What good shall I do this day?

I'm not sure what I'm going to say, but in 2013 and 2014 I posted 22 blog offerings, and so far this year, I've only written twenty-one. That just seems wrong on this 31st day of 2015. I guess I'll "shape at the point of utterance" and see where this leads.

At age sixty-eight, I have little faith in new-year's resolutions--that endless list of habits to develop that never seem to materialize. Same ten pounds. Same slothful lack of discipline. Same pride issues. Same pinching pennies and throwing away hundred-dollar bills. Not of general interest. (Can you tell I'm rereading "Cheaper by the Dozen" for the dozenth time?)

What I am enthusiastic about is listing experiences to accumulate. Last year was amazing in that regard. We visited Iguazu Falls, cruised Antarctica, rafted Grand Canyon, jumped off a cliff into the Colorado River, rode horses every day for a week, completed a mission, prayed a couple of friends back into the Church (no, I'm not taking credit), helped a terminally ill friend create a book for each of her children, made a road trip to the Northwest and visited six siblings, knit socks and hats and scarves for 23 Christmas gifts. Done and done.

What's on the Bucket List for 2016? More praying, obviously. More service to those close to home. An Institute Class. More temple visits. Knitting that Chilean wool from Hada and sending her pictures. Avoiding taking politics seriously. Oops, starting to sound like resolutions.

Okay: Train trip across the USA. (Elder and Sister Betts, are you reading this?), Monthly cabin trips of at least a week and including hikes in Zion. Mexico with sisters. Tuacahn and Shakespeare Festival, high school musicals. Having a hundred-dollar bill in my purse at all times. Eating out occasionally (no this is not reducing the amount of eating out, it's tripling it). Having a thousand dollars in my drawer. In twenties. Getting a good pair of gold hoop earrings again. Reading all the books on my Kindle and beside my bed. Staying off FaceBook except for the weekly check-in. A monthly massage, which I'm going to schedule right now!

Shawn gave me an enamel plaque with the words, "What good shall I do this day?" I've still to decide where best to hang it, but what a thoughtful question to have before me each day of 2016! Besides the obvious service it implies, it asks the moral question as well. What will I do with the unexpected $700 bill from the contractor who was paid the amount he bid for our home improvements in full long ago? How do I respond to the failures of others? How do I handle my own feelings of having failed? How do I decide between competing "goods"? How do I resolve the tension between faith and doubt? How do I "get over myself" and become unselfish?

I'm looking forward to it! Not going to lie. Perfection is a long way off.

Home

Home: such a foundational concept. A red brick house with a bay window from which to press our noses watching for Mom to come home, or be the first to see the school bus in the morning. A porch light on until all the kids are safely in their beds. A “Welcome Home” sign on the garage door. The place of comings and goings.

Home: Bread baking, Tide, willows, leather tack in the barn, tomato vines; windows open, curtains blowing in fresh air; lying under a fresh Christmas tree’s pungent sap aroma while squinting eyes to make multicolored lights flare out in all directions. Hay stacks. Certain smells evocative of innocence and family.

Home: “Annie I Over,” Fox and Geese, Sorry, Mumble Peg with pocketknives, picnics on Grandma’s lawn with food on metal trays and cousins. Walking fences, running along cement ditches. Chores. Corners for reading. Books and magazines everywhere. Those mundane moments that accumulate and become life.

Cedar City was home. Moving my senior year was traumatic. Who was I if I was not Dave and Millie’s granddaughter, Mid and Tom’s niece, Brad and Mary Ellen’s cousin, the girl in the orchestra, Suzanne’s little sister? I defined myself by being a happy farm girl in a small town near the red hills and canyons that I loved. In Yakima I was an unknown homesick girl with glasses and braces in a nondescript house that I did not consider “home.” Letters kept me alive that year and I escaped to Southern Utah as soon as I could.

When I married Jay, it was partly his home that attracted me: a white farmhouse with a wonderful staircase with railings looking down and a long hall with a dartboard at the end and evidence of many, many darts that didn't quite hit the target. It was a house crammed full of history and life and a big kitchen table that was the scene of thousands of games of Rook and 14 on a Corner. Ice cream and burnt peanuts.

So what was I to do with the idea of being an Air Force Wife for twenty years?! I lost count of the houses we lived in during those years, but we did live in Washington, Utah, Texas, Mississippi, Illinois, Germany and the Philippines, and in most of those places in at least two different houses. How could I create "home" with no specific house to put it in? I eventually landed on two sustaining thoughts. First, home is where the family is. An apartment in Germany where we could walk to the little market where they were always eager to see our little blonde-headed Shawn and give him a piece of weiswwurst, a World War I barn house on stilts on the parade ground at Clark Air Base in the Philippines where we could walk to the Officers' Club Pool every day or eat Mongolian Barbecue on Thursday nights, a brick home in Mississippi across the Biloxi Bay Bridge where we'd see fishermen and women with poles and buckets for their catch each morning and near where we'd buy shrimp straight from the ocean, a  corner house ("It has stairs!--an upstairs and a downstairs!" the kids excitedly told everyone.) in Illinois that became the neighborhood tornado shelter when necessary, a little cinderblock home on Williams Air Force Base in Arizona with a community playground just beyond our patio that was watered by flooding periodically and where our dog, Louie, would insanely throw himself in front of the spurting hydrant responsible for creating a 5 inch pool of water to revive the Bermuda grass that I initially considered a weed and tried pulling it all out. Home is wherever our family lives.

The second saving thought was one I painted on a cutting board at Relief Society. (Suzanne was visiting and painted a design that, in retrospect, I remember as being similar to Mexican pottery.) Mine said, "Bloom where you are planted." Indeed. I learned that I needed to be able to bake bread (an oven), wash clothes (a bathtub did the job for most of the year we were in Germany), explore (we discovered some military recreation areas wherever we lived and generally hunted down places to enjoy with the kids), and attend church. If I had those basics, and my family, I could bloom. Jungle, desert, city, country. East, west, north, south. If I can participate in an LDS congregation, bake bread, wash clothes and have fun, I can be home. I can bloom, because I can make friends. I can bloom because I can contribute. I can bloom because I can learn new things. I can bloom because I can be comfortable anywhere life takes me. 

Nacimiento~ Nativity

Our Nativity collection began with these olive wood figurines, a gift from Saundra--probably in the early 1970s. We loved the olivey smell and the fact that they came from the Holy Land. Another Saundra gift was a beautifully illustrated book, The Christ Child with the text from St. Luke. It has been the narration to our family's nativity play for at least forty years.

When we lived in Germany, we took little Shawn to Nurenburg and the Christmas Market, where we bought this nativity in 1971. Our tree that year was decorated with flat wooden ornaments that we painted from a kit, and we somehow found the money to buy Shawn a little green trike with room for a passenger on the back--he gave rides to his little sister after she was born two months later.

When our children were  small they made this little bread-dough nativity with instructions from The Children's Friend--and a lot of help from the mother. The recipe was simply Wonder-type bread and Elmer's glue. Believe me, it was not easy to make fluffy bread and glue into a smooth paste. But hey! It hardened to a ceramic-like material and has lasted a good many years.

This (American) nativity was a gift from the family of several students that I taught at Morgan Elementary. The year before, they had given me money. After I sent a thank-you note telling them I'd used it for classroom materials, they tricked me, and gifted me with a certificate to the Rock Loft, a cute shop with nothing that would be useful for school. I have loved it for twenty years.

On a sisters trip to Guadalajara, Mexico (a spa vacation in which we all probably gained weight on the wonderful fresh food), I found this nativity. It reminds me of a long hike we took with a guide who took no food or water because he said he enjoyed being really, really hungry and thirsty before satisfying that urge. Never actually having been hungry, I could not relate; but I'm going to try it sometime. These slender figurines look a little hungry.

In Uganda, I had the choice of fabulous ebony wood carved figures, or this banana leaf nativity. I'm not sure if the price was a deterrent, but my selection, as always, was toward folk art. I'm sure I'll find baby Jesus once the holidays are over, but He seems to have disappeared for now.

Why wouldn't a Peruvian pesebre (nativity in Chile) not have a llama? And the cathedral in Lima has a painting of the Last Supper in which the disciples are eating cuy, a.k.a. guinea pig. I tried a piece that was about a square centimeter in size to say I had. It tastes like chicken. Paul made the sweet rock and wood stable.

Family reunion rock painting resulted in this stone representation of the Holy Family.

This one is from Z.C.M.I. Who knew this institution would ever become a thing of the past?

In a little town near the farm where we served our mission in Chile, clay objects of all types can be found, but the only pesebres I could see were these odd little animals sheltering the entire nativity. The one with the prickly pear cactus is endearing to me. We saw so many "tunas" (the fruit) and marveled at how they could be harvested and enjoyed almost universally.

Finally, my wool pesebre. I had seen a similar one at a yarn exposition in Santiago but didn't buy it, thinking I'd see them all over. Not so! I searched for months, finally finding a woman in Melipilla at a local craft fair. When I explained what I wanted, she said she would make one especially for me, but what figures did I want? Of course, I needed sheep, Mary and Joseph and the baby. What else? Well, how about a donkey? We gave her our contact information, and a couple of weeks later, she called to say they were ready. We met her at the town square. I think she was as proud as I was thrilled with how they turned out. You just can't imagine how adorable this little set is! The baby's little hands up near his mouth, Mary with her arms clasped, the burro's little haunches, the curly little sheep. I'm so in love with it!

 Christmas is the time of year to think about a young girl, a virgin, delivering her child; but not just her child, not just any child: God's child, our child, the Savior of the World. He came to earth as we all did, helpless and innocent, needing all the care that Mary and Joseph could give him until they gradually realized that He was the one who would ultimately care for them, and for us. He would save us from ourselves. He would show us how to love and how to forgive and how to live. My nativities remind me of my debt to Him and my love for Him.

Merry Christmas!

Yarn Snob

I love knitting! After a jam-packed day yesterday, Jay said to me, "Today was fun, wasn't it?" I thought a minute, reflecting on the hectic but productive day and said, "Yeah, but not as fun as staying home knitting."

I know what you're thinking.

But when it's snowy and slippery outside and the fire is heating the family room, there's nothing I like more than relaxing with some yummy yarn and a lot of time.

I love gorgeous natural fiber yarns. And I love yarn shops, but not necessarily all places that sell yarn. Good yarn shops have a certain vibe, a little humor. When we're in a distant city, I'll know which yarn shop to patronize by its name. Twisted, Black Sheep, Wooly West, Serial Knitters, Needlepoint Joint, Knitorious, Blazing Needles, Bad Woman Yarn, So Much Yarn, Webs (reminds me of the husband of a knitting friend in Chile who told me, "I married a spider."), Rumpelstiltskin, there's even an online knitting community, Ravelry, with thousands of patterns where people post probably millions of projects to show off their work and to help others decide what to knit and what yarns to use and where you encounter knitters who call themselves Willfulmina, Knotty Knitter, Mean Mrs. Mustard, ironical knitter--you get the idea--who write blogs like Yarn Harlot, I Am Addicted, My Sister's Knitter and Naughty Knitter.

And just look at the company I'm keeping!

I'm not sure Kiefer is really knitting. He just doesn't look relaxed enough (maybe it's the switchblade in his back pocket); but I'm pretty sure none of these folks are using yarn from Walmart.

I saw a bumper sticker that said, "Three things will survive the apocalypse: cockroaches, Twinkies and Red Heart Yarn." Ha! I curse the Christmas stockings I made with cheap acrylic yarn.
There are a zillion knitting quotes, some funnily unsuitable for this blog.

  

A few Chilean projects that kept my eyes off the scary roads and my mood tranquilo while Jay drove those 40,000 miles to our teaching appointments. The yarn from the white vest was a gift from the woman who owned the sheep, sheared and spun the wool and then gave it to me to knit. I love every nubby fiber in it! I have a stash of beautiful handspun wool she sent with us for some matching sweaters that are on my list of things to knit this winter.

Knitters love mastering a new technique, finishing a big project and starting something new. I like having something difficult on my needles and another project that I can work on at traffic lights, waiting at the dentist or during a good conversation. I used to knit at Busch Stadium. Knitting is frowned on at the symphony. I discovered this at Powell Hall in St. Louis, where there was a sign advising patrons of such. I managed to keep my own needles in my purse despite having the urge a few times; and seeing others knitting when I don't have anything to do sends me into paroxysms of knitters' envy. On the other hand, discovering a fellow knitter on an airplane, a cruise ship, or in the back row at church creates an instant sisterhood. We are always interested in each other's projects.  In Santiago, there's a whole block of little yarn stores that I discovered and visited several times months before we realized it's in the very center of the downtown central market and tourist destinations.

My knitting is free for people I love. For any other purpose, there's no price high enough. 

Saundra and I had just left a yarn shop and were in a gift store that had some nice socks. As we were handling them, I said, "Eight dollars? Ha! For twenty seven dollars and two weeks of my time, I could make them." This blogger said it better than I could. I leave it with you as I go off to do a little knitting:

When someone knits something for you, what they are really giving you is love.

It might look like a scarf, a hat, some gloves or socks, a tea cozy…whatever. It might be fine, classy, and beautiful. Or, it might be an ill-advised combination of colors in a horrifyingly inconsistent striping pattern. Either way, that handknit piece is a gift of love. You were thought of as the person chose the pattern, picked the yarn, worked a swatch, cast on, knit along, made mistakes, tangled their yarn, came to the end, cast off, wove in the yarn tails, and gazed at their completed piece. Every step in the process involved love.

Love, the secret of and key to the universe. Someone gave that to you. By knitting you a gift. Do you realize how divinely special that is? (Scrumptious Living blog)

Granddaughters on Horses

Our third grandchildren trip was the best yet. I'm not sure what made it so great, but the combination of just the right activities for the ages of Claire and Harmony and their particularly loving and sparkly personalities made the week one that we will all remember for a long time.

 Of course a week at the Rockin' R Ranch involved cowboy boots and horseback riding! I loved the trail rides, but trying to get the horses to GO in the arena was problematic. I kept thinking of Grandma Maughan who was such a horsewoman and did not take kindly to the suggestion that she ride a gentle horse. She wanted one that had some spirit! We, too, groaned when we were given certain lazy horses who took advantage of our inexperience.

 Hay ride through the Antimony countryside

 Harmony loved the pond, the dog that swam with her chasing ducks, and the rope swing.

 

 Can you believe the cowboy rock formation behind the cowgirls?

 Claire was really good at archery!

Play hard all day, line dance, pet animals, learn some new skills, 

eat well, make new friends, ride a tube down a river, explore,

read a good book together, go to bed tired;

do it again the next day,

bond forever with precious grandgirls.

Little we see in nature that is ours......but these are mine

When Uncle Eldon water-witched our property in Southern Utah soon after we bought it, he scanned the hillside and named all the trees and shrubs: ponderosa, fir, oak, manzanita, squawbush (aromatic sumac), serviceberry, rabbit brush, sagebrush, piñon pine, juniper. I knew them already; I taught my fourth-graders the plants of Utah, and these were a small representation--those typical for the elevation. It's good to be able to claim some parts of nature that are our own.

The rounded tops and butterscotch-scented bark of the ponderosa pine. Mine.

The 6,000 foot elevation difference between the rim and the river: Mine.

The upright hardiness and squishable yellow centers of colorful hollyhocks. Mine.

Manzanita, with its scratchy round leaves and smooth red bark. Mine.

Squawbush and its mouth-puckering flavored berries to put in hiking water bottles: Mine.

Rubbery rabbitbrush that take over with a bit of liquid encouragement from water. Mine.

Piñon pine's sticky sap and reluctance to bear fruit but once every decade or so. Mine.

Growing up, it was this color--not the volume--of water that signified 'flood.' Mine.

Utah's incomparable cumulous topped with cirrus clouds in August. Mine.

The 'pinks' of Southern Utah: view from the rock-gathering hike. Mine.

Maidenhair fern in Zion. Mine.

I love recognizing sacred datura; and I know not to eat it. Mine.

Weeping rock at its best. Mine.

Zion. Mine.

The knowledge that I can get prickly pear slivers out of my skin, even the littlest ones, with duct tape. Mine.

That dry rustling sound of cottonwoods in the fall. Mine.

Arm extended--two finger widths above the horizon, twenty minutes to sunset. Mine.

Mountains to the east. Lake to the west. Mine.

Little we see in nature that is ours, but I'm claiming these eighteen.