... is one amazing person.
Today, Mom is 70+ years young, and she is as sharp, witty, sensible, kind, loving, gentle, thoughtful, cheerful, optimistic, funny, clever, smart, and graceful as they come. Happy birthday, Mom!
Some of Mom's favorite things include:
Reading (anything)
Writing
Listening to good music
Telling stories
Having "club" with Freda and Colleen
Creating memories
Spending time with her kids and grandkids
Eating (very important)
Being creative
Watching "The Price is Right", "Wheel of Fortune", and "Jeopardy"
Hanging out with our dog, Bear
Doing Family History
Sharing
Celebrating Christmas
Learning/Studying
Traveling
Spending time with her siblings
Shopping
Teaching
Doing missionary work
Attending the temple
Going to the movies
Indulging me (also very important)
Serving others
Being an awesome friend
Giving, giving, giving
Smiling
Some things Mom doesn't like include:
Planning meals
Cooking meals
Being cruel to anyone or anything
Swearing or using curse words
Learning anything new about the computer (although she can, and she does)
Being late
Sharing her fruit tart from Kneaders (or any dessert for that matter)
Frowning
Some of Mom's accomplishments include:
David Joe
Lisa Marne
Jonathan Paul
Andrea Kristine
Susan Elizabeth
Katherine Janae
Thirteen grandchildren
Three (and counting) great-grandchildren
Serving an individual mission to Chile
Marrying Joe in the Salt Lake Temple
Being a fantastic mother
Graduating from college
Sharing the gospel
Teaching middle school and high school
Supporting her family financially
Showing her children and grandchildren how important it is to have a good education
Loving and caring for her parents and two aunts
Serving two missions with Joe
Teaching Relief Society
Traveling to Europe twice - while chaperoning high school kids both times
Showing her children and grandchildren the importance of service and missionary work
Surviving the death of her husband, Joe, and her daughter, Susan
Finding lost ancestors and doing their temple work
Being a friend to everyone she meets
Some talents Mom has and shares:
Making Russian needle point creations
Writing
Playing Hooked on Words
Mastering the iPad
Creating pillows and other works of art with wool applique
Loving the scriptures and other good books
Studying gospel topics
Having an optimistic outlook about everything
Giving good advice - lots and lots of good advice
Making new friends
Being generous and kind
I could (and probably should) say a whole lot more about her, but it would take pages and pages of internet space. In fact, it would probably take up the whole internet to tell you everything I love about my mom. There would be no room for anyone else to share anything on the web. Not even Wikipedia could hold a candle to her quantity and quality of good attributes. She is an amazing mother, a loving and kind soul, an awesome sister and aunt, a gracious daughter, an incredible host, a classic entertainer, a funny-in-all-the-right-ways gal, an eternal optimist, a silver-lining finder, and the best friend I have ever had.
Here's to you, Mom. And here's to another 70+ years with us as long as you're healthy, happy, and want to be here. Happy birthday! I love you!!!
At the tender, young, and impressionable age of 13, I traveled to Mexico with my mom and dad so my mom could attend a Spanish-speaking school. She was going to be teaching high school Spanish in the upcoming school year. Another teacher (German-speaking) had won the trip and didn't want to go, and Mom was smart and said, "Thank you!" for the opportunity. I think Dad was excited because he would get to be immersed in the Spanish language again. He picked up the language on his Spanish-speaking LDS mission to Chile at age 21, just as Mom had. (That's where they met, and that's another story for another day.) I think Mom was excited because, although it would be hard work, it would also be a fun "vacation" from our routine summers (where the kids constantly said, "I'm bored!"). Plus, it would give her the actual Spanish cultural experience as well as being immersed in the language.
I ... well, I was not as excited to go. For weeks (or was it months?) before we left, I was a nervous ball of energy. I had a) never flown, b) never been out of the country, and 3) always been a home body. It unnerved me to think we would live with an actual Mexican family, eat actual Mexican food 24/7, and I wouldn't have a clue what anyone was saying. (As if Mom and Dad would have just let me wander the city alone, duh.) It was intimidating, to say the least.
Dad had big plans. He was going to teach me Spanish while Mom was in her Spanish class. We'd see the country, eat the foods, and enjoy every minute of it. Dad would probably admit now that he was a leeeetle concerned about leaving his dry cleaning shop in the hands of my oldest brother and sister, but he always did like a good adventure. Bless his heart, he and Mom worked and worked and worked with me to get over my fears of flying and leaving the country. They assured me over and over that they would not leave me alone anywhere and that the people really would be nice.
The big day came, we got on the plane, Mom and Dad filled me full of dramamine, and the next thing I knew, we were in Mexico City. The fact that we'd made it there alive was still not enough to convince me we'd make it HOME alive, but it was a small consolation prize. We gathered our luggage and found our way out of the airport and into a taxi in order to get to the hotel.
The taxi ride - oh my! Dad always rode in front with the drivers and talked their ears off. Mom and I always rode in the back seat where it was safe from "accidental" hand placement on our female bodies. (I didn't realize that was why we sat in the back seat until way later or it probably would have freaked me out. Parents are smart like that. Great information withholders, they are.) Anyway, I guess Dad asked to be taken to the hotel and for a suggestion about where we could get something to eat near the main part of town. (Every taxi driver we rode with loved Dad because he spoke the language and did it without a Gringo accent.) We quickly learned that when the light was green the taxi went. The drivers didn't wait to see if intersections were clear or if people were out of the way. If the light was green, they pressed on the gas. If they didn't? Horns honking, gestures, people yelling, even having the car bumped by the one behind you. It was pure and utter chaos. I was afraid for my life, Mom seemed a little annoyed by the immaturity of it all, and Dad thought it was pure genius and laughed the entire time.
We eventually made it to the hotel to dump our luggage and found a town square in the middle of the city. There were Mariachi bands playing, it was a sunny and warm day, and people were gathered around and moving about. The atmosphere was very laid back and easy going. We spent some time listening to the Mariachi bands under some shade trees before we decided we really were hungry and ought to eat something. Dad asked around for some restaurant suggestions and we finally settled on one. Now, I'd always liked Mexican food. American Mexican food, that is. Mom and Dad both reminded me that the food here would probably not be anything close to what we considered Mexican food at home. In other words, the restaurant was not likely to have nachos. What?!
We sat down, reminded each other NOT to order water to drink (always order Coke), and looked over the menu. Well, Mom and Dad looked over the menu anyway, while I asked, "What's this? What's that?" until they're brains wanted to explode. But they were patient and explained what things were. I felt like ordering chicken was a safe bet. Who can screw up chicken, you know? Besides, chicken enchiladas were good, chicken taquitos were good, how could whatever chicken they were selling not be good? It was the safest bet.
The waiter came and took our order. He brought out our Cokes and we enjoyed the veranda we were sitting on outside while we waited for our food. It seemed to take forever, but I think it's because we were tired from the flight. (I was anyway. I'd had enough dramamine to bring down an elephant.) Finally, the waiter returned with our food. He placed in front of me some big chunks of chicken with a dark, red - almost maroon - sauce and some rice. We thanked him, and then Dad said he thought we ought to bless the food. Genius! We should thank Heavenly Father for food we're about to partake, especially when we had no idea where it was found or prepared or cooked. It's probably what saved us from dying on multiple occasions. Seriously.
I think Dad offered the prayer, we said, "Amen!", and opened our eyes. Just as we did so, a fly (there were LOTS of flies; flies everywhere) took a nose dive into my chicken dish with red sauce and immediately died. I looked at that fly, looked at Dad, looked at Mom, looked back at Dad, grabbed my spoon and removed the fly.
Silence.
And then I said, "Well, if that sauce killed the fly, I wonder what it will do to me."
It was at that very moment that Mom and Dad knew I would survive Mexico - and probably even enjoy it. And I did! We did! It was one of the greatest adventures of my life with two of my very best friends and favorite people.
I've always felt sad about that poor, dead fly though. He missed out on a good meal.
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 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!
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.
