There once was a girl named Jessica,
Played guitar, flute, not harmonica.
She was part of a set,
With hair white as spun gold,
Giggles, a wee "Miss" America.
Although she was born after her twin,
A cute dimple on cheek, not her chin,
Baby brother knew soon,
Of the two, she would be,
In charge, though she'd do it with a grin.
Known as Jessi, Jess, or Kabeski,
Of her siblings, born last--the baby.
But first being tallest,
Performed the best tantrums,
A charmer, a darling, a "Sweet Pea."
Her fav-o-rites she would choose early.
Loved all things pink, cuddly, and girly.
Shared bologna at lunch,
But made chocolate her own,
And her hair changed from straight to curly!
A joiner, she played sports, she played games.
But not wins, broken bones earned her fame.
Wrist, elbow, toes, were some,
Bum hip, sore shoulder, too,
But there's one more--put others to shame.
Riding her bike, racing, no helmet!
Bike flipped, Crash! Crunch! Bare head to pavement,
Concussion, scrambled mind,
Questions--her brothers' fun,
"Stop teasing, boys, This I'll not forget!"
Work, college, fun--finds time for it all,
Medical science, her cell, the mall,
Grown now, seems a short time,
Happy Birthday, Jessi
Your twenty-first--it's one you'll recall!
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Happy Birthday, Zach - February 2
There once was a lad from Nevada.
Some say he's the whole enchilada.
He can sing; He can dance,
He's tall, dark and handsome,
A "crooner" aficionada.
Commits lines--songs or scripts--to memory,
An actor, on stage, with a story.
Amid sets he has built,
Many hours he's spent,
Theater--his la-bor-a-tory.
It seems only a short time ago.
Gram was a transplant from Idaho.
And Zachary Thomas,
Was a toddler so young,
His twin sis, and his siblings, in tow.
And quick to remind, was this Mister.
"I'm older by minutes, twin sister!"
But she paid him no mind,
She was quick to take charge,
He found it quite hard to dismiss her.
When he was asked, "Why?", "Because!" he said.
"And that's an answer!" At three? What's ahead?
His dry wit stirred giggles,
One liners, a surprise,
Comedic relief, at our homestead.
On the playground, girlfriends, oh my, Yes!
"Hello, Zach," heard mornings and recess.
After-T ball-game treats,
Were his fav-or-ite thing,
At swimming, a paid diver, no less!
Time changes all; New goals are in sight.
Twenty-one--a changed 'Opening Night'?
College classes, perhaps,
Then young minds could be taught,
Student, then teacher--fresh appetite.
A mechanical mind that still grows,
From spinning kid wheels to running shows,
Just a boy, yesterday,
Today, a grown twenty-one,
"Happy Birthday!" P.S.--He loves Oreos!
Some say he's the whole enchilada.
He can sing; He can dance,
He's tall, dark and handsome,
A "crooner" aficionada.
Commits lines--songs or scripts--to memory,
An actor, on stage, with a story.
Amid sets he has built,
Many hours he's spent,
Theater--his la-bor-a-tory.
It seems only a short time ago.
Gram was a transplant from Idaho.
And Zachary Thomas,
Was a toddler so young,
His twin sis, and his siblings, in tow.
And quick to remind, was this Mister.
"I'm older by minutes, twin sister!"
But she paid him no mind,
She was quick to take charge,
He found it quite hard to dismiss her.
When he was asked, "Why?", "Because!" he said.
"And that's an answer!" At three? What's ahead?
His dry wit stirred giggles,
One liners, a surprise,
Comedic relief, at our homestead.
On the playground, girlfriends, oh my, Yes!
"Hello, Zach," heard mornings and recess.
After-T ball-game treats,
Were his fav-or-ite thing,
At swimming, a paid diver, no less!
Time changes all; New goals are in sight.
Twenty-one--a changed 'Opening Night'?
College classes, perhaps,
Then young minds could be taught,
Student, then teacher--fresh appetite.
A mechanical mind that still grows,
From spinning kid wheels to running shows,
Just a boy, yesterday,
Today, a grown twenty-one,
"Happy Birthday!" P.S.--He loves Oreos!
Friday, January 18, 2013
The Audition
Digit was a dog of mixed breed--thought to be primarily Golden Retriever and Golden Labrador--who never outgrew his puppy enthusiasm. If the front door opened for any reason, he was out and about in the neighborhood. My family and I were in the habit of holding his collar while answering the door. On one such occasion, he moved towards the door faster than usual as I grabbed for his collar. I had gotten only the end of one finger engaged so with just one jerk forward, he was out the door lickety-split. "Ouch!" My entire hand went numb, my finger began to swell and turn a dark color. My doc., Melvin Knight, pronounced it, "Broken. Snapped clear through!" This was a big deal. A very b-i-g deal! I had commitments!
The wedding was scheduled in a week or so, for the only daughter of Bonnie Faucett. For the ceremony, the bride, Amy, had requested traditional organ music for the processional, her entrance--"Here Comes the Bride"--and the recessional following the "I do's". None of these were simple pieces to play, for me, a "pretend" organist, so I'd spent time, sometimes at odd hours, at the Sparks Stake Center, practicing...a lot. She also requested, piano background music throughout the reception and I would accompany the soloist--her brother, Mike, during several interludes. Amy had personally chosen much of the music for the event, enough to fill an inches-thick binder that I'd put together. This was a paid gig; I wanted smooth transitions.
The soloist was well rehearsed. I'd adjusted my work schedule to meet the needs of the bridal party, for that day and, I thought I could still play despite the splinted finger. Rheumatoid had, over time, demanded that I be quick to improvise during flares. I thought I could do the same with an injury but no, a few days before the wedding, I had to make that awful phone call to Amy to give her the news. There was a gasp, and then total silence for a few seconds. "I have arranged for someone else to take over," I offered. Sue, a fellow pianist, graciously took my carefully laid out binder with all the music, the notes and instructions in response to my SOS call and I went home to have a good, old fashioned, cleansing cry.
For me, playing piano and organ meant more than just providing a sweet service or fulfilling a commitment. With RA running wild throughout my body, I was totally invested in keeping my hands conditioned and capable. I accepted every opportunity to play and felt grateful for remissions enough to be able to do it again, ... at that time, with almost as much freedom and skill as I remembered having in pre-RA days.
Weeks went by; Healing was slow. At work, I had become a pro at figuring out ways to type and perform other tasks, sometimes without the use of all 10 fingers but at the piano, the brace and the hurt finger were constantly in the way. Without the brace, the finger could not stand up to the pressure of pushing down a key, yet. As part of a Stake calling, I visited a Relief Society gathering in one of the wards. The Sunday meeting was about to start but no one had appeared to take care of the music so, somewhat out of habit, I found myself walking to the piano bench. The hymn was sufficient for our needs that day though I ended up playing but a melody plus a few notes with what fingers I had working. The additional notes and tones introduced had never before been associated with that particular piece of music, as the finger brace clicked along for the ride over the keys.
The Oakland Temple was re-opening after a period of closure for cleaning and repair. President Pappa--the Oakland Temple President--and his wife were to be featured speakers at a special fireside. I'd been working closely before the accident, with my Stake Presidency--Wayne Abbott, Don Johnson, Bruce Smith--and High Councilmen, preparing music and special numbers for this meeting. As we met the final time, they were pleased with my preparations but President Abbott said, "Of course, you've asked someone else to fill in for you on the organ."
"Actually, I thought I'd like to try to do it, myself." What was I thinking! The organ was a whole different process, requiring more finger dexterity and strength to depress and "crawl" over the keys. The organ has no sustaining pedal and sour notes stand out like a ... 'sore finger'.
As a personal friend,Wayne had always preceded his words of advice to me with, "You know I would never be one to tell you what to do, but...". This time, he didn't utter a word, in response. He knew there were others who could have taken my spot on that bench for this occasion. But President Abbott just smiled, then nodded. He knew how much I wanted to be the one at the organ for this special meeting and trusted me to figure it out. Me at the organ? It was not about performance. In my mind, it was always about reverence, prayer and an expression of spirit and heart, a testimony of sorts.
The meeting was tender. The Pappas were engaging, inviting and well received. I played that evening without a brace and, without pain or error. The meeting ended but the chapel was still humming with quiet conversation among small clusters of folks not quite ready to leave this peaceful refuge. As I gathered my music, Sister Pappa approached me. "Something new is being added with the re-opening of this temple," she said. "We'll have organ music played in the chapel and I'd like you to audition for that calling. But I must ask, how would you get there with any regularity, considering the distance?" "I don't know," was my reply. "Surely, there must be a way."
Driving to California was something I'd not done in a long time. The car I was driving at that time was a big, old, hand-me-down, bomber-of-a-station wagon that rarely, if ever, had brakes and tire-tread at the same time. My home-teacher, Allen Ross, had a friend, Rick Gardner, whose father owned a sell-it-yourself car lot. Rick managed the lot and was interested in selling his own car, an 80-something Honda hatchback with only 78,000 mostly open-road miles on it. I test-drove the car, the bank loan business was taken care of electronically from that lot office, so in very little time and one stress-free shopping stop, I had bought a car, the first on my own. The car came in right on the button, age-wise to qualify for a 3-year loan. Just what I had to have! Monthly payments were a dollar less than what my budget could bear! Divine intervention, making trips over the hill a possibility for me? You could say that! A funny side-line of this sale was that several years before, I had dated Rick's dad, my first date in more than 20 years!
One of my dear high council friends, Don Whittaker, expressed great concern about me making this trip--four hours one way--alone. He wasn't the only one! Perhaps to ease his own mind, he and his wife, Virginia, invited me to their home one evening, laid out a large map and proceeded to draw out the best route for me to take, marking landmarks I should watch far and best ways to navigate California freeways. It was a sweet gesture.
So everything had gone according to schedule, the day I was to appear for my audition. I'd practiced and felt prepared. There was a sense of freedom I'd not had in a long time, out there on the open road, cruising along. I'd been a passenger many times traveling to Oakland and was familiar with the immediate landscape that surrounds the Temple, and was enjoying it, thoroughly. But suddenly, towering vegetation became golden rolling hills. I'd missed my exit! Well, it was late summer. Lush foliage had grown over the sign, totally obscuring it. Thank heavens for that map. I could see where I was and where I wanted to be. A-hah! Lincoln Avenue. That looked as though it would take me right to the front door of the temple so I began zig-zaging along city streets, making my way to Lincoln, not realizing at first that I was driving through parts of Oakland a woman alone--with a driver's-side door that would not lock from the inside--should not be in. This was made perfectly clear to me at one of the first stop lights as a drunk or druggie fell to the sidewalk, just missing my car. Another staggered across, in front of me, waving his arms, pointing his finger at no one in particular, and others sat or laid against store fronts. I prayed that no one would try to open my door. I prayed that my new car would carry me out of danger. I prayed for green lights for the rest of my journey.
When I reached the temple, I was ushered into the chapel with enough time to listen to a few auditions before my time came. "Oh my, what on earth am I doing here? These are Real, trained Organists." I was not. I'd never had a formal organ lesson in my life unless you count the times my first piano teacher took me to play hymns on the organ at her church, as a part of my piano lessons when I was six or seven. By the time I was 12, I was being asked to play the organ in Weston Ward. In the church, volunteers all, we are asked to do a lot of things we've had no formal training in. Sitting there, listening to others play in the Temple chapel that day, I felt I was totally in over my head, so to speak. Then it was my turn. In all my years of performance, aside from a few nervous butterflies occasionally, I had not experienced stage fright. This was not a simple, butterfly moment. One look at the register of this unfamiliar organ, and I knew I was in trouble.
"You can have a few moments to set up or you can use the pre-sets", the temple matron said. I glanced at the panel of professional and papered musicians seated in the front row prepared to decide my fate and chose a pre-set at random. What else could I do? I recognized none of the set-ups and stops of this organ. I depressed a key just enough to serve as a bit of a sound check while trying to look like I knew what I was doing. "If they didn't suspect it before, the judges know now that I'm an impostor," I thought. I got the nod to go ahead. I was hoping I had chosen the best set-up for this occasion, but with the first chord, I heard that I had not. The sound was nothing like what I was use to on my Stake or Ward instruments so all my preparation and planning for dynamics or showcasing the melody line went right out the window.
Participants had been given the same three pieces of music, in advance, to arrange in any way they thought was appropriate for the temple. When I had finished, I didn't jump from the bench and run down the aisle. Instead, I sat, waiting to be excused, hands folded in my lap, trying to keep my composure. It seemed a long time to me, before the temple matron spoke, thanking me for coming such a distance and for my audition. "We hear a lot from local denominations about being 'spirit filled'. Sister South, you are spirit-filled. We can hear and feel it, as you play. Please, come and play the organ at the temple."
A schedule was worked out before I left that very day. I would begin at 8:00 AM and play for three hours without a break, on Saturdays, once a month. I was to be set apart for that calling on the day of my first assignment. Serving almost four years in this much beloved calling, I missed only two sessions, once because of stomach flu and again, when blizzard conditions closed the mountain before I could get out of the valley.
Meeting the challenges of a long distance commute, overcoming daily struggles of RA, remaining worthy of a temple recommend...this was a treasured and blessed time in my life. I'd like to share more of the experience in subsequent postings. Until then...
The wedding was scheduled in a week or so, for the only daughter of Bonnie Faucett. For the ceremony, the bride, Amy, had requested traditional organ music for the processional, her entrance--"Here Comes the Bride"--and the recessional following the "I do's". None of these were simple pieces to play, for me, a "pretend" organist, so I'd spent time, sometimes at odd hours, at the Sparks Stake Center, practicing...a lot. She also requested, piano background music throughout the reception and I would accompany the soloist--her brother, Mike, during several interludes. Amy had personally chosen much of the music for the event, enough to fill an inches-thick binder that I'd put together. This was a paid gig; I wanted smooth transitions.
The soloist was well rehearsed. I'd adjusted my work schedule to meet the needs of the bridal party, for that day and, I thought I could still play despite the splinted finger. Rheumatoid had, over time, demanded that I be quick to improvise during flares. I thought I could do the same with an injury but no, a few days before the wedding, I had to make that awful phone call to Amy to give her the news. There was a gasp, and then total silence for a few seconds. "I have arranged for someone else to take over," I offered. Sue, a fellow pianist, graciously took my carefully laid out binder with all the music, the notes and instructions in response to my SOS call and I went home to have a good, old fashioned, cleansing cry.
For me, playing piano and organ meant more than just providing a sweet service or fulfilling a commitment. With RA running wild throughout my body, I was totally invested in keeping my hands conditioned and capable. I accepted every opportunity to play and felt grateful for remissions enough to be able to do it again, ... at that time, with almost as much freedom and skill as I remembered having in pre-RA days.
Weeks went by; Healing was slow. At work, I had become a pro at figuring out ways to type and perform other tasks, sometimes without the use of all 10 fingers but at the piano, the brace and the hurt finger were constantly in the way. Without the brace, the finger could not stand up to the pressure of pushing down a key, yet. As part of a Stake calling, I visited a Relief Society gathering in one of the wards. The Sunday meeting was about to start but no one had appeared to take care of the music so, somewhat out of habit, I found myself walking to the piano bench. The hymn was sufficient for our needs that day though I ended up playing but a melody plus a few notes with what fingers I had working. The additional notes and tones introduced had never before been associated with that particular piece of music, as the finger brace clicked along for the ride over the keys.
The Oakland Temple was re-opening after a period of closure for cleaning and repair. President Pappa--the Oakland Temple President--and his wife were to be featured speakers at a special fireside. I'd been working closely before the accident, with my Stake Presidency--Wayne Abbott, Don Johnson, Bruce Smith--and High Councilmen, preparing music and special numbers for this meeting. As we met the final time, they were pleased with my preparations but President Abbott said, "Of course, you've asked someone else to fill in for you on the organ."
"Actually, I thought I'd like to try to do it, myself." What was I thinking! The organ was a whole different process, requiring more finger dexterity and strength to depress and "crawl" over the keys. The organ has no sustaining pedal and sour notes stand out like a ... 'sore finger'.
As a personal friend,Wayne had always preceded his words of advice to me with, "You know I would never be one to tell you what to do, but...". This time, he didn't utter a word, in response. He knew there were others who could have taken my spot on that bench for this occasion. But President Abbott just smiled, then nodded. He knew how much I wanted to be the one at the organ for this special meeting and trusted me to figure it out. Me at the organ? It was not about performance. In my mind, it was always about reverence, prayer and an expression of spirit and heart, a testimony of sorts.
The meeting was tender. The Pappas were engaging, inviting and well received. I played that evening without a brace and, without pain or error. The meeting ended but the chapel was still humming with quiet conversation among small clusters of folks not quite ready to leave this peaceful refuge. As I gathered my music, Sister Pappa approached me. "Something new is being added with the re-opening of this temple," she said. "We'll have organ music played in the chapel and I'd like you to audition for that calling. But I must ask, how would you get there with any regularity, considering the distance?" "I don't know," was my reply. "Surely, there must be a way."
Driving to California was something I'd not done in a long time. The car I was driving at that time was a big, old, hand-me-down, bomber-of-a-station wagon that rarely, if ever, had brakes and tire-tread at the same time. My home-teacher, Allen Ross, had a friend, Rick Gardner, whose father owned a sell-it-yourself car lot. Rick managed the lot and was interested in selling his own car, an 80-something Honda hatchback with only 78,000 mostly open-road miles on it. I test-drove the car, the bank loan business was taken care of electronically from that lot office, so in very little time and one stress-free shopping stop, I had bought a car, the first on my own. The car came in right on the button, age-wise to qualify for a 3-year loan. Just what I had to have! Monthly payments were a dollar less than what my budget could bear! Divine intervention, making trips over the hill a possibility for me? You could say that! A funny side-line of this sale was that several years before, I had dated Rick's dad, my first date in more than 20 years!
One of my dear high council friends, Don Whittaker, expressed great concern about me making this trip--four hours one way--alone. He wasn't the only one! Perhaps to ease his own mind, he and his wife, Virginia, invited me to their home one evening, laid out a large map and proceeded to draw out the best route for me to take, marking landmarks I should watch far and best ways to navigate California freeways. It was a sweet gesture.
So everything had gone according to schedule, the day I was to appear for my audition. I'd practiced and felt prepared. There was a sense of freedom I'd not had in a long time, out there on the open road, cruising along. I'd been a passenger many times traveling to Oakland and was familiar with the immediate landscape that surrounds the Temple, and was enjoying it, thoroughly. But suddenly, towering vegetation became golden rolling hills. I'd missed my exit! Well, it was late summer. Lush foliage had grown over the sign, totally obscuring it. Thank heavens for that map. I could see where I was and where I wanted to be. A-hah! Lincoln Avenue. That looked as though it would take me right to the front door of the temple so I began zig-zaging along city streets, making my way to Lincoln, not realizing at first that I was driving through parts of Oakland a woman alone--with a driver's-side door that would not lock from the inside--should not be in. This was made perfectly clear to me at one of the first stop lights as a drunk or druggie fell to the sidewalk, just missing my car. Another staggered across, in front of me, waving his arms, pointing his finger at no one in particular, and others sat or laid against store fronts. I prayed that no one would try to open my door. I prayed that my new car would carry me out of danger. I prayed for green lights for the rest of my journey.
When I reached the temple, I was ushered into the chapel with enough time to listen to a few auditions before my time came. "Oh my, what on earth am I doing here? These are Real, trained Organists." I was not. I'd never had a formal organ lesson in my life unless you count the times my first piano teacher took me to play hymns on the organ at her church, as a part of my piano lessons when I was six or seven. By the time I was 12, I was being asked to play the organ in Weston Ward. In the church, volunteers all, we are asked to do a lot of things we've had no formal training in. Sitting there, listening to others play in the Temple chapel that day, I felt I was totally in over my head, so to speak. Then it was my turn. In all my years of performance, aside from a few nervous butterflies occasionally, I had not experienced stage fright. This was not a simple, butterfly moment. One look at the register of this unfamiliar organ, and I knew I was in trouble.
"You can have a few moments to set up or you can use the pre-sets", the temple matron said. I glanced at the panel of professional and papered musicians seated in the front row prepared to decide my fate and chose a pre-set at random. What else could I do? I recognized none of the set-ups and stops of this organ. I depressed a key just enough to serve as a bit of a sound check while trying to look like I knew what I was doing. "If they didn't suspect it before, the judges know now that I'm an impostor," I thought. I got the nod to go ahead. I was hoping I had chosen the best set-up for this occasion, but with the first chord, I heard that I had not. The sound was nothing like what I was use to on my Stake or Ward instruments so all my preparation and planning for dynamics or showcasing the melody line went right out the window.
Participants had been given the same three pieces of music, in advance, to arrange in any way they thought was appropriate for the temple. When I had finished, I didn't jump from the bench and run down the aisle. Instead, I sat, waiting to be excused, hands folded in my lap, trying to keep my composure. It seemed a long time to me, before the temple matron spoke, thanking me for coming such a distance and for my audition. "We hear a lot from local denominations about being 'spirit filled'. Sister South, you are spirit-filled. We can hear and feel it, as you play. Please, come and play the organ at the temple."
A schedule was worked out before I left that very day. I would begin at 8:00 AM and play for three hours without a break, on Saturdays, once a month. I was to be set apart for that calling on the day of my first assignment. Serving almost four years in this much beloved calling, I missed only two sessions, once because of stomach flu and again, when blizzard conditions closed the mountain before I could get out of the valley.
Meeting the challenges of a long distance commute, overcoming daily struggles of RA, remaining worthy of a temple recommend...this was a treasured and blessed time in my life. I'd like to share more of the experience in subsequent postings. Until then...
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Ask the Lord for Help--Sometimes He Sends a Bishop
It was a clear, winter day when I slipped out of Nevada in the early morning hours before dawn. Donner Pass was…well, passable. It was a beautiful drive in my little, grey Honda Hatchback. The car really took to the open road, hugging the curves through the mountains, the twists and turns of California’s freeways.
My day, at the Oakland Temple on assignment, had been nothing less than remarkable. I took my time in my last half-hour there, savoring the experience. Someone whispered, “The President wants to see you in his office.” When I entered and was invited to be seated, he said, “You can’t leave the area tonight. It isn't safe for you to drive home alone. There’s a storm raging in the mountains and they say it’s the worse one in 50 years. Cal Trans workers are working feverishly but we don't know just when they will close the pass.”
In the dressing room, changing from temple clothes into street wear, I began talking to the Lord, as I often did, without kneeling or making it a formal prayer. “What should I do?” I didn't know my way around Oakland. I was new to the temple staff. Many, maybe even most of them, had traveled to be there, just like me, so following someone home to crash on their couch didn't seem like an option. I had $100 cash, a credit card, no cell phone but I did have emergency stuff in my car—blankets, food, water, flares, spare tire, and chains. Before leaving on this trip, I’d had brief discussions with a salesman and my son about outfitting my car with chains. There was also the possibility that for a price, I could have someone on the hill put them on for me.
DIGIT! The dog was in the house and would be getting to the end of his endurance for crossed legs and toes soon. I had to get home to let him out to relieve himself and to feed and water him.
“Is that a familiar voice?”, I thought, while finishing my preparations to leave the dressing room. The voice belonged to the wife of the bishop of the Sparks 2nd ward, Bishop Lund. “I’m meeting my husband in the front lobby. Come with me. He may be able to help,” she said. He wasn't my bishop but I knew him, though briefly, through my various church callings.
There was no sign of a storm when we left the temple that evening but as we got closer to the mountain, sure enough, Cal Trans was out in full force and traffic had slowed to almost a standstill. The pass was open but only 4-wheelers were being waved through. Anyone else wanting to continue this treacherous journey had to chain up. Lots of cars turned around and headed back in the direction they’d come. The bishop and his wife, driving an Explorer, I think it was, had been given the go-ahead but instead, he waved me on in front of him in the do-it-yourself chain-up line. And bless his heart, he wrestled those chains onto my car wheels in his good, go-to-the-temple clothes!
“I’ll follow you all the way down,” he said. It had been forever since I’d driven a vehicle dressed in chains. I wasn't prepared for the LOUD racket they make. We hadn't gone far when I stopped, sure that something was wrong. The bishop chuckled but was patient…REALLY patient for a man standing out in horrible weather, trying to urge a fellow parishioner down off the mountain.
We made it to Truckee, CA and a little beyond without further incident, driving under 30 MPH all the way. The trip down the mountain took awhile. The flashing, red signal sign reading, "Chains Required Beyond This Point", had been turned off as we reached the outskirts of Reno. This dear man got out into the cold, wet, and snowy night once again to remove my chains, then the bishop and his wife were off to pick up their kids. By inching the rest of the way into Reno, across the valley towards the East bench of Sparks, on snow-covered and slick pathways, I was home at last. Digit was more than a little excited to see me.
"When you ask the Lord for help, sometimes he sends you a Bishop," I began, speaking in church the next day. Sometimes, help comes from a home teacher, a neighbor, a stranger, earth angels all, or by being blessed and guided in realizing your own strengths and capabilities.
I've more stories to tell. They're a part of who I am.
Sunday, January 6, 2013
January - 1949
So far, this is a month of very cold temperatures with little snow on the valley floor here, in the Truckee Meadows in northern Nevada. The winter of 1949 was a cold one, too, in southern Idaho, plus lots of snow. Where attempts had been made to clear a way through, snow was piled higher than roof tops. I've seen pictures that show me perched on top of those snow cliffs, crying into my frozen mittens. Someone went to a lot of work to get me up there for a photo op. Drifts reached the eaves of our house with no help from shovels. As a five year old, I remember one of my brothers picking me up and tossing me off the front porch out into snow drifts that covered the front yard.
After Christmas that year, Mother let me go to McKay's, across the road and a little ways down, maybe a block or so, going East towards the river. I wanted to show Sondra my new dolly. I left our farm house but hadn't gone very far down the road until snow began to fall, covering tracks I was following. I got off the middle of the road a bit and kept sinking down into the drifted snow. About halfway between houses, ours and hers, I finally gave up and sat down with my doll still in my arms. I was no longer on the road but instead, in the snow-drifted irrigation ditch that ran alongside. I had sunk down into that space quite a bit and was all but buried, just my head still sticking out. Soon, I was feeling drowsy and it was getting dark. With snow swirling all around, I would have frozen to death soon had someone not come looking for me right about then. I remember sitting up on Mother's old wooden, ironing board, having my feet and hands rubbed to try to get the circulation going again. That really hurt.
I remember, also that winter, riding with my dad in the big sleigh pulled by his team of horses, Pat and Mike, as they walked over fence tops on crusted snow. In what had been a sugar beet field, Daddy would dig his way down through the frozen drifts to find beet tops left laying from Fall's harvest. He needed everything he could find to stretch his store of hay and grain and keep his animals fed. My dad worked so hard to provide. He endured much. Winters like that one could have made the best of men cranky but I never saw that in him.
It must have been that winter of '49, too--and there must have been more hard winters like it--, that our dad and his boys had to shovel a tunnel from the barn out along our lane to reach the road that passed by our place, so the milk cans could be picked up by the Cache Valley Dairy truck. Those were times it was good to be a girl and spoiled, a little.
For years, I didn't like to hear that I was spoiled but now, on another very cold, winter day, if it is "spoiled" to be inside a warm house and not out working in the frigid air, slipping and sliding on snow-coated ice, I'm likin' it just fine. It could be that "spoiled" is a part of who I am.
After Christmas that year, Mother let me go to McKay's, across the road and a little ways down, maybe a block or so, going East towards the river. I wanted to show Sondra my new dolly. I left our farm house but hadn't gone very far down the road until snow began to fall, covering tracks I was following. I got off the middle of the road a bit and kept sinking down into the drifted snow. About halfway between houses, ours and hers, I finally gave up and sat down with my doll still in my arms. I was no longer on the road but instead, in the snow-drifted irrigation ditch that ran alongside. I had sunk down into that space quite a bit and was all but buried, just my head still sticking out. Soon, I was feeling drowsy and it was getting dark. With snow swirling all around, I would have frozen to death soon had someone not come looking for me right about then. I remember sitting up on Mother's old wooden, ironing board, having my feet and hands rubbed to try to get the circulation going again. That really hurt.
I remember, also that winter, riding with my dad in the big sleigh pulled by his team of horses, Pat and Mike, as they walked over fence tops on crusted snow. In what had been a sugar beet field, Daddy would dig his way down through the frozen drifts to find beet tops left laying from Fall's harvest. He needed everything he could find to stretch his store of hay and grain and keep his animals fed. My dad worked so hard to provide. He endured much. Winters like that one could have made the best of men cranky but I never saw that in him.
It must have been that winter of '49, too--and there must have been more hard winters like it--, that our dad and his boys had to shovel a tunnel from the barn out along our lane to reach the road that passed by our place, so the milk cans could be picked up by the Cache Valley Dairy truck. Those were times it was good to be a girl and spoiled, a little.
For years, I didn't like to hear that I was spoiled but now, on another very cold, winter day, if it is "spoiled" to be inside a warm house and not out working in the frigid air, slipping and sliding on snow-coated ice, I'm likin' it just fine. It could be that "spoiled" is a part of who I am.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Happy Birthday, Max!
For Max on his special day...
It’s
somebody’s birthday,
Yup…the
countdown to six,
He’s
waited and waited,
For cake
and candlesticks.
Get set
and get ready,
Sing a
chorus, or two,
“Happy
Birthday” to Max,
Okay now,
right on cue…
“Happy,
happy birthday,”
Sing it,
out-loud and clear,
From
where you are right now,
If that
be far or near.
Max so LOVES
fine music,
He knows
the tunes and words,
To lots
of songs, … ask him,
He’ll
know, if it's one he’s heard.
Balls…all
kinds…he Loves them!
His aim
is mighty true,
Baseball
is his first love,
Soccer
made the list, too.
Don’t
forget, there’s swimming,
An active
boy is he,
Full of
laughs and giggles,
Charmer,
yes, we’d agree.
In just
these six, short years,
He’s
captured Oomah’s heart,
But of
course, I can say,
“He’s had
it from the start!”
On the day
he was born,
I, with his mother, heard,
His first
cry, Miraculous!,
Grandma heart-swell occurred.
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
Happy New Year
Written--January 1967, Yale Avenue--Salt Lake City, Utah
'Twas the day after New Year's,
And it seems all too soon
To stop the festivities,
The crowds and the tunes.
The boxes are piled
From the ceiling to floor,
Such an array of decorations,
There's no room for more.
The fairyland tree that
Stood all aglow,
Now stands on our street
In garbage can row
Gay figures, snowflakes
And twinkling lights,
They're packed away tightly
'Til St. Nick's next flight.
Pine boughs, pine combs,
Ribbon, the like,
The choirs stopped singing,
They all went on strike.
The chocolates, thank goodness
Are now almost finished,
A new diet we're trying,
Two waists to diminish.
The house looks quite bare,
Even sad, I might add,
To lose all its glamour,
The fun times that were had.
We had such a great time,
Our first Christmas as two,
So 'till next year comes calling,
A HAPPY NEW YEAR to you!
*****
Reflections written--January 2013, Waterfield Drive--Sparks, Nevada
Three months shy of our first wedding anniversary, Frank and I made that first Christmas together quite a celebration, hosting an open house in our basement apartment for about 50 friends and family. I baked for a week--cookies, sweet breads, everything served. Looking back, that was remarkable, given that I was so new to cooking, baking in particular, and trying recipes for the first time. There were no mishaps with the food, as I remember. Frank sketched, with colored pencil, a large and whimsical scene of skaters on an icy pond that we framed in pine bough and ribbon to hang behind the serving table in the small nook space where we ate our meals. I filled huge, clear glass brandy snifters with artful ribbon candy--large pieces--from Snelgrove Candy and Ice Cream Shop, framed our wedding photo in pine and ribbon and hung it above the fireplace. A holiday punch, delicious with sherbet and bubbles was served from a borrowed punch bowl.
In the weeks previous to the holiday, I spent every spare moment making white, crocheted snowflakes, four or five different patterns. And for each mention in the song, "The Twelve Days of Christmas," I constructed a figure using folded white paper and gold trims--tiny beads, braid and lace-like cord, even toothpicks for the "Drummers Drumming" drumsticks to hang, with the snowflakes, on the tree.
On the buffet, were paper choir figures singing "Silent Night", the German text I'd written in Old English lettering floated above the 'choir' amid angel hair. Stockings hung at the fireplace and three whimsical choir boys I'd fashioned from the pages of old magazines stood on the hearth.
On the buffet, were paper choir figures singing "Silent Night", the German text I'd written in Old English lettering floated above the 'choir' amid angel hair. Stockings hung at the fireplace and three whimsical choir boys I'd fashioned from the pages of old magazines stood on the hearth.
It was a beautiful, floor to ceiling fresh pine that we stationed on a wall we'd covered in red foil paper, whose branches were perfectly balanced with space enough between for my ornaments to hang properly. Tiny white lights--unusual at that time--and lots of them, completed the vision. This was the first thing our guests saw as they entered that room and it drew lots of "Ah-h-h"s. I don't remember the tree topper on that first tree but it may have been the crocheted bells that had adorned the top of our wedding cake. The whole event was a great success, as I remember it. During the holidays, we had another evening with about fifteen South relatives who had not been able to come to the open house. They loved our decorations and enjoyed the cheese ball that has become a Christmas tradition for us.
We saw the New Year in with other newly married South cousins--dinner, dancing, smothered in crowds and noise. We may have gone out into the madness of New Year's Eve celebrations again, but for the most part, I found that watching the old and spent year become a new and fresh start was a better time at home, or sometimes enjoyed with the Wilkins across the street on Bon View Drive. Pat made the best lasagna! We played games with the kids. When East coast TV's broadcast came on before midnight in our time zone, we'd blow horns, throw a bit of serpentine, pop poppers, say our "Happy New Year" sentiments, as though it were midnight where we were, too. A quick clean up and a short stroll across the street and everyone was settled for the night well before that traditional, late hour!
The South family still holds their reunion on New Year's Day, annually. The menu was the same during my years with this family, always Sloppy Joe's and lots of Jello. Frank's brother use to ask why we couldn't call them "Sloppy Frank's", instead. On this day, it was tradition that the men of the family played a game of basketball before the meal. Two Aunts, Blanch and Valois, always had a program prepared with skits and slide shows and musical performances, some only a family could appreciate, but all-in-all, a fun time.
The South family still holds their reunion on New Year's Day, annually. The menu was the same during my years with this family, always Sloppy Joe's and lots of Jello. Frank's brother use to ask why we couldn't call them "Sloppy Frank's", instead. On this day, it was tradition that the men of the family played a game of basketball before the meal. Two Aunts, Blanch and Valois, always had a program prepared with skits and slide shows and musical performances, some only a family could appreciate, but all-in-all, a fun time.
My 2012 New Year's Eve was spent mostly alone, quietly, an introvert's dream. There was some indulging in a few bites of leftovers that won't appear again for a year, and some snoozing off and on in my favorite chair, with TV and computer mostly tuned out. Some grandkids homecomings, send-offs, and one after-midnight phone greeting brought me back to consciousness. I'd missed the actual stroke of twelve and the dropping of the New York City ball in Times Square once again.
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