OBVIOUSLY, YOU ARE NEVER TOO OLD!

On Tuesdays I attend a personal history group. We write a memory from our life and read it to the group. (I've posted some of these stories here on my blog.)

We are a varied bunch. Our oldest member is 96--yes she is, and she is as bright and wonderful as anyone could imagine--we have three young mothers and the rest of us are empty nesters, or nearly so--like me. This is my "won't miss it" place to go on Tuesdays. These women are my friends and lifeline.

Today one of the women facing the big front room windows, said, "Oh, Sarah, here comes someone to your door."

Mona (the 96 year old) said, "Is it Marcia, she's going to pick me up?"

"No, it's a man."

And quicker than anyone else could say anything Mona said, "Is he cute?"

And there you have it, folks. Our bodies may get old but our minds are just like they were at age 16.

WEEVIL FOR DINNER

I had boiled a chicken and when it was cool I and cut the meat into chunks. I cooked carrots, celery and maybe peas, I don’t remember for sure. I thickened the broth, tasted it and knew it was just right. I put the chunked chicken back in the broth along with the veggies and added boiled noodles. My chicken noodle soup was as good as that served at Heaps, our favorite restaurant.

Gillmore Girl was at Emily’s and wasn’t home for dinner so we ate without her. After we ate, someone noticed weevil sitting on the top of the leftover chicken noodle soup. There were gagging noises made and then much laughter when we realized we had all eaten weevil—they must have been in the bag of noodles. "More protein," someone said, as if that made it all right. More gagging noises and finger pointing and things said, like, "weevil eater," but everyone had weevil-soup-filled stomachs so we were laughing at ourselves, too.

Gilmore Girl was due home in a few minutes. What was I going to do? We had all eaten the weevil, the soup had been delicious and I had nothing else to feed her for dinner. So I did what any woman who lived through the Great Depression would do—okay, I didn’t actually live through the Great Depression but my mother did and I’m nothing if not my mother’s daughter. I skimmed every weevil off the top of the soup and then stirred it up in case any others surfaced. They didn’t, so I was confident I had found them all. Then I warmed the soup and threatened the kids to say nothing.

Gilmore Girl came home and ate dinner. After she was finished I threw the rest of the soup out. It wasn’t until later—much later that I confessed to my daughter. There were more gagging noises and even a little anger, I think, but you know what? She is the daughter of the mother who is the daughter of the mother who lived through the Great Depression and Gilmore Girl is as thrifty as I am—maybe more so—and I think she may have forgiven me by now. We’ll see what she has to say in the comments section.

PS This is not actually a photo of my chicken noodle soup. I pulled this off the Internet. You can tell it's not mine because there aren't any interesting protein bits floating on top.

NO ELECTION TALK HERE

I will be the one lone blog not saying anything about the election. Except to say that we must work together. We must do what we can to make this country great and be the good people we are destined to be.

Now, a bit of drivel, if I could just think of something to say....

Well...I did go to card class tonight where the emphasis is on friendship, not cards--but the cards were darling too.

It is like therapy to be able to go to Gaye's, to sit and be surrounded by talk flowing around you, no one dominating the conversation, everyone loving everyone else. Earlier today my personal history group met. Everyone read different stories, we've all had different experiences, lived different lives, are different ages and yet are the same. There is deep, real friendship among us.

Tonight a friend called and we must have talked for an hour and a half, about nothing and everything.

This is the kind of thing that women need. Besides shelter and love and maybe a baby or two--or five, they need friendship. Men, not so much. That didn't read right. Women need men, at least I do, one man--Phil, that is, but men don't seem to need friendship so much. Not like women do.

And shopping. A man's idea of shopping is have a need and figure out what store carries the item that is needed. He might call first and see which store has the cheaper price. Then he goes there and buys it. Mission accomplished.

Women's idea of shopping is to go to a store or to a bunch of stores and see what's there. At any store at any time. They don't necessarily need anything, it's the "looking" that accomplishes their mission. I can't count the number of times I've been leaving to go shopping and Phil has said, "What do you need?"

"Nothing," I say.

"Then why are you going?"

"To shop."

"But you just said you don't need anything," he says

"I don't. And I probably won't buy anything, either."

"I don't get it. You don't need anything, probably won't buy anything and yet you have to go shopping."

"Right," I say, giving him a kiss. "You finally got it." And away I go.

So, nothing in this post is important, not like the fate of the nation. Or even the fate of the economy, which wouldn't be so good if women stayed home and didn't shop when they didn't need anything.

A PERSONAL HISTORY STORY--THE HERTZ DONUT: HOW TO TEACH YOUR CHILDREN THE FINE ART OF REVENGE

I had sent Kraut to the spooky basement in our Richfield house. He was trudging upstairs with the needed item for dinner when I got a brilliant idea. It was an old joke but I was pretty sure he hadn’t head it. He was the only one old enough to get the joke so I told The Brown Dot and Gilmore Girl, “Watch this.”

Kraut opened the ten-foot—or so it seemed—door and came into the kitchen trailing cobwebs—or so it seemed. The basement was a primitive place. The home was seventy years old then—it would be one hundred now and the basement seemed as old, and as spooky, as the tombs of Egypt.

“Hey,” I said. “How would you like a nice Hertz Donut?”

His eyes lit up. I could tell he thought it might have been a specialty pastry from Parson’s Bakery. He deserved a treat after going to the basement-of-dark-unmentionable-horrors.

“Uh huh,” he said, nodding and grinning.

I balled up my fist and punched him on the arm. “Hurt’s, don’t it? I said.”

The look on his little face! I regretted my actions immediately, The other kids thought it was hilarious and I encouraged him to laugh—after all, the advice my mother gave me most often was, “Learn to laugh at yourself, Lynne.” If I heard that once I heard it one thousand times. Thank you, Mother. I finally got the message.

Kraut did laugh. A little. And then he plotted his revenge. For years he plotted.

One day, when he was a teenager he came to me and said, “I’ll bet I can pull a hair out of your head and you won’t even feel it.”

No way. I have a tender head. I feel any little tug of a hair. Of course he planned his demonstration when everyone was in attendance: The Brown Dot, Gilmore Girl and there was a new audience member, Lord Bumhampton.

Kraut carefully picked out his favorite hair and just as he yanked he hit me on the other side of the head with his other hand. He was right. I didn’t feel the hair being pulled out. I may have seen stars.

“See?” he said. Of course I couldn’t hear him over the hysteria of the other three children and had to lip read. And then I couldn’t help it. I exploded with laughter.

He plotted for years and he was a success. We ought to keep this going, don’t you think? So, I’ve been plotting re-revenge for years, too. It’s almost time.

PS Twice, or maybe even three times I have taken a dozen of the best donuts I could find to Kraut as an apology. He looks at them with lowered eyelids. Can we say, "It's all right, Mom. It was a pretty good joke." After all, it's not brain surgery—which I may need someday from the whack on the side of the head. What sort of apology do you suppose I'll get?

I like "cream filled" and "lemon," Kraut.

PPS Kids, do you remember those "Alligators" from Parson's Bakery? They may have single-handedly been responsible for Gilmore Girl's romance with frosting.

A PERSONAL HISTORY STORY~~FLOUR WATER~~

I stood in front of the milk display at the grocery store. We were almost out of milk and would be for sure, after dinner. Would my milk delivery service have milk there by the time we got up in the morning? Have faith, I told myself, they’ve promised. Again and again they’ve promised. I decided not to buy milk.

The next morning, as I stood on the front porch in my bare feet, looking into the empty milk box I thought, you should have put your faith in the grocery store.

Cereal was out for breakfast; we’d have to have eggs and toast. Kraut, who was about twelve years old, decided not to have eggs. He inherited his Grandma Snyder’s stubborn gene, going back through generations all the way to the stubborn Danes—whom, I might add are also great qualities--just in case anyone from Denmark might read this, which I doubt, but you never know.

“I’m not eating eggs. I’ll have cereal,” he said in a tone of voice I had heard before. It was an exasperated, The Brown Dot-threw-his-socks-at-me-from-the-top-bunk-again-last-night-and-I’m-mad-about-it-and-nothing-you-say-will-make-me-change-my-mind-and-eat-eggs, sort of voice.

“There’s no milk,” I said.

“I’ll use powdered milk.”

“It’s not cold,” I said.

I had been “mixing” milk for some time in an effort to save money and also to use up the fifty-pound bag of non-instant powdered milk I had in the basement. As soon as it was used up I would buy a new fifty-pound bag so we would always be prepared in case of an emergency. I made a quart or two of powdered milk at night and then mixed it with “real” milk the next morning—that is if the milkman delivered. We weren’t supposed to be able to tell the difference between “real” milk and “mixed” milk. Or so the “food-storage” experts said. They were wrong but it was hard for me to admit as I wanted to be prepared.

“Just make me some,” he said, “because I’m not eating eggs!”

I mixed him a glass of powdered milk. I took a good look at it before handing it to him. It was separating, just like each batch of this milk I had made since I had opened the new bag of powdered milk. Even when it was mixed with store bought milk there was always a layer of sludge in the bottom. I had to shake the pitcher before pouring the milk. There was also residue left in the each glass. I’ll never buy this brand of powdered milk again, I thought.

Kraut poured the milk on his cereal and ate it, even the sludge.

After the kids left for school I reluctantly called the Milk delivery service and asked them again if they couldn’t get the milk to us before the kids left for school. They couldn’t. They had too many customers, they said. I thought that their milkmen liked to sleep in so I gave the milkmen the opportunity to do so by canceling my service. I then went to the store and bought milk and came home and mixed up a fresh batch of “mixed” milk so it would be cold by dinnertime.

I looked in the bottom of the pitcher. Sludge. Again! This wasn’t right. I was tired of having sludgy milk.

I opened the Rubbermaid container that I kept the powdered milk in and smelled it. It didn’t smell like anything. I rubbed a bit between my fingers. It’s didn’t squeak like the non-instant powdered milk did; it was silky smooth. Then I tasted it. It tasted like flour. I looked in the pantry and there, behind the oats, was an identical Rubbermaid container. This one had squeaky white stuff in it that tasted like powdered milk. I had been mixing our milk with flour. For weeks I’d been feeding the family milky-flour-water.

As soon as Kraut got home from school I ruffled his hair and apologized. I was grateful that besides inheriting Grandma Snyder’s stubbornness he also inherited her spirit of forgiveness. He hung his head and grinned and then hugged me back when I hugged him. Kraut could give awesome hugs and I felt some of my “I’ve-been-feeding-my-family-bad-food guilt” dissipate.

I never finished using that bag of powdered milk in the basement. I didn’t have the heart to mix milk anymore. Several years later we threw it out. If a catastrophe ever occurs we will drink flour water, just like Kraut.

MOMMA LOVES BABY

This is my friend, I call her Ella Enchanted. I talked about her on an earlier post. She is a young mother with three children. This is her youngest.

Our personal history group meets at Ella's house so she can put her baby down for a nap. Today her littlest angel woke up and came for a snuggle.

Then she went back to sleep while we talked and while the rest of us read our stories.
I wish I were a better photographer and could photograph feelings because the love this young mother has for her baby is tender. She is also fierce--she would fight tigers for this little person.

There is nothing like a mother--at any age. A mother with a baby is especially fun to watch, the tender brushing of the hair off her child's forehead, the gentle patting of the back, the kissing away of boo-boo hurts.

This young mother also writes like a dream. She writes a poem about her children every three months, chronicling their progress. The children growing up in this house are so very lucky.

And I am lucky that I was there to witness this beautiful scene and lucky to have Ella Enchanted for a friend.

"ALT TAB," DO I HAVE ANY "REAL" EMAIL YET?

Why is it that even though I have a blog to write, a personal history story to write, I keep typing "alt-tab" to see if I have any real email. I don't hope for real mail any more. I don't send hardly any myself, even though I mean to.

So, I push "alt-tab" and see I have emails from:

Flylady--I'm sure she is going to tell me to fold a batch of laundry and swish and swipe or swish and flush--I'm not kidding. She says something like that. And she tells me to put on shoes with laces. Does she not know about bare feet and summer and toe nail polish? And she'll tell me to do something to the dishwasher, either unload it, or start it, or look vacantly into it because you have lost your mind and think it's the refrigerator. It you are old you think it's the ice box.

ThirdAge Health and Wealth--I'm sure they will tell me to brush my teeth to avoid heart disease, stop eating sugar, exercise and I don't know what they are going to say about wealth. Get some, I guess.

Fire Mountain Gems Specials--they show me beads and more beads, thinking that just because I subscribed to their email service, that I'm going to become a beader...or a jewelry maker or whatever you are when you are creative and make stuff. I figured it out one day, I could buy a bunch of their beads and make something sub-standard that would only cost me twice as much as if I went to a great store, like Chico's, and bought something stylish that I would love. It might cost me three times as much. I'm not opening that email. I have made enough ugly, handmade, half finished stuff in my day that got donated to DI where someone else bought it, brought it home, looked at it for a month and donated it back to DI. Because of my stupid, half-made, ugly stuff DI has made lots and lots of dollars. They should send me an email, thanking me.

Top Secret Recipes--since he started charging 79 cents for his recipes I don't go to his site. He is grieving over my absence, I'm sure.

Some one's weekly e-zine--who is this and why did I subscribe to this? It's a mystery. Everyone should have a little mystery in their life and this, obviously, is mine. I am going to state, right here, in black and white--I want a better mystery.

Self Improvement Newsletter--As if I don't feel bad enough about myself. I'm not opening this to see what else I don't do. No sir-ee. I'll just stay ignorant and un-improved.

Health Seeker's Forum--see Third Age Health, above. They might say eat raw food, too. It seems I have subscribed to a lot of "health" type newsletters or groups. I wonder if "this means something." (Reminder to myself: add Close Encounter of the Third Kind" to my Netflix queue. Yesterday we watched another one of my interesting films. This one was completely in French with English subtitles. Phil had a nice nap while I watched. I really know how to pick winners. I should hire out as an advisor at horse race tracks.)

Early to Rise---Ha! Now I might open one that says "Early in the Morning to Bed." But I'm trying to quit. As soon as this blog post is done and I've written a personal history story I'm going to bed. I have five minutes to make my goal.

Alt-tab. Well, would you lookit that? A real email.

Bye.

SOME EXCELLENT THINGS

1. A young man from a Podunk town in Oregon who is scared to death, but has come to Provo to go to BYU anyway. I hope he does well.

2. Going to the movies--Kung Fu Panda today--with some of my excellent grandkids. Very cute movie and very cute kids.

3. Remembering that Gilmore Girl used to call our Oriental acupuncturist Kung Pao Chicken.

4. Having a story already written for my personal history group and not having to stay up late writing.

5. Having email friends. One is on the run for stealing two steak knives thirty years ago when he was just a young sprout--I've vowed I don't know him but I don't know...if I'm put under the lights I may fess up. Another email friend decided instead of thinking of all the things she wants to change she will think of some things that are excellent as they are. She is the inspiration for this post. Still another email friend sends encouraging words--even from where the deer and the antelope play. She would know that because she's been on the range and everywhere else that her husband, Columbus can drive. And my erratic emailing daughter, Gilmore Girl who will not write a blog and only sends me pithy one-liner emails and I have to call her a Cheeky Monkey. There's a lot of that Cheeky Monkey-ness going around this week, it seems. And last, but not least, a funny friend from the land up north who walked into a pole one day and has never been the same, which is all right by me because she is funny and optimistic and hard working and did I mention funny?

6. Having a husband who eats forty-'leven times a day and stays at his pre-marriage weight. It gives me someone to grumble about and, as we all know, everyone feels better after a good grumble. Thank you Honey for the reason I feel better forty-'leven times a day, multiplied by 365 plus one for leap year.

7. Sleep.

8. Cold weather today, but only if it gets hot again tomorrow.

9. Rain.

10. Toenail polish, which will soon be covered up with socks but it will be there, all winter, anyway. And fingernail polish too, which I am wearing every day for a month until I get sick of having to re-do my nails every two days.

That's it for today. Ten excellent things that I don't need to worry about trying to change.

NEIGHBORS BEARING GIFTS

Tonight three neighbors came over to sit on the lawn swings and visit. Honestly, I don't know how I rate such great friends. Not only do I enjoy their friendships but they brought gifts. Genny, whose garden is always at least two weeks ahead of ours, brought crookneck squash, the cutest tiny zucchini and bunches of broccoli. My crookneck hasn't even bloomed yet and my broccoli was interesting. You know the meaning of "interesting," don't you? It means, "Holy cow! What happened here? This isn't how things are supposed to go!" Then if things get really interesting you say, "Hey, this isn't my real life! Someone else has my real life. What is this anyway? Some weird person's life!"

My broccoli grew, started to make broccoli heads--tiny ones--and then, almost overnight it bloomed! I didn't get ANY broccoli. So, I am thrilled to have my neighbor's wonderful broccoli. I love broccoli. And I love my neighbor, Genny.

The other neighbor, Jo...let me backtrack. I am always trying to get my friends to join my personal history group. Perhaps I nag. Okay, I'll be honest. I nag. So, Jo was on the receiving end of my nagging. I'm sure I drove her nuts. She finally said, "I'll do it on my own." And she did!

Her daughter sent her one of those memory prompt books and told her mom, "I want this back on my birthday next year," but it didn't suit Jo's needs so she wrote her history and had it bound and gave it to her daughter for her birthday. She brought the finished product for me to read. I covered up her last name, in case of shyness.

I am on page seven and its been fascinating. I can't wait to read the rest of it.

This picture was taken about the time we moved in, years and years ago. I can't remember Jo looking like this, that's what happens when you are around people for years and years--you change, they change and you hardly know it.

Her daughter, the one in the middle in the back is one of my dearest friends, too. She is a gem. She came over tonight with Jo. She is always interested in my life, just like a good friend should be and I am interested in her life too. She has a fascinating life. But, not interesting, either. Her life is interesting in the non-wide-eyed way.

I am lucky. I have great friends. I hope you do too.

THE PROCRASTINATOR

Once there was a woman who thought she had stories to tell. "It's all about the stories," she said. And then she set down to write and joined a group. The self-designated leader of the group poked a non-bony finger and scoffed and she ceased to write.

Later, much later she thought she still should write so she gathered her wits--what few she had--and her self confidence and started again. Too bad she didn't know the rules. "I'm too wordy," she said, because she was.

Again she started but said, "I'll just please myself and write my own stories." And she did. She joined a group. Her stories pleased only herself and she was happy. If one of her children were in the stories sometimes the stories pleased them but she wrote only for herself. "To understand myself," she said. Sometimes the group laughed--not often but enough for encouragement. Sometimes they gasped--okay, only small gasps, but even small gasps are satisfying.

She longed to be a better writer. Smarter. To know the rules. And so she continued to say, "Yes, I'll be part of the BYU Writer's and Illustrators for Young Readers workshop," and then she did nothing. Wrote nothing.

And so it goes. Will this be the first time she will go unprepared? She knows more now, enough to know she's not going to be a great writer but does that give her the right to slack? Does that give her the right to not try to be at least adequate? Or maybe better? Surely by death she will be better. Does she have the right to not try? And die--way, way in the future--better?

Her honesty makes her wonder.

WHAT WOULD TIME-TITHING LOOK LIKE?

Today in Sunday School our teacher talked about tithing. I grew up knowing all about tithing. I learned to pay my tithing before anything else. If my tithing wasn't paid first I had an uneasy feeling--still do--so it gets paid first.

Later, sitting in Relief Society I had the thought that maybe I should be "paying" tithing on my "days." Sort of a time-tithing. Would I pay 10% of my waking hours or the full 24?

What would constitute a tithing of a day?

Scripture reading for sure. Studying for Sunday School and Relief Society lessons. Visiting the sick would count. Maybe just visiting anyone would count. Fixing meals for someone who has a new baby or for someone who is sick--that would count, I think.

I used to write letters all the time. I still have people say things like, "I was cleaning out my dresser and found a note from you." I think that would count.

I think writing my personal history would count. I need to spend more time on it anyway.

Certainly genealogy would count.

Temple attendance would count.

Prayer would count.

I think journal writing would count. That is my one big regret--not keeping a journal when the kids were little and not keeping a journal when the kids were older or right this very minute, when I STILL DON'T KEEP A JOURNAL.

So, I'm thinking about this and wondering how I would keep track of time-tithing.

MY LESSON TODAY IN RELIEF SOCIETY ON JOURNAL KEEPING

I am not the best journal keeper. It seems whenever I have to give a lesson I pick a subject that I, myself need. I DO write my personal history stories, usually one a week--I started this in in October of 2006--my good friend, Pam started this group, for which I will always be grateful--so I have about 70 stories written, a few of them are recorded on this blog.

The following are my favorite parts of my lesson. My very favorite parts are written in dark red. All the references can be found on LDS.org, under Gospel Library, then under Magazines. The one reference I took from the Internet has the URL.

I hope you will realize that your blogs are a form of Journals. But, perhaps like you, I don't back-up my blog. So, if it disappears so will every thing I have written. Not that it's great literature or anything but.... Maybe we should think of saving our blogs, somehow.


Lynne's Talk on Journal Keeping--given May 4th, 2008 in Relief Society in the Edgemont 6th Ward of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.

"… I promise you that if you will keep your journals and records, they will indeed be a source of great inspiration to your families, to your children, your grandchildren, and others, on through the generations. Each of us is important to those who are near and dear to us—and as our posterity read of our life’s experiences, they, too, will come to know and love us. And in that glorious day when our families are together in the eternities, we will already be acquainted.

"...What could you do better for your children and your children’s children than to record the story of your life, your triumphs over adversity, your recovery after a fall, your progress when all seemed black, your rejoicing when you had finally achieved? Some of what you write may be humdrum dates and places, but there will also be rich passages that will be quoted by your posterity.

"...We hope you will do this, our brothers and sisters, for this is what the Lord has commanded, and those who keep a personal journal are more likely to keep the Lord in remembrance in their daily lives." (“President Kimball Speaks Out on Personal Journals,” New Era, Dec 1980, 26)


"Journaling decreases the symptoms of asthma, arthritis, and other health conditions.
It improves cognitive functioning.
It strengthens the immune system, preventing a host of illnesses.
It counteracts many of the negative effects of stress."
(The Benefits of Journaling for Stress Management Elizabeth Scott, M.S., http://stress.about.com/od/generaltechniques/p/profilejournal.htm )

"The following are some of President Kimball’s suggestions for what to write about:
• Friendships
• Your testimony
• Accomplishments
• Blessings you receive
• Things you do, say, or think
• Things that make you happy
• Things you like about yourself
• Experiences with the Holy Ghost
• Challenges and how you handled them"
(“President Kimball Speaks Out on Personal Journals,” Ensign, Dec. 1980, 61)

Family and Personal Histories
“Elizabeth thumbed through several of the binders, reliving volume by volume much of her father’s life. Then her eyes rested upon a title: ‘To My Family on the Sixtieth Anniversary of My Birth.’ That event had passed some twelve years ago. Slowly Elizabeth read through the paragraphs. They told of the old family home, of her grandparents, and of her mother. Her father had written expressions to each of his children. A gentle peace settled over Elizabeth as she read through the lines written to her. She felt as though her father were still present, speaking to her personally. All too soon, the paragraphs closed: ‘I want you to continue to be faithful and obedient until you come to know Him [the Savior] as I know Him.’ “As she had read, a resolve grew in Elizabeth’s heart to follow her parents’ noble example and to strengthen the family ties they had cherished” (Relief Society Courses of Study 1977–78, 8).

…Not everything we write is important. Not everything we think is important. But occasionally we are in tune with God. Inspiration sometimes comes to us without our even recognizing it. At such times the Lord whispers things into our minds, and what one then writes can become inspirational to one’s descendants. When we write by the Spirit and they read by the Spirit, there is a godly communication between us and them which makes that which we write become meaningful and a source of inspiration to our descendants. (Theodore M. Burton, Ensign, Jan. 1977)

"...Since the beginning of time, Heavenly Father has commanded his children to keep personal records of their lives. And modern prophets have encouraged us to keep journals throughout our lives." (I neglected to copy the reference for this quote.)

"...Our worries can become less worrisome and our fears less fearful when we write them down. Explaining our thoughts and feelings on paper can help relieve us of the turmoil and distress we might have felt. Expressing private feelings on paper can help to heal private hurts.

"Our journals should become our own books of personal revelation. If we are careful and diligent in recording the promptings and insights we receive, we will begin to see a pattern of how the Spirit works in our lives. We will become more aware of the fact that we are indeed being guided in ways that we may not have recognized, and we will become more responsive to these thoughts, ideas, and influences as they come to us. We can be blessed as we write about our prayers and answers to prayers, our scriptural understandings, and our struggles to draw closer to the Lord." (Gawain and Gayle J. Wells, “Hidden Benefits of Keeping a History,” Ensign, Jul 1986)

"Many of us have tried to find written material on our parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, and so on. Generally, the earlier the generation, the less information about their lives we can find. Will our posterity meet with the same frustrations we have experienced when they search out information about our lives?

"Do we want our posterity to make the same mistakes we have? Or do we want them to know of the testimonies we have of the gospel and what experiences gave us those testimonies?" (Jimmy B. Parker, “A Record of Our Kingdoms,” Ensign, Aug 1976)

In conclusion, Journals provide the stories of our trials, triumphs, hurts and joys so that our posterity might have faith that they can persevere through their trials, triumphs, hurts and joys. That they might see we triumphed so that through the Savior’s atonement we can all sit down together in heaven.

I say this in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen

MY PERSONAL HISTORY GROUP

Today was my personal history group. Six of us today. Six wonderful women--yes, I'm including myself in the wonderfulness, if I don't believe it how can I be it? How can I be better if I don't think I'm worth being better for?

Here are the stories we heard today. I will not divulge much of their stories, not enough to compromise their privacy. I am giving them new names too. Here we go:

Meg didn't get married soon. She didn't get married later. She got married late. Too late to have babies. Today we heard the first bit of the romance story. Funny. Sweet. Tender. I want Meg to write this into a novel. She could do it. She's educated and I see authorship in her but don't know if she does. Who am I to say, anyway? She is writing it for her husband's grandchildren--her husband died about four years ago--she had him such a little bit of time--but I want the world to hear her life. It would be a wonderful read. Because she was single for so long she has done a lot of fascinating things the rest of us haven't had a chance to do.

Deedee read poetry, free verse, I guess it's called, beautiful poems for her grandchildren on their birthdays, telling of their lives, their passions, their disappointments and their faithfulness to their religion. She told them that she and her husband loved them. There is nothing like the love of a grandparent. She loves those children and told it wonderfully well and gave such a great summation of their lives. I know the children will treasure this poetry written by their grandma.

Julie--my favorite name, my sister got it first--told of when she was a kid and had surgery. She had a photo to show the cast, from chin to hips, her head turned permanently--for six weeks--to the right. When the cast was off her neck muscles were so weak she couldn't hold her head up. It was like a new baby's. This woman has to be reminded we need her and I am the designated nag. She is independent so I have to nag a lot to get here with us, where she belongs. And yet she is the first to tell those of us who struggle to be independent that we shouldn't be, that we are all connected, we are all one. We have to remind her to listen to herself.

Me, I'm calling myself Gabrielle from an earlier post--I read my Grandpa and the Chocolates story and then the first few paragraphs of putting it in a six year old girls voice for a book I'm thinking about writing. The group was nice about it, told me to remove the last part of the last line and it does read better. So it ends, "We sat there together for a long time."

Dani read a funny story about getting up with her baby at 1:00 (AM), 3:00 (AM), and 5:00 (AM) EVERY SINGLE NIGHT. She said she does well on not enough sleep until one night the baby decided to only get up once. The next day Dani was cranky because she said, "I got too much sleep." She told--in dialogue--all the unreasonable things she told her Kindergarten boy to do because she was too cranky to be nice. It was so funny. I would love to see it in a magazine. Young mothers would howl with laughter.

Ella Enchanted read about a blessing she wanted so very badly simply never happened. She retreated to her bedroom to grieve and told in detail the steps. We grieved with her. Finally, and for the first time, she accepted whatever God had in store for her. Truly accepted his will. It was a breakthrough for her, to accept with complete faith. I won't tell the end of the story as it is her story to tell. It gave us all something to think about.

So, there you have today's Personal History group's readings. I wish I could have a personal history group with each of you. Wish I could know you and learn from you and learn to love you as I do my friends here.

May God bless each of you this night and always.

THE BIRDS AND THE BEES--AND THE DRAGONFLIES

Mother was fidgety. She had been fidgety for a couple of months. She would call me to her, get flustered and then say, “Never mind.” Then one evening she gathered me up on her lap and read a children’s book to me. It was about dragonflies. Then we went out onto the front porch.

“Look, see here on the screen door? See all those dragonflies?”

Some summers were dragonfly summers; some were not. Some summers were giant beetles summers; some were not. This was a dragonfly summer and there were about five dragonflies on the screen door.

“Un huh,” I nodded my head.

She talked to me about the dragonflies. I stood there nodding my head but honestly everything she said was going right over the top of it. I thought the dragonflies were pretty, clutched to the screen door with their tiny feet. She kept saying that there was nothing to be afraid of. I wasn’t afraid but she kept saying, “Don’t be afraid,” so often I wondered if I should be afraid.

After our book reading and her little talk—on the porch, with live examples —Mom calmed down. For about three or four years she relaxed and then she started to get fidgety again.

One day I was in the bathroom, washing my hands. Mom barged in. “Sit down,” she said, pointing to the toilet seat. That was weird, but I sat down. I wiped my wet hands on my pants. Then Mom did something weirder. She locked the bathroom door. No one in our house locked the bathroom door. She sat down on the bathtub.

“We need to have a little talk,” she said. Then she told me some vague version of "the birds and the bee’s.” So vague I didn’t get it.

“Remember when I read you the book about the dragonflies?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, this is the same thing. Only with people.”

I still didn’t get it but she was agitated and we were locked in the bathroom and I wanted out, so I said, “Okay.”

Mom let out a huge sigh; I think the toilet paper fluttered in the breeze of her sighing.

“Well, then,” she said. "I'm glad we had this little talk."

She unlocked the door, gave me a hug—more of a quick pushing my face into her bosom, and then she rushed into the kitchen and started banging pots and pans around.

My cousin Holly called me later that afternoon. “I’ve got something to tell you,” she said in a stage whisper. “I’ll be right there.”

We sat at the kitchen table and Holly gave me her mother’s version of the “birds and the bees.” Holly’s mother’s version was more thorough than my mother’s version. Holly’s mother’s version was graphic, even. My eyes widened so much I thought my eyeballs might fall out.

“Nuh, uh,” I shook my head.

“Uh, huh,” she nodded her head. “Honest, that’s how it’s done. And then you get a baby. It grows inside your stomach and then…” She proceeded to tell me how babies were born.

Now we lived in a small town. Everyone had some kind of animals. Cows, chickens, sheep, horses, some people even raised mink. We had dogs and cats but neither one of us had ever seen “the deed” being done nor did we know how baby cows got here or baby kittens or baby babies. We were backward children with no curiosity.

Holly and I made a pact. We were never going to do "that one thing.” Not ever. But we both wanted to be married and have kids. “We’ll adopt,” she said.

“Yes, we’ll adopt.”

And then we grew up. And fell in love. And got married. Even though I never quite forgot our pact it was Holly who broke it first and I always did what Holly did. She was my leader.

And I bless her. I have five wonderful children, whom I adore. But, sadly, I could never figure out how to have the “birds and the bee’s” conversation with any of them. In that area of motherhood I am a failure. I didn’t have a book on dragonflies—not that it was much help but it made my mother feel better. I would love to have had a book that made me feel better.

Hillary, my darling daughter, says, “Yes, you were a miserable failure as a mother. I had to learn about sex,”—I cringed when she said the word, “sex”—“from my friends.”

If I had been a smart mother, I would have referred her to Holly because Holly knew how to explain things in eye-popping detail. Hillary would have gotten an educational experience she would never forget. When she was old she could have written the experience for her personal history and posted it on the Internet. Then she would have felt better. Maybe.

PERSONAL HISTORY AND KIDS MAKING THEIR'S IN THE SNOW

Today was my Personal History Group. There were only three of us there and we laughed half the time. If that isn't good for mental health I don't know what is. Two of us have kids that are grown, the other one has little people at home, her youngest is a year old. This little one wanders around, jabbering her own language, climbing on her mom's lap, swiping the phone to punch in numbers for a phone call to China--I wonder what the charges for that will be--and then wandering off again, talking it all over to herself.

We talk and talk and finally get around to reading our work. We laugh if it's funny and cry if it's sad. Carolyn read poetry she had written for two granddaughters and a son who have February birthdays. I know her son and she captured his life perfectly. I was amazed at his perseverance with life and how much he has accomplished.

Because Sarah's printer is gasping it's last, running out of ink, as she read I had to circle my favorite parts in the void of no-words and hope she knew what I loved. For someone so young she has great insights and is figuring out how to help her children grow up whole and strong. She and her husband are working together to make an incredible family. I am amazed that someone so young is so generous with her time and so willing to help others. She never suggests we ought to go home because we've stayed too long, we could probably stay for dinner if we wanted. If anyone in the neighborhood needs help Sarah offers her time or whatever resources she has.

On the way home I saw a snow fort. The daddy who lives there donated some of his indoor plants that weren't doing well and so they died a frozen life outside, giving stability to his children's creation. A red shirt and hat are one flag, there is a box, stuck on a stick--who knows what that represents--the green flag, waved at me as I passed. (These pictures are horrible, sorry. I should have taken them from a different angle.)

The untidiness of this fort is amazing. I think the neighbors are being patient because they know the parents and the kids who built the monstrosity--and because they know the sun will take care of it eventually. I saw beauty in the melting creation. On one side a plastic chair is built into the wall. Cardboard boxes originally were covered in snow rolled balls but now the snow is melting and the cardboard is bare.

I hope the children who made this fort will remember all it's details and one day write their own personal history story of how it was built. I doubt the written word will show a picture such as this. It will have turrets and majestic flags--perhaps the red one for the damsels and the green one for the knights.

There will be a lookout chair for people to watch for marauding tribes sneaking into their territory. The cardboard walls will be made of sturdy mortar with secret windows to check for danger. And inside? All will be remembered as cozy--a safe place for planning adventures, sharing snacks, bundling against the cold and enjoying the incredible gift of friendship.

Just like I found today at our tiny personal history group of three. Two women I love and shared a couple of hours with. Two women with whom I shared a story of my life and they shared stories of theirs. And laughter. Lots and lots of laughter.

It doesn't get better than this.