Sunday, March 16, 2014
Most of the skirts or dresses were eight inches above the knee! Some were so short that if there were a behind-view I'm worried that we'd be seeing bum-cheeks. And the shorts? The companies who make them aren't spending excess money on fabric. In fact, I'd say there was about fifty cents worth of fabric there.
I did see one cute modest top. It was called a wrapped front top. I couldn't see a back view but if the front were called "wrapped" what was the back called? Unwrapped?
What is the matter with today's youth? Do they need to get self esteem by being dressed like a _____? (You fill in the blank. I can't bring myself to say the word.)
When I asked one of my granddaughters what her style was--meaning vintage clothing, classic, etc., without any hesitation she said "Modest" She has my vote, 100%. And where did she get that "modest" idea? From her parents and from church. More teens should try it. Our country would be a better place if we had a nation of modest teenagers.
Sunday, July 28, 2013
I've seen friends of mine encounter big losses. One the loss of a daughter, a perfect daughter. Her son-in-law courted and remarried before even seven months was up. Who does that? No one should do that. That's insane.
My neighbor, who lost her husband, her young husband--age 36 or thereabouts, has stayed single, not even a date for seven years. She wears his wedding ring on a chain around her neck. Is her loss any less, after the years? I don't think so.
Another friend of mine, lost a grandchild. Right up to his birth, all was well and then he died before being born. His parents were of course devastated, but so was she. A grand-baby she will never hold, never teach patti-cake to. Never read to, or give smothery kisses to. A loss in her life.
I lost three babies, miscarriages, but to me they were babies, babies I wanted and grieved over. But I was married in the Temple and was promised all children born to me would be mine, if I lived worthy. I believe that is any baby referred to, no matter how long I carried them.
Now comes something I worry about. The worthy part. I find the gospel going over me and under me and around me, like I was in some kind of non-gospel-soaking-in bubble. I want the gospel of Christ to go through me. I want to absorb it. I want to live it and be happy in it and be grateful for it every day of my life. I'm working on it.
And may our losses be less, and when they are not less, may we understand the Plan of Salvation and know that we will be united with our loved ones, those we lost are not lost, not really, we just can't see them. They are there, waiting for us.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
After I watched episode three, and before going on to the next one, I noticed that they have an album so I clicked on each of the songs to listen. (Listen to it here.) I listened to each song--there are eleven.
"Could you turn it down?!" the voice of reason called from upstairs, in his not very reasonable voice.
And then I realized, the headphones weren't even plugged in. They were ear plugs.
Not even pretty darn funny.
Saturday, May 12, 2012
Power or kindness, which would you choose? She chose power. And now she's gone, bringing people on the other side to their knees.
1. Today, Elizabeth said, "The spider in the bathroom broke her promise."
I looked at her as you might imagine: eyebrows raised, head forward, eyes widened.
"The spider--I named her Leggs McGuire--broke her promise. I told her if she stayed in her corner and minded her own business I wouldn't kill her."
"And she's gone, and now I don't know where she is, and I have to shower in there."
2. Today, one of my old Achievement Days girls brought me some flowers for Mother's Day. They are the giant alliums, Hillary calls them Dr. Suess plants. I wonder where she got them. I called her by the wrong name. I will write her a thank you. I will spell her name right, which is Faythe. I will tell her it was a sweet thing to do and that she looks nothing like her sister--the name I called her. What a dunce, I am, at times. And how sweet is Faythe.
3. Kramer went nuts when people came to the door today. I have told him he is to do two things: be warm and cute. He is warm and out of control. And he needs a bath
4. Phil came to the laundry room to take his shirts to the bedroom. "A pink hanger?" he said, "What am I going to do with a pink hanger?"
"If you don't like it, trade it for another one."
He muttered to himself all the way upstairs. I could hear the words "pink hanger" hanging in the air long after he closed the bedroom door.
Someone went to Heaven today, a dog went berserk (when you spell berserk wrong, spellchecker wants to change it to Beekeeper), my child--grown child--is afraid of a spider, I can't get all the emails I want to write done before I'm stupid with fatigue, and I don't want to have surgery on my knees.
Today I didn't get any pressing things done. And then there is that spider to watch out for. It's almost more than I can handle...for getting nothing done.
Friday, March 30, 2012
This is after this morning, when this child fairly screeched, "Aaaugh. Come and get this spider." And then after I got him (after missing once) the child demanded to know if the spider was dead. I'd be worried if I were the object of this child's indifference.
PS I was going to put a picture of a spider here, but after looking at them for ten minutes I am creeped out and so I am sparing you the same experience.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
All morning I told Enoch to find me a story book and I would read to him. He had other ideas. So, when Levi came home from kindergarten, and after he had eaten lunch, I told him I would read to him if he could bring me some books.
"I'm going to write some words," he said, getting a small notebook. Then we had a half hour of, "how do you spell this, Grandma?"
Periodically I would say, "If you get me some books I'll read to you and Enoch."
Finally he had had enough. "Grandma," he said, with his hands on his hips. "When I get finished you can read my words."
And so it was.
In his story there was a king and all manner of excitement, with words all run together and letters pointing backwards.
A five year old author. I'm expecting great things from Levi.
PS Baby Hyrum is number eight!
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
I made the original version--with spices--first and then decided it probably would be good made into chocolate. It was. I didn't add nuts or chocolate chips.
ANY OLD BOTTLE-OF-FRUIT CAKE--original recipe found here--for chocolate version see below
1 quart of any bottled fruit, juice and all
2 cups of granulated sugar
1 cup oil
4 cups flour (not sifted)
4 teaspoons soda – mix in with fruit
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon cloves
1 teaspoon nutmeg
1 Tablespoon cinnamon
1 cup nuts (optional)
1 cup raisins or chocolate chips (optional)
Blend or chop fruit and place in a large mixing bowl with sugar and oil. Add sifted dry ingredients, and if desired, nuts and /or raisins/chocolate chips. Mix together well and pour into a 9×13 inch pan and bake at 350 degrees for about 50 minutes or until a toothpick comes out clean when poked in the middle. Cool. Frost with Cream Cheese Icing. Hurry and take a big slice before anyone knows that the cake is done, or you won’t get any because it is that good.Chocolate version: Remove cloves, nutmeg and cinnamon and add 1/2 cup cocoa.
PS Last years I dumped probably four dozen jars of old fruit. What was I thinking?
Monday, October 31, 2011
That's about as creative as I'm getting this year. We (okay, it's 95% Phil) has been cleaning out the spare bedroom and that is scary enough! We have, I'm guessing, several thousand books and a whole lot of other "stuff," which my nephew, Cameron, says is "good stuff" if it's yours. If it is viewed by someone who doesn't have a emotional attachment to it, it's "junk."
So Happy Halloween, and I hope your scary day is not accompanied by a room full of scary stuff/junk, like mine is.
Here's my Pinterest Halloween board.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
These are the geraniums that wintered over in my basement last year, with no water, no light, no nothin' until late February. I watered them then, and Phil rigged up a couple of lights for them.
They have done really well all summer, but they aren't in yet, and we are having freezing weather here. I hope they are hang on until we have time to trim them and lug them downstairs. I'm hoping to get some good grandchildren-help with that project.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
This came in an email today. I'm sorry I can't give credit to the originator. Here it is:
Recently I overheard a Father and daughter in their last moments together at the airport. They had announced the departure.
Standing near the security gate, they hugged and the Father said, 'I love you, and I wish you enough.'
The daughter replied, 'Dad, our life together has been more than enough.. Your love is all I ever needed. I wish you enough, too, Dad.'
They kissed and the daughter left. The Father walked over to the window where I was seated. Standing there I could see he wanted and needed to cry. I tried not to intrude on his privacy, but he welcomed me in by asking, 'Did you ever say good-bye to someone knowing it would be forever?'
'Yes, I have,' I replied. 'Forgive me for asking, but why is this a forever good-bye?'.
'I am old, and she lives so far away. I have challenges ahead and the reality is - the next trip back will be for my funeral,' he said.
'When you were saying good-bye, I heard you say, 'I wish you enough.' May I ask what that means?'
He began to smile. 'That's a wish that has been handed down from other generations. My parents used to say it to everyone...' He paused a moment and looked up as if trying to remember it in detail, and he smiled even more.. 'When we said, 'I wish you enough,' we were wanting the other person to have a life filled with just enough good things to sustain them..' Then turning toward me, he shared the following as if he were reciting it from memory.
I wish you enough sun to keep your attitude bright no matter how gray the day may appear.
I wish you enough rain to appreciate the sun even more.
I wish you enough happiness to keep your spirit alive and everlasting.
I wish you enough pain so that even the smallest of joys in life may appear bigger.
I wish you enough gain to satisfy your wanting.
I wish you enough loss to appreciate all that you possess.
I wish you enough hellos to get you through the final good-bye.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
No More Garlic Smelling Fingers Lynne
Monday, October 24, 2011
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Put another pan on top.
Shake like crazy for ten seconds and...
...there you have it, naked garlic.
Here is the original site with a video showing this nifty trick.
You love me don't you, for bringing this hint into your lives? I aim to please.
Friday, October 21, 2011
One more pass and she was wounded a bit more
Kate's eye is a little messy. What's a grandmother to do?
The process. Taylor paints the tire with black paint.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Do you like the smell of Grape Kool-Aid?
Do you like your head to smell like Grape Kool-Aid?
Well, if someone did buy this and then went to church, and people around her went, "sniff, sniff."
And then they said, "Humm. What's that smell? It smells good. Like grape Kool-Aid."
And then they smelled her, and well, I'm just sayin', if you don't want to be smelled a lot and have people roll their eyes and snicker behind your back, well, don't buy this.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
This room was called the "fruit room." It was built as a storage room. It had one tiny window with no glass, just screen. A down pillow, just that size, was in the recess of that tiny window and it was moved to the side of the window, a little bit or a lot, depending on how much outside air mom wanted in the fruit room. In the winter that room was cold enough that she kept the Thanksgiving leftover turkey in there. (I know, I shudder at the thought, but we never got sick from food poisoning, not one time.)
I once asked her why she canned and bought so much food.
"It's for the Californians," she said. "There will be trouble in California and they will come here for refuge and we will feed them."
I was young. What did I know.
Then today I got an email from a dear friend (Hi Kim!). This was in it:
Mother obviously knew this. She knew everything. And now I know. Zombies, not Californians, were coming. (Although I lived in California for four plus years. I should have known.)
And now you know. You've been warned.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
See the cook's notes at the end. I'm going to try it with cheddar cheese and cooked bacon. I couldn't tell that there was any bacon in it but one family member could and said it added a little something.
BASIC BUTTERMILK MUFFINS
"This is a great basic muffin batter that can be adapted to almost anything."
1/2 cup white sugar
1 teaspoon baking soda
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/4 cup butter, melted (I was out of butter so I used 3 Tbs. olive oil and one Tbs. water and the muffins tasted fine)
1 egg, lightly beaten
1 cup buttermilk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
- Preheat an oven to 375 degrees F (190 degrees C). Grease 12 muffin cups, or line with paper muffin liners.
- Sift together the flour, sugar, baking soda, baking powder, salt, and nutmeg. In a separate bowl, whisk together the melted butter, egg, buttermilk, and vanilla.
- Pour the buttermilk mixture into the dry ingredients and stir just until mixed (the batter will not be smooth). Gently stir in fruit, if desired (see Cook's Note).
- Scoop the batter into the prepared muffin tins; fill the cups almost to the top. Bake in the preheated oven until golden and the tops spring back when lightly pressed, about 18 minutes.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
PS Taylor was just down here and whispered, "I'll make another one tomorrow."
PPS At this rate I'll weigh 300 pounds by Thursday.
I know this is blurry but if I go out to the garage and open the freezer and take another photo, Phil will not have pie for lunch.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
I get to learn how to take x-rays. Of the feet, that is. I am going to be the bestest foot x-rayer ever.
I take the class in October, and then the test, and then I will be qualified.
And there are Chessman Cookies in my cubbie at work.
Now, what could be better than those two things?
Okay, hundreds of thousands of things but today, these two are keeping me going.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
How to match socks: Not by color. Not by pattern. Not by anything you have ever learned. The new way to do socks is by thickness. Find two socks that have the same thickness and you are in luck.
This makes that laundry basket full of odd socks not so intimidating.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
After taking my 96 year old friend, Mona, home, I hightailed it to Smith's because it was the last day of their case lot sale. (See yesterday's post.) After I was finished shopping I started the car...almost. It was doing it's Clown Car antics. Tried again, nothing. So I did what I always do in any bad situation. I call Phil. He is my "voice of reason." I knew he couldn't help but I called him anyway. He told me it was probably flooded and to just let it sit for a while and then try again.
So, I went to Sally's Beauty Supply and looked at all the fingernail stuff for 20 minutes and then I went to Tuesday Morning and looked at all the stuff that is supposed to be terrific bargains but just seems like a bunch of junk, with some good stuff mixed in. All of it was higher priced than I think it should be, but I spent a good half hour or so and then I left and thought I'd try to start the Clown Car again.
Just outside of Tuesday Morning I met Taylor, my son. "Oh, Mom," he said, "you're all right." And then he gave me the biggest hug. It was worth an hour of inconvenience to get a hug like that.
"We've called and called you."
And so I looked at my phone and there were 17 missed phone calls, from him and Phil. (I had the phone on vibrate at work and hadn't changed it.) I also had a bunch of texts that said things like, "Are you okay?" "Where are you?" "WHERE ARE YOU?!?"
Both Phil and Taylor had come to my rescue.
The car started right up.
Taylor rode home with me to make sure I was all right.
Phil followed us to make sure the car wouldn't quit on me.
I must be loved.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Mom fried the chicken, chicken we raised from chicks. (I'll spare you the somewhat fun-and-fuzzy-baby-chicks details, and also the gory-get-the-now-grown-chickens-dead-and-in-the-freezer details.)
We had mashed potatoes, made in the pressure cooker, whipped to creamy goodness. (No potatoes for me--they are a nightshade vegetable, and seem to make my newly diagnosed arthritic joints practically scream with pain.)
Mom made chicken gravy, using the drippings, milk and thickening (a slurry of water and flour. Mom didn't know the word slurry so it was "thickening"). There will be no chicken gravy as none of us drink milk. I will probably broil the chicken, much easier and it is everyone's favorite.
Fresh tomatoes and crookneck squash from the garden. No tomatoes for me (nightshades) and our squash plants refuse to produce more than one squash a week--even the zucchini. I think they need more fertilizer but we have had the ongoing argument about fertilizer, plus, "the back lawn needs more water" discussion so often that it's just best to ignore the only-one-squash-a-week subject and to secretly put the water on the back lawn every time Phil leaves the house.
The last item on our Sunday dinner was fruit salad made with whipped cream. My sister, Pat, who was the light of everyone's life, and the fun and laughter, too, was always supposed to whip the cream. Which she did, protesting. And the reason she protested was because she always whipped it too long, and it almost turned into butter. Pat was a dreamer and the sound of the beaters took her to fantasies no one else could imagine. The cream could have cried out loud to her, "I'm turning to butter," she wouldn't have heard it. When mother realilzed the sound of the beaters had gone on a long time she would take the portable mixer out of Pat's hands, hang her head, and mutter, "Not again," in a tiny voice. And then she would do some kind of magic with a splash of milk and some vanilla and sugar and she would say, "See, as good as new." Then it would get poured over a drained can of fruit cocktail with whatever fresh fruit was available. Peaches in the fall, bananas and apples in the dead-of-winter and in even the deader-of-winter it was wrinkly apples, brought in from the fruit-room, peeled and chopped fine so no one could really identify them. Mom was a master of making something delicious out of practically nothing.
This afternoon I went to Smith's grocery store because it was the last day of the case lot sale. Since I am intending to re-create Mom's Sunday dinner I bought a case of fruit cocktail. I'm intending to re-create it 24 times.
Tonight was the night. Broiled chicken, truly the backbone of this memorable meal. Phil made his own potatoes in self defense and warmed up the pork gravy from two days ago, also in self defense--or maybe it was not "self defense," maybe it's "self preservation of all things delicious that he loves, that I was not making."
No one sliced a tomato, even though there was a ripe one on the breadboard and more in the garden. No one cooked the lone, shriveling crookneck squash or the one four pound zucchini that the zucchini plant spits out once a week. And, even though the fruit cocktail is still in a box on the living room floor, no one made fruit salad because in order to make fruit salad with whipped cream you need to actually buy some cream. And some peaches and maybe a banana or two.
Phil opened a can of green beans and heated it while his gravy was simmering and his potatoes (potato pearls from Costco, in a box that looks like a milk carton) were waiting for the water to boil. Bless Phil's heart, he may not use enough fertilizer or water the back lawn often enough, but he's a clever man in the kitchen with a can opener and a box of fake food. Without him dinner would have been a one item meal.
So, here's to the Sunday dinners, of our youth. I hope you too, can recreate delicious memories, just like your mom made.
Monday, August 8, 2011
We talked until five minutes to 1:00 when her husband came to walk her home. All of a sudden he appeared, like a silent ghost, showing up suddenly through the screen door, and nearly frightened me to death.
Today, this friend--who still has all of her children at home, so you know she can't just sleep in on a Sunday morning, like I can (thank goodness for one o'clock church)--did NOT fall asleep during Sunday School class, like I did.
Now I ask you, is it fair that someone should be so wonderful--she really is, totally wonderful--and has the self control to not eat a full piece of Costco cake, and has enough energy to stay awake and alert and even make comments in Sunday School class and Relief Society, and her comments were totally coherent, intelligent and relevant, is this fair?
I don't think so either.
Monday, July 25, 2011
This is the meaning of juki: What goes around, comes around and you will get yours later.
And this is what happened later:
The maker of the awesome string spider, Elizabeth, was standing in the hall when she noticed a real spider coming directly at her.
"Get it! Get it!" she said, "A spider, Dad, get it!"
"You get it," Phil said.
"No you get it," she said. She was getting a little hysterical by now.
Phil smacked the spider with a book. When he removed the book the dazed spider put on a burst of speed, closing the distance to Elizabeth.
"GET IT! GET IT!" She screamed. She has a fine pair of lungs. I was in the bedroom and my ears are still ringing.
Phil smacked the spider again. Now the spider had a drunken gait but his legs worked remarkably well.
"Getitgetitgetit. DAD, GET IT!"
He smacked it with the book again and this time it's wounds were critical. It either died or was in a leg-sticking-out-at-odd-angles coma.
Phil took the book and gently edged it under the oddly-leg-sticking-out maybe dead spider and tried to flick it at Elizabeth.
She went ballistic. Not that she wasn't before, but this time it was a real agitated, wildly, arm flinging fit.
He tried to flick it at her again and her eyes crossed, she called for me, just like when she was four and her siblings were teasing, "MO-O-O-O-O-O-O-M!
And then she ran in the bathroom and slammed the door, and that is why "juki" is my new favorite word.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
I should turn my phone off, I thought, because I don't have to work in the morning and I can sleep until 10:00.
Then the 3:00 am gremlins took over my brain. I tell you, this is exactly what I thought:
I should also hide the phone because someone might come into my room and steal it in the middle of the night and I won't wake up to stop them because I'm so tired, so I really should hide it good.
You know where I'm going with this, don't you? I hid the turned-off phone at 3:00 am and haven't seen it since.
I'm giving you some advice. Do NOT make any big decisions at 3:00 am. Or if you do, write down the decision, and when, in the light of morning you read what you have written, you will be grateful you took my advice.
In fact, when you read it you might get a good laugh. Like: I hid the phone where?!
Back to the movie. It was a love scene, a nice, clean, kissing one. The camera was doing close ups of the girl and all of a sudden it was a shot from below, it showed she had the start of a double chin and honestly, she was kind of ugly.
What a lousy thing to do to her I thought. The director ought to be shot.
And then I realized the "kind of ugly" girl was the guy. We forgive guys for having a bit of a double chin. And why? Really, why is there a double standard for men and women?
We don't want to see an aging actress in a love scene. Well, unless she is Sybil Shepard with attitude. Or Merly Streep. I adore Merly Streep. She can age as much as she wants and still be charming and attractive. So, never mind. Maybe it's not a matter of age but a matter of attitude.
Which works for a lot of life, doesn't it? Have a good attitude and the tragedies aren't quite so tragic. Of course, there's bad attitude people that show up in your life. Hopefully you can just shut the door and maybe they will go away. Unless you are related to them and then you have to learn to have tolerance, I guess. And bake them there own rhubarb pie.
I shouldn't write blogs at 1:30 in the morning, should I?
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Anyway, today she was hi-fiving her sister and brothers and it was so funny. Her parents were trying to shush her but her siblings were very obliging. "Matthew," she'd say, "give me five!" And Matthew would give her five. She went through all of them and I was so enjoying it all. (And I was listening to the talks, too, and they were excellent--every mother on the planet is a multi-tasker.)
Then, all of a sudden she starting crying, "Kill Bill!" Now, for some reason (and the reason is: Elizabeth made me do it) I have seen Kill Bill and Kill Bill two, or at least parts of both of them. We do have TV Guardian so the bad language is taken out but the rest of it...oh my.
"Kill Bill!" the Cherub called again and again.
I was holding my breath, wondering what her parents were going to do.
Her mom, casually handed over a stuffed pink bear.
"Oh, Ca-ouh Beauh," she said, "Ca-ouh Beauh," she said, holding the well loved bear to her little face.
Really, Lynne. "Care Bear," and "Kill Bill" do NOT sound the same. And in church, yet, you think a sweetie pie, cherub girl is crying vengeance on Bill.
I need more sleep. Or a daughter who delights in the Hallmark channel, and not in horror movies. Or something.
PS She says it's not a horror movie but, believe me, it's certainly not Disney.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Getting a roasted chicken is the highlight of Phil's life. Well, almost. Getting a Costco chicken means I won't have to cook dinner so it's a win-win. So we got a chicken, and then we went into the fruit and veggies room. We had been in there maybe five seconds when he said, "Hurry!"
"Why?" I asked.
"Because, he said, with a worried look on his face, "my chicken is cooling off."
2. I was in the living room, talking on the phone with Hillary, tonight.
"Maddy (age 11) was going swimming with Bailey today," Hillary said. "A huge thunderstorm came up and Maddy came in the living room and threw herself on the couch in despair. Face down."
"Face down, Mom," she said. "What am I going to do with her?"
"You better watch her," I said. "You know what happened to Elizabeth when puberty hit?"
All during this conversation Elizabeth was downstairs, with the TV on. Obviously she has excellent eavesdropping capabilities.
"What?" she yelled. "What did I do?"
Then she got on the phone and said, "In my defense, I am sweet and lovely." Hillary and I were speechless. "Sweet and lovely," Elizabeth continued, "With bouts of naughtiness."
Really, Elizabeth, bouts of naughtiness?
3. One day when Liza (age 11) was here, she was sitting on the couch and had her feet up. The bottoms of her socks were so worn out you could see her feet through the weave.
"Liza," Hillary said, "nice socks."
"Thanks," Liza said, "They're breezy!"
Which sounds like a good thing to me. Somebody ought to market socks that way. Breezy socks. Really. Liza should get royalties. Really, she should.
4. Hillary told me that last night Maddy had a glass of water and a glass of milk at dinner. She took a drink of her milk, pulled a horrible face and said, "Ugh, milk. What a horrible surprise."
"What a horrible surprise," is now a by word in their house. I think that phrase can be used for lots of situations. It's kind of like the word "Interesting." Sometimes it means interesting and sometimes it means interesting! Know what I mean? I'm sure you have had some interesting things happen in your life, and so have I. Really.
5. Hillary and I continued talking. How we got on this subject I don't know.
"I hate the word 'beloved'", she said.
"You do? Even when it refers to Jesus?"
"Yes," she said, "and I hate the word 'gorgeous,' too."
Now that this is published on my blog, if any of her siblings read it--which is unlikely--they will have the perfect ammunition for getting her goat. They will probably tell her they think that one of the reasons Jesus was beloved was because he was gorgeous.
I hope this isn't sacrilegious, talking about Jesus this way. Really, I hope it isn't.
6. Which reminds me, Trent was always good at "getting people's goats." He probably still is, he has seven children to use as victims. When he was still living home, one day he was teasing one of the kids (I can't remember which one) Whoever it was came running to me, tattling.
"He's got your goat," I replied.
Whereupon the child turned around, marched back to Trent and yelled, "Give my goat back."
"He gets your goat all the time." I said. "He has a whole herd of them by now."
"Give them back!" the child yelled.
"Where will you keep them?" Trent asked. "A whole herd of goats is a lot to take care of."
"They can live in the back yard and eat grass," the child said.
Now one begins to wonder, did that child really think Trent had real goats? And then I wonder, no, I'm sure of it, they must take after Phil's side of the family.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
This month's Visiting Teaching message is/was "Strengthening Families through Temporal Self-Reliance." And no I haven't done my visiting teaching yet, and yes, I know tomorrow is the last day. But it will get done. I always get it done, one way or another.
I have recently been given Mrs. Bird to teach and I know she and Guy Smiley usually get home about 11:30 and hey, it's still the 30th tomorrow at 11:30 and, yes, I have done my visiting teaching with her before at 11:30 at night. Twice. Watch for more Mrs. Bird stories. I don't know about you but I'm hungry for a good Mrs. Bird story.
Okay, back to the subject, which is what can I really leave my children and grandchildren that might be precious to them?
In the visiting teaching message this paragraph jumped out at me:
"Julie B. Beck, Relief Society general president, explains that “providing for ourselves and others is evidence that we are disciples of the Lord Jesus Christ… When [my mother-in-law] passed away suddenly last year, she left evidence of her self-reliant life. She had a current temple recommend and well-used scriptures and gospel study manuals. We lovingly divided up the pots, pans, and dishes with which she had prepared thousands of meals. She left us quilts she had made from old clothing. She believed in the old adage ‘Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without.’ We saw the supply of food she had grown, preserved, and stored. Particularly touching were her little account books in which she faithfully recorded her expenditures over many years. Because she lived providently, she left some money she had saved for emergencies, and she left no debts! Most importantly, she had taught and inspired many others with the skills she had acquired during her faithful life.”
This made me think, what can I leave my children and grandchildren that will be of any value to them?
Money. That's the obvious answer isn't it? Well, kids, good luck with that.
I think money is a poor legacy. Well, kind of. Certainly it would be a great blessing, and if we can leave them money we will. What I'm pondering about are things that last, maybe even into future generations.
I hope they would like to know things about me, things that delight me, things that don't. Tonight, as I sat at the table, cutting and wrapping caramels, and watching a movie (with headphones on, because the TV noise drives Phil crazy) a little rain freshened breeze came through the slider, it nudged my hair a little bit and then was gone. It's cousin came later, bringing the smell of wet garden dirt, and other smells that Kramer would delight in, but that were lost to me. I was charmed by these ten seconds gifts. These kind of things are private, never told to another person, would that be something my children would like to know?
I would love to know about the things that charmed my mother. She didn't keep any kind of journal, how I wish she did.
I may start a kitchen journal and keep it there to record tiny observations, my little private thoughts. Maybe I will write about kitchen success and include recipes.
Right now (Friday) our back door neighbor boy is playing his trumpet while marching up and down his yard. He's probably about thirteen or fourteen and it is such fun to watch him and hear his music. I wonder if he's in the Timpview band and he's practicing for the 4th of July parade. I would include that in my kitchen journal. His final song was a very bumbling rendition of "The Spirit of God." I silently sang along.
So here's my question. What are you leaving your children? I'd really like to know.
PS The movie I watched tonight was A Family Thing with James Earl Jones and Robert Duvall. It was excellent.