I'M GOING TO RECREATE THE SUNDAY DINNERS I ENJOYED AS A CHILD

I have decided that, after a half a zillion years of marriage, I am going have some of the comforts of my youth--namely Sunday dinner, although not necessarily on Sunday.

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.

REASONABLE ADULT, CONTINUED

A continuation from yesterday's post, kind of.

When we came home from North Carolina--where Trent learned that "pajamas" were "jammies"--to Utah for visits and eventually to live closer to family I realized my sister, Pat, was the Queen of slang. They didn’t have “roast beef” for Sunday dinner, they had “roast beast.” If you were sick, you had the “dreaded gomboo.” She sailed through life, putting her language stamp on everything. She was delightful. Life was a lark to her and meant to be enjoyed.

Years later, when our last child, Elizabeth was little, Pat gave her a fairy princess outfit. It came with a magic wand that played music when you pushed a button. Pat could hardly wait to have Elizabeth push the button. I thought it might play the Cinderella theme, but no. It played the music to “Hang down your head, Tom Dooley.” I was horrified but before I could say anything Pat said, “Isn’t that a scream? I love it. Don’t ever get rid of that magic wand.” She laughed. “Can you imagine, some Japanese committee, picking songs for the magic wands? ‘This one sounds nice,’ they probably said. ‘Has a nice tune.’”

I never did really see the humor in it, I’ve tried but I’m still uncomfortable with giving a song about death and murder to a four year old. We still have the magic wand somewhere. It probably doesn’t work but I couldn’t get rid of it because my sister, who died not too long after this incident, had thought it was a “hoot” and if nothing else, I loved my very original-talking sister and I kept her wishes.

I will never measure up to this sister, who had ideas no one else had, but never wrote them down. (This is one of the tragedies of life.) She loved the Lord with a pure and deep love. She took Institute classes as often as she could, even though she had to have dialysis three times a week and it prevented her from doing a lot of the things she loved. She loved my children like no one else did and I think she probably watches over them from time to time.

She lived in St. George so she could have her dialysis treatments and Larry went to St. George every weekend. When she died her funeral was held in Annabella, two and a half hours from St. George or two hours, depending on who’s driving. The chapel and cultural hall were filled to capacity and carloads of her St. George friends made the trip to attend her funeral. All the florist shops in Richfield sold out of flowers for her funeral and people brought every plant and artificial arrangement available.

When she died, a light went out of the world and Heaven was brightened. I am sure the language in Heaven has changed a bit. The angels are using new words for things and they smile and laugh a lot too. They probably change into jammies when they go to bed and have roast beast for Sunday dinner—although the “beast” is probably made of some vegetable concoction.

Well, this story didn’t start out to be what it ended up like. I just wanted to remember Trent’s language degeneration but--from his comment on yesterday's post--it didn't degenerate at all. But he is clever with words. After all, he is the one who called my little desk in the living room a “clerk.” “Because it’s not big enough to be a secretary.” And it will always be the clerk until the end of time. Maybe a tiny bit of Aunt Pat lives on in my children, her children, and my sister Julie’s children too. I certainly hope so. Hillary's language qualifies. And Taylor's. And the other three are as clever as can be. I'm proud of them.

PS Yesterday, Trent commented on my post. It seems he doesn't use slang so something must have sunk in from so many years ago. And my favorite part of his comment was that he said he kneels down to have nighttime prayers with his two-year old. What a great dad my boy is.

I SANG ALTO TODAY AND I CAN'T SING ALTO

Today I sang alto, which amazed me because I don't know how. I've been a soprano all my life. But, today, for the first time in my life, I could sing alto.

My sister Patricia sang alto. Beautifully. I think she attended church with me today. It must have been her because I could find the alto notes and then, for the last song, they were gone. Naughty sister, didn't even stay around for the closing prayer.

When I get to Heaven I will ask to sing with her. I'll sing the soprano part and I'll bet I will be able to hit the high "E" again, effortlessly. I think we'll sound good together.

I miss her. I hope I can sing alto again.

IF YOU WOULD JUST DO WHAT I TELL YOU TO, I WOULDN'T HAVE TO BE SO BOSSY

I'm not bossy. I call it "persuasive."

I have been trying to get Gilmore Girl to start a blog. She doesn't speak English much, I don't know what it is, but it's funny. I think she was Aunt Pat's child, just born to me. Aunt Pat said funny things, too. They didn't have "roast beef" at Aunt Pat's house, they had "roast beast." She is the one who took the word "interesting" to a whole new level. If she told you someone was interesting you were looking for clues about why they were not normal.

I have nagged Gilmore Girl and asked nicely and blackmailed--"If you don't start a blog I will start one for you and put whatever I want and people will think it's you." And yet, she bloggeth not. Until now.

THE SILLY THINGS WE DO....

Success! It is mine.

PS She says she's doing it because she didn't journal enough--or hardly at all--but the real reason is she honors her mother. Translation: She's tired of hearing the same old argument. When I open my mouth and the word "blog" comes out all she hears is, "Blog, blah, blah, blah," and she's sick of the blah's. So, she blogs.

SIX WORDS FOR AUNT PAT'S APPROVED WORDS

Don't say butt, instead say "bottom."


(And please say it in a dignified voice.)

ACRONYMS AND BAD WORDS

I got a three word email from Surfer Girl today in answer to my previous email--I'm temporarily calling her Surfer Girl until I find the perfect title and it may even change from time to time. She's from California and even though she has a new baby she could be a surfer girl if she wanted to. This girl is so bright that she could do anything. She is married to a Rocket Scientist who really is a rocket scientist. He laughingly said that while he was getting his PhD in physics he felt stupid every day for three years.

Anyway, before Surfer Girl's three word email was the acronym "COL" which I had no clue about. "Chuckling out loud," the email said. I loved it even though acronyms usually leave me cold. This one fit. COL It may be the one I will actually use.

Well, except for the one SBD which I had to use this week. If you don't know what it means picture what would happen after eating a bowl--a huge bowl--of kale and bean soup. (I will put the recipe on my cookbook site in a day or so, it is simple and yet good.) And then picture eating another huge bowl later because it was so good and then later, looking at my middle and thinking wow, what did I eat today that I've gained ten pounds. I better not eat anything else today. And so, instead I ate just one more bowl of kale and bean soup. Later, the "Silent But Deadly's" showed up and my middle returned to normal size. So, there you have it, if you like acronyms, this may be a useful one.

I remember the time I got an acronym from an email friend--that I have never met and now have lost track of. Anyway, she wrote ROTFLMAO. I had no idea what that was and I must have spent twenty minutes trying to figure it out. I finally sent her an email and asked. Then I was embarrassed.

Not as embarrassed as my sister, Pat would have been. She couldn't abide bad words. One day Uncle Bliss was teaching Sunday School and he asked Pat to read from the scriptures. She read from John 12:15 "...behold, thy King cometh, sitting on a donkey's colt."

Uncle Bliss stopped her, "That's not what it said, Pat."

"I can't say that word, Uncle Bliss," she said.

"It just means donkey," he said.

"I know that, and if you want me to read, that's what you are going to get. A donkey."

And that's what he got.

How I miss my sister, Pat, who didn't like the word "butt" or "bum" but insisted that that part of the anatomy was a "bottom." She wasn't a prude. She had more fun than any two normal people and if you were around her for more than a few minutes you were laughing. Anytime a bad word was said in this house someone would raise an eyebrow and simply say the words, "Aunt Pat." Then the bad-word-say-er would back pedal. (Here's a post I wrote about her earlier this year.)

Her boys played on the high school basketball team and Matt told me that one night one of the players said a bad word during play. "I could hear my mother's indrawn breath clear down on the other end of the court," he said. And then he laughed and so did I because I knew it was true. He loved her and was proud of her integrity and so was I.

I think she would be okay with the acronym SBD and she might even COL.

THE WILD JEEP DRIVER AND THE GOOD SHEEPHERDER

It was the summer of 1958. We were going on the mountain with my older sister, Pat, the breezy, confident, army-jeep-driving-schoolteacher. She was taking our group of six--we were twelve and thirteen years old—Holly, my cousin, AnnAlee, LaRee, Julie, Pam—my best friend and me on the mountain so we could have a camping experience and adventures. With Pat, there were always adventures—she could make building a sandwich an adventure.

That summer morning we climbed in her jeep and hung on--it was important when driving with Pat that you hung on. She had the top of the jeep off—she always had the top off—and the windshield down. She used to drive from Las Vegas for long week-ends and would drive the whole way, summer and part of the winter with the top down. Every truck driver along the way knew of her. She honked at waved at each one. She had a whole fleet of truck-driving men watching out for her.

That summer morning we drove away in a roar of exhaust fumes, I imagine our mothers held their breath and hoped for the best.

Once we were on top of the mountain my wacky sister showed us one of the advantages of owning an army jeep and drove us right into trouble.

“The great thing about driving a jeep,” she yelled, over the roar of the engine, “is that you don’t have to stick to the roads. Ta doot, ta doot,” she called in her musical, magic way as she deliberately drove off the road through a large valley, dotted with sagebrush. She weaved in and around the sagebrush. Looking over her shoulder she called to us hanger-on’ers, “Isn’t this fun?” And then she drove on top of a rock. The jeep had enough momentum to get halfway. It was like a green teeter-totter with one laughing driver and six terrified girls, teetering. We scrambled off before it tottered.

“Oops! Look what we did.” She turned the motor off.

We stood around the jeep with our hands in our pockets.

“What do we do now?” someone asked in a quivering little voice.

“Well,” Pat said, ignoring her. “Isn’t that something?” She didn’t seem to be concerned in any way. She actually laughed. Again. Or maybe it was just a continuing laugh. She laughed her whole life.

I didn’t laugh. I was frightened. I knew we were doomed, all alone on the mountain and it was my breezy, irresponsible, laughing sister’s fault.

We hadn’t seen anyone else all day. How long before someone would send help, I wondered. Would we be nothing but bleached bones by then? I had seen my share of Westerns and bleached bones played a big part in the lives of people who were stranded.

Pat walked around the jeep, pushing on it a bit here and there, saying things like, “Well, we’re really stuck, that’s for sure.”

She smiled. When she smiled she could charm ornery mountain lions and she charmed me. She put her arm around me and I forgave her for her recklessness. I forgave her for the breeziness and for the laughter. If I had to die on the mountain at least I would be with someone who was fun and interesting. How awful it would be to become bleached bones with a grumpy person.

“There’s just one thing to do,” she said. “We’ll pray, shall we? Then everything will be all right.”

So we gathered around and folded our arms and prayed. I don’t remember who offered the prayer. It was probably Pat but whoever it was had barely said, “Amen,” when we looked up to see a miracle coming up the draw, a sheepherder, leading a horse. A Border Collie was trotting by his side.

“Got yourself in a bit of a spot, have ya’?” he said when he got closer. He was laughing a little bit too. What was the matter with all these grownups and the laughter?

He seemed about as worried as Pat, which was not at all. The two of them talked for a couple of minutes about stuff that didn't matter one little bit in the world, like the weather, nothing important like how we were going to get rescued.

I thought he should get on his horse and gallop away to bring help. He should have yelled encouraging words like, “It won’t be long now,” over his shoulder as he disappeared in a cloud of sagebrush pollen. He should have waved his Stetson and maybe even a lariat. "I'll leave my trusty dog, Lassie here to keep you safe," he should have called. Instead he ambled, in a bowlegged way around the jeep, pushing it here and there.

“Yup. Ya did a really fine job of it.”

They both laughed. One of the girls gave a vague little laugh. I thought of her as a traitor, this was serious business. There should be no laughter.

He uncoiled a rope from his saddle and tied it to the jeep. He wound it around his saddle horn and in a quiet voice said something to his horse. The horse slowly backed up pulling the rope tight. The sheepherder made a little clicking noise out of the side of his mouth and the horse walked backwards again. The jeep made a horrible screeching noise and bounced off the rock.

The sheepherder knelt down, looked under the jeep and pronounced it fit. He and Pat shook hands, he patted her on the back.

“Well, have yerself a good time with those here girls. Maybe I’ll see you around later. Gotta check on my sheep, so I’ll be a goin’.” He led his horse up the draw and out of sight. We never saw him again and we never saw as much as one sheep on the mountain either. I watched. I watched for a sheepherder wagon. I watched for even one glimpse of white woolliness. There wasn't any. Being the fanciful person I was I wondered if he were an angel or maybe one of the "ancient ones" that come from some kind of a time warp to help stranded fools. Maybe he was John, from the Bible or one of the three Nephites, from the Book of Mormon. He was probably just a sheepherder but to me he was magical.

As soon as he was out of sight we piled back into the jeep and away we went, at speeds the same as before, if not worse, and with the same amount of carefree attitude. Pat sang at the top of her lungs, waved her arms in the air, pointing out things of interest to us. We laughed and pretended indifference at the excessive speed. I glanced at each girl. We all had had white knuckles and clenched teeth with forced smiles so I wasn't alone with my fear.

Pat didn't notice. Life was good for Pat. It was to be enjoyed, full throttle. Life was always good, wherever she was, whatever the circumstance.

An important thing happened to me that day on the mountain, besides being terrified. I learned to believe in the power of prayer. But there was a difference between my belief and Pat’s. She believed too but she knew that help was coming. She asked. Help would come. It was as simple as that. From that day on, I have believed too but she lived her whole life knowing.

My sister has been gone about fifteen years now. She died of sepsis, about seven or eight weeks after receiving a kidney transplant. She was/is the most fascinating person I have ever known and I miss her so much it hurts. She never felt sorry for herself. She never complained that she was the one to have kidney failure. She took what life gave her and squeezed every drop of fun out of it. She is my hero.

MOM'S DETERMINATION, PART II

Yesterday I wrote the beginning of this story. My sister called earlier today and I asked her what she remembered about the story. It wasn't the finishing of the house that Mom got the loan for; it was making the house into two apartments. Mom and the girls would live in one side and rent the other side out and then Mom would sell the apartments and pay Mr. Porter back. Also, it wasn't Pocatello, Idaho but Milford, Utah. So much for the facts as I knew them.

I will go back in a few days and correct the first part of this story. I also realize I've changed tenses in the two stories. I may correct that; I may not. In the meantime, here's the rest of the story. Remember, this is my attempt to write it in my mother's words. That's what writer's do; put words in people's mouths. Much of this I remember word for word from my darling mother but so many of the details are coming right out of my imagination--this is one of those times when it really is "Lynne's somewhat invented life," but it's my Mom's life I've invented. I somehow feel it's okay. Maybe she's here tonight, reading over my shoulder.

Here we go, part II.

I had the loan from Mr. Porter. I nearly danced home and when I got closer I ran. My hair came undone, I know I looked like a wild woman but I didn't care. I yelled and the girls came running. I swept them up in my arms and we twirled and twirled. They laughed and squealed. I tipped my head to the sky and whispered, "Thank you, Father. Thank you."

I put the girls down, we held hands and ran the rest of the way home, my purse dug into my side with every other step but I didn't care. My neighbor smiled and waved and then gave me the thumbs-up sign. She didn't have to ask. She knew I got the loan.

The girls and I walked through the house. "Here is where the wall will go, right down the middle. That side will belong to the other apartment and this side will be ours." They didn't understand, but they knew one thing: they had a Mom who wasn't walking the floor, worrying and fretting and being too distracted to read bedtime stories or play dolls with them or make Mickey Mouse pancakes with big ears. They had their old Mom back.

I got on the phone the very next day. I called contractors and lumber yards and appliance stores. I found a contractor who would let me help with the work so it wouldn't cost me as much. I learned how to knock out walls and hammer and screw things together.

I learned why you couldn't tear down some walls because they were bearing walls. I learned how to insulate so you couldn't hear conversation from one apartment to another. I learned how to tell if a wire was "hot" and why you had to hire an electrician and not do the wiring yourself. I learned that it was cheaper to put kitchen sinks together, one on one side of the new wall, the other on the other side. The same with the bathroom sinks and bathtubs. I learned why you didn't put water pipes against outside walls in this cold winter country.

I found that I had to tie my hair up with a dishcloth or it would be glued together with plaster by the end of the day. Plaster wasn't so good for the complexion either but I didn't care. Who was I trying to look good for anyway?

The girls were curious and got in everyone's way. I hired the neighbor to watch them. She didn't want to take money but she watched them for so many hours everyday I insisted. I knew I wouldn't be around to be her friend after the apartments were done. I hadn't told her. I couldn't. She had been so good to us.

I worked without rest. If the contractor didn't show up I called his wife.

"I have other jobs I have to do too, Mrs. Paschal. If I leave them without showing up I'll loose the job and I've got to keep everyone happy."

'Then let me know you won't be here and tell me what to do while you're at another job. That's reasonable, isn't it?"

"I guess so. Gads, woman, you've got my wife on my tail. 'You get over to that woman's house and help her out, Earl. You can't leave her hanging.'"

We laughed as he talked in a high-pitched voice. From then on he told me every time he wasn't coming the next day. He showed me what to do and I did it. Occasionally he had to re-do something, but not often.

I did all the painting. I learned it didn't pay to buy cheap paint. I leaned that about a lot of things. Buy the best and don't waste. Measure twice and cut once. The contractor was full of advice, which I tucked away in case I would ever need it again.

DeLynn came to help put the finishing touches on things. I was so happy to see her. She spoiled the kids, they needed spoiling, they deserved spoiling. We sat up late at night. Me, listening to all the things she hadn't put into letters. We held hands as we sat on the bed. I cried when she told me hard things she and my other siblings had gone through. Both of us laughed over the funny things her little girl had said, the mischief she got into.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

I didn't have an answer. I was going to go home--home to family and then I would decide. But first we had to finish the kitchen in the other apartment. The appliances were being delivered the next day and then we were done.

We turned out the lights and laid in the dark. We wondered out loud why our lives hadn't turned out like we thought they would.

"I love you, sis. Thanks for coming."

I love you too. I hope this is hardest thing you'll have to ever face."

It wasn't. I'm glad I didn't know it then. There is wisdom in not knowing the future because in some instances there would be no future. Half of us would walk off a bridge somewhere, thinking we couldn't handle a troubling future when in real life we can handle it, one little bit at a time.

We were up early the next morning, making French toast and flinging bits of eggshells and bread crusts at each other. The kids watched, wide eyed. They'd never seen their mother like this, irresponsible, wasting food, deliberately making a mess. But it was a day for celebrating. By noon the project would be done. I could put a for sale sign up and hope for the best. Mr. Porter would be paid, I'd have cash in the bank and could get on with my life.

The appliance truck came at 9:00 AM on the dot, just like he'd promised. It was a small town and the contractor had the word out: If you didn't do as promised, Mrs. Paschal would call the wives. Everyone showed up on time.

The stove in the new apartment was beautiful, clean, not like the used one on our side. I put, "scrub the stove," on my mental list of things to do. The sink and cabinets and counters were already in. The fridge was unboxed and on the porch, ready to go in when the man said some frightening words.

"I don't think it will fit through the door." He took out a measuring tape. He measured the fridge. He measured the door opening.

"Nope. Won't go through."

"We'll take the door off. That's easy to do," I said.

"Well, yes, easy, but the fridge is too big to go through the door at any rate. It won't fit. Do you want me to take it back and bring a smaller one?"

I didn't want a smaller fridge. This one was perfect. It had a dent on one side at the bottom, the side that would be covered up with a cabinet. It was a bargain and heavenly days; I loved a bargain. Besides that, a smaller fridge just wouldn't do. And a smaller fridge would actually cost me more.

"What do you think," I asked DeLynn.

"Well, I don't know," she said. "It looks like it will fit to me."

"Me too."

"Ladies, look at this." He pulled out his measuring tape. He measured the fridge. "See here?" We looked. Then he measured the door opening. "See here? One eighth inch. There's no way I can get that fridge in with one eighth inch leeway. I'll have to take it back."

I looked at DeLynn. "We can do it," she mouthed behind his back, nodding her head.

"No, leave it here. If I change my mind I'll call."

"There'll be an extra charge if I have to take it back later."

I nodded. He tossed the cardboard in the truck, shaking his head and muttering to himself. He loaded his dolly, got in his truck, slammed the door and left. We watched until he was out of sight. Then we looked at the fridge and then looked at each other. She grimaced and shrugged. I shrugged too.

"Okay, then. We'll just "walk" it in and be done with it. Right? It might take a little bit of time but we can do it."

We took the door off and leaned it against the wall in the kitchen and then DeLynn and I "walked" the fridge. We walked it until noon. She was trapped in the new apartment so I went to the other side and made sandwiches and pushed them over the top of the fridge.

"Good thing the bathroom is functional," she said. We laughed and joked and walked the fridge until dinnertime.

The kids had wandered around all afternoon, making me hold them up to the kitchen window so they could wave at their Aunt Dee. They played in the dirt and played with rocks, they rocked their baby dolls and were as good as gold while their insane mother and equally insane Aunt walked and walked and walked a fridge that didn't want to be walked.

"I've got to go feed the kids."

"I know it. I'll be right here." She snorted. I snorted too and then we laughed. "What have we got ourselves into?" she said from the other side of the fridge. I didn't have an answer.

I went home and got the kids some dinner and then took her a plate and pushed it across the top of the fridge. I went back and got the kids ready for bed. She sat on the kitchen floor and ate and then waited. When the kids were all settled I came back and we walked and walked and walked that doggone fridge. At 2:00 AM we were done.

"I knew it could be done," she said dancing around the kitchen, swinging her hips. "What does that appliance man know, anyway?"

We laughed and hung on each other with fatigue. We walked the fridge into place, it took about two minutes, we plugged it in and then we stood back and looked at it. We both sighed at the same time in the same way. We leaned the door against the opening and went next door to bed. We laid in the dark.

"I'm sorry I said I thought the fridge would fit through the door."

I started to laugh. I couldn't help it. I tried to be quiet so I wouldn't wake the kids but the more I tried the harder I laughed. DeLynn laughed too.

"What will happen when this fridge dies on day and the owners have to replace it?"

"They will have to tip it over on its side and turn it into a couch because there's no way it's going out that door."

"It will be a 'cool’ couch.”

"One with shelves for holding books and pop and boxes of Kleenex."

"It will have its own light, for reading by."

"Easy to clean, just wipe it down."

We could hardly talk for laughing. The light went on in the hall.

"Uh oh, Pat's up," I whispered.

She stood in the door, rubbing her eyes. "You woke me up."

"Come here, baby," I opened my arms and she climbed in bed and snuggled down. "This is what it's all about, isn't it?"

"Yes," DeLynn said. "This is what it's all about."

And now, all these years later--sixty-seven years later--it's still true. It's about family. It’s about determination that makes all things possible, even moving a fridge through a door that's too doggoned small.

MOM'S DETERMINATION, PART I

I don't know if Mom's trials made her determined or if she was determined from the start. Two days ago I gave you the story of Mom's first marriage. Today is the first part of the story of what happened after Fred died. I'll try to do it in her voice. I don't remember the name of the banker, even though Mom told me countless times. I'm going to call him Mr. Porter. Here we go:

The last bit of dirt was smacked down with the back of the shovel. That was it. Fred was buried. I stood, holding Pat and Julie's hands. Would they be like him? Would they remember him? Maybe Pat would, Julie was only two, probably not, for her.

I want to go home. Home to my family. Home to Dad and Aunt Lizzie, home to Bliss and Tom, Lillian and DeLynn. Home to cousins for my little girls. Home where I can have help. I'll have to make a living. I can't do it without help. I want to go home but I have the house, here in Pocatello. Half finished. I could sell it cheap but if I finish it, I'll have more money to start with. More money for whatever I have to do. Alone. No, not alone. Together with my girls.

The bank opens at 9:00 so I'm here at fifteen minutes till. I sit on the bench by the door. My feet close together, my skirt tucked tight around my legs, my purse clutched on my knees. I polished it and my shoes last night. My hair is tidy, lipstick on, nose powdered. I clutch my arms to my sides in hopes of keeping the perspiration contained. It's not hot but I feel hot. I should have had a drink of water before I left the house. I could spit cotton.

Here comes Mr. Porter. It's ten minutes to nine. He takes his keys out of his pocket, looks at his watch and opens the door. It closes and I hear the key turn again. In seven minutes I hear the key turn again and the blinds on the door are opened. I see his hand turn the sign to "Open." The clerks start arriving. I stand up, pull my skirt straight and open the door. It's cool inside. The overhead fan is turning with a slow whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.

"Can I help you?" a friendly looking man says.

"I'd like to speak to Mr. Porter." I say it as if I have every right to be here.

He motions to a chair and I sit on the edge. In a few minutes I'm shown into Mr. Porter's office. I wipe my free hand on my skirt and extend it to him. He shakes it and motions for me to sit down.

I introduce myself and tell him my story. He nods. I'm encouraged. "What do you have as collateral?" he asks.

"All I have is the house. When I finish it I can pay you back, but I've got to have money to buy materials."

He temples his fingers in front of his nose. Then he sighs.

"Well," Mrs. Paschal, "I'll give it to you straight. Without collateral I can't loan you ten cents. It's not my decision, I have partners and a board of directors and those are the hard and fast rules. Times are hard. I'm running a bank and it has to make a profit. I'm sorry."

He stands up. I'm dismissed. I shake his hand and walk out through his door, through the bank and out the front door. I'm half a block away when the tears start. I duck into a doorway and wipe my eyes, take a deep breath and walk home to get the girls from the neighbor.

"Did you get the loan?" she asks.

"No, but I will."

And then I take the girls home.

Every morning I am sitting on the bench at fifteen minutes to nine. Every morning Mr. Porter avoids my eyes and every morning I am ushered into his office. Every day he says he's sorry and every day I say I will be back until he gives me a loan.

One morning he doesn't avoid my eyes. "Good morning, Mrs. Paschal. Won't you come in?" He takes me in and locks the door behind himself, just like every morning but I'm on the inside this time.

We sit down in his office and he says, "Mrs Paschal, I can't give you a bank loan. You know that."

I start to say something and he holds up his hand. "You'll be here every morning, asking for a loan until you're too old and feeble to walk. and I'll be dead and buried by that time."

I smile.

"What I'm going to do, Mrs. Paschal, is give you a personal loan, out of my own pocket because someone as persistent as you will pay me back. You will, won't you?

I nod my head and start to say something.

He holds up his hand again. "So, Mrs. Paschal, this loan won't have paperwork. Bring your bills to me and I'll pay them and keep a running total. When you sell the house you can pay me back. With interest. The going rate. Will that be okay?"

I'm speechless and just nod my head again.

"I thought so. Shall we shake hands on the deal?"

We do. I walk out with him and I realize I have a bank loan in less time than it takes for him to unlock the door for the tellers.

I order the materials and Mr. Porter pays for them. I hammer and patch and paint. DeLynn comes to help. Mr. Porter is about to get paid back but first we have the kitchen appliances to order and get in and then I can sell the house. As soon as it sells I can pay off my loan and we can move home. DeLynn is going to stay with me until the very end.

To be finished tomorrow....