Excerpts from my submission to, 'A Single Issue', June 1989 - In Praise of Fathers
"Fathers! I love 'em--seasoned ones, about-to-be ones, and hope-to-be ones! Delightful is the tenderness of fathers with their children and the exuberance of children for their fathers.
President Benson has said, 'Home is the place where the Lord intended a father's greatest influence to be felt.' My father's example of working, living honestly, loving the land and all it sustains while enduring with patience and determination continues to influence his children's lives. He honored his priesthood, rendered temple service, and blessed lives, quietly.
Have you hugged a dad today? Let them know we love 'em. Help them feel our appreciation for the positive influence they bring to our lives."
________________________________
My father was 47 when I was born. Seeing old pictures, I'd like to know more about him as a child and as a younger man and father from my siblings who knew him then. I knew him for only a short time in his 50's.
I remember his beautiful, tenor singing voice and his two modes of dress--light grey striped overalls for working and a grey suit, white shirt, and striped tie for church.
He spoke when he had something to say but was otherwise, a quiet man. Oh, he hollered when he got stepped on or kicked by his animals and he may have said plenty the time I was helping him sack grain in the barn loft. Daddy needed cow feed. That meant sacking up grain take to Preston to be rolled into oats. He showed me how to hold the sack, the edge closest to me held taunt with slack around the rest of the opening making a space big enough to fit the shovel. The sack was almost full. Then I felt the tickling on my leg of tiny feet. That mouse ran up one leg of my baggy pants, made the cross-over and ran down the other leg! I shrieked, I jumped, I stomped my feet ... and ... I dropped the sack. I didn't stop to hear what my dad had to say but climbed down the loft ladder in record time and ran to the house!
When I was about eight, Daddy had me drive his little, Ford tractor hooked to the derrick. He had a team of work horses, Pat and Mike, still working the farm but I wasn't allowed to drive the team on my own or ride one as a derrick horse. I'm the chubby child in pictures of my youth, but I wasn't heavy or strong enough to push the clutch all the way down so each time I had to shift gears to go forward or back up to raise or lower the derrick fork, I had to jump or stomp on that clutch. The derrick job was a welcome change from tromping hay on a wagon moving through the field. That was a sweaty, scratchy job. Dad constantly reminded me to get the corners right to the edge. I fell off the wagon when I did that.
We cultivated sugar beets, our own and other's. Designed to be horse-drawn, Dad hitched his cultivator to the Ford with me driving while he rode the cultivator, operating its hand and foot controls, maneuvering the pairs of small plow or hoe-like blades. I was to straddle a row with tractor tires on either side, then drive a straight line down the rows. As the crop grew, beet thinning and weeding were done by hand. Dad could reach rows on either side of the one he was walking with his long-handled hoe and move through the field faster than most who helped him. My job was to follow him, pulling out the doubles he couldn't get with his hoe blade. I'd get tired and sit down in a row. He'd bring me the old canvas water bag--just plain awful tasting. The summer I was eleven, I thinned a quarter acre of beets by myself. Dad paid me $8.00!
The worst job was cleaning irrigation ditches. I had to put one side of the tractor's tires in the ditch about two-thirds down with tires of the other side up on the ditch bank. Dad would walk behind the tractor, a hand or horse-drawn plow tongue hitched to the Ford, the plow itself tied to his waist, and his hands on the plow handles. Sometimes the plow would get stuck. I was terrified of tipping that tractor over and killing us both! I cried a lot. I don't remember that he raised his voice but he often carried a treat in his pocket for me--fruit-flavored candy sticks or black licorice.
I think of Daddy changing on the back porch from work clothes to clean overalls before coming into the house and of him standing at the kitchen sink, scrubbing clean his pails and milkers. I wish I could still hear his voice the way I used to hear it as we laid on the flat bed wagon after dark waiting for help to arrive to harvest green peas. He sang, in a beautiful tenor range, while we waited. He loved a bowl of homemade bread broken into chunks, soaked in cold milk with a drizzle of honey on Sunday night after church. He made homemade, hand-cranked ice cream just about every week-end. After our mid-day meal on a hot day, he'd lay on the grass in the shade of two big old trees on the west side of the house. Dad had beautiful penmanship and always used a fountain pen. He supported Mother in her enthusiasm for pioneer celebrations by braiding his team's mane and tail, sometimes adding ribbons, and driving his team and wagon in town parades. He relished the first watercress picking and found it hard to wait for garden tomatoes to ripen. He would cut out the center of a home-grown watermelon--the sweetest part--to eat and feed the rest to the pigs or slice open a cantaloupe from the garden, remove the seeds, salt it, and fill the center with vanilla ice cream. He was timely, often standing on the church steps waiting to greet Brother Olsen when he came to open up. I've heard it said of Dad's reputation that a handshake was all that was needed from him to make an agreement or seal deal.
We shared 12 years and some months. Whether long or short the time, he's a part of who I am.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Hair Today-Gone Tomorrow
My blog title--Silver Threads in the Red--means what, exactly? I could give the short answer... but there's more to tell.
It was June 7, 1962. High school friends, Ruth Ann and Lorraine, and I settled into an apartment on the 'Avenues' in Salt Lake City, Utah. My goal: To train for a Cosmetology license at Ex-Cel-Cis Beauty College.
The College had a clean, professional atmosphere with lots of opportunity, particularly if a student showed signs of promise and was willing to put in the hours. I finished the one-year course, and the 2000 hours required, in ten months, close to the time of the next Utah State Board Licensing Exam. Instruction days were set up with theory classes in the early a.m., physiology of the upper body, chemistry, electrical currents; rudiments of cutting, perming, coloring, styling, class participants using each other to practice on; the remainder of the day spent 'on the floor'--yes, REAL people, from the beginning!
You know how soothing it feels to have someone work with your hair and scalp. I was so embarrassed my first day of being the one in the chair. I fell fast asleep in the first few minutes! We experimented on each other, too. That's how Red became a welcome part of my life.
I remember the patron who was addicted to over-processed bleached hair. She requested a perm. She signed a waiver. I was told to wrap for a perm. Done. Timed. Ready to rinse and remove the rods. That was made much easier than I expected when her hair broke off near the roots and the rods, with the lovely overly bleached-blond curls still attached, fell into the sink.
One of my first perm patrons was a smoker. She was informed of the dangers of such while strong chemicals were present. Still she continued. As I leaned her head back into the sink to rinse the perm solution off, the woman flicked hot ash into the sink, missing her hair but igniting the solution or its fumes. Talk about Snap, Crackle, Pop! She got a nasty burn blister on her neck.
I loved cutting hair but the day a mom sat her pre-teen in my chair was difficult. The child had very long, thick hair, beautiful but thinning, even balding. Brushing through it was actually pulling hair out. Keeping it pulled into a tight pony tail or braided had only made matters worse. Cutting it to a much shorter length seemed the solution. The mom would say, "Cut". And with every snip, the girl would cry and scream, "No"!
Then there was the woman who came in with a Beehived French Twist, ... lice and oozing sores all over her scalp, discovered only when I was getting her ready for the shampoo/set she'd requested. State health laws were designed to protect us and our customers from contagious disease but despite all else, I was instructed to complete this service, then sterilize or discard everything in my station. It took a lot more than formaldehyde to rid myself of the creepy, crawly feeling I had for days afterward.
For graduation, we planned a rollerskating party. As student body vice president, I had to attend but I didn't know how to skate. One of my classmates said he could teach me to skate in one, easy lesson. I was looking pretty cute in those days and liked him quite a bit so I agreed to give skating a try. The one thing he didn't teach me before he turned me loose was how to stop. The railing at one side of the rink must have been designed just for this purpose but instead of stopping, I grabbed it with both hands, coming in full speed ahead, went under it and did a complete somersault before coming to rest on the rink floor. We moved our party to a house for food and drinks. There was an orchard at the side of the property and we were playing some chase-type game. I collided head-on with a tree. It was evening! And Dark! He didn't ask me out.
The beauty about training with Ex-Cel-Cis was the job placement guarantee. I went to work immediately after passing my boards and actually got to use almost everything I had been trained to do. Helen showed me the ropes. The way things worked at school and how things were done in a salon were two different things. With Ross, salon breaks were often spent at Fernwood eating Burnt Almond Fudge parfaits. If I worked late (12-hr. days were not unusual) he drove me home. He and his partner raised orchids as a hobby, supplying local florists with fresh tropicals. He gave me a huge white Catalaya orchid, my first, for my 20th birthday.
Ross had left the salon to work with Elwood Heiner. The elderly owner of the Ex-Cel-Cis company was no longer in charge. Ross said I had a job waiting for me at Heiner's if I wanted it. And that was it. No interview. No customary audition. I was hired on Ross' recommendation, alone.
Elwood Heiner and his wife, Lou, had a small shop located in a hotel that also housed permanent residents. He paid his operators the highest commission in town. He employed a manicurist, Ailene and a wig specialist whose name I can't remember but whose walk I can still imitate. Eilene had been with Heiner's for years. Karen and another operator were about my age. There were a couple of patrons who were difficult so we passed them around. Elwood used those opportunities to remind us that, "You asked for work when you came here." And then he'd smile.
One of my memorable patrons was elderly and had but six hairs on her head yet came, requesting the works--perm, color rinse (Rose Beige), and a manicure. Each time, at the end of her service, she told the same story about being accosted by a robber in the elevator on the way to the salon and couldn't pay her bill.
There was the professional bridge player who often appeared for her appointment dressed in "paw-jah-mahs" and wearing a full-length fur coat--winter, summer, spring, fall--that she refused to take off during her salon service. Her roots were snow white but she demanded the blackest-black permanent dye for her hair and brows. A little Cruella De Vil-ish. Can you imagine if I'd gotten a speck of dye or water on that fur? I sometimes had to use every towel in the salon.
One little lady tipped me a quarter each week but four weeks prior to Dec. 25, she withheld them so she could give me a whole dollar at her final appointment before the holiday, my Christmas bonus. The elderly woman who couldn't hear shouted when she talked, more so it seemed when she learned I had gotten married and felt the need to give me advice about birth control, sex, and whatever came to mind. The entire salon got an education! Another patron could not show up on time so she was told her appointment was an hour earlier than it actually was. I wanted to be right on time for the patron who, at every visit, showed me the gun she carried in her boot.
One of my regulars, Mrs. Speros, came with stories about preparations for her oldest daughter's wedding. She and her husband were dedicated members of their Greek Orthodox Church congregation. For months, she baked and preserved all the food that would be needed for this grand affair that included a sit-down dinner for hundreds. It helped that her husband owned a restaurant. A reception on the Mezzanine at Hotel Utah would follow the lengthy, church ceremony and I was invited! I was asked to be the coiffure for the bridal party. Never had I entered such an elegant home, surrounded by gardens, fountains and statues. The wedding party left the house for the church. The bride, her father and I were the only ones still in the house. I was given the honor putting on her veil, then watching her, dressed in a breathtaking, hand-beaded dress, the veil floating on air behind her, meet her father at the front entrance to be whisked off to her fairy-tale wedding.
Barely 20-something then, with the prettiest red hair Clairol had to offer. It's a part of who I was. Silvered hair, once in a distant future, is now ...a part of who I am.
It was June 7, 1962. High school friends, Ruth Ann and Lorraine, and I settled into an apartment on the 'Avenues' in Salt Lake City, Utah. My goal: To train for a Cosmetology license at Ex-Cel-Cis Beauty College.
The College had a clean, professional atmosphere with lots of opportunity, particularly if a student showed signs of promise and was willing to put in the hours. I finished the one-year course, and the 2000 hours required, in ten months, close to the time of the next Utah State Board Licensing Exam. Instruction days were set up with theory classes in the early a.m., physiology of the upper body, chemistry, electrical currents; rudiments of cutting, perming, coloring, styling, class participants using each other to practice on; the remainder of the day spent 'on the floor'--yes, REAL people, from the beginning!
You know how soothing it feels to have someone work with your hair and scalp. I was so embarrassed my first day of being the one in the chair. I fell fast asleep in the first few minutes! We experimented on each other, too. That's how Red became a welcome part of my life.
I remember the patron who was addicted to over-processed bleached hair. She requested a perm. She signed a waiver. I was told to wrap for a perm. Done. Timed. Ready to rinse and remove the rods. That was made much easier than I expected when her hair broke off near the roots and the rods, with the lovely overly bleached-blond curls still attached, fell into the sink.
One of my first perm patrons was a smoker. She was informed of the dangers of such while strong chemicals were present. Still she continued. As I leaned her head back into the sink to rinse the perm solution off, the woman flicked hot ash into the sink, missing her hair but igniting the solution or its fumes. Talk about Snap, Crackle, Pop! She got a nasty burn blister on her neck.
I loved cutting hair but the day a mom sat her pre-teen in my chair was difficult. The child had very long, thick hair, beautiful but thinning, even balding. Brushing through it was actually pulling hair out. Keeping it pulled into a tight pony tail or braided had only made matters worse. Cutting it to a much shorter length seemed the solution. The mom would say, "Cut". And with every snip, the girl would cry and scream, "No"!
Then there was the woman who came in with a Beehived French Twist, ... lice and oozing sores all over her scalp, discovered only when I was getting her ready for the shampoo/set she'd requested. State health laws were designed to protect us and our customers from contagious disease but despite all else, I was instructed to complete this service, then sterilize or discard everything in my station. It took a lot more than formaldehyde to rid myself of the creepy, crawly feeling I had for days afterward.
For graduation, we planned a rollerskating party. As student body vice president, I had to attend but I didn't know how to skate. One of my classmates said he could teach me to skate in one, easy lesson. I was looking pretty cute in those days and liked him quite a bit so I agreed to give skating a try. The one thing he didn't teach me before he turned me loose was how to stop. The railing at one side of the rink must have been designed just for this purpose but instead of stopping, I grabbed it with both hands, coming in full speed ahead, went under it and did a complete somersault before coming to rest on the rink floor. We moved our party to a house for food and drinks. There was an orchard at the side of the property and we were playing some chase-type game. I collided head-on with a tree. It was evening! And Dark! He didn't ask me out.
The beauty about training with Ex-Cel-Cis was the job placement guarantee. I went to work immediately after passing my boards and actually got to use almost everything I had been trained to do. Helen showed me the ropes. The way things worked at school and how things were done in a salon were two different things. With Ross, salon breaks were often spent at Fernwood eating Burnt Almond Fudge parfaits. If I worked late (12-hr. days were not unusual) he drove me home. He and his partner raised orchids as a hobby, supplying local florists with fresh tropicals. He gave me a huge white Catalaya orchid, my first, for my 20th birthday.
Ross had left the salon to work with Elwood Heiner. The elderly owner of the Ex-Cel-Cis company was no longer in charge. Ross said I had a job waiting for me at Heiner's if I wanted it. And that was it. No interview. No customary audition. I was hired on Ross' recommendation, alone.
Elwood Heiner and his wife, Lou, had a small shop located in a hotel that also housed permanent residents. He paid his operators the highest commission in town. He employed a manicurist, Ailene and a wig specialist whose name I can't remember but whose walk I can still imitate. Eilene had been with Heiner's for years. Karen and another operator were about my age. There were a couple of patrons who were difficult so we passed them around. Elwood used those opportunities to remind us that, "You asked for work when you came here." And then he'd smile.
One of my memorable patrons was elderly and had but six hairs on her head yet came, requesting the works--perm, color rinse (Rose Beige), and a manicure. Each time, at the end of her service, she told the same story about being accosted by a robber in the elevator on the way to the salon and couldn't pay her bill.
There was the professional bridge player who often appeared for her appointment dressed in "paw-jah-mahs" and wearing a full-length fur coat--winter, summer, spring, fall--that she refused to take off during her salon service. Her roots were snow white but she demanded the blackest-black permanent dye for her hair and brows. A little Cruella De Vil-ish. Can you imagine if I'd gotten a speck of dye or water on that fur? I sometimes had to use every towel in the salon.
One little lady tipped me a quarter each week but four weeks prior to Dec. 25, she withheld them so she could give me a whole dollar at her final appointment before the holiday, my Christmas bonus. The elderly woman who couldn't hear shouted when she talked, more so it seemed when she learned I had gotten married and felt the need to give me advice about birth control, sex, and whatever came to mind. The entire salon got an education! Another patron could not show up on time so she was told her appointment was an hour earlier than it actually was. I wanted to be right on time for the patron who, at every visit, showed me the gun she carried in her boot.
One of my regulars, Mrs. Speros, came with stories about preparations for her oldest daughter's wedding. She and her husband were dedicated members of their Greek Orthodox Church congregation. For months, she baked and preserved all the food that would be needed for this grand affair that included a sit-down dinner for hundreds. It helped that her husband owned a restaurant. A reception on the Mezzanine at Hotel Utah would follow the lengthy, church ceremony and I was invited! I was asked to be the coiffure for the bridal party. Never had I entered such an elegant home, surrounded by gardens, fountains and statues. The wedding party left the house for the church. The bride, her father and I were the only ones still in the house. I was given the honor putting on her veil, then watching her, dressed in a breathtaking, hand-beaded dress, the veil floating on air behind her, meet her father at the front entrance to be whisked off to her fairy-tale wedding.
Barely 20-something then, with the prettiest red hair Clairol had to offer. It's a part of who I was. Silvered hair, once in a distant future, is now ...a part of who I am.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Tell Me a Story
My 10-year-old grandson, Gage, often says, "Tell me a story about the olden days." My 20-something grandkids still ask for stories. I was sure they'd all been told but found one just this week that Zach, another grandson, had never heard. Could there possibly be others? Probably not but there are lots of them to be re-told, so let's get started. This will have to be done in installments.
The story of my birth is quite remarkable. My parent's youngest child was nine years old and now in her 45th year, Mother was pregnant again. Her doctor told her she couldn't possibly be pregnant; Menopausal complications or a tumor, perhaps. In telling the story, Mother always credited Daddy with saying, "She's had six kids. If she says she's pregnant, she ought to know!" Well, she was Menopausal and I was no tumor but complications were expected, given Mother's age and her long struggle with asthma. She had been a 'sturdy woman', a tom boy growing up but developed severe asthma following a car accident. She'd given birth to two sons since that accident but the concern with this pregnancy was that both mother and baby could not, would not, be saved at the time of the birth. I was her easiest delivery and her smallest baby at 8 lbs. 12 oz. My one defect, a 'tied' tongue, was easily remedied. The doctor said a girl who couldn't talk would never do. Mother wrote of her birthing experience:
"A pain wracked body, intense suffering in soul and in mind. The day crept onward to meet the night. Evening shadows rode silently in and parked in corners, until the maternity home stood in the shroud of nights silence. But for me there was neither silence nor rest, only the untiring efforts of doctor and nurse to give what comfort or ease they could. My husband's hand closed tightly over mine. He spoke no word, but somehow I knew he was giving to me that needed strength. Long moments of uncertainty, and then, the sweetest cry. Our baby girl was born."
--Myrtle Whitney Morgan
In my memory, my dad always sang--in the barnyard, in the fields, in the car, and in the church choir. My mother grew up singing with her siblings for their own enjoyment and performing for all kinds of church, family, and community functions and she sang at night instead of telling bedtime stories. My brother, Keith, gave me a red toy piano. I learned to plunk out recognizable melodies with two fingers. I'm told I was often put on the stage to play and sing at MIA functions, though I have no memory of it. I don't know the why or how of it but in September 1951 my dad bought a Koller & Campbell piano! The salesman's pitch was, "Buy quality because you will, no doubt, give Christie the piano as a wedding present when she is grown." I asked my dad, "Will Kent and I get the piano when we get married?" "Kent's dad can buy his kids their own piano." "If I marry Michael, will I get the piano?" "Frank Olsen makes more money than I do!" "Then who do I have to marry?"
I put lots of miles on my red child's rocker. Sometimes during a summer's rain, I'd take my rocker to the front porch, sit in it with a cooperative kitten or dog in my lap, and make a tent with a blanket or quilt to keep us dry. Both of my children and some of my grandchildren used this little red rocker. Keith made it in a shop class. Mother told the story about the night the Weston High School burned and how Keith ran all the way from our house uphill about a mile and threw the rocker out a window in order to save it from the flames.
My sister-in-law, Evelyn, makes heavenly divinity and popcorn balls. She did her holiday cooking early and stored everything in tins. I spent lots of time with Marion and Evelyn. Just before the Christmas holiday one year, I discovered her stash quite by accident. There was so much of it that I helped myself. Another piece the next time I was at their house. And the next... I had no previous criminal record. I was an adult when I fessed up. It takes only the mention of this to get us laughing. She sent a care package to me for years so I wouldn't have to steal to get a mouth-watering, heavenly piece of homemade candy.
In July, 1959, Mother and I traveled to Oregon by car to spend some time with Keith and Inga and their family. We took a detour through Yellowstone Park. Mother had her hard-as-rocks oatmeal cookies in her huge, metal dishpan sitting in her lap in a middle seat of the station wagon, covered only with a clean dish towel. Well, the clean part may not be true since she had been using it to wipe up little kid's fingers and I don't know what else! We stopped in the park at "Little Grand Canyon." Keith, with cameras hanging 'round his neck and small children in each arm, started toward the trail leading to Kodak Moment vantage spots. Inga and I were just a bit ahead of him. Before the car was out of sight, we turned back at the sound of much commotion and saw a bear reaching into the side window, almost able to reach Mother sitting there. She was hitting the bear with her dish cloth! This did discourage the bear a bit so it left that window and went to the tailgate window, not fully opened but cracked to give Mother some air. Mother got up on her knees in her seat and beat at that poor bear with her dish cloth while we all stood motionless, watching, Keith not knowing whether to drop his cameras and kids and run to the car to save his mother or grab his family and run to safety. "Give the bear the cookies!" Someone in the campground began beating the ground with a broom and the bear finally gave up.
How many tellin's will this take? Only the surface has been scratched. The stories--they're a part of who I am.
The story of my birth is quite remarkable. My parent's youngest child was nine years old and now in her 45th year, Mother was pregnant again. Her doctor told her she couldn't possibly be pregnant; Menopausal complications or a tumor, perhaps. In telling the story, Mother always credited Daddy with saying, "She's had six kids. If she says she's pregnant, she ought to know!" Well, she was Menopausal and I was no tumor but complications were expected, given Mother's age and her long struggle with asthma. She had been a 'sturdy woman', a tom boy growing up but developed severe asthma following a car accident. She'd given birth to two sons since that accident but the concern with this pregnancy was that both mother and baby could not, would not, be saved at the time of the birth. I was her easiest delivery and her smallest baby at 8 lbs. 12 oz. My one defect, a 'tied' tongue, was easily remedied. The doctor said a girl who couldn't talk would never do. Mother wrote of her birthing experience:
"A pain wracked body, intense suffering in soul and in mind. The day crept onward to meet the night. Evening shadows rode silently in and parked in corners, until the maternity home stood in the shroud of nights silence. But for me there was neither silence nor rest, only the untiring efforts of doctor and nurse to give what comfort or ease they could. My husband's hand closed tightly over mine. He spoke no word, but somehow I knew he was giving to me that needed strength. Long moments of uncertainty, and then, the sweetest cry. Our baby girl was born."
--Myrtle Whitney Morgan
In my memory, my dad always sang--in the barnyard, in the fields, in the car, and in the church choir. My mother grew up singing with her siblings for their own enjoyment and performing for all kinds of church, family, and community functions and she sang at night instead of telling bedtime stories. My brother, Keith, gave me a red toy piano. I learned to plunk out recognizable melodies with two fingers. I'm told I was often put on the stage to play and sing at MIA functions, though I have no memory of it. I don't know the why or how of it but in September 1951 my dad bought a Koller & Campbell piano! The salesman's pitch was, "Buy quality because you will, no doubt, give Christie the piano as a wedding present when she is grown." I asked my dad, "Will Kent and I get the piano when we get married?" "Kent's dad can buy his kids their own piano." "If I marry Michael, will I get the piano?" "Frank Olsen makes more money than I do!" "Then who do I have to marry?"
I put lots of miles on my red child's rocker. Sometimes during a summer's rain, I'd take my rocker to the front porch, sit in it with a cooperative kitten or dog in my lap, and make a tent with a blanket or quilt to keep us dry. Both of my children and some of my grandchildren used this little red rocker. Keith made it in a shop class. Mother told the story about the night the Weston High School burned and how Keith ran all the way from our house uphill about a mile and threw the rocker out a window in order to save it from the flames.
My sister-in-law, Evelyn, makes heavenly divinity and popcorn balls. She did her holiday cooking early and stored everything in tins. I spent lots of time with Marion and Evelyn. Just before the Christmas holiday one year, I discovered her stash quite by accident. There was so much of it that I helped myself. Another piece the next time I was at their house. And the next... I had no previous criminal record. I was an adult when I fessed up. It takes only the mention of this to get us laughing. She sent a care package to me for years so I wouldn't have to steal to get a mouth-watering, heavenly piece of homemade candy.
In July, 1959, Mother and I traveled to Oregon by car to spend some time with Keith and Inga and their family. We took a detour through Yellowstone Park. Mother had her hard-as-rocks oatmeal cookies in her huge, metal dishpan sitting in her lap in a middle seat of the station wagon, covered only with a clean dish towel. Well, the clean part may not be true since she had been using it to wipe up little kid's fingers and I don't know what else! We stopped in the park at "Little Grand Canyon." Keith, with cameras hanging 'round his neck and small children in each arm, started toward the trail leading to Kodak Moment vantage spots. Inga and I were just a bit ahead of him. Before the car was out of sight, we turned back at the sound of much commotion and saw a bear reaching into the side window, almost able to reach Mother sitting there. She was hitting the bear with her dish cloth! This did discourage the bear a bit so it left that window and went to the tailgate window, not fully opened but cracked to give Mother some air. Mother got up on her knees in her seat and beat at that poor bear with her dish cloth while we all stood motionless, watching, Keith not knowing whether to drop his cameras and kids and run to the car to save his mother or grab his family and run to safety. "Give the bear the cookies!" Someone in the campground began beating the ground with a broom and the bear finally gave up.
How many tellin's will this take? Only the surface has been scratched. The stories--they're a part of who I am.
Bits and Pieces
My mother was a writer. She wrote poetry and endless hand-written letters. Neither Mother or I were trained to do so, but I know she enjoyed doing it and so have I.
Written 4/1990 after watching my grandson, Christopher, not yet two years old, delight in tromping through my newly planted flower beds.
Little boy footprints
Chubby child hands
Giggles and wonder
As proudly he stands
In grandma-ma's flowers
Seems a nice place
For tiny fingers
To touch and to taste
His bright curious eyes
Eager to ask
A long list of whys
Amidst toddler tasks
Tree bark and pebbles
Um-m, taste and see
Grown-ups frown, though
And take them from me.
***
Written 12/1998
'Tis the day after Christmas, And each place I look,
I see tiny toy pieces, In each cranny and nook.
Candy foil wrappers, Chocolates with bites,
Peanuts, Pistachios, Satisfied appetites.
Every toy beeps, Lots have lights flashing,
Battery powered, No signs of stopping.
Zac's now a rock star, With guitar and mike,
Quipped Grandpa, "No, don't... Amplify this tyke!"
Jessie's new dolly, Does razbries and speaks,
Gram found the "off" switch, A-h-h...nice quiet streak.
Morgan told everyone, "It's horses I like."
A whole stable showed up, No two are alike.
Topher's been plugged in, To things electronic,
Since yesterday a.m., Double clicks, double-quick.
Family came early, 'Bout half-past six,
Then all left in stages, What a soap-opera mix.
The kids played a long time, Gram snoozed on the couch,
We sampled all goodies, 'Till our tummies cried, "Ouch"!
Everyone's happy, For two days of PJ's,
No schedule, no dress code, Just lazy holidaze.
We must go to bed now, Though all have asked, "Why"?
I don't have an answer, so...Plug in a movie--Bye, bye.
***
Written 1986, to friends who treated me to Snelgrove* ice cream and fudge topping during my struggle with RA.
Martin and Bonnie,
I've indulged and indulged, In that cold, heavenly white stuff
And the thighs and the hips... they do bulge!
But I wouldn't have traded, That sweet thought and kindness
For all the rye crisp in the world!
*Grandpa South (William T.) loved to take his family to Snelgrove's for ice cream for special celebrations and after General Conference sessions in Salt Lake City, UT.
***
Written November 1985 for a special friend (A Reader's Digest version of the much longer original)
Hugs are terrific, They say that you cared
They lift burdens a little, A brief moment shared.
Hugs are terrific, And always in style
Those who give freely, Warm pained hearts for awhile.
Hugs are terrific, They're yellow, they're Spring
They're that first taste of chocolate, The best feelings they bring.
Hugs are terrific, New energy for life
A perfect prescription, For day's ills or strife.
Hugs are terrific, Worth their weight in gold
Gentle but powerful, A thousand words told.
Hugs are terrific, With 'H' the word starts
I'm sure that must mean, They come straight from the heart.
***
In my early years of elementary school I wrote this to send to my class:
Measles
Don't ever get the measles, You'll be sorry if you do,
For I am in a measley mess, I'm telling you.
I itch and itch but I can't scratch, So this is what I say,
If you go and get the measles, They will itch in every way.
***
And so it goes, something written for many different occasions, over many years--school assignments, the yearbook dedication my senior year of high school, recognition for teachers, friends, and family, thank yous, holiday greetings, the announcement of my engagement to be married, of each child's birth, from silly to sing-song and serious.
It has taken courage to share these bits and pieces. Perhaps I'll write something new. It's a part of who I am.
Written 4/1990 after watching my grandson, Christopher, not yet two years old, delight in tromping through my newly planted flower beds.
Little boy footprints
Chubby child hands
Giggles and wonder
As proudly he stands
In grandma-ma's flowers
Seems a nice place
For tiny fingers
To touch and to taste
His bright curious eyes
Eager to ask
A long list of whys
Amidst toddler tasks
Tree bark and pebbles
Um-m, taste and see
Grown-ups frown, though
And take them from me.
***
Written 12/1998
'Tis the day after Christmas, And each place I look,
I see tiny toy pieces, In each cranny and nook.
Candy foil wrappers, Chocolates with bites,
Peanuts, Pistachios, Satisfied appetites.
Every toy beeps, Lots have lights flashing,
Battery powered, No signs of stopping.
Zac's now a rock star, With guitar and mike,
Quipped Grandpa, "No, don't... Amplify this tyke!"
Jessie's new dolly, Does razbries and speaks,
Gram found the "off" switch, A-h-h...nice quiet streak.
Morgan told everyone, "It's horses I like."
A whole stable showed up, No two are alike.
Topher's been plugged in, To things electronic,
Since yesterday a.m., Double clicks, double-quick.
Family came early, 'Bout half-past six,
Then all left in stages, What a soap-opera mix.
The kids played a long time, Gram snoozed on the couch,
We sampled all goodies, 'Till our tummies cried, "Ouch"!
Everyone's happy, For two days of PJ's,
No schedule, no dress code, Just lazy holidaze.
We must go to bed now, Though all have asked, "Why"?
I don't have an answer, so...Plug in a movie--Bye, bye.
***
Written 1986, to friends who treated me to Snelgrove* ice cream and fudge topping during my struggle with RA.
Martin and Bonnie,
I've indulged and indulged, In that cold, heavenly white stuff
And the thighs and the hips... they do bulge!
But I wouldn't have traded, That sweet thought and kindness
For all the rye crisp in the world!
*Grandpa South (William T.) loved to take his family to Snelgrove's for ice cream for special celebrations and after General Conference sessions in Salt Lake City, UT.
***
Written November 1985 for a special friend (A Reader's Digest version of the much longer original)
Hugs are terrific, They say that you cared
They lift burdens a little, A brief moment shared.
Hugs are terrific, And always in style
Those who give freely, Warm pained hearts for awhile.
Hugs are terrific, They're yellow, they're Spring
They're that first taste of chocolate, The best feelings they bring.
Hugs are terrific, New energy for life
A perfect prescription, For day's ills or strife.
Hugs are terrific, Worth their weight in gold
Gentle but powerful, A thousand words told.
Hugs are terrific, With 'H' the word starts
I'm sure that must mean, They come straight from the heart.
***
In my early years of elementary school I wrote this to send to my class:
Measles
Don't ever get the measles, You'll be sorry if you do,
For I am in a measley mess, I'm telling you.
I itch and itch but I can't scratch, So this is what I say,
If you go and get the measles, They will itch in every way.
***
And so it goes, something written for many different occasions, over many years--school assignments, the yearbook dedication my senior year of high school, recognition for teachers, friends, and family, thank yous, holiday greetings, the announcement of my engagement to be married, of each child's birth, from silly to sing-song and serious.
It has taken courage to share these bits and pieces. Perhaps I'll write something new. It's a part of who I am.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Making Peace with Blue
It is possible that I've finally settled on a color scheme for this blog. I've changed it again and again. It is no longer just a matter of choosing what I like or satisfying aesthetics. My eyes have made endless demands. I'm noticing that it isn't easy to satisfy the needs of growing cataracts and eyes damaged by side effects of RA medications. Beyond the dictates of my eyes, I have this thing about the color, Blue.
I don't know when my conflict with Blue began. I appear in old photos wearing Blue. Blue skies delight me. The sight of Lake Tahoe's blue waters--breathtaking! Light Blue jeans always have a place in my wardrobe. My new office chair, though no family member would have thought it possible, is... Blue. Well, okay, the chair is not Blue by choice. I chose comfort and comfort came only in dark Blue.
All university system offices I worked in across three decades were carpeted and painted in shades of Nevada Blue. I want my gold star for surviving that! I'd be physically uncomfortable and perhaps sleepless in Sparks in a Blue bedroom. I find it easy to put color combinations together unless it involves using the color, Blue. I gave up trying to come up with a pleasing Blue palette during my 'sweet, young thing' days of painting Tole consignment pieces. I don't do Blue dishes in my own home. I wouldn't make a big deal of it if you served me on one at your house, unless you're a member of my immediate family. My kids and grand-kids expect me to make a big deal of it and I don't disappoint them. More Blues I feel strongly about, not necessarily in this order and by no means an all-inclusive list, are:
I don't know when my conflict with Blue began. I appear in old photos wearing Blue. Blue skies delight me. The sight of Lake Tahoe's blue waters--breathtaking! Light Blue jeans always have a place in my wardrobe. My new office chair, though no family member would have thought it possible, is... Blue. Well, okay, the chair is not Blue by choice. I chose comfort and comfort came only in dark Blue.
All university system offices I worked in across three decades were carpeted and painted in shades of Nevada Blue. I want my gold star for surviving that! I'd be physically uncomfortable and perhaps sleepless in Sparks in a Blue bedroom. I find it easy to put color combinations together unless it involves using the color, Blue. I gave up trying to come up with a pleasing Blue palette during my 'sweet, young thing' days of painting Tole consignment pieces. I don't do Blue dishes in my own home. I wouldn't make a big deal of it if you served me on one at your house, unless you're a member of my immediate family. My kids and grand-kids expect me to make a big deal of it and I don't disappoint them. More Blues I feel strongly about, not necessarily in this order and by no means an all-inclusive list, are:
- Blue food, unless it comes Blue in its natural, unaltered, no-messing-with-its-gene-pool state, eggplant being the exception. Why would I waste a good meal eating something with no flavor of its own and the texture of a sponge? But that's another blog for another time.
- Blue M&M's--I give those to my grand-kids.
- Fresh flowers sprayed or colored systemically Blue. As much as I loved doing wedding floral work back in the day at Simi's, it wasn't as fun when brides or their moms requested an artificially colored Blue palette.
- Blue cake frosting--UGH! Let me say that again. Blue cake frosting--UGH!
- A Blue color scheme for gingerbread houses--something I avoid.
- A basic Navy Blue wardrobe. Few people wear navy well yet it is almost always among the listed color choices.
Saturday, June 2, 2012
The Call
The call came yesterday, while I was having my blood pressure taken at the doctor's office. I knew the call was coming; I didn't know when it would come. My sister-in-law had passed. I felt relief for her. She had suffered greatly during this long goodbye. Peace for her at last, I thought, and a joyous reunion with those dear to her who have passed before. I felt concern for my brother who has shown such devotion, love, and tenderness for his wife, the mother of his children. And thinking of the children and their families, saddened in saying goodbye but comforted, knowing that she is no longer suffering, I said a silent prayer for all of them.
The call came when my dad died, not by phone but in person when Melvin McKay, my father's dear friend and our dedicated home teacher, came through our front door, solemn-faced and sad himself but there to assist our family. It was August, 1957, as I remember. I would have my 13th birthday in November. I was very much still a child and had curled up in the front bedroom to cry, my father dying in the adjoining back bedroom. When he first arrived at the house, Brother McKay had walked directly to Dad's bedside with family members who were present. A short time passed. He stopped a moment at the spot I lay sobbing. The call had come. My diary entry for that day said simply, "My daddy died today."
My mother was not in good health throughout most of my growing up years. I left home at 17 but the anticipation of getting the call was always in the back of my mind, particularly when my phone would ring at odd hours of the day or night. Fortunately, the cell phone was not yet a reality in my world. I may have driven myself mad had a phone been my almost constant companion then as it has become now.
The call I had anticipated for so many years did come as I began my 40's. Mother had passed. I had not seen her for some time. It had been an even longer time since she had recognized me or knew who I was. That was harder for me than her death. Surely, a mother never forgets her child. But my mother did. Alzheimer was not yet a term used to describe a disease or health condition. Mother lost her short-term memory first, then all memory or recognition of things familiar.
The call can be a difficult thing to receive. It can be difficult to make. It connects families and friends during the life and death times of our lives.
The call came when my dad died, not by phone but in person when Melvin McKay, my father's dear friend and our dedicated home teacher, came through our front door, solemn-faced and sad himself but there to assist our family. It was August, 1957, as I remember. I would have my 13th birthday in November. I was very much still a child and had curled up in the front bedroom to cry, my father dying in the adjoining back bedroom. When he first arrived at the house, Brother McKay had walked directly to Dad's bedside with family members who were present. A short time passed. He stopped a moment at the spot I lay sobbing. The call had come. My diary entry for that day said simply, "My daddy died today."
My mother was not in good health throughout most of my growing up years. I left home at 17 but the anticipation of getting the call was always in the back of my mind, particularly when my phone would ring at odd hours of the day or night. Fortunately, the cell phone was not yet a reality in my world. I may have driven myself mad had a phone been my almost constant companion then as it has become now.
The call I had anticipated for so many years did come as I began my 40's. Mother had passed. I had not seen her for some time. It had been an even longer time since she had recognized me or knew who I was. That was harder for me than her death. Surely, a mother never forgets her child. But my mother did. Alzheimer was not yet a term used to describe a disease or health condition. Mother lost her short-term memory first, then all memory or recognition of things familiar.
The call can be a difficult thing to receive. It can be difficult to make. It connects families and friends during the life and death times of our lives.
Arthur and Ritis
You've heard the phrase, 'This too, shall pass'. Arther and Ritis are not the sort to just pass through. They come to stay. It's been 30 years since arthritis first made its presence known while I was putting up shelves in my garage.
Rheumatoid Arthritis (RA) was difficult to diagnose, its symptoms much like those of other auto-immune diseases. Even with a diagnosis, attempts to find a drug that might slow the disease's progression were many. Each one came with side effects--an extra hundred pounds, as if I needed any help to achieve that, a 'moon' face, continuous nausea, the unsettling warning on the label, bolded and all in caps listing possible death as one--and battles with medical insurance companies who considered any treatment quackery.
Gold injections wiped me out. Three months into the six-month trial, this treatment had to be abandoned. My white count was dangerously low. Then miracle of miracles, I went into remission! Symptom-free, 100 pounds lighter, minor disfigurement, and I had my life back! My struggles to drive my stick shift vehicle with only two, maybe three fingers all told working, or willing a leg to clutch and brake, needing help with the simplest tasks or being hoisted atop a horse for a girl scout outing despite fist-sized cysts behind both knees, falling in the street amidst moving cars, my worry being ruined nylon hose--my only pair, all became funny tales to repeat given that I had been blessed with a sweet respite.
Symptoms returned, gradually at first, and then with a vengeance. As if RA needed company, Osteo joined Arthur and Ritis somewhere along the passage of years. With new drugs, older ones re-visited, more information available about living with this sometimes fatal malady, RA has come to be another way to define who I am. I'd prefer that it didn't rule my life quite so much. I like to think I'm still in charge, that I'm much more than the disease but in recent years, I have often felt a forced submission. There are fewer simple flairs and more extended time periods of RA activity, more struggles to get my body to work, given the permanent damage that has taken place. When RA loosens its grip a bit, accomplishing simple things is a bit of a thrill--holding a toothbrush, putting on and tying my own shoes, chewing food with minimal pain, being able to carry a tune, stepping up-stepping down, driving a car, grocery shopping, laundry, getting in and out of bed--a car--a chair--a warm shower, having energy enough to smile, converse, laugh. Feeling confident again to do even simple things feels good, too.
Finally, my rate of inflammation, over the moon at 167 some months ago, has finally dropped to the normal rate of 4! I like the number 4. It's part of who I am.
Rheumatoid Arthritis (RA) was difficult to diagnose, its symptoms much like those of other auto-immune diseases. Even with a diagnosis, attempts to find a drug that might slow the disease's progression were many. Each one came with side effects--an extra hundred pounds, as if I needed any help to achieve that, a 'moon' face, continuous nausea, the unsettling warning on the label, bolded and all in caps listing possible death as one--and battles with medical insurance companies who considered any treatment quackery.
Gold injections wiped me out. Three months into the six-month trial, this treatment had to be abandoned. My white count was dangerously low. Then miracle of miracles, I went into remission! Symptom-free, 100 pounds lighter, minor disfigurement, and I had my life back! My struggles to drive my stick shift vehicle with only two, maybe three fingers all told working, or willing a leg to clutch and brake, needing help with the simplest tasks or being hoisted atop a horse for a girl scout outing despite fist-sized cysts behind both knees, falling in the street amidst moving cars, my worry being ruined nylon hose--my only pair, all became funny tales to repeat given that I had been blessed with a sweet respite.
Symptoms returned, gradually at first, and then with a vengeance. As if RA needed company, Osteo joined Arthur and Ritis somewhere along the passage of years. With new drugs, older ones re-visited, more information available about living with this sometimes fatal malady, RA has come to be another way to define who I am. I'd prefer that it didn't rule my life quite so much. I like to think I'm still in charge, that I'm much more than the disease but in recent years, I have often felt a forced submission. There are fewer simple flairs and more extended time periods of RA activity, more struggles to get my body to work, given the permanent damage that has taken place. When RA loosens its grip a bit, accomplishing simple things is a bit of a thrill--holding a toothbrush, putting on and tying my own shoes, chewing food with minimal pain, being able to carry a tune, stepping up-stepping down, driving a car, grocery shopping, laundry, getting in and out of bed--a car--a chair--a warm shower, having energy enough to smile, converse, laugh. Feeling confident again to do even simple things feels good, too.
Finally, my rate of inflammation, over the moon at 167 some months ago, has finally dropped to the normal rate of 4! I like the number 4. It's part of who I am.
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