Impassioned Irritation

My sister Gay once described one of our family traits as "impassioned irritation," a description we are not ashamed of but unanimously own. Grandma Hattie is the one we blame. She could go off on any number of topics, was proud of her "heritage of high intelligence," and had opinions ranging from world and national politics to onions and licorice (abominations, both--or should I say all four?--). Grandma wasn't narrow-minded. She was just opinionated, and probably got more so as she got older.

I remember being embarrassed one time when she was visiting us in the Philippines. We were standing in line for something or other and a fellow near us asked if anyone minded if he smoked. "I should say so!" Grandma spoke up. "I am highly allergic to cigarettes!" This was news to me, and at that time smokers generally had the upper hand, never expecting their habit to be objectionable to anyone. She was actually far ahead of her time, but I rather think she enjoyed saying, "Not near me, buster!"

Some sources of my own impassioned irritation:

• Air travel. The security personnel who, despite being told I have an artificial hip insist on giving me the entire pat-down with metal detector wand and exclaiming, "There's something there!!" as they scan my right hip. Yeah, I told you already. Do you think I placed a gun inside my undies, or what? The extreme amount of time wasted going through the conveyor belt lines, the tiny seats, the inadequate carry-on luggage compartments, the inability to assume any position but straight and upright, the way they pour your soda into a cup and keep the rest of the liquid in the can and don't give it to you... It's just a horrible way to travel. I would love to see the world but only if I could do it as a road trip. 
• The Utah Legislature. C'mon, folks! Can we elect anyone who is not a real-estate developer or of their ilk? Do ya' think they are going to do anything that curtails their own profits? Is it even possible for them to consider that more money for education would translate in more people buying their homes and storefronts and shopping malls--not to mention, of course, the real point of education--? Every January that rolls around makes educators cringe because the Utah senators and representatives with some notable exceptions begin their teacher and administrator bashing. Good old Howard Stephenson always has a boatload (I believe they are actually railroad cars) of bills "helping" teachers do a better job and increasing their workload, lowering their status and maximizing their frustration. He's not the only one. When will the voters come to their senses and elect people who are not just interested in their own special interests? Utah is probably the only state required to include public education in the State Constitution. It would have been horrible for those Mormons out west to have religious schools for the upcoming generation at the time of statehood. Well, now we have a state government intent on destroying public education. How can we keep on letting this happen?
• Walmart. Do I need to expound? All those sweet little mom and pop stores, hardware stores where you could buy 3 screws with no plastic and cardboard packaging, fabric stores with quality stuff, corner groceries like Skanchy's in Logan where you could buy a bag of marshmallows on the way up the canyon--am I dating myself?--five and dimes, shoe stores, book stores, small town department stores......gone. And that's not even mentioning the cut-throat pricing, the awful working conditions, the imports from sweatshops overseas, the acres of land they consume with their huge parking lots and lights and big box presence. Yuk. I pride myself on how few trips to Walmart I have made in the past decade. Maybe eight and I'm embarrassed about all eight of them. Yeah, they are cheap. But we all are paying the price.
• Light pollution. Our cabin is in one of the darkest corners of Utah and the United States. When we go there, I insist on a no night-time light policy. Because I am married to Mr. Technology, this means that we have to cover up the obnoxious light from the computer, the clock, the oven and microwave (all right, I really only cover up the lights in the bedroom), and turn off the security lights outside! At home, the HDMI cable has a blue light. Why? The stereo tuner (I don't even know what these things are called) has a green display. Why? The computer monitor, the various surge protectors. Honestly! I actually recognize the reason: so we will know whether the device is on or not. Isn't there a better way? I love the wilderness, partly because it is dark at night. There is a reason for both daytime and night and I want to honor those differences. I also keep my blinds open at night. When it's light in the morning I want to know it, to see it and to live by it. We are blurring the two--making it light all night and then having to darken our rooms so we shut out the light to sleep. But then I also believe we should abide by the solstices. Sleep when it's dark (longer in the winter) and get up when it's light. But that's a topic for another day.
• Governmental bureaucracy. Only one thing worse than one government is two governments, as we discover, waiting on both Chile and the USA to do their parts to give us a visa. We received a nice cross-stitched mission scripture, with our names and the years 2013-2015 several months ago. It's still accurate. I'm counting this time as "mission time," and trying not to be irritated. 

Happy New Year, everyone, and turn down your lights ; )

Who says, "Ho, ho, ho" anyway?

Now that the holiday season is starting its denouement, dare I complain about a fixture of holiday literature and tradition: the ho ho ho?

Jolly ol' Santa can't be anywhere without that ridiculous verbal tic, and the reformed Scrooge seems like a lunatic with his hearty jolliness, "Fabulous boy, marvelous boy...." as he sends a perfect stranger-- a young boy-- off to buy the biggest goose in town. It's a miracle he wasn't arrested and locked up.

Have you ever heard anyone actually laugh with the words, "Ho, ho, ho?" Squirting milk out of noses, yes. Squeaks and squeals, yes. Snorts, wheezes, even tears streaming down cheeks (sorry, that's me), gasps: all authentic. "Ho, ho, ho," no, no, no. It's fake. Give it up. And it scares the children.

To much jolliness always alerts me to possible depression. (Have you noticed that depressed people can be really good at overacting happiness?) It's my quick diagnosis. Uber-animated? Depression.

I also have a very fast and foolproof way of diagnosing autism. I could make a fortune on this one.
After spending years standing with dozens and dozens of classes of elementary school children getting their pictures taken, and then getting my very own bound booklets of all the class pictures to peruse over the course of a school year, I discovered something I call "The Bell Test." Bell is the name of the school picture company we used. Children with autism almost always do something weird with their faces in school pictures. The other kids happily grin when the photographer says, "Say stinky feet." Not the ones on "the spectrum" who self-consciously stare or cross their eyes or make a face. They flunk the Bell Test. It's uncanny how often this occurs. (Of course you don't want to look at the huge number of horrible candid pictures that have been taken of me! These are school class pictures where the subject knows the camera shutter is about to click I'm talking about.) If you are worried about autism, just check out the particular child's class pictures for several  years. Crazy faces every year? Bingo!

So, there you have it: you can diagnose lunacy, depression and autism without ever having to study the disorders or attend medical school, all by just reading my little blog.

Despite my Santa Rant, Jay plays a wonderful Santa for the grandchildren. The more obvious the fake beard, the better. "Is that Grandpa?" "I know it's you, Grandpa!" It's a good time this way--even if he does "ho, ho, ho" far too much to suit me. It IS Grandpa, and they know it and aren't being forced, crying, to sit on some strange man's lap.

Merry Christmas, and a happy new year lower case (not necessarily all 365 days). I'm allowing you some days that are not so jolly! Don't want anyone thinking you're insane or depressed.

Aaarruugghh!

Not only do we NOT have visas as yet, but we are being asked to resubmit the application, medical approvals from doctors and an updated cover letter signed by the two of us. There is also a requirement that AgReserves write a letter explaining why we are being "invited" on this mission. Sort of hilarious, if you think about it. Tourist visa, anyone? Easy-peasy to get and the only requirement seems to be that we leave the country every three months. Let's see: Argentina, Peru, Bolivia, Ecuador--there's a year's worth, right there.

I'm losing interest. Short attention span, ADHD; I feel depression coming on.

So----break out the Christmas tree and nativities, we'll be home for Christmas fo' sho. White Christmas and all that. I may actually get the knitting done that I want to AND we can probably help Philip and Veronica move to California. May as well get that Mediterranean climate in any way we can.

Is there a lesson here that I'm missing? I mean, other than patience. I flunked that the first million tries. I don't want it.

Phantom Ranch Thanksgiving

Yep, we had Thanksgiving dinner #3 at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. It was awesome!

Things I admire about the British, based on Downton Abbey

Trying to get my fill before the mission







1. "I cannot say." Sometimes it is just better to shut your mouth. Aren't these characters incredible in their ability to refrain from speaking when it's not information others need to know? (The admirable characters, that is. The others can't be real Brits.)
2. Stoicism. Downplaying everything was a characteristic not always appreciated when displayed by my dad, but I like it in myself when I actually pull it off and detest its opposite in anyone. "For heaven's sake, buck up!"
3. Wit. Everything Maggie Smith says strikes me as hilarious, she has a sharp tongue but a good heart. I printed a poster that was in my office for a while (por un rato), "WWTDCD?" What would the Dowager Countess Do?
4. Never making excuses for themselves. Mary was taken advantage of, seduced, violated, shall I go on?.....by Kemal Pamuk but didn't stoop to playing the victim. Shame preferable to sniveling.
5. Calling it like it is. The give and take between Matthew's mother and "Granny," can be brutally honest, but it is honest. The British are not guilty of the crime of fake sweetness.
6. Low drama. Oh, it's there. You just see it in the upraised eyebrow, the suppressed smile, the meaningful glance. Quiet drama is so much more real than overwrought drama.
7. Honor.  It isn't just "looking good" to others. It's holding up the family name, keeping honorable that which was honorable from past generations.
8. A sense of history and knowing ones place in it. Though I side with Sybil in preferring a leveling of the classes to the system of "haves" and "have-nots," I do love their attachment to who they are and where they come from. Even Sybil's Tom has strong bonds to his place and family in Ireland.

On flip-flopping

We heard Malcom Gladwell in Salt Lake last week. He is an incredible thinker, and I like his hair.

As an aside, in his speech, he mentioned that if you don't "flip-flop" regularly, you have a closed mind. It made me think of the many changes-of-mind I have had in my life. (I won't count the countless instances of "buyer's remorse" and "menu envy" I am prone to. These are flip-flops with a longer shelf-life.)

1. Being a Republican. The latest iteration of this party seems downright mean-spirited, whereas the Grand Old Party of my parents' time was the party of discipline and common-sense; but also of community-spirit and looking out for the good of the whole. I'm ashamed of what Republicans have become.

2. Phonics in the reading wars. Yep. Whole-language grabbed me "hook, line and sinker," but as time went on I realized that wholistic teaching left whole groups of students without the skills to succeed. We were privileging the privileged (a nouveau-GOP idea, if there ever was one). Many, many students need the reading code taught explicitly. Hooray if you or your child or your grandchild learned to read instinctively. Other kids need more, and phonics is the answer for them. It will help your kids learn to spell. 

3. Green olives. Every Thanksgiving I would try one. Yuuck! Until about age 20, when maybe my taste-buds died, or became sophisticated or something, and now I love them. 

4. Same with cracked wheat cereal, except it was more of an every day experiment. Still hate it. Still hate it. Still hate it. I was closer to sixty when I tried Zoom in the temple with brown sugar, raisins and cream. Oh my. Dessert for breakfast.

5. Purple. I truly must be an old lady because purple makes me happy. I also love orange, but I have always liked it. Purple used to have no redeeming qualities in my eyes. How could I have been so blind to its richness and personality? My new glasses are purple and I don't care that they don't match most of my wardrobe. My wardrobe is subject to change, and I'm keeping these babies long enough to justify their price tag.

6. Paying tithing on the gross. It is making figuring out ten-percent of retirement income very complicated. Pay on what actually comes into your hands. Or follow the prophet. Either one.

7. Technology. There was a time when I sneered at even such simple gadgets as the microwave or a VCR (you remember those, right?)--when would I ever be so lazy that I couldn't take out meat to defrost in the morning, and what movie would I ever want to view more than once?!--Ha! 

8. Sensible shoes. Two pairs of Toms platform shoes bought me "coolness" to the whole sixth-grade, and are actually pretty comfortable. 

9. The ideal temperature. I truly hated heat and humidity. I guess I still do, but my range of acceptable temperatures has shrunk from both extremes. I'm like the baby bear and like not only my porridge, but the ambient temperature "just right." I used to love a good cold day, but now, as Suzanne says, "I'm too old to be cold." I love being either in front of the fireplace from October to May, or in the sunny window-seat we just put in. I'll just take seventy degrees, thank you very much. Eighty, ninety, or even a hundred are fine if I'm in the desert.

10. Might as well make this a list of ten. Hmmmm. Old ladies with long hair. Used to think it smacked of polygamy. Now, I think it smacks of never having to go get a haircut. And you can put it up as fast as that.

So, be like me and flip-flop to your heart's content. 

I just thought of another flip flop. We used to call them thongs and wore a pair out every summer. Tell that to your kids.

Looking forward, looking back

We spent some time today at BYU's Independent Study Office getting trained to be testing proctors for the expatriate children on the farm in Chile. Familiar territory: ethical testing practices. Oh joy. But the operation there is impressive, and it was neat to learn about what is available through Independent Study.

As we left BYU we decided to try some Chilean food from that capital of returned missionary's culinary smorgasbords, which is Provo. Most every food niche is represented in Happy Valley. So, we found ourselves at a little strip-mall eatery called Pantrucas imagining what we will be eating in Chile in a few days or weeks. Of course we tried the "completo," which is a hot dog on wonderful crispy bread with tomatoes, avocado, mayonnaise and I don't know what all. It was yummy! A beef empanada and fresh pineapple juice made us even more eager to get this show on the road.

11:00 a.m. The Completo

Then after a day of errands, including spending way too much on comfortable shoes for the next year and a half--little did the salesman know that comfortable shoes are all I have ever worn!--, we decided to try "The world's best corn dog," from our own little downtown Kaysville corn dog stand. Five bucks for a catsup, mustard and honey drizzled enormous dinner on a stick that has been the rave of northern Utah all summer. We felt lucky they were still open, and extremely, uh, full afterward. Hot dogs are hardly normal fare around here. Two in one day might be a record that will stand for eternity, but memorable. A way to look toward our new adventure, and to put a little endpoint punctuation to summer and our pre-mission life. 

6:00 p.m. The "World's Best" Corn Dog

The Canadians Have it Right

We had a Thanksgiving dinner on Saturday since we may be gone for the American holiday. October was perfect! The kids could play outside, the harvest was still happening, and we didn't care that the doors were swinging open and shut all day long. No mud. No snow. No dreary weather. Have I mentioned that going on this mission we get to trade two winters for two summers?! God loves me.

Working backwards: Our boys love a good project! What better project than to cut down the last of the dead poplar trees--after dark--from a ten foot ladder?! In our family, a "project" needs to have a big impact! Once started, we were afraid the big impact might be on the neighbor's house if we didn't see it through to the end. NOT a pleasant way to wake up the people over the fence.

The crash was enjoyed by the pre- and primary-school crowd, as you can see. Wondering why the stump is so tall?  Glad you asked. It's the uphill zip-line stabilizing tree.

 Earlier in the day we enjoyed pressing cider from bushels of apples, smoking "firebird" on the grill (there is no tastier turkey in the world!), and plenty of zip-lining and visiting.

What is it about Thanksgiving that makes it the best holiday of all, whether it's in October or November? I believe it is all about low expectations (low thrill-threshhold, yet again), non-commercialization and family being together. And left-overs.

Suzanne introduced the sisters to an exercise in which we select three adjectives that we want to have characterize our remaining years. One of my words is "engaged." I want to be present. I think gratitude is a large part of what I aspire to.

“We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.” 
― Thornton Wilder

Thanks everyone for all you contributed to make this a Thanksgiving to tide us over for the next year and a half. Believe me, I am conscious of my treasures as I remember this day!

Ahhhhhhhhhtummmmmmm

Does the title of this post give you any idea of my favorite season? There's a spiciness in the air, the leaves are brilliant, hikes are breathtakingly beautiful, soup and bread can be on the menu every night, and we can do some yard cleanup with fire, which satisfies a certain pyromania of mine. I simply can not get enough of the sights, the smells, the feel, the experience of autumn.

And, of course, s'mores.  Here's our new twist on the classic:

  1. Roast marshmallow with a freshly carved stick.

2. Fill the center with a gob of Nutella. (We don't need no stinkin' knife!)

 


3. You can handle it from here. Jay cracked walnuts and tucked them inside--You can add your own innovations. Peanut butter is good--isn't everything with Nutella?

We roasted potatoes in the coals, poked some late-season lavender into a jar of tiny sea shells and arranged crazy curly-willow sticks and mountain ash loaded with its tiny orange berries in a vase to keep autumn just a little longer.

Two hikes this week took me above town and into the maples. Everyone we met seemed overwhelmed by the loveliness, fresh-faced and happy. Truly heaven on earth.

At the end of Mary Oliver's wonderful poem, "When
Death Comes," she expresses so well the way I feel, not just in autumn, but almost always:

When it’s over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was a bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened
or full of argument.

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

~ Mary Oliver ~

Some bargains are just not

When my glasses were donated in Kanarra Canyon to the Three Nephites, one of whom apparently needs bifocals by now, someone told me about getting glasses from China for a fraction of the cost. They had me at the words "thirty dollars."

Never mind that navigating the websites took thirty hours, nor that I had to go to my eye doctor for an additional measurement: pupil distance, which is not part of your typical prescription, nor that the real cost was more like sixty dollars. After hitting "submit," I am promised my new specs in two weeks.

I wait the required time and they arrive as promised. One pair one day; one pair the next. Oh, yes, I sprang for two pairs, from two different vendors. The better to see you with, my dear. 

Except that I couldn't see through them. Either pair. Blurry near, blurry far, blurry in the middle-distance. I pull them down on my nose and look at the mountains without them. Better.  I take them completely off and read the words in front of me. No worse. Adjusting doesn't help and "getting used to them" is out of the question.

What could have gone wrong?  China glasses worked fine for Jay, for Will and for Phil, and apparently thousands of other satisfied customers.  

I have a couple of theories:

1. My eyes are really not very bad. It's a small distance between perfect and blurry. In the case of my new glasses, naked eyes work better.

2. The combination of progressive bifocals and a crooked face make fitting difficult. Add astigmatism to the mix, and I really need a living human to figure out the ideal viewing range, or whatever it is they do.

So, DI gets a couple of pairs of unused glasses and I get to pay full price (plus $120 for the experience) to see again. I'm happy to do it. Lesson learned.

........ except I hear that there's a fabulous factory in Logan where you can get trap-door pajamas for practically nothing.........

Zion Gal

Here we are showing off some of our retirement gifts from the fifth-grade team: hiking survival gear. 

Thank you, Karen, Franki, Christine and Emma!

We spent the better part of the week with our pals, the Betts, in Zion. What was going to be an overnight backpacking trip ended being two nights because we decided not to take the chance on the government shutting down and not being allowed to hike and waiting to start on Tuesday. Instead we got the permit for Monday, put ourselves into high gear--gathered up our packs, bought new stuff (JetBoil stove: highly recommended! Cheapo fold up ThermaRest sleeping pads---pretty bumpy for princess-types who feel every lump.), arranged a shuttle to Lava Point and took off on the West Rim Trail. We saw a total of two other hikers, and because the government DID shut down, absolutely no one else was at the Angel's Landing saddle, Scout Lookout. There were no cars on the road, no shuttle: we almost had the park to ourselves.  It was heaven!

We hiked roughly five miles each day--a perfect pace for us. The first night we were pretty cold and between the shivering and the chorus of coyotes we realized this would qualify as a true adventure. A regular Karl Lagerberg "slept like a baby" night (slept for an hour, cried for an hour) that was good to see the end of with a mug of hot chocolate in the morning.

After Jay's two hour marathon to filter water, we celebrate with a cup of "Jay's Exclusive" hot chocolate. The JetBoil stove heated the water in seconds. Maybe we should have just boiled the water?

There is almost nowhere I would rather be, though, than in Zion. It is my brier patch, my imprinted landscape, my holy place. I love the air, the sandstone, the river, the cottonwoods, the sky, the clouds. If I could I would lie right down and hug the ground--and without the press of crowds, it was almost as I remembered it from childhood. Our canyon. Our wading pools with polliwogs and watercress and swinging bridges and picnic tables. Our tunnel where we could pull into every alcove and peer down at the rocks and chipmunks who were just learning to be beggars or up at the cliffs of white streaked with red and honk our car's horn the entire mile.

The West Rim is spectacular, the complete package. Forest, grassy meadow, chiseled trails (thank you CCC and the Great Depression's government for NOT shutting down but improving the country while providing jobs), springs, vistas,  cliffs, rock cairns on slick rock, canyons to shout and hear your echo, wildflower's fragrance, breeze, sunshine......ecstasy.

If I don't die at age 90 falling off a cliff in Zion, here's a good place to scatter my ashes when I do.

 Another fabulous time in Zion. May they never end for us!

Knuckling Down to Spanish. A short course in how I plan to estudy espanol

As an educator, I learned a few tidbits about learning that I hang on to.

• To increase learning, you can do three things: Decrease group size. Increase explicitness. Increase time. These 3 things allow for more opportunities to respond, more and better feedback and, of course, more practice.

• The brain learns best on a nibbling diet. Many concentrated sessions beat fewer longer sessions.

• Engagement is everything. Babies are language learning masters because their "on" button is stuck on. They can't not pay attention.

At Education Week, I attended a session on second-language learning. The challenge was given to be the architect of one's own learning. To do that, it's good to look at the perfect model: Babies and toddlers. Little children pick up language naturally because of being bathed in language from birth and maybe before. The brain, being a pattern-seeking organism, begins to make sense of the babble and in just a couple of years the child has a sophisticated understanding of words and their meanings, sentence construction, even humor. It is amazing, but somewhat replicable; realizing that no one is going to stand over me smiling and speaking slowly while I learn.

But, here's my daily plan for learning Spanish:
1. A few DuoLingo lessons on the iPhone. Great free app, by the way. I'm not a digital game player, but the little reinforcing "ching" when I answer correctly is actually pretty motivating. Tonight I learned the word "enemigos." How cool is that? Like "frienemies" except that it's a real word, and now you, too, know it. I am moving on into something called Object Pronouns. Sounds scary so I'll tackle it tomorrow.

2. At least two Rosetta Stone lessons.  Here again, I can't stop with one at a sitting--mostly because I won't accept anything below 80% on a lesson and sometimes that means many repetitions. How I wish I'd taken ANY language in high school!!  Estupidamente me. (Actually, the word is perezoso. Lazy.) And I confess, in the hardest part, writing, I will advance whenever they let me because it is so hard that about three times through and I'm ready to call it quits, 80% or no.

3. Read out loud the old lesson, study and copy the next lesson from A First Spanish Reader. This is a slow slog and these are supposed to be simple stories, but I am a believer in repetition, so I'm doing it. I figure if I just hear things enough times, something is sure to stick.

4. Read a chapter or two of Spanish, Learn the Basics. This and the previous books are on my Kindle. Rosetta Stone is on my computer. The resources are literally at my fingertips.

5. Get started on actual reading Spanish text with Jay.  Probably the Book of Mormon or Preach My Gospel--a few paragraphs each day to begin with.

With just six weeks before we are supposed to be heading out, I certainly don't have any illusions that I'll be speaking the language, but every day a little step closer....

Mission Call

Almost 3 months exactly from the time we were approached about the possibility of serving this mission we received our call in Friday's mail.

I've heard the words, "You are hereby called ________" read out loud when our kids and others received their mission calls, but until the letter was in my hands, with my name, I didn't realize how Brigham Young-like that wording was.

We have dreamed and planned for a mission almost since we were married. This is what we want to do, and have looked forward to; but suddenly I realize what those words might sound like to a 19 or 21 year-old who just made up her mind to serve. Those kids have courage! There is something noble about receiving that envelope, with whatever destination it demands and immediately falling in love with the place. Amazing, really. I admire obedience. You're called to the Muddy, the Iron Mission, Pocatello--and you go.

Already Chile has a special place in my heart. Check this sunset out:

And the little hundred-year-old home we will be living in:

 Here are the baby olive trees all lined up. Isn't that geometric design gorgeous? 

It looks like Egyptian jewelry, or inspiration for a future quilt in my favorite colors.

(Thanks to the Waltons, the missionaries that we will be replacing, who took these pictures)

Here are the basics as we understand them so far:  We'll be teaching English to the farmworkers on this huge for-profit olive farm (ranch?) that the Church is developing somewhat near Santiago, Chile (only sunnier and rural). We get to make friends and manage an English language and computer "learning center," for the workers. We don't proselytize, we don't dress up (jeans, fleece jackets, boots--is that a Kathleen mission, or what?!), and we get to keep our favorite companion the whole time! I don't think we go to the MTC--just a day-long orientation in Salt Lake. The call is from the Presiding Bishopric. We will serve 18 months. We don't drive tractors or do farm labor, although we are called Agricultural Service Missionaries. (It sounds as though Jay and I can keep our dream alive of living on a farm with no responsibilities for plants or animals.) We'll try not to be too lazy!

Sisters in Zion

We had no particular plans, but all just brought--or didn't bring--as impulse dictated. The weather was rainy so the idea of butt-kicking hikes didn't materialize. Saundra stayed at work until midnight the night before but brought her sewing machine and a couple of projects. Suzanne flew from Seattle bringing cut up onsies and bibs for a quilt and we wondered if there was anything we could do with the tiny pieces with no allowance for seams. Gay drove from Camarillo and brought a few groceries in Cedar, and responding to a last minute request, t-shirts and rubber bands. I had a vague idea of making tie-dye shirts dyed with southern Utah red dirt and brought a few left-overs. This was not an orchestrated reunion, but more a "stone soup" get together.

Here's what we ended up with:

Five days, five kinds of cookies: banana with lemon frosting, Ugandan sim sim

(melted sugar and sesame seeds), mocha brownies, pecan praline and chocolate chip.

Fantastic food: Thai noodles, pasta puttenesca, slow roasted tomatoes with quick roasted broccoli and parmesan angel-hair pasta, crusty bread, chipotle chili and bucketloads of Suzanne's Cesar salad. Whole-wheat pancakes, cardamom granola with yogurt and blueberries, Zoom with raisins and cream.
A wonderful visit with the aunties in Cedar and a yummy meal we didn't have to make.

Yes, this is Weeping Rock, bawling its eyes out.

Two projects:

Tie dye with southern Utah red dirt (above)

Quilt for Suzanne's grandboy including a repurposed dirt-died sheet as background for the blocks (below--We seem to like birth order in these pics)

Wildlife sightings:

Wild turkeys on "the 14"

Whitetail deer on the Spencer Bench road

Desert bighorn ram in Zion

Two foxes dashing across the road on Cedar Mountain

                                             

Hours of visiting, all of us sleeping in the loft due to the fact that we all have FOMA (fear of missing anything) and rediscovering the syncronicity of sisters--the joy of making a suggestion knowing that three others will like it (or will be able to top it with their own good idea); and almost the best of all: being able to settle in with a book for hours at a time guilt-free because everyone else was doing the same thing.  Bliss!

Three hundred thousand miles and counting....

Jay's Prius' odometer stopped dead in its tracks at the number 299,999. We were getting ready to have a celebration at the three hundred thousand milestone, and it refused to turn. Luckily, Jay could set the trip measurement, so had a record of actual miles for the Toyota dealer, who had absolutely no idea what to do. Hey, Toyota! If you are going to make cars that go the distance, make the odometer capable of recording all those miles!  They eventually agreed to replace it, but it bugs to have this instead of all the miles to which it is entitled:

Though it says 75 miles, it's actually 301,849 miles, and we want credit!

Almost 7 years of the 150 miles/day Tooele/Deseret Chemical Depot commute, two cross-country trips, several Yakima and Seattle trips, a few California down and backs, countless cabin trips; a coyote strike, a billion Great Salt Lake insect strikes, a jackrabbit thump--all on the original battery and everything else (except tires and a catalytic converter and a foglight.)  Not bad!!

We call this car Myrna, and I have a pretend battle with the female GPS voice vying for Jay's affection. She never calls him an idiot for asking for directions on the three block ride home from the church (I think he just loves the sound of her voice), and she is ever so patient in saying, "Recalculating. Make a legal U-turn," after she's told him what street to take already. I should take a lesson from her rather than denigrating her constant babble.  Jay is a yakker and wishes I were more so.  I should let him have this digital friend and try to ignore her voice as I read my book, feet on the dashboard while he adds more miles to the Prius record we are undoubtedly setting.

Hopelessly Earthbound

Yesterday I either broke or sprained one of my poor old osteoporotic wrists and lost my glasses I was using as a headband when I fell on a slippery rock in a slot canyon. 

It was one of the best days of my life.

Do you like the pink shoes?

Ninety-degree day, cool water, high twisted sandstone canyon walls, challenging my body, soft air, red sand, good company, plenty of time and a million thrills--watching a water ouzel doing its little bobbing dance on a wet rock near the river, sliding down a 20 foot rock slide into a little pool, inhaling the nostalgic aromas of ponderosa, sage and willow along the river corridor, climbing up a couple of obstacles holding on to ropes and logs and ladders beside crashing waterfalls, and all this the day after sleeping under the stars for two nights watching the Perseid meteor shower after midnight. We ended the day with an impulsive drive to North Rim for dinner. Thankfully, our 9:00 was Arizona's 8:00 and it was the perfect time for a grilled portobello mushroom, lentils and rice. Despite three near-misses in the deer gauntlet of the Kaibab forest, our brakes and Jay's reflexes proved up to the challenge and we arrived safely back at the cabin. A day does not get much better than that.

When I carpooled to BYU from Davis County, I always chose a parking spot next to a tree or a rock. One of my companions in this year-long experience said, "Kathleen, you are hopelessly earthbound." I'll claim it. Push me out of the Garden of Eden.  I'll take a bite every time.

Scheherazade, Paul Wing and the beginnings of literacy

"Hello boys and girls. This is Paul Wing and I'm here to tell you the story of_________________."

So began my love affair with words. Long before I even imagined that letters could make up words and written words could convey meaning, I heard the story of Aladdin, The Brave Tin Soldier, The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins, Seven at One Blow, The Little Engine That Could and many other childhood stories accompanied by fully orchestrated classical music. Imagine the richness of Rimsky-Korsakov's Scheherazade (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s_pkRH2DZuw will get you started) and the story of Aladdin intertwined, a carefully waxed linoleum floor and a gigantic radio/record player console to lean against with a blanket and you have a description of many contented hours of my childhood.


I hope I get to meet Paul Wing someday. His enthusiastic greeting and expressive voice were on countless vinyl records Mom bought for us with her Record of the Month membership. I almost feel that I know Mr. Wing--and surely he knows me! I was sitting right beside him when he read those stories over and over, each time exactly the same. My sister Suzanne and I could recite in perfect unison, "Happy here in this horrible hut? Huh! I should say not!" using Mr. Wing's exact intonation from the story of the Fisherman and his Wife. We have also both brought it up from our common memory when the occasion has warranted.

Though I don't remember our mom reading to us, Mom and Dad were both voracious readers up until their dying days. Their model as readers and Mom's investment in vinyl records made it easy to develop and enjoy the advantage of a rich vocabulary, familiarity with some fabulous music and life lessons from classic stories. What better way to begin life as a reader?

Low Thrill Threshold and Other Secrets to Happiness

Claire, Jane, Harmony and Max wait for the goods and a chance to get wet

Everything from barefoot beauties driving tractors and otter pops tossed to the crowd (which was only one-person deep and not shoulder to shoulder) to the firetruck's blast high in the air for those willing to get wet, the Panguitch Pioneer-day parade is second only to Kanab's fireworks on the 4th for best summertime small-town celebrations.

Saundra shared an essay with me once about the secret to happiness being having a low thrill-threshhold. I believe it wholeheartedly. More from our low-thrill cabin reunion in Southern Utah:

Making, hiding and finding our own geo-caches

Night hike discovery: tiny glow worms in the low brush beside the dirt road--too bad Ju didn't realize Owen's sippy cup was the ventilated resting place for the one we captured.  Glow little Owie, glimmer, glimmer.....

Spectacular thunder and lightning (nothing makes dirt smell better than rain, especially rain combined with sage and ponderosa)

A perfectly toasted s'more presented by a generous and marshmallowy gifted 14 year old

Sleeping cousins curled up like kittens on the deck as the sun warms them awake.

Bouncing in the pickup on a steep rocky dirt road realizing we've taken a wrong turn somewhere and not caring a bit where we end up

Unplugging and playing hours of card games: Phase 10, Uno, and --in memory of Grandma Bagley--Fourteen on a Corner. (I had to Google it to remember the rules. Irony?)

We've tried all kinds of paint to personalize rocks along the trail, but markers and various kinds of paints were all a "fail" after a year or two of weather. For Christmas, each grandchild received a river rock engraved with their first name, and all but a few are now strategically placed on the trail. Finding a rock with your own name is a thrill time after time.

That fire-engine red claw-foot tub with a good book, handmade soap and time to relax --with water miraculously coming up from the ground clean and abundant!

Einstein said there are two ways to live your life: as if everything is a miracle, or as if nothing is a miracle.  I say the former.

Six Tries and I Have an ID Card!!

Yes, folks, six trips to Hill and I finally have the new military ID card.  On tries 1, 2, 3, and 4, I was snarling.  On trip 5 Jay was snarling and I was having to hold him down.  I did, however mutter as we were leaving without the blasted card, "This has been my experience with the military for forty years, nothing unexpected." I am beginning to rethink my support of ObamaCare. I REALLY detest dealing with ineffiency and red tape.

On a happier note, although what could be happier than accomplishing what seemed to be impossible just a day ago?, the pre-mission physical is d.o.n.e, and I seem not to have colon, uterine, blood, nor guts issues. In other words, I'm healthy.  In fact, my pulse was as slow as an athletes, my blood pressure was low as always and my temperature a perfect 98.6. I won't tell you about the broken parts that the Missionary Department isn't inquiring into.

Living Simply Isn't So Simple

In theory, I believe in living simply.  In practice, it's not so simple.

What I planned on:  living my whole life in Cedar City where I was born and mostly raised.
What I got: living on three continents and in six states. I've had so many addresses I can't remember half of them.

What I intended: a small one bedroom rustic cabin in the woods.
What we ended up with: a three floor home on a mountain.

My stage in life: Way past the acquisition phase.
Reality: Amazon Prime.

What I consider necessities in the refrigerator: fresh fruit and vegetables, eggs, butter, milk, cheese.
What consumes 75% of the space in our fridge: bottles! Hot peppers, pickles, adobo sauce, peanut sauce, chili-garlic sauce, mayonnaise, three kinds of mustard, fish sauce, must I go on?

Necessities in the medicine cabinet: Advil, vaseline, antibiotic ointment, band-aids, razor, tweezers.
My medicine cabinet: 6 shelves spilling over with tubes, bottles, packets, sprays, foams, gels....

I realize these are first-world problems and feel like an ingrate, but the Sargent motto, "Too much of anything is just the right amount," was never applied to stuff. Staying up late talking, homemade salsa, number of children (in my case) and butt-kicking adventures can't be overdone, but I should have better followed Mom's model of frugality and non-consumption. Instead I married a man who, thankfully, enjoys running errands; but who can never buy just one of anything.  "I wasn't sure which sunscreen to get," and plops down waterproof, not waterproof, SPF 30, 50, 75 and spray-on. Having multiples of everything is only compounded with two homes.

So how to live more consistently with my ideal of simplicity? Going through the closets and shelves, keeping only those things that I use or that I treasure is a starting place. Buying quality and taking care of it forever.  Spending resources on things that bring joy. Consuming--in every sense of the word--less but enjoying it more.

I want to live the rest of my life consistent with my values, not those of the world. Serving a mission will be a good antidote to over consuming. Living for a year and a half with what we can bring with us in two suitcases will focus us on what matters: serving, loving, learning and savoring small pleasures.

Road Trip!

Lessons learned:

A 5,000 mile trip is not insignificant, but 11 and 14 are the perfect age travelers--happy with fast-food (in fact, local food is wasted on them) and tolerant of grand-parent jokes if you can overlook plenty of eye-rolling.

Despite sophisticated lyrics that they know by heart to their boy-band CDs, they still get homesick after a week. Ten days was a good limit.

Vocabulary word a day worked well.  Inuendo was apropos for Day 3 (see previous item).

Buskers was also a good choice for vocabulary.  The day after we used it, we were entertained by a father and son juggling on unicycles--everything from balls, to knives, to fire torches.  Fantastic!

Bed bugs CAN be found, even in luxury hotels.

Laundromats maintain scalding hot water, even after 7 loads.  There IS a spray specifically for bedbugs and we're crossing our fingers that it worked.  We shall never speak of this again.

Okay For Now by Gary Schmidt was a perfect, bonding read-aloud.

Getting the "meal deal" may provide grandparent points, but it is possible to have too many french fries and soda and one tires of paying for uneaten food.  At least this one does.

Orioles baseball is as good as Cardinal baseball; five home-runs, fireworks, free hats and ballpark crowds. Ah, yes, real America!

Nauvoo in July is the biggest testament to the Church being true. Not the pageant: surviving the heat and humidity.

Hotel pools are a necessity.

Sacagajawea, the GPS, knows the west and couldn't recognize Smithsonian, Inner Harbor, or even Gettysburg until we realized we needed to load the east-coast maps.  Things improved greatly once she had her bearings.  I think she likes Utah best, as I do.

Retired Five Days

"Start a Blog"
Bucket list, check. Now comes the hard part.

Retirement thus far has consisted of chasing around and running errands. No thanks; I've changed my mind.

After being considered someone somewhat important sitting in the principal's corner office, it's quite a come-down waiting for two hours at the Social Security Office with the unwashed and tattooed masses to make a change in my Medicare selection--only to have to return twice to actually get it done, trekking to the Base for a change in my military ID card three times and still not having it.....all the frustrations of being a "dependent wife" come rushing back and I wonder what on earth I was thinking to retire.

I loved my job and was good at it. What WAS I thinking?