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....

THE SPAGHETTI WAR

Elizabeth and Jason were here for lasagna tonight. She and Phil reminisced about the pasta dinners of years gone by.

"Remember the spaghetti war?" one of them said. Then they went on to revel in the glories of a bunch of family members disobeying--the father of the group the biggest disobeyer of them all.

I think I remember how it started. Dinner was over. We were sitting at the table talking and one of the kids was playing in the leftover spaghetti with a fork. I never could figure out how much spaghetti to cook--still can't--and so there was half a serving bowl left. One of the kids asked how you tell if spaghetti noodles were cooked long enough.

"Well, supposedly, if you throw a strand of spaghetti on the ceiling, and it sticks, it's done."

Oh, oh, I thought. I hope no one picks up on that.

It was too late. Strands of spaghetti whanged toward the ceiling like lava steams, escaping from violently erupting volcanoes.

"All right, all right," I said. "Enough of that. Calm down."

Phil looked at me and I could see all his intelligence leaking out his ears. A primeval man hunkered down, his gnarly hand posed over the bowl holding the pasta. Two hoary fingers reached in, plucked a strand of spaghetti and before my very eyes the beast flung a noodle in my direction. I ducked and tried once again.

"All right, now...."

That's as far as I got. Spaghetti flew in my direction from the hunkered beast's offspring. Whap. Whap. Whap-whap-whap.

I fled. A lone woman with common sense and dignity. I looked around the corner to see total anarchy reigning. A Dad with spaghetti hanging from his ears. Children with spaghetti in their hair. Spaghetti hanging from the light fixture. Spaghetti on the paintings, on the wall, on the clock. Spaghetti everywhere. Laughter, insane laughter filled the air.

"There she is," someone said. Spaghetti whinged in my direction from all directions. Whap, whap, whap. I fled to the bathroom to pick spaghetti off my face. I sat on the step, out of sight and out of range. Occasionally I'd offer advice:

"Okay, play time is over."

I was answered with nothing but maniacal laughter.

"You are going to have to clean all that up!"

"We will," they all chorused, including Phil.

The war went on for a long, long time. When the bowl was empty they plucked used pasta off each other and threw it again. When the used pasta started to disintegrate they rolled it into pasta balls and threw those. They only quit because everyone was too tired to throw another strand. I poked my head around the door again. They somehow revived and magically found more spaghetti and it all came whining my way. I ducked back out of sight.

Finally the Neanderthal haze cleared from Phil's eyes and he became a dad.

"Okay, kids. Let's clean up."

"Aaw, Dad."

"No, I mean it. Let's clean up. Put all the pasta in the bowl."

When about half of the mess was cleaned up the beast clutched the bowl to his chest. "Suckers," he said. He grabbed a handful of ragged pasta and threw it in every direction.

Screams of delight sounded in the kitchen, drowning out the groans of the sensible person sitting on the steps.

"They are insane," I said to myself. "It comes from Phil's side. It will take generations to breed the insanity out."

When they finally called it quits the kitchen looked like a mad elf had decorated for Christmas. And to give everyone credit, they did clean up. Kind of. We plucked petrified spaghetti off various parts of the kitchen for what seemed like years.

Which, one day was the catalyst for the, "Let's see what else will stick to the ceiling" science project that my GROWN UP BOYS participated in, but that's a story for another day.

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.

MY MOTHER'S FIRST LOVE

This is a story I wrote about my darling mother's first marriage. This marriage ended about eight years later when her husband died in a car accident, leaving her with two little girls, my sisters. Most of this story is true. Part of it is made up--the little details--because Mom is no longer here to tell me those details and what's a story without a few interesting details?

Fred was a railroad worker but not the soot covered kind. He wore fresh clothes and dressed like a gentleman. I could hardly breathe when he came into the drug store. All the girls in the drugstore where I worked had a crush on Fred. He flirted with me—me, a little country girl.

When he asked me out I didn’t know what to say and when he kept taking me places, week after week, month after month, I was dumbfounded. Then, one night he asked me to marry him. I was over the moon. All the girls I worked with were jealous.

The justice of the Peace married us. I wore a pale pink suit and Fred brought me a corsage of fresh flowers. He gave me the most beautiful rings I had ever seen. The engagement ring was of silver with lacy filigree with a huge diamond. He gave me a wedding band that matched, silver lace with four perfect diamonds. He spent every bit of his money on those rings and payed for them for a long time afterward, too. I wore them all my life, through all the husbands after him, after he died and Reed died, too. I wore them always. I don’t think it bothered my other husbands because they could never afford rings like that.

I guess I never got over my first love, Fred . I wonder if any woman ever gets over her first love.

We were poor and it made no sense to get married when we were that poor but we did it anyway. We were so in love. Fred worked for the railroad and so he asked if we could use an abandoned railroad car that was just off the tracks. That was our first home. It was tiny but we didn’t care. The train rumbling by woke us up for the first couple of weeks but after that we slept right through. The train whistle didn’t wake us either.

I fixed the boxcar up cute. I made curtains for the windows and we had a little stove in there. We stoked the fire up good at night but by morning it was so cold that our bucket of water was frozen. We would make a fire and put the bucket on to thaw and when it was warm Fred would strip down and wash all over. I never looked at him totally naked. He laughed and tried to get me to but I just couldn’t.

I never saw a man totally naked until I was in my seventies even though I had been married to four different men by then. My daughter told me that men were funny looking and so I finally got up my courage and looked at my husband. The next time I saw my daughter I told her I had finally seen a man naked and that she was right. We laughed until we had to sit down and wipe our eyes. I think we laughed as much that it took me all those years to look at a man as about the fact that men are funny looking.

That first morning after Fred and I were married I got up and put on two pair of socks and all the petticoats I had and some pants under them and my sweater and my coat. I thawed the water and made breakfast for my brand new husband. It was the breakfast I grew up having. Biscuits and gravy. I loved biscuits and gravy. While I was fixing it Fred got ready for the day and when he was all ready I had him sit down and I proudly put the plate in front of him.

He took one look at it and said, “What in the 'blank' is this?”

I didn’t think a man should swear at his brand new bride and I tried not to show I had my feelings hurt.

“It’s biscuits and gravy.”

“Well, I’m not eating it. Good grief. Who eats this stuff? I’ll eat at the hotel.”

He got up and put the plate in the dishpan, buttoned his coat and left. He forgot to kiss me.

I stood there, with a fork in my hand. “I eat stuff like this,” I said in a tiny voice. “My dad and mom and all us kids ate stuff like this all our lives.” And then I threw myself on the bed and bawled like some kind of a baby. I reached out and pulled the covers all the way over me and burrowed down and sobbed. “You didn’t even kiss me goodbye.” I said into the emptiness of the boxcar.

I fell asleep. When I woke up I was nearly late for work and I still had the fork in my hand. I threw it as hard as I could and one of the tines bent. I bent it back but it always had a little wave it. We only had two forks and from then on I made sure I always ate with that one. I didn’t want Fred to ask what had happened to it. I didn’t want to tell him I had thrown a fork at him after he was gone, that he made me angry, that I felt stupid and like a little country girl when he was sophisticated.

I dumped the biscuits and gravy in the weeds at the side of the tracks where I knew a stray cat or dog would find it. I never made that for breakfast again, not once in my whole life. I kept the fork all these years and I still have it in my sock drawer. When I die my girls will find it and wonder if I ate secretly while choosing nylons and socks. I take it out sometimes and run my fingers up and down the wavy part where it was bent. I don’t know why I’ve kept it all these years. I just have.

A HEART LIKE HIS--VIRGINIA HINCKLEY PEARCE

Today I went to a Stake Women's Conference where the keynote speaker was Virginia H. Pearce, daughter to President Gordon B. Hinckley. She has written a book called A HEART LIKE HIS which I have read part of.

Why only part? Because I put it by my bedside and when I go to bed I am stumbling tired--because I stay up too late, and also because we keep the heat off in our bedroom so it's cold in there. So, to read, I would have to freeze, while yawning, with eyes watering--so the words would be blurry--when I am tired my eyes water. Sometimes, in church, People think I have been moved by the testimony of others or a point in their lesson when, in reality, I stayed up way to late the night before and am tired.

Today, Sister Pearce made some wonderful points. Since I have not read the book yet, and it was a borrowed book, which I gave back to the owner today so she could get it autographed by Sister Pearce, I don't know how closely she stayed to the text of the book. The book's owner lent it to a different neighbor, who will read it about 100 times faster than I did and then I will get it back again.

Here are a few points that were meaningful to me: (I took notes but my note taking sometimes leaves me scratching my head, wondering, what is that word and what was I trying to say, here? You will see this as you read on and perhaps you will be scratching your head too.) I won't put quotes because of the incompetent note taking. I apologize for the awkwardness of the sentences to follow but this is how I wrote them down.

Through Christ's love I can become more. Will you polish and refine me so I can be more? We are not perfect women but we are trying to become holy women. Be ye holy.

You and I are of great worth, every single one of us. Every single person on this planet is of great worth. If we believe this, it makes all the difference. If we don't believe this, it makes all the difference. We have God's spiritual DNA.

She mentioned an Olympic speed skater, whose name I didn't catch, who said she used to think her value came from her accomplishments. After she learned differently, after she learned that she was of worth because she was God's child, her whole life changed. We need to gain a testimony of our worth outside of who we perceive we are--our accomplishments, etc.

Do I have a testimony of my worth? Do I know that I am his daughter? Has the Holy Ghost told me this? The Holy Ghost speaks of things as they really are. At the moment that happens--that you know you are of worth and you are of God--your life changes. You can turn outward and help others.

She quoted President Faust--We need to reach deep within us to find our divinity. We can then find our self worth.

Quoting Elder Maxwell--Get in the way of how God has always felt about us and always will. It is about belonging to God. It doesn't matter how good you are or how bad, you are His.

We want to change to be like him.

If you are annoyed with everyone your heart is like a shriveled apple (she brought two apples that she had waded through the snow in her backyard and plucked off her tree. She tapped them on the podium and they were hard and sounded like rocks). When she is generous, full of gratitude and positive about others she has a softened hart. She pictures her heart like either the shriveled apple or the ripe fruit, then she can get out of the self-deception cycle and get on with her life.

She mentioned looking into a mirror. It's all about me. But, if we look at it not at a mirror but as a window then we see others, their needs.

There is something about looking at each other. She mentioned she goes for physical therapy and it has been all about her. Would she get better? Would her body heal? She had focused on herself and not anyone else. Then she decided that was a shriveled apple heart and she noticed her physical therapist and asked about her life. They had a good conversation and she is anxious to go back and see how the physical therapist is. Before that day she hadn't even noticed the woman's face.

Are you looking at people as objects or as a person of reverence--as a person of divinity?

All that is divine within me reverences all that is divine within you.

She mentioned a woman in the audience who we all knew, she said this woman had bad acne as a teenager. They sought treatment but the acne was still there. When she was a teen her mother told her to do everything she could to make herself look good and then, when she went out the door, to think of others. (My comment: This woman has obviously done that as she is a loving, confident person who serves and graciously cares about others.)

Be a woman for others. God expects us to love them. His love is always there but it is not available to us because we won't allow it. (My comment: I think we think little of ourselves sometimes, maybe believing, like the speed skater, that our worth is dependant on our accomplishments, when God knows all the time that we are of great worth because we are of him. We are his.)

See what you can do with your heart. See what the Lord can do if you let him.

--End of my notes--

She did mention that President Hinckley, who is 97, reminds his doctors that it is because of the prayers the people that he has lived as long as he has. He is a marvelous man, prophet, president who leads this church in ways of faith.

After the talk there were delicious treats to snack on while we put together baskets full of wonderful things for the women in the crisis center. I tracked down the recipe for the popcorn. It's on my recipe site.

It was a lovely way to spend the morning. The Stake leaders had put a tremendous amount of work into advance preparation so everything ran smoothly. I am amazed at their dedication and good works. They truly have hearts like Him. May they be blessed in ways they can't comprehend.

And may each of you be blessed to know you are of God. You belong to Him. You are of worth and are loved. If you don't believe this I hope you will do what it takes to find out it is true.

THE FROZEN PUDDLE

When I was a kid I could board the bus in one of three places. One block away, to the south (uphill, toward the mountain) at my cousin, Holly's house. One block away, to the east, by the church, or right in front of my house. If I boarded at Holly's, I got my choice of any seat I wanted. If I boarded by the church I got most any seat I wanted and if I boarded at my house I had to sit where I could find a seat. If I boarded early I could save a seat for Pam, my best friend and we could visit or read or giggle together all the way to school. At my house I had to sit with a surly boy or a haughty high school girl or wherever. I hated sitting with surly boys or haughty girls or whatevers. I would look back to see Pam sitting with someone she didn't want to sit by either. My bus stop choices affected her too.

But, I was a slow getter-upper. And I loved to stand over the heat vent in the kitchen and let my flannel nightgown fill with warm air. I would do this for a l-o-n-g time. Mother would say things like, "Are you watching the clock?" I never was. She did it for me.

Or, I was still in bed, which happened more often. She would call up the stairs a lie such as, "It's ten minutes to eight." I had a clock ten inches away and knew it was only 7:35. She wanted me to be on time and thought a little lie was necessary. And sometimes it was, as occasionally that call woke me up from a sound sleep after I had banged my alarm off and snuggled back down under warm covers.

One day--this was in grade school--I loitered in bed one minute too long--as usual--and missed the bus at Holly's. I took off for the church at a dead run, cleared the front porch steps in one leap and vaulted across the ditch. The fear of the surly and haughty gave my little legs extra oomph. In front of Lloyd Gleave's house there was always a puddle. This morning it was frozen, but I didn't notice. My heel struck the ice and down I went. I scrambled up, bare hands scraping dirty, rutted ice. I took off again, my unbuttoned coat flying behind me. I made the corner just as the bus screeched to a stop. I got on, found a seat and settled in, nursing my bleeding hands. When Pam got on I forgot all about them and we settled in to tell secrets, laugh and enjoy the warmth of friendship--there was no warmth on the bus and we could often see our breath--but the friendship was enough.

When I got home that night Mom told me the story of the tenderness of a mother. She watched from the door as I cleared the steps, jumped the ditch and then, her hands clutched to her chest, watched as I went down on the puddle. She had her hand on the door, pushing it open when I got up and took off again. She was going to go outside, gather me up, comfort me and tell me I didn't have to go to school. How glad I am that I was off and running before she got to me. I might have gloried in the sympathy, stayed home and been pampered. Instead I went to school and faced all the things that all school students face. Some good, some bad, all contributing to who I am.

I know some people have bad memories of their school years and I have my share. Friends who did underhanded things. Boys I had a crush on who didn't ask me out or boys I didn't like, who did. Teachers who ridiculed in front of the whole class--I had one high school teacher who did this--he actually hated me, I think--and the reason was because I deserved it.

I was a brat in his class. I was even a brat right to his face. I argued with him in front of everyone more than once and I think I went to the Principal's office over it, but more often than not he gritted his teeth and put up with my rudness.

I need to put those times behind me. Not forget, maybe, but forgive. Forgive those who hurt me and forgive myself for being on the other end, being in power--or supposed power--and hurting someone else . I need to forgive myself for being rude or even for not doing my best, just sliding by and not caring that the teachers were trying to change my life for the better.

I really don't know why this all came out tonight but there it is. Since I can't apologize to all those who I hurt or disobeyed or dishonored I am confessing to you. I'm sorry. I hope I have been forgiven.

I hope your good memories overshadow your bad ones, like mine do. I hope you have forgiven others and yourself and are facing each new day with courage to get up from the frozen puddle and face life running, coattails flying, knowing that good things await.

WHY CAN'T I WRITE? MAYBE I SHOULD USE THIS PEN

How come I bring two or three pens to the computer desk and in a week this is the only one left? Week after week, this one is in the drawer and the others are gone.

Today in our writer's critique group. We decided that we need some new blood to give us a jump start. And we need to do a lot of other things, none of which I seem to remember. I blog every day but today to group I took less than a fourth of a sheet of paper with anything written on it. Why can I blog but not write a story?

It's a mystery, as are the missing pens.

PS My morning song was: There is Sunshine in my Soul Today. Very nice.

SNOW AND THE MORNING SONGS

Today was a little snow, big snow day

It sifted down for hours, starting way before sunup and I guess we got six to eight inches. It made the world clean and fresh. If only it were as easy to make me the same. And I guess the message is I can do it. Little by little, sifting the bad tendencies out, embracing the good ones. Refusing to be brought down--that is the hard part--rejoicing in life and trusting that all will be well.

Embracing the joy. I think God wants us to have joy. He says so in the scriptures. If I believe Him, and I do, I should have joy. All the time? I'm beginning to think that may be possible. Even in trials and sorrows? I think if we remember who we are and where our destiny lies then I think so. Can I do this? There isn't a font large enough to say "no" with as much emphasis as I feel it needs. But can I, really is it possible? I think so. Today? No, today was not a joyful day. It was a fearful day, but should it have been? Probably not. I must learn to trust more and have more faith.

And I must re-read and then re-read again Carol Tuttle's book Remembering Wholeness. Phil read the first seven chapters to me today and then I felt better. There is so much good information coming out into the world at this time. It is a good time to live.

One of the reasons it is a good time to live is because there are some great people out there. Two friends I talked to tonight. Two friends who reassured me and offered help and an email from a family member too. (Bless you, Sharee and may your children always be obedient.) My husband, who is my rock. He helps me every day in one way or another. He is patient and not always understanding but he's getting better at it. How can you understand an irrational woman, anyway? So, mostly he's understanding even though I'm not mostly rational.

My world is full of people who are so willing to help. Some of you, who comment on my blog are those people too. Thank you, one and all for your goodness, your humor, for your own beautiful/funny/insightful/tender, etc. blogs where I spend far too much time every day.

The Morning Songs.

This morning, actually for a lot of the mornings for as long as two or three weeks, I have had the same song going through my head when I wake up. The third verse of a hymn. At first I thought it was for me but it came so often and was so persistently there that maybe it is for someone who might read this blog, too.

"Fear not, I am with thee, O be not dismayed,
For I am thy God and will still give thee aid;
I'll strengthen thee, help thee, and cause thee to stand,
Upheld by my righteous, upheld by my righteous,
Upheld by my righteous, omnipotent hand."

I couldn't remember what hymn it was for a couple of weeks. It's How Firm a Foundation. It has brought me a lot of comfort. I hope it will help someone else.

Nothing funny to report today. Some days are like that. Other days are hysterical. Come to think of it, this day will probably be hysterical in a year. I'll re-write it then and you will laugh and so will I.

Won't we?

DO THINGS WELL, LIKE KATE, WHO IS GOOD AT BEING GOOD...AND HUNGRY

This is Kate, my hungry four-year-old granddaughter. She's the one who somersaulted onto the cat and catapulted (ha!) her off the sofa the other day.





We tended Kate today and it's always entertaining to see how soon she is going to be hungry and all the things she is going to find in the cupboards to ask about. Here she is eating carrots in her tent we constructed in the family room.

Here's what she ate:

a banana

carrots

crackers

mac and cheese

a chocolate truffle

more carrots

Valentine conversation hearts

a cherry bagel

She was here a little more than three hours.

When Ruby--age 2--is here she puts everyone in the Children's Nativity set to bed, they all lie down. Kate put them all to bed, too. Even Baby Jesus got taken out of his real bed to make a bed on the cold hard ground. Poor baby Jesus.

This cabinet is one I had when I was a child. It now holds markers, paper and coloring books.

After Kate left I went outside to take a picture of the mountain but it's too hazy to get a decent one so I took a picture of my cheesy birdhouses. This is the one that started my collection--the one on the right.

Deverl--a real Mormon name--made this for us when he was our home teacher. You can tell who Deverl home taught because we all have one of his birdhouses. This one and the one you can see part of are the only ones that aren't falling apart.

I remember where I bought all the ones that are falling apart and, in some cases, I remember talking to the people who made them. One woman was so proud that she and her dad had built birdhouses together. The problem is, they stapled them, didn't even use nails. Every time her birdhouses fall apart in a new, creative way I see her face and make that noise in the back of my throat. As You can see, Deverl screwed his birdhouse together. It will still be standing after the mutants run amok.

I have told my children that one day the mutants will be marauding and I will watch from the front porch and tend the kiddies while they are off fighting the battles. My front porch will hold me and about four kids, if we snuggle. I must campaign for a bigger porch. Or less mutants. Or less me.

The rest of the cheesy birdhouses and the snow shovel, thrown in just because I forgot it was there.

This is my welcome angel. Her welcome sign now just says...well, nothing. So she's holding a sign up for all the world to see with no message. She is not representative of her owner. I always have an opinion, even if it's wrong.

And last of all, here is the big mouthed frog, hiding under the chair made of tree branches, that my children's-book-writer niece, Lezlie Evans gave me.

When she was a preteen, or in her early teenage years, she used to tell me the Big Mouthed Frog joke. I loved it. She was so dramatic. (She has more personality than should be allowed--she should have to share with someone who doesn't have enough.)

I loved her joke and made her tell it over and over. Last year, for my birthday--which is one day shy of five months away--get those presents ready--she brought me a big mouthed frog to remember her by. As if I could ever forget Lezlie.

I don't know that this post really has a purpose other than to say that if you are going to do something, do it as well as possible unless it's to be a non-lasting thing. Like dinner. You're going to eat it up and forget it tomorrow so if you make a mess of it, its no big deal. If you are going to build something like a house, even a bird house, it ought to be made well.

Although, make enough lousy dinners and one of two things will happen. You will get sick and die of malnutrition or some horrible disease attributed to your food choices or you will get taken out to dinner.

Well now.

FAMILY HOME EVENING

Yikes, it's almost midnight and I have just logged on for the day.

My friend, DeAnn, has just started a blog. Hop on over and give her some encouragement. She is doing it because I am such a nag. She will love it, and she will write some interesting things. Thank you, DeAnn.

I love it when people get tired of my nagging and do what I want.

DeAnn is one of the most talented writers I have ever met. She has a future in publishing if she can just carve out some hours every day to write. She wrote a piece about her mother that left the members of her Writer's Critique group without words. All I could say was, "Wow, DeAnn." Not worthy of her essay but that's all the words I could come up with. Maybe she will publish it on her blog someday.

Anyway, I will take her lead tonight to write a about our own Family Home Evening. Phil wanted to read together. As much as I like to do that I wanted something exciting.

Too late for a movie. I can hear you, That's excitement? Yes, our boring lives are pathetic. Other people jet off to Europe. I sit on the lawn swings--obviously not now, in the snow--but, if they were still out there I probably would bundle up and do it. Anyway, I sit in the lawn swings and watch the drama of the mountain and am content. I go to the movies--which I adore--but not R rated ones, and am happy.

So, I stood at the closet door and read off the list of games. Sorry, Clue--my favorite.

"I'm not fond of Clue," he said.

What's the matter with him? Clue is a great game but maybe because I win he does not have fond memories. Who wants to remember a wife who says, "Yes!" and slaps her hand on the table?

I read off the other possibilities. Scrabble being one. Don't let him choose Scrabble, I thought. I am not great at Scrabble unless miss-spelling and made up words count--with wonderfully believable definitions, occasionally I've even gotten away with them. If those count then I'm one fantastic Scrabble player.

So, we watched a Hallmark movie I had recorded in December. So much for making memories, for learning about the gospel or for excitement.

It's like those fireworks that I had to watch from the shed in Annabella, 5 1/2 miles away from Richfield, where the firework display was. The fireworks went "poink" (with a small "p") instead of "Whoosh! Bang!" Remind me to tell you that story someday. Right after the wooden leg one and the learning to drive one.

Family Home Evening tonight: "Poink." But luckily, I'm content.

ONE CYCLAMEN BLOOMED--THE OTHER DECIDED TO BE INTERESTING INSTEAD

This is my cyclamen. Well, this is the little one, the little one that I put outside all summer and almost didn't bring inside because it was doing nothing but growng leaves.

Well, I thought, at least it provide a bit of green on the window sill.

So, I brought it inside and about a week ago I noticed little pink buds. Now, it has actually bloomed. All by itself, without anything but a glug of water now and then.

Not like it's brother, who I paid $10.00 for less than two months ago. It had lots of blooms and lots and lots of buds and looked like it would be a wonderful winter plant, bringing a great big splash of color into winter's gray days.

Ha! It had other ideas. It came home and started to sulk and pretty soon it quit blooming. Then it's leaves turned yellow and lost their integrity.


Minkey, Mr. Annoying Cat, was the only one who was getting any joy out of it. He chewed up its leaves, not the sad, droopy ones, the ones that were still green and vibrant.

And then, Minkey, the annoying cat, tried to throw-up leaf-induced-fur-balls, which was a failure. He threw up green gunk which Phil always noticed and I did not. (I will spare you photo's of Minkey's contribution.)

"Your cat has thrown up a fur ball," he would say.

I would cringe. Why didn't I notice and clean it up before he saw it? I notice nothing, that's why. And why is it "my cat?"

At times I consider myself an amateur artist. But aren't artists the great noticer-of-things in the world? Don't they go around saying things like, "Look at that sky and that awful burned looking tree. I think I'll just paint that and make those stars look like I saw them with eye astigmatism's--that maybe could be cured by a good eye doctor, if there were such a thing in this day and age--and someday it will sell for a few hundred million dollars after I'm dead and gone."

Now, don't send me hate mail. Starry Night is probably my favorite paintings of all time. What I'm saying here is Van Gogh noticed things.

So, I guess I can't call my self an artist. Also, due to the fact that I haven't picked up a brush for almost two years might have something to do with it.

But, really and truly I don't notice things. For instance, I didn't notice that there is a whole scene in the window behind the blooming Cyclamen. A scene that for the life of me I don't know what is. I do know that the door is open, that's the door to the pantry and--I hate to admit this--it is always open. But what is all that dark stuff in the corner, one of the dark splotches looks like a heart. I am not a country clutter person with hearts and ducks and other stuff all over the place. I am a clutter person, it's true but its usually cluttered stacks of paper.

I'll be right back.

Okay, there is NOTHING THERE! No large black stuff, no black heart. Nothing. Nothing except dust, which is also part of my life because I'd rather write and stack, re-stack, and stuff papers in odd places than dust. I'd rather do laundry. Mmm, I love the smell of freshly done laundry. I sometimes open the washer and watch the clothes wash--I don't know why, it fascinates me. I'd rather load the dishwasher but not un-load it. I'd rather read blogs.

So, the black stuff is a mystery. It's also a mystery why a ten dollar plant deserts beauty for being interesting and a humble, four dollar, two-year-old plant puts forth it's best effort to bring color into my life.

LIZA'S BAPTISM AND SOME RAMBLING

This is a picture of my granddaughter, who was baptized today. She is barefoot because by the time we got to her house, after the baptism, she had already changed out of her church clothes and I made her change back so I could take a picture. She looks like she's trying to be patient with me, doesn't she? She really wants to go play with her cousins.

Her Dad had changed too and I made him change back. I'm bossy that way.

He baptized and confirmed her a member of the church and gave her the gift of the Holy Ghost. I gave a talk on the Holy Ghost before the baptism. I tried to make it simple for her and another darling little boy who was being baptized too. It was a beautiful day for us and for Liza. I am so happy for her.

She will do well in this life. She is a sensitive little soul, very caring, very loving and a hard worker. And loved by her Daddy.

Here is my son, mugging for the camera with Phil. He's such a joker, my boy. As you can see, Phil loves it.

I'd show you the picture of me but, sadly, I look my age and it makes me ill so there will be no illness here today.

This is the backyard. I am so happy to learn how to download pictures that I take pictures of everything, except for my old self. This is the arbor that one of my other sons, Bentley and his new wife, Trisha, stood in front of at their wedding reception a year ago last August. It was so hot we thought we'd die and now look at it.

That's the way things are. You can hardly stand whatever you are going through, sometimes--not the wedding , it was a wonderful thing--but I'm speaking metaphorically here--I got off on this tangent remembering the heat at the reception.

So, you are going through a bad time, a hard trial, maybe, you are despondent and sad or anxious or however you experience tough times. I get a horrible anxious feeling in the pit of my stomach and I imagine the worst. Then, six months later, you have gotten through that time and you look back and can think of it differently. I often am able to write about times of stress with humor, later--not that I'm successful at the humor but you know what I mean, at least I can see it differently. Some people can't. They never let go. They remember and are angry or sad or hurt or whatever it is that they feel justified about.

I am sad to have to admit that I am that way too with some things and wish I weren't. My birth dad got on a private plane in a blizzard when I wasn't quite two years old, with my mom pleading for him not to go. The plane crashed and she never saw him alive again. I have been living with that abandonment all my life. Angry at times, hurt at others, feeling like I was not important. I have got to learn to let it go. To realize that he, my birth father, has other responsibilities. One of them may be to watch over me, to whisper in my ear when I need help or comfort. Do I realize that? Now, as I'm writing this, I do, but not as I live my life, realizing I didn't know him, wasn't taught by him, didn't learn the things that he held dear.

Well, I had no idea this post was going this direction. Maybe I needed to think this through a bit. I really do need to let it go and not feel cheated. Mom did remarry and Daddy loved me with all his heart. He was a good father, he even taught me to drive my sister's Army jeep which is more than any father should have to do. That is another story for another time. What a dear, patient, Daddy he was.

Okay, enough of that. This is the arbor up close.

And Chloe, who lives outside and loves it. I wanted to take a picture of of Pinky--the cat--with Kate, the four-year-old, but Pinky was asleep on the arm of the couch and Kate somersaulted onto the couch and flipped Pinky, head over tail, right on the floor. Poor now-awake Pinky was frozen, wondering how he got to the floor. Walter, the pup was banned to Chloe's doghouse until all the company was gone so no pictures of him either.

This last one I loved for no reason.

Have a great Sunday one and all. Thanks for stopping by and wading through my pictures and odd thoughts.

A BIT OF THIS AND THAT AND SOME HAPPY NEWS

Before I take the decorations down--not that they will get taken down for a long time but there's always the thought that I'll get motivated--I thought maybe I'd post a couple. This is the reason for the whole Christmas celebration and I never do a good job of focusing on the birth of our Savior. By the time Christmas comes I'm worn down to a simmering frazzle. Next year I will start earlier. Famous last words.


I am so grateful to our Savior and so tender about him that it makes tears come to my eyes to even type this. He loves us so much he was willing to pay for our sins. He took not only our sins but our hurts, our fears, our loneliness and depression. He knows how we feel because he felt it. He wants us to give our sins, our hurts, our everything sad in our lives to him so he can heal us. It all started with his birth in the most humble of circumstances.

This is--what Phil calls my "Dolly Parton" or "Liberace" display. I try to restrain myself when he says things like that. Anyway, I love it and only burned part of the garland. (Don't tell Phil, he said I would and I said I wouldn't.) It was the starry, metal garland that wound through the candles--I don't think it shows up in this photo--so there was no danger of fire but still...he was right and I was wrong.

Pika, the pretty one, just wants to be admired, scratched a bit around the ears and maybe on the back and then wants to sleep under the Christmas tree. Minkey does not want to see a cat being lazy--even though he is lazy three-fourths of the time--so he saunters up to her with mischief on his mind. She is suspicious but he is nice and licks her face a bit. Just when you see her starting to believe he's a changed cat he reaches out and swats her and then the chase is on. Poor trusting Pika.

Last night Minkey decided to yowl in the middle of the night. When the dogs were here I heard nothing from him in the middle of the night. But the dogs are gone now and he knows his yowling won't bring frantic barking and scrambling to the chase so he yowls at 2:00 AM. I couldn't find the squirt bottle so I opened the door and squirted Fabreze into the hall. It did the trick. Maybe he just wanted to be freshened up.

Now the happy news. Some time ago I told you that my daughter's sister-in-law was carrying twins and might loose one. (This was in a post called A Vacant Mind.) I asked you to send a prayer in her behalf. Phil and I have been fasting for her and the babies every Sunday and praying for them every day. Her whole family has been doing the same, hoping that a miracle would happen and she would be able to carry those twins. The doctor told her to come to Utah and not worry and check with him when she got home. She went in yesterday and the problem has resolved itself. A miracle. Truly a miracle. Thank you for your help. We will continue to pray and fast on Sundays and I'll let you know when these little girls are born.

The doctor asked her if her family had been praying for her. Doctors know that some miracles cannot be explained and when they dig deeper they find out prayer and faith were involved.

I realize not all problems are resolved. Sometimes babies are lost--we lost three, one a five month pregnancy, one a four month and one a three. I didn't think I would ever carry a child to term again. I grieved, without a doubt one of the worst times of my life. I feel we will see those children again. I really do. I think God does not allow a child to be formed for no reason. I believe I will have them again. They belong to me, to Phil, to our family.

So with that I will close. I wish you all a good night or a good day or a good whenever-you-read-this part of the day. May you have peace and joy. May we all have peace and joy.

MINKEY, SOAKING IN THE FIREPLACE HEAT

This is my first attempt at posting pictures. Not very good, but I will learn.

This is Minkey's favorite place in the whole house. While Gordon and Arnold (the dogs) were visiting Minkey did not see the fireplace because he was in Elizabeth's room, sulking. He was not a happy kitty. He LOVES the fireplace. He likes it better than my lap.

"Minkey, come and sit on my lap."

"What?"

"You want me to what? Sit on your lap? Do you see this face? It's a tired face."



" I need a nap. Sorry."


He's not really sorry. And that is about all we will see of Minkey as long as the fireplace is on. Oh, wait. he leaves the fireplace to soak up the morning sun in the living room, but that's definitely it.

TIME FOR A CONFESSION--ELIZABETH DID IT

It was late at night. Elizabeth had the computer held hostage. I was bored. We were throwing things at each other, wads of paper, that kind of thing. It was her fault, it really was. She should have been more careful with her glass of water.

She should drink more water anyway, water is what keeps your brain synapses firing. Hers were sluggish, I'm sure of it. There's nothing more pitiful than sluggish brain synapses. Water makes your skin dewy, not old and wrinkly--I don't know what on earth has happened my skin because I drink a lot of water--in the kitchen, and not around the computer like some people with sluggish brains synapses that I could mention. Water removes toxins from the body--she should have drunk her water and removed her toxins. Water relieves headaches and dizziness--she probably was dizzy and didn't intercept my weapon. It is definitely her fault.

She recovered her glass of water after it emptied on the keyboard.

There was a great silence in the land.

"It's your fault," we both whispered, in case Phil was not totally asleep twenty-seven walking step and two sets of seven stairs away, through a closed door and could hear us.

"Nuh huh, it's your fault," we both whispered again.

She sat at the computer, like a dizzy person with sluggish brain synapses.

I stood up and frantically turned in a circle. That's what crop circles really are, aliens who don't know what to do next, so they just stand there and twitter. Twitterpated aliens make some amazing patterns in fields all over the world. I know these things. There was an interesting, twitterpated pattern in the carpet in the family room that night. We should have taken photos and sent them to the local newspaper.

Then our brain synapses started firing and we both turned the keyboard upside down and banged it on the desk. Water fell like rain.

"It's your fault," I said.

"Huh huh, it's yours. You were the one throwing things."

I stared in disbelief, pointing a rigid finger to wads of paper all over the room.

"I was only throwing them back," she said, "in self defense!"

I made a noise in the back of my throat, not a snort, not a growl but one of those unidentifiable noises all mothers learn to make when the their two-year-old says, "I have to go potty," and you rush them to the bathroom to find out they already did. In their big-girl-pants. The noise just gets more defined as the child grows and does more interesting things. Mine was well defined.

"Well," she said, "I was. It's a clear case of self defense." She says things like, "clear case" sometimes. She should be an attorney but with those sluggish brain synapses, maybe she will go into politics.

In hindsight I realize that the blow dryer might have been helpful. Much more helpful than the wads of tissue we squished in between the keys. Everything seemed to be fine. The keyboard was still working so we shut things off and went to bed. That's when the keyboard gremlins came out and switched wires, disconnected some altogether and fiddled with a bunch of microchips, using them as Lego's.

The next day some letters didn't work at all and others had an identity crisis. They thought they were someone else. The much used "e" thought it was an "x." We would have had to invent a new code if we wanted to communicate with anyone so we did what everyone who has committed a crime does, we decided to cover it up.

I called Michelle and explained what had happened. After she recovered from her unnecessary laughter she agreed that her husband, my son, Trent, the computer geek, had more keyboards than he needed and he would--without his knowledge--be glad to donate one to his mother. Trent's like that sometimes, being generous and doing good deeds without his knowledge.

Michelle had an appointment in Orem. We made arrangements to meet. Phil was working in the garden so I yelled over the fence, "I'm going to run an errand," and then I ran to the car, in case he asked where my errand was. I ran as fast as a person with old wrinkly skin can run when she is trying to cover up a crime. Dizzy Elizabeth, with the slow brain synapses, stayed home to guard the computer in case he washed off garden dirt and decided to check email.

Michelle and I met, we exchanged keyboards. Luckily they were identical except that the new one had a missing leg. We tried to pry a leg off the old defunct keyboard but, being weak and feeble, we failed so I grabbed the legless keyboard, hugged her and took off in a cloud of exhaust. I threw a kiss at her over my shoulder but she was laughing and wiping her eyes, and didn't see.

Once home we installed the new keyboard and put a child's orange block where the missing leg should have been. It worked beautifully. When Phil asked what happened to the keyboard leg I said, "It broke off," which is perfectly true. At some point in it's history, it broke off. I just don't know when.

"Oh," he said in a "it's no big deal" sort of way, which made me wonder if I should have just told him the story of the foolishness right then but I didn't, and now, one of these days he will read this blog and...well, he'll have a talk with Elizabeth about how she needs to drink more water in the kitchen and then we'll all have a good laugh.

Won't we?

PS Posted January 5th. I talked to Elizabeth tonight and she said, "It was your fault. You threw a pillow at me." Too bad she's not the one writing this, isn't it?

EVERYONE'S IN BED

Everyone is in bed, even the neighbors, I think.

I finally learned how to download pictures from my camera. Bentley showed me. My camera needs some updating as it seems to be weird, three flashes, is that normal? By the time the camera actually takes the picture the subject is gone. I got ghost pictures of the dogs . I shouldn't have deleted them. There may have been a message from beyond the grave--imagine scary music playing in the background.

I have two photographer's sites I check every day and several others I check in on occasionally. I am so used to looking at their excellent work that I have forgotten how difficult it is to take a really good photo. Thanks Michael and Justin. You give me something to shoot for.

The house is quiet. The thoughts, rumbling around inside my head are not. How do you quiet those? They are like ears. You can shut your eyes, but you can't shut your ears. You can not talk but the brain-talk does not shut off. I think I need to learn to meditate.

"Oooommm." It's not working. "Oooommmm"

Maybe I should shut the computer off first. I'll try that.