Rain, Rain, Come to Stay

Once upon a time, I went to Europe with my parents. I had just graduated from high school, and Mom was chaperoning a couple of kids from the high school where she worked. I think originally there were supposed to be more kids going on the tour. (Mom had already done a previous eastern European tour with a group of high school kids when I was 14-ish.) She ended up only having two students go (I can't remember the girl's names, but I can see their faces; one was Sidney, but the other ... I can't remember). 

Because there were so few students going, my mom asked her sister, Kathi, if she wanted to go. Sure enough, she did! And Kathi then asked her daughter if she wanted to go (yes, of course she did!), and her daughter invited a friend. That made a total of eight of us in our tour group (Mom, Dad, me, Kathi, Kathi's daughter, the daughter's friend, and the two high school students from Mom's school). It was a good group, and we all got along great. Somehow, we also ended up knowing others that went on the trip. We had a lot of fun together and really enjoyed seeing the sights. 

We started the tour in England (London), and I loved that place. It rained almost every day we were there. For some people that might be depressing, but it wasn't the rain every day you get in places like Seattle. The rain in London was different; it would drizzle a little in the morning and then let up and turn green and sunny. You could go about your day, have an occasional rainy moment, and be done. At night, it would get drizzly again. It was never overcast enough during the day that it felt depressing. It was more refreshing than anything, and although it was humid, it did cool things off when it got hot. I loved it! 

We've had some rainy days this summer - more than usual. It's made for a cooler summer than normal (no 100 degree days in July - what?!), but it's really reminded me of our time in London. It hasn't rained THAT much, but it has rained enough that it's felt a little like a cool European trip. Too bad it wasn't really a cool European trip .... 

At least we didn't have to see "another damn castle" with all the rain!   

Abandonment Issues?

When I was a kid, I always wanted to go where my mom and dad went. If they were having a Friday night card night with Huffs and Leifsons, I wanted to be there. If they were going on a date, I wanted to go. If there was a trip to the store, I wanted in. It didn't matter where they were going, I wanted to be with them. 

It continued as I got older. I loved to have sleepovers with friends, but they worked out best when the friends came to my house. Sometimes I could make it through the night sleeping at Shauna's house (which was just around the corner, and through the backyard fence), but even then I usually sneaked home early to say hi to Dad before he left for work. One particular time, I sneaked home to find the doors locked (Dad forgot to unlock them for me when he got up). Instead of bothering the family by knocking, I waited outside in the front yard on the swing set. I stubbed my toe as I came home that morning and sat with it bleeding and gross until Dad opened the front door for me. He actually brought the Band-Aids and Neosporin outside and fixed me up as I sat on the swing. Once he was done with that and we'd had a hug, I went back over to Shauna's and sneaked back up on to the deck and pretended I'd been there the entire night. I don't know if anyone was the wiser or not, but it was the only way to keep my sanity. 

There were other times I had problems, too. I remember sleeping over at my cousin, Kandice's, house one particular night. For whatever reason, I was convinced there would be a fire or a break in or something wrong at my house that I stressed myself out completely. It was around 1:00 a.m. that I finally got the nerve to go into my Uncle Mark and Aunt Laurel's room to ask if they'd take me home. Mom and Dad were probably not too happy about the call in the middle of the night saying I was coming home, but they never said anything to me about it. Mom did take time the next day to reassure me that nothing bad was going to happen to them just because I slept over at a friend's house. 

Later, when we have moved homes and I had grown up a little, there were many times my parents were going some place and asked me if I wanted to come. (They were likely so used to having me around it probably felt weird for them to not have me tagging along.) Anyway, I was trying to assert my independence and said that I didn't want to go. They asked again, and I declined. They let me be a "big girl" and left on their own. 

I sat on the couch and cried practically the entire time they were gone because I had chosen not to go with them, to be with them, or to spend time with them. 

This happened more than once. Much more than once. It went on until I was well into my teens. Pathetic, right? 

A psychologist or psychiatrist might say I have abandonment issues. Maybe I do, maybe I don't. What I do know is that I had a fear of losing the people most important to me. When we lost Dad to Parkinson's and Diabetes and a massive stroke, it was awful. But I survived. That was an important lesson to learn at his passing. I still struggle though. 

Several years ago, before Dad died, I traveled to the Washington DC are to visit Shauna and her family. It was something like a two-and-a-half week trip. It was totally amazing, and I loved every minute of it! But I was so home sick the whole time. I missed Mom and Dad and Bear. I worried about being killed on the plane ride home. I feared for bad things that might happen to Mom and Dad while I was gone. It was worry and fear over things I couldn't control. How is that rational? 

Anyone else have weird things that might be considered "abandonment issues?" I think I'm a healthy, thriving adult with a fairly good grasp on life. Maybe not? 

Broken Bones and Stitches

Age: 5
Date: Summer
Place: Good ol' Spanish Fork

The weather was warm, but it was also wet and rainy. That means it was near or during monsoon season. School hadn't started yet, so my guess is this all occurred in August of 1982. It should be more fresh considering what happened. 

Shauna and I (and another friend, whose name I think was Trina, but don't quote me on that) went over to Bishop Lamb's house (next door neighbor to Shauna). The Lamb's had a cool backyard where their garden thrived and they had several apple trees. It was in one of these apple trees that we decided to swing after a rain storm. 

Yeah, geniuses. I know. 

I think everyone else went first and had a turn. It came to me, so I got the "peer pressure" from others to just do it. I wiggled my way out on the limb; it was a sturdy limb, but fairly high off the ground and on a hill. I was facing east with the hill falling to the west and began to swing. It took a few tries, but I finally started to get going. 

That's when my hands became a bit too wet, and as I swung back my fingers couldn't hang on. My grasp quickly loosened and dropped me to the moist grass under the tree. As I hit the ground, my right arm slammed into the grass, followed quickly by my left arm and then my head meeting with both wrists as they crashed into each other a second time. 

The pain! It was searing and hot. Tears immediately came to my eyes, but the fall had knocked the wind out of me, so my open mouth was silent. The girls in the tree said, "Whoa! No way! Holy cow!" And then Shauna said, "Katie? Katie! Are you okay?" Next thing I knew, she was out of the tree helping me off the ground, and we walked around the corner to my house with me crying the entire way and screaming if anyone tried to touch me. 

When we got to my house, Shauna took me inside. My sister, Lisa, was the only one home at the time. She was supposed to be watching me, I think. In her usual fashion, she was talking on the phone as we came in the house and basically told me to shut up so she could hear her phone conversation. Shauna and I went into the family, where we sat for nearly an hour as I sporadically cried and moaned. After nearly an hour, Mom came home to me still sobbing and Lisa still on the phone. Mom chewed Lisa out for talking on the phone, demanded she hang up NOW, and checked in on me. I screamed bloody murder when Mom tried to touch my arms to see what was wrong. 

The next thing I remember, we were at Dr. Judd's office and I was having my right arm put in a cast up past my elbow. I'd had x-rays which showed a break in the wrist and was told I'd be in that cast for 6-8 weeks. The left arm seemed to be okay for the moment. I don't remember much after that when we got home, but I'm pretty sure Lisa got in serious trouble, and I crashed on Mom and Dad's water bed. 

A week later, I was still in pain and complaining to Mom. Out of exhaustion (I'm sure) she took me back to Dr. Judd's office. More x-rays indicated there was also a break in my left wrist. Another cast was put on my left arm up to my elbow, and we were sent on our way. I'm sure I was a sight to see. 

But that's not the end of the story. 

Oh, no. We don't do things the easy way around our house. 

About a week or so after the second cast was put on, Shauna wanted to ride bikes. Dr. Judd told Mom there was to be absolutely no bike riding, skateboarding, or other "dangerous" activities while I had the casts on. We were wrapping them in old sandwich bags during bath time and being extremely cautious about keeping them clean. But what's a five-year-old to do? I mean, it's summer, for Pete's sake! Who wants to keep their kid cooped up during that time when they can be outside playing and out of their parent's hair? 

So we got on the bikes. We started at the top of the block near my house where a hill started that was both big enough and small enough for a five-year-old. And then we began to race. I made it swiftly past our neighbor's house, past my house, and almost past the other neighbor's house when a van  began pulling in the parking lot of the church on the opposite corner of the block at the end of the hill. Suddenly, I seemed to forget how to use the bike breaks, and I plowed into the neighbor's fence that separated their home from the church parking lot. 

With the front wheel of my bike stuck in the fence and a cast on each arm, I had nowhere to go but down and no way to protect myself in the fall. Thankfully, I leaned to the left and landed face-first in the neighbor's grass. Phew! Right? 

No. As I said, we don't do things the easy way. 

I was stuck. And by I, I mean my bottom teeth. My teeth were stuck in the grass and there was no way for me to get out on my own. As much as I could, I tried to scream. It was a muffled sound. Who knew grass was such a good sound barrier? Anyway, Shauna had run to the neighbor's door and asked for help. Next thing I know, the pony tail in the center of my head has become the gripping device used to yank my face from the grass. 

Somebody walked my bike home, bent wheel and all, and I was walked home to Mom where she took one look at my teeth and put me in the car to go to the dentist. After everything I'd been through, you'd think the dentist would have been more sympathetic. Is that even in their job description? 

My bottom two front teeth were yanked, and the grass was dug out of the other two teeth next to those. My mouth was a bloody, painful mess - the perfect match to my still-painful and swollen arms. What a sight! 

To make matters worse, Kindergarten started only a couple of weeks after that. You should have seen me trying to learn how to write with dysfunctional fingers, how to say the Pledge of Allegiance by using my somewhat mobile left arm to raise my completely inept right arm up to my heart, and how to "play" with the others kids when every time I turned around I practically took one of them out with one of my heavy casts. Plus, you know, my smile was already missing two teeth when most of the other kids hadn't even lost one. 

That's a killer look for a five-year-old. It definitely added to self-esteem and increased capacity to make friends at school. 

Yeesh. 

It's a miracle I'm any kind of normal.

You're welcome. 

Egg Yolks

We lived in a great neighborhood growing up. Our ward was amazing (and included a LOT of family members), so it was difficult to get in trouble without your parents knowing about it. In other words, it was easier to just avoid trouble to begin with because your parents were bound to find out from someone else what you'd been up to, and others would be more honest about it than you would. "It takes a village ...." So true! 

When I was about five years old, I went to a friend's house one afternoon without telling Mom and Dad (or anybody) where I'd gone. Normally, Mom didn't have a problem with me going to other people's houses, but she did ask that I always leave a note to say where I was so she wouldn't worry and would know where to find me if she needed me. On this particular day, I either forgot to leave a note (unlikely) or figured it wouldn't matter where I was because I'd be home before she would be home (likely). My five-year-old brain thought that made perfect sense. 

So, I went over to Jennifer's house to play. She lived across a major street and down a block, so it wasn't too far, but it also wasn't normally where I went. It wasn't like going through the hole in the fence to Shauna's house. Jennifer's mom worked, so the house was left to us for the taking. The problem was that we played outside at her house most of the time, so we couldn't have heard the phone ring, even if it had. 

I don't remember the details exactly, but I remember walking home, and as I looked both ways to cross the busy street I remember seeing Mom sitting outside of our house on the front porch steps. It was unusual. Mom was busy all the time. If she wasn't teaching school or running errands or cooking or cleaning the house, she was serving others or working in some other way to make the world a better place. She was NEVER just sitting outside on the front porch steps. 

Now, remember, this was the "old days" before cell phones were even an idea. 

As I came across the street, I hollered out to her. "Mom! Hi!" And then I realized something was really wrong. If it had been possible, there would have been steam coming out of her ears. I approached her and she said, calmly (which should have been my first clue I was in deep, deep trouble), "Katherine Janae, where have you been?" Uh oh. Full name usage. Put me in jail now and throw away the keys. "Over at Jennifer's house," I managed to say. 

And then she teared up a little as she explained that she'd been looking for me for almost three hours. She'd called everyone she could think of to call. Nobody had seen me. Nobody had talked to me. My siblings didn't know where I was. Dad didn't know where I was, but he was out looking for me, and they had decided to call the police if he hadn't found me by the time he returned home. My aunts and uncles and cousins that lived nearby hadn't seen me and didn't know where I was. She was at her wit's end and thought I'd been kidnapped - or worse. I tried to explain that I thought I'd make it home before her, etc. (As a kid, I was terrible with time. I got that from Dad. Now that I'm older, I have a pretty good sense about what time it is, even without looking at a clock. I get that from Mom. Guess that means I'm a pretty good 50/50 mix, huh?) 

We went in the house, Dad finally came home, everything seemed tense, but nothing was said about punishment, so I was living in mortal fear of what would happen. The rest of that afternoon was a blur, but then as we were getting ready to go to bed, Mom called me into their room and said she and Dad had come up with my punishment. I would need to write the following 100 times on a piece of paper: "I will never go anywhere again without asking Mom and Dad for permission first." At five years old, that was a LOT of writing. I probably cried and said how sorry I was and please forgive me and on and on. 

The next day was a Saturday. I got up early to watch cartoons. Dad was awake and getting ready for work. He asked if I had started on my 100 sentences. I said no, so he got me a piece of paper and a pencil and said to get started. Dad could make me crumble in tears by looking at me the wrong way, so I obviously did what he said. I didn't want "the look." He left the cartoons on while I worked, and then he asked if I wanted to have eggs for breakfast with him. Yes, please! 

While Dad cooked some fried eggs with runny yolks on toast, I wrote and wrote and wrote. And used my tongue to play with a loose tooth that needed to come out, but I couldn't bear the thoughts of having yanked. Dad always yanked them out pretty quick with little pain, but that one second of grief just wasn't worth it to me. I tried to let them fall out "naturally" instead. So I continued to write my sentences and wiggle my loose tooth with my tongue while watching cartoons. 

Finally, Dad brought breakfast into me. He finished whatever he needed to do to get to work, kissed me on the head and left, and just as he walked out the door I finished my last piece of toast with the runny egg yolk on it. I always liked to try and make the yolk "burst" in my mouth without spitting any onto my plate. (Don't ask - I don't know what the big deal was.) Anyway, when I burst the yolk in my mouth, it created enough pressure on my tooth that it came loose, and I accidentally swallowed it with the yolk. I just sat there with pencil in hand wondering what I should do now that I'd swallowed my tooth. And then I kind of started to freak out. By then, Mom was up and getting ready for the day, and when she came into the family room where I was watching TV she saw me crying. 

Looking back, she probably thought I was crying over the punishment of having to write 100 sentences of the same thing. But before she could even ask what was wrong I said, "I swallowed my tooth! Is it because I was naughty yesterday? What will happen now? Will I die?" Bless my mother for not laughing directly at my face. I'm sure she wanted to - more than once! Instead, she reassured me that my tooth was not forever lost, but we wouldn't be looking for it (smart move, Madre), and maybe if I left a note for the tooth fairy she would see about leaving me a quarter. (Yeah, you kids that get $5/tooth these days? Ridiculous. Even with inflation, you shouldn't be getting more than $1 a tooth! Count your blessings.) 

I finished my sentences later that same day. I worked all day on that piece of paper. I'd even tred to make it look nice, so if I messed up I'd erase it as good as possible and start the sentence over. I remember how much my hand hurt, but I also remember being really grateful that I wasn't going to die because I'd swallowed my tooth. Plus, I was glad to know that swallowing my tooth had nothing to do with my disobedience. Somehow, I'd connected the lost tooth and swallowing it with going to Jennifer's house and not leaving a note. 

I'm not sure which "punishment" was worse (or more effective): writing 100 sentences of the same thing on a piece of paper, or swallowing a loose tooth with egg yolks. Either way, the lesson remained with me, and I never went anywhere again without asking Mom and Dad first or without leaving them a note explaining where I was, who I was with, and when I'd likely be back. 

Isn't it funny the associations you make as a kid? To this day, I can't eat a runny egg yolk without thinking of that experience. It's really kind of ridiculous!

Margarine (or, as it's sometimes called, Oleo)

Please don't judge me. I know (now) that it's strange I did this, but in reality a lot more people have done it than I ever could have imagined. The discussion has come up in some pretty random settings, and the people who have admitted to doing the same thing I did as a kid seem fairly normal and well-adjusted. Lest you think I was strange .... 

As a kid, we never had butter in the house. It was always margarine. Maybe butter was too expensive? Or maybe it wasn't as readily available as it is today? I don't know the reasons, but I do know that Dad often complained (or lamented the fact) that we never had real butter in the house. I didn't know the difference, and I remember when I first tasted butter I thought it was gross. Now, the thoughts of eating margarine make me want to gag. I might cook with it if a recipe calls for it, but if I can replace it with butter instead, I will. Butter = better. And now I know why Dad lamented. 

Anyway, we usually left the margarine out instead of keeping it refrigerated so it was soft and didn't rip our bread. This makes me think we also ate a lot of grilled cheese sandwiches. I hate it when the bread rips! 

One particular day, I was left to my own devices, and the margarine was out, so I stuck my finger in and had a lick. And deemed it good. So I had another lick. And another. And pretty soon that stick of margarine was gone. (Don't ask. I'm dry heaving and gagging as I typed that out.) And, like a responsible child, I threw the wrapper away. No evidence! 

Later, Mom came in the kitchen (probably to make dinner) and needed the margarine for something (grilled cheese sandwiches?), and it wasn't there. She asked me if I knew where the margarine was, and I said no. She went about making dinner, adjusted for the hard margarine instead of the soft, and things were fine. 

Until she went to throw something in the trash and saw the wrapper. 

UH OH. 

And then I admitted my horrible deed. I can't remember, but I'm sure she probably looked at me like I was an alien from some foreign planet existing outside of the Milky Way. Or it might have just been a look of disgust. Because who eats just plain margarine?

A lot of people, I tell ya! A LOT! 

Today, I don't do that. I'm smarter. More refined. And when nobody is looking, I might actually steel a little lick of butter. Not margarine. That's just gross. But butter? Mmmm. That's good stuff. 

Thank you, Dad, for refining my palate. 

And thank you, Mom, for keeping me after I ate the margarine. I'm sorry. It won't happen again. 

The Green (With Envy) Dress

Mom was quite the seamstress, but she did NOT enjoy sewing. She was good at it, but it was probably one of the things she disliked doing the most. When she did pull out the old sewing machine and put up the card table and go to work, I would find things to do under the card table so I could be near her and watch whatever creation she was working on. I'm sure that playing Barbies interfered with her use of the foot pedal more than once, but she never really complained.

One year for Easter, Mom decided to make me an Easter dress. There was another lady in our ward who loved to sew and was also great at it. This lady sewed every day, whether it was an article of clothing, making a repair to something, or just whipping up something for fun, she sewed every day. Contrast that to Mom who only sewed when she absolutely had to because nothing else made her pull her hair out quite as much as sitting at the sewing machine. The fact that she wanted to sew an Easter dress for me was huge. I didn't know she was making me a dress though. She kept it quiet and surprised me.

The dress was beautiful. I still think of it often and remember how pretty I felt in it. It was a very light green, almost mint colored. There was a pattern of white throughout the green fabric that almost looked like a floral pattern, but not quite so florally that it was obvious. It was delicate, not powerful or overbearing. The fabric had more of an embroidered feel to it. It was an interesting texture. I remember the dress had a collar and a long tie that made a big bow in the back. It came to just below my knees and poofed out just below the waist. For some reason, I remember there was kind of a band around the middle. It wasn't too wide, but it wasn't so small it couldn't be noticed. The sleeves were short and a little bit poofy so that they stood up just off the shoulders. That poof made me feel just a little bit taller. I think I was probably six or maybe seven when Mom made that dress. I'm not sure how long I wore it, but I remember being sad when it didn't fit anymore.

The other lady in the ward that loved to sew had a daughter that was just a couple of months older than me. Her daughter also went to Church in a new Easter dress, but it wasn't anything to write home about. I think it was a lighter red dress with a white apron (?) over the top that was trimmed in lace. It was pretty, don't get me wrong, but it wasn't pastel and filled with Spring like my Easter dress. I distinctly remember sitting next to this girl in the red dress on Easter Sunday in our Primary group. We were friends, after all, so sitting together is just what we did. I complimented her on her Easter dress and she asked, "Where did you get your dress?" I told her, proudly, that my mom made it for me. With a scowl on her face she said, "Oh."

At six or seven you think that's about it, right? Big deal, someone has a dress, yada, yada. Oh, no. That is NOT how this other mother worked. The daughter went home and told her all about my dress, how my mom had made it for me, how it was pretty and green and light and Easter-y. Well, they couldn't have that! They couldn't have me "one-upping" the daughter, especially on Easter. How dare we?! So, her mom got to work the next day. And, from what I understand now, she spent that entire week putting together a dress for her daughter that "exceeded" the dress my mom had made for me.

You know what I remember about the week after Easter? Nothing. Not. one. thing. Mom was the one who told me, years later, about the Easter fiasco when I came to Church in a new homemade green dress.I don't remember my friend having a new dress or what the dress looked like or anything.  I don't even remember complimenting her on the dress. Why? Because I was still wearing my mint green Easter dress the following week. (And probably for several weeks after that; I liked it that much.)

The interesting thing, to me, about all of this is that when I see pictures of me in that dress I have nothing but feelings of fondness. I reflect back on how beautiful I felt and how special it was that my mom devoted her time and effort to making me a new dress. I am flooded with memories of being under the card table and watching fabric fall to the ground and bounce all around me as it was shifted in the sewing machine by Mom. I think of the times I fell asleep under the sewing machine, being lulled into slumber by it's humming as Mom pressed the foot pedal. And I feel some sadness for the other girl whose mother thought it was all a competition and that more had to be done to impress the masses. It's sadness that it became a selfish thing for her mother, and probably for her, to "out do" someone else.

Having that green dress taught me a wonderful lesson, one that I'll probably never forget. The lesson is this: you never know as a parent what things you will do that will make your children feel beautiful, but do the good things anyway, and take comfort in the fact that when your children feel beautiful (and you've helped them feel beautiful) it will stay with them forever.

Do not be the mother or father that has to "out do" the other parents. That's not how winners act or what winners do.

The winner is my mother because she not only helped me feel beautiful and special and loved, but because she didn't give in to the other mother's whacky ideas about what was important and compete with her over a stupid dress. There is so much more to life than who has the better dress (homemade or not), and if you're teaching your kids that being better is all that matters, you're creating a monster that the rest of society gets to deal with and clean up after. Just stop. Stop it now.

Create moments of beauty and love instead. Then, everyone's a winner.

The Dog that Followed Me to School

It was Fourth Grade. I remember because Miss Sant was my teacher. And our classroom was in the portable units closest to the playground. Some of the girls would sit outside on the steps of the portable units during recess and tie friendship bracelets. Those steps got icy in the winter because the portables were close together and there was no sunlight between them, so even though the snow got was shoveled and removed, they still had a lot of ice on them. We had heat though, and we had the best teacher, so all seemed right with the world.

I only lived a block from the school, so I walked to and from school every day. It was no big deal. Dad would watch me from the front room window to make sure I got there safely. Plus, there were lots of other kids who lived nearby, so we had safety in numbers whether we wanted it or not. We did have to cross one major street though, so Dad always watched me until I made it to the school grounds.

One day after school there was a dog hanging out in the school yard. He was kind of a scraggly looking thing. He was medium-sized with dark brown and black hair. It looked like he hadn't been bathed in a long time, but you could see he was being fed okay and was obviously healthy in other ways. To this day, I have no idea whose dog it was, but when we met that day after school he was my forever friend. He followed me home from school that day and hung around for a few minutes so I could play with him. (We had lost our dog, Taffy, at this point, so the idea of having another dog around sounded good to me.)

The next morning, he was at the end of our driveway waiting for me. He walked me to school. In fact, he walked me right up on to the portable steps. And then he waited. He waited outside until recess, and the girls came out and tied their bracelets while I scratched the dog and he laid in my lap. When we went back in for more schooling, he waited. He stayed all day. And when the day was over, he walked me home again.

I have no idea where that dog lived. He could have been miles from his own home for all I knew. But he was faithful. For weeks, he walked me to and from school, waited on the school grounds, played with us at recess, cuddled with me, slept in my lap, and went home at night - wherever that was. I told Dad about him. Dad watched him walk me to school in the morning. All I had to say was, "C'mon" and he was right there with me.

All these years later, I still think of that dog. I think about how loyal he was. I think about what a good friend he was to me and to the other kids. I remember one of the boys got mad at him over something and lifted his foot to kick that dog, and I was right there giving that boy what for and telling him that is NOT how you treat an animal. I remember that boy walked away as I scowled at him, but he must have spread the word because nobody ever tried to hurt that dog again. And all of these years later, my heart aches because I don't know what happened to that dog.

He just didn't show up one day to walk me to school.

I thought maybe his family had gone on vacation and taken him with them.

I thought maybe he wasn't feeling well and needed some rest.

I thought maybe he was helping his owner with some chores or a good project.

It went on for days. The dog never came back. I was devastated. Dad said the dog probably moved on to another little girl that needed a good friend, but that he would never forget me and how good I was to him. In my heart, I knew. I knew that dog had died. Whether he had been hit by a car, or been sick and finally found relief, or something else had happened, I knew that dog had died. And it made me sad. It still makes me sad, and I don't even know that dog's name.

Because of that, I can't watch those ASPCA commercials on TV without getting a lump in my throat. If nobody is home and one of those commercials plays on the television I will openly cry. Like a baby. With the big, wet, drippy tears.

That's probably why I started bawling when Bear yelped out in pain a couple of weeks ago. And probably why, even though the vet says he's okay, I still worry about him and won't let him jump off the beds or the couches if I can help it. And probably why I baby him and cuddle him and let him get away with whatever he wants. Because who can resist this cute face?

I hope I get to see that other dog in heaven some day and thank him for taking care of my Fourth Grade Self. It really meant a lot to me to have him for a friend. Those four-legged humans are some of my very favorite kind!

Choking on Bacon

My mom graduated from college while she was still pregnant with me. She didn't start working full-time as a teacher until I was in Kindergarten. Prior to that, she held several jobs, but we were by no means wealthy. We never went without the things we needed, but if it was a want, you couldn't have it. My older siblings know and remember that fact a lot more than I do, but I do remember how far Mom could stretch a can of tuna fish to feed five kids and her and Dad. It was more Miracle Whip sandwich than it was tuna sandwich, but we didn't know the difference, and I don't think it mattered anyway. We were taught to be grateful for what we had.

Because of our monetary situation, it was rare that we ate things like bacon. It was too expensive, so the only time I remember eating it was when it was on super reduced sale or given to us by someone else (which I don't think ever happened). The same thing happened with hamburger and any kind of beef, pork products, and probably chicken as well, although chicken probably would have been cheaper and easier to come by. We ate a lot of rice and pasta dishes. And casseroles. And lots of vegetables and fruits because they were cheap at the time (unlike now where you can't eat healthy without giving up your firstborn and 12 batches of your own plasma) and because Grandpa Koyle's garden was full of them in the Fall. (Thinking of his fresh tomatoes still makes me salivate!)

There must have been a good sale on bacon during the summer that I was four. I remember I was four because I hadn't started school yet, and I was both excited and nervous to go to Kindergarten. I also remember that it was summer because my brother, Jon, was home that morning for some reason, and I was wearing shorts and a lightweight T-shirt. Mom had cooked bacon that day, and we were having bacon and tomato sandwiches for lunch. Sometimes (probably more than I knew) she would make lunch and take it to Dad at the dry cleaning shop. Other times, he would come home to eat, but more often than not he had a hard time getting away from that place (for lunch or anything else, including vacations).

I was standing in the kitchen as Mom finished cooking the bacon and started putting Dad's lunch together. I asked Mom what she was cooking and what we were having for lunch. With an excited smile on her face Mom replied, "We're having bacon! Bacon and tomato sandwiches."

My response (as always) was, "I don't like (fill in the blank here with any food item, and this time it was) bacon."

She assured me I would love bacon. It's not that I was necessarily a picky eater (was I?), but it was more that I was afraid of the things I didn't know. I wouldn't eat mushrooms because (I got words mixed up a lot as a kid) I thought they were mushworms, and by being mushworms it meant they were worm poop that had been "mushed" up into that shape. So you can see how new foods might have been problematic for me, right? Anyway, Mom assured me I would like bacon if I would just try it. And besides, she reminded me, it wasn't often we got to have bacon.

After a lot of coaxing and convincing (and probably some bargaining with something I wanted, like cheese), I decided to try the bacon. Mom handed me a piece that had been well-cooked (not burned, just not fatty) and said, "Now, be sure to chew it up really well. Just keep chewing and chewing and chewing until it's small enough to swallow, okay?" I stared at the bacon and nodded my head in the affirmative.

Who knows how long I stared at the piece of bacon before taking a bite? It could have been hours knowing me and my stubborn ways. Eventually, I took a bite.

It was kind of a big bite.

Mom noticed how much I bit off and reminded me again to chew it and chew it and chew it.

Yeah, uh huh, okay, sure Mom. I will chew this until the cows come home. I will chew it so well you won't even ...

... UH OH.

I had swallowed without chewing really well and there was a huge piece of bacon caught in my throat and I couldn't breathe and I was choking and the world was caving in on me and my eyes were going black and the room was getting small and ...

... then Jon reached around me and gave me the Heimlich maneuver. Where did he learn that?!

And then Mom was all over me. "Are you okay? Are you all right? Can you breathe?"

YES, thank you.

And on the floor was a balled up piece of bacon. Which Jon promptly picked up and threw away. Thank him! I couldn't have seen it for much longer without losing more than my bacon.

Things calmed down after that. There were no adverse effects. Jon sat down to eat his bacon and tomato sandwich, and I went with Mom to take lunch to Dad.

When we got home, I believe I ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch.

Or was it mostly Miracle Whip with a little tuna?

Either way, it tasted good to me and helped Mom keep her sanity. Win-win.

For the record, I really like bacon.

Big Wheels and Diarrhea

Remember these?

Totally cool! I think that one is very similar to the one I had. Although this is the one I wished I'd had:

(Image found here: http://www.pinstopin.com/big-wheels-from-the-70s/)

Because, hello? I'm a girl, and these were the coolest colors to have on a Big Wheel in the early 1980s if you were a girl. DUH.

In reality, if I could have had any Big Wheel I wanted, this would have been it:

My little preemie, Florida Patsy, whom I adopted from the Cabbage Patch, totally needed a place to ride, even if she did come along after this particular event happened. Isn't that the most awesome Big Wheel you've ever seen? And the stickers! The stickers just totally make it.

My friend, Shauna (who I shared a backyard fence with), and I used to have Big Wheels. We lived near an old church that has since been turned into a reception hall. (It probably hadn't been turned into a reception hall at the time this took place, but it goes to show we grew up in the coolest neighborhood ever.) The old church had this fun roundabout in the front where we could drive our Big Wheels really fast and then slam on the brakes and spin out. If we got going fast enough, we could totally do a doughnut and slam into each other like bumper cars. And, although we probably didn't, it felt like we rode our Big Wheels over to that old church every day and spun out and kicked rocks and basically tore up the neighborhood.

I remember one particular day pretty clearly. I hadn't been feeling well, but I convinced Mom I was feeling better so I could ride Big Wheels with Shauna. We probably had some serious plans. Because we were four at the time, and we were cool like that. I remember that it was summer, and it must have been in July or August because I also remember it was kind of windy and looked overcast even though the temperatures were warm. Monsoon season, you know?

So we headed out on our Big Wheels and rode the half block to the old church. We were there for a few minutes and I started to feel kind of icky again. Shauna knew I had been sick because I hadn't been allowed out to play, so when I said I needed to go to the bathroom she rode back up to our house with me. I "took care of business" as quickly as I could, and we rode back down to the old church. The same thing happened probably three or four times. We would get to the church, ride around the roundabout maybe once, and I'd have to go to the bathroom, so we'd ride back up to my house and repeat. I don't even know if Shauna remembers this or not. Maybe I should text her and find out. Or maybe I don't want to know if she remembers it. Yeah, probably less embarrassing that way.

By now, Shauna had figured out I really didn't feel good, and she probably didn't want to get sick, so she asked if we should wait and play again tomorrow. Good friend, that Shauna. But I was determined to feel better, even if it meant faking it until it happened. We headed back down to the church and spun around a couple of times. At this point, I was sick of having to go back and forth to the house, so I wondered (in my four-year-old mind) if I could hide behind some bushes and just go to the bathroom there. But it was the kind of sick where you needed toilet paper, you know? And there just weren't that many leaves. And, well, that's just gross. Even to a four-year-old. Unless I'd been a boy. Then, I wouldn't have cared.

I started to feel sick again, but it was right in the middle of a good spin, and we'd just gotten to the point where it was getting good so we could slam on our breaks and make the Big Wheels skid out and kick rocks and slam into each other. We were laughing and screaming at each other to go faster, faster!!!

And that's when it happened.

The diarrhea.

It couldn't be stopped. And I was already kind of sick to my stomach from the spinning, so that didn't help.

And I was wearing a pair of cream colored shorts. (Why do I remember that detail?)

Shauna must have known something bad happened because she stopped her Big Wheel mid-spin and asked, "Are you aw wight?" I think I simply said, "No." And then I turned my Big Wheel around and headed home and told her we'd have to play another time because I really wasn't feeling better. Good friend that Shauna was/is, she said, "Okay. See you later." And she followed me home, but instead of waiting at my house, she turned the corner and headed for her home so I could walk into the house with what little grace my four-year-old diarrhea-filled-behind had.

I don't remember if Mom was even home at the time. Somebody must have told me to rinse my dirty bottoms in the toilet water because I knew enough to do that. I must have used probably two rolls of toilet paper. And I think I even drew myself a bath, which is no small feat since I hated water and hated taking a bath. THAT is how bad it was.

To this day, I have no clue what happened to that Big Wheel or if I even rode it again. My guess is Dad probably got to be the one to hose it down. He had zero gag reflex, so he lucked out and got to do most of the gross things like that at our house. I'll have to apologize for instances like this one when I get to the other side and see him again. Sorry, Dad!

And sorry to whoever got that Big Wheel after me. So, so sorry.

Why can't I remember something better than that about my awesome Big Wheel? Diarrhea ruins everything!!!

I Can't Make Jello-O

I suppose the title is supposed to have a trademark or something attached, right? Isn't Jell-O trademarked? Should it be typed Jell-O (TM) or something like that? I don't want the Jell-O people getting after me for use of their brand.

Maybe if I could actually make Jell-O it would be okay without the trademark?

On a Sunday several years ago (after Mom and Dad had returned from their LDS mission to Texas Fort Worth), I was helping Mom with Sunday dinner. We're masters of the timed bake option at our house. It works perfectly for Sunday dinners so they're nice and hot (and cooked!) when you get out of Church and already feel like there's a gaping whole in the center of the universe that can only be filled by putting something yummy and delicious into your mouth and forcing it to pulse through your veins immediately. Whoa - hungry much?

Anyway, I was helping Mom with Sunday dinner, getting it prepped, putting on the time bake, etc. She asked if I would make some Jell-O to go along with dinner. I said (for the record), "I don't know how to make Jell-O." Mom probably laughed at me or something, but she said, "Just read the instructions on the package and you'll be fine." Okay. Sure. Right. Yeah.

Now, I'd watched Mom make Jell-O something like 100 times. Maybe more. Maybe a little less. But not much less. Because we ate a lot of Jell-O (it's a Mormon thing). Clarification: everyone else ate a lot of Jell-O. I'm not a huge fan because people tend to put weird things (e.g. carrots, pineapple, chunks of other fruits, marshmallows, etc.) in it, and I don't DO Jell-O with things in it. Plain, yes. With a little real whipped cream, yes. With canned whipped cream, no. With Cool Whip, no. That's just wrong. (No offense Cool Whip. You're not on my list of favorite food items.) With "other" things in it, NO. So, so wrong. Just ... it's wrong.

Mom is/was a Master Jell-O Maker. She had the process down. Boil the water, have ice water ready to go, put in the powder, etc. Well, Mom went off to Church, and I was left at home alone to make the Jell-O. I did what I'd seen Mom do so many times: put the powder in the pan, boil some water on the stove, stir in ice water until it melts. Voila! And off to Church I went.

As we're sitting in Relief Society waiting for the last Sunday meeting to start, something started to feel weird. I reviewed over and over in my mind what I did to make the Jell-O, and something felt strange about it. But I consoled myself by marking off the checklist of "to do" items on the back of the box. I mean, who can mess up the Jell-O, right?

Me.

I can mess up the Jell-O.

Because I can't make Jell-O.

And this story is proof.

We got home from Church, everyone was in the process of changing out of their Sunday clothes, Mom had already changed and was in the kitchen throwing dinner on the table (because she's like Wonder Woman speedy when it comes to changing clothes, a trait I have not inherited), and suddenly she yelled, "Katie!" At the time, I was living in the basement, so I probably didn't hear her the first time, which is probably the reason that by the time I did hear her she was hollering pretty loud. I threw on the rest of my clothes and walked upstairs to the sound of her mumbling something.

"Did you call me?" I asked.
"Yes. What is this?"
"It's the Jell-O," I responded.
Mom was silent as she looked at the Jell-O and back at me.
"Is something wrong with it?" I asked.

Some parts of the Jell-O were like red water. Other parts of the Jell-O were like lumpy balls of red goo. It was jiggling, but I'd never seen Jell-O move like that. Mom asked, "Did you even read the directions on the box?" I assured her I did. "Tell me the process you went through," she said. So I told her. I put in the powder, I boiled the water, I used ice water and stirred it around until it melted. "That's what it says to do on the package, right?" I asked.

"Did you happen to make sure all the powder was dissolved by hot water before you added the cold water?" asked Mom.

HUH???

"Um ...."

And then Mom started to laugh. She said, "You can come up with recipes in your head. You can bake the world's best cookies. You have a sense about the way flavors go together. You're not afraid to be creative in the kitchen. Practically everything you cook or bake tastes really good. But you can't make Jell-O?!"

Hey, in my defense, I told her that up front.

And that is why I'm asked to make main dishes, side dishes, desserts, rolls, baked goods, salads, and anything else you can eat - except the Jell-O.

That's perfectly fine by me!

The Guy Who Calls Me Jackie

I told Mom this story about a week ago. We had a good laugh over it, and it should probably be documented for future reference. In case I ever decide to change my name, you know?

Funny thing about names. I was given a first and middle name, and it's on the records of my church that way, but apparently my middle name never made it to my birth certificate, which is crazy because I remember seeing my original birth certificate as a kid, and my middle name was on it. Whatever, government records. The only reason I found out my middle name wasn't on my birth certificate was because I had to get an official copy (oxymoron? what does that even mean anyway, "official copy"; as if some copies are unofficial or not legit?) for traveling or something. I paid something like $90 (an absurd amount) for that "official copy" only to realize it listed no middle name. The government people said I could come back within 90 days and pay a "small fee" for them to change it, and after 90 days it would be something like $150 to change it. You know who didn't make it over there within the 90 days, right? Yeah .... So I don't officially have a middle name, but I really do where it counts, so whatever. But I do have an "official copy", so that makes everything better, right? 

ANYWAY, I'm not changing my name any time soon (or, like, ever), but this guy at work seems to think my name is Jackie. But he only thinks my name is Jackie sometimes. Allow me to explain. Mainly because I'm also very confused right now.

A few months ago, I started a new job. I was introduced in our weekly devotional, within team meetings, etc. Being the new person is kind of stressful because you have to remember a bajillion names and the other people only have to remember one. Instant disadvantage for me. But I felt like I was getting to know people's names as I worked with them, and I usually wasn't afraid to ask their name if I didn't know. And my desk faces west. Yes, that's important.

There's this nice man we'll call John. Because that's his name. John is a very nice guy, always says hello or asks how the day is going, etc. At first, he didn't ever use my name. No big deal. I didn't know his name either. One day John came by my desk from the north and said, "Hey, Jackie. How are you?" Not wanting to embarrass him by pointing out he used the wrong name I answered, "Doing well. How are you?" (Because I still didn't know his name. I'm terrible with names.) A day or two later, John approached my desk from the south and said, "Hi there, Katie. Good to see you today." I still didn't know his name, so I said, "Hi there. Good to see you, too."

Similar exchanges happened a few times until I finally looked up his photo in our directory and realized his name was John. When I see him now I use his name. How appropriate and adult of me, right? I thought so. I noticed that whenever John approaches me from the north, he thinks my name is Jackie. Whenever he approaches me from the south, he thinks my name is Katie. Because I'm so appropriate and such an adult, I just let it be and didn't say a word to him about it. At this point, it's become kind of awkward that he's called me Jackie from the north for so long, and I didn't want to point out that I'm an idiot who didn't realize what name he'd called me until we were already conversing. It's totally awkward to break into a conversation and be like, "Yeah, so you know how you call me Jackie? That's not my name. But how are you anyway?" I mean, there's just no comfortable way to begin that conversation.

One day, one of my bosses was at my desk asking me to do something or check on something and John approached me from the north. He greeted me with the usual, "Hi Jackie." and kept walking. I politely answered back, and then turned to my boss who was looking at me with this funny look on his face. It was then I realized, yep, that just happened when my boss asked, "Did he just call you Jackie?" Why yes, yes he did. So I explained to my boss that when John comes from the north I'm Jackie, and when he comes from the south I'm Katie. And my boss was laughing. The secretary that sits across from me was laughing. It hadn't dawned on her why John only occasionally got my name correct. I had put two and two together, but she hadn't realized that he really thought of me as two different people and the name he chose to use depended on which direction he was coming from.

I tried to downplay it by saying to my boss and the secretary, "Yeah, it happens. But don't worry about it. I've figured out how to fix it." My boss said, "Oh, you're going to tell him he's calling you by the wrong name?" And I said, "Oh no! Heavens no. I don't want to embarrass him." They both looked at me like I was crazy, so I explained my logic. "When he approaches me from the north and calls me Jackie, I'm just going to say, 'Hi Steve!' And when he approaches me from the south and uses my real name, I'm going to say, 'Hey John.'"

They both nearly fell on the floor laughing. I thought it was a logical plan. No? My boss got control of himself and said, "He's going to stop and say his name isn't Steve and ask why you're calling him that." I said, "I know. That's the beauty of it. When he stops and says that I'll say, 'Oh really? Well, my name isn't Jackie, never has been Jackie, and never will be Jackie. I guess we're even.'"

Totally appropriate and adult-like, right? Yes, I'm very mature like that.

Girl's Camp

I'm really tired today, but still wanted to write something of value, so I turned to the list of blog ideas, saw "Girl's Camp" and thought, 'Yep, that's a good one to write about since the tired I feel today compares a little with the tired I felt then.'

This is not for the light-stomached. I still kind of gag thinking about it.

Right after I turned 13, we moved to a different house in a different city. As spring approached, the mom across the street asked if I was planning on going to Girl's Camp (it's about a week long [sometimes more, sometimes less] camp that the Young Women ages 12-18 in the LDS Church attend to learn practical camping, survival, first aid, and other skills along with spiritual development). I missed out on going to Girl's Camp the previous year because I was in Mexico with Mom and Dad (another blog post that will take ages to write). Anyway, I told the neighbor mom I was not planning to attend because we weren't really a big camping family. In truth, I didn't want to go because I've always found it very difficult to be away from home overnight. Plus, it was far away and would be spent with a group of girls and leaders that I hardly knew.

Somehow, Dad found out that I had said I was not going to Girl's camp. He thought/felt it was a good idea that I go to bond with the other girls and make friends. In his defense, for that aspect, it was probably a good idea for me to go, but I went to school with all of those girls, so I did kind of know them. They just weren't in the crowd I hung out with at school. Dad was really trying to help and just wanted what was best for me. He encouraged (read: decided for) me to attend Girl's Camp. To appease him, I went through the process of getting certified and catching up with my age group so I wouldn't be behind everyone else. I'm sure the leaders were sick of me by the time Girl's Camp actually rolled around because I gave them grief at every turn in the certification process. It just wasn't my idea of fun, and I was only there for Dad, not because I wanted to be there.

The day arrived for Girl's Camp. I got up early, someone (probably Dad) took me to the church building with all my stuff, we loaded up in four-wheel drive vehicles, and we headed for the mountains. I was in a car full of girls who did nothing but giggle the whole way and talk about boys and who has a crush on whom. At 13, I still thought boys smelled funny and were only good for opening jars with too-tight lids. I was FAR from boy crazy and wished the entire ride in the car to camp I would have brought a library of books with me to read. It was torture to have to sit through that, and if I remember right, I think I ended up just talking to the leaders that were in the car with us.

We arrived at camp safely, unpacked the vehicles, made our way to our dorms/tents, and were told to quickly head back to the main lodge for name tags, shirts, and introduction activities. I threw my stuff on one of the bottom bunks in our dorm. As soon as I did so, one of the other girls a year younger than me asked if she could be my "bunk mate" and sleep on the top bunk. She was a fun girl and one that was always friendly, so I figured it couldn't be too bad and agreed she could have it. I noticed something flying around the eaves of our dorm and asked another girl about it. "Those? Oh, those are just birds. Sometimes they nest in the eaves. They won't bother you. It's fun to have them around!" And off we went to the lodge. All the while I thought, "Uh, I don't like things that fly and flap around. And I like it even less when birds chirp in the early morning and wake me up. This could get interesting."

We had a good time at the lodge, I learned people's names, found a group of girls I knew from school that I was comfortable with, and we sang songs, talked about crafts we were going to do, and got a schedule for the week. We were informed that showers were available, but they were in the girl's outhouse section of toilets, and the water was very cold. If we had long hair, they suggested we keep it tied up (braided, in a bun, etc.) for the week and plan to wash it when we got home. Me: "Um, gross." I could maybe go every other day without washing it, but almost a week? They were kidding, right?

I don't remember a whole lot about what we did during the days, but I do know we made some neat crafts, hiked, looked for and identified certain plants and animals, and generally had an okay time (for camping, I mean). I believe it was the second night we were there (that year camp went from a Tuesday to Saturday morning) that the leaders had us help them make chicken and dumplings in a cast iron stove over the fire, Dutch-oven style. Everyone pitched in and did their parts, but I was not excited to be eating that for dinner. I've always been a texture person, and that food looked like a blob of goo that was just going to get bigger the more you chewed it. I had, however, learned a lot about myself and my tolerance levels in Mexico, so I was trying to suck it up and be a big girl. I ate a couple of biscuits with a little bit of gravy on them and called it good. The other girls must have been starving because they ate every last bit of it.

We played games that night in our dorm, and I carefully watched the "birds" flying around in the eaves. They called for lights out, so we huddled down in our sleeping bags. Lots of the girls continued to talk and laugh into the night. I'm sure it drove our leaders crazy. It drove me crazy! I wasn't sleeping well because I was away from home, and they were jibber-jabbering until the sun came up (or so it seemed). Things finally got quiet, and I listened to the "birds" shifting in the eaves until I was so tired I basically passed out.

Early in the morning, before it was even light, I heard, "Geh. Ohhh. Geh. Cough." And then I felt it: SPLASH. And then I smelled it. Vomit. All over me. All over my pillow, all over my sleeping bag, all over my face and hair, and now dripping towards the floor and my bag of stuff for the week. The girl above me on the bunk bed had puked up her chicken and biscuits in her sleep. To make matters worse, she wasn't awake when she did it, so I leaned over quickly, shoved my bag to the other end of the bed (in hopes of saving some of my clothes from getting soaked in puke), and sat up in bed. Right as I sat up, she leaned over and heaved out the rest of her chicken and biscuits. It was all over my hair, face, and lap. I yelled her name, "Karolyn!", and she woke up from her sleep only to say, "Ew, I don't feel very good." Really? REALLY?! YOU don't feel good? I'm covered in your vomit and smell so bad it's a wonder every girl didn't wake up, and YOU don't feel good? One of the leaders woke up when she heard us talking. She turned on her flashlight and made her way over. I will never forget her holding that flashlight and dry heaving while she looked at me, looked at Karolyn, and told me to go get washed up in the girl's bathroom. I was covered in puke. Exactly how was I supposed to get cleaned up without leaving a trail of vomit behind me?

Thankfully, one of my hands was still sort of clean, so the leader grabbed me some clean clothes from my bag, sent me on my way, and she cleaned up the trail of puke after I left the dorm. Not so thankfully, I remembered as I stepped out the door that there had been a bear sighting earlier the day before, and they had specifically said, "DO NOT leave your dorms at night. If you have to go to the bathroom, go in pairs, and BE SURE to take a flashlight." There I was. On my own. Leaving the dorm in the middle of the dark night. Nobody to accompany me. No flashlight. Hands full of clean clothes, smelling like fresh chicken and biscuits. Just paint a target on my back and yell for the bear. I ran as fast as I could to the bathroom and quickly locked the door of the stall behind me. As if that would have kept a bear out. I used a massive pile of toilet paper to clean up the chunks of puke still hanging from me and wiped my face, arms, and hands off so I could put on clean clothes without getting puke everywhere.

As quietly as I could, I left the stall and turned on the water. Ice cold. And by ice cold, I mean Antarctic. It was the middle of the night. There'd been no sun out for a while to heat the water tanks a bit, which only remotely changed the temperature of the water from Antarctic to sub-zero. But I was desperate, so I rinsed out my clothes as well as I could and squeezed them as dry as I could get them. I used paper towels, soap, and Antarctic water to wash off the rest of my face, arms, and hands. There was no light, so I was going strictly by feel. I was shivering so fiercely that it felt like my internal organs would be blended like a smoothie. And then I remembered my hair. I knew it was covered in puke. And I knew there was NO WAY I was sticking a head full of starchy biscuits in that cold water. My dad was a dry cleaner by profession. I knew very well what cold water would do to that biscuit mess, and I knew they'd have to shave all of my hair off (hair that was nearly down to my rear end in length, mind you) to get the biscuits out. I needed hot water to get out of this hot mess. Instead, I ran my hands over my hair with the paper towels and tried to get as many of the chunks out as I could. When it felt semi-dried, I gathered up my vomit clothes and returned to the dorm.

As I walked into the dorm the leader says, "Why didn't you wash your hair?!" Dumbfounded, I looked at her. She asked me again. This time I said, "Look, lady. My dad is a dry cleaner. If I wash this hair in cold water it will make things worse. I'll have to shave my head." She could see (I guess) that I was in no shape to argue with, so she told me to go back to bed. "On what?" I asked. "My pillow and sleeping bag are covered in puke." She stared at me, sighed heavily, and said, "Can you just turn them over for now." I'm sure my look of disgust sent the exact message I intended, and I'm pretty sure she understood it. She and another leader said they'd be right back with paper towels and help me clean things up as best as we could. I dropped my cold, wet clothes near my bag and waited. A few minutes later, they were back with stacks of paper towels, and we wiped off my sleeping bag and pillow enough that I could turn it over and sleep. Karolyn? She was asleep the whole time. It was probably the best night's sleep of her whole life.

I got in my sleeping bag and hunkered down. While I was adjusting my pillow and trying to drag it into the sleeping bag with me in case of another "incident", I heard the two leaders talking and one asked the other, "Do you think we should tell the girls we're in a dorm with bats, or should we keep telling them it's birds?" My eyes the rest of the night: O-O. 

The next morning, I awoke out of my haze to girls complaining about the smell. Ugh. Yeah. It's me. And it's bad. Karolyn wanted to know what happened. Why did I have puke in my hair? "You put it there. You tell me." It was not the best morning I've ever had. (Mornings aren't good for/to me anyway.) And Karolyn was in denial. She honestly had no clue it had happened. Her only response, "Well, I'm starving! Do you think they'll have eggs for breakfast?" Sure, Karolyn. Eggs - just for you.

Everyone headed to the main lodge while I slowly got re-dressed and tried to put on some deodorant in hopes of not smelling TOO bad. It was a futile effort. Completely hopeless. So I walked to the lodge with my hair matted with puke. The other leaders were completely grossed out, and I asked one of the main leaders if I could please wash my hair in the warm water in the lodge where the main leaders were sleeping. The answer: no. If I washed my hair there than every other girl would think they should be able to wash their hair in the lodge. Riiiiiiiiight. "Okay." I said. "I'll just wait until I get home then." Their eyes for the rest of the day: O-O. They were NOT happy with me, but I held my ground and refused to wash my hair in cold water. At one point, I even explained what the cold water would do to the starchy biscuits. And I explained it in great detail. "It will first go to mush. Then, it will spread through the rest of my hair. No amount of shampoo will change that. I will be picking biscuit out of my hair for years to come unless I decide to shave my head." I'm sure they thought I was being dramatic, but I held my ground.

The day wore on. It got warmer outside. We were outside ALL day. The heat warmed up the puke. The puke started to smell worse and worse by the minute. Girls complained. Leaders complained. I just smiled and said, "It will all go away as soon as I can have some warm water to wash my hair." By that night, nobody could stand to be around me. I couldn't taste or smell anything but chicken and biscuits. Clarify: digested chicken and biscuits. There's a difference. Finally, when we went to the lodge for dinner, one of the leaders pulled me aside. She handed me a towel and some shampoo, and without saying a word, pointed to the lodge bathroom. Win. And bless her!

I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed until my head was nearly raw. Hair that long needs conditioner, but at that point I didn't even care. I washed it multiple times until it squeaked as I squeezed the water out of it. The vomit had made my head itch uncontrollably, and it was nice to have that feeling gone. By the time I finished with my hair, everyone had eaten their dinner and gone back to their dorms. Someone saved me a plate of food, which I gobbled up quickly. I returned to the dorm to find that Karolyn had moved her bed and nobody was now sleeping above me. Another win.

The stench was gone, nobody else got sick, and we only had a couple of days left with the "birds" in the dorm, which I finally told everyone the night before we left were actually bats. That didn't go so well. Nobody slept that night, and every time one moved a girl would scream. It was justice, if you ask me. I hadn't slept because of them and because of the vomit for almost a week. Deal with it, you sissies.

I was so glad when Girl's Camp was over! Dad picked me up at the church when we got back to reality. "How was it?" he asked excitedly. "Do you think you'll go back next year."

Me: silence. And a death stare. 

And then I said, "I will never go back to Girl's Camp, Dad. And I'm not going to talk about it."

It wasn't until years later that he found out exactly what happened. His response? "No wonder you didn't want to talk about it." Ya think?!

Grape Vines and a Hole in the Fence

Our backyard had a peach tree, a pear tree, a HUGE lilac bush that was more like a tree (dang, I miss that bush - it always smelled soooo good), and a fence with grape vines that actually produced a few times. If I had grown up in California you might ask, "Your point?" Since I didn't grow up in California, it was a big deal. Grapes don't just thrive in Utah. I mean, it snows in Utah. And the summers are hot and arid. Our average humidity is zero. Okay, there might actually be a percentage of humidity, but you know what I mean. It was a miracle that these grapes thrived at all.

We "shared" the fence with an adjoining backyard. This, however, was no ordinary fence. Nope. This fence had a hole in it. You're saying, "Big deal!" right now, aren't you? Well, yes, in fact. It WAS a big deal. Because the hole in THIS fence was big enough that (small) people could fit through it. And it was ... wait for it ... hidden! When the vines of the grapes grew it became even more hidden. It was like a secret passage to a faraway hidden land. Like the gate in "The Secret Garden." Except the faraway hidden land was really the Leifson's backyard. And you had to be careful not to wreck Mark's beautiful garden when you went through. It wasn't the same as the Secret Garden, but it was a BIG garden. You could get lost in that thing. (I think one time I might have! Sometimes I'm still afraid of corn fields because they make me claustrophobic. I might have night terrors tonight.)

The hole in this fence was how I got to my best friend, Shauna's, house. It just made us so much cooler than any other kids on the block. When a group of us wanted to get together and the meeting point was at my house or Shauna's house we were both the first people there. Every time. I think the others thought we potentially had magical powers. And we didn't share that secret fence with very many. A handful of other kids knew about it, but for the most part we kept it to ourselves.

One year, we had an exceptionally good grape crop. I remember Mom (at least I think it was Mom) bottling jar after jar of stuff from those grapes. (I might only remember this because I had to carry a ton of those jars downstairs to our food storage room. And now I will have nightmares. *shudder* That room was sketchy.) Anyway, I remember helping with the grape picking that year and being sad when we finally picked the last batch because you could see through the fence completely and our hole (our secret passage) was now visible. Exposed for all to see. No longer a secret.

And then I realized the only people who ever used it even when others knew about it were me and Shauna (and some of our siblings). It really wasn't that big of a deal that you could see it. But it was still cool. Because I said so. And because we still talk about it. And because it is STILL THERE. We moved, but the Leifson's stayed put. The people that bought our house were a daughter and son-in-law of our other best friends, the Huffs. They kept the secret passage. And I believe Mark said they use it, too. I think the daughter and son-in-law use some of Mark's property for their own garden and get to it through the hole in the fence.

Now, I just need to find out if they still get any grapes from those vines or if they cut them down. I love it when life carries on the way it should (ahem, I mean, the way you remember it) even after you're long gone (not dead, just moved away). Next time Shauna's in town I think we might need to visit the hole in the fence and examine the grape status. And then say a prayer of thanks that we don't have to bottle those things!!!

Puking Puppies

When I was around 4 or 5 years old our dog, Taffy, had puppies. (At least, I think it was Taffy. Or was Taffy a boy? Oh dear, this post could quickly get complicated.) 

ANYWAY, we had a dog and it had puppies, and we put them in a box with an old blanket and let their mommy take care of them. She was a good mommy and let me hold those little puppies as much as I wanted and for as long as I wanted. They were so cute, and I loved to watch them try to open their eyes and see the world around them. 

One particular day (when my BFF Shauna and I were bored, of course), we went downstairs to play with the puppies. We took them out of their box and put them on my sister's water bed. Their eyes were opening more, and they were starting to walk around more and play with each other, but they were still pretty new. Their mommy was somewhere, so we were free to do with the puppies whatever we wanted. 

Soon enough, the water bed took over. We jiggled, bounced, jostled, rolled, and surfed those puppies around that bed. They loved it! (Remember: I was 4-5 and not fully aware of "dog emotions" at this point.) We stopped the fun and went to take the puppies off the bed and return them to their box when all of a sudden - PUKE. 

Puke was all over the bed, but mostly by my sister's pillow. We had thrown the covers back (duh!) in order to keep the pups from getting "tangled" in them during their adventure. I looked at Shauna, Shauna looked at me, and then we picked up the pups, placed them in their box, and I threw the covers up over the bed. We quickly left the room and went outside to play. 

If I remember correctly, it was a while later that Shauna turned to me and said, "Ew. That was gwoss. And we're gonna be in twouble." With a pit developing in my stomach I assured her it would be fine and not to worry about it. After all, I could fake sick and sleep with Mom and Dad that night so as to avoid the ensuing tears and screaming that would assuredly come from leaving dog vomit on my sister's bed. 

Sure enough, there was screaming and a few tears, but I was off the hook. My sister blamed the dog for bringing her puppies up on the bed. Boy, did that dog get an earful! Poor dog. I did give her an extra long hug that night and told her and her puppies how much I loved them all. I even rubbed her ears to block out the ringing that must have been going on after the high-pitched screaming. 

I have no idea what covered the bed that night as we slept since the sheets were in the wash. I was just glad the screaming and yelling hadn't been at me. I still thank that dog for covering up my silly antics. Too bad she didn't know what the heck was going on. She must have been so confused! 

Just a few years ago, I made plans to get up really early one Fall morning and take Bear with me up the canyon to catch pictures of the sunrise. We had a grand time. He peed all over everything, marked his territory like a champ, and we ate all sorts of snacks as we walked around taking pictures of trees, leaves, the lake, and the sunrise. Since we were already on a new adventure, I thought we should take advantage of our time together and decided to travel up and over the mountain and return home the long way. Bear kept getting antsy and moving around the front seat. He'd never done that before, so I thought maybe the altitude must be getting to him. 

We finally got home several hours (and hundreds of pictures) later. I opened the car door to let Bear run free for a bit. He walked across the driveway and headed straight for the lawn. Next thing I hear is: guh guh BLEGH. Bear hurled his guts out on the grass. Poor little guy was motion sick, hence the moving around the front seat. He was holding it all in so he didn't mess up the upholstery in my car! After several rounds of dry-heaving, we finally went in the house where he assumed the position of a curled up ball and slept the rest of the day. He refused to eat anything and only drank when I reminded him there was water available. It was so sad!!! 

All I could think about were those puking puppies from years ago. None of them are probably alive today, but I felt awful for putting them through such innocent torture (is that an oxymoron?) years ago. Bear has had a semi-sensitive tummy since that time, so I'd like to apologize now to the families that adopted those puppies years ago and say that I sincerely hope your puppy didn't have tummy troubles because of me. 

Can you imagine what kind of mother I would be?! *shudder*