks

I was looking through our photos for inspiration tonight and came across this black and white shot of Jack that Roger took on a trip to Moab in 2005.

I love that I married a photographer.

This may or may not have been taken the same trip we hiked to Delicate Arch, which involves a moderately strenuous three-mile roundtrip trail.

Jack was a trooper at the start, but it wasn't quite enough. He was carrying a plastic sword with him (he always, always, always has something in his hand or in his pocket just in case). When the adventure became too much, he cradled the sword, knelt down on one knee, bowed his head and wearily said, "I can't go on much longer."

But he responded to bribes persevered and we did--eventually--make it to the top.

The Miracle Worker

Jack and I got our back to school haircuts today. We pretty much get the same cuts every time. Not very exciting, but it's efficient, at least.

For years I went back and forth between long and short hair, but I think I've pretty much settled on short for the foreseeable future. It makes driving in the Wrangler with the roof off so much easier.

The first time I went from long hair to short was in college after a perm went terribly wrong. I'd been swimming a lot, and apparently I had just enough chlorine buildup in my hair to keep the perm from taking evenly.

The only solution was to go short. Which was fine until I went to Washington, D.C. for an internship a few months later and had to find someone to cut my hair. One of my roommates went to a walk-in place near our apartment and came back with a cute cut, so I thought I'd try it out. Big mistake. And when hair is already short, there isn't much margin for error. It was so bad I couldn't bear the thought of waiting until it grew out.

I needed a miracle.

Luckily I found one: Christoph at Bubbles on Capitol Hill. He gasped a terrible gasp when he saw me, clucked with sympathy, then worked his magic. Oh, how my young vulnerable self-conscious self loved him. Thank you, dahling!

Transcendent

Walden Pond was our go-to swimming spot when I was growing up. I was even lucky enough to take swimming lessons there before our town built a swimming pool.

One summer my swimming instructor decided that I needed to improve my breaststroke kick and so she made me walk up the hill to the bus after every class with my knees together. I'm not sure it helped my breaststroke kick, but it was sure good for laughs.

Then a few summers ago, I discovered that the rules had changed and people were allowed to swim outside the buoy lines. I took advantage of my new found freedom to breaststroke all the way across the pond and back. 

And Even More

Feeling a bit better and will hopefully wake up tomorrow full of vigor! But now it's become a bit of a challenge to make a set of three memories involving rocks.

Actually, it wasn't hard at all. Apparently a good part of our little family's world revolves around rocks. Visiting them. Climbing on them. Collecting them.

Here is Jack on the beach in southern California in May 2009.

More Rocks

Not 100% these days. Just living vicariously through pictures of summers past as I continue to lay here like a lump breathing in VapoRub, sucking on cough drops.

So here's another picture on the rocks. This is Jack at one of our favorite picnic spots on the Upper Provo River on the way to the High Uintas (June 2007).

Maybe tomorrow I'll get back to summer in real life. That would be nice.

Rocks

Jack at Craters of the Moon National Park, June 2003

Recovery

I knew I was coming down with something all day yesterday. My throat was scratchy and I ached. Today I can hardly talk, and I'm totally worn out. Roger reported that I snored last night. (Actually, Roger imitated the sound I made and he and Jack just laughed and laughed.) I stayed in bed pretty much all day and read.

The first year we were married, I got sick, and for a very long time I could never really get better. I was eventually diagnosed with chronic sinus infections and treated for that. Then after nearly a year, I finally started getting better, and that is when the doctor discovered that I'd also likely been suffering from mono or some related illness.

Since then, I've tried to be careful not to get too run down. For example, I've let go of any guilt about getting the sleep my body needs, which is more than eight hours a night if I can get it. It's nice that other people can survive perfectly well on less, but I know my body.

I will not be setting an alarm clock for tomorrow.

Landing

Touched down on the runway in Provo just a little bit late tonight. We started to land, but then went back up so the pilot could reset the landing speed. I guess things weren't quite right on the first attempt. Definitely better safe than sorry.

The craziest landing I ever experienced was a flight somewhere in Mexico when I was a teenager. San Cristobal de las Casas, I think. Anyway, we came down on the runway so hard that the fasten seat belt sign fell off the ceiling and hit me.

The craziest takeoff I ever experienced was in the Caribbean when I was a kid. We'd flown to a small volcanic island called Saba, and when we left we discovered the runway was a bit too short. The pilot warned us ahead of time, but it was still disconcerting to leave the runway and drop hundreds of feet before we gained enough speed to gain altitude.

Always good to make it home.

Talking the Walk

We had sun today, but it was still a bit chilly and, hoo boy, windy!

Maryann, her boyfriend Lars, and I were just about to set out on a walk down the shore path when we realized that it was Dad tipped over out in the middle of the lake, getting help from the water safety patrol and police. We decided to postpone our walk and make sure he got in safely. He did. And the boat, after bailing, is safe as well. The sail, however, is at the boat shop with a big tear in it.

After that adventure, we sent Dad up to the cottage with orders to take a hot shower and we set out again for a walk. It was nice and brisk.

Last year, Roger and I were interviewed on the radio--I wrote a bit about it here--and the hour-long interview is full of all sorts of memories, including some discussion about the very shore path we walked on today.

Click here to take a listen (we come on after the host reads an essay, about four minutes in).

A Change of Pace

Today was cold and rainy. I didn't even swim in the lake once. After spending most of the day reading, talking, playing speed scrabble, and doing a few household chores, I did get out of the cottage for a while, though. Dad and I drove over to Williams Bay and took a soggy walk through the Kishwauketoe Nature Conservancy.

I wish

(1) I'd brought my camera, which is waterproof so it would have been fine in the rain. Part of the trail was lined with hundreds and hundreds of black-eyed susans. Stunning.

(2) That we'd brought apples to eat. Hiking with Dad in chilly weather, tromping through fields and woods, reminded me of all the walks we took as a family when I was a kid growing up in New England. Especially in the fall, when we'd bring a stash of Macintosh apples to eat on the trail.

And hope

(3) We'll get back to sun and summer tomorrow.

A Whack in the Head

Yesterday my sister Maryann and I swam out to the raft with my dad. Dad climbed on the raft and discovered a dead fish left by a seagull. Maryann and I were still in the water. Maryann thought, "I should tell Dad not to throw it at me." Then she thought, "Of course he won't throw it at me." So she said nothing.

Dad threw the fish at her.

She remembers it coming right toward her face. Her reflexes kicked in and she spun around in the water. It hit her smack dab on the back of her head.

It was hilarious, but--of course--not funny at all. Dad swears he didn't do it on purpose.

I just watched the whole event from a safe distance. Once, I threw a fish poorly, so I can't really judge Dad. Apparently fish are not easy to throw with any degree of accuracy.

The summer Jack started fishing here at the lake, I had to be his assistant. Putting worms on hooks, taking fish off them. Then he caught a fish that I couldn't get off the hook. I didn't know then that I was supposed to just cut the line and throw it back. No, I tried to get the hook out. I tried and tried until I thought the fish was dead.

I threw it into the bushes.

But instead of landing in the bushes, the fish hit the trunk of a tree and ricocheted onto the lawn. And I discovered it wasn't dead. The hook hadn't killed him; the tree hadn't killed him. There it lay on the grass flopping around, a fish out of water. Hilarious, but not funny at all. The episode actually led to my retirement from fishing.

After today, though, at least I can say I didn't chuck it at my sister's head.

Off for the Night

Take our friends to Chicago tonight. No time to write anything, but I've got a fabulous fish tale to tell tomorrow.

Sinking

We have had impossibly perfect weather again today! Big on the agenda (besides a long walk on the shore path, a tour around Lake Geneva bay on the Lady of the Lake, and a boat ride to Williams Bay for a belated birthday dinner) was sinking the corner of the swimming raft.

We get as many willing people as we can to crowd onto one corner of the raft and see how far we can tip it before we lose our balance.

When I was about 16, a bunch of us were messing around on the raft, either trying to sink it or playing king of the raft or maybe even both. I got knocked over, but instead of falling straight into the water, I landed on the raft first. Hard.

For the rest of the summer, I had a bruise on the side of my leg that extended all the way from my hip to my knee. I've got a picture of it, but I think this picture of the raft in the glow of the sinking sun is much lovelier.