First Comes Love

Today I flew from Salt Lake to Baltimore for my cousin's wedding in Washington, D.C., this weekend.

Tonight I'm staying with my brother-in-law Bill and his wife Lorraine. Eleven years ago this summer, Roger, Jack, and I flew to D.C. for their wedding. I remember that we barely, barely made it to the airport in time for our flight because there was an accident on the freeway. But we did, and the wedding was beautiful.

Now Bill and Lorraine have four lively children, including a set of twins. The minute I walked in the door, they all started talking at once. They had lots to share! I'm not sure I caught it all, but we had fun anyway!

Mousse

I had lunch today at the Hobble Creek golf course. One of my lunch companions asked if I was a golfer. I've only played a few times, so I can't really claim to be one. I did tell him the story of my very first experience playing golf and the moose we encountered. A good memory, but I already told that story on my blog here.

Don't worry, though. I've got another one.

Tomorrow I'm headed to Washington, D.C., for my cousin Julie's wedding. I'll get to hang out with her childhood friend Sahar while I'm there. I don't think I've seen Sahar since we crossed paths in Paris when I was in college. [Update: Roger says that he met Sahar at my grandmother's 85th birthday party. So I have seen her more recently. That was only 22 years ago.]

Julie, her sister Sally, Sahar, and I met for dinner there. We ordered chocolate mousse for dessert and the waiter brought a gigantic bowl of it to our table along with four small bowls, one for each of us. I'm guessing that we were supposed to exercise polite restraint and each take a single portion. Instead we kept refilling our bowls until it was pretty much gone.

I pretty sure that's one of the reasons Parisians love Americans so much.

Heaven

This week brought news of two deaths, one near and one far. Our friend Angel, who we met when we opened our bookstore, and Maurice Sendak, who we rediscovered when we opened our bookstore.

Angel was an elementary school librarian who loved children and who loved books and who loved sharing books she loved with children. When she was at our store, she often became one of our best booksellers, jumping in to help other customers find something to treasure. When asked to name a favorite book, she'd say, "I could no more pick a favorite book than a star in the sky."

Of course we carried Sendak's Where the Wild Things Are from the time we started building our children's book inventory, but the first time I actually read it as an adult was after Jack was born. I remembered Max and the wild things, but I hadn't remembered Sendak's simple lilting language. I reveled.

". . . and he sailed off through night and day and in and out of weeks and almost over a year to where the wild things are."

Angel, now that Maurice is there, resting in peace might have to wait. The wild rumpus may be starting.

PS: Thanks for the great cartoon in the Salt Lake Tribune today, Pat Bagley!

But We Didn't Inhale

When I was in sixth grade we did oral reports on various illicit drugs. I was assigned marijuana. Because I'm always looking for a more interesting angle, I decided to go to the police department to ask them some questions for my research.

A very nice officer loaded me up with pamphlets and then said he had just the thing for my report. He pulled out a little packet with a couple of tablets and told me that if I burned them, they'd smell just like marijuana. So I took them to school, along with a container and some matches, gave my report, lit the tablets on fire and passed them around the class so that everyone would know what marijuana smelled like.

If I was in sixth grade today, I'd probably just google marijuana, jot down some notes, maybe download an image or two, call it good, and miss out on a real adventure.

Where Are We Going?

This is a picture of my family in 1965. I wasn't even two yet, so I don't have any memory of this day. I don't actually have any memory of living in this era--of our family looking like this (the unfortunate styles of the 70s soon overwhelmed us)--but this was plunk in the middle of my formative years, so it must be a fundamental part of me.

We might have been heading to church when this was taken.

My mom grew up as a Presbyterian, and my dad as an Episcopalian. After they got married, they decided to be Unitarians. Then, when I was five, they decided to be Mormons.

I have a few memories of being in the nursery at the old Unitarian Church by Harvard Square in Boston, looking out the window at the street below. My earliest memories of attending the Mormon Church in Cambridge involved going to Jr. Sunday School and riding in the car on the way home from weekday Primary with the neighbors.

What's fascinating to me is that people who decide they don't want to be Mormons anymore but still want to be part of a religious community often become Unitarians. Just the reverse of my parents' journey.

I think I might experience Mormonism differently than many people I meet because of my family's early history and because my extended family includes lovely and generous people who are Presbyterian, Episcopalian, Jewish, Quaker, Catholic, Lutheran, agnostic, atheist, and, at least at various points, Wiccan, Pagan, and Buddhist.

To be honest, I'm not always sure what to make of my spiritual journey, but I'm glad my parents started me on it. I catch glimpses of what I perceive to be pure truth and light, I bang my head against dogmatism, I am inspired by the deep faith of others, I don't really want to live forever, I believe it is all bigger than we can understand with our limited senses, I know that loving one another is our best hope for taking humanity forward, I seek.

Life Saving

Jack went to the pool tonight to complete his lifesaving merit badge. It's not anywhere near the full life-saving course that is required to be a life guard, but it was a good reminder of water safety skills for him.

When I was a teenager, I took advanced lifesaving from a very demanding instructor over the course of a couple of months. He pushed us hard. When it came time for our final testing, he appointed himself to be the drowning victim we took turns rescuing. He did not make it easy. He wanted us to know exactly how dangerous it is to approach someone who is panicking in the water. Then when I got him into a cross-chest carry and towed him the length of the 25-yard pool, my arm was rubbed raw by the three-day-old beard he'd grown just to torture us.

He made class hell, but we all learned what we needed to learn and we sure learned it well.

Stink

Jack and I were on the way home from the metal recycling place this afternoon--took in nearly $30 with 16 pounds of cans we collected all winter and an old Jeep radiator!--when we were overcome by the smell of skunk at the north end of town.

Smell, as I understand it, is the sense most closely linked with memory.

It was summer 1998. I was the church girls' camp director, and we were camping at Payson Lakes. It was very stressful being in charge of girls' camp--not just because it was important to make sure the girls were having a good time and learning valuable things, but because I was responsible for their safety and welfare. After the first day, I was not wearing the mantle of leadership particularly well.

Then it was 3:00 in the morning. I was woken up with screams of "Margy! Margy! Come here!" The mantle was mine, no turning back. The girls had discovered a skunk in their tent, trapped under one of the cots. Suddenly there were more cries, "Margy! Margy!" I left one of the assistant camp directors to deal with the skunk under the cot (luckily there was no room for it to raise its tail and once the tent was clear of girls it was relieved to make a peaceful escape). I raced to see what else had gone wrong and discovered skunks nosing around our kitchen area. Somehow we chased them off without creating a bigger problem.

The next morning we had a Very Serious camp meeting. It was essential to reign in whatever treats had lured the skunks to our campsite. The girls rallied. We saw no more skunks for the rest of the week.

One crisis handled. Then we found out we couldn't use the flush toilets anymore due to a water shortage . . .

Seeing

I think I might have been in sixth grade when this picture was taken. I started wearing glasses when I was in fourth grade. The big style then was wire-frame granny glasses. Then came the wire-frame bottle cap glasses. Then, when I graduated from high school, thankfully, contact lenses.

When I was nine or ten, I forgot to take off my glasses once before I dove into Lake Geneva. My dad's cousin's husband Tom (we have so many Toms in our family I have to be specific!) spent hours with a mask looking for them in the weeds at the bottom of the lake. Hours! I couldn't believe he did that just for me. Since I was just a little kid there wasn't much I could do to thank him for finding them, but I did make a batch of chocolate chip cookies and delivered them to him while they were still warm.

The Routine

Just about every school day since Jack started first grade I've made him the same thing for lunch: a peanut butter sandwich (no jelly), cheddar cheese goldfish, and a few cookies (lately Oreos). For a while I included baby carrots, but he confessed that he didn't eat them so I stopped. He now eats baby carrots under supervision at home.

The only exception was when the elementary school cafeteria served pizza, which happened two days a month. Now that he's in junior high? He eats the same thing. Every. Single. Day.

May Day

One time Roger and I were miles out in the middle of Utah Lake in a motor boat when the engine died. We called for help on our cell phone and a guy came out and towed us to shore.

I'm sure there are details I could include that would make that story much more interesting, but my eyes are drooping and I must close them. I have run out of gas.

Maybe I'll dream of rocking back and forth in a motor boat on the waves way out in the middle of Utah Lake tonight. That would be nice.

R-E-A-D-E-R

I came across Jack's baby book yesterday and I went through the parts I'd actually filled out with him. It looks like I was pretty careful about writing things for the first few months and then nothing. We talked about some of the things that were missing, things I do remember. But so much is forgotten.

One thing we talked about was his obsession with letters and words when he was really young. A good indication that he would be a strong reader!

At the post office one day, when Jack was two or three, we were waiting our turn in line. Jack spied the trash can. For some reason he loved trash cans and noticed them everywhere we went. He went over to it and said each letter on the swinging door as he pointed to it. "T-R-A-S-H." Then with a grand flourish of his hand he proudly said, "GARBAGE!"

He advanced quickly from there.

A bit later I watched him studying the sign we had in our yard when Roger was running for County Commissioner (as a Democrat so, no, he wasn't elected). "LAYTON," it said, in big, bold letters. Jack pointed at the "T," then the "O," then the "Y." "TOY!" he proclaimed.

Fast forward to today. I had to beg him to put down his book so we could get some sleep tonight.

Confirmation de Votre Réservation

That was the subject of an email I just received. Air France. Salt Lake City--Paris--Nairobi--Barcelona--Salt Lake City. In a couple of months I will be taking that trip with my sister Maryann. Our main purpose is to deliver some of my brother's ashes to the place and the people he loved before he died. And, since we have to fly through Europe to get to Nairobi anyway, we figure we might as well take advantage!

With all of my sister's travels, I didn't realize that she hadn't been to Paris since we went there with Mom and Dad during the summer of 1984. She was only seven. I doubt she remembers that the two of us hung out on the banks of the Seine together, but here's proof!

And I've never been to Africa or Spain before. Adventure awaits!

Music Man

Jack's band teacher has asked him to move to alto sax for band next year, and he's already recruited Jack for the jazz band the following year. So (shhh, don't tell Jack), we've got a used alto sax we found online winging it's way to us from Indiana, which of course reminds me of that song from The Music Man.

"There is just one place that can light my face--Gary, Indiana, Gary, Indiana, not Louisiana, Paris, France, New York or Rome!"

I was in exactly one musical in high school--yes, The Music Man. This is the only picture I have from our performance. I think I must be in the back row. I was just in the chorus, which was fine with me--all of the fun and very little of the stress.

I sewed a long yellow dress for it, and some of my friends in the chorus and I worked in a couple of cartwheels during one of the songs while everyone whooped and hollered. It was our big moment!

Powder Blue

It looks like prom season has begun back east: more than one high school friend has posted pictures of their kids all dressed up on facebook.

I went to my senior prom with my friend Jim. I actually asked him to go with me months in advance because I was finishing up school in January, working for a couple of months to earn money, then heading to Europe for a couple of months with a Eurail pass and list of friends and family to visit (boy, I sure love my parents for letting me head off solo at 17!). I'd be coming home just in time for prom and graduation, and I didn't want to risk not being asked. 

It was awfully nice of him to go with me. Thanks, Jim! You looked great in that powder blue top hat and tux! And I'm sure loving my wrist corsage, Bermuda bag, and Farrah Fawcett wings.

Le Petit Déjeuner

We met at Sharon's house for book club tonight, and we sat out on her back porch as we talked and talked and talked. A front came through and it got a little chilly. Sharon whipped us up some hot chocolate. Amazing hot chocolate that her husband had just brought home from France. Délicieux.

We stayed in a youth hostel called Le d'Artagnan when I was on study abroad in Paris the summer after my freshman year in college. The cafeteria was on the main floor. Every morning for breakfast I had a bowl of the same delicious hot chocolate we had tonight along with a small baguette smothered in butter and strawberry jam. Parfait.

Will it Keep?

I stopped by Costco tonight to pick up a few things after finishing up my last finals period with my students (yay!) and noticed that they carry dried seaweed. I tasted it once when I was seven and my mom brought some home from Hawaii.

She and Dad had been in Japan for a week attending a special memorial for my grandfather, who had been very involved in supporting the Kiyosato Educational Experiment Project (KEEP). They were naming their library after him. Dad had to come straight back because he had to teach school, but Mom took some extra time to enjoy the islands.

I'd totally eat dried seaweed again, but I'm not sure I could handle a Costco-sized box. Maybe it would keep?

Moving the Goalposts

I feel I need to followup yesterday's post with a little something just in case anyone was left with the impression that I primarily went to college to meet boys or if anyone leapt to the erroneous conclusion that I chose BYU to find a husband. I had all sorts of reasons for going to college, and dating--while fun--was not at the top of my list. I believe I was reared with good, healthy priorities.

Just before I left for school, my mom, a little worried that I was going to put boys at the top of my list, said, "I hope you'll finish your bachelor's degree before you get married."

When we were halfway across the country, she said, "You know, I wish I had gotten my master's degree before instead of after I got married and had children."

When my family dropped me off in Provo, she said, "I've been thinking. If you're going to major in psychology, you're going to need a Ph.D. to really do anything."

I ended up changing my major from psychology, so I no longer had my sights set on a Ph.D. But I did get my master's before I got married. And by the time I finally (per Utah standards) got married at 27, I think my mom was good and ready.

Setting a Course

I was on the highway this evening, driving south from UVU, just before sunset. I had a broad view of Utah Lake, mountains and clouds glowing pink. Even though I've lived in Utah longer than I've lived anywhere else, the drama of the landscape still catches me by surprise.

Though I visited Utah the summer I turned six, I didn't have too many memories. So when I returned my senior year of high school it felt adventurous and new. Almost prehistoric. So unlike the gentle hills, woods, and meadows I grew up with.

Mom and I flew out, she to do genealogy research and me to stay with friends and see BYU as a prospective student. The entire weekend I was in awe of the mountains. I also had crazy amounts of fun with my friends, and I was asked out by three different boys. You know, all of the things upon which a sound decision about college should be made.

The other two colleges I was seriously considering were women's colleges in Massachusetts: Simmons in Boston (where a very good friend was a year ahead of me) and Mt. Holyoke (my mother and grandmother's alma mater). Both would have been good choices for me, but in the end the lure of being in a completely different environment 2,500 miles away from the security of home (and, okay, with boys) won out.

Solo

Two adorable children, a brother and sister, sang a duet in church today. They did a fabulous job; the congregation was charmed. I love that children have the opportunity to participate in our church services. 

I actually had a chance to sing a solo in church when I was 12. Because I was 12, I was no longer adorable. But I was still young enough that I didn't have to have a beautiful voice, just an earnest one.

My mom picked out a hymn for me to sing that she loved growing up--For the Beauty of the Earth--and it is one of my very favorite hymns to this day. (In fact, for anyone who might have to plan my funeral, this would be a nice hymn to include in the service. Especially if it is sung joyfully as indicated. To read the words of the hymn, just click on the image and it will get bigger.)

That was the only time I've ever been invited to sing a solo. I never developed a beautiful solo voice. But I am quite happy being a steady alto in a choir of voices.

Too Young

This is me and my Grandpa Stuart (my father's father) when I was about three. I'm sad that I don't have any actual memories of him. He lived north of Chicago, and I saw him maybe once or twice a year. The summer I turned six, he was diagnosed with a brain tumor and he was gone before Christmas. He was only 69.

I do remember two things about visiting him in the hospital that summer. First, the roof rack we had on the top of our baby blue camper van got crunched by an overhead beam in the parking garage. We were too tall. Second, I had to stay in the waiting room while my parents went in to see him. I was too young.

Everything I know about Grandpa Stuart makes me think I would have liked him. He was an adventurer with a big heart.