When I was about 13 I had at least 27 warts on my left knee cap. Yes, I said 27. I remember counting them, and that's the last number I remember reaching. The only reason I even thought of this is because I've got a couple of small, tiny in fact, plantar warts on my hand that I'm trying to freeze off with some over-the-counter stuff. How is it we can forget how much it hurts to do that?! I have to do it again soon, and I'm dreading it.
Anyway, these warts on my knee were a gross mess. They were bunched up in one spot, but were all over my knee cap. It was ugly and embarrassing. I didn't like wearing shorts because I was afraid that's all people could/would see. Kind of like a pimple on your face. You are convinced that's all people are looking at when they talk to you. Similar fate here with the knee, only who really looks that far down and notices something like that on another person? I don't, and even if I did, I wouldn't care. Big deal.
But remembering that about my knee made me remember how long it took for all of those warts to go away, and how much it hurt to have them burned off. It left a weird pock scar on my left knee (not really noticeable to anyone but me) from freezing (or burning!) them all off. Now, both knees match. My right knee has the scar from that awful fall at the park where the rock got stuck in the skin of my knee and ruined our end-of-school party after 6th Grade because I spent most of the night in the hospital ER getting stitches. Hey, there's another recollection I'll have to write about soon. It's worth a read. And yes, Shauna was with me. :)
Isn't it funny, though, how we think the worst of ourselves, even when we can't control the "look" we so despise and are sure others are using to judge us? Those who have curly hair hate it, and those who have straight hair want curly hair. Those that are tall want to be shorter, and those that are shorter wish they were tall. How many times have we looked in the mirror and noticed a minute blemish and suddenly the world is caving in because we have a crater on our face that the whole world can see, and we are convinced it will definitely be marked on satellite images for all future generations to see. We will be hated eternally! Oh. the. drama!!!
Why can't we just love ourselves the way we are - warts and all?
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
Friday, May 23, 2014
Total Darkness
In my church (The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints), there is an organization for the youth. For the girls it's Young Women, and for the boys it's Young Men. They meet one night during the week for activities as a class, as a group, or as boys and girls together. Activities consist of various things, but usually activities are service-oriented, faith-oriented, or something where they can learn a new skill, idea, or concept together. The Young Men and Young Women are ages 12-18, and there are three different groups in that age range. For example, Deacons and Beehives are ages 12 and 13. Teachers and Mia Maids are ages 14 and 15. And Priests and Laurels are ages 17 and 18. They also attend classes on Sunday with those in their same age group. It's actually a very helpful arrangement, and I feel like it promotes friendships among the entire organization as they learn to work together.
With that background, as a very young Beehive I attended an activity to go ice skating on Utah Lake. Mom accompanied us as a driver (parents are the usual "chaperones" for these types of activities with the youth where travel is involved). I had never been ice skating before, so I was excited to see what it was all about and see if it was something I might be good at and enjoy doing again. After all, I'd watched plenty of the Olympics, and I knew that doing those spins and jumps would take no time at all to learn.
My pride soon turned to humility as I got out on the ice and promptly fell. The rest of the evening was spent holding desperately to the side of the rink and moving slowly around it. There was one time I ventured out with some friends toward the middle, but that's only because we were in a sort of ice skating conga line, and I had people to hold on to while we went around the rink. Other than that, I was on my own with a friend who was equally as untalented in this arena.
Eventually, I couldn't feel my feet, or hands, or backside for that matter, so I went inside to remove my skates. I unlaced the skates and sat by the fire as I rubbed feeling back into my feet. My mom was an onlooker for this event, and she tried desperately to make me feel good about myself. It didn't work. You can't tell a true ugly duckling it's a swan, and you couldn't tell me I was getting better at ice skating. Forget it.
Mom and I sat together at a table and drank hot chocolate until everyone else had finished skating and had their cocoa, too. I sensed that Mom was a little distracted, but I figured it was something to do with her work (she was a school teacher) or a list of things that needed to be done at home. In truth, she couldn't have cared less about any of that. Her real concern was what waited for us outside.
You have to understand that the fog in Utah can get extremely thick. Sometimes it is so thick you can't even see your hand in front of your face. This very type of fog was moving in - and quickly - as we were finishing up our ice skating activity. I'm not sure if others had seen the fog moving in or if Mom had mentioned it to anyone, but the general consensus was to let the kids have their fun and they'd deal with "that" later.
From what I can remember, there were only two other kids with us in the car for the ride home. We were able to see well enough at first to drive a little slowly and with some extra caution, but it wasn't frightening or upsetting in any way. As with most bad fog conditions in Utah, that sense of "I can handle this" quickly turned to "I can't see a thing!" I'm sure it didn't happen in a snap of the fingers, but it sure felt like things changed that fast.
Mom rolled down her window. The cold air blew in and sucked the breath right out of us. Her side view mirror was already developing a light frost, and the windshield had a frozen glaze over it. Mom already had the heater blaring because it was so cold outside. She was looking out her window every 2-3 seconds, then turning inside for a breath of warmer air, and looking back out again.
Suddenly, she turned to me and said, "Roll down your window and tell me whether or not I'm on the white line." In other words, make sure we're still on the road! Those words scared me and turned that hot-chocolate-filled tummy into solid rock. I was out of my wits with fear, but I rolled down the window and looked out. My instructions were to tell her where to steer - to the left or to the right. I was 12 - what did I know about driving?!
We drove almost the entire way home like that. Mom looked out her window as I looked out mine. She watched for her line and I watched for mine. Whoever was in the back seat sat there in silence. I don't remember a single word being spoken as we drove home. We made it home safely, but I will never forget that night.
As a member of my church, I can compare this total darkness in the fog to the workings of Satan or the Devil. He is evil, he is cunning, and he will do anything he possibly can to blind our vision, increase our fears, lead us off our course of good and right, and eventually lead us to our destruction and death. He is the master of total darkness, and he loves it when we follow him into that path and get completely lost.
On the other hand, we have a Savior, Jesus Christ, who lives and abides in the light. He wants us to be happy, to find joy, to succeed, to learn and grow, and to find and do all that is right and good. He will never leave us alone or allow us to walk by ourselves, but we can choose to distance ourselves from Him and walk in the dark all alone. This is not His plan for us. He would rather we make mistakes, learn from them, ask His forgiveness, and return with him to the light where we can see more clearly.
The comparison between those two, the Devil and the Savior, was not lost on me that night. I often think of that experience when I am struggling with something or fighting off feelings of inadequacy or incompetence. I remember how difficult it was to find that white line, and then to stay on it once it was found. My head hurt from squinting my eyes and focusing so hard to see what was hidden from me. Our lives don't have to be like that though. We can turn to the Savior, turn on the light if you will, and see His line and His direction for us. What an incredible blessing that is for each of us.
Total darkness was really scary. I still don't like driving in the fog to this day. It's one of the most stressful driving situations for me. The blessing comes in knowing that I'm not alone, even when the outside is total darkness. I can rely on and ask for help from my Savior, and He will come running to my aid. The fog of life might hide things from my view for a bit, and it might create a sense of fear, but it is never there to stay. The total darkness that night taught me two very important principles: the devil is real, but the Savior is real, too, and He will always outshine anything the devil puts in your path.
Though I'm not sure I'd choose to go through that experience again, I am indeed grateful that I was able to experience it once and learn an important lesson that has guided my life in incredible ways. We should lean towards the light, run toward it, instead of lingering in total darkness.
With that background, as a very young Beehive I attended an activity to go ice skating on Utah Lake. Mom accompanied us as a driver (parents are the usual "chaperones" for these types of activities with the youth where travel is involved). I had never been ice skating before, so I was excited to see what it was all about and see if it was something I might be good at and enjoy doing again. After all, I'd watched plenty of the Olympics, and I knew that doing those spins and jumps would take no time at all to learn.
My pride soon turned to humility as I got out on the ice and promptly fell. The rest of the evening was spent holding desperately to the side of the rink and moving slowly around it. There was one time I ventured out with some friends toward the middle, but that's only because we were in a sort of ice skating conga line, and I had people to hold on to while we went around the rink. Other than that, I was on my own with a friend who was equally as untalented in this arena.
Eventually, I couldn't feel my feet, or hands, or backside for that matter, so I went inside to remove my skates. I unlaced the skates and sat by the fire as I rubbed feeling back into my feet. My mom was an onlooker for this event, and she tried desperately to make me feel good about myself. It didn't work. You can't tell a true ugly duckling it's a swan, and you couldn't tell me I was getting better at ice skating. Forget it.
Mom and I sat together at a table and drank hot chocolate until everyone else had finished skating and had their cocoa, too. I sensed that Mom was a little distracted, but I figured it was something to do with her work (she was a school teacher) or a list of things that needed to be done at home. In truth, she couldn't have cared less about any of that. Her real concern was what waited for us outside.
You have to understand that the fog in Utah can get extremely thick. Sometimes it is so thick you can't even see your hand in front of your face. This very type of fog was moving in - and quickly - as we were finishing up our ice skating activity. I'm not sure if others had seen the fog moving in or if Mom had mentioned it to anyone, but the general consensus was to let the kids have their fun and they'd deal with "that" later.
From what I can remember, there were only two other kids with us in the car for the ride home. We were able to see well enough at first to drive a little slowly and with some extra caution, but it wasn't frightening or upsetting in any way. As with most bad fog conditions in Utah, that sense of "I can handle this" quickly turned to "I can't see a thing!" I'm sure it didn't happen in a snap of the fingers, but it sure felt like things changed that fast.
Mom rolled down her window. The cold air blew in and sucked the breath right out of us. Her side view mirror was already developing a light frost, and the windshield had a frozen glaze over it. Mom already had the heater blaring because it was so cold outside. She was looking out her window every 2-3 seconds, then turning inside for a breath of warmer air, and looking back out again.
Suddenly, she turned to me and said, "Roll down your window and tell me whether or not I'm on the white line." In other words, make sure we're still on the road! Those words scared me and turned that hot-chocolate-filled tummy into solid rock. I was out of my wits with fear, but I rolled down the window and looked out. My instructions were to tell her where to steer - to the left or to the right. I was 12 - what did I know about driving?!
We drove almost the entire way home like that. Mom looked out her window as I looked out mine. She watched for her line and I watched for mine. Whoever was in the back seat sat there in silence. I don't remember a single word being spoken as we drove home. We made it home safely, but I will never forget that night.
As a member of my church, I can compare this total darkness in the fog to the workings of Satan or the Devil. He is evil, he is cunning, and he will do anything he possibly can to blind our vision, increase our fears, lead us off our course of good and right, and eventually lead us to our destruction and death. He is the master of total darkness, and he loves it when we follow him into that path and get completely lost.
On the other hand, we have a Savior, Jesus Christ, who lives and abides in the light. He wants us to be happy, to find joy, to succeed, to learn and grow, and to find and do all that is right and good. He will never leave us alone or allow us to walk by ourselves, but we can choose to distance ourselves from Him and walk in the dark all alone. This is not His plan for us. He would rather we make mistakes, learn from them, ask His forgiveness, and return with him to the light where we can see more clearly.
The comparison between those two, the Devil and the Savior, was not lost on me that night. I often think of that experience when I am struggling with something or fighting off feelings of inadequacy or incompetence. I remember how difficult it was to find that white line, and then to stay on it once it was found. My head hurt from squinting my eyes and focusing so hard to see what was hidden from me. Our lives don't have to be like that though. We can turn to the Savior, turn on the light if you will, and see His line and His direction for us. What an incredible blessing that is for each of us.
Total darkness was really scary. I still don't like driving in the fog to this day. It's one of the most stressful driving situations for me. The blessing comes in knowing that I'm not alone, even when the outside is total darkness. I can rely on and ask for help from my Savior, and He will come running to my aid. The fog of life might hide things from my view for a bit, and it might create a sense of fear, but it is never there to stay. The total darkness that night taught me two very important principles: the devil is real, but the Savior is real, too, and He will always outshine anything the devil puts in your path.
Though I'm not sure I'd choose to go through that experience again, I am indeed grateful that I was able to experience it once and learn an important lesson that has guided my life in incredible ways. We should lean towards the light, run toward it, instead of lingering in total darkness.
Thursday, May 22, 2014
Learning How to Use A Fork
When I was about four years old I shared the smallest bedroom in the house with my sister, Lisa. She's 10 1/2 years older than I am, but she kind of liked me. (She might actually admit now that she did, in fact, like me then.) I'm sure I did stuff to annoy her, but she was good to keep that to herself. Her (our) room was always a mess. Clothes and shoes were everywhere. Dirty dishes were strewn about, and there may have even been food hanging around. Gross. You couldn't just go to bed at night. It was an ordeal to clean up the mess. Dad even got a photo of it at one of its worst moments. He showed it to Lisa and she said, "Where is that?!" As if she'd never seen it before. The conversation that ensued trying to prove it was her room was hilarious and ridiculous. I'm still not sure whether or not Dad "won" the argument.
Like most four-year-olds, I was precarious and loved to find out how things worked. My curiosity sometimes got the best of me. And it still does occasionally. There was just so much to learn and see and do. Because I shared a room with a much older sibling, I thought my life should be as interesting as Lisa's life seemed to be.
One night, as I was getting ready for bed and playing (aka wasting time getting in my PJs) in the bedroom, I noticed a fork lying on a plate in the room. I had watched Lisa a hundred times, or more, plug in her curling iron and blow dryer to the outlet in the wall. Those items were strewn about the floor in that room as well. What wasn't strewn about in that room? In fact, I think there may have been curling iron burns on the carpet of that bedroom. It seems like there were at least two in or near the closet.
You can probably imagine where this story is going. I took the fork and "plugged" it into the wall socket. An instant tingling sensation went up my arm. My teeth were clenched tightly together. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end, and suddenly I felt a bit ... strange. I felt my grip on the fork tighten and then realized I should probably let go. The fork dropped to the ground, and I sat there on my knees not sure what had just happened.
I don't remember if the lights flickered or what, but the next thing I remember was Dad coming down the stairs and into the bedroom. He took one look at my hair standing straight up on my head and knew what had happened. The electricity was still seeping out of me as he tried to smooth my hair back into place. He was talking to me, but I remember not being able to answer back unless it was a yes or no question I could answer with a nod.
Dad helped me finish changing into my pajamas, and by that time Lisa returned to the room from wherever she had been in the house. He lit into her for leaving the plate, the fork, the trash, the clothes, the shoes, and everything else all over that room. Look what happened because of her slobby lifestyle! Didn't she care that I had electrocuted myself and could have died? Didn't she?! Dad had a lot to say that night, and for once, Lisa just listened and kept saying to me over and over, "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry!" All the while I just nodded while I tried to keep my eyes in their sockets.
Finally, Dad got over it and laid out a blanket and a pillow on the floor. He told Lisa to get to bed. Then, he turned out the lights, and in his clothes, he got down on the floor with me. For the first little bit, I had random jerking motions coming out of my body. He would just hold my arm or leg tightly until it passed. We (or maybe it was just me) eventually fell asleep. Dad stayed there the entire night making sure I was all right.
I don't know much about electricity. Science has never really been my forte. I couldn't figure out why Dad stayed with me all night long, or why he told me not to take a bath until the next night. It wasn't until later, when I actually took a science class in school, that I realized Dad was worried I still had electricity coursing through my body. He knew Lisa wouldn't wake up or know what to do with me if she did wake up and something was wrong. Dad was so worried about something going wrong or being wrong with me that he opted to lie on the hard floor (it was carpeted, but still) sharing a blanket and pillow with me so I could sleep and he could breathe.
Interestingly, there are a few things I learned from this experience. Number one, I should have invented those plug covers and become a multi-millionaire. Number two, it really is important to have a somewhat clean room (although my current bedroom would call me a hypocrite right now). And number three, parents make some real, serious sacrifices for their children, even if sometimes it's just for their own sanity.
Like most four-year-olds, I was precarious and loved to find out how things worked. My curiosity sometimes got the best of me. And it still does occasionally. There was just so much to learn and see and do. Because I shared a room with a much older sibling, I thought my life should be as interesting as Lisa's life seemed to be.
One night, as I was getting ready for bed and playing (aka wasting time getting in my PJs) in the bedroom, I noticed a fork lying on a plate in the room. I had watched Lisa a hundred times, or more, plug in her curling iron and blow dryer to the outlet in the wall. Those items were strewn about the floor in that room as well. What wasn't strewn about in that room? In fact, I think there may have been curling iron burns on the carpet of that bedroom. It seems like there were at least two in or near the closet.
You can probably imagine where this story is going. I took the fork and "plugged" it into the wall socket. An instant tingling sensation went up my arm. My teeth were clenched tightly together. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end, and suddenly I felt a bit ... strange. I felt my grip on the fork tighten and then realized I should probably let go. The fork dropped to the ground, and I sat there on my knees not sure what had just happened.
I don't remember if the lights flickered or what, but the next thing I remember was Dad coming down the stairs and into the bedroom. He took one look at my hair standing straight up on my head and knew what had happened. The electricity was still seeping out of me as he tried to smooth my hair back into place. He was talking to me, but I remember not being able to answer back unless it was a yes or no question I could answer with a nod.
Dad helped me finish changing into my pajamas, and by that time Lisa returned to the room from wherever she had been in the house. He lit into her for leaving the plate, the fork, the trash, the clothes, the shoes, and everything else all over that room. Look what happened because of her slobby lifestyle! Didn't she care that I had electrocuted myself and could have died? Didn't she?! Dad had a lot to say that night, and for once, Lisa just listened and kept saying to me over and over, "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry!" All the while I just nodded while I tried to keep my eyes in their sockets.
Finally, Dad got over it and laid out a blanket and a pillow on the floor. He told Lisa to get to bed. Then, he turned out the lights, and in his clothes, he got down on the floor with me. For the first little bit, I had random jerking motions coming out of my body. He would just hold my arm or leg tightly until it passed. We (or maybe it was just me) eventually fell asleep. Dad stayed there the entire night making sure I was all right.
I don't know much about electricity. Science has never really been my forte. I couldn't figure out why Dad stayed with me all night long, or why he told me not to take a bath until the next night. It wasn't until later, when I actually took a science class in school, that I realized Dad was worried I still had electricity coursing through my body. He knew Lisa wouldn't wake up or know what to do with me if she did wake up and something was wrong. Dad was so worried about something going wrong or being wrong with me that he opted to lie on the hard floor (it was carpeted, but still) sharing a blanket and pillow with me so I could sleep and he could breathe.
Interestingly, there are a few things I learned from this experience. Number one, I should have invented those plug covers and become a multi-millionaire. Number two, it really is important to have a somewhat clean room (although my current bedroom would call me a hypocrite right now). And number three, parents make some real, serious sacrifices for their children, even if sometimes it's just for their own sanity.
The Easter Dress
My mom used to sew a lot when I was growing up. Mainly, it was because we didn't have a lot of money to spend on clothes, but I think it was also because her mother had done the same for her, and it was a way to be frugal and save for a rainy day. Whatever the reason, I loved it when my mom would sew something new for me.
One of my friend's moms was constantly sewing things for her. She spent all day, every day (it seemed like) sewing something for one of her two daughters. Her father loved to quilt, so I think he liked that his wife sewed so often because it meant he got the scraps for his quilts. My friend, of course, thought it was lame that she had to wear homemade items to school and Church. I was actually a bit jealous.
There's one particular Easter I remember. Mom worked so hard on a beautiful green and white Easter dress for me. Maybe I should clarify that Mom didn't actually enjoy sewing. It was definitely not her first choice of extracurricular activities. But she did it anyway, mostly because she loved her family and didn't want them walking around in shabby clothes.
Anyway, Mom finished this Easter dress. It had pretty little sleeves and a tie at the back with cute, little white buttons that sealed the deal. It took her hours and hours of work. In fact, she may have worked on it for weeks before Easter. I don't remember any of that, but I'm sure Mom probably does!
I wore it to Church on Easter Sunday. My friend also had a new Easter dress on that her mother had made for her. We were young and stupid and compared dresses by swirling them in the halls at Church and generally making fools of ourselves. Little did I know, her mother actually felt a "competition" between the two of us girls. My dress flared more on the swirls or had a longer tie or better button holes or something. Whatever it was, her mother was highly annoyed that I had such a pretty Easter dress.
My friend and I were oblivious, but the next Sunday, she showed up with another newly made dress. It was decked out, but that's about all I remember of it now. I just remember thinking, "Ooh, pretty." And that was that. But it wasn't, actually. My friend said her mom made her wear that dress after spending the entire week on it because she needed to look perfect in a new dress at Church. And how dare that Katie and her mother try to "out do" us with their white and green Easter dress?
We couldn't have been older than five. In fact, it was probably more like four, but somehow her mom had made this competition out of the two of us, and the only way she could "win" the competition was by making a bigger, better dress than the one I had. Thankfully, I didn't realize any of this was going on. It wasn't until later that Mom filled me in and told me the story of the Easter dress. I believe my response was to laugh out loud. Really? Mothers do this kind of thing to their children? And for what?
In the end, my friend began to refuse wearing the clothes her mom made for her. Even when high school dances came around and her mom was standing scissors, needle, and thread in hands to make her a formal dress, she would beg her dad to take her shopping. He'd take her every time. I think he was tired of the competition, too. There was some sort of irrational hold on her mother to make the "perfect" dress.
I, however, have never forgotten that Easter dress. It had nothing to do with the competition. It had nothing to do with the dress my friend ended up wearing to Church the following week. The reason I loved that dress is because my mom made it. I knew it was special, I knew it took a lot of time and effort, and I knew it came from the heart through pin pricks on fingers and curse words at the sewing machine. It was a dress of love, not of duty or competition. That was, and still is, my favorite Easter dress.
One of my friend's moms was constantly sewing things for her. She spent all day, every day (it seemed like) sewing something for one of her two daughters. Her father loved to quilt, so I think he liked that his wife sewed so often because it meant he got the scraps for his quilts. My friend, of course, thought it was lame that she had to wear homemade items to school and Church. I was actually a bit jealous.
There's one particular Easter I remember. Mom worked so hard on a beautiful green and white Easter dress for me. Maybe I should clarify that Mom didn't actually enjoy sewing. It was definitely not her first choice of extracurricular activities. But she did it anyway, mostly because she loved her family and didn't want them walking around in shabby clothes.
Anyway, Mom finished this Easter dress. It had pretty little sleeves and a tie at the back with cute, little white buttons that sealed the deal. It took her hours and hours of work. In fact, she may have worked on it for weeks before Easter. I don't remember any of that, but I'm sure Mom probably does!
I wore it to Church on Easter Sunday. My friend also had a new Easter dress on that her mother had made for her. We were young and stupid and compared dresses by swirling them in the halls at Church and generally making fools of ourselves. Little did I know, her mother actually felt a "competition" between the two of us girls. My dress flared more on the swirls or had a longer tie or better button holes or something. Whatever it was, her mother was highly annoyed that I had such a pretty Easter dress.
My friend and I were oblivious, but the next Sunday, she showed up with another newly made dress. It was decked out, but that's about all I remember of it now. I just remember thinking, "Ooh, pretty." And that was that. But it wasn't, actually. My friend said her mom made her wear that dress after spending the entire week on it because she needed to look perfect in a new dress at Church. And how dare that Katie and her mother try to "out do" us with their white and green Easter dress?
We couldn't have been older than five. In fact, it was probably more like four, but somehow her mom had made this competition out of the two of us, and the only way she could "win" the competition was by making a bigger, better dress than the one I had. Thankfully, I didn't realize any of this was going on. It wasn't until later that Mom filled me in and told me the story of the Easter dress. I believe my response was to laugh out loud. Really? Mothers do this kind of thing to their children? And for what?
In the end, my friend began to refuse wearing the clothes her mom made for her. Even when high school dances came around and her mom was standing scissors, needle, and thread in hands to make her a formal dress, she would beg her dad to take her shopping. He'd take her every time. I think he was tired of the competition, too. There was some sort of irrational hold on her mother to make the "perfect" dress.
I, however, have never forgotten that Easter dress. It had nothing to do with the competition. It had nothing to do with the dress my friend ended up wearing to Church the following week. The reason I loved that dress is because my mom made it. I knew it was special, I knew it took a lot of time and effort, and I knew it came from the heart through pin pricks on fingers and curse words at the sewing machine. It was a dress of love, not of duty or competition. That was, and still is, my favorite Easter dress.
Americans Love Lists
Since Americans love lists, I thought it would be fun to make a list of the things I remember about summer as I was growing up. It would be too long to list everything, so I'll just go with the things I remember most vividly. These are in no particular order.
Bike rides
Swimming at the pool and buying a Big Hunk afterward
Running through the sprinklers
Ice cream trucks (with the rocket shaped red, white, and blue treats)
The July 24th Parade
The carnival
The rodeo
Eating popsicles outside
Running barefoot
Cotton candy
Big Wheels
Jumping rope
Handstand competitions in the shade
Plucking fresh fruit off the tree and eating it without washing it
Sleeping in
Bathing at night and the water would turn an ugly gray from all the dirt
Wearing braids and pony tails in my hair
Trying to make raisins out of grapes
Lilac bushes
Mowing the grass
Playing at the park and at the school playground
Eating watermelon
Sudden rain storms and the July/August "monsoon" season
Snow on the top of Mount Timpanogos until July
Wearing a swimsuit like it was an actual piece of clothing
Thongs (aka flip flops these days)
Sleeping outside in the back yard under the stars or in the big tent
Picking the garden clean with Grandpa
Mom and Grandma bottling fruits and veggies and jams
Grandma's hair being done by Mom while I played under the kitchen table
Playing with friends and cousins
Family reunions and family parties
A new dress for Church
Scraped knees, elbows, chins, and stubbed toes
Mosquitoes, mosquitoes, mosquitoes
Chirping crickets
Singing birds (that always drove me crazy, especially early morning)
Sleeping without any covers in one of Dad's old t-shirts
Staying up late to watch movies
Mom's yummy breakfasts every morning
Saturday breakfast runs to McDonald's (remember their cheese danishes?!)
Fireworks - LOTS of fireworks
And sparklers by the dozens
Plastic pools in the yard
Dirt and mud, mud and dirt
Drinking ditch water (too lazy to go home ...)
Cartwheels down hills
Races on bikes or foot down the hill in front of the house
The scary shed where I feared I'd get trapped
Homemade ice cream
Sunburns and good ol' Aloe Vera to cool them down
Sugar-coated, dirty faces
Eating tomatoes straight out of the garden
Buttery corn on the cob
Hiding under Grandpa's plum trees and arbor
Dandelions and blowing them everywhere
Sleepovers (which I usually ended up coming home from ...)
Drinking soda pop
ROAD TRIPS!!!
Bright Ideas summer school (not for the dumb kids)
Ant hills and beetle bugs
Swinging as high as possible
Monkey bars and slides
Tire swings attached to tree houses
Walking to and from Church
Leaving the back door open so a breeze came through the screen
The Mexicans that showed up at our house with Dad
Sitting on the front porch steps
Playing school
Going to the fairgrounds
Joining 4-H (that one year)
Selling lemonade and Kool-Aid (but drinking most of it)
Playing in Shauna's family camper
Jumping on trampolines
The incredibly moist heat at Dad's dry cleaning shop
Sweating and not caring
Sneaking up to watch The Johnny Carson Show with Dad
Band-aids and stitches
What sticks out the most is how completely happy I was to spend time with Mom, Dad, my siblings, cousins, grandparents, and friends. It seems like everything we did was lots of fun, filled with the best people, and never lasted long enough. And now that I'm an adult and work most of the summer, it seems like those "good times" don't quite last as long. It would be fun to savor those moments again each summer. But I have to admit it's also fun to see similar memories being made with my nieces and nephews and great-nieces and great-nephews.
It's amazing the things you see through the eyes of a child ....
Bike rides
Swimming at the pool and buying a Big Hunk afterward
Running through the sprinklers
Ice cream trucks (with the rocket shaped red, white, and blue treats)
The July 24th Parade
The carnival
The rodeo
Eating popsicles outside
Running barefoot
Cotton candy
Big Wheels
Jumping rope
Handstand competitions in the shade
Plucking fresh fruit off the tree and eating it without washing it
Sleeping in
Bathing at night and the water would turn an ugly gray from all the dirt
Wearing braids and pony tails in my hair
Trying to make raisins out of grapes
Lilac bushes
Mowing the grass
Playing at the park and at the school playground
Eating watermelon
Sudden rain storms and the July/August "monsoon" season
Snow on the top of Mount Timpanogos until July
Wearing a swimsuit like it was an actual piece of clothing
Thongs (aka flip flops these days)
Sleeping outside in the back yard under the stars or in the big tent
Picking the garden clean with Grandpa
Mom and Grandma bottling fruits and veggies and jams
Grandma's hair being done by Mom while I played under the kitchen table
Playing with friends and cousins
Family reunions and family parties
A new dress for Church
Scraped knees, elbows, chins, and stubbed toes
Mosquitoes, mosquitoes, mosquitoes
Chirping crickets
Singing birds (that always drove me crazy, especially early morning)
Sleeping without any covers in one of Dad's old t-shirts
Staying up late to watch movies
Mom's yummy breakfasts every morning
Saturday breakfast runs to McDonald's (remember their cheese danishes?!)
Fireworks - LOTS of fireworks
And sparklers by the dozens
Plastic pools in the yard
Dirt and mud, mud and dirt
Drinking ditch water (too lazy to go home ...)
Cartwheels down hills
Races on bikes or foot down the hill in front of the house
The scary shed where I feared I'd get trapped
Homemade ice cream
Sunburns and good ol' Aloe Vera to cool them down
Sugar-coated, dirty faces
Eating tomatoes straight out of the garden
Buttery corn on the cob
Hiding under Grandpa's plum trees and arbor
Dandelions and blowing them everywhere
Sleepovers (which I usually ended up coming home from ...)
Drinking soda pop
ROAD TRIPS!!!
Bright Ideas summer school (not for the dumb kids)
Ant hills and beetle bugs
Swinging as high as possible
Monkey bars and slides
Tire swings attached to tree houses
Walking to and from Church
Leaving the back door open so a breeze came through the screen
The Mexicans that showed up at our house with Dad
Sitting on the front porch steps
Playing school
Going to the fairgrounds
Joining 4-H (that one year)
Selling lemonade and Kool-Aid (but drinking most of it)
Playing in Shauna's family camper
Jumping on trampolines
The incredibly moist heat at Dad's dry cleaning shop
Sweating and not caring
Sneaking up to watch The Johnny Carson Show with Dad
Band-aids and stitches
What sticks out the most is how completely happy I was to spend time with Mom, Dad, my siblings, cousins, grandparents, and friends. It seems like everything we did was lots of fun, filled with the best people, and never lasted long enough. And now that I'm an adult and work most of the summer, it seems like those "good times" don't quite last as long. It would be fun to savor those moments again each summer. But I have to admit it's also fun to see similar memories being made with my nieces and nephews and great-nieces and great-nephews.
It's amazing the things you see through the eyes of a child ....
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
Tortured With Pillows
Being the youngest of six children with the next closest in age being nearly eight years older means you're going to deal with some kind of abuse as you grow up. It's just a guarantee that your siblings will ask you to lie for them, make you keep secrets, and generally destroy your sense of security. I was no exception, although I think I've managed quite well in the aftermath.
At the age of four, maybe five, my oldest sister put me in a pair of her jeans. She wanted to see how they "fit." Number one, when your older sister asks you to do that, don't. She doesn't really care how those jeans fit. Number two, be leery when she asks you to "step outside" in them so she "can get a better look." You're probably thinking I'm an idiot about now, but come on, give me some slack. I was only four or five, and I stupidly trusted her.
But wait! Before we go outside, let's see what it would look like if these jeans really did fit you. Uh huh. Okay. Sure.
And thus began my torture by pillows. She shoved pillows in those jeans until they were so tight on me there was no way they were coming off without Vaseline or butter. And then she wanted to go outside. Well, for Pete's sake, I couldn't walk! I wasn't a scrawny kid by any means, but this was well beyond what my legs could manage.
Somehow, I ended up on the front lawn and SOMEHOW she ended up having a camera. It's like that camera magically appeared at awkward moments. How does that happen? Is there an "awkward moment radar" attached to those things? And to make matters worse, it was a Polaroid, so we had "proof" of the incident as it happened.
I stood outside and posed for her crazy pictures in her stupid jeans packed like sardines with pillows, and I let her take those pictures. Why? Because I'm awesome. Even at four or five I was awesome. There's no disputing it. She laughed and laughed at me and had a grand ol' time at my expense.
And then she left me. Some may have considered that a good thing, and I thought it was at first, too. Until I realized that there was no way in heck I could move in those pants stuffed with pillows. There was no way I could walk back to the house. There was no way, even if I made it to the house, to get up the stairs. And there was definitely no way if I got up the stairs that I could get those pants off without a serious intervention.
So I stood there. On the front lawn. In those jeans stuffed with pillows. And watched cars go by. And I waved. And they honked. And someone (I don't even remember who) came to my rescue, took me in the house, helped me out of the pillow pants, and set me free. Free to plot revenge on my sister. Free to figure out a way to make her life miserable from that moment to the end of eternity. She'd be tortured, all right, but it was not going to be with pillows.
Unfortunately, I'm not good at revenge. So the picture sits in my book of remembrance, and I'm reminded that things could have been a lot worse. At least she didn't set the pillows on fire, right? But I do wonder if that's why I sometimes feel like I have thunder thighs today. Those dang pillow pants gave me a complex!
Sounds like I need to get back to plotting my revenge ....
At the age of four, maybe five, my oldest sister put me in a pair of her jeans. She wanted to see how they "fit." Number one, when your older sister asks you to do that, don't. She doesn't really care how those jeans fit. Number two, be leery when she asks you to "step outside" in them so she "can get a better look." You're probably thinking I'm an idiot about now, but come on, give me some slack. I was only four or five, and I stupidly trusted her.
But wait! Before we go outside, let's see what it would look like if these jeans really did fit you. Uh huh. Okay. Sure.
And thus began my torture by pillows. She shoved pillows in those jeans until they were so tight on me there was no way they were coming off without Vaseline or butter. And then she wanted to go outside. Well, for Pete's sake, I couldn't walk! I wasn't a scrawny kid by any means, but this was well beyond what my legs could manage.
Somehow, I ended up on the front lawn and SOMEHOW she ended up having a camera. It's like that camera magically appeared at awkward moments. How does that happen? Is there an "awkward moment radar" attached to those things? And to make matters worse, it was a Polaroid, so we had "proof" of the incident as it happened.
I stood outside and posed for her crazy pictures in her stupid jeans packed like sardines with pillows, and I let her take those pictures. Why? Because I'm awesome. Even at four or five I was awesome. There's no disputing it. She laughed and laughed at me and had a grand ol' time at my expense.
And then she left me. Some may have considered that a good thing, and I thought it was at first, too. Until I realized that there was no way in heck I could move in those pants stuffed with pillows. There was no way I could walk back to the house. There was no way, even if I made it to the house, to get up the stairs. And there was definitely no way if I got up the stairs that I could get those pants off without a serious intervention.
So I stood there. On the front lawn. In those jeans stuffed with pillows. And watched cars go by. And I waved. And they honked. And someone (I don't even remember who) came to my rescue, took me in the house, helped me out of the pillow pants, and set me free. Free to plot revenge on my sister. Free to figure out a way to make her life miserable from that moment to the end of eternity. She'd be tortured, all right, but it was not going to be with pillows.
Unfortunately, I'm not good at revenge. So the picture sits in my book of remembrance, and I'm reminded that things could have been a lot worse. At least she didn't set the pillows on fire, right? But I do wonder if that's why I sometimes feel like I have thunder thighs today. Those dang pillow pants gave me a complex!
Sounds like I need to get back to plotting my revenge ....
Rhubarb and Salt
My friend Shauna's dad, Mark, grew a huge garden every year. It was standard procedure to see the tomatoes growing off the vine and corn stalks waving in the wind. And yes, we got a lot of wind. Their neighbors, the Lambs, also grew a garden every year. Sometimes Mark and Brother Lamb would combine efforts in watering, weeding, planting, and taking care of their gardens. I was always grossed out by the amount of dirt and mud involved. To this day, I still don't like getting my hands dirty like that. Which makes me wonder now why I was so big into making mud pies and trying to sell them for profit. I'm going to have to think on that for a bit.
Anyway, somehow or another there were always rhubarb plants in the mix of the gardening items. Some people love rhubarb pie. I have never liked celery, and I thought rhubarb looked an awful lot like celery, so I couldn't imagine why in the world a person in their right mind would consider eating a pie made out of celery. Who does that?
One day, Shauna convinced me we needed to try the rhubarb. We were bored, looking for an adventure, hot and tired, and mainly just trying to get out of having to do any work. Work was for people who didn't have better things to do, and we always had better things to do. Duh.
We found a rhubarb plant we thought looked exceptionally nice. With a look of "Why not?" at each other, we each ripped off a stalk and started to chew. Talk about bitter! It's making my cheeks tense up and my jaw hurt as I type this out. And yes, I also just shuddered a bit. Oy!
With our eyes watering and tongues on some kind of acid fire, Shauna suggested some salt might help with the taste. After all, you salted your potatoes and other vegetables when you ate them, right? Sure. Why not? She ran up to the house and returned shortly with the salt shaker. We stared at each other for a bit - kind of like a gun battle in the middle of a ghost town. Who would eat the rhubarb with salt first?
Finally, we decided to do it together. She salted hers, I salted mine, and then we took another big bite. Still bitter! But it grew on us. Don't ask. I have no idea what possessed us. We just kept eating the stuff. Salting it and eating it. And we downed nearly a whole plant of raw rhubarb with salt on it.
It had to have been later that night that I didn't feel too well. As a kid, you don't really pay attention to things like what you've eaten that might upset your stomach. You just know you're sick, dangit, and want everyone in the world to stop what they're doing and make you feel better. (Nobody else does that? Just me? Hm.)
I don't remember throwing up, but I do remember not feeling well at all. I remember having a hard time sleeping. The next day Shauna and I got together but we didn't actually do a whole lot. We just kind of laid around, mostly on the grass, but close enough to a bathroom that we could get there if we needed it.
At one point Shauna said, "My brother told me that eating raw rhubarb can kill you. Do you think we're going to die?" With a churning stomach and a still-raw tongue I really wanted to answer yes to that question. I'm sure my response instead was a groan. It hurt too much to talk. We learned our lesson though. No more rhubarb, even if you have salt with it. And to this day, I've still never tasted rhubarb pie.
Anyway, somehow or another there were always rhubarb plants in the mix of the gardening items. Some people love rhubarb pie. I have never liked celery, and I thought rhubarb looked an awful lot like celery, so I couldn't imagine why in the world a person in their right mind would consider eating a pie made out of celery. Who does that?
One day, Shauna convinced me we needed to try the rhubarb. We were bored, looking for an adventure, hot and tired, and mainly just trying to get out of having to do any work. Work was for people who didn't have better things to do, and we always had better things to do. Duh.
We found a rhubarb plant we thought looked exceptionally nice. With a look of "Why not?" at each other, we each ripped off a stalk and started to chew. Talk about bitter! It's making my cheeks tense up and my jaw hurt as I type this out. And yes, I also just shuddered a bit. Oy!
With our eyes watering and tongues on some kind of acid fire, Shauna suggested some salt might help with the taste. After all, you salted your potatoes and other vegetables when you ate them, right? Sure. Why not? She ran up to the house and returned shortly with the salt shaker. We stared at each other for a bit - kind of like a gun battle in the middle of a ghost town. Who would eat the rhubarb with salt first?
Finally, we decided to do it together. She salted hers, I salted mine, and then we took another big bite. Still bitter! But it grew on us. Don't ask. I have no idea what possessed us. We just kept eating the stuff. Salting it and eating it. And we downed nearly a whole plant of raw rhubarb with salt on it.
It had to have been later that night that I didn't feel too well. As a kid, you don't really pay attention to things like what you've eaten that might upset your stomach. You just know you're sick, dangit, and want everyone in the world to stop what they're doing and make you feel better. (Nobody else does that? Just me? Hm.)
I don't remember throwing up, but I do remember not feeling well at all. I remember having a hard time sleeping. The next day Shauna and I got together but we didn't actually do a whole lot. We just kind of laid around, mostly on the grass, but close enough to a bathroom that we could get there if we needed it.
At one point Shauna said, "My brother told me that eating raw rhubarb can kill you. Do you think we're going to die?" With a churning stomach and a still-raw tongue I really wanted to answer yes to that question. I'm sure my response instead was a groan. It hurt too much to talk. We learned our lesson though. No more rhubarb, even if you have salt with it. And to this day, I've still never tasted rhubarb pie.
Dangerous Liaisons
You know those HUGE black garbage bags that hold something like 13 or 15 gallons worth of trash? And they're nearly as tall as a human when you pull them out of the box? Those were used for incredible feats when I was a kid.
Growing up in a smaller community, we had irrigation days where ditches and yards would be flooded with mountain water run off. Certain neighborhoods had certain watering days to take care of their yards and gardens. The best part, however, was the water that filled the ditches.
You may be asking what that has to do with the black garbage bags. A lot, I tell you! A lot! One of the things we did most when I was a kid was grab one of those garbage bags and head for the ditches. You'd open up the bag, put yourself inside, and then sit in the ditch water until it filled the bag and sent you sailing down the ditch. It was a fast ride because the water moved fast.
The only potential problem was getting out of the ditch with your bag (and body) intact before you went under a driveway cover and got stuck. And probably drowned. Maybe this wasn't such a great thing we did in retrospect. Nah. Are you kidding?! It was great fun! And cheap.
Quite often, the bag would rip because it was so full of water. Plus, it was quite slippery, so trying to yank it out of the water with wet, prune-y hands was kind of difficult. The other difficult part was making sure you yanked the bag up and out of the water rather than dragging it. If you dragged it you would most likely be pulling against the asphalt and create tears in the bag. A few small ones were no big deal, but much more than that definitely decreased your speed in the water.
If there got to be too many holes in the bag, we'd sit on them instead and hold on for dear life as the water dragged us down the length of the ditch. That usually lasted at least a few more rides before a new bag was a necessity.
I remember getting caught under the driveway cover one time. My legs were stuck in the bag under the driveway cover, and I was really struggling to get out of the water. My heels were digging into the ditch to hold on to that garbage bag for dear life as my forearms were holding my entire body weight above the water so I could get out. I almost recovered with the garbage bag intact, but at the last second the water filled up the bag again and sucked it down the ditch to its demise.
It's amazing to me that we can't find such cheap summer entertainment now. Everything costs money, and summer entertainment consists of going to the movies where it's air-conditioned and comfortable. The good ol' days never knew of such a thing. Sure, we had movie theaters, but playing outside in the heat was what summer was all about. It was like a silent contest to see who could go to school in the Fall with the brownest skin. If you were lucky (like me) that tan would last year round with only the slightest fade when Spring came around.
I do, however, admit now that many of the things we did during summer break were pretty dangerous. After all, I could have easily drowned in that ditch had the bag not broken free. My arms could have given in and the water would have sucked me under. Or I could have whacked my head on the cement ditch and never come to. But those were the days when dangerous liaisons meant staying out of your mom's hair in order to avoid housework or chores. It was totally worth it - risking life, limb, and all.
Growing up in a smaller community, we had irrigation days where ditches and yards would be flooded with mountain water run off. Certain neighborhoods had certain watering days to take care of their yards and gardens. The best part, however, was the water that filled the ditches.
You may be asking what that has to do with the black garbage bags. A lot, I tell you! A lot! One of the things we did most when I was a kid was grab one of those garbage bags and head for the ditches. You'd open up the bag, put yourself inside, and then sit in the ditch water until it filled the bag and sent you sailing down the ditch. It was a fast ride because the water moved fast.
The only potential problem was getting out of the ditch with your bag (and body) intact before you went under a driveway cover and got stuck. And probably drowned. Maybe this wasn't such a great thing we did in retrospect. Nah. Are you kidding?! It was great fun! And cheap.
Quite often, the bag would rip because it was so full of water. Plus, it was quite slippery, so trying to yank it out of the water with wet, prune-y hands was kind of difficult. The other difficult part was making sure you yanked the bag up and out of the water rather than dragging it. If you dragged it you would most likely be pulling against the asphalt and create tears in the bag. A few small ones were no big deal, but much more than that definitely decreased your speed in the water.
If there got to be too many holes in the bag, we'd sit on them instead and hold on for dear life as the water dragged us down the length of the ditch. That usually lasted at least a few more rides before a new bag was a necessity.
I remember getting caught under the driveway cover one time. My legs were stuck in the bag under the driveway cover, and I was really struggling to get out of the water. My heels were digging into the ditch to hold on to that garbage bag for dear life as my forearms were holding my entire body weight above the water so I could get out. I almost recovered with the garbage bag intact, but at the last second the water filled up the bag again and sucked it down the ditch to its demise.
It's amazing to me that we can't find such cheap summer entertainment now. Everything costs money, and summer entertainment consists of going to the movies where it's air-conditioned and comfortable. The good ol' days never knew of such a thing. Sure, we had movie theaters, but playing outside in the heat was what summer was all about. It was like a silent contest to see who could go to school in the Fall with the brownest skin. If you were lucky (like me) that tan would last year round with only the slightest fade when Spring came around.
I do, however, admit now that many of the things we did during summer break were pretty dangerous. After all, I could have easily drowned in that ditch had the bag not broken free. My arms could have given in and the water would have sucked me under. Or I could have whacked my head on the cement ditch and never come to. But those were the days when dangerous liaisons meant staying out of your mom's hair in order to avoid housework or chores. It was totally worth it - risking life, limb, and all.
Monday, May 19, 2014
We Didn't Want To Be There
My mom's father, Karl Koyle, passed away the day after his birthday on September 22, 1999. He'd gone in voluntarily for bypass surgery on his heart, and he knew he would not come out of it. In fact, he told Mom on multiple occasions that he wasn't coming home from the hospital. It's strange to me how some people just know when their death is imminent. Grandpa wasn't really upset about it (he was prepared to meet his Maker), but he was worried about Grandma since she was so "forgetful" (a diagnosis of Alzheimer's was imminent).
Grandma seemed so "normal" at the funeral. She knew exactly the right things to say to everyone. It was afterwards we realized how bad she was when she kept asking where Karl was and why he didn't come home. It nearly killed her kids to have to tell her over and over again that Karl was gone, he'd died, but he still loved her. One of my uncles, I think, came up with the idea to play the funeral tape for Grandma. They thought it would help her remember that there was a funeral. It didn't. She thought they were lying to her about where he was. And then she started to ask why they threw Karl in that hole in the ground. It was so mean to do that to him, and surely he'd be upset and could she just talk to him about it?
I moved in with Grandma for a few weeks after Grandpa died. It was probably in the top ten of most upsetting times of my life. I'd recently returned from college where my bedroom roommate was a schizophrenic that tried to slit her wrists with butter knives (she succeeded one night while doing the dishes and turned the dishrag so tightly in one of the glasses that it shattered and cut her wrists - that was a LONG night at the local hospital ER), walked around the apartment naked, and talked of Sammy Hagar and Eddie Van Halen because they "talked" to her in her sleep. That's a whole different story altogether, but I did awake one night to her standing over me with said butter knives saying that Sammy and Eddie had told her to "slay" me. It wasn't long after that she moved home. For obvious reasons.
Anyway, Grandma wasn't scary like that, but those experiences were still fairly fresh, so when Grandma would stand over me in the mornings and stare at me until I woke up it was a little freaky. It actually got funny the more it happened. She'd be in her robe and stand there staring at me. Every time my eyes flew open and saw her there like that I "eeked" a little bit out loud. She'd always ask if it was time for toast yet. Toast with pineapple marmalade. It had to be the same breakfast every morning.
The worst of it came at night. She would become increasingly paranoid during the day. The gas fireplace was suddenly going to burn the house down, people were watching us from outside the windows, and the people on TV somehow knew where we were and what we were doing. By bedtime, the paranoia had significantly increased. If the ceiling fan was on in the bedroom she was convinced that "little men" were going to get her in her sleep. One time I heard her moving around in the bedroom (mine was across the hall), so I went to check on her. As soon as I opened the door the phone came hurdling across the room with incredible speed and force. It was then I had to call her sister, Nadine, and see if she could help me calm Grandma down. It was difficult to see Grandma like that. I didn't last much longer as the live-in caregiver.
Soon, Mom and her siblings started taking turns staying with Grandma. It was taxing on all of them since they had jobs and families of their own. Mom was in the throes of troubles with her vision at the time, and I remember feeling sick that I couldn't be the one tough enough to care for Grandma so Mom didn't have to. In the end, I think it was good for all of them to love and serve Grandma. She had become so childlike and dependent. Towards the end, my sister and her husband came and lived there with Grandma until she passed away. I know it was taxing for both of them as well.
We tried to take Grandma on little Saturday outings. It was the norm that Grandma, her sisters, and Mom and I would pile in a car and take a jaunt out to lunch and go shopping. Grandma really enjoyed that time with all of us, but it wasn't long before she couldn't do that anymore. She would get turned around, frustrated, and paranoid about everything going on around her. She also thought she needed to get home to Karl, which about broke all of our hearts knowing he wasn't there.
It finally got to the point that Grandma's kids realized a secure rest home was the best place for her to be. She'd already fallen and broken an arm on one of the jaunts with Mom and Nadine. While my sister was caring for her, she tripped up a couple of stairs and landed on her face. It bruised her up pretty good. Grandma was also visiting an adult daycare of sorts to give my sister some reprieve during the week. She managed to escape the facility and cross a huge and very busy street by herself. Grandma was later found in a Target store wandering around. It was the eventual deciding factor that we couldn't keep Grandma safe and still keep her in her home.
Once she got in the rest home things seemed to go pretty well. Grandma made a friend that she could walk down the halls with. They carried their "babies" (dolls) with them everywhere they went and seemed to have a grand time together. Her arm was still healing (she was pretty frail) and her bruised face was starting to look somewhat better. In other words, it wasn't purple and black and blue anymore.
It's now that I can't really remember the exact sequence of events, but Grandma took another fall and broke her nose really bad. I think that happened at the rest home. There were some other incidents, too, and Mom and I felt like the end was nearer than anyone wanted to admit. We were tired, worn out, frustrated, sad, and needed to get away. We decided to take a trip with Nadine and get out of dodge until the air had cleared a bit and we could see things from a different perspective.
It was quiet in the car as Mom and I drove the few blocks to Nadine's house to pick her up. We'd decided on a trip to Nauvoo to see Church history sites. We knew it would be calm there, and it was a place where we could collect our thoughts and be renewed. I think we'd planned something like a 12 day trip to drive out there and see everything we possibly could. We left Dad with the express threat that we were not to be "called home" unless something was really, really wrong with Grandma. He obliged and let us go. It took a lot of bravery for him to let us go without a fight.
When we pulled off from Nadine's house we were all giddy and excited. Those feelings quickly dissipated, and before we got out of town Mom spoke up and said, "We all know Mom (Grandma) will not be here when we get back. She will not make it another 12 days. If you're not okay leaving Utah knowing that than we should turn around and not go on this trip." There was a huge lump in my throat, but she'd vocalized exactly what I was already feeling. From the back seat of the car Nadine said, "Yep, we all know that and we're all fine with it. We don't want to be here when she dies anyway. We've said our goodbyes and she knows how much we love her. What other reason would there be to stay?"
As sad as it was to continue on that road trip, it was also a relief to know I was in the car with two other strong, vibrant women that felt the same way I did. We knew Grandma's end was near, and we knew we wouldn't be there to witness it, but you know what? It was okay because we didn't want to be there. We wanted to remember Grandma as the kind, funny, quirky, silly, gentle, generous soul she had been all her life. We were tired of seeing her not recognize people or know the names of her children and grandchildren, wonder where Karl was, and try to figure out what was going on around her. That was not her, and we knew it. Why say goodbye to her in that state when it would simply be for our benefit? Grandma wouldn't know the difference, and as it was, we'd already said our goodbyes to the woman we knew and loved. She had been leaving or gone for years now anyway.
I'm not even sure what sites we saw on the way to Nauvoo, but I do remember that we checked into a hotel one night, July 25, around 5:00 p.m. We'd been in touch with Dad regularly and knew the status on Grandma. He was quite open with us about developments and things that had been going on at the rest home and with the family. Often, we would tell him we'd heard enough to know what we needed to know. He was so kind and gentle in the way he told us everything, and he obliged when we asked him to talk about something else. It was just as hard for Dad as it was for any of us. He loved Grandpa and Grandma like his own parents. He loved them deeply.
That night over the phone at the hotel Dad said, "I think you should start home. Things are not good here. She's not doing well. They've brought her home from the rest home, and she's not responding to anyone or anything." She'd taken another fall, and from what I remember, she'd broken a rib and had come down with pneumonia, which there would be no recovering from in her already weakened state. I can still see the look of gloom on Mom's face. Nadine had been in the bathroom while Mom made the regular check-in call to Dad. As soon as Nadine came out of the bathroom Mom told her the situation. We all three sat in silence on the beds in the hotel and just stared at the floor or at each other. It was like time stopped as we pondered about what to do. We would each throw out our thoughts and then sit quietly as we stewed over what to do. Mom talked with Dad again by phone, and again he urged us to come home.
Finally, Mom said, "We know we won't make it home in time to say goodbye, but I think we should turn around, go home, and forget our vacation plans. They will need help planning the funeral, and we ought to be there to support those who will have a hard time with her passing." Nadine and I nodded, grabbed our stuff, and checked out of the hotel.
Mom couldn't drive at night because of her vision problems, so she opted for the first driving "shift" while I climbed in the back of the car and tried to sleep. We still had the car set on Utah time, and it was about 4-5 minutes fast. It's one of those small details you don't forget. We had piled in the car around 7:00, stopped for a bite of fast food dinner, and then intended to drive straight through until we got home.
I couldn't sleep. It just wouldn't come. I was weary and worn out - emotionally and physically. You'd think the exhaustion would have shut my eyes so deeply that a bull horn couldn't have shaken me. It wasn't so. My thoughts were rumbling around in my head making no sense and drawing no conclusions. It was 10 short months ago that we had buried Grandpa, and now here we were again working on funeral arrangements and putting Grandma in the ground beside him. It was where she wanted to be. I was relieved for her, sad for us, and plain mad that life had to be so unfair to someone as good as my Grandma.
I looked at the (too fast) clock and it said 8:08. I closed my eyes again and this time silently prayed my heart out. It went something like this (only longer): "Heavenly Father," I said, "we know that Grandma has been in a lot of pain. We know she can't remember us. We know she has missed Grandpa since the minute he arrived in Your care. She is not the same person she was because of the disease that has ravaged her mind. We don't need to be there in order for her to come home to You. The others might need to be there, but we don't. We are okay if she is ready to come home to You without us saying a formal goodbye. She knows how much we love her and how much we will miss her. Please don't allow her to suffer longer than necessary or to hang on until we get there. We don't need to be there and we don't want to be there as she leaves this mortal life. Please help her know it's okay that she leaves without us being there to say goodbye."
When I opened my eyes from the prayer the clock said 8:12. I watched it change to 8:13, then closed my eyes again, and with moisture slowly filling them, I fell asleep. A couple of hours later, Mom woke me and said she couldn't drive any longer. It was dark outside, and she couldn't see well enough to drive. I knew she was exhausted in every way possible, so we situated the back seat in order for her to be comfortable, and I drove the rest of the way home with Nadine in the front seat. It was another 19 1/2 very long hours. We arrived home the next evening (July 26) a little after 5 p.m.
It was strange - that whole experience. Every time we stopped for gas we would see a highway patrolman. We thought it was a little odd, but didn't think much of it. Honestly, we were happy to see so many of them on the roads because it made us feel safe. Someone later mentioned that maybe Dad had called the highway patrol to let them know the circumstances and ask that we not be pulled over if we were caught speeding. We didn't speed, and I never did confirm with Dad whether or not he had done that. I was able to stay awake and alert the entire time I drove, even though I don't really remember much of the drive. Nadine stayed awake and talked to me much of the time.
It was bitter sweet as we pulled into the driveway at home. We'd had so much fun together laughing, eating, talking, reminiscing, and getting away from everything and everyone. We were so glad for the time we had together, and yet we were also glad in some ways to be home. We found out later Grandma had died at almost exactly 8:12. A sense of relief and a feeling of peace entered my heart as I realized that was the exact time I had ended my prayer giving "permission" for Heavenly Father to allow Grandma to come home and be reunited with Grandpa. I still believe Grandma was privy to that prayer and was grateful to be released instead of being asked to hang on until we got there.
I remember that a lot of the family was upset with Dad. It didn't make sense to me. Mom finally explained that nobody believed him when he told them he was constantly in touch with us and letting us know what was happening. They thought he should have pushed us to come home sooner. They thought we should have been there when Grandma died. After all, the whole family was there when she passed. I remember thinking, "Isn't having the whole family there enough? Why did we need to be there, too?"
Dad told us the basics about what happened after they brought Grandma home. We were more than glad we weren't there. I remember feeling sorry that everyone thought Dad had done something wrong. We even tried to reassure people that Dad had done exactly as we had asked. They wouldn't listen, and feelings of anger stuck around for a while. It was like we had turned our backs on the entire family by not being there. In reality, it was such a peaceful experience for the three of us, and even to this day none of us would trade the way things happened. It just goes to show we all see things from our own perspective. And I hope Dad knows how much we appreciate him for doing exactly as we asked. It wasn't easy!
In the end, I realize what a blessing that little "vacation" was with Mom and Nadine. It helped me understand that life goes on even when hard things have happened or continue to happen. I'm still convinced that Grandma heard my prayers and realized we were okay with her leaving when she did. We still don't regret a minute of taking that "time out" from life, and in reality, it probably saved each of our sanity. I hope someday that others will understand our intentions were pure and not selfish. We didn't plan for things to happen the way they did, but we were definitely okay with the way things ended. And I'm certain that Grandma was happy to see her Karl again and be reunited with loved ones. She had many more people waiting on the other side of the veil than she did watching at her bedside as she passed. What a blessing to know that, and to know we will see her again.
Grandma seemed so "normal" at the funeral. She knew exactly the right things to say to everyone. It was afterwards we realized how bad she was when she kept asking where Karl was and why he didn't come home. It nearly killed her kids to have to tell her over and over again that Karl was gone, he'd died, but he still loved her. One of my uncles, I think, came up with the idea to play the funeral tape for Grandma. They thought it would help her remember that there was a funeral. It didn't. She thought they were lying to her about where he was. And then she started to ask why they threw Karl in that hole in the ground. It was so mean to do that to him, and surely he'd be upset and could she just talk to him about it?
I moved in with Grandma for a few weeks after Grandpa died. It was probably in the top ten of most upsetting times of my life. I'd recently returned from college where my bedroom roommate was a schizophrenic that tried to slit her wrists with butter knives (she succeeded one night while doing the dishes and turned the dishrag so tightly in one of the glasses that it shattered and cut her wrists - that was a LONG night at the local hospital ER), walked around the apartment naked, and talked of Sammy Hagar and Eddie Van Halen because they "talked" to her in her sleep. That's a whole different story altogether, but I did awake one night to her standing over me with said butter knives saying that Sammy and Eddie had told her to "slay" me. It wasn't long after that she moved home. For obvious reasons.
Anyway, Grandma wasn't scary like that, but those experiences were still fairly fresh, so when Grandma would stand over me in the mornings and stare at me until I woke up it was a little freaky. It actually got funny the more it happened. She'd be in her robe and stand there staring at me. Every time my eyes flew open and saw her there like that I "eeked" a little bit out loud. She'd always ask if it was time for toast yet. Toast with pineapple marmalade. It had to be the same breakfast every morning.
The worst of it came at night. She would become increasingly paranoid during the day. The gas fireplace was suddenly going to burn the house down, people were watching us from outside the windows, and the people on TV somehow knew where we were and what we were doing. By bedtime, the paranoia had significantly increased. If the ceiling fan was on in the bedroom she was convinced that "little men" were going to get her in her sleep. One time I heard her moving around in the bedroom (mine was across the hall), so I went to check on her. As soon as I opened the door the phone came hurdling across the room with incredible speed and force. It was then I had to call her sister, Nadine, and see if she could help me calm Grandma down. It was difficult to see Grandma like that. I didn't last much longer as the live-in caregiver.
Soon, Mom and her siblings started taking turns staying with Grandma. It was taxing on all of them since they had jobs and families of their own. Mom was in the throes of troubles with her vision at the time, and I remember feeling sick that I couldn't be the one tough enough to care for Grandma so Mom didn't have to. In the end, I think it was good for all of them to love and serve Grandma. She had become so childlike and dependent. Towards the end, my sister and her husband came and lived there with Grandma until she passed away. I know it was taxing for both of them as well.
We tried to take Grandma on little Saturday outings. It was the norm that Grandma, her sisters, and Mom and I would pile in a car and take a jaunt out to lunch and go shopping. Grandma really enjoyed that time with all of us, but it wasn't long before she couldn't do that anymore. She would get turned around, frustrated, and paranoid about everything going on around her. She also thought she needed to get home to Karl, which about broke all of our hearts knowing he wasn't there.
It finally got to the point that Grandma's kids realized a secure rest home was the best place for her to be. She'd already fallen and broken an arm on one of the jaunts with Mom and Nadine. While my sister was caring for her, she tripped up a couple of stairs and landed on her face. It bruised her up pretty good. Grandma was also visiting an adult daycare of sorts to give my sister some reprieve during the week. She managed to escape the facility and cross a huge and very busy street by herself. Grandma was later found in a Target store wandering around. It was the eventual deciding factor that we couldn't keep Grandma safe and still keep her in her home.
Once she got in the rest home things seemed to go pretty well. Grandma made a friend that she could walk down the halls with. They carried their "babies" (dolls) with them everywhere they went and seemed to have a grand time together. Her arm was still healing (she was pretty frail) and her bruised face was starting to look somewhat better. In other words, it wasn't purple and black and blue anymore.
It's now that I can't really remember the exact sequence of events, but Grandma took another fall and broke her nose really bad. I think that happened at the rest home. There were some other incidents, too, and Mom and I felt like the end was nearer than anyone wanted to admit. We were tired, worn out, frustrated, sad, and needed to get away. We decided to take a trip with Nadine and get out of dodge until the air had cleared a bit and we could see things from a different perspective.
It was quiet in the car as Mom and I drove the few blocks to Nadine's house to pick her up. We'd decided on a trip to Nauvoo to see Church history sites. We knew it would be calm there, and it was a place where we could collect our thoughts and be renewed. I think we'd planned something like a 12 day trip to drive out there and see everything we possibly could. We left Dad with the express threat that we were not to be "called home" unless something was really, really wrong with Grandma. He obliged and let us go. It took a lot of bravery for him to let us go without a fight.
When we pulled off from Nadine's house we were all giddy and excited. Those feelings quickly dissipated, and before we got out of town Mom spoke up and said, "We all know Mom (Grandma) will not be here when we get back. She will not make it another 12 days. If you're not okay leaving Utah knowing that than we should turn around and not go on this trip." There was a huge lump in my throat, but she'd vocalized exactly what I was already feeling. From the back seat of the car Nadine said, "Yep, we all know that and we're all fine with it. We don't want to be here when she dies anyway. We've said our goodbyes and she knows how much we love her. What other reason would there be to stay?"
As sad as it was to continue on that road trip, it was also a relief to know I was in the car with two other strong, vibrant women that felt the same way I did. We knew Grandma's end was near, and we knew we wouldn't be there to witness it, but you know what? It was okay because we didn't want to be there. We wanted to remember Grandma as the kind, funny, quirky, silly, gentle, generous soul she had been all her life. We were tired of seeing her not recognize people or know the names of her children and grandchildren, wonder where Karl was, and try to figure out what was going on around her. That was not her, and we knew it. Why say goodbye to her in that state when it would simply be for our benefit? Grandma wouldn't know the difference, and as it was, we'd already said our goodbyes to the woman we knew and loved. She had been leaving or gone for years now anyway.
I'm not even sure what sites we saw on the way to Nauvoo, but I do remember that we checked into a hotel one night, July 25, around 5:00 p.m. We'd been in touch with Dad regularly and knew the status on Grandma. He was quite open with us about developments and things that had been going on at the rest home and with the family. Often, we would tell him we'd heard enough to know what we needed to know. He was so kind and gentle in the way he told us everything, and he obliged when we asked him to talk about something else. It was just as hard for Dad as it was for any of us. He loved Grandpa and Grandma like his own parents. He loved them deeply.
That night over the phone at the hotel Dad said, "I think you should start home. Things are not good here. She's not doing well. They've brought her home from the rest home, and she's not responding to anyone or anything." She'd taken another fall, and from what I remember, she'd broken a rib and had come down with pneumonia, which there would be no recovering from in her already weakened state. I can still see the look of gloom on Mom's face. Nadine had been in the bathroom while Mom made the regular check-in call to Dad. As soon as Nadine came out of the bathroom Mom told her the situation. We all three sat in silence on the beds in the hotel and just stared at the floor or at each other. It was like time stopped as we pondered about what to do. We would each throw out our thoughts and then sit quietly as we stewed over what to do. Mom talked with Dad again by phone, and again he urged us to come home.
Finally, Mom said, "We know we won't make it home in time to say goodbye, but I think we should turn around, go home, and forget our vacation plans. They will need help planning the funeral, and we ought to be there to support those who will have a hard time with her passing." Nadine and I nodded, grabbed our stuff, and checked out of the hotel.
Mom couldn't drive at night because of her vision problems, so she opted for the first driving "shift" while I climbed in the back of the car and tried to sleep. We still had the car set on Utah time, and it was about 4-5 minutes fast. It's one of those small details you don't forget. We had piled in the car around 7:00, stopped for a bite of fast food dinner, and then intended to drive straight through until we got home.
I couldn't sleep. It just wouldn't come. I was weary and worn out - emotionally and physically. You'd think the exhaustion would have shut my eyes so deeply that a bull horn couldn't have shaken me. It wasn't so. My thoughts were rumbling around in my head making no sense and drawing no conclusions. It was 10 short months ago that we had buried Grandpa, and now here we were again working on funeral arrangements and putting Grandma in the ground beside him. It was where she wanted to be. I was relieved for her, sad for us, and plain mad that life had to be so unfair to someone as good as my Grandma.
I looked at the (too fast) clock and it said 8:08. I closed my eyes again and this time silently prayed my heart out. It went something like this (only longer): "Heavenly Father," I said, "we know that Grandma has been in a lot of pain. We know she can't remember us. We know she has missed Grandpa since the minute he arrived in Your care. She is not the same person she was because of the disease that has ravaged her mind. We don't need to be there in order for her to come home to You. The others might need to be there, but we don't. We are okay if she is ready to come home to You without us saying a formal goodbye. She knows how much we love her and how much we will miss her. Please don't allow her to suffer longer than necessary or to hang on until we get there. We don't need to be there and we don't want to be there as she leaves this mortal life. Please help her know it's okay that she leaves without us being there to say goodbye."
When I opened my eyes from the prayer the clock said 8:12. I watched it change to 8:13, then closed my eyes again, and with moisture slowly filling them, I fell asleep. A couple of hours later, Mom woke me and said she couldn't drive any longer. It was dark outside, and she couldn't see well enough to drive. I knew she was exhausted in every way possible, so we situated the back seat in order for her to be comfortable, and I drove the rest of the way home with Nadine in the front seat. It was another 19 1/2 very long hours. We arrived home the next evening (July 26) a little after 5 p.m.
It was strange - that whole experience. Every time we stopped for gas we would see a highway patrolman. We thought it was a little odd, but didn't think much of it. Honestly, we were happy to see so many of them on the roads because it made us feel safe. Someone later mentioned that maybe Dad had called the highway patrol to let them know the circumstances and ask that we not be pulled over if we were caught speeding. We didn't speed, and I never did confirm with Dad whether or not he had done that. I was able to stay awake and alert the entire time I drove, even though I don't really remember much of the drive. Nadine stayed awake and talked to me much of the time.
It was bitter sweet as we pulled into the driveway at home. We'd had so much fun together laughing, eating, talking, reminiscing, and getting away from everything and everyone. We were so glad for the time we had together, and yet we were also glad in some ways to be home. We found out later Grandma had died at almost exactly 8:12. A sense of relief and a feeling of peace entered my heart as I realized that was the exact time I had ended my prayer giving "permission" for Heavenly Father to allow Grandma to come home and be reunited with Grandpa. I still believe Grandma was privy to that prayer and was grateful to be released instead of being asked to hang on until we got there.
I remember that a lot of the family was upset with Dad. It didn't make sense to me. Mom finally explained that nobody believed him when he told them he was constantly in touch with us and letting us know what was happening. They thought he should have pushed us to come home sooner. They thought we should have been there when Grandma died. After all, the whole family was there when she passed. I remember thinking, "Isn't having the whole family there enough? Why did we need to be there, too?"
Dad told us the basics about what happened after they brought Grandma home. We were more than glad we weren't there. I remember feeling sorry that everyone thought Dad had done something wrong. We even tried to reassure people that Dad had done exactly as we had asked. They wouldn't listen, and feelings of anger stuck around for a while. It was like we had turned our backs on the entire family by not being there. In reality, it was such a peaceful experience for the three of us, and even to this day none of us would trade the way things happened. It just goes to show we all see things from our own perspective. And I hope Dad knows how much we appreciate him for doing exactly as we asked. It wasn't easy!
In the end, I realize what a blessing that little "vacation" was with Mom and Nadine. It helped me understand that life goes on even when hard things have happened or continue to happen. I'm still convinced that Grandma heard my prayers and realized we were okay with her leaving when she did. We still don't regret a minute of taking that "time out" from life, and in reality, it probably saved each of our sanity. I hope someday that others will understand our intentions were pure and not selfish. We didn't plan for things to happen the way they did, but we were definitely okay with the way things ended. And I'm certain that Grandma was happy to see her Karl again and be reunited with loved ones. She had many more people waiting on the other side of the veil than she did watching at her bedside as she passed. What a blessing to know that, and to know we will see her again.
Saturday, May 17, 2014
The Day the Bear Arrived
Growing up, we had a dog named Taffy. She was great. When we sang "Mary Had A Little Lamb" Taffy would howl at the top of her lungs. It was just that one song, but apparently she loved it a lot and wanted to sing along. She was a mutt - as in we have no idea what mix of dog she was - but she was such a good dog.
When I was seven, Taffy had to be put down. I was young, so I didn't really understand, but this is what I remember. Every time I would play the organ or piano there would be an awful stench throughout the house. Weird - I know. It took us a little bit of time to make the connection, but the smell was really coming from the organ and piano. As the strings were played they heated up against the wall, heating the smell of Taffy's urine up as well and permeating the house. We realized she had a bladder problem.
Shortly before Christmas (I think of 1984), my parents took Taffy to the vet and found that her bladder problem was one among many. There was no sense trying to fix her through surgeries, etc. because she was sick and wouldn't live much longer anyway. They had her put down so she wouldn't suffer. In my seven-year-old mind, however, I had no idea why Taffy never came back, and Mom and Dad just told me she had been sick and died. I remember being sad, but the real depression set in when my brother teasingly told me that Santa had taken Taffy from us (supposedly because we'd been naughty).
It was sad enough that Taffy was gone, but thinking that Santa had killed her put me over the edge. Every morning before school I would sit in the front room of our house next to the Christmas tree and sob my eyes out. It drove Dad crazy. Finally, he couldn't stand it any longer and asked why I was so upset about Taffy now when I seemed fine at the time they told me she was gone. My response (illogical as it was) was, "Santa took Taffy and that's why she died. I hate Santa!" Dad explained that wasn't true, but that he and Mom had taken Taffy to the vet to have her put down. Somehow, I made a connection in my head and sobbed, "YOU'RE Santa?!" It pretty much ruined that whole Christmas. I think Dad wanted to beat the snot out of my brother for putting such ideas in my head and forcing Dad to deal with a sobbing, hysterical seven-year-old every day before school.
Perhaps because of this particular incident, Dad was dead-set that we would NEVER get another dog. For years, I begged and begged to get a dog. The answer was always no. One particular time that really stands out was a warm, late summer day. We had stopped at Sportsman's Warehouse for something - probably a birthday present for said brother that made me think Santa killed Taffy. Anyway, Mom and I saw a litter of Springer Spaniels that was so cute! Even Mom kind of fell in love a little bit. She just looked at me with pity, however, and finally said, "Call and ask your dad." That phone call was awful. The answer, of course, was no, and I was beside myself. I stood looking at the pups and bawled my eyes out. Poor Mom couldn't do anything to console me. I didn't like Dad very much at that moment. It took a while to get over the hurt from that incident.
Another time, I saw a Cocker Spaniel at an adopt-a-pet fair. He was so cute! I had him on a leash ready to walk out of the place. Mom and Dad were serving a mission for the LDS Church at the time. We were already "tending" my sister's dog (which was a wild and crazy black lab), so I figured a Cocker Spaniel would be an immediate yes. Dad's response was, "That breed has been bred to the point of dumb. I'm not saying no, but I am saying be careful." I'm standing in the parking lot with a dog on the end of a leash and realize the dog is a complete idiot. He's chasing imaginary things in the air, freaking out when his tail wags as if it's not an appendage to his body, and generally doing dumb things. We quickly turned back around and I gave the dog back to the shelter. It broke my heart to know he may never have a good home, but it also made me realize I was not ready to care for a dog that didn't know up from down.
Shortly after that, my sister took me to the county animal shelter where a couple of her kids were working off community service hours. She promised me I'd love the place. She couldn't have been more wrong! We walked in, everything was good, and then they opened the doors where all the dogs were. They were so scared and trapped in their kennels. The place was clean and it was obvious they were well-fed and watered, but it shattered my heart into a million pieces to see that. I started sobbing uncontrollably. One of the prison inmates helping out at the shelter was so shocked by my response that he came and asked my sister if I was all right. No, dude, I'm not all right!!! The waterfalls coming out of my eyes should indicate I'm not all right! That was a horrible day. I'll never forget how sick I felt. It was then I decided having a dog probably wasn't for me since the day it died would send me over the edge and warrant a stay in the insane asylum. It was too hard to love so much and then lose, especially if they were sick or run over by a car.
Fast forward to early March 2008. On my way home from work I was talking with Mom on my cell phone. She said to be sure and come upstairs as soon as I got home. She wouldn't give a reason when I asked why, but I had to promise to do that for her. The problem was that it had been a rough day at work, and when I pulled up at the house I could see that my sister was there with her kids. I was simply not in the mood to deal with a group of people as soon as I walked in the door. Raise your hand if you just need a moment to breathe when you get home from work ... me, too!
Almost as soon as I walked in the basement door, my niece and nephew were downstairs asking, begging, pleading for me to come upstairs. I kept telling them, "In a minute. Give me a second. Tell Grandma I'm coming." Finally, Mom leaned over the stairwell and yelled for me to come upstairs "right now!" Even when you get older you do what your mom tells you. With a sagging heart, a weary head, and a very tired body I dragged myself up the stairs.
My nephew was holding a white ball of fur. He immediately said, "Look! It's my new puppy." There was a twinge of jealousy as I said, "Oh. Well, how cute!" Then Mom said, "Look at this one. It's yours." My brain wasn't quite connecting the dots as I watched a brown ball of fur move around on the laminate floor. It was difficult to see the puppy since it was the same color as the floor, but it was obvious that something was moving around. I don't know how long I stood there, but it must have been torture for Mom as she watched my face process what was going on. Finally, I remember saying, "That's ... wait ... what?"
This is when Dad piped up and said, "We bought you a dog. It's a Shih-Tzu. What do you think?" Mom had picked up the puppy and handed it to me. I stared into those dark brown eyes and fell in immediate and absolute love with that cute ball of fur that was no bigger than my two hands cupped together. I thought he'd break in two if I squeezed him too hard, but at that very moment we became the best of friends. Actually, we fell in love with each other. He liked to suck on the end of my nose and sleep on my chest between my chin and my cleavage. (He still likes warm spaces.)
As I write this post, Bear is sleeping on the couch next to me. He's actually just come down with a mild version of the hiccups, and I can hear him snoring through it. His back paws are resting against my leg, and his nose, as usual, is buried in a pillow just a tiny bit to keep him warm. Every night when I come home from work he greets me at the door with a wildly wagging tail and (I swear) a smile on his face. He's no longer dark brown and black like he was when he arrived, but he's just as cute as ever. His hair is now a cream color with light brown accents. He looks more like a Polar Bear than the Brown Bear he originally looked like. His tail and ears are a bit long, but we keep his hair short, and Mom likes to joke that Bear's hair maintenance costs more than hers. She's probably right! But he's worth every penny.
What made Dad change his mind? Mom said when my sister brought over their new puppy she indicated the seller's still had other pups from the same litter. Mom told Dad they ought to go look at the puppies, but he was still hesitant. She let it go (remember our previous experiences ...), but a little while later Dad said, "Let's go see those puppies." The story goes that they went to the seller's home, saw Bear, and fell in love. Dad couldn't leave him there, and Mom was so amazed at his 180 degree turn around that she ran with it. That's how the little ball of dark brown fur named Bear ended up at our house.
The day The Bear arrived changed our lives, and we wouldn't have it any other way. We love that little guy WAY too much!
When I was seven, Taffy had to be put down. I was young, so I didn't really understand, but this is what I remember. Every time I would play the organ or piano there would be an awful stench throughout the house. Weird - I know. It took us a little bit of time to make the connection, but the smell was really coming from the organ and piano. As the strings were played they heated up against the wall, heating the smell of Taffy's urine up as well and permeating the house. We realized she had a bladder problem.
Shortly before Christmas (I think of 1984), my parents took Taffy to the vet and found that her bladder problem was one among many. There was no sense trying to fix her through surgeries, etc. because she was sick and wouldn't live much longer anyway. They had her put down so she wouldn't suffer. In my seven-year-old mind, however, I had no idea why Taffy never came back, and Mom and Dad just told me she had been sick and died. I remember being sad, but the real depression set in when my brother teasingly told me that Santa had taken Taffy from us (supposedly because we'd been naughty).
It was sad enough that Taffy was gone, but thinking that Santa had killed her put me over the edge. Every morning before school I would sit in the front room of our house next to the Christmas tree and sob my eyes out. It drove Dad crazy. Finally, he couldn't stand it any longer and asked why I was so upset about Taffy now when I seemed fine at the time they told me she was gone. My response (illogical as it was) was, "Santa took Taffy and that's why she died. I hate Santa!" Dad explained that wasn't true, but that he and Mom had taken Taffy to the vet to have her put down. Somehow, I made a connection in my head and sobbed, "YOU'RE Santa?!" It pretty much ruined that whole Christmas. I think Dad wanted to beat the snot out of my brother for putting such ideas in my head and forcing Dad to deal with a sobbing, hysterical seven-year-old every day before school.
Perhaps because of this particular incident, Dad was dead-set that we would NEVER get another dog. For years, I begged and begged to get a dog. The answer was always no. One particular time that really stands out was a warm, late summer day. We had stopped at Sportsman's Warehouse for something - probably a birthday present for said brother that made me think Santa killed Taffy. Anyway, Mom and I saw a litter of Springer Spaniels that was so cute! Even Mom kind of fell in love a little bit. She just looked at me with pity, however, and finally said, "Call and ask your dad." That phone call was awful. The answer, of course, was no, and I was beside myself. I stood looking at the pups and bawled my eyes out. Poor Mom couldn't do anything to console me. I didn't like Dad very much at that moment. It took a while to get over the hurt from that incident.
Another time, I saw a Cocker Spaniel at an adopt-a-pet fair. He was so cute! I had him on a leash ready to walk out of the place. Mom and Dad were serving a mission for the LDS Church at the time. We were already "tending" my sister's dog (which was a wild and crazy black lab), so I figured a Cocker Spaniel would be an immediate yes. Dad's response was, "That breed has been bred to the point of dumb. I'm not saying no, but I am saying be careful." I'm standing in the parking lot with a dog on the end of a leash and realize the dog is a complete idiot. He's chasing imaginary things in the air, freaking out when his tail wags as if it's not an appendage to his body, and generally doing dumb things. We quickly turned back around and I gave the dog back to the shelter. It broke my heart to know he may never have a good home, but it also made me realize I was not ready to care for a dog that didn't know up from down.
Shortly after that, my sister took me to the county animal shelter where a couple of her kids were working off community service hours. She promised me I'd love the place. She couldn't have been more wrong! We walked in, everything was good, and then they opened the doors where all the dogs were. They were so scared and trapped in their kennels. The place was clean and it was obvious they were well-fed and watered, but it shattered my heart into a million pieces to see that. I started sobbing uncontrollably. One of the prison inmates helping out at the shelter was so shocked by my response that he came and asked my sister if I was all right. No, dude, I'm not all right!!! The waterfalls coming out of my eyes should indicate I'm not all right! That was a horrible day. I'll never forget how sick I felt. It was then I decided having a dog probably wasn't for me since the day it died would send me over the edge and warrant a stay in the insane asylum. It was too hard to love so much and then lose, especially if they were sick or run over by a car.
Fast forward to early March 2008. On my way home from work I was talking with Mom on my cell phone. She said to be sure and come upstairs as soon as I got home. She wouldn't give a reason when I asked why, but I had to promise to do that for her. The problem was that it had been a rough day at work, and when I pulled up at the house I could see that my sister was there with her kids. I was simply not in the mood to deal with a group of people as soon as I walked in the door. Raise your hand if you just need a moment to breathe when you get home from work ... me, too!
Almost as soon as I walked in the basement door, my niece and nephew were downstairs asking, begging, pleading for me to come upstairs. I kept telling them, "In a minute. Give me a second. Tell Grandma I'm coming." Finally, Mom leaned over the stairwell and yelled for me to come upstairs "right now!" Even when you get older you do what your mom tells you. With a sagging heart, a weary head, and a very tired body I dragged myself up the stairs.
My nephew was holding a white ball of fur. He immediately said, "Look! It's my new puppy." There was a twinge of jealousy as I said, "Oh. Well, how cute!" Then Mom said, "Look at this one. It's yours." My brain wasn't quite connecting the dots as I watched a brown ball of fur move around on the laminate floor. It was difficult to see the puppy since it was the same color as the floor, but it was obvious that something was moving around. I don't know how long I stood there, but it must have been torture for Mom as she watched my face process what was going on. Finally, I remember saying, "That's ... wait ... what?"
This is when Dad piped up and said, "We bought you a dog. It's a Shih-Tzu. What do you think?" Mom had picked up the puppy and handed it to me. I stared into those dark brown eyes and fell in immediate and absolute love with that cute ball of fur that was no bigger than my two hands cupped together. I thought he'd break in two if I squeezed him too hard, but at that very moment we became the best of friends. Actually, we fell in love with each other. He liked to suck on the end of my nose and sleep on my chest between my chin and my cleavage. (He still likes warm spaces.)
As I write this post, Bear is sleeping on the couch next to me. He's actually just come down with a mild version of the hiccups, and I can hear him snoring through it. His back paws are resting against my leg, and his nose, as usual, is buried in a pillow just a tiny bit to keep him warm. Every night when I come home from work he greets me at the door with a wildly wagging tail and (I swear) a smile on his face. He's no longer dark brown and black like he was when he arrived, but he's just as cute as ever. His hair is now a cream color with light brown accents. He looks more like a Polar Bear than the Brown Bear he originally looked like. His tail and ears are a bit long, but we keep his hair short, and Mom likes to joke that Bear's hair maintenance costs more than hers. She's probably right! But he's worth every penny.
What made Dad change his mind? Mom said when my sister brought over their new puppy she indicated the seller's still had other pups from the same litter. Mom told Dad they ought to go look at the puppies, but he was still hesitant. She let it go (remember our previous experiences ...), but a little while later Dad said, "Let's go see those puppies." The story goes that they went to the seller's home, saw Bear, and fell in love. Dad couldn't leave him there, and Mom was so amazed at his 180 degree turn around that she ran with it. That's how the little ball of dark brown fur named Bear ended up at our house.
The day The Bear arrived changed our lives, and we wouldn't have it any other way. We love that little guy WAY too much!
Thursday, May 15, 2014
Let's Start From the Beginning
Life is so busy, and I rarely find time to write anymore (journals have never been my thing), but this blog idea has been stirring in the back of my mind for some time, and there's no better time than the present to get going. Right? Right.
I thought it would be fun to just randomly write some of the fun, interesting, exciting, dull, scary, awful, crazy things that have happened in my life - from my earliest memories to my most current memories. Maybe one day I'll even do one of those "blogs in a book" when it's all said and done and have my own personal history completely written. Then, all those naysayers who think I don't do my own genealogy will get off my back. Not that anyone has really referenced my lack of doing genealogy, but those on the other side are frustrated with me, I'm sure. I digress ....
Let's start from the beginning then, shall we? This is the story of one of the first memories I have, and it happened when I was three. Man, I'm getting old.
First, it would be helpful to know that one of my best friends of all time is Shauna Leifson (now Leavitt). She was born nine months and 27 days after me. We have never not known each other. Yes, I know that was a double negative! Anyway, we went to school together, we grew up together, and our backyards were connected by a hole in a fence. Why would we ever walk around the corner to each other's houses when the hole in the fence was there?
Little did I know at the time (hello ... I was only three) that Shauna was my bad luck charm. It seems like, looking back, every time I got injured in some way she was there. Not that she caused the injury, you see, just that she happened to be in the vicinity when it happened. We laugh about it now, and we're still the best of friends. So no hard feelings about this earliest of memories, okay?
One summer day I was over at Shauna's house playing. I'm sure we were in her mother's hair and driving her crazy. We were creative little stinkers that stayed busy all the time. Maybe my mom had shunned me to Shauna's house that day? I'll have to check with her on that. We decided it would be fun to play outside (or we were told to go outside and play - not really sure which of those is more accurate). Shauna's aunt Colleen was there visiting Shauna's mom, and her car was parked outside in the driveway. If that wasn't an invitation to play inside the car I don't know what was!
The car was unlocked. Or it might not have even had locks. Another unclear detail. Either way, we got in the car. Shauna got in the passenger's side, and, because I was older and would have a license first, I got in the driver's side. Logical, right? Remember - we were three!!! So, we're buzzing along in the car doing heaven knows what when I notice the glove box between the driver and passenger seat in the center of the car. (It was an OLD car. I was three in 1980, so ....)
I leaned over and looked in, but found nothing of significance in the glove box (that I remember). Since there was nothing worth getting into there, I closed it shut. Shauna was looking at other things while I investigated the glove box and decided there were bigger fish to fry. It didn't take Shauna long to say, "Look!" She had the glove box open and her head was practically in it. Being the loving and mature friend I was, I shoved her head out of the way and said, "What?" At almost that exact moment, Shauna let go of the glove box "lid" and it pinched the side of my forehead as it closed.
One thing I do remember was a searing pain near my eye and then a feeling of warmth down the side of my face. I wasn't sure what Shauna saw, but she threw the passenger door wide open and ran towards the house as if she saw a huge tornado coming our way. It took me a second to gather my senses, and then I realized what had happened. The tears started to flow immediately. I ran into Shauna's house only to see her mom, Freda, coming to greet me. As she got closer her face got more smooshed and crinkled up. Somethin' wasn't right.
Next thing I know, I'm in Freda's bathroom. She's wiping red stuff off my face and telling Shauna to get back. Shauna looked like she was going to throw up or pass out - in which order, I didn't know. In what seemed like a very short time, the red stuff stopped flowing and Freda had placed a butterfly bandage on the side of my head. It still hurt, but heck, a butterfly bandage? You couldn't cry with one of those on your face, could you?
After that, I don't remember much. I vaguely remember sitting at the kitchen table while Freda called my mom. It wasn't long before Mom showed up and took me home. The whole fiasco, I thought, was over, so I told Shauna I'd see her later that day so we could play some more. She continued to look like she might burst into tears or vomit at any second, and I honestly thought she was just mad because she didn't get a butterfly bandage.
Mom didn't take me home. Instead, we ended up at the doctor's office. He promptly took off the pretty little butterfly bandage Freda had given me and gave me three stitches and an ugly brown Band-aid in its place. Who does that?! To a three-year-old?! The whole incident gave me a massive headache.
I didn't get back to play with Shauna that day. Freda was mortified that the accident happened on her watch. Shauna may have been given a talking-to about it - I don't know that for sure. I don't remember ever seeing Colleen's car again after that. In fact, I think they got a new car shortly afterwards. We laugh about it now. It's a joke when we say, "Remember that time Shauna slammed Katie's head in the glove box of Colleen's car?"
The scar is still there. It's tiny, but it's still visible. Occasionally, I will notice it when I look in the mirror. It's not a bad reminder of the events that day. It actually brings a smile to my face more often than not. The reason? Because I think how funny it must have looked in a bird's eye view to see that happen. (Yes, I'm one of those people that imagine what those in heaven look "down" and see as they're watching us crazy humans try to function and survive among the chaos and confusion that is mortal life.)
It must have been funny to watch a two-year-old take out a three-year-old with the simple letting-go of the lid to a glove box in an old car. If only it were as easy to take out a war enemy or a despised and annoying neighbor. "Come on over here and sit in my car with me. Let's have a nice chat." All the while saying underneath your breath, "I'm gonna get you for [insert some awful, annoying thing here], you little scoundrel!"
Hey - did Shauna and I find a quick solution to world peace without even knowing it?!
I thought it would be fun to just randomly write some of the fun, interesting, exciting, dull, scary, awful, crazy things that have happened in my life - from my earliest memories to my most current memories. Maybe one day I'll even do one of those "blogs in a book" when it's all said and done and have my own personal history completely written. Then, all those naysayers who think I don't do my own genealogy will get off my back. Not that anyone has really referenced my lack of doing genealogy, but those on the other side are frustrated with me, I'm sure. I digress ....
Let's start from the beginning then, shall we? This is the story of one of the first memories I have, and it happened when I was three. Man, I'm getting old.
First, it would be helpful to know that one of my best friends of all time is Shauna Leifson (now Leavitt). She was born nine months and 27 days after me. We have never not known each other. Yes, I know that was a double negative! Anyway, we went to school together, we grew up together, and our backyards were connected by a hole in a fence. Why would we ever walk around the corner to each other's houses when the hole in the fence was there?
Little did I know at the time (hello ... I was only three) that Shauna was my bad luck charm. It seems like, looking back, every time I got injured in some way she was there. Not that she caused the injury, you see, just that she happened to be in the vicinity when it happened. We laugh about it now, and we're still the best of friends. So no hard feelings about this earliest of memories, okay?
One summer day I was over at Shauna's house playing. I'm sure we were in her mother's hair and driving her crazy. We were creative little stinkers that stayed busy all the time. Maybe my mom had shunned me to Shauna's house that day? I'll have to check with her on that. We decided it would be fun to play outside (or we were told to go outside and play - not really sure which of those is more accurate). Shauna's aunt Colleen was there visiting Shauna's mom, and her car was parked outside in the driveway. If that wasn't an invitation to play inside the car I don't know what was!
The car was unlocked. Or it might not have even had locks. Another unclear detail. Either way, we got in the car. Shauna got in the passenger's side, and, because I was older and would have a license first, I got in the driver's side. Logical, right? Remember - we were three!!! So, we're buzzing along in the car doing heaven knows what when I notice the glove box between the driver and passenger seat in the center of the car. (It was an OLD car. I was three in 1980, so ....)
I leaned over and looked in, but found nothing of significance in the glove box (that I remember). Since there was nothing worth getting into there, I closed it shut. Shauna was looking at other things while I investigated the glove box and decided there were bigger fish to fry. It didn't take Shauna long to say, "Look!" She had the glove box open and her head was practically in it. Being the loving and mature friend I was, I shoved her head out of the way and said, "What?" At almost that exact moment, Shauna let go of the glove box "lid" and it pinched the side of my forehead as it closed.
One thing I do remember was a searing pain near my eye and then a feeling of warmth down the side of my face. I wasn't sure what Shauna saw, but she threw the passenger door wide open and ran towards the house as if she saw a huge tornado coming our way. It took me a second to gather my senses, and then I realized what had happened. The tears started to flow immediately. I ran into Shauna's house only to see her mom, Freda, coming to greet me. As she got closer her face got more smooshed and crinkled up. Somethin' wasn't right.
Next thing I know, I'm in Freda's bathroom. She's wiping red stuff off my face and telling Shauna to get back. Shauna looked like she was going to throw up or pass out - in which order, I didn't know. In what seemed like a very short time, the red stuff stopped flowing and Freda had placed a butterfly bandage on the side of my head. It still hurt, but heck, a butterfly bandage? You couldn't cry with one of those on your face, could you?
After that, I don't remember much. I vaguely remember sitting at the kitchen table while Freda called my mom. It wasn't long before Mom showed up and took me home. The whole fiasco, I thought, was over, so I told Shauna I'd see her later that day so we could play some more. She continued to look like she might burst into tears or vomit at any second, and I honestly thought she was just mad because she didn't get a butterfly bandage.
Mom didn't take me home. Instead, we ended up at the doctor's office. He promptly took off the pretty little butterfly bandage Freda had given me and gave me three stitches and an ugly brown Band-aid in its place. Who does that?! To a three-year-old?! The whole incident gave me a massive headache.
I didn't get back to play with Shauna that day. Freda was mortified that the accident happened on her watch. Shauna may have been given a talking-to about it - I don't know that for sure. I don't remember ever seeing Colleen's car again after that. In fact, I think they got a new car shortly afterwards. We laugh about it now. It's a joke when we say, "Remember that time Shauna slammed Katie's head in the glove box of Colleen's car?"
The scar is still there. It's tiny, but it's still visible. Occasionally, I will notice it when I look in the mirror. It's not a bad reminder of the events that day. It actually brings a smile to my face more often than not. The reason? Because I think how funny it must have looked in a bird's eye view to see that happen. (Yes, I'm one of those people that imagine what those in heaven look "down" and see as they're watching us crazy humans try to function and survive among the chaos and confusion that is mortal life.)
It must have been funny to watch a two-year-old take out a three-year-old with the simple letting-go of the lid to a glove box in an old car. If only it were as easy to take out a war enemy or a despised and annoying neighbor. "Come on over here and sit in my car with me. Let's have a nice chat." All the while saying underneath your breath, "I'm gonna get you for [insert some awful, annoying thing here], you little scoundrel!"
Hey - did Shauna and I find a quick solution to world peace without even knowing it?!
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