My first memory

In my earliest memory I am sitting on the floor, surrounded by the disemboweled packages of Christmas morning. This would be Christmas day, 1979, and I have just turned three.

If I tune in the picture like a fuzzy old TV set, I see myself sitting on the floor in a narrow hallway. I see dark wood paneling on the walls. I don't remember the flooring--perhaps orange or brown carpet as was common in the 70s. Or maybe it was a wood or linoleum floor. I know this passageway is just a few feet long, leads from the living room into the dining area, and to the back of the house where the kitchen lies. I don't know where my older sister, Rachael, is, or my baby sister Marian. Probably playing or sleeping. I know that Christmas excitement has just ended, and it's time to start cleaning up.

My "big" Christmas gift was a tea set--plastic cups and saucers, tea pots and spoons, in green and yellow and pink. It's a beautiful thing--my own dishes to play with! I found the tea set inside a green and white checked drawstring bag. And when it was time to clean up, my Mom scolded me. The drawstring bag was not just wrappings to be thrown away--she made that bag so I could have a safe place to keep my new tea set. I wasn't supposed to dump out all those dishes onto the floor.

I think it's the combination of the excitement of the day and the stress of the scolding that has burned this memory into my mind. I remember nothing else of Christmas when I was three. A lot of my memory of the house comes from pictures I looked back on later. Our tradition was to go to Grandma and Grandpa Johnson's house, just a few hundred yards down the road, later in the morning for breakfast and more presents and then dinner and day-long playing with cousins while the adults talked (adults always talked so much! and about boring things!). So I know we were probably cleaning up at our house to prepare to go to Grandma's.

There's a fuzzy picture somewhere--so blurry you can hardly distinguish the subject--of my sister and I sitting on Grandma's orange upholstered rocker/recliner, grinning for our dad behind the camera. Even though the shot turned out fuzzy, I'm glad that he forever captured the impressions of the day--two happy, blond girls, the pride of their parents, on the happiest day of the year, surrounded by family in a house full of love. It's the essence of Christmas that comes through on that piece of photo paper--a little bit like my first memory. Not clear or distinct, but a hint of what joy, what bliss, can be found in the simple treasures of Christmas morning.

A bicycle story

This is a true story from my childhood.

I grew up in the country where there were no sidewalks. Without sidewalks, we seldom had any use for roller skates, skateboards, and even bicycles. Bikes in these days had banana seats and skinny tires--not the hefty "huffy" style bikes that could go off road. I remember when they did start making "10 speeds" and "mountain bikes," and we all really wanted one. But they were a hundred dollars (and this is back when a hundred dollars was like 300 dollars today). So we went without bikes for the most part. My mom had an old Schwinn bike from her college days, but it always had flat tires. The only other wheeled device I remember was a tricycle when I was very young.

When I was about nine years old, I went to visit my cousin, Erica, in Wyoming. I stayed with her family for a week. When she learned that I couldn't ride a bike, she was appalled. She took it upon herself to teach me to ride. We used her bike and her brother's, and she patiently pushed me up and down her long, rutted, dirt/gravel driveway until I finally got the hang of riding a bike. Then we rode around her neighborhood and town. I enjoyed this new-found freedom of getting somewhere quickly.

When I got home, I had a bug in me. I wanted a bike. I really wanted to be able to keep up this skill of riding a bike, and I now knew that I didn't need sidewalks (my cousin had no sidewalks in her neighborhood... dirt paths worked just fine). I asked my parents if I could have a bike, and they said no... maybe... we'll see.

I don't remember how or when, but I eventually got a bike. It was bought used, and assembled from pieces and parts of older bikes, but it worked and it was fun to ride around the farm and down the lane and up to the canal. The only place I didn't like riding it was along the street--our street was a highway with a speed limit of 50 mph, so I felt like the cars would almost blow me over when they drove past. I'd ride as far from the asphalt as I could without getting into the weeds and thistles and ruining my bike's tires.

It was late fall, almost winter, a year or so later. I was almost 11. I had been riding my bike on a Sunday as I went to do my chores, and when it was time for dinner, I had simply dropped it in the driveway and started walking around the house to go in the back door. I didn't know that my mom would be leaving soon for a meeting at church--I assumed that no one would be going out again on a Sunday evening. I was wrong. I heard the car start, and I ran back around the house--too late. My mom ran right over the center of my bike. She immediately pulled the car forward again when she heard the crunch, hopped out of the car and came running to see what the problem was. I was devastated, but she was mad. Hopping mad. She yelled at me for leaving the bike behind the car, yelled that she was late and couldn't worry about bikes now, and yelled at me to move the bike out of the way so she could leave. I dragged it to the side of the driveway, and she zoomed out of the garage and headed to the church.

Now I was mad. I felt all the injustice of being robbed of my only bike. I felt like a victim of circumstance. I had no bike, and I had no apology, and I didn't take time to think about what I was doing.

I had many times driven by a house, about a mile and a half down the highway from our farm. The people in this house had a hobby of fixing up old bikes and selling them. I knew I'd seen some bikes lined up out in front of the house the last time we'd driven past. I determined that I would take all the money I had saved (somewhere close to $20), walk down to that house (despite the fact that it was Sunday), and buy myself a new bike and ride it home.

I immediately went to my bedroom, still wearing my chores clothes and boots. I took my money and shoved it in my pocket. Then I started walking down the highway to the bike seller's house.

You can imagine me walking, in the dimming twilight of a cold, windy fall evening. I walked quickly at first, energized by my anger and inspired by the vision of how my mom would be sorry that I had to spend all my money to buy myself a new bike. I walked and walked--walked past the church where my mom was at her meeting. Walked past the house of everyone I knew, and came to the farther end of the road where I didn't know anyone who lived around there. I walked with my socks falling down and my rubber chore boots chafing against my heels. I walked with  my chore coat open (all the old, hand-me-down coats with broken zippers ended up as chore coats), the wind blowing and chilling me to the core. I walked in my chore pants, which had been my scarecrow Halloween costume the year before. They were turquoise corduroy pants, four inches too short in the leg, with red and yellow patches sewn up and down the legs. I walked until I finally stood in front of the bike peddler.

And then I was crushed. In my hand, inside my pocket, I gripped my nearly twenty dollars. And I stared at the price tags attached to each bike. The small ones, ones that would fit my 4-year-old brother, were $20. Bikes my size cost $30, $40, or $50. I had nowhere near enough money. My anger melted into sheer disappointment. I was crushed. I might as well give up ever having a bike.

And to top it all off, I had to walk a mile and a half back home.

Turning back to the north, with tears running down my face, I realized I had done something pretty stupid. I hadn't told anyone where I was going. I didn't know anyone around here. I had no one I could ask for help and didn't dare ask a stranger to use their phone--and besides, my mom had the car at her meeting at the church. I was stuck walking home in the near-dark. To top it all off, I really had to go to the bathroom! Downcast and discouraged, I trudged along the gravel shoulder of the road, forlorn and alone in my ragged old clothes and rubber chore boots.

I must have been a sight, because not long afterwards I heard a cry from a passing car. The car quickly pulled off the road and parked just ahead of me. A young lady rolled down her window and stuck out her head.

 "Do you need help?" she called.

"No, I'm OK."

"Are you sure? Do you have ... someplace to live?"

I realized then that I made the perfect picture of a street urchin... patches on my clothes... dirty, tear-streaked face... walking alone on a dark, cold night.

"Yes," I replied. "I just live down this street." I could tell she didn't believe me.

"Well, can we give you a ride?"

"No," I replied because, after all, they were strangers.

The lady's husband leaned over. "Are you sure? We can take you home."

I hesitated. I knew I shouldn't get in a car with a stranger. But I felt my bladder was going to burst if I didn't get to a bathroom soon. Was it better to knock on a stranger's door and ask to use their bathroom, or get a ride from a stranger and use your own bathroom at home? I pondered briefly.

"I... I guess I'll take a ride."

"Oh, good. We were so worried. Where do you live?" the lady asked as she got out of the car so she could lean the seat forward and let me in the back seat.

"It's only about a mile away. Straight down this road."

I know they asked other questions while I rode that brief time with them... but the only thing on my mind was crossing my legs and hoping I could get to the bathroom on time. I finally directed them to pull over in front of my house. They slowed, stopped, and let me out (thankfully I wasn't going to be kidnapped). I said thank you, and they expressed their concern that I was really OK... I'm sure they thought I'd escaped from the orphanage and was just pretending this is where I lived. So I dashed up the hill to our front door and went right in the house, if only to prove I did live there... and to make it quickly to the bathroom.

I never replaced my run-over bike--in fact, I never owned a bike again until I was an adult. But I did learn to never leave your bike in the driveway.

Why my teen boys don't have iPods

Maybe some would call me overprotective. Or controlling. Or fearful of letting my kids grow up and explore and make mistakes like all kids do. And I might say they were right.

But I see danger in this generation of kids constantly connected to the cyber world, and I am fencing my kids off from it.

Here's the situation: My two oldest boys, ages 14 and 12, went to church recently and found out they are the only boys in the class who bring their scriptures on paper, bound in a book. Every other teen boy has their scriptures on their smart phone or their iPod. My boys have often asked for these devices, but we have held off for one main reason: any electronic device that can connect to the Internet can also expose them to pornography.

Pornography is evil. It is filthy, denigrating, vile sleaze. And it has affected people I know before--marriages have started and ended wrong because of it. As mentioned this past weekend in Conference, it's the one addiction that society hasn't started an uproar over--yet. I am willing to add my voice to a growing uproar to protest the harmful effects it brings to families. (See more information and join in the protest at pornharms.com.)

When it comes to my boys, I won't rationalize that all the good things they can find and do on a wi-fi connected device outweigh the risks. The harms that come from even accidental exposure to pornography are too great. So every device in my home that connects to the Internet is secured with a password, known only to my husband and me. The wi-fi router password in our home is kept secret. We no longer have satellite TV because there was just too much "borderline" content that was accessible, even with parental controls set up. Maybe I'm being a vigilante, but my kids are too precious to lose vigilance in this war. Their minds should be pure, their thoughts clean, their appreciation for the human body and intimate relations kept sacred.

So they'll have to use bound scriptures and old-fashioned "apps" like pencils and paper to learn at church. They have their fun toys and video games and e-readers--and use them under adult supervision. I hope they don't hate me for "ruining their life" or being "no fun." I just love them so much, I want them safe and happy and filled with positive influences in their life.

That's my personal position, my private war. I hope our society will eventually be successful in eradicating pornography--but until then, I'm protecting my kids the best I know how.

Thoughts on "the purple pen"

I recently read a book entitled Never the Bride by Rene Gutteridge. The book is a Christian romance, and it's a quick read and a fun, light novel, but it had a concept in it that invited deeper inspection.

The protagonist of this book keeps a journal, and has since she was 10 years old. In these hundreds of journals, she has written thousands of ways a man could propose to her and what her dream guy/marriage/life should be like. She's 30 and still single, and therefore a little despondent. But even in her current state, she journals every day with a fluffy purple feather pen.

The "twist" or "gimmick" of the book was that God appears to her, and asks her to give up her purple pen. He is going to orchestrate the perfect relationship, but she needs to give up control and let Him do the guiding. Everything from quitting her long-time job to showing up at random laundromats to dancing with God (who is invisible to everyone but her) at a crowded restaurant is asked of her. And I give her credit for having enough faith to do these things, even if she gets really crabby and back talks God some of the time (would someone really do that?).

In retrospect, I found myself thinking that I am a purple pen hogger. I do not like someone else to control my destiny, even if I know in reality my life is never really that much in my control. I like to think it is. I like to imagine my efforts are what guide me to better life situations. But reflecting on the need to trust God and leave the penning of our life story up to him made me realize my pen-hogging is really futile. If I really trust God, and believe He is omniscient, all-powerful, knows when even a sparrow falls, etc., what makes me think I can see my way to a better future than Him?

What really bugs me, I guess, is that I can't see in the future and know what direction things are going to go. It's the not knowing that leaves me wondering... is God even paying attention? Maybe later I'll look back and see what feels like a trial now was really a blessing, or I'll see that disappointments at certain points led to greater joys and more fulfillment. But I can't see that now. I have to blindly stumble along (like this lady who was told to cook teriyaki chicken at 7:24, or show up at the church on such-and-such street in the rain) until some future happiness (hopefully) is reached. Why? What will it get me? Where will life lead after that? Why, why, why? I'm sure God is tired of me asking that.

There are two concepts in juxtaposition here: work and faith. On one hand, we are told to strive for salvation, doing good works, relying on grace "after all that we can do." So we are to be busy. That's okay. I'm busy all the time... it makes me feel in control to be busy, to see my own handiwork. Then there's faith. We are told that faith is believing in things not seen, trusting, and having a hope or assurance that all will turn out well. It's all part of a master plan, right? Well, I'd like to see a copy of the plan, get rid of some of these detours that have been redirecting my path, and stay busy planting flowers along the straight path to the happy life.

Alas, I know that's not how life works. I know I need to leave the purple pen in more capable hands. I know if I take a step in the darkness, the light will catch up and eventually I'll see my way clearly. Yeah, I know... but do I have faith? That's another point that will best be evaluated in retrospect.

Words on Words: Lesson 1

Class is in session. Listen up, people, and you'll learn something new today.

First, on the word "couple." If you are referring to two romantically involved people, they are a couple. Example: That couple booked the last hotel room.

If you mean two items/people/nouns grouped together, the world "couple" must be followed by "of." Because they are NOT romantically involved! For instance, I have a couple of books to return. (A couple book would be a marriage self-help text.) There are a couple of doughnuts left. (Couple doughnuts would be shaped like a figure eight.)

Now, I know you will be self-editing every sentence that leaves your mouth tomorrow. ;) See, you still have a couple of things to learn about the English language!

Stay tuned for lesson two.

It's hot.

Some thoughts on hot summer weather.

I feel like a kernel of popcorn must feel. I have been roasted, oiled and salted. And sometimes even steamed. Sorry kids.

Letters to the editor

I usually follow the age-old advice: Keep your opinions to yourself. However, I often compose in my mind responses and articles that would most appropriately fit the opinion page of the newspaper. So, fair warning, if you don't want to hear opinions, no need to read any further.

Construction on Memorial Drive
Recently the city started construction on Memorial drive, planning to take it from a split, two-lane road with hundreds of parking spaces, to a narrow two-lane road with much more grass and green space next to the river. The city contends that this will lure customers into the downtown area and cause an economic revival. I don't believe this will be the result.

As someone who lives near the greenbelt and goes to church right at the Memorial Drive intersection, I know the construction will create months of headache. Already parking is difficult to find, and will be practically non-existent for the next six months. I know I plan to avoid the whole area and will take a different route for everything other than going to church. I think this is a shame, because I love some of the downtown businesses: Center Theater, Melaleuca Store, the public library, Pachanga's restaurant... these are places I don't want to avoid but feel I have to for several months because of the inconvenience. If downtown businesses struggle during construction, will they even be around in the fall to patronize once construction is done?

Furthermore, the construction plans show a roundabout will replace the traffic light at the E Street and Memorial Drive intersection. If this is the case, I hope that there will be public awareness campaigns to let drivers know how to negotiate the roundabout. I know there are a couple of other roundabouts in Idaho Falls, yet almost every time I find a driver doesn't understand the concepts necessary to safely navigate through. All cars approaching yield to traffic to the LEFT that is already IN the roundabout. If no one is coming from the left, proceed through the roundabout. Many times I've had to stop in the roundabout because the car approaching didn't yield to me. Or the car on the left stopped and waited and held up traffic while motioning for some other vehicle to go through. Roundabouts are only safe and quick if drivers are educated on how to use them properly.

I'm sure the city will be proud of the final result of the greenbelt expansion along Memorial Drive, but I wonder at what cost it will come? Will downtown businesses survive? Will drivers survive the roundabout? It waits to be seen.

A good sheepherder

I decided to change my story to no longer include this bit of writing, but I thought it was well written. So I put it here so it will see the light of publication before it gets scrapped forever.

Austin Holt was a good sheepherder. He would sit with his two dogs, Max and Holly, under the shade of a tree or in the door of the sheep wagon, seemingly in a sleepy daze. But in reality, he was watching. Watching the thousand little points of fluffy white that grazed along the hillside. Watching the grass and sage and bush as it was methodically trimmed down. Calculating how much forage would be left at the end of the evening, and how much this stretch of rangeland would allow for continued grazing. Each day he would mount his horse, Jess, and ride a few miles this way or that, checking the brush and the watering spots. Then he would return to his sheep wagon and watch. He watched for signs of coyote or bear, the enemies of sheepherders and sheep alike. He watched for clouds building in the afternoon sky that would warn of a thunderstorm and would necessitate an early bed down of the sheep. All this Austin watched, along with his dogs, day after day, alone in the hills of Idaho and Montana.

            As a sheepherder, so much depended on the nature of the land around him. So much was counting on the rainfall and the wind, the hunger of the predators for sheep and the hunger of the lambs for dewy grass. It all was a balance, a delicate tally of wins versus losses, man versus nature. He knew this, and knew how to haggle and bargain and win the argument with the hills that lay silent around him.

            Sheepherding was a tradition for him. His father was a sheepherder, before becoming a farmer. His grandfather had owned sheep as well as cows, back in the early days of western agricultural expansion. His great-grandfather was a just a peasant back in Scotland, but the country peasant ways meant that sheep were necessary for wool, and wool for spinning and weaving into clothing for the family. Beyond that, he didn’t know how many generations of Holts had raised sheep. Every single one, he imagined, for sheep seemed as natural and necessary to life as was a breakfast of bacon and biscuits.

            Now, however, in addition to the care for sheep, modern amenities had allowed Austin to expand his knowledge of the world. He knew many theories behind why Kennedy was assassinated; he knew that the Apollo program was in a race to the moon; he knew that Vietnam was a bad idea but supported the soldiers just the same; he marveled over electronic fuel injection and lasers and the short-wave radio that brought him all this information. And yet, knowing more and more about what America was up to and what the other nations were saying and even what editorials in the local paper said, he was more than content to watch his band of sheep and gaze at the hills day after day.  

How to impress a boy (the Mormon way)

As I listened to a talk by an EFY speaker, I thought I might try to write a talk in a similar style--funny, upbeat, and targeted to today's youth. This is my first draft, and I know it could use some smoothing out and a nice introduction, but that will come later. Let me know what you think. 

•      Be yourself. Once I was dating a boy who was older, a stock broker, and had a jeep.  But he could not stand country music. I was raised on a farm—what other kind of music would I listen to? But he insisted on introducing me to the rock icons I should have been listening to all my life. In fact, when I said I was a country music fan, his response was, “Oh, we’ll break you of that.” Like it was a bad habit like biting my nails, not a preference. Although he was nice and fairly wealthy, he wanted someone who fit HIS definition of perfect—and I wasn’t going to force myself to change for him. We stopped dating.
•       Don’t flaunt your assets. Whatever assets you might have—money, talents, good looks, nice skin, etc.—the right boy will be impressed by your overall personality and not the flashy side of you. For example: tank tops. I think tank tops are a shirt that is solely designed to flaunt your assets. It shows your skin on your shoulders, your chest, sometimes your cleavage. This is why they are considered immodest—they attract, usually, the wrong kind of attention. I learned this lesson the hard way. I worked one summer at a lake, taking the entrance fee as people pulled in the gates with their boats and campers and picnic gear. Now I had never worn tank tops before this summer—my parents didn’t allow it. But I had bought one white tank top at Kmart or someplace. I would wear it under my work shirt, then take off my work shirt when I got too hot. What did this do for me? Attracted attention from the wrong kinds of boys. I had one guy ask me for my number—and I wouldn’t give it to him. All I told him was the street I lived on and that my mailbox was painted to look like a cow. He showed up on my doorstep a day later, having driven up and down the street for hours looking for a cow-like mailbox. He asked me on a couple of dates—and I went—but he was so not the right type of guy. Now I, in my 18 year old incredibly wise rationale, had thought that if wearing a tank top was the worst of my sins, I would be ok. But I learned that it was my overall image I was projecting that would lead into worse and worse situations.
•        Be truthful and bold in standing for the right. Another boy, same summer: only this one was almost 30 and was a plumber. I was not too impressed, and this time I didn’t give him my address, just my phone number. But he was too smart and reverse searched the phone number, found my address, and showed up at my house. Now I had been given some advice by a girl in my ward who was older and more popular. She said that no matter how bad you don’t want to date a boy, you should at least give them one “pity” date, just so you don’t crush their little hearts. Wrong! Girls, let me tell you that it’s ok to say no to anyone who does not meet your standard—not just because he’s not tall enough, not cute enough, etc. But when it’s important—say, when they haven’t been to church in two years—then I suggest graciously letting them know you are not interested. But like I said, I’d been given the opposite advice, and agreed to go with the 30 year old inactive plumber to the state fair. He took me on so many carnival rides I almost puked on him. Finally the night was over and he brought me home. Then I said I did not want a second date. He said he might start going to church if we dated. Um, the answer is still no. So he showed up at my work the next day. He showed up the next week. He came to my house. He called and called. Finally I had to have the park rangers at the lake tell him to not bother me at work anymore. Being stalked by a plumber was not high on my list of ideal relationships. If I had been truthful (no, I don’t want to date you or even give you my phone number) and bold (get off my front porch), I would have been happier. And just so you know, he got over my rejection: he sent me a wedding announcement a few months later.
•        Be friendly and think of others. When I was in high school, I was labeled a “geek.” I was smart, I was driven to take advanced classes and get a scholarship. I even wore glasses. However, I was too shy and embarrassed about who I was. I thought no one would want to be friends with me because I was labeled. So I never talked to anyone new. I never stepped outside my little circle of friends. And that was a mistake. One day as I was walking between classes, a boy who was in several of my classes actually made eye contact with me and said “hi.” I was shocked. I was so surprised I am sure it showed on my face. But what do you think surprise looks like on someone’s face? It looks an awful lot like, “I’m stuck up and too good for you.” Especially when you don’t say hi back. So even though I passed this boy on the way to my class every day for the rest of the semester, he never said hi to me again. I once heard a talk show host explain that being shy is the same thing as being self-centered. And I thought, “No way. You’re just shy. You can’t help it.” But in reality, you can. Instead of thinking, “I am so embarrassed, I’m not good enough, I’m not popular enough,” think about the other person. How do they feel? Doesn’t everyone like to be noticed, accepted, thanked, acknowledged? Then do that for that person, and don’t think about yourself.
•        Be in the right places at the right times. Two experiences here that are total opposites: First, I was into country dancing in high school. My sister and cousins enjoyed it, too, so we often went together. One night we went to a new dance place. I wasn’t expecting this to be different than my other regular places I danced, but it was. There was smoking right out the back door. There was loud music and a crowded dance floor. And when I got asked to dance, the man who took me out on the dance floor immediately sucked my body up so close to his, that there was seriously NO ROOM for the Holy Spirit. There was just me and him and some sweat. Now if I had been bold (see point #3) I would have said, “Get away—gross!” But I was sheepish. I danced with him. And then he wanted to date me, and his friend wanted to date my cousin. And she was smart enough to say, “No way.” And I used her as my excuse—I can only double date, so if she doesn’t go, I can’t. Be bold! And be in the right places where you can meet the right people.
•        Experience #2: My cousin was attending a singles ward, while I still lived at home with my parents. In this ward they had just formed Family Home Evening groups. She invited me to go with her to their first activity and meet the people in her group, and I said ok. This sounded like the right place, right time. Monday night with a bunch of LDS single adults. Can’t get any better than that, right? We were told that the “father” of this group, James, would be waiting in the driveway to let everyone know where their apartment was, because it was hard to find. Well, we drove back and forth and finally found the address, but there was no James. We went in and found out he was taking a shower (and I thought, great, not only does he not keep his promises, but he’s stinky as well). But the group of people were friendly and talkative and the boys were cooking a Chinese dinner for the girls (AKA ramen noodles). 

     Then he walked in. That was the first time I saw James, and he saw me. Now six months later this is how he told the story: “I walked in and saw her sitting there, and a light shone down from heaven, and the angels sang and blew their trumpets and they said, ‘there she is!’” What did I do to impress him that night? Nothing. I was just my ordinary self—I wore an old but clean and modest outfit, I was a little bit shy but I smiled and tried to make friends. After meeting him three other times at FHE group, he asked me out. And in five months we were engaged to be married. Just being in that place, where the spirit could dwell among friends, and being myself, I met the man I would marry. And that was the best decision I would ever make. 

Hypothetical question

Q: What would you do if you had an extra $100,000 a year to live on?
A: This is a challenge I have always wanted to try. Could I be humble, frugal, and the same "down-to-earth" me, if I was as wealthy as I wanted to be? Give me the test, please! See if I pass.

I would imagine that this "trial" would come as a result of hard work, not a sudden windfall (I don't play the lottery), so I think I'd have a few months of adjusting to the new income. In this adjustment period I'd like to do a few things: set up auto pay for all my bills, set up a savings and retirement account, fix anything broken or needing to be replaced in my home (I'd replace the broken lawn mower, and I could really use a new mattress!).

Once these things were out of the way, I think the extra income would allow me to live with more freedom: freedom to help others in need and give to charitable institutions, such as my kids' school, our church, cancer and juvenile diabetes research foundations, etc. Freedom to buy a larger home so all my children could have their own bedroom (instead of Jimmy sleeping in the room with the dryer and deep freeze). Freedom to have a reliable, newer, still-under-warranty car (imagine that!). Freedom to take a modest family vacation to Disneyland or Canada.

I am fairly certain I would not spend much of the extra income on clothes/shoes/accessories. I have found that these items don't bring me much joy. I do enjoy sewing a new dress for myself and Abby, so I'd probably still sew. I would like each of my children to have new shoes instead of garage sale/D.I. shoes. But I don't want to have to add lots of closet and storage space to my home because I have absorbed more "things" into my life.

I don't think I'd spend money on anything exorbitant: jewelry, furniture, flashy sports cars, recreational vehicles or boats, etc. That just doesn't seem like me. I like simple things... because simple means less complicated, and I don't want to complicate my life and lose appreciation for the simplicity I now enjoy. You've got to admit, being broke means you live a very simple lifestyle!

One final thought: I think money is well spent if it brings your child or family an "experience" rather than a "thing." For example, being able to afford swimming lessons means your child enjoys being at the pool or lake for the rest of his or her life. The same thing can go for a special summer camp, musical instrument lessons, a bike or skates that can be used all summer, or a weekend fishing or camping. If you gain a special memory or a lifelong skill, it enhances your life. If all you get is another toy in the toy box or an item in the closet, perhaps that's not the best use of the money.

What would you do with an increase in income? Leave a comment and let me know.

Grandpa's Sunshine

This week I have been thinking of influences in my life, past and present. My heritage, my family, my ancestors... they have more influence on who I am and what I do today than I really give credit for. 

In particular, I was thinking of my Grandpa Johnson. He died April 18, 1988... 24 years ago! So last night I was thinking of him and this story I wrote about him. I sent this story to my dad as a Christmas present several years ago. I was told that he couldn't even read through it all the way because of his tears... he handed it to my sister to finish... she began to cry and couldn't read it... so she handed to my brother who was too little to remember much of my Grandpa. It is a rather sentimental memory, but full of the love and longing for family that I had surrounding me as I grew up. I hope you enjoy it.

Grandpa’s Sunshine

Grandpa Johnson was very tall, with a tan, weathered face that had smile lines around the eyes. He always wore overalls, rubber chore boots and a cap from the seed company or dairy co-op. His long forehead, which seemed even longer because he was mostly bald, had a permanent hat line across the middle. Grandpa and Dad farmed together on our few acres of paradise.

            We lived one hayfield away from Grandma and Grandpa’s house. Every day my sisters and I crossed the field, walked through Grandpa’s garage, across his garden and on to the dairy barn where Dad was milking cows. We’d get our buckets, fill them with warm milk and head out to feed the calves. Often Grandpa would be out there, helping Dad by feeding hay or irrigating fields. Grandpa always had advice to give us, whether it was how to get our calves to eat better or why we should go put on a jacket.

            My favorite times were when my older sister, Rachael, and I would prance over to Grandma and Grandpa’s on a spring morning, then proudly sing songs for them in their kitchen. We especially liked singing “Popcorn Popping on the Apricot Tree,” because we could point right out the kitchen window to where our apricot tree was blooming in the garden. Grandpa would always smile his wrinkly smile, and his blue eyes seemed to laugh.

            Our only concern was when Grandpa had a headache. Some days we’d come noisily walking in, only to be hushed by Grandma. Grandpa would be sitting in a kitchen chair, his eyes closed and his head resting against the wall. Every noise seemed to bring him more pain, and since it was hard to be quiet, we soon went home.

            By the time I was 11 Grandpa seldom came out on the farm. As hard as it was to “retire” after farming all his life, his poor health forced him to give up the heavy work. On some mornings, he’d be watering the garden, leaning on his shovel as he watched the water flow down the ditch. After it rained, he’d dig little trenches so Dad wouldn’t have to drive the tractor through big puddles. But he could no longer be Dad’s partner in working the farm and caring for the cows.

            Then the news came that Grandpa needed surgery. Everyone was worried, but he soon came home from the hospital and we all hoped for the best.

            That evening I had a violin concert. My parents had to take me to an elementary school in a neighboring town to perform with a beginning youth orchestra. I struggled during the performance, but I had done my best. As we were driving home I begged for a milk shake as a reward.

            “No,” Dad said. When I complained, Mom told me to stop it and cast a worried look at Dad. Only then did I notice that Dad knew something was wrong. We sped home down the freeway.

            As we walked in the front door, all my sisters and brothers jumped up from where they’d been waiting at the kitchen table. The story came in jumbled pieces: Grandma had called. Grandpa had fallen in the bathroom. Dad wasn’t home, so she called Uncle Dale. An ambulance had come.

            Dad had barely heard the end of the tale before he was out the door. A sick feeling came over me. If I hadn’t had this concert, Dad would have been able to help. And I had been complaining …. I sat with my sisters, feeling a pain of guilt inside me, waiting until my parents returned.

            It was dark when Mom led us over to Grandma’s house, telling us on the way that Grandpa had died. As I entered the dark back hallway, Dad reached out and hugged me tight. He was crying — I’d never seen him cry before. And he said he loved me, which was something I’d rarely heard spoken out loud. The whole family of aunts, uncles and cousins gathered in the living room and a prayer was offered — a plea for comfort. I remember the sobs of grief, and wondered how the room could be lit so brightly and still seem so dark.

            After Grandpa’s funeral, the first one I’d ever attended, we climbed in our van and drove slowly out to the cemetery. It was April, and it was appropriately raining. As a crowd of over 60 relatives gathered around the gravesite, I felt a little lost, and still very sorry for ever having a violin concert.

            Uncle Dale and Uncle Philip sang a duet, their tenor voices blending smoothly, then cracking, as the music drifted across the damp lawn. Then it was time to pray and dedicate the gravesite. We all bowed our heads and closed our eyes. The prayer began. Suddenly a warmth spread over me, and I had to peek. The rainclouds had parted just enough to bathe this corner of the cemetery in a bright yellow beam of sunshine. The sunshine had the same brightness of Grandpa’s smile. It was only then that I accepted the reassurances that had been given. Yes, everything would be fine. Grandpa was sending his comfort to us. From now on he would be able to watch us and help us, whether we were doing chores on the farm or traveling far down life’s paths.

           

            Ten years later, my first son was born on Grandpa’s birthday. As I held his small body and examined his perfect face, I noticed his eyes and forehead bore the resemblance of my father and his father, Grandpa Johnson.

            Later reflection led me to believe that a circle had been completed, wherein grief was replaced by joy, and death replaced by birth. As a child, I had known Grandpa knew how to make things grow. As an adult and a new mother, I realized he’d planted seeds inside me that would only sprout years later. And he’d taught me how I, too, could begin sowing seeds. Thanks to Grandpa, there will always be a little bit of spring sunshine to help those seeds grow.

Ways to save money

I love being a stay-at-home mom! (Some political people recently said they think being Mom doesn't qualify as work; well, it does, but I also worked for six years in a corporate job before staying home. I know stay-home moms truly work, and work much longer hours!) For me, one of the hardest aspects of being a mom is balancing a budget. You're stuck with one income (by choice), and you search for ways to get the "extra" in your life without sacrificing too much time or comfort.

I have gathered 15 various ideas for saving money on everyday things, from clothes to household cleaners to food. Some may work for you, some may not, but all can save you money if approached with a practical mindset.

1. Replace ingredients in your recipes with less expensive ones (see my Creamed Soups post for more info). You can replace fresh onions with dehydrated ones, which last longer and still give onion flavor. You can replace sour cream with a little milk, or buttermilk with sour milk (1 c. milk plus 1 T. lemon juice). Look for substitution lists at the back of your recipe book.

2. Buy furniture on Craigslist or at thrift stores or garage sales. If the piece is in good shape but not the color you like, make it over with paint or by sewing a slip cover.

3. Speaking of sewing, making things homemade can often save money (if you don't spend too much on fancy materials--you have to be careful to buy your supplies at good prices). I make my daughter's dresses, shorts and tops. You can make greeting cards, wrapping paper (or use the comic's page from the newspaper), shopping bags, quilts, wreaths, or flower arrangements. These are all healthy creative outlets, too.

4. Grow a garden. Then can or freeze your harvest to make the goodness last throughout the winter. If gardening is out of the question, at least try buying produce from a local co-op or a service such as Bountiful Baskets.

5. Use coupons. Even better, get your coupons from your newspaper for free by doing a paper route (earns you a little money, too). Any coupons you don't use, you can sell on ebay (yes, people actually buy coupons!).

6. Get laundry detergent for free (and toothpaste, shampoo, vitamins, makeup, etc.). There are many home businesses where you can buy these items, then by recruiting other customers, you get a paycheck that pays for your items. I have been a Melaleuca customer for 8 years, and I built up a small home business the first year. Since then, I've gotten all my products for free (costs me $100 a month, and I get a check for $150+). I do not recommend making your own cleaners or detergents. People are employed as chemical engineers for a reason--they know how to make effective products.

7. Combine errands onto one day so you limit your driving. Try setting aside two days a week as "no driving" days to save on gasoline costs.

8. Share babysitting. Find another family with kids of similar ages or similar hobbies, and swap babysitting nights. Or, if you have older kids, have them do babysitting to swap for lessons in sewing, music, piano, etc.

9. Use hand-me-downs. I ask people with kids just older than my family to consider giving me their outgrown clothes. Then I save them in plastic storage tubs for the younger children to grow into in later years.

10. Instead of buying new books, trade used books for credit at a used book store. There are many stores that also take trade-ins on DVDs, video games, and music CDs for store credit and sometimes cash.

11. Even better, get a library card and borrow books, movies and tapes for free. (Just don't let them get overdue! The fines can really add up.)

12. Recycle aluminum cans, newspaper, and corrugated cardboard. The money from the recycling company can offset the cost of buying soda pop or your newspaper.

13. If you can't recycle your newspaper, consider burning it in a wood burning stove to help heat the house in winter, or in an outdoor fire pit in the summer. Wood can often be gathered from certain public lands for free, too, so that would help add fuel to your winter store.

14. Get rid of satellite or cable TV. We are nearing the end of our TV contract, and we are planning to discontinue our $80/month service and replace it with $9/month Netflix that will stream directly to our Bluray player. Technology is wonderful! The cost of the Bluray player ($148) will be recouped after only 2 months of going without TV.

15. Repurpose old items. Old jeans can become a handbag. Strips of old t-shirt material can be braided into a headband. Pieces of old wood make nice picture frames or shelves. Again, with a little creativity and effort, you create something beautiful and save money.

Budgeting and saving money is an art form in and of itself. I hope you'll find joy in the search for ways to save money and improve your life, and that blessings will come to your family.

Old traditions and sayings

I was thinking recently about how some things should be kept traditional, while some absolutely should be updated.

For instance, this web post:
http://www.slate.com/articles/technology/technology/2011/01/space_invaders.html

If you still type two spaces after every period in a block of text, you need to read this article! The only reason I was taught as a teen to type with two spaces was because of that ugly Courier font, aka., typewriter font. I took typing in 7th grade on a real typewriter. It was the last year the school ever used typewriters; they switched to word processors the next year. However, I continued with the two-space habit until I got a job in the publishing industry. The first day I worked there, they told me to stop using two spaces. With modern fonts, one space is clear and appropriate. And since then I have retrained my thumb to do only one space. It's a normal thing... only one space is in between words, so why not the same for sentences?

My son is learning to type at school, and they have taught him to put in two spaces after every period. It makes me want to scream! He is using a computer with the latest version of Windows, is learning to do PowerPoint, Word, and Excel, but they want him to use an archaic two spaces after every period? Crazy. When he brings his work home I go on a space hunt and do a search and replace throughout his document, leaving one clean, clear space between each sentence.

One other thing I've been meaning to discuss...
The name of my blog, "Many true words," comes from an old phrase, "Many a true word is spoken in jest." I like this saying because, basically, it's true. So many times people use sarcasm or "just kidding" or, in electronic media, a winky face ;), to soften a harsh comment or intimate that what they are saying is just a joke.

I was thinking back to elementary school when "just kidding" became a catch phrase. I don't know why, but it was all the rage to insult your friends then say, "Just kidding!" and laugh. For instance, "You're so ugly. Just kidding! Ha ha ha ha ha..." It was the lamest form of communication ever to hit the playground. It was even spread through notes, via the "j/k" abbreviation appended to many snide comments. I hated this fad and avoided it. Being shy and without many friends, when I said something I wanted it to count and build goodwill... not hide an undercurrent of pettiness or unkindness. I endured the years of silliness, silently wondering how many true words were being spoken in jest.

Unfortunately, mastering the art of sarcasm is the specialty of the teenage years. And then it was my turn to inflict sarcasm on my children (not knowing, until my husband took psychology in college, that children have no understanding of sarcasm until they are much older, say 11 or 12). For instance, I told my daughter this morning she had "a really long verse" to read in the scriptures, then directed her to read Jacob 6:12. She looked it up and said, affronted, "That's not a long one!" Evidence that sarcasm is grasped only at older ages (she's 8). (And in case you don't want to go look it up, the verse reads, "O be wise; what can I say more?")

And that is my diatribe for today. J/K. ;)

Sacrifice, modesty, and raising a nag.

I will warn you upfront, this entry comes from me, standing on my soapbox, which is labeled "Opinionated Mama." So if you don't want to hear my opinions you needn't read any further; however, I welcome comments and counter-opinions, because I really am not sure I am right.

Sacrifice

I had an opportunity to make a choice recently, which required sacrificing time with my family for taking part in a church meeting. I chose to spend time with my family.

Normally, this is not really a big issue. But I opened my big mouth and shared my opinion with someone else, and then it was shared with someone else, etc. until I was told I was causing offense (unintentionally, on my part, for I thought my opinions wouldn't be shared beyond the intended recipient).

The benefit, if there can be one, from all this commotion I caused was that I began to reflect on the idea of sacrifice. When is it appropriate to sacrifice time from your family? What is the cause that deserves such sacrifice? On one hand, being married in the temple, I am covenanted to spend time with my spouse and children. "Husband and wife have a solemn responsibility to love and care for each other and for their children.... Successful marriages and families are established and maintained on principles of faith, prayer, repentance, forgiveness, respect, love, compassion, work, and wholesome recreational activities." (The Family: A Proclamation to the World) All these aspects of family life take time and dedication.

On the other hand, as members of the church, we are encouraged to sacrifice all we have for the gospel, including time and talents. In last week's General Conference, Elder Oaks spoke on sacrifice. He said (and I quote this from the conference archives at lds.org):


"Today the most visible strength of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the unselfish service and sacrifice of its members. ... Truly, our lives of service and sacrifice are the most appropriate expressions of our commitment to serve the Master and our fellowmen....We have no professionally trained and salaried clergy in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. As a result, the lay members who are called to lead and serve our congregations must carry the whole load of our numerous Church meetings, programs, and activities. They do this in more than 14,000 congregations just in the United States and Canada. Of course, we are not unique in having lay members of our congregations serve as teachers and lay leaders. But the amount of time donated by our members to train and minister to one another is uniquely large. 


"Perhaps the most familiar and most important examples of unselfish service and sacrifice are performed in our families. Mothers devote themselves to the bearing and nurturing of their children. Husbands give themselves to supporting their wives and children. The sacrifices involved in the eternally important service to our families are too numerous to mention and too familiar to need mention.... I believe that Latter-day Saints who give unselfish service and sacrifice in worshipful imitation of our Savior adhere to eternal values to a greater extent than any other group of people. Latter-day Saints look on their sacrifices of time and means as a part of their schooling and qualifying for eternity. This is a truth revealed in the Lectures on Faith, which teach that “a religion that does not require the sacrifice of all things never has power sufficient to produce the faith necessary unto life and salvation. … It [is] through this sacrifice, and this only, that God has ordained that men should enjoy eternal life.”

So in this situation, did I make the right choice? I have obligations as a "lay member... called to lead and serve our congregations" to attend such meetings. And yet, nurturing my children is also an example of "unselfish service and sacrifice." Which sacrifice is greater, most appropriate, and most likely to bring eternal reward? I don't know. I chose my family because that is what my heart told me to do... that I could not bring back this moment of 2012 to try and do it again later and create memories with my children at a more convenient time. In my view, it was meeting vs. memories and I chose not to sacrifice making memories.

Modesty

I read a blog recently from a convert to the Church. She shared an experience when she had just joined the Church and wore a sleeveless dress to Sacrament meeting. A "helpful" member told her she shouldn't wear a sleeveless dress, so this woman ceased wearing it, although it was comfortable and not revealing. That in itself is interesting, but the comments from others on her blog were varied in their opinions.

I am a mother who outlaws sleevelessness in its entirety. My boys don't wear sleeveless jerseys or tank tops. My daughter always wears a tee shirt under her jumpers; any dress has to have at least a cap sleeve or a jacket worn over the sleeveless bodice.

Why? First, because I remember as a young girl my mother making me little spring tops with ruffled straps instead of sleeves, and my sisters and I would say how "sexy" we looked and pull the straps down off our shoulders... and we were four or five years old! The attitude that went with a cute and probably innocent style was not the same as a style with sleeves. Second, I don't let my children wear sleeveless shirts because I want them to be in a habit of wearing temple-ready clothing their whole lives. I think it shows a double standard to say tank tops are ok until you are endowed, then they are off limits. If I couldn't wear that style now, I don't want my children wearing it, either. And  thirdly, I know there are perverts out there who will look at any amount of exposed flesh on my daughter and get aroused, so I keep her covered up.

Some arguments on the blog I read said that by being hyper-modest we are teaching our children there is no innocence in the beauty of the body, that it's all designed to attract evil. I do believe the body is a beautiful creation by a loving Father, and that its attractiveness is natural and God-given. However, I still want my children covered up. I never want to encourage an attitude of, "If you've got it, flaunt it." I guess only time will tell if my stance on modesty is effective or overdone.

Raising a nag

I certainly didn't plan on raising a nag. I guess it must be a reflection of my naggishness... my level of nagging... that I am seeing it already in my daughter. Today she got after her little brother (really, he's the only person she can nag, being the only one younger). "You don't like spicy food, so why did you take that chicken wing? If you say you like spicy food that means you like all spicy food, even the really hot stuff. Now you have to eat it." (He did eat it.) Later... "You have to pull out your chair before you try to sit on it. No, not that far! Now you can't reach your food." She got up and pushed in his chair to what she felt was the right distance. "Why don't you listen to me?"

Do I sound like this? I really need to speak more kindly to my children if I do! And heaven help her future husband...

After a few days off...

I took a few days off to see my family down in Utah. I took the children and went to my sister Valerie's house, who was just married, and then to my other sisters' houses, Rachael and Marian. It was a nice couple of days to enjoy spring break. My daughter spent two extra days with her cousin Taylor and then, in order to return her to the family, Rachael and I met in Lava Hot Springs and swam for a couple of hours in their hot pools. Then we swapped back kids and went home to real life. :(

As I spent time at Lava Hot Springs, I had a chance to make sure I had the details and descriptions of the place correct for a scene in my Persuasion book. This is the scene; for those who have read the Jane Austen original, Lava in my book correlates to Lyme, England in Austen's tale. The only part that is "fictional" is the lifeguard... I didn't see a lifeguard at Lava, but surely there's someone with emergency training who works there, right?

By 10:00 everyone had eaten, Doug had arrived, and they all got ready for a visit to the hot springs. Fred came up to tell the girls they were ready just as they walked out the door. He paused on the stairwell.

“Fred!” Lisa exclaimed, walked down two stairs, then jumped over the remaining three to land in his arms. She laughed, delighted that he’d been forced to wrap his arms around her.

“Whoa, warn me next time,” Fred cautioned, caught off balance.

They all got in Fred’s car and drove the few blocks up to the hot springs. As they got out of the car, a big pick-up truck with the words “Teton Springs Ranch” was just pulling out of the lot. The driver tipped his hat then turned onto the street. “Is he familiar?” Henna asked.

“I think he’s the guy we saw last night,” Anne said. Then a connection was made in her mind—Teton Springs Ranch was just down the street from their home in Driggs. She might know this guy, or at least his family. She’d have to find out more when she went back home from Christmas.

The six of them hurried across the street and down the hill to the hot springs entrance. They paid their fees, then Henna, Lisa, and Anne walked into the ladies’ dressing room to change into their swimsuits. As they emerged, they shivered in the chilly air and slight breeze, wrapping their towels more tightly around them. Steam rose in wavering columns from each pool, and the girls walked between the pools until they spotted Fred, Benwick and Doug. “Hey, girls!” they called and waved.

“Oh, it’s hot!” cried Henna as she dipped her toes in.

“But it’s so cold out here!” chattered Lisa. “Give me your towel and get in.” Lisa grabbed her towel, dropped it on a plastic pool chair with her towel as well, then scurried to the edge of the pool. “I’m coming in!” she called, then with a little hop jumped over the edge and into the pool. The splash brought up the arms of everyone else to shield them from the spray.

“Anne, are you coming in?” Benwick called.

Anne had taken her time folding her towel and removing her sandals. She felt very shy in front of three guys in just her swimsuit, and had hoped to slip in unnoticed. Now, however, she had all eyes on her. She tiptoed to the edge of the pool and slipped in under the hot, bubbly water, sinking in up to her neck.

“This is one of the cooler pools,” Benwick explained. “The water runs continuously through the pools, then empties into the river. You can go tubing down the river in summer, and the water’s as warm as a bathtub. Even in winter they have the polar bear event, where you raft down the river then run back up in the snow!” Everyone laughed and commented on the insanity of such a sport.

“You should buy the tube rental company,” Doug suggested. “That would make you rich.”

“Sure,” said Benwick. “Maybe I’ll do that after my first million has been made,” he joked.

They found that sitting continuously in the pool made you feel too hot, so they’d sit on the edge or move to another pool every five minutes. Each time they switched to a different pool, Lisa wanted to wait until Fred was down the steps and in the deeper water, then she’d jump down to him. The pools had gravel bottoms, so they weren’t too slippery, but the deck surrounding the pools was wet from the misty air and the ins and outs of swimmers.

“Let’s move to the big pool,” Henna suggested. “It’s a bit cooler, and we can play a game or something.” They all assented, trotting along the heated stone deck to arrive at the last, large pool. Again everyone took the steps down into the water except Lisa. She waited for Fred, then jumped with a splash right next to him.

“Catch me again,” she said, bounding back up the stairs immediately.

“No, Lisa, just come in the water,” Fred cajoled.

“No, I’m going to jump. Here I come!” But as she spun toward the pool and began her jump she slipped on a smooth, wet spot. Fred could not reach her—everyone cried out—but all could only watch her feet fly forward and her head crash down onto the cement.

“She’s dead!” screamed Henna as they all scrambled out of the pool to Lisa’s side. “She’s dead! What do we do? Oh, Lisa!”

Fred and Benwick were at her side but frozen, staring in horror at her completely still form. Anne moved to her head, gently lifting it and examining each side. “She’s breathing. She’s not bleeding,” she said. “But she may have a head or neck injury. Henna, what do you do for a head injury?”

“I don’t know!”

“Come on, you’re in nursing school!” yelled Fred. “Think!”

“I can’t! I don’t know!” She began sobbing in great, heaving gasps. Doug took her and sat her down on a pool chair.

Anne still knelt at Lisa’s head. Benwick and Fred just stared at her. “Guys, we need a paramedic. Benwick, you’re more familiar with this place. Go to the front desk, get a phone, do something—get an ambulance here!” Benwick was off in a flash, disappearing into the steam clouds.

“Fred, I need you to help me. You’ve got to put your arms under her neck and head and don’t let them move an inch. I’ll get under her shoulders and we’ll move her away from the edge of the pool.” He nodded and put his forearms carefully alongside her head and neck. “Ready?” Anne said. “One, two, three, lift.” They slowly moved her a few inches away. “Doug, hand me a towel. Let’s put these over her.” She and Fred covered Lisa carefully. By that time Benwick was back with a lifeguard. 

“What happened?” the lifeguard asked, and Anne gave him a quick summary. He checked her pulse, lifted her eyelids and looked at her pupils, then placed his ear near her chest to monitor her breathing. Then he pulled a radio from the waist of his shorts. “The victim is female, about…how old?” he asked Anne.

“Twenty,” she answered.

“Twenty,” he radioed again. “She is unconscious, possible head injuries. No bleeding.”

“Anne already told us that much,” Fred muttered. “Where are the paramedics?”

“We’ve got a volunteer ambulance service here. It will just take a few minutes. Help me put her on a back board and we’ll move her inside to keep her temperature stable.” All the guys were called over and instructed to carefully lift at the same time. The guard then strapped her on the board, and they all carried Lisa into the main entrance area to wait for the ambulance. Anne followed behind with her arm around Henna, continuing to support her in her near-hysterical state. The lifeguard found some smelling salts, waving them under Lisa’s nose. She stirred, her eyes fluttered, and then was still again. They all sighed and murmured, relieved to see some signs of life.

Anne quietly gave guidance to the group as the interminable wait dragged on. “Fred, Benwick, you get changed while Doug and I wait with Henna.” When they were back she left Henna with them, got her clothes on, and gathered Lisa’s things from her locker. Then she persuaded Henna to leave Lisa’s side and get changed herself. Doug led her away, quickly changing too, then waited for her outside the dressing room. A large group had gathered in the building, staring and whispering about the seemingly dead girl who lay under blankets and towels.

The ambulance pulled up and there was a rush of movement. The crowd was shoved aside, the paramedics bringing a gurney down the stairs. Anne, Fred, Doug and Benwick grabbed their coats and bags. The patient was examined and an IV was started. Then they rolled the gurney out the door and worked it up the stairs. Henna began her hysterics again upon seeing the ambulance doors close with Lisa inside. Doug held her close to his chest while she sobbed. The ambulance pulled away, turned, and went down the hill to the highway.

“Dear, sweet Lisa!” whispered Fred. “I should never have given in to her. But she was so resolute….”

 “Doug, Fred, we need to get our cars,” Anne said. “We can follow the ambulance to the hospital.” 

Speaking of creamed soup...

This is a true story.

As I said goodnight to this handsome, tall young man after our first date, I knew I wanted to see him again. Like any good LDS girl, I also knew we needed to meet in a group setting. So I asked my date, James, if he would be going to our singles wards' Thanksgiving potluck the next night.

"Uh, sure," was his response. So I said I would see him there, and tried not to look too eager.

The next night came, and I stressed (again) over what to wear. I finally ended up with a vest/t-shirt/jeans combo that was very 90s in style. I also worried about what to bring... this was a potluck, after all, and I needed to provide something. However, I was living at home with my parents, still going to their ward, and the only time I attended this singles ward was to join in the activities with my cousin or sister. I hadn't been to a Sunday meeting, and thus hadn't "signed up" to bring a specific dish. So what does a young lady bring on short notice to a potluck?

I looked around my mom's kitchen. I had ten minutes until I was supposed to be at the church building, which was seven minutes away. I hadn't time to bake pies, rolls, casseroles... what to bring? I decided on a classic: creamed beans. Two cans of green beans, one can of cream of mushroom soup, microwave for five minutes. Done.

Now I called to see if my cousin was going to the potluck and I could get a ride. She wasn't planning to go. My sister was doing something else. I had never been to this ward by myself, so I felt nervous. But I thought, "James will be there," and drove over to the church building where we were meeting.

I walked into the building and quickly surveyed the crowd... probably 100 young adults were there, but not one of them was James. And I quickly realized that I knew absolutely NO ONE. I felt painfully shy, embarrassed, and out of place. I put my bowl of beans down then stood at the back of the line as the crowd began to sidle down the potluck table. I felt like I could cry... why did I even come? What was I doing here with all these strangers? Maybe I should take my creamed beans and go home...

Just then the girls in front of me introduced themselves, began learning a little about me, and asked me to sit with them for dinner. I began to relax, filled my plate, and sat at the end of a long L-shaped table arrangement (carefully making sure that one empty spot was right next to me, just in case James came).

I was  midway through the meal when HE came. My heart sped up, my palms grew sweaty. He was here! He and his roommates walked in and started filling their plates. I lost all track of conversation among those sitting near me at the table. I carefully arranged the chair next to me so it was obvious it was open. I watched as he took some turkey, took some mashed potatoes, took some salad, DID NOT take any creamed beans. Hmph.

Then he was at the end of the serving table. He had his plate in his hands. He walked toward me where I was sitting... closer and closer... I was so nervous I couldn't meet his eyes... he was two feet away... then he turned and walked right past me and went to sit on the OPPOSITE end of the table! I leaned forward and looked down the table... he and I had thirty people between us. Conversation was impossible.

Now I was absolutely certain I shouldn't have come. I finished my dinner. I wanted no pie. I sat silently while the conversation around me dwindled and people started to leave. As I got up, I saw James get up too. He walked away from the table... and a group of five girls approached him. He talked with them, then walked away. The five girls followed him to the other end of the gym! He talked with them, then with some other fellows. Then he went to the exit of the gym. I decided I would at least say hi. But then he was surrounded again by the knot of five girls! I inched my way closer... I squeezed between all these girls and the wall... I reached between two girls and barely touched his elbow, saying timidly, "I just wanted to say hi before I left."

James turned and grabbed my arm. "There you are!" he called. "I've been looking for you. Can you wait a minute? I wanted to ask you something." Five pairs of female eyes glared at me. I stepped back and pressed against the wall, happy but confused, embarrassed and elated. He finally dismissed the group of girls with a "good to see you again, yes, thanks" and turned back to me.

"Did you just get here?" he asked.

"No, I was here before you. I saw you come in."

"Oh. My roommates were late and I had to get a ride with them. I'm sorry I didn't see you."

"It's ok. Did you like your dinner?"

"Yeah, it was good. Did you bring something?"

"Yes, I brought the creamed beans. Did you have some?"

"Uh, no... I must have missed them." A look crossed his face, something between disgust and relief.

"Oh, well I was just going to get my bowl and go home."

"Well, that's what I wanted to ask you..." and James proceeded to invite me to watch a movie with him and another couple later that night at his apartment.

He may not have liked creamed beans, but it didn't stop him from asking me for a second date. In the end, it all worked out alright. (And now we've been married for 15 years... and I have never again made creamed beans.)

Creamed soups

When I was a teenage girl, I wrote about subjects that inspired me: patriotism, nature conservation, love. Now, since this is writing from a mom's point of view, I am writing about... creamed soups.

Yes, creamed soups. I hate them. I don't use them anymore in my cooking. After years of being a dutiful follower of recipes, adding a can of cream of chicken or cream of mushroom soup to EVERY casserole and assorted other gravies, soups and sauces, I came to a realization. I don't like creamed soups. I especially don't like paying for creamed soups. When they used to cost 50 cents a can, maybe I could justify it. But now I'm lucky to find them on sale for 88 cents, and some cost up to $1.50. Why add that extra cost to my grocery budget?

Creamed soups aren't healthy for you, either. They have a lot of preservatives, salt, and processed ingredients. They come out of the can as a gray, quivering mass of gelatinous, mutated milk. Then you're supposed to mush it all up and mix it with your other fresh ingredients, and this makes a casserole... really? Plus a lot of recipes I have read (especially from the church cookbooks) call for up to FOUR cans of creamed soups per dish! And some even add sour cream on top of that! That's not a casserole, that's a chicken and celery smoothie. Yuck.

My eye-opening came at the cost of my dear husband. As a young bride I found I had very few recipes to choose from. I went home and copied out of my family cookbook a few recipes... all casseroles... all using creamed soups. Well, my husband is allergic to milk. He has become more lactose tolerant as the years have passed (he loves pizza with mozzarella cheese), but he really disliked anything creamed-soupy. After a few months of dutifully praising dinner, he finally found a nice way of asking me to reduce the creaminess. When my daughter was born seven years later, also with milk allergies, I had to leave out the milk ingredients altogether. (Alas! farewell to cheese, my wonderful cheese...)

Now, lest you think I have become a casserole hater, I have not. I love casseroles--in fact, I believe I am a casserole pro. My casseroles taste far better than my cookies (I've just about given up baking altogether). But cooking a nice dinner with a mix of meat/veggie/starch is my specialty.

So this is how I make casserole without creamed soups. First, for a hamburger-based casserole, such as Tater Tot Casserole: Brown your ground beef in the frying pan, with onion, salt and pepper. Drain the grease. Then sprinkle two tablespoons of flour over your ground beef and mix it in until it disappears. Now add a cup of water and a tablespoon of beef bouillon granules (or use canned beef stock, or beef soup base and water). Mix into your beef/flour and stir frequently. It will thicken up, with nary a flour lump to be found, and... voila! Gravy instead of creamed soup. Add other casserole ingredients and bake.

For chicken casseroles, such as Chicken Divan, Viva la Chicken,  Chicken Noodle Casserole, etc. my process is similar. Except I never have precooked, chopped chicken ready ahead of time. You can easily make it with chicken breasts or thighs cooked in a slow cooker, then deboned, and use the broth for your soup--if you are organized enough to think 8 hours ahead of dinner time. I used to be that organized.... But now I simply put two frozen boneless/skinless chicken breasts in two cups of water in my frying pan. I cover it and poach the chicken for about 12 minutes. I add onion and garlic powder while it's cooking. Then I remove the chicken and chop it up. Meanwhile, I take the broth remaining in the pan and add your typical flour/water or cornstarch/water mixture used for gravy. I add chicken soup base or chicken bouillon, put my chicken chunks back in, and there you have it... a base for your chicken casserole that doesn't require creamed soup! If you really want that milk/cream color (for some reason, if it looks white it seems to taste better), you can replace a 1/2 cup of water with milk. It will look creamy but will leave out a lot of the calories, and definitely all the preservatives and salt, of canned creamed soups.

So here's to a creamed-soup-free future... may your days in the kitchen be joyous!



(Now I hope I don't get any hate mail from the Campbell's Soup company.)

Opening lines

I often stress about the first paragraph, even the first sentence, of what I write. I worry that if it's not perfect, no one will want to read past page one. So I have a personal philosophy of trying to start in the midst of action/event/conversation so the reader feels compelled to figure out what's going on by reading further than page one. I'm not sure this is effective or correct. But I would like to find out what style of opening lines really is most compelling to a reader.

Here are the opening lines to my one completely finished book (which will never be published, but that's another story):

“Anne! Anne, are you up here?”

            Anne turned from the window, wiping the tears from her cheeks. She sniffed. She didn’t want Liz to see her crying. She walked over to her bed, replaced her mother’s picture on her dresser, and sat with her back against the headboard.

            “Anne?” Liz cracked her door open and peeked in.

            “Yes, I’m here,” she replied.

            “Are you pouting?”

            “Of course not,” she replied testily.

            Liz walked closer, and Anne turned her head so she couldn’t see her red eyes and nose.

            “You can’t hide it, Anne. You’ve been crying.”

            Anne sighed and looked back at Liz. “Okay, fine, but I was upset. It’s not a crime to cry.”

            “You should cry over someone worth crying about,” she said tersely. “Really, you’re taking this too hard.”

            Anne opened her mouth to reply, then bit back her words. It would do no good to yell at Liz. She was not the one at fault. No, Anne was mad at her father. And telling Liz that she was the one who got to do anything she wanted, got to spend as much as she wanted, and got to date as much as she wanted, while Anne had to stay at home and play good little mom to their younger sister, Mary… well, that wouldn’t make her sound mature or responsible. And that would make her father more upset.

So, does reading this much make you want to read further? 

Here are more opening lines, from a rough draft of a story:

"Hurry, Elaine, catch up," her mom called.

Elaine looked up, nervous and excited, fearful yet proud. Her kindergarten registration day. Big girl now... that's what Mom had just said as she'd hurried her from the car to the school's big double doors. They'd walked down the tiled hallway together, Elaine's dress shoes making a "tap tap" sound that echoed in the quiet. Her mother's shoes didn't make more than a quiet shuffle, so she'd tried to walk on her toes, but that just made her walk too slow. Now her mom was holding the classroom door open and beckoning her to come to her side. 

In four noisy, clattering steps, Elaine ran to her mother's side and peered in the door. It was huge. It was... colorful. And there, sitting at a kidney-bean shaped table, was her teacher, Mrs. Jorgensen. The lady had light brown, closely curled hair, wrinkles, and a nice smile. But Elaine still didn't want to budge from the doorway, despite her mother's increasing pressure on the back of her head. 

"Come in!" Mrs. Jorgensen called. "You must be Mrs. Radcliffe."

"Yes," her mother called, a little too brightly. "And this is Elaine." She stepped into the room and let the door begin to swing closed, so Elaine had no choice but to step inside and avoid being crunched in the doorway. Her mom took her arm and led her to the table. "Sorry we are late," she said with a sigh. "I had to leave my other children with the babysitter." 

...............................

And that's it for now! Opening lines... not quite as epic as "It was a dark and stormy night..." but let me know if they are effective. 

This is part of a story about a sheep rancher and his daughter. 

Rachel giggled as the eager, happy puppy licked her fingers and wiggled his tail so hard that his whole body swayed back and forth with it. “Are you happy to see me?” she cooed to her friend. She had just come from the house out to the sheds, and as she came into sight her puppy, Critter, had run out from the shed and jumped and tumbled around her legs. Finally she could walk no more—every step she took he was there, sticking so close to her she was afraid she’d trip and fall. She sat right down in the dusty farmyard and succumbed to the licking and wriggling, her giggles turning into laughs and squeals as his enthusiasm never let up. Finally Critter’s mama, their best sheepdog named Bette, came out from the barn to see what the noise was about. As she trotted nearer Critter got up and ran to his mama, showering his enthusiasm on a new target. Bette’s reaction was a slight wag of the tail and a nudge from her wet, black nose. Soon Critter’s two brothers and three sisters were trailing out of the shed, too, coming to find where their dinner had gone. Bette turned and went to lay in the shade of the haystack, six puppies following after her and finally settling down for some milk.

                Rachel’s father had heard her squeals, and as she got up from the ground and brushed the dust off her overalls, she saw him leaning in the opening of the shed. She smiled and came over to him.

                “Oh, daddy, isn’t Critter the best puppy ever?” she gleamed. “I think he’ll be the best sheepdog we’ve ever had.”

                “Only if you don’t spoil him, and you get his training started soon,” he said flatly. With a glance up at his steel gray eyes she could tell he wasn’t too pleased with her.

                “I’m not spoiling him, Dad. I’m just letting him get to know me. He won’t listen to my commands if he doesn’t know me.”

                “What about the milk? And the leftover bacon? You know that pup’s got enough food from just his mama right now.”

                “Well, okay Dad. I guess you’re right,” she conceded. After a pause she rushed on. “You know I just love him so much! He’s so cute!”

                Dad turned and went to the back of the shed where he was trying to work some broken bolts out of the hay mower. “Rachel, get to your chores,” he said, then picked up his hammer. “Those lambs won’t wait.” Rachel nodded and went directly to the barn. Her day was starting out great.

By 10:00 am her chores were nearly done, both on the farm and in the house. She’d fed the lambs their milk replacer, thrown hay to the rams, filled the water troughs, then went to see what Momma had for her to do. After sweeping the kitchen and taking the slop to the pigs, she carried a basket of laundry out to the clothesline. Even though they had an electric dryer now, Momma insisted they hang the laundry in the good weather. It smelled better, she insisted, and cost less too. Rachel thought that the laundry hung on the line just smelled like hay and dust, but she didn’t say anything. She’d do whatever she was asked so long as she got to go play with her puppy afterward. After the last pillowcase was pinned to the line she ran the basket to the back porch, tossed it next to the door, and pivoted again, running straight to the barn. She paused for a moment to let her eyes adjust to the dim light. She decided to look for the puppies near the horse stalls first, and not finding them, climbed into the loft to take a look around. As she sat with her legs swinging off the edge of the loft, she took in the sights. Their barn was not as big as some. It had only one loft, at one side of the barn, instead of two lofts like their neighbors, the Petersens. It had four horse stalls but only two horses, Dan and Gray. They could pull a wagon if they had to, but they were more used for riding nowadays. The horse stalls were along the opposite wall. The big barn door was between where Rachel sat and the stalls, facing into the farm yard. The backside of the barn was actually one side of their corral, where they kept three milk cows. A trough was built into that wall, where the horses could reach it from inside the barn, and the cows could reach it outside. And in the middle of the barn were hay and straw bales, stacked taller than her father’s head, and room for the tractor in the winter. As she studied the barn she looked for signs of the puppies, and listened for the rustle of hay. Not seeing anything, she climbed halfway down the ladder then jumped to the floor. She jogged over to the sheds where her Dad had been working this morning, which stood just off to the right of the barn, opposite the house. Haystacks were also stacked along the back of the sheds, two stacks across, five and six stacks deep, making a hay-lined road between the sheds and the end of the barn, going all the way to the pasture gate.

                Rachel walked across the farmyard to the lamb pen, watching for a moment as they bucked and jumped over mounds of straw and manure. She smiled—lambs always had so much energy! Even though she was only nine, she had raised at least 20 bum lambs for the last three summers. This year there were 27, and it took a lot of work to feed them each morning and night. But she knew that in the fall, they’d be nice and fat and would bring a good price when they were sold at the auction. She didn’t necessarily like the thought of her lambs becoming meat in three or four months, but that was what their breed was best for, Dad said. They had other kinds of sheep that were for wool—over 1000 of them. They’d already been sheared that spring, and looked pretty scraggly and skinny now. After they spent all summer on the range, however, they’d be looking much better.

                Not seeing her puppy anywhere, she wandered to the row of haystacks, where she’d seen Bette lay down that morning. She poked along, bending over now and then to peer into the dark avenues between individual stacks, and into the small caves where two bales of hay didn’t sit quite right next to each other. She knew that the kittens were usually born in one of these convenient hiding places, far down a tight passage of hay where little girls and dogs couldn’t reach them. She wondered if the puppies liked playing in the hay, too, and wished she could be so small as to wander through the cracks and mazes in between haystacks like an explorer in an ancient stone temple filled with traps and mysteries. Her wondering was brought to a halt as she heard her dad calling out commands as he motioned with his arms: “Now around! Cut them out! Ok, bring them in, Bette.”

                She ran to the pasture gate and found her dad just inside, giving Bette orders to cut out a few old sheep and bring them into a holding pen built into the corner of the pasture. Bette obeyed and soon the sheep were standing in the pen, bleating and quivering from their quick jog.

                “What are you doing with these sheep, Dad?” Rachel piped up. She stood with her arms hugging the bars of the wide, green metal gate, her blonde head squeezed between the top two bars of the gate. He turned and saw her there for the first time, head cocked to the side, long braids dangled over the bar and into the pen.

                “I’m showing the pups how to be real sheepdogs,” he said. He called Bette to his side with a quick whistle.

                “The pups?” Rachel turned and only then saw two or three of the puppies sitting in the shade of the haystack a few feet back from the gate. “Oh, Critter!” she called, and the puppy recognized her voice and came trotting out of the shade and up to her legs. He wagged and wiggled and she picked him up and put his nose up to hers, cooing and ahhing over his cuteness. “I’ve been looking for you, you little cutey.”

                “Bring Critter over to me,” Dad said. Rachel looked up quickly. Dad held out his hand and motioned to her. She tucked Critter under her arm like a sack of potatoes and bent over to squeeze through the gate, pulling Critter gently through as well. She placed him at her father’s feet and then looked up.

                “Dad, are you sure he’s big enough? He’s just a couple months old, you know.”

                “Yes, girl, he’s big enough. He’s got to learn before we go on our drive to the summer range and Bette will be gone for a couple of weeks. The sooner we get some sheep sense into him, the better.” He patted his leg and Bette stood alert at his side. He bent over and set Critter next to Bette, quietly saying, “Now you show this pup what to do.” Then he straightened and pointed out to the sheep.

                “Bette, out this way!” he called loudly and motioned to the right. She jolted into a run and headed towards a group of about 20 sheep grazing in the pasture. Critter trotted after her at first, then slowed down as the older dog quickly was out of sight behind the sheep. “Critter, around!” Dad called, and the puppy turned to come back to him. “No, Critter. Around!” He pointed repeatedly to the direction the older dog went. By this time Bette had the sheep gathered into a tight bunch and was waiting for her next command, ears up and alert, legs stiff and ready. “Alright, Bette, come!” Bette started the sheep moving with a little leap and pretend nip at their heels. The sheep bleated and darted forwarded, soon trotting toward the pen. Being older sheep, they knew the routine. Critter saw the sheep coming, and froze. Perhaps realizing how much bigger they were, he began backing up slowly, then ran back to the gate and hid behind Rachel’s legs.

                “Rachel, get that pup back out here!’ Dad yelled.

                “But Daddy, he’s scared! He doesn’t want to!” Rachel picked him up and held him protectively.

                “That pup’s got to learn!” he said angrily, and stomped toward Rachel, taking Critter from her arms. The sheep were just passing them now, and he placed Critter near his mother as she continued herding. He pushed Critter towards the sheep.

                With a couple of hesitant steps, Critter began following his mom and soon was close to the rear sheep. After a few more steps he began to bounce and yip, playfully darting closer to the animals.

                Rachel felt the nervous tension melt from her arms and shoulders. She could see that he was a compliment to his breed—almost like second nature, he was learning to herd sheep. The sheep were nearing the pen now, and Dad strode forward to catch the smaller wooden gate and swing it shut. Bette worked at the sheep, who didn’t like the idea of being penned up so early in the day. They began to balk and turn to the side, but each time were met by Bette. Rachel watched until only three sheep were left to walk through the gate. Then one old black-faced sheep saw Critter out of the corner of her eye. The old ewe turned and without a second’s hesitation, charged forward and butted the puppy, running back out to the pasture. Rachel heard the sickening thud as Critter was knocked into the air, then flopped onto the ground.

                “No!” she cried, and ran to him. Dad was quickly kneeling next to her as she tried to gently lift him up. He just flopped around, head hanging loosely to the side. “Oh, Dad, he’s hurt!” she sobbed.

                Dad held the puppy’s head in his rough, calloused hands, and pulled up his velvety eyelid with his thumb. Rachel’s sobs came harder and quicker. “No, Rachel. He’s dead. That old ewe killed him.” He took the pup out of her hands, slowly stood up, and began walking toward the pasture gate. “Bette, come,” he called.

                Rachel’s sobs were loud and jagged and she smeared the tears from her eyes and stumbled after her father. Once she crawled through the gate, she broke into a run, going straight through the back door and up to her room where she cried until her pillowcase was completely wet.