Treasures

Here is my newest treasure. I actually bottled them a couple of weeks ago, but they are still sitting on the kitchen table waiting for me to rearrange my pantry closet to make a space for the jars. I got the peaches from my daughter's food co-op when I was in Utah mid-month for a family reunion. She'd asked if I'd be willing to split a box with her, and I decided to get a whole box for myself. They are California peaches, because Utah's won't be ready for a few more weeks. But each and every piece of fruit was beautiful and succulent. There wasn't even a slice of waste. I nibbled on bits of them as I peeled them and put them into the bottles, and they are as yummy as they look. I got thirteen jars from 25 pounds.

It has been so long since I canned anything (not once in the five years I've lived in NV) that I had to go look up on-line the step-by-step directions. And peaches are easy! But, when you don't use a skill, you forget important details. I'm looking forward to getting some tomatoes when we go to the beach for camping in a couple of weeks. My favorite canned tomatoes are made by myself. I've tried every brand, and none are as tasty and satisfying as the ones that come from a jar I packed.

A Light at the End of the Tunnel

Actually, the light is coming from between my toes. Tonight, I was lying on the couch watching TV with my left leg propped up on my right knee, and I realized, as I positioned my recovering foot so that it blocked the light from the floorlamp, that I could see light between each of my toes! That means the swelling has gone down that much! Cool.

These are freshly painted toenails, done by me, so don't look too closely. I'm at that awkward age: not flexible enough to get my feet close enough to my eyes so that my bifocals will give me a clear enough look to paint my toes neatly. The foot is still too tender to endure a professional pedicure and accompanying manhandling. But, I didn't do too bad of a job this time.

Remember This

I was cleaning out some boxes today. And naturally I was stopped in my cleaning by something I found to read...It was a binder my son had made of letters I'd written to him while he was in Argentina on his mission. It was hilarious and awesome to read them because it was 13-14 years ago and so many things are so different now. Duh. But I'm writing this whole post to quote myself from so long ago:

I told about going to stake conference and listening to a talk by a man who said,

"Many people say what a lucky person I am. But I would prefer to think of it as being "blessed" rather than lucky, because you don't know where your next luck will come from, but you always know where blessings come from. God is dependable."

That is all. Just remember it and be thankful for blessings.

Discretion is the Better Part of Valor

As you know, I am a member of the self-appointed International Grammar Police. And I have occasionally actually corrected signs that I have come across in stores, and places. However, I've had two experiences lately that I think will show that, not only do I have good grammar skills, but I also have common sense.


There is a property I pass on my way up to the temple near my house. I say property because it is a large lot surrounded by a wall that contains a house, several outbuildings, pieces of construction machinery and a travel trailer. It is a typical of other lots in this part of town, in that it was here a long time before this area became heavily populated and is still zoned for horses and so is larger than a common house plat. But, the wall has three signs posted along its perimeter, all saying the same thing:

Your on video, stupid.

Beneath the words is a drawing of a large pistol, pointed out toward the reader. It is meant as a deterrent to one who might be considering climbing over the wall and burglarizing the home. It is all I can do to resist returning to this block with a large Sharpie marker and correcting the "your" to a "you're". But I do resist. Because I am on video, duh. And I do not wish to be shot.

Yesterday, I drove for several blocks next to a pickup truck that had something posted on the rear window, using those vinyl letters and cutouts you can get made. There was Tinkerbell with her little fairy wings taking up one side of the window and these words on the other side: (big words)

If your going to ride my a$$,

at least pull my hair.

She also had her driver's side window down, so she could hang her cigarette out and tap off the ash. And I pulled up along side of her at three different lights. But, I did not suggest a correction of the misused "your" because I didn't wish to be told where to put my correction and how far.

So, even though I am an official language enforcement officer, I understand the limits of my voluntary service and so I live to correct on another day.

Rituals

I hope you don't get tired of hearing about KittyCat. It ought to be boring, because--hey--she's a kittycat and there isn't much variety in her life. However, today, I thought of an interesting concept.

In the summer, she really likes to stay out all night. But, when the sun comes back up, she is peering in through the french doors with an anxious expression because now it time for The Ceremony.

On our bed we have a patchwork corduroy comforter. This is just the best thing, if you are KittyCat. She loves to pump her paws on the corduroy, as long as there is a person under it to be the extra bit of fluffiness. So, when she comes in on a summer morning, she must have someone in the bed. If there isn't someone in the bed, she will follow you around the house meowing urgently. Or if you are working on the computer, eating breakfast, whatever, she will not cease until someone gets back under the comforter (it doesn't matter if you're dressed...) and lay there so that Her Majesty can stand on you and push her paws against the corduroy.

She gets a faraway look in her eyes, sometimes she starts to drool a bit. But the paw pumping ceremony MUST occur every morning. She will sometimes curl up next to you and sleep, or, lately, I've had her curl up next to me and start washing. Or, if she gets her corduroy fix, then she will jump off the bed and curl up on CoolGuy's office floor and sleep. Or wash first.

But--here's what I thought about today, after getting back into bed with my clothes on to satisfy The Craving. What is she washing off? I mean how dirty can one get when one spends the day in this fashion:

Patio:

Office:

Kitchen.

So, when one's entire day consists of moving from one spot to the next, flopping down, sleeping, and then perhaps stopping off for a little snack at the food bowl, how does any part of you get dirty? And yet, everyday, thorough washing--all the legs, using paws on the face, entire tail---the whole cat. Hmmmm....

Reject!

I had an interesting experience with the foot this week. Every bit of it has been healing nicely, (slowly) but nicely. Just as the doctor indicated, right on the schedule he'd predicted.

But then, it started to be sore and look red along the right side of my foot, below the big toe. This was the site of an incision where he'd removed a little section of tendon so that it wouldn't be pulling my big toe outward any longer. He said he'd put in dissolving stitches, so that as my foot healed, the stitches would just go away.

But now this incision site was red, and very sore when I put on my shoe because the shoe rubbed it directly. There was a small, pointy thing sticking out from the top end of the incision, so I wondered if one of the stitches wasn't dissolving properly.

I finally sat down on Thursday evening, with tweezers, and pulled on the white pointy thing, but is turned out just to be a bit of dry skin. However, when I plucked this piece of skin off, it opened a teeny hole, and pus pushed its way out. Hmm...this can't be good. I probed around a bit, got some more icky looking white stuff to ooze forth, and then I put a hot poultice on it for about 30 minutes. That drew out a little more goo, so then I rubbed some antibiotic cream into it and applied a band aid. The next morning, it looked so much better, and most of the redness was gone.

Now, you may be thinking, "Why didn't you go to the doctor the next day? " Because I wanted to go to my family reunion instead. And I had to drive all the way to northern Utah before 6:00 P.M. on Friday afternoon from Las Vegas. Plus, my foot looked a whole lot better.

So, I spent Friday, Saturday and half of Sunday visiting relatives and enjoying myself. Then I got back on the road and returned to Las Vegas, in time to host my son's family overnight on their way to San Diego for a little vacation. They left Monday morning around 10:00 and I did laundry and fixed lunch and then CoolGuy and I went to the movies (Despicable Me---very entertaining!) to get out of the heat.

Then, as we were sitting around watching Jeopardy that evening, I was examining my foot. CoolGuy, aka Attilla the Nurse, asked what I was checking for. I told him the entire story of the redness, the pus, etc. Why, yes, he did have a cow, how did you know? Actually, he pointed out that I've done all this arduous healing and everything is going so well, and I'd put in all this time doing everything else right, why would I mess around with this problem? (!!??)

Really, I'd planned to go to the doctor on Monday if I wasn't completely healed, and then I'd gotten distracted with the visitors, and the movie and stuff. So, that night when I finally sat down and probed around a bit, I realized that it wasn't all better. It was still a little red and sore. None of the other incision sites felt like that, so I should go to the doctor.

And I did today. And he pointed out that sometimes one's body is unhappy with the dissolving stitches and treats it as a foreign body and sends a platoon of white blood cells there to repel the invader. So, the pus wasn't really an infection, exactly, that could be cultured, but it was just a pile of dead white blood cells trying in vain to reject the perceived enemy. He numbed it up, sliced into it with a scalpel and plucked out the offending stitch remains. Then he cleaned it all up with germ killers, and put a band aid on it and told me to stay out of the pool for 24 hours.

So I'm canning peaches I got from my daughter's food co-op in Utah and all is well. Sometimes, the white blood cells get called out on a bogus mission. But I appreciate their heroic efforts. Semper fi.

Process VS Purpose

I'm only writing this post because I still feel annoyed.

You know how some hymns have extra verses written under the music? And how some of those extra verses are not specifically vital, but maybe traditional, so they included them? But some of the extra verses include the entire point of the song? Such as certain Sacrament hymns in which the ordinance isn't mentioned until verse 5? Or perhaps the three verses written within the staff of the music only tell the story of the Savior's death and the two verses written below go on to include the Resurrection---the point of the story?

I have always chaffed at the concept that we're singing the songs in church to kill time while something else is happening. I am particularly irked when that is done with the Sacrament song. The music director is watching the priests and as soon as they look done, she'll stop the song, but at least we normally sing all the verses with the words written inside the music. Occasionally, I'll point out before church that the song we're scheduled to sing has two more verses that include the message, or complete the thought of the song. I'll say, "We ought to sing all the verses of this song as a result." She'll agree, but then she stops me if the boys sit down. Once, as a rebellious organist, I just kept playing as though I didn't see her, because she attempted to stop me after singing ONE of the extra verses, but not BOTH! (Completely ridiculous...) Of course the congregation assumed that since we'd begun the extra verses, we would sing them both. So they kept singing with me as I continued to play the organ, and she caught up. I pretended to apologize later and said I didn't see her.

But, on Sunday, July 4th, there was an incident that has really, really annoyed me. So, of course, we scheduled The Star Spangled Banner as the closing song. We sang America, The Beautiful for the opening song. I had gone over to the church to practice the national anthem because, not only it is challenging to sing, but it is difficult to play. I like that we can occasionally sing it in church because three verses are included, and God is mentioned, and it has a religious overtone.

It was Fast Sunday, which includes people bearing testimony, and a number of people included their thoughts about our nation having religious freedom and that this enabled the whole restoration of the gospel and the founding of the church, etc. etc. So, singing about the "heaven rescued land prais [ing] the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation" is a fitting close to the meeting.

However, there was an outpouring of people who wished to express their feelings. The clock approached the time the bishop's counselor had named as the end of testimony time, and two more people came up off their benches and walked up to the stand. Finally, everyone was finished, and people stood with their hymnbooks and I played the introduction. With great enthusiasm people began to sing. I'd fiddled around and found some really stirring settings for the organ and we were all really into it. As we got to "...o'er the la-and of the free, and the home of the brave..." I looked back at the beginning of the song and readied my fingers to switch to those notes for verse two. I could feel people inhale for the next words, and suddenly the conductor was hissing at me, "Stop, stop---we're not singing any more of it," and she waved her hands into the conclusion gesture.

I was so startled, that I hesitated and so that let her sit down and, of course, I had to stop playing. The congregation stood there for a heartbeat, with their books poised--they were stunned too. It took a noticeable moment for everyone to sit down. The person who was to give the closing prayer took a little extra time to walk up to the podium. I'm sure she thought she'd have time to do that during the second half of the third verse.

When the prayer concluded, I started to play something for postlude, I don't know what. I was exclaiming in a loud whisper to my conductor, "What was that???" She said she'd gotten the stop sign (finger across the throat) from the stake presidency counselor who was seated on the stand and she didn't dare not obey him. "We could have done that at a ball game!" I whisper-yelled at her. I was so furious I couldn't even play the right notes. After one and half songs, I just stopped playing. I don't even know if anyone noticed. I intended to go over and ask that guy why he'd stopped us.

But he'd left immediately after the prayer. Maybe he had a meeting at some other ward, I don't know. But the ward following us still had 40 minutes before they needed to start their meeting. We couldn't have spend 3 more minutes singing the rest of the national anthem on July 4th????

I explained to our bishop's counselor what I felt so upset about (actually I was still spitting mad and I apologized for frothing at him). But he concurred. He was as puzzled as I was at the decision. I asked him to pass on my unhappiness and the reasons for it; he said he would. I probably won't ever say anything about it to the man. It's probably not appropriate. But, come on....JULY 4th???

I realize that I have a special relationship with the national anthem, having taken school children to Fort McHenry for field trips. And I realize that many people do not like the song especially because it is difficult to sing and the words are all about war. But when you've studied the history, and you know the story, and you've stood on the actual ramparts and seen the banner streaming so gallantly, and listened to your fellow teacher sing the song right at the base of the historic flag pole, then this song is special. CoolGuy told me once about singing it with the Marines, after they'd hoisted the flag up a pole at their primitive campsite in the desert of a foreign country, and how moved he felt.

So, my point is: when you're in charge at church, please consider the purpose of the hymns, not just the process of the meeting. Or to quote the Authority from the forward to the official hymn book:

"For my soul delighteth in the song of the heart; yea, the song of the righteous is a prayer unto me, and it shall be answered with a blessing upon their heads" (Doc. and Cov. 25:12).

I Want to Have a Dog Again

Yesterday, I stopped at a light and next to me was the picture of happiness. It was a dog, maybe a Lab/retriever mix, sitting in the backseat of a car, with his head thrust out the opened window. He'd sniff a bit, then open his mouth in that retriever smile and loll out his tongue in joy. Then, he'd pull his head back in and sit for a minute, then stick his head back out for another sniff.

I miss having a pet dog.

We've had dogs ever since we were married. Well, I guess, we had to wait till we'd moved out of the apartment world into a house, so we got our first dog when we'd been married a little less than two years. We've had a series of really awesome dogs, too. Rocky, Casper, Rimsky, Annie, King, Jed...all terrific, all loyal, and noble. After Jed died, and I began to work fulltime, we didn't get another dog because it would have cruel to leave a dog home alone all day. Cats can take it, but dogs need their people. We should still have gotten another dog while the boys were living at home, though. He would have been okay home alone for part of the day. Sorry boys.

But, I've found a solution! Today I read that the Roy Roger's Museum (which used to be in Southern California, but moved to Branson, Missouri years ago) is now closed. They are auctioning off all the stuff at Christie's in NYC.

They're selling everything. I COULD OWN TRIGGER!

(Excerpt from an interview with the son of the Rogers.)

We have to talk about Roy and Trigger, possibly the most famous horse in show business. Was the Roy-Trigger relationship as close as the media made it out to be?It really was. Dad and Trigger were both young when they started—Trigger was only four years old, and Dad was 26—and on some level I think they both felt this was the start of something special. Over their 30+ years together, they established a bond of trust and mutual respect. Once, when the show was passing through New York, the truck took a sharp corner, and the trailer carrying Trigger overturned, trapping him inside. Most horses would get so panicked in this situation that you’d have to put them down on the spot. But Trigger was different. Dad managed to reach in through the door of the trailer, through the broken glass, and put his hand on Trigger’s neck. He said, “It’s ok, old man, it’ll be ok.” The fire department came, and they were eventually able to slide Trigger out using the fire hose. He came out with just a few knocks and bruises—that’s all. That shows you the kind of trust they had.
When Trigger passed, my dad was so distraught he didn’t tell the family for over a year (we didn’t know, because he was kept in another stable off our ranch). I think to him it was like losing a child. He told my mom, “I can’t just put him in the ground.” He had Trigger beautifully mounted and installed in the museum. A lot of people were upset about that, but I think he made the right choice. Trigger was one of the most popular attractions at the museum.





But more realistically: I could own Bullet, their German Shepherd:



Those of you other fans of the Roy Rogers and Dale Evans Show will recognize Buttermilk, Dale's horse, there in the background.


But Bullet would be an ideal dog for our family right now. He's about as active as Kitty Cat, and would require almost the same amount of attention and care. What should I bid???

Convalescing

My toes and the ball of my foot are still very tender and swollen, so I must spend a good part of each day reclined with it propped up. I've found an excellent way to do that.

Going Wireless

I went to the foot surgeon today. I left without wires or the Storm Trooper boot. (!!) However, it will be a while before I'm jumping up and down. My foot is much less swollen and bruised looking, and the doctor was very pleased with my healing. He said that I'd done an excellent job as a patient, and by lying around so well these four weeks, I should have a good outcome.

My toes are very tender still. My ankle, having not been permitted to bend while I walked for an extended period of time, was quite annoyed at having to do so now. It also was disorienting and odd for my brain to have my legs the same length again, just after successfully reprograming itself to accomodate my uneven status. I was unsure how to walk straight. My hips are very pleased to no longer be cockeyed from each other. Just sitting here typing, they feel better.

The toes on this foot will no longer be able to grasp or curl up in that position. That was the price to pay in order to to get them straight on my foot again. Right now, they are still extremely tender and I walk gingerly and a little slowly still. It hurt quite a bit as he pulled out the wires and there was a tiny bit of bleeding. But he said that after twenty four hours, I was cleared for the pool! Yeah! I think, too, that it will be good for my toes and foot to flex around in the pool without the weight of my body on them.

Here's a couple of photos:

The bandaids are to cover up the holes which bled a little.

Well, it still looks really swollen here, but, honest, it is much better. Now, I need to get a scythe to shave my leg--wow! Quite furry, I'm telling ya. So, I'll spend more time on the couch tonight, propping it and icing it, and then I'll have to get out the nail polish, huh?

It's Your Birthday!

Do you know that the United States of America is 234 years old this year? I know, not because I teach elementary school, or that I am such a crack math wizard that I can figure it in my head. The reason I know --- just like that --- is because the year of the Big Bicentennial, I became a mom for the very first time.

Today is my son's birthday and we celebrate him. He has always been such a great son -- I mean, he was born on his due date. How many kids are that considerate of their mothers? And he was a such a charming baby. He didn't cry all night, most of the time. He nursed like a pro, he gained weight like he should. He smiled on time, he crawled and walked and talked on schedule. He's just been like that his whole life.

When we were describing him recently to someone, we realized that he is the guy who has always been the peacemaker, the includer, the friend, the helper, the kind one. You think of a Christ-like quality, and he has it. Seriously.

So here are a few photos from his life just to enjoy and celebrate and to indulge his parents who have to shake their heads when they realize that their little first-born son is waaaay older than they were when they created him. How does that happen so quicky?? (I know, I know -- I'm always saying that.)