CSquaredPlus3

Sheltered

Our recent houseguest, Jane Devin, smokes an occasional cigarette.  We maintain a smoke-free environment here at Casa de Ross, but have a special place for our smoking relatives and friends to discreetly burn one.  I call it The Smoking Room.  It's a small but private porch outside of the walkout basement.

 

The weekend delivered snow, so the boys spent much of Sunday afternoon building a snowman and snow cave in the backyard.  Jane was at Starbucks and I was upstairs when Chris heard simultaneous, frantic knocks at two of our doors -- a back door, and a garage door.  Oldest Boy [12] was at one, and Middle Boy [10] was at the other.

Chris answered Oldest Boy's knock at the back door first.  "Dad!  There's cigarettes down by the basement.  They're in a shallow dish."

Chris told Oldest Boy to hold on a moment.  He then answered Middle Boy's knock at the garage door.  "Dad!  There's a pile of cigarettes.  In a dish!"

Jane's full, shallow dish was sitting on a window ledge outside.  The boys had to walk down the snowy stairs to the lower porch and must have searched to find it.  They couldn't get to Chris or me fast enough.

It was tucked in the far left hand corner of this space.

Chris explained to each boy that the cigarettes were Ms. Devin's.  Oldest Boy wanted to know if it was okay that Ms. Devin smoked.  Chris said she was an adult and it was her choice to smoke cigarettes as long as she didn't expose others to secondhand smoke.

When Jane returned from Starbucks, I couldn't wait to tell her that the boys had visited The Smoking Room and discovered her habit.  Middle Boy considers himself an artist and writer so I think he was particularly disturbed to know that Ms. Devin smoked.  He glanced at her suspiciously for the rest of the afternoon but avoided eye contact, like he'd seen her naked by accident.

Later that evening, Middle Boy was still processing the cigarettes.  "I thought it was a joke at first, Mom.  Like they were fake.  But then?  I smelled them, and they were REAL.  I know it wasn't good for my lungs, but I had to know.  Then I ran and told Dad."

I still haven't educated the boys that the word for a shallow dish that holds cigarettes butts and ashes, is ashtray.  I also haven't told Middle Boy that simply sniffing an extinguished cigarette probably won't harm his lungs.

I DID show them the shallow dish we offer to all of our guests who smoke...

 

Jane Devin

Chris, the boys and I have had the privilege and pleasure of hosting a wonderful writer and friend, Jane Devin, as she travels across the United States in an effort to "find her America".  The About page on her blog summarizes Jane, her journey, and provides key links.  My attempts to reword what she has already so succinctly written have been futile.  Please read the following:

Jane has been writing about cultural & social issues for several years. She presently blogs at Finding My America, which will chronicle her upcoming year as a writer on the road, as well as on The Huffington Post. Older articles can be found on JaneDevin.com. She can be reached by email at jane@janedevin.com. You are also welcome to friend her on Facebook or follow her on Twitter.

To learn more about the origins of the Finding My America project, you can find the short version here. Or, if you’re feeling really industrious, you can read the following articles, which are in reverse chronological order.

• http://janedevin.com/2009/10/08/new-trails/
• http://janedevin.com/2009/09/29/waking-up/
• http://janedevin.com/2009/09/16/24-ford-hank/
• http://janedevin.com/2009/09/12/contest/
• http://janedevin.com/2009/08/16/ride-sally-ride/
• http://janedevin.com/2009/08/14/mustang/

Jane arrived at our home Wednesday evening.  She made noise about leaving on Friday, but I successfully guilted her into lengthening her stay.  Whining works.  She's been a delightful, low-maintenance houseguest.  I've embraced my opportunities to visit with her when she's not writing or thinking... or going to Starbucks.  For those of you who have followed Jane on Twitter and know about her coffee habit?  It's a heavy habit.  HEAVY.  I don't know how she sleeps.

Please peruse Jane's writing as time permits during these busy, busy days.  We're all drawn to different writers, blogs, friends, and relatives for unique reasons.  If you enjoy her poignant, thought-proving, beautiful writing as much as I do, at a minimum continue reading her blog.  Leave a comment if you're comfortable! 

Jane communicates her needs via her blog, Twitter and Facebook as she travels from city to city.  Sometimes she needs a host [a place to stay], recommendations for affordable, clean, safe hotels [if a person isn't available to host], Starbucks gift cards, and contributions to her PayPal account, even in the most nominal amounts.  I witnessed her conscientious handling of resources [even my own!] while she was here.  A little goes a long way with Jane.

The Ross family just bid farewell to a lovely, interesting and gracious guest.  Although my history with Jane is currently shelved under "recent", I feel like a woman I've known my entire life just pulled out of the driveway.  If you have the opportunity to meet Jane Devin, I suspect that you'll feel the same way.

Christmas Lights Did Him In

Nothing.  I mean, NOTHING, will make a man lose his cool quicker than issues with Christmas lights.  Even the most patient of men.

I thought Chris had passed this test right after we were married.  Dad was sorting through things in the garage and Chris offered to help.  Dad found a box of mangled Christmas lights, pushed the box towards Chris and said, "See if you can make some sense of these."

Chris untangled and organized several strands of lights.  I was so impressed.

The tree I selected this year is slightly larger than last year's tree.  It took Chris, a couple of neighbors and me to get it in the house.  We cut two feet off the top, and I trimmed the branches so it would fit in the tall, but narrow space we always place our tree.

Chris teased me about the tree, but remained patient.

Because this isn't our first rodeo, we put lights on the top few feet of the tree before we brought it in the house.  It was easier while the tree was on it's side.

Chris began lighting the rest of the tree yesterday morning.  At 8:30 last night, he was making another trip to Home Depot.  The day taught him, and me, that when we have a tree this large, it's important to have two zones of lights.  One for the top half of the tree and one for the bottom half.

Unfortunately, Chris learned this after lighting the same lower section of the tree, having the lights blow, removing the lights, and repeating the process several times.  He was wild-eyed and his hair was askew after eight hours of repetitive work.  Pine needles were everywhere, we all stayed away from the family room.  Foul words, agonizing growls and groans popped out from behind the tree in a Tourette's-like manner throughout the day.

One of the most patient people I've ever known, my husband, lost it.

It's Sunday morning.  I rose early, as I usually do, and found a half consumed Vesper in the kitchen sink. I  don't know if it was the first or the third, but I know my husband deserved it, or them.

Because, he did this...

Gus

Theodore and Catherine arrived at the bar halfway into my first glass of a mediocre Cabernet.  I had been the only one there up until that point.  My two oldest sons were happily playing air hockey and video games just down the hall of the ski resort where we were staying; we were killing time before dinner.

I had enjoyed talking with Cindy, the very interesting 28-year-old bartender.  I smiled when one of her co-workers handed her a Grolsch bottle and told her it was his latest homebrew.  She was instructed to please return the bottle when she was finished with the beer.  Cindy said, "Hell, yeah.  Thanks."

Theodore was wearing a sportcoat.  That should say it all.  We were at a bar, next to a Mexican food restaurant, an arcade down the hall, at a Utah ski resort technically still off-season.  People were skiing, but the snow was poor.  Theodore pulled a chair out for his wife, leaving an empty chair between the two of them and me.

Over the next thirty minutes, I learned how Theodore hates to be called Ted or Theo and Catherine isn't a fan of Cate or Cathy.  They had two teenage kids who were up in their rooms because they were tired from their private snowboarding lessons and "...just had to have sushi."  *obnoxious chuckle*  The family was from Los Angeles.  Theodore told me about the runs he'd skied and how he's a lover of powder.  I think he's skied nearly every mountain in the U.S. and in Europe, per Theodore himself.  He told me he grew up in Europe and misses the loong runs of European mountains.

Theodore and Catherine... bugged me.  Theodore talked too much about money, clearly a man who's ego was fueled and identity defined by his income and bank account.  He and Catherine both recounted the winds and cliffs they'd conquered while skiing earlier in the day.  They looked older than me, and were the large, squishy variety of people.  It's always a little suspicious when the large, squishy folks boast about their athletic prowess.  Then again, I've been out-run by chunky gals, and seen some grace in motion on the mountain from the plus-size set.  You never know.

In walks Gus.  Glorious Gus.  He didn't look old enough to drink... legally.  He was carded and proved that he'd been 21 for three months, then he took a seat in the empty chair between Catherine and me.  He'd been coming to Utah every year for Thanksgiving since he was a kid and was meeting some buddies.

NOTE:  Gus' real name is something so COOL, but I can't tell you.  When we were talking about names he said his parents almost named him Gus.  I shared with him that Chris and I also almost named our 4-year-old son, Gus -- after Augustus McCrae in Lonesome Dove.

With a smile on his face and a thick, boyish lisp, Gus gave Theodore, Catherine, Bartender Cindy, and me a gift that night.

+++++

Gus joined the Army when he was 18 and is halfway through a six-year commitment.  He's currently stationed at Fort Hood and had just returned from Afghanistan when the massacre occurred.  He was in the building across from the tragedy when it happened.  Gus spoke freely about some experiences and understandably sterilized others.  He received a Purple Heart after being shot in the chest when he stood up in a foxhole.  He pulled the collar of his t-shirt down so we could see a portion of his scar.  He grinned and told us he and his buddy had been filming each other prior to the shooting.  As he went down, he childishly and honestly admitted that he looked at his friend and said, "Please tell me you got that on film..."

Theodore and Catherine were quiet.  Cindy listened as she cleaned glasses behind the bar.  I selfishly thought about my own sons as I absorbed Gus' words and mannerisms.

The conversation jumped from Gus' Army experiences to his high school days, and vacations with cousins.  We all let him drive.

Gus has seen young men die and recently lost his Lieutenant.  His mother encouraged him to seek psychological help to process all he'd endured at his young age.  I told him the media has highlighted the need for more mental health professionals in the military.  He told me, "Those guys sit behind a desk and push paper.  They don't know what it's like."  His half-smile and cheerful tone, punctuated his words with sharp irony.

He shared a particularly disturbing story about a puppy he'd adopted in Afghanistan.  He said the stray dogs were difficult for him because he loves dogs.  If a dog continued to trip a flare wire, intended to alert when an enemy was approaching, orders were given to kill the dog.  Gus used his night vision device to identify the dogs and threw rocks to scare them away.  He couldn't bear the thought of shooting the animals.

He adopted a puppy and named him Reggie after a dog he'd had as a child.  He said the puppy was still basically a stray because pets weren't allowed at camp, but everyone knew the dog was "his".  He said he has a picture he loves where he's cradling Reggie with one arm, the puppy's nose peeking out of his jacket, and his gun in the other arm.

One night one of Gus' fellow soldiers returned to his sleeping spot to find Reggie had peed on his blankets and bed.  Reggie wasn't even three months old.  Enraged, the soldier killed the young dog.

Gus' demeanor never deviated from light.  He didn't come across as complaining or trying to showboat with heavy stories.  He was a kid, talking with people at a bar, answering an occasional question, checking his cell phone, all with a boyish smile, Ron Howard eyes [sweet but old] and that awesome, thick lisp.

+++++

Theodore and Catherine needed to get their kids to a sushi bar, and Gus' buddies had called with word on where they planned to meet.  Theodore picked up Gus' tab and shook his hand.  Gus chatted with me for a few more minutes before excitedly leaving to join his friends.  I shook his hand and said, "I know it sounds corny, but thank you."  He smiled and said, "You're welcome."

Cindy and I visited for a while, discussing life, parenting and war... I imagine topics a bartender is well-versed in.

My sons entered the bar, signaling they were out of tokens and ready for dinner.  I proudly introduced them to Cindy, then she politely asked them to step outside of the bar...  because they were... too young.

Deviled Eggs

I like deviled eggs, but I've never made them.  In spite of this fact, my mother still thinks I need a deviled egg tray.

Every summer we have a Fourth of July party at Mom and Dad's house.  The menu rarely changes, but Mom excitedly reminds us that she's made her potato salad, her baked beans and as an extra special treat she sings, "And I'm making deviled eh-eggs!" 

The Potato Salad
When I was pregnant with all three boys I begged Mom to make her potato salad.  She puts lots of hard-boiled eggs, celery, pickles and just the right amount of mayo.  It's not too goopy.  Forget prenatal vitamins, just eat Mom's potato salad.

The Baked Beans
Her baked beans are equally delicious.  As a young working woman in my early 20s, I was deemed the "Bean Queen" at my office potlucks because I always brought a Crock-Pot of baked beans to share.  It was the only food item I knew how to prepare and transport that would feed a large group, thanks to my mother.  Brownies, cookies and chips were usually cherry-picked before the potluck sign-up sheet hit my desk.  Dumb men.

The Deviled Eggs
Mom's deviled eggs are... fine.  There are foods I prefer, but a deviled egg hits the spot once in a while.  Having been raised in the Midwest, I don't think there was ever a family gathering, picnic or holiday without a beautifully garnished deviled egg tray.  I don't recall one person's recipe out-shining another.  The eggs were always dusted with paprika and sprigs of parsley completed the egg tray presentation.

July 4th 2008...
...Mom and I were working in the kitchen.  It was late enough in the afternoon that she'd already asked me, "Are you ready for a little wine?"  I was. We sipped wine and clanked around the kitchen as we rearranged food, moving it from platter to bowl, seeking the just right serving piece for each snack and hors d'oeuvres.  She was ready to plate the deviled eggs...

"Look at my new deviled egg tray.  It's even shaped like an egg!"

"Neat, Mom."

"Do you have a deviled egg tray?"

"No.  I've never made deviled eggs."

"You've NEVER made deviled eggs?  It's really easy.  You should make them."

"My life's different than your's.  I can't think of a single place or event I've been in recent years where I would have brought deviled eggs."

"Because... you don't have a tray.  You need to get a tray."

My Plan
While reading cookbooks recently, I found a simple deviled egg recipe that uses curry powder and capers, two of my favorite ingredients.  Mom and Dad travel from Arizona to Utah every year to spend Christmas with us.  They usually arrive on my mother's birthday, December 22nd.  As a gift to Mom I'm going to prepare the special curry/caper recipe and sing, "I've made deviled eh-eggs," as they walk through the door.  And I'll find a way to serve them on a regular plate.  Although it's possible Mom's gift to me will be an egg tray... because I need one.

A glimpse of Mom and me at work in the kitchen last Christmas...

Cooking With Mom - Christmas '08 from Chris Ross on Vimeo.

Photo courtesy of Google Images.

Resourceful

When a four-year-old boy has his favorite Lego sword taken away because he's been "battacking" the dog and his brothers and his parents, make sure he doesn't see where it's been stashed.  It's possible, he'll pretend he doesn't miss the sword for a day or two, then when you least expect it...

...curious noises are heard coming from his room, which is located above the office where his mother sits quietly writing.  Not terrible noises... just curious.

The noises cease and the four-year-old boy casually enters the office and ponders aloud, "I wish I could fly," as he sighs.

His mother smiles and replies sympathetically, "I wish I could fly sometimes too, honey."

An hour later, the mother makes one of her routine patrols of the house, picking up toys to be returned to their respective bins while dusting banisters with her forearms as she motors up the stairs.

Upon entering the four-year-old boy's closet, the mother discovers a project has been underway.  A project that had not been approved because it would have most likely resulted in severe injury or death.

 

Perched on the very top shelf of his closet, was exactly where the four-year-old's father had stashed the sword... for safekeeping.

There were no injuries or deaths, and the boy and his sword have been reunited.  The mother had cocktail hour early that day.

Twenty Years

November 4, 1989

 

 

Twenty years later...

 

Happy Anniversary, Chris.  I like you.  You're fun. 

Love,
The Other Chris [the girl]

Good Sports

From the beginning, Middle Boy said he didn't want to do it.  Oldest Boy and 4-Year-Old Boy were in.  Mary [the dog] seems to enjoy the attention when I fiddle with her, so she's usually cooperative as long as her outfit isn't too tight.

I managed to talk Middle Boy into wearing the costume for pictures only.  Oldest Boy tried to persuade him to wear it trick-or-treating, but Middle Boy was firm.  He wanted to be Plo Koon, a Star Wars Jedi Master.  As far as he was concerned, his brothers and the dog could dress in The Wizard of Oz costumes I so lovingly purchased.

 

 

The Tin Man, Cowardly Lion and Dorothy embraced their roles!

 

The Scarecrow?  Not so much...

 

After we took pictures, Oldest Boy began feeling... awkward.  I think I said, "Adorable!" a few too many times.  Middle Boy quickly changed into his Plo Koon costume.  Oldest Boy watched his brother don a cool mask and a light saber.  His feet were growing colder by the second.

"I don't think I want to trick-or-treat as the Tin Man."

"You look awesome!  With [4YO Boy] and Mary, you'll be the hit of the neighborhood.  Just wear it with confidence!"

His eyes started to well.  Chris, standing behind Oldest Boy, looked at me and gently shook his head, as if to say, "Surrender, Dorothy."

"What are you going to be?" I asked.

"I can be a Jedi. It's easy."

Oldest Boy scrambled, removed his make-up and appeared on the front porch ready to trick-or-treat as a Jedi.  Our Cowardly Lion was confused and disappointed.  At four-years-old, he was young enough to want to remain in his costume, but old enough to know he'd been duped.

Mary dressed as Princess Leia for Halloween three years ago.  I thought it would be inappropriate for her to be Jabba's slave Leia [in the metal bikini], but I'm rethinking for next year...

[Click on all photos to enlarge.]

Finding My People Is Like Learning to Drive A Stick Shift

I thought I had temporary arrested development a year or so ago.  I'm concerned it's not so temporary.

When I was kid, making friends was easy.  Whoever I sat next to in class was my friend.  Whoever lived on my street was my friend.  It didn't matter if we had opposing interests.  Other than the joy and exhilaration we both received while playing with matches, my childhood friend, Samantha, and I had very little in common.  The story is similar for the friends I made in junior high, high school and college.  Different sports, different boy or girl attractions, different styles and different quirks.  We were simply friends. 

Of all of those friends, I remain very close to a handful, and even fewer allow me full range of motion.  I feel thankful for those important relationships, but I enjoy meeting people and making new friends.

For many reasons, the past 12-15 years have afforded me few opportunities to cultivate new relationships.  We've lived in four states, have had to help our sons through some challenges [everyone's doing great now], and priorities have made themselves clear to Chris and me.  I've met several people, it's the nurturing and cultivating of the new relationships where I seem to fail.

Like learning to drive a stick shift.

I get excited and rev the engine, a little too much gas, then I pop the clutch and take off with a giant jerking motion, followed by several smaller jerking motions.  Then I slow down, because I came on too strong, but I don't get the clutch, the brake and the release from the gas just right, so I kill the engine.  Not enough.  Then I try again, still too much gas, I jerk and lunge, apologize for the whiplash and make promises of a smoother ride in the future, I pull back on the gas and kill the engine... again.

I assume a level of intimacy too soon, then I recoil and appear aloof.  My throttle's messed up.  I've noticed this as I've reconnected with old friends, and as I've made new friends in person or on the internet.  As a kid, I didn't put any thought into approaching others with a genuine enthusiasm for making new friends.  As an adult, I think it freaks people out.

Often, I truly don't have the time to cultivate relationships at a moderate pace.  It's speed dating for me, baby.  When I have the time, I'm all your's and I try to pour a month [or more] of "dates" into a brief conversation or email exchange.  Then, I fall off radar.  Other times, I'm overly-aware of my arrested development because it feels like it's been so long since I've had a consistent and moderate pace in life, so I disappear out of insecurity and embarrassment.  Paralyzed by what to say or not say.

I'm thankful for my tent-post-friends, the ones who afford me full range of motion.  With them, my tarp is large and strong.  They all live states away, so If it wasn't for the telephone and email, I'd be permanently, socially disabled.  I've gotten good at having an intense five-minute relationship with the grocery store cashier, the girls and boys who work at various cosmetic and fragrance counters, as well as anyone who's trying to sell me ANYTHING.  One of my tent-post-friends admits to doing the same thing, because she too is isolated and busy.

I suppose what I'm trying to say is, if you see me jerking spastically towards you, make some room and I'll do the best I can to not hit you too hard, shift smoother and not kill the engine.  Thank you.

I Didn't Finish My Post On Procrastination

I had picked up the boys from school, stopped at the liquor store, was driving home and called Chris to touch base...

Me:  Anything new?

Chris:  No. You?

Me:  Not really.  I've had an unproductive day.  Questioned everything I wrote.  I attempted three blog posts because I was procrastinating working on other things.  The first one on Why I Blog turned into Why I Write and it felt too personal.  I wanted to tap into the "attention whore" theory Neil blogged about along with Kyran's post -- which I still need to forward to you -- but I got sidetracked.  I don't have enough time to do all this.

THEN, I started a post on Procrastination and I got all freaked out that I have a psychological disorder after Googling it.  Wikipedia nailed me.  But I found some great articles on how to resolve my reasons for procrastinating.  So that was good... I still have issues though...

THEN, I thought I need to address my running blog because I haven't posted since the last race, but I want to let that blog go, so I need to post something on CSquaredPlus3...like... about how you're running with me now and I'm trying to talk you into doing the Triple Trail Challenge next summer because Supermodel says she's out.

I hardly even looked at my other projects...

Chris:  I think you should finish the Procrastination post and title it "I Didn't Finish My Post On Procrastination".

Me:  And have a blank page?

Chris:  No.  Post what you have written so far.

Me:  I only titled it, then I went to Google so I could paste a definition at the top of the post.  That's when I got freaked out and had to diagnose myself.

Chris:  So you have nothing?

Me:  I have nothing.

Chris:  So... the content is... light.

Me:  Very.

**********

Per Wikipedia [Which, according to my sons, is not a good source because, "...ANYONE can post information on there!"]

Procrastination is the deferment of actions or tasks to a later time. Psychologists often cite this human behavior as a mechanism for coping with the anxiety associated with starting or completing any task or decision. ^[1] Psychology researchers use three criteria to categorize procrastination: for a behavior to be classified as procrastination, it must be counterproductive, needless, and delaying.^[2]

For an individual, procrastination may result in stress, a sense of guilt, the loss of personal productivity, the creation of crisis and disapproval from others for not fulfilling one's responsibilities or commitments. These combined feelings can promote further procrastination. While it is normal for people to procrastinate to some degree, it becomes a problem when it impedes normal functioning. *Chronic procrastination may be a sign of an underlying psychological disorder.

**********

*  Did you read that?  I'm SO freaked out.

The Fit

We had the stomach flu in our house last week.  First Middle Boy, then me, then the 4-Year-Old Boy.  It was a 48-hour, violent flu.  There was pain, moaning, dramatic proclamations -- "I'm going to die!" -- and lots and lots of laundry.

It began with a call from the school informing me that Middle Boy had been vomiting.  The 4-Year-Old Boy and I rushed to the school to rescue Middle Boy.  I'm embarrassed to admit that I was a little irritated when I found out that he hadn't even made it to a trash can.  He threw up sitting in his chair in Strings Class.  He told me he missed his cello, and only hit the bow.  I reminded him, lovingly, that he was TEN years old and next time he gets sick at school, he should GET UP and try to hit a receptacle.

Middle Boy was very ill.  I was a compassionate mother and nurse, helping him get to the toilet, brushing his teeth for him, wiping his face, feeding him ice chips, and providing bowls and Ziploc bags for security in case he didn't make it to the bathroom.

It finally appeared his stomach was calming.  Over the course of four hours, he drank ginger ale and ate a few soda crackers as he watched SpongeBob Squarepants on the couch.  I was happy to see color in his cheeks and hear him laugh instead of moan.  Oldest Boy and 4-Year-Old-Boy were in bed for the night.  Middle Boy said his stomach still hurt a little, but he was ready for bed.  I tucked him in, showed him where the security vomit bowl and Ziploc bag were, and told him to come to our room or call us if he needed ANYTHING.  His father and I were there to help him!  Poor, poor child, I thought.

Five minutes later, as I was climbing into my own bed, Middle Boy appeared in my doorway.

"I threw up."

"I'm sorry, honey."

"In my bed."

"WHAT?"

It was horrible.  Chris and I obviously had not communicated well about how much ginger ale or how many soda crackers we were each giving Middle Boy.  There were at least two liters of stomach contents all over the bed, the carpet, the wall, the nooks and crannies of the bed frame, beadboard and baseboards... it might have even been on the ceiling fan.

"CHRIIIIIIS!  I NEED HELP!"

Chris ran up the stairs.

"He puked again.  EVERYWHERE.  He needs a shower.  He's already dripped to our room and back to his."

Middle Boy looked at me sheepishly, "Sorry, Mom.  I thought I was done."

I know he didn't mean to.  He was tired, probably very comfortable in his bed, and half asleep when he threw up.  But there was something about the brightness of his eyes and the rosiness of his cheeks, that made me think he COULD have gotten up.

I started cleaning the mess and the more I cleaned, the angrier I became.  I stomped and slammed as I moved wet linens from room to room and searched for the proper cleaning supplies.  I had "sick" fluids running down my arms and on my forehead.  I had been SO careful as I cleaned the vomit messes earlier in the day.  My fate was sealed.

As I continued to clean, I yelled weird things at Chris and Middle Boy.  I rarely use foul language in front of the kids but I said ass and shit and hell and damn and maybe even the Big Daddy of bad words.  I barked at Chris about picking up Mary's dog shit.  Because, you know, at 10:00 p.m. after your child has puked ALL OVER HIS ROOM, it's important that the dog shit is picked up in the backyard.

I've cleaned up vomit messes more than once.  All three of the boys have thrown up in their beds.  For many reasons that I clearly see in hindsight, this particular crime scene pushed me over the edge.  I had a fit.

Middle Boy went back to bed in a restored room and made wide-eyed promises to hit the toilet or the vomit bowl... next time.  He was fine that night, although he threw up again the following night.  I'm happy to report Middle Boy came into our room and announced that he needed to vomit.   Chris did a standing broad jump from our bed, ensuring Middle Boy was escorted to our toilet and properly aimed.  No fuss, no muss.

I apologized the next morning to the entire house for my fit.  The only one who didn't seem phased was 4-Year-Old Boy, probably because he's an expert fit-thrower.

Please tell me you you've thrown a fit.  As an adult.  With an audience.  While sober.

When A Dog Goes Down and Why I Hate Team Sports

Sitting in the office, my back to the french doors leading to the front yard, I noticed a person running quickly towards our house in the reflection on my computer screen.  I turned around and saw a tall man wearing a Snowbird baseball cap taking long, purposeful strides.  He resembled James Taylor.  I felt safe.

I met him at the front door as he reached for the door bell.

"Do you know who's dog that is?" he asked as he pointed to the too still, cream-colored, fluffy animal lying in the street.

I looked where he was pointing.  "OHMYGOD!  YES!"

Our neighbor's dog had broken through his electric fence and was hit by a car.  The tall man witnessed a white truck hit the dog, throwing the dog several feet.  The truck didn't stop.

I called my neighbor and spoke with one of her sons.  When her son told me his mother wasn't home, I didn't tell him what had happened to their family pet.  The dog was still alive but had clearly been seriously injured.  I called my neighbor on her cell phone several times over the next ten minutes, as I simultaneously fetched a towel, wrapped the dog, and had panicked discussions with the tall man about where I would take the injured animal for help if my neighbor didn't answer.

I finally reached my neighbor and she and her husband were only a moment away.  The tall man and I were hunched over the dog when they pulled up in their car.  Within a couple of minutes, the dog was on his way to the nearest animal hospital.

I'm not a dog person, mostly because I'm busy... and a neat freak, but I have tremendous compassion for animals.  We have Mary and I joke about my desire for her to wear underwear [for hygiene purposes].  Chris still claims he plans to make a hat out of her when she passes because he spent $8,000 to save her life one summer.

There's nothing worse than seeing a dog suffer.  When our neighbor's dog had been hit, I was numb with fear and panic.  I managed to do what needed to be done but my heart was pounding and I felt like I might faint from the overwhelming emotions.  I wanted to yell at the tall man, "Help him!  Fix him!  He's hurting!"  I might have actually yelled those things.  It's kind of a blur.

It's a good thing I'm not an ER doctor.  I'd be no good at that.  It's not that I don't want to help -- because I do -- it's that the intense empathy I experience nearly cripples me.  It's also the fear of not knowing precisely what to do.  Analysis paralysis.  I don't want to do the wrong thing, especially when the stakes are high.

Just like team sports...

Volleyball terrifies me.  I've never learned how to hit the ball without hurting my forearms.  I'm the one you don't want on your team because even if the ball comes directly to me, I'll scream to my teammates, "GET IT!"  We've declined many invitations to play on a couple's volleyball league.  Chris knows better.  He's seen me panic in backyard pool volleyball games.  I can't handle the pressure.

It's the same with softball.  I have vivid memories of playing left field for the Green Eyed Ladies in Winchester, Indiana, when I was a kid.  Hated it.  The ball would land and roll practically to my feet -- I'd look at the right fielder and scream, "GET IT!"  I threw like a girl [still do] and struck out every time I was at bat.  A couple's softball league is also out of the question.

Had the neighbors not been so close to home, I would have managed to get the suffering dog to the animal hospital.  My adrenalin kept me moving, although I was spinning a bit, and asking the tall man redundant questions and repeating, "This is terrible.  This is terrible.  This is really, really terrible."  Babbling seems to frequently be my modus operandi.

I spoke with my neighbor and the dog is alive.  His condition has been changed from critical to stable.  When he returns home, I'm requesting that they up the juice on his electric fence.

I may not be able to be crowned The-Queen-of-Grace-Under-Pressure, but I'm always well-intended.  If history repeats itself, I have a shot at being the next Nobel Peace Prize winner.

Be honest...

I like comfortable shoes.  I'm also a typical gal who likes to look pulled together with my own sense of style.  It's a very casual style that I have, but I feel silly if I try to dress like a Junior League-er or keep up with the trendsetters when in reality I'm a quasi-urban-granola meets wanna-be-urban-cowgirl who loves her pearls and a well structured blouse once in a while [maybe that is a bit Junior League-ish].

I don't work outside the home.  Some days I only leave the house to pick up the older boys from school, so it's just 4-year-old boy and me together... all day.  Other days I take kids to music lessons, karate, run errands [not fancy places], and occasionally meet Chris for lunch.  I'm usually puttering around the house and yard [read here], doing the things that most stay-at-home parents do to keep the house running smoothly.

Again, I like comfortable shoes.  I've tried to deviate [read here], but I always return to comfortable.

When I went to Texas a couple of weeks ago for my 25th high school reunion, I packed what I thought were very cute [and comfortable] shoes.  I wore a pair of Dansko Mary Jane's on the plane and changed into a pair of Dansko green strappy sandals, with a heel, when I arrived at my friend Vicki's house because it was hotter than I expected.

As I unpacked, my two friends, Vicki and Rena, were there chatting as we played show-and-tell with clothes, photos and hair drama.  I showed them the shoes I brought and how I planned to incorporate them into my reunion outfits [this was a very casual reunion].

Vicki said, "Those look like something my grandma would wear."

Rena chose her words carefully, "It's just...  well... you look like you stepped out of a Columbia catalog."

I was shocked.  "You don't think these are cute?!  I'm not a Dallas-girl, ya' know.  This is me.  I live in Utah and I schlep kids around all day.  My life is very casual... and sporty."

Rena and Vicki wouldn't budge so I didn't wear anything Dansko to the reunion functions.  But I wore my comfortable shoes the rest of the time in Texas.

My Dansko collection:

 

They're not that bad.  Are they?

I have cute Non-Dansko shoes too.  A few kitten heels, strappy flats, and a couple pairs of I-Look-Ridiculous-In-These-Because-They're-So-Not-Me-But-My-Husband-Loves-Them high heels.

Maybe it's time for me to change brands of comfortable shoes.  I asked a gal at Anthropologie if she liked the Dansko Mary Jane's I was wearing the other day.  She said she did.  I figured she would because... she works at Anthropologie.  I needed the easy stroke.  She mentioned, politely of course, that I might find some comfortable, but up to date, styles on the Frye website.

I don't know.  Are they that bad?  Be honest.  [Except you, Vicki, Rena, and Dallas-girls.]

Barbie Dream House And The Chocolate Room

The little girl I used to strip with in Winchester, Indiana, -- Debbie -- recently found me on Facebook.  It was a glorious day!  We fell out of touch nearly 35 years ago, but the memories are crisp, warm and happy.  I LOVE when it's a mutual Facebook connection.

I forwarded Debbie the post I wrote about our stripping. [Read here.]  Thankfully, she liked it.

Debbie was more than a childhood stripping friend...  I loved playing with Debbie because she was smart, fun and imaginative.  She also had the nicest mother who was permissive but not in a reckless way.  As a single parent, Debbie's mother did a wonderful job providing structure, surrounding Debbie with love, encouraging her... and giving her the coolest room and stuff.

Debbie had a canopy bed in her girly-girl room and all the best girly toys.  She received a Baby Alive doll one year for Christmas along with a pack of real disposable baby diapers.  We fed and changed that doll again and again and again.  I think we may have clogged her plumbing because we didn't always provide the doll with the recommended bottle of water between spoon feedings to wash out the red and green Cream of Wheat-like food.  Debbie's mother gently warned us, always with a smile, "Girls, Baby Alive might not work properly... and she might start to smell... if you don't follow the directions."  But she allowed us the choice to gorge Baby Alive.  And gorge her, we did.

The item I coveted most of Debbie's was her Barbie Dream House.  I think it was technically the Barbie Townhouse, but it was MY dream house.  It had three stories, an elevator, and cool girly decor.  If I could have twitched my nose like Samantha on Bewitched or blinked like Jeanie on I Dream of Jeanie and made myself Barbie size, I would have been prancing around that dream house in my tiny, tight, high-heel Barbie shoes, and my mini-skirt with figure flattering blouse, dusting furniture while sipping a cup of tea from a teeny-tiny cup and saucer.  Trust me, I tried.  I twitched and blinked so often as a kid, I'm sure I appeared to have a tick.

I would have twitched or blinked Debbie into the scene... as Skipper.  Sorry, Debbie.

Today my dream house would look much different than the Liberace-style house I desired in the 70s. [Although a part of me still enjoys sequins, feathers and over the top opulence.  Like a part of me would also like to live in Willy Wonka's factory, or the land of Oz.  Fantasy.]  I've learned that bigger isn't better.  It's more to maintain.

I never had my own Barbie Dream House, but I'm thankful to Debbie for graciously sharing hers.  I'm also thankful for Debbie's willingness and shared desire to explore our fantasies, stretch our imaginations and her mother's appropriate and loving support.

I was saddened to learn that Debbie's mother passed away in 1999.  I would have liked her to know that a day with her and Debbie, was like entering the Chocolate Room.

The Reunion

I graduated from a small high school in Justin, Texas, 25 years ago.  My parents moved from Arizona to Texas the summer between my sophomore and junior year.  I was once again, the new girl.  It really wasn't a bad thing, the moving. 

The move prior to junior year was my third school change -- not excessive in my opinion -- and I'm thankful for the exposure to different states [Indiana, Arizona, Texas], the resulting close friendship I have with my brother, and the special friends and memories I've gained along the way.  I feel the same about the moves I've made with Chris during the past 20 years.  I've been enriched, not robbed, by the occasional move.

As a person who loves to write, I have a pile of experiences and observations to tap into and build upon.  I feel thankful for the abundant material.

Because I didn't attend my high school for all four years, and I linked arms with a steady boyfriend shortly after arriving to Texas [a very good person who is happily married today], I don't have too many shared experiences outside of classroom time with my graduating class.  As I made my way around my 25th high school reunion, happily hugging and greeting old friends and classmates, I wasn't surprised when a few of the kids didn't remember me.  One guy, who I thought I knew fairly well because I was a lifeguard at our neighborhood pool, I knew his high school girlfriend, and my mother was friends with his mother, actually said, NICE TO MEET YOU! as he left the party Saturday night.  I just smiled and said, "It was nice to see you again."

Another guy who dated one of my best friends, Vicki [the gal I stayed with while I was in Texas for the reunion], didn't remember me at all.  He was very nice to me at the reunion.  We were talking about my braces and I commented, "...it was either boobs or braces...".  He said, "I think you made a mistake.  Next time you have a choice like that, call me.  You should have gone for the boobs."  I liked him, even though he doesn't have a clue who I am.

It was good.  The reunion.  There are a few people I didn't get to talk with enough.  I assume others feel the same.  It was impossible to touch everyone in one or two short evenings and feel satiated.  We need a reunion week.  Then again... maybe we don't.

I drove past my family's old house and places that held powerful memories.  I was stirred, but not shaken.

I was able to spend time with a friend I used to lifeguard with -- Lynn P. Carlson [the P. stands for pretty].  The day I arrived in Texas it rained.  We were at a bar on that warm, muggy evening and Lynn was trying to remember the last name of a guy we both knew.  She said, "Remember?  He had frizzy hair."  Then she looked at me and said, "No offense, Chrisy."  I love Lynn P. Carlson.  And again, not enough time.

[LPC is one of the few people who make me forget I have braces.  She makes me THAT happy.  Frizzy hair and all.]

It was great simply being with my girlfriends.  Looking at clothes, giving each other honest feedback about appearances, thoughts, feelings, and life's problems.  I talk on the phone frequently with these girls, but to feel them physically and share laughs was long overdue.

I sobbed as I sat in the airport waiting for my plane.  I called Chris and told him how I felt.  He was so compassionate.

I arrived home after the kids were in bed Sunday evening.  I went in their rooms and kissed them, even waking up my 4-year-old after Chris rolled his eyes and asked me not to -- he'd been ornery earlier in the evening.  Imagine that?

There's no place like home, and it's true that you can't go back... but I will return to the next reunion.  Maybe with boobs... not braces.

The Jacket

[I wrote this post for my other blog "See Chrisy Run", but thought I'd post it here too.]

Supermodel and I each became proud owners of the Triple Trail Challenge "trophy" jacket on Saturday. The jacket was awarded to participants who successfully completed the three required events.  We ran our third race, Mid Mountain Marathon, Saturday morning.  It was much more difficult than we expected.

I won't give a blow-by-blow, but 25 miles of the 26.2 were on singletrack.  Rocky, root-ey, hilly, singletrack.  When I crossed the finish line I searched for and found the few friends who had run the race prior... the friends who had said, "Your legs will feel GREAT after running a marathon on trails!  Yes it's at 8,000' elevation, but the trail's relatively level, just a few climbs, and it's all downhill after mile 20!  The scenery's beautiful!"

When I found those friends, I said, "You lied.  About everything."  And they did.

But, Supermodel and I each conquered the course.  I suppose the views were pretty if you wanted to prolong the time on the mountain to stop running and... look.  My eyes had to remain on the trail or I tripped, plus the views gave me vertigo.  I was running with a guy for several miles; he stopped around mile 12 and said, "Let's just take a moment to enjoy this beautiful view!"  I said, "Pretty.  Now let's GO."

I fell.  Three times.  It hurt.

I've never fallen while running on the road.  I fell three times during the Jupiter Peak Steeplechase in August, and was determined not to fall during Mid Mountain Marathon.  I can't tell you how painful it is, physically and emotionally, to hit the ground in one of these races.  The physical pain is obvious.  But it's the emotional pain and mojo loss that drains me.  It's a huge withdrawal from an energy account that has limited funds.

I finished though.  I finished with sore knees and a dirty body, but I finished strong.

[Looking for Chris and the boys.]

[I see the boys.]

 

Supermodel fell once and also finished strong.

 

We hugged and cried and were happy that the event, the whole Triple Trail Challenge, was over.

I called Supermodel today...

ME:  How ya feelin'?

SUPERMODEL:  Better than I thought I would.  My shoulder and hip hurt.  I think it's from my fall.  How about you?

ME:  My quads and calves are sore, and my knees are hammered, but I'm functioning.

We talked about what we'd eaten, how we craved salty foods, how our plumbing had taken 24 hours to return to normal.  Then I asked her if she'd pop over so Chris could take some pictures of us in our jackets.  The jackets I convinced her would be SO cool to have.  We'd be like the Navy SEALS [sort-of] of trail running!

Here we are in the jackets we ran for, fell for, argued about, and spent $140 in entry fees for!

[Click on all photos to enlarge.]

 

 

I wanted to do some fun poses, maybe build a pyramid or do the splits, but Supermodel wanted no part of it.  Chris photographed one of our famous disagreements.

I begged and pleaded, but I couldn't get Supermodel to do a Cirque du Soleil trick with me in our jackets.  She finally just walked away.

 

Maybe after we complete the Triple Trail Challenge next year she'll do it.  C'mon, Supermodel.  It'll be fun!

The Third Child

Our third [and final] child turned four on September 9th.  I think he had a nice day and felt celebrated, but I felt badly because his birthdays are so different than his two older brothers were at the same ages.

With the first two boys we had parties with friends, games, decorations, treats, pinatas, crafts and adult beverages.  We planned and prepared weeks in advance, allowing each boy to select a theme or a special party location.  At the ages of three and four, the two older boys had preschool friends and had been to age appropriate places, like Build-A-Bear Workshop.

In most ways, Toddler Child is much more exposed than the first two boys were.  Oldest Boy and Middle Boy were not allowed to watch shows like SpongeBob SquarePants or Rugrats.  My friend T was visiting one time [he doesn't have children] and even he commented on the garish and off colors of animated shows for kids.

Oldest Boy [11] and Middle Boy [10] eventually watched SpongeBob SquarePants [Thankfully, Rugrats is off the air.], but it wasn't until they were seven or eight.  We're stricter than most parents we know when it comes to movies and media that we allow our kids to view or play.  Childhood is fleeting.  There's time.  I'm not worried about them missing anything. 

Oldest Boy and Middle Boy are beginning to enjoy shows that many of our friends allowed their kids to watch at a much younger age.  The problem?  Toddler Child sees some of these movies and is now one of THOSE children that I used to shake my head in judgment and say, "WHAT are they thinking letting their child watch THAT?"  

I called Chris one day in a huff because Middle Boy came home from kindergarten asking me if he could watch Mr. & Mrs. Smith like one of his classmates.  Uh, no.

NOTE:  Brad Pitt didn't stand a chance when he agreed to do that movie.  Angelina Jolie was in her prime and looked stunning.  I might have considered leaving Chris to go adopt babies all over the world with her too.  Poor Jen.  I can't believe she didn't see that one coming.

Sadly, as exposed as Toddler Child is to certain media, slang, and social ideas [via listening to his brothers], he's not exposed to many social experiences outside of our home.  We don't have him in preschool, by choice, so he and I spend a lot of time together.  He's not quite the parasitic head he once was. [Read here.]  But we remain very attached to one another.

For his birthday I planned for the two of us to spend a few hours at a dinosaur museum near our home while Chris was at work and the older boys were at school.  Toddler Child was happy with the idea.  I felt guilty because I wasn't throwing a little party, but in reality, he doesn't know what he's missing.  A day out with me when we don't have to hit Costco sounded great to him.

I called Supermodel and asked if Supermodel Jr. could go with us.  Supermodel Jr. was available.  She's the youngest of six children so she's more exposed than her older siblings were at her age also.  She carried a purse, wore sunglasses and applied her lipstick with more skill than I currently do.  Toddler Child was very interested in her.  I was very impressed by her.

[Click all photos to enlarge.]

She had Toddler Child hold her purse while she colored.  He looked a little uncomfortable, but politely obliged.

 

After the museum, we had lunch, visited a children's farm then stopped at the bakery on the way home to get Toddler Child's cake.  I watched those two little kids interact, observed their differences and similarities, and was pleased to see how kind and polite they were to one another.  It was a fun and memorable day for all three of us.

Even though it wasn't a party with lots of kids and a pinata, I like to think our third child felt celebrated, and I know that he will always appreciate the gift of enjoying your own company.

 

I Blinked

As quickly as it began, summer break is ending.  Oldest Boy and Middle Boy return to school next week.  The school they attend resumes classes after Labor Day so we enjoy a summer break like the kind I had when I was a kid.  Three full months.  I love having the boys home and will join Toddler Child next week as he mopes around the house muttering, "I miss the big boys."

Our summer is ending with an assortment of tales to tell, but I've not had the time to chronicle everything publicly. 

Shortly after giving birth to Oldest Boy, I asked Chris if he got any good pictures or video.  He said, "I decided I wanted to experience the birth of our child, not worry about documenting it."  There's balance in that philosophy.  We have photos and journals that I'm thankful we have, but many, many years from now will any person really care?

Abbreviated Tales

Death:  The boys were prepared for Mamaw's death.  They were even prepared for the death of Susan Nelson, the wife of blogger, Fat Cyclist [Elden].  But they weren't prepared for the death of their beloved kindergarten teacher who passed unexpectedly due to a pulmonary embolism.  She was only 48.  These three deaths all occurred in August.  We parented through the death of a woman who had battled breast cancer for several years and left behind her husband and four children.  We parented through the death of an older person, blessed with a full and long life.  And we're still discussing the death of a teacher who appeared healthy one day and the next, was gone.  Rough.

It's Not Funny Anymore:  I had another incident with the car.  I dropped off Oldest Boy at his teacher's house for an ice-cream social.  As I backed out of the driveway [too fast], I hit the front of her husband's parked car.  No one was hurt.  When I called Chris to tell him what had happened, his normally calm and understanding tone was replaced with irritation as he said, "Are you effing kidding me?" 

NOTE:  My parents are refusing to take any calls from me if they see I'm calling from my cell phone.  [I only use my cell phone in the car.  For the record, I was NOT on my phone when I backed into the parked car.]

Birthdays:  Middle Boy turned ten on August 30th and Toddler Child will turn four next week.  Middle Boy thinks it's cool to be in the double-digits, and Toddler Child says he wants to be two, not four.  I told him I wish time worked that way sometimes too.

 

Hummingbird:  We had a hummingbird in the garage.  It flew around and rested on different brake cables of the bikes hanging from our garage ceiling.  I won't make this tale longer than it needs to be.  We were excited at the time.  You would have thought we had a bald eagle nesting on our trash can.  I have too many pictures of a hummingbird sitting on my bike's brake cable.

 

History:  We can't rewrite it.  Isn't that both a tragic and a glorious thing?  For now, this tale will remain very abbreviated.

Goodbye Summer:  I can't believe it's over!  I say this at the end of every school year, holiday, vacation, etc...  And I know I'll say it again.  I'm trying to enjoy the last few days before school starts by ignoring the toys that are left around the house, delaying wiping fingerprints where there typically are none, and avoiding yelling up the stairs, "Take it down a notch, boys!" when I hear them roughhousing.

Today I took my camera upstairs instead of requesting the boys downshift their play.

 

 

I miss the big boys already.

Unforgettable

Mary Jane Hautem, my grandmother, passed away on August 20, 2009, at approximately 2:00 p.m.  She would have been 92 on August 28th.

I was able to visit Mamaw in early July when we were in Arizona at my parents' house.  I saw her twice and knew when I said good-bye to her on the last visit, I'd never see her again, even though I promised a return trip to Arizona, without kids, for only her in August or September.  After our annual family trips to Arizona each summer, which are typically busy and hectic caring for kids and spending not-enough-time with family and friends, I have returned a couple of times a year solo so I could share time with Mamaw minus any other obligations or distractions.

Mamaw's physical and cognitive deterioration were evident in July compared to when I saw her in September 2008 and January 2009.  I started to write about the time we spent with her in July when I returned to Utah, but never posted.  Here's a portion:

Chris and I took the boys to visit her one day.  She was sitting at the kitchen table when we arrived.  Her back was towards us and when I walked around to look at her face, her eyes were closed.  She had a slight smile on her face.  I woke her and said, It's me again. ... Chrisy.  I brought Chris-Boy and the boys with me.  I looked in her eyes, begging her to know me.  She smiled, but I could tell she was confused and didn't recognize me.  She was in a different place in her mind, and I wasn't part of her experience.  But her departure was brief.

After a few moments she spoke slowly, still smiling and said, "Well sure it's you, Chrisy.  And look at these boys.  Let's go back to my house." [She meant her room.]

We walked her to her room in the Group Home.  Oldest Boy played his saxophone for her, Middle Boy played his guitar, and Toddler Child writhed around on the floor, growling and whining that he wanted to go home.  Chris and I tried to talk with Mamaw, but she can't hear well.  A true conversation was difficult, but we still managed to connect with her.  I know that she enjoyed watching the boys, even writhing, growling, rude Toddler Child.  I think she could have watched them for hours.  She stared shamelessly at each child, cocking her head, taking in every detail.  At one point she said, "I just love watching their expressions.  Don't you, Chrisy?"

After our visit I asked Oldest Boy if it made him sad to see the effects of age on Mamaw.  He said, No, not really.  I liked it that she was so cheerful.  That made me happy.

A little over four weeks ago, Mamaw was found on the floor in her room by one of the Group Home caregivers.  She had fallen, broken her femur and suffered a brain bleed.  After consulting with doctors at the hospital, and being informed that she would not survive surgeries to repair either injury, Dad and his brother made the difficult decision to move Mamaw to a hospice facility.  The length of her stay at hospice was longer than anyone expected.  It was an unfortunate and difficult process; the dying.  News of her death came as a relief.

Mamaw was a kindred spirit to me.  With no disrespect intended to the important and devoted people in my life, I've never felt more loved by anyone than by Mamaw.  She loved me, accepted me, forgave me, was honest with me, trusted me, apologized to me, and understood me.  I began missing and grieving her some time ago, and I'll miss her thirty years from now.

There was a time when Mamaw and Papaw lived in Tucson, Arizona, and Chris and I lived in Phoenix.  Chris and I spent many weekends in Tucson with them before we had kids.  We even took a week-long trip to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, when Mamaw and Papaw were 80.  We enjoyed spending time together and were compatible travel mates.

[Note: Papaw died in June 2007.]

 

I have vivid memories of swimming with Mamaw in her backyard pool while a portable cassette player played Natalie Cole's Unforgettable: With Love.  We called it our "synchronized swimming" as we side-stroked, back-stroked, and gracefully moved through the water to the music.  Mamaw sang.  Papaw sat in the shade and tapped his foot as he lifeguarded.  He didn't like Mamaw swimming alone.

I know the lyrics to "Unforgettable" were referring to a romantic relationship, but I believe Mamaw sang them to me when we swam, and I can honestly sing them to her.

Unforgettable, that's what you are
Unforgettable though near or far
Like a song of love that clings to me
How the thought of you does things to me
Never before has someone been more

Unforgettable in every way
And forever more, that's how you'll stay
That's why, darling, its incredible
That someone so unforgettable
Thinks that I am unforgettable too

Unforgettable in every way
And forever more, that's how you'll stay
That's why, darling, its incredible
That someone so unforgettable
Thinks that I am unforgettable too

-Irving Gordon

A few memories of Mamaw, including the last time I saw her. [The last 50 seconds or so of the video.]

Mamaw - Unforgettable from Chris Ross on Vimeo.

The Women

Polygamy (Plural Marriage)

The family is ordained of God. Marriage between man and woman is essential to His eternal plan. At certain times and for His specific purposes, God, through His prophets, has directed the practice of plural marriage (sometimes called polygamy), which means one man having more than one living wife at the same time. In obedience to direction from God, Latter-day Saints followed this practice for about 50 years during the 1800s but officially ceased the practice of such marriages after the Manifesto was issued by President Woodruff in 1890. Since that time, plural marriage has not been approved by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and any member adopting this practice is subject to losing his or her membership in the Church.

-Taken from LDS.ORG

It was a hot day in late June, the Hogle Zoo in Salt Lake City wasn't crowded, and the animals were surprisingly active.  I packed lunches for my sons and myself.  We enjoyed peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on a picnic table while watching zebras play.  I chose a table away from the others, that was in the shade and clean.  As we were eating, a man and woman wheeled their disabled adult son around us to a table that was more secluded than ours.  They prepared their son for a tube feeding, and fed him.  I watched my sons, interested in their reaction.  It didn't phase them.  They smiled at the three-person family, happily ate their sandwiches and enjoyed the rearing zebras.

As we walked around the zoo, I noticed some young men wearing jeans, long-sleeve, button-front shirts and wide brimmed hats.  The Hogle Zoo is near a historical park where employees wear "pioneer" clothes.  At first I thought the young men were from the park, but then I noticed their contemporary shoes.  Then I saw them join several young girls, a few women and one man.  They were an FLDS polygamist family. On occasion I see sister-wives shopping for groceries and I'm aware of a few polygamist homes where I've seen women and children milling around, but I've never seen an entire FLDS family together in public.  I was fascinated.  I wanted to follow them, watch them, eavesdrop, take pictures, and ask questions. 

Coincidentally, we happened to be on the same general path around the zoo so I was able to observe this family for nearly an hour.  I was not following them, I was following my kids.  It was serendipitous.

What I noticed...

The Girls:  They ranged in age from preschool age to late teens.  They all wore the classic FLDS dresses and had long, beautifully braided hair.  They were pretty little girls, all fair-haired or red-haired, and freckled.  They looked healthy and happy, spoke freely to one another, their brothers, mothers and father, and moved about the exhibits with the normal pace and excitement of any child.  Some of the older girls had digital and video cameras.  They never looked at or seemed to notice another human being.  It was as if people were invisible, or insignificant, like a tree or a bush.  Aware of it's location, but able to maneuver around the object without looking directly at it.

The Boys:  They too ranged in age from preschool age to late teens.  There were fewer boys than girls, and a couple of the older ones had rugged good looks, and working hands.  Their coloring was like the girls, and again, they were all attractive, looked physically healthy, talked and laughed with each other and their family members, and displayed unabashed excitement and pleasure while viewing the animals.  Their long sleeve shirts were buttoned at the collar and their hats looked like something Tom Sawyer would wear.  The only visible skin, like the girls, was their hands and their faces.  They also did not look at another person outside of their family.  Not once.

The Father:  He was dressed like the boys except his hat looked like a pith helmet.  He was a red-haired man, not nearly as handsome as his sons, and built like... Rush Limbaugh.  His face resembled Ron Howard's, almost soft and appealing, with an expression that I read as both melancholy and content.  He may have been 45-55 years old.  He stayed close to his wives and occasionally he bent down to listen to something a young child wanted to say to him, giving the child a smile and a pat.  He looked at the animals, but he was watching people.  I believe he was constantly taking in the surroundings as the protector of his family.

The Women:  I saw four wives.  They were dressed like the girls, hair elaborately braided with high bangs, but these weren't pretty women.  They looked middle-aged, tired and frumpy, although I can't honestly say that they looked unhappy.  Their faces likely betrayed their age.  They were probably younger than they looked.  The kids all appeared so physically healthy with rosy cheeks, nice teeth and bright eyes.  The women, in contrast, all had 20-40 pounds to lose and looked like the kind of women who are busy taking care of everyone but themselves.  Two of the women had digital cameras and were snapping pictures of the animals and the kids.  Just like the children, none of the women looked at anyone outside of their family.

My Sons:  They seemed oblivious to this family.  Other zoo visitors were clearly curious, and I was both surprised and pleased to see how discreetly people tried to satisfy their curiosity.  Glancing at one of the family members quickly, resisting the urge to stare.  My boys didn't even steal a glance.  At one point Toddler Child was in the midst of several little FLDS girls, darting from exhibit to exhibit.  He moved their skirts out of the way if he couldn't see an animal.  I nearly hurt myself trying to take a picture of Toddler Child looking at a crocodile with the girls.  To preserve the kids' identities, I'll only share this one.

I've watched various documentaries about the FLDS sect.  Women [who haven't escaped] claim to be happy and content.  How can they not be when they don't know anything different?  I find it interesting that even with the boundaries established for them, the women are still women.  Because they don't cut their hair, they get as creative as possible with intricate braids, twists and bangs.  The dresses have subtle differences in pleats, buttons, collars, and stitching.  When given a box in which to operate, they still explore every nook and cranny.  Where these women can exercise their girl-power, they do.

I don't know why this family was in Salt Lake City at the Hogle Zoo on an afternoon in late June.  They may have been in town for reasons associated with the Warren Jeffs trial.  I'm not aware of FLDS members "vacationing".  The children I saw that day appeared healthy and happy.  Almost typical in their behavior.  Their future is predictable unless they exit the faith.  We know the end of the story.  With the recent attention on the Lost Boys and the practice of marrying underage girls [something the FLDS sect has renounced], perhaps their future will be... I don't know... better?  not so bad?  Their world is so radically different from ours that it's difficult to imagine.

The father of this family seemed content and proud of his beautiful children and devoted wives.  I'm convinced he believes he's traveling a righteous path.

To think about this entire family, their beliefs, the obviously hard-working boys, girls, women and even father, their clothing on a hot summer day, wondering if the boys would ever have a chance to marry, knowing none of them will marry for love... in total left me feeling still curious, and uneasy.  But it was the faces of the women, those women, that disturbed me the most.