Time Flies

ACK! It's been nearly a week since I made a post, and the main reason is that my life has once again slipped into a groove. I get up and go to school. I work, work, work, and come home. I cook dinner, watch Jeopardy while we eat it, and then soak in the hot tub and go to bed. Lather, rinse, repeat.

But it is a good groove. Of course, sometimes I correct papers, or do laundry, or iron, or read the newspaper in the space between "eat dinner" and "soak in hot tub". And sometimes I go to a meeting, or just lay around watching re-runs I've put on the DVR. But, once I've checked e-mail, I tend to leave the computer behind.

I had a little too much excitement the other night. About 9:30 I opened the door between the kitchen and the garage to take out empty drinking water jugs and pick up filled ones, and a startled teenager stood up from the passenger side of my car, where he had been rifling through my console looking for something to steal. We stared at one another for a millisecond before I shrieked for Cool Guy to come. The punk darted back out of the garage by slithering under the big door that had been left ajar, as usual, to let out the stifling hot afternoon air. He ran away too fast for either of us to get even a glimpse of which direction. I wanted to follow him home and yell at him. Actually, I wish I'd had the presence of mind to realize how he got in, and hit the garage door closer button to trap him inside. Then, I'd have taken the broom to him--whack whack whack--until he begged for the police. But I was too shocked to see him in there to remember that the door was still open a little when it should already have been closed down all the way. He didn't take anything, but a few hours off the life of my startled heart. Believe me--the garage door will never again be left ajar for ventilation. What a jerk.

So, aside from that, really, it's been a routine week in the life of the teacher who has started another school year. My students are reasonably cooperative so far, and time flies when you're busy with children. It's Friday already tomorrow! Whoo-hoo!

Panhead Passion

"Panhead" refers to a style of Harley-Davidson motor that was manufactured between 1948 and 1965. It displaced 74 cubic inches and had hydraulic valve lifters. But the compelling, and unmistakable identifier,was (and is) the beautiful alumium pan-shaped heads on the top of the cylinders. I give you beauty:
This is a bike I saw at the Primer Nationals (the car/bike show) last week in Ventura. I don't know why I'm so drawn to Panheads, but they really cause my head to snap around whenever I see one drive by or see one parked. It isn't all that often that you see them except in a show like the one we attended. More and more, the only Harley you see are the "new" style engine. The frame might be chopped, and the paint job incredible. Or the rider might have had the bike all done up in a total retro look: tourquoise and cream paint, fringed leather saddle bags, old-style seat. But one look at the engine, and I know it's just decor, not The Real Thing.

Probably my love for this motor comes from the bike we drove when were newly-weds. Actually, the very first chopper was a 1938 Knucklehead. It was very stylish---long stretched forks, radical rake, hard-tail suspension with a teardrop gas tank, and a tasteful sissy-bar. It was elegant, but I still don't know how Cool Guy drove that sucker around hilly San Diego. It had a foot clutch and hand shifter, so he needed one foot on the brake, one foot on the clutch, and one foot on the ground at a traffic light...oh wait...YEAH! But, we never crashed. And we looked quite awesome: Through a complicated series of events, we parted with the Knucklehead and ultimately ended up with a 1954 Panhead, that needed work, so Cool Guy rebuilt it and repainted it in our spare bedroom. It must be the smooth shiny pans. I just think that they look the most Harley-like of all the models with which I've become acquainted in the 35 years I've been hanging around the garages where he's worked his mechanical magic.

I started hanging around the garage when I realized that if I didn't go to the garage, I'd be excluded from the main passion of the relationship. I can safely say now that the motorcycle doesn't outrank me any longer, but I don't think that was true for the first few years. I read the shop manuals, learned the names of the tools and assorted engine parts. Eventually I began to assist in small, but important jobs, such as bleeding the brakes, helping to adjust the clutch cables, holding up the bike so the headlights could be adjusted just so. After a number of years, and a number of engine rebuilds, I could almost assemble a V-Twin myself. Almost.

One of my favorite stories is the time that Cool Guy was in Wyoming helping his friend with a Panhead engine, but they needed another cylinder to replace one that couldn't be salvaged. I was in San Diego and would be traveling to join him, so I was instructed to go shopping at a used parts dealer. CG told me what to ask for, what to look for, and how to measure the walls with a micrometer to be sure that it hadn't been machined out of tolerance. I stopped off at the shop, really just a converted garage, after teaching my Primary class one afternoon (on a Wednesday). I was ignored for a minute, then given a distracted greeting. I explained what I was shopping for, and after he returned from the back and placed one on the counter, he slouched onto a chair to see what I'd do next. Well, first I ran my fingers down the inside to feel if it was smooth. Then, I held it up to the window so I could more easily see if there were grooves that someone had tried to buff out. By now, the shop owner was sitting up straight on his chair, looking at me curiously. But when I pulled the micrometer out of my crocheted purse and measured the thickness of the walls, now the guys in the back came through the door to the front to see who this little girl in the dress was, exactly. And they offered to bring me a few more cylinders since that one "might not be the best one they had." I managed to get a really nice one, too, for a good price.

Among the informational reading I did in my motorcycle education course was the infamous Easyriders magazine. It was actually one of the few resources for the homebased chopper builder back then. (The only kind of chopper builder at that time, actually.) It had tech articles with step by step photos, and ads for sources from which to buy specialized parts or tools. It had photos of "old ladies" in varying stages of undress, draped on their guy's choppers. The magazine also featured really lame fiction. After reading a dozen or so magazines from the garage collection, I groaned one day that I could certainly write better than any of these people. So I wrote a short story, passed it around to our biker friends for revision suggestions, and after I fixed it up, I mailed it off to the editors. But I gave birth to our third child the very next day, so I promptly forgot about it. Three months later, they sent me a check and a magazine, with my story featured prominently. I was immediately, and ever after, a mythic figure to all our biker pals. The only downer: my original story featured a Panhead, but they printed it in their special 80th issue, which was a tribute to the 80 cubic inch engine, so they took the liberty of changing my fictional chopper to fit their theme. The gorgeous artwork that accompanied the story also featured---not a Panhead---but an eighty. Bah.

But, I will always love the Panhead engine. It conjures a simpler time of life: dumpy houses, too many pets, very little money, and the worst jobs I've ever had. BUT...we were in Southern California, where every day was a perfect day to get the motor running, get out on the highway, and look for adventure. Or at least get the wind in our hair again. I hope I'm never too old to climb up on my seat behind Cool Guy.

First School Break

The First Day went well, the First Week zoomed past, and here we are at the First Three Day Weekend! What a year! Also it is the First Day Ever for both of our grandchildren who are five years old, so it really is a landmark year.

We celebrated this little break in the routine with a trip to Port Hueneme, our home for six years (1989-1995). There is a bike/car show at the Ventura County fairgrounds and we went there to look around at the groovy vehicles and the gearheads--many geezer gearheads, actually. Hmmm...we fit right in. Although, again I realized how grateful I am that I didn't ever get a tattoo. On a woman of A Certain Age, a tattoo is just not a good look.

We drove down the coast highway, past Mugu Rock, which you'll recognize if you've seen any car commercial on television. We'd planned to do lunch at Neptune's Net, but evidently so did most of the rest of Southern California. We were too hungry to wait, so we cruised back up to Oxnard and had albondigas soup at El Ranchero in downtown. After a nap, we visited some old friends, and tomorrow, back on the motorcycle for more cruising around a favorite old stomping ground.

Once again, note to self: move back to the coast---ocean is good.

First Day...Again

It's the first day of school tomorrow. There have been a lot of first days. As a teacher, this will be my 14th. I can hardly believe it has been so many. I admit that this year, after my first summer off in four years, I'm not quite leaping for joy that the new year has begun. Partly, it is because there is yet another Big New Thing. We've had imposed on us, in the guise of "it was voted on", a new report card that does not use letter grades, but just rates each of the standards assessed as "exceeds" "meets" "below" and "emerging". I think this is good for preschool and kindergarten. Maybe even first or second grade. A narrative assessment of how a student is doing on individual skills. But upper grade students always ask first, "Is this and A or a B?" no matter how many notations or rubrics or narrative assessment comments you put on their work.

So, we'll all be scrambling around trying to figure out how to grade things without using a grade...It's mostly just a resume bullet point for our leader. It is hard to jump into such a big project when you don't have any enthusiasm for it. Ooh, listen to her whine...

Once the students show up, I'm sure I'll feel better. As long as I still enjoy the company of nine year kids, I'll be fine doing this job. I don't know what else I'd do, anyway, since I didn't win the million dollars, after all.

Just Wondering...

How hard is it to attach the milkers to those furry little cat udders?

Should I Do Something?

I have a co-worker, with whom I work rather closely, whose interaction with her own child is very distressing to watch. But, I don't know if I should say anything. Probably not, huh? The child is with her on these work days, because he is in the younger grades, (I'm trying to be vague...) so I witness these interactions. She is very harsh and sharp when she speaks to him.

He's doing regular kid-like things, like trying to climb up in her lap while she was sitting at the computer, but tipped back in her chair, talking to me. She shoved him away, and in a loud, angry voice said his name, "***** GET OFF! I TOLD YOU I'M WORKING! GO AWAY!" ooh. All of it could have been said in a neutral voice, or a kind voice, and it would have had the same effect: tell the child that climbing in mom's lap right now is not desirable.

You know how whiny kids get at the end of the day? And they might even hang on your arm? Of course, he's a regular kid, and he does these things frequently at the end of our school day, when he comes on down to his mom's room to meet up. She is consistently harsh and, frankly, almost as whiny. It's almost the way you'd talk to your younger sibling to get them to knock it off.

It is quite striking to witness on the regular basis that I do. I probably can't do anything to affect it, because I realize that this attitude of negativity is an integral part of her personality. But I wonder, if I did find a way to point out that speaking in a neutral or kindly voice to her little son would be good for both of them, if she'd be able to hear me? Or would I just put myself into a place where I don't belong? Probably, huh?

Thumbs Up

We went to see Man on Wire Saturday night. It's a movie about the fellow who strung a tightrope cable between the World Trade Towers in 1974 and then did a performance way up there. Of course, he sneaked up there, no one gave him permission.

I vaguely remember this happening. It occured in April, about six weeks before my wedding, plus the whole country was completely engrossed in the Watergate scandal. Just four months later, Nixon resigned.

Watching this movie was a delight. One strong impression I had was that this was the definition of obsession. The young man in the film had seen an article about the trade center towers before construction had even begun, and from then on, had this need to walk between them. Another thing that intrigued me was his ability to engage, or almost entrap, others to help him pull off his exploits. He's climbed and walked a number of places where he wasn't invited.

Go see this movie. It's almost a documentary, not quite--some things are reenacted. It's black and white, it has some interviews with people who aren't fluent in English so there are subtitles here and there. Just describing it, it sounds weird. And it is, a little. Oh, and the music is excellent! But, you'll love it! It's not like anything else I've seen. It's very entertaining and odd.

Grocery Store Follies

I went to the market for a couple of things. Using the self serve section, I dropped the watermelon off the quickie check-out shelf and it rolled across the floor. After I successfully got it purchased, in a bag, and out the door, I realized that my keys were buried under my wallet because I hadn't put them in their correct pocket. So, when I arrived at the car, I set down my bags (the fabric kind...cool--every stores sells them now) and fished around in my purse for the dumb keys. I got the door unlocked and picked up the two bags that have flat bottoms and handles, and placed them into the car. But where was the watermelon? I'd put it in a net bag that I've had for 15 years or so, and it doesn't have a flat bottom.

The watermelon had been overcome by gravity and had rolled under my car. I couldn't reach it from either side. And it was 107 degrees, so I couldn't exactly lay down on the parking lot and kick at it or push it with a stick. So, I backed up my car a little diagonally, hoping that it would make the melon more reachable.

Except that the watermelon was now jammed under the oil pan and so was being dragged across the pavement as I attempted to free it from being wedged in. A lady came out to get in her truck next to my car. She laughed in that uncomfortable little way we do when we fear the stranger speaking to us from the car now sitting akimbo in the parking lot with the door open, the motor running, and the sun shade still up in the front window. But she couldn't go anywhere till I could get the watermelon unstuck.

Luckily, a really nice man was talking on a cell phone by his truck, apparently calling for someone to help him with his engine (the hood was up). He came over and offered, in heavily accented English, to help me. He was wearing work clothes (I had on white pants, no less) and was willing to get down on the parking on one knee, reach under my car, and tug at the net bag until the watermelon came free. By now it was quite streaked with grease, so he got it all over his hands. Sorry. But GRACIAS, GRACIAS. Sheesh.

The Memorial Ride

Another activity I participated in while visiting Wyoming was a ride up behind our valley to the site of the avalanche that took the life of three men, including my sister's husband, in January. There were many people on this trek, including two babies. We took ten horses and four 4-wheelers. We trailered the horses to the trail head, then saddled them and rode about two miles uphill to the meadow. It had been a favorite destination for my brother-in-law on many snowmachine and horse trips over the decades he'd lived here.

I've seen pictures of the mountain and the debris, but until I rode up there, I had no idea of the immensity of this avalanche. It is hard to imagine how they found these men at all in the vast area where they had been buried. As my sister showed us around, she pointed out landmarks. "Here was his helmet, over here we found his soda can and a glove. Way over there was his windshield." His machine was fifty yards away from his body.

This was the second avalanche he'd been in. I've a seen a video of the first one. Someone was filming the riders as they went up a hillside and just kept filming as he was swallowed up by the snow, not in a ghoulish way, but because it happened so quickly that the video just kept running as the person's brain hadn't quite registered that it was an avalanche covering up a man. That time his effort to "swim" up out of it worked and as the snow stopped flowing, and settled into the heaviness of cement that it does, his gloved hand shot up to the surface and everyone could dig him out immediately. In January, the rescue squad said they found him with his hands up again, but it was many feet below the surface, and several hours after the event.

It is an inspiring place. I can see why he'd return to this spot, in every season, year after year. My sister said he always insisted that everyone just stop and look around and savor the atmosphere, whether they'd arrived on snow machines or horses. He felt like it was a place that should be treated as reverently as church. It was a spiritual environment to him. It definitely is a sanctuary now, not just for the three bereft families. The search and rescue workers were all close friends of the men who died there, and in addition to the small stone my sister placed there in his honor, the squad is creating a memorial that they are going to install along the trail to honor their companions and brothers.

This is my eighty year old aunt who is aboard a 31 year old horse. I hope I'm this adventurous when I'm 80.


This is one of the babies riding with her grandma. Mom and Dad were at the county fair, competing on their horses in some events. This little cowgirl was six months old on that day. She rode a 4-wheeler up the hill and a horse back down. She's a real Wyoming girl, huh?


This is the path of the avalanche. It broke off the ridge, scooped up all the trees in the "V" area and filled the meadow below and splashed up the opposite side. Ten acres, ten feet deep. There are trees lying in the debris field that are eight feet in diameter that were snapped off like you'd break off a cattail. (Looking east)

For the first time in my life, I saw what was on the other side of the mountains that I've looked at all my life while standing in my mom's yard. Fifty-five years of wondering, fulfilled. When I was quite small, I thought that New York City was there--it was east, after all, and I knew that over the mountains, to the east, was NYC. Hmmm...a little further east however, it turned out. (This is looking west)

This is looking north. You can see why he felt like this was a sacred spot each time he visited. It is serene, awe-inspiring, and completely spectacular. Very few of us can spend our last moment on earth in an spot that soothes our soul and makes us acutely conscious of the reality of a loving God. It just happened too soon for those he left behind.

The County Fair

I went to my hometown fair this year, in Wyoming. On Thursday night it was Demolition Derby. This was a first for me, because this event wasn't held when I was a youngster. It was okay. Two relatives were winners in their divisions, so it was somewhat fun. But, really, I think it would be a lot more fun to be out there crashing the cars, than sitting and watching it.

But then we went to the 4H stock sale on Saturday, and it felt much more like the Fair I had experienced. There were many, many animals being sold at the auction, including the two lambs raised by my neices. It was a classic auction: the crowd had their cards to hold up, the helpers roaming the arena, sharp-eyed, pointing and shouting an affirmation to acknowledge a successful bid. The auctioneer sang out his rhythmic banter. Lots of money spent for a good cause: the 4H kids and their work at raising a quality animal. But, the buyer also got a year's meat from a reliable source.

When attending the stock sale at a county fair in the West, you must dress appropriately. Here are some photos of the correct footwear:

Notice that the pant legs must scrunch down over the heels, and a little mud on the hem is okay.
Next: the jeans. There is a correct cowboy jean, it must be snug fitting, not slouching off your fanny, but up around the natural waistline, and accessorized with the right kind of belt.

Ideally, this belt will be fastened with a big, oval buckle declaring your prowess in a rodeo event.

Finally, the ensemble is completed with the right kind of hat. Because it is summer, this hat is straw. If it was a cold weather event, then a felt hat would be appropriate. The hat is not soiled, nor is the rim twisted up, ala Britney or a dozen other celebs.

This is the proper attire for the stock sale at a county fair in the West. Of course, your shirt will be button-up (or snaps) and it will have a collar, and be tucked into your pants.

Isn't it interesting that no matter where you go, an unspoken dress code is in effect? Despite being dressed as a tourist from Las Vegas, I wasn't shunned by the other attendees, probably because many of them were friends and relatives who were surprised to see me there at all. It's nice to be the person others are happy to see.

Real Life

Well I came back home to the desert, and my bedroom is still here, and still needs a thorough cleaning. I didn't lose any weight and I still need to do my thirty minutes of walking/swimming/something everyday. I had to empty the catbox and sweep up the kitchen. There was a mini-crisis at church and I was suddenly giving the RS lesson with 24 hours notice. Fourth grade is going to start up again in two weeks and I'll be re-inventing my curriculum because I'm going to be teaching writing and Social Studies together. The garden needs to be revamped for the coming cooler weather. No one but me is here to wash the dishes and clean the toilets.

In other words, even though I won a whole bunch of money, and got to be on TV, Real Life is still here, and nothing really changed while I was away, except the condition of some left-overs in the refrigerator---eeewww.

I'll just keep going along like I always have, but I know that in three months, I'll be able to remodel my closet!! Yea!!

P.S. to the Previous Blog

I forgot to add a couple of pieces to the blog from last night about the game show business:

• The check arrives thirty days after the air date of the program in which you appear. They gave me the fake check that Meredith shows on the air in the amount of money I ultimately won. It's cool to look at!!!
• Yes, you have to pay taxes on it. But, it isn't taxed extra because you won it. It is just taxable income. So, a smart person will get the check, bank the money needed for the taxes, and earn interest on it until she needs to hand it over to the Feds. And since she won the money by knowing weird stuff...then she'll do the smart thing, huh? Yes.
• However, you also have to remember that if you won enough it could put you into a new tax bracket, so read up on it!

I find it amusing that, even though I live in Vegas, Baby, I wouldn't dream of playing blackjack, poker or even putting even one quarter in a slot machine. But I love being on gameshows. It's different, isn't it? I mean, at least I get the fun of being on TV; most of the people I see at the casinoes aren't even smiling.

I'm smiling.

I Got Picked Today...

Remember back in June when I went to a try-out for "Who Wants to be a Millionaire?" Well, THEY PICKED ME! I got a phone call while traveling to my family reunion informing me that the show was going to have a special Teacher Week, and would I be able to come? I agreed to, and that started a marathon week of e-mailing, Fed-Ex-ing, faxing, calling, and filling out forms. Here are a few important highlights, if you ever decide to try out for the show:

• No, they don't provide your fare to NYC. You pay your own way, and provide your own accommodations. However, NYC is a very cool city and I'd never actually "been" there--just as a stop-over-never-left-the plane, or a quick trip to JFK to see off Foxyj when she left for her mission to Madrid. So, yesterday afternoon I walked in Central Park, took in the smoggy view from the top of the Empire State Building, saw Times Square and rode in a pedi-cab up Broadway! Whoo-hoo! I truly felt like a Smoot girl in the Big City. I was intimidated.
• All the people in the production staff are really, really nice. Meredith Vieira is really, really nice. It takes SO many people to put on this show, I was quite amazed. I've been on game shows before, almost 20 years ago, and I don't remember that many staffers. Or attorneys...ahem.
• There's no appetite suppressor quite as effective as fear and anxiety. They plied us with food and drink as we waited for our turns, but I honestly could hardly eat, I was so nervous. I knew that it was just for fun, I'd spent very little on the trip (because I cashed in frequent flyer miles for the ticket) and usually a person could at least get up to $1000. But, if I'd have eaten more, I'd have just risked barfing all over dear, kind Meredith.
• Make-up: today I had applied to my skin more make-up than I use in an entire month. Seriously. And I got touched up THREE times. I should look fabulous, dahling, on TV.
• For a person who often cannot remember why she walked into a particular room, it was interesting today what arcane pieces of information ARE in my brain and popped right up when I needed them.
• Here's the official script: "I had a terrific time! Tune in and watch the show [third week of October..tentative broadcast date] to find out what happened!"

So, if you get a chance to be on a TV game show, by all means, go for it! If you don't throw up on the host's shoes from nervousness, you'll probably have a really fun time! And....

WATCH THIS SPACE FOR PRECISE SHOW DATES TO BE ANNOUNCED IN OCTOBER WHEN I GET AN E-MAIL FROM THE MILLIONAIRE FOLKS.

Home Ec, circa 1970

Today in my never-ending quest to organize various piles of debris in my spare room, I came across a bundle of papers that I picked up from my mom's house. These were things of mine that were left behind in a desk drawer in my old room. I'm sure I've gone through these things any number of times in the more than three decades since I gave up my residence in that room. My two youngest sisters and a niece have also lived in there, and it is impressive that anything at all remained from my high school years in the Blue Room. I just gathered up a pile last time I visited and today I finally began to sort it.

I found a couple of keepsakes from a conference I attended at BYU while I was still in high school, called "Laurel-Life". I think it was only held a few years, and the year I went was the first. I have very few specific memories, but I recall that it was terrific. Thousands of girls from all over the United States and Canada attended and then we were to go home and organize a similar event for a Saturday, in our home stakes. It was a unique opportunity to learn some really powerful leadership skills. I went between my junior and senior years of high school. My mom was our chaperon.

But, the really impressive find was a collection of Home Ec materials. Wow. Booklets entitled:

• Make It With Wool: Pressing, Blocking, Shaping (American Wool Council)
• Let's Clean House (Procter & Gamble)
• The Fine China and Crystal Story (Lenox, Inc.)
• To the Chairman of the (Ironing) Board (Faultless Starch Company)
• Guide to Complete Upholstery Care (Bissell)
• All About Silver (J.A. Wright & Company-Wright's Silver Cream)
• Crystal Notes, A Planning Book for Students (Fostoria Glass Company)
• How to Choose the Right Thread and...
• A Story of Thread (Coats & Clark's )

The parenthetical information is the company who printed and distributed the booklet for my teacher to give to her classes. Absolutely fascinating booklets. They all assume that the students are female, that we will accumulate a dowry of household paraphernalia, that we will marry and run our own home, that it will include fine dishes for entertaining, and that we will sew and care for our own clothing.

These assumptions were all fairly dead-on for the girls with whom I attended Home Ec in our high school. Well, I'm not sure that all of us anticipated "entertaining", but we would be hosting family meals on special occasions and would likely use our special dishes--as did our mothers.

You could be thinking, "In 1970??" Wasn't that the Times They Are A Changin' Era?? Well, yes, and no. In my hometown, we were always about 10 years behind the rest of the world, culturally. Mostly. Until I was 14, my house could only receive one channel on our television, because the broadcast had to overcome the height of the mountains surrounding our valley. Some households in town were connected to a mountaintop relay device through an early form of cable or something. (I'm just remembering technology I didn't understand at the time...) But farm people still relied on an antenna--ours was strung between four really tall lodge-pole pine trunks set out in a pasture (actually, the logs were lashed atop another really tall one to get the antenna high enough to catch the signal.) People didn't live there to be cutting edge. Actually, I doubt many of the folks there really gave a lot of thought to Cutting Edge. Some in high school did, however, and longed to leave and find the rest of the world.

But, Home Ec was, in fact, a very useful class for me. I did grow up, get married, and run a household for many years before I got a job that had a paycheck. Many of the things in the booklets and the class syllabus were old hat to me: I'd been ironing since I was about eight years old. And I KNEW how to clean house, and I got lots of practice. But I didn't learn machine sewing at all until Home Ec in junior high, and I really appreciate my teachers for that skill. I still don't have a set of "fine" china, or silver, but I've never really missed them. My mom taught us the correct way to set the table--I've never been embarrassed at a formal dinner with all the place settings: I knew what to do with all those utensils.

The one thing I did learn in Home Ec, however, was that there were girls my age, in my little, old-fashioned farmy town, who had not been taught, like me, to cook and clean. I was surprised over and over at who didn't have basic cooking skills when we learned things in class. Not that many of them, but there were a few. I'm glad they got to learn in Home Ec, because, no matter how the Times Change, people need to eat, and making it yourself from ingredients is a satisfying and economical skill to have.

My Best Crop

We didn't have to worry this summer about the ban on consuming tomatoes because in the garden box, we had plenty of them growing. We also had some peas, and have plenty of basil. I think it is time to plant some summer squash or zucchini, since it'll do nicely well into November.

But, despite these successes in growing tasty vegetables, it seems the thing we can produce best here is: dirt. The composter I bought for my birthday several years ago is just a little soil factory. We keep it filled with grass clippings, leaves, chopped watermelon rinds, egg shells, lettuce that went bad in the fridge, potato peelings, etc. Then, add a little moisture, turn it once a day, and the microbes do their stuff. I know it is hot here, but the center of the compost in that tumbler is is steaming hot from the breakdown of organic matter. It's weirdly fun to observe. It never smells bad, in fact, it is the pleasant odor of dirt.

I chose this tool because I didn't really have a good place in my smallish yard to build a pile. This unit keeps all the untidiness contained and also keeps out any critters that might think a heap of leavings from the kitchen is just a Vegas Buffet for Bugs. (or mice, rats, or pigeons.) Also, if I'm gone for an extended period, and not adding anything to it, nor turning the handle, it just sits there quietly and awaits my return without creating a fuss or a mess. Add water, turn, and it starts right up where it left off. In the desert climate, the main concern with keeping a composter composting is moisture.

So far, we've "harvested" three big garbage cans of dirt. We used up one can when we changed the look around the pool, and planted ornamental grasses and ground cover. I've used almost all of a second one enriching my garden. We've still got the front yard to landscape with desert plantings, and by the time we've saved up the money to do it, we'll have plenty of rich new dirt to use for the transplants. We make great dirt here!

The Land of Wild Ponies

Many of you may know that large herds of wild horses live in Nevada. But, recently another herd of equines was spotted here in the wilds of our own backyard:

And, they are freshly washed, scrubbed, bleached and combed, waiting to be "adopted" by someone, who will have to undergo a rigorous background check, ie: Are you a grandchild? This adoption will not necessarily be final, but selected ponies may be taken out of state, with the approval of the Bureau of Old Toys Management. We're waiting to hear from all who may have prior claim to said ponies and other interested parties.

Joy Journaling

Okay, cheesy title...I know. However, I read an interesting article in which the writer pointed out the importance of regularly chronicling our joyful moments. That record can then serve as a little life-raft through the bad times, reminding us of former blessings and helping us to remember that, while sorrow is a part of life, joy is too. This, of course, pre-supposes your understanding that joy is a blessing from God, and that He wants us to experience it. So, here are a few joyful moments I have experienced recently.

• Last night, we went for a twilight motorcycle ride (the only kind reasonable when it is July in Las Vegas) and, as we curved up the freeway on-ramp, and looked over to our right, the huge full moon had just risen exactly between two peaks of the eastern mountain. We simultaneously shouted an exclamation of "LOOK!" It doesn't matter how many times you seen the full moon rise, each time it is spectacular.
• Watching my grandchildren play in the park as I talked to my son and daughter was a joyful time. The kids are healthy and adorable, my children are still friends with one another, and I get to enjoy both generations.
• Watermelon: tastebud joy.
• On my drive back from the family reunion, I put in a CD of the MO-TABS greatest hits and sang along, loudly (and a little off-key now and then). I love singing hymns. I know most of the verses of the standards because of my many years of being ward organist, or maybe just from my many years of singing them. Singing these songs always puts me in a great mood and uplifts me and reminds me of past spiritual high points.

Okay, that's all for today. Think about it--if you write down some of the good times, then you'll have something to read during the bad times that will help you to remember that once you felt joy, probably you can again. It is part of our purpose here in this existence. Joy...

Doctor Skills

You know, I understand that we all have different personalities, with the accompanying strengths and weaknesses. I also realize that many of the character traits that make a person extremely capable in one area, do not translate to other areas. So, I always give any doctor a lot of latitude in the odd personality realm, because they have a very distinct area of expertise. That is why I am visiting them: for that special ability that enabled them to go through all the rigors of education and training that results in their being able to apply that highly specialized knowledge to my problem. What I'm trying say, in a nice way, is that many doctors are not great "people persons" nor very tactful or personable. Okay, no problem.

My problem with this whole experience of the carpal tunnel surgery and follow-up care is that my doctor is not only NOT a people person, he also seems to be NOT very good at what he does as a surgeon, either. My loss. If you'd like a NON-recommendation for a hand-surgeon, I can give you one. That's all I'll say about him. If, in six more months, I don't have a lot more satisfaction from this whole adventure, I'll go find another doctor and see if there is anything I can do about it. But, I'll never, ever go back to their clinic to any of their doctors. I'm so disillusioned about their whole office. Live and learn.

Family Reunion

My sisters and brothers and I had our 2nd annual family reunion over the weekend. It was terrific! Two years ago, following the luncheon after my mother's funeral, we had a short family meeting, and agreed to schedule a family reunion for the same weekend, one year later. That reunion was also a success, and it made us eager to have this year's. Next year, my youngest sister and I are in charge, and we hope to continue the popularity of our get-together with another boffo event.

Mostly, it just involves food and talking--a totally appropriate way for our family to gather. My mother was all about food. We have been so lucky in that the tall, skinny genes predominate and we could have food be a highlight of family gatherings. (Mostly when we were younger--age changes everything.) My mom was an excellent cook and showed love by feeding people, so you couldn't go to her house without getting fed.

One of my brothers completed a project he started several years ago to honor our mom by videotaping conversations with us about aspects of our lives with her. There were several themes and lots of them involved food. He spent a lot of time on the production, editing it with music and dividing it into topics, and he made us each a copy. It made us cry because three of the people he interviewed are no longer living, and seeing and hearing them again was very poignant.

So, next year, I've decided we also need to focus on our dad. He died 24 years ago, and more than half of the grandchildren never knew him. The rest were so small they barely remember him, if at all. So my goal is to have an "Introduction to Grandpa" theme for the reunion my sister and I host. It will be 25 years since he left us, so it will be an appropriate time to bring his life into focus for the second and third crops of the family. I'm excited to work on this and figure out how to make it fun and informative for all. Yeah for family ties!!

The Endless Vacation

Have you ever fantasized that you could just go on vacation forever? We began to think we'd done just that, yesterday, as we attempted to come back to Nevada from Washington D.C.

We spent the morning at the Jefferson Memorial, then the Kennedy Center, and, after slowly driving past the Big Pencil again, we headed to Virginia to turn in the rental car, and check in for our flight home. But, unlike most of the visits to D.C. in the ten years I lived in Maryland, we couldn't seem to find the right road to get across the Potomac River. It began to be hilarious. Usually our attempts (Cool Guy and I) to get out of the District of Columbia and head south to Maryland were thwarted by the obtuse road signage there and we'd circle across the river to Virginia, then back past the Lincoln Memorial a couple of times before we'd finally figure out the correct exit to go home. Well, yesterday, I figured this would be easy! After all, it always took such an effort to prevent our inadvertent trips to Virginia. But somehow I kept missing the bridge exits, and we circled the monuments on the Maryland side in a vain attempt to get across the river. It was foreshadowing.

At last, we got to the airport, turned in the car, checked our bags, ordered some lunch, and leisurely waited for the boarding announcement. And it came, and we got on, and we buckled our seat belts, and we backed away from the gate, and we stopped. There are often afternoon thunderstorms along the east coast that interrupt air travel, and our flight to Charleston, NC, had become victim of just such weather. We were informed that we'd be sitting there on the taxiway for a while. But, it was only about 30 minutes. At last we were airborne.

But soon, our 55 minute flight to North Carolina turned into a nearly four hour circling, weaving, bobbing, stalling for time, extravaganza. We were diverted to Charlotte, SC, where we landed and refueled. This was good news to five people on our flight. Charlotte was their ultimate destination that night, so they just got off the plane. I think their luggage had to come the next day, but maybe someone rustled around in the hold and got it for them. The flight attendants were passing out cookies to everyone, and drinks of water, and we were milling around the plane, chatting. After an hour, we finally were cleared to go to North Carolina.

Well, most of us had a connection we had missed by now. So, when we set down in Charleston, the announcement was to check with the airline people right inside the terminal. They asked our names, handed us new boarding passes for the last flight to Las Vegas that night and said, "Put on your track shoes, girls." We ran from Gate A 10 to Gate B 7 (yes, running--our week of hiking through D.C. had toughened us up!) and slid into our seats, and five minutes later we were headed for Vegas, Baby! Whoo Hoo!!

So, when we arrived at 12:30 in Las Vegas, it was really 3:30 in our exhausted brains. We'd optimistically buckled our first seat belts 11 hours previously. Whew. Cool Guy picked us up. (Naturally our luggage did not sprint from one plane to the other, but it arrived today by courier.) He had the hot tub ready, we lolled around in it, soaking our tired fannies that had spent entirely too much time confined to airline seats for entirely too many hours. Then we fell in to bed and our vacation had officially ended. So, be careful what you wish for...

School Teacher Tourists

We are now on the eve of the End of Our Trip. On one hand, we cannot believe that it has gone by so quickly! On the other hand, it seems like we have been walking in Washington D.C. for our entire lives. They have laaarrge blocks here. The map will show that from Sight A to Sight B is just a couple of blocks. However, one block can contain a building that holds the whole collection of American history, and that takes a very large building. It is a regular D.C. summer: humid. And today the clouds all went away and the sun was very hot, magnifying the humidity. Whenever we chat with people as we wait in lines, and I say I'm from Las Vegas, they always exclaim, "Oh, it's hot there!" But I say, with no irony, as I'm wiping the sweat that is dripping from my brow, "BUT! It's a dry heat!" And we both laugh heartily.

It is so great to be here! I've been in Washington so many times, I cannot count. But every time I come back I'm thrilled all over again. It is a beautiful, elegant place along the federal corridor. It is a moving, heart-swelling place when you view the iconic monuments or, like today, the original documents of our nation's founding. It is a vibrant, authentic place where you can dine on world cuisines, listen to eclectic music, and enjoy international people-watching. Everyone who is a citizen of the U.S.A. should come to the capital city for a visit, at least once. Politics are eclipsed by the splendor and grandeur of the whole scene.

Just bring an extra piece of luggage, because if you're like us two Mature Lady Schoolteachers, you'll need it to haul back the collection of "really neat" books we've found in the gift shops of: Congress, the Museum of Art, Mount Vernon, the National Archives, the Natural History Museum, Arlington National Cemetery. And we've still got one more day to go!! Ack! We may be paying the over-weight luggage fee, if we're not careful!

Looking For Rod Serling

I'm in Washington D.C. for a week, wallowing in American History with my good friend Teacher Girl. She, like me, came to this career after a life of raising children, and so we have many things in common. We're having a total blast! We arrived early Thursday morning on the "red-eye". We took Metro to our hotel, dropped off our luggage, bought some bagels & juice, and then headed up to the Capitol to pick up tour tickets. The tour is free, but you must have a timed ticket. We had two hours before our turn, so we walked down to the botanical gardens, then the art galleries, and returned in time for our tour.

It is a spectacular building, full of historical imagery, and our tour guide was very charming and informative. And the capitol police have one of the most difficult jobs of law enforcement: balancing their very real concerns for the security of the building and those who work there, and maintaining access for the public--the stated owners and proprietors: We, the People.

After a several hours, we acknowledged the late hour, and our hunger and thirst. So we headed for a food court I knew of that didn't usually seem so far away as it did on this occasion. We arrived, ordered, sank into our chairs and consumed. All that was between us and our beds, those glorious soft, pillow rich, down-covered havens, was a brief Metro ride and a short walk across the street to our hotel door. By now, our lack of sleep, and the trudging up and down Capitol Hill, had completely drained us, and we were operating on automatic.

The train came to our stop. With great effort, we forced our exhausted legs to stand and shuffle off the car, following the crowd over to the escalator, we stepped on the tread and moved upward. We were both thinking, "Almost there, almost there." We carefully hoarded our last tiny sparks of energy so we'd have enough to walk across that street. Then, we stepped off the escalator, walked out of the Metro stop, froze, and simultaneously squeaked, "Where are we?!" I was so tired from the day of walking and not drinking or eating enough, that I couldn't wrap my brain around what was going on! We were SUPPOSED to be in front of our hotel. We were SUPPOSED to be able to trudge across the street, get in the elevator, and then drop into our beds. WHAT WAS GOING ON!!?? We felt like crying. It was a Twilight Zone moment. I half expected to hear Rod intoning as the credits came up...

I realized finally that we'd exited the Metro tunnel at the wrong end, and we needed to walk around the block to get to the right street. But we were so finished that even that seemed like too much, and--what if we walked the wrong way around the block and got further away!?

Surprisingly, we did have enough left to shuffle around the block and we saw the blessed sight of our hotel name glowing in the middle of the next block. We did make it, and the beds were every bit as wonderful as we'd anticipated. And the next day, we remembered to drink more water and eat more often, and it was a Capitol Fourth.

Announcing...an Addition--32 Years Ago

It's too small for you to read, but this is a page from Redbook Magazine in 1976. [If you click on the image and open it in a new window, you can see a larger version.] It is the announcement of the birth of our first child, a son. The writing is my explanation as to why we chose this way to tell everyone our exciting news. I sent a copy of it to Redbook because they had a feature where you could send in your unique announcement and, if they thought it sufficiently original, they'd print it and send you $50. Cool--the money was a bonus. I loved the announcement! Cool Guy took my idea to a guy at work who was an artist-type and he drew the pictures of the motorcycle and the bassinet side-car.

I only attempt to show you this announcement by way of saying "Happy Birthday" to our number one! He is now the age I was when I was finished having babies. It's a miracle, because I am still in my thirties (in my brain) and yet, so is he! Mysterious how that works, huh? I remember my grandma telling me that some mornings as she washed her face, she was startled to see an old lady in the mirror; who was that person?

Anyway, Feliz Cumpleanos to Number One, and many more!!

Forging Our Chains

Today the Sunday School teacher gave an interesting explanation of a scripture by reading from Charles Dickens. The scripture is Alma 13: 27-30.

27 And now, my brethren, I wish from the inmost part of my heart, yea, with great anxiety even unto pain, that ye would hearken unto my words, and cast off your sins, and not procrastinate the day of your repentance;

28 But that ye would humble yourselves before the Lord, and call on his holy name, and watch and pray continually, that ye may not be tempted above that which ye can bear, and thus be led by the Holy Spirit, becoming humble, meek, submissive, patient, full of love and all long-suffering;

29 Having faith on the Lord; having a hope that ye shall receive eternal life; having the love of God always in your hearts, that ye may be lifted up at the last day and enter into his rest.

30 And may the Lord grant unto you repentance, that ye may not bring down his wrath upon you, that ye may not be bound down by the chains of hell, that ye may not suffer the second death.

The teacher emphasized verse 30 about the chains of hell, and then he read a selection from "A Christmas Carol" that he has written in the margin of his scriptures.

Again the spectre raised a cry, and shook its chain, and wrung its shadowy hands.
``You are fettered,'' said Scrooge, trembling. ``Tell me why?''
``I wear the chain I forged in life,'' replied the Ghost. ``I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it.

The older I get the more I realize how wise everyone is who has tried to teach me about what is really important in life. I wish I had followed their advice more often. We really do forge our own chains of hell everyday we live. The trick is, will they be weak enough to be broken as Christ "lifts us up at the last day?" Or, do we, in our weak and blind mortal condition, foolishly insist on claiming our "choice" to reject the warning voices who are trying to help us remain unfettered? Are we daily laboring on our very own enormous chains of hell? "Forge" is a strong verb, indicating some effort. Do we work really hard to be "independent" thus ensuring that our chains will be thick and strong from our foolish pounding against the loving admonitions of God via lessons, scriptures, leaders, talks?

I have often listened and thought to myself that I don't really have to obey that because I have a different circumstance, or that I am exempt somehow from this for some reason. Just adding another link, I guess. Recently, I've heard my chains clinking louder than usual and my previous ability to look at my life's choices through a rosy lens is failing me. I see now that I'm not exempt from consequences that were clearly spelled out all along. I just refused to see that the chains would be so chafing and burdensome. Once the lemonade is all gone, you're stuck with the lemon rinds-- to mix my metaphors.

Re-tired

Three years ago, I moved to Las Vegas, and I took my first trip to Utah for a family event. I drove my car north along I-15 and, when I stopped for gas in a small town mid-way, I was lured and landed like a giant trout by the guys who worked at the tire dealership attached to the gas station. They totally convinced me that my tires would not make it the few hundred miles of my journey. Those tires were unsafe and not what they'd want their mother or sister to be driving on. And they cleaned my windows while sizing me up for the kill. I practically jumped over the side of their boat into into the fish-well without a net. I would NEVER have fallen for this line in, say, Indiana or Kansas. But when I got the hard-sell from a guy named "Nephi" in central Utah, I was a pushover. The only hesitation on his part was when I said, "You wouldn't be lying to a missionary's mother, would you?" His head did a little jerk, and as he lifted down the new tire from the rack said, "Oh, are you LDS?" So, perhaps his conscience isn't entirely dead, or perhaps it was just one of those reflexes that cadavers can have.

Anyway, most of you know this story. I had several hours to think, and realized I'd been suckered, plus the "new" tires were cheap imports compared to my brandname ones. When I stopped on the return trip to ask them to return my used tires, the manager immediately caved, offering (without prompting) to return my money, and remount my old tires, without my even insisting on this plan of action. It was the behavior of a guilty man. So, I sat around and watched this group of vipers, disguised as kindly men helping tourists, and noticed that they never approached the locals who pulled up for gas in a large truck with Utah plates. Only old people with out of state plates (my were Maryland) or women traveling alone (ta da), or other vulnerable types, were cast a line with the wiggly worm of worry attached. The worst case I witnessed was the family with the mom in a wheelchair, and the older teen son driving. Big jerks sold them new tires, too.

Anyway, today, almost three years exactly, I bought new tires to replace those "dangerous" tires, finally. I still feel motivated to buy one of the billboards on I-15 as you approach this tiny town and warn motorists not to believe the dire-tire-tale. What a bunch of liars.

PS: Beaver, Utah, 1st Shell Station, northbound side of I-15 as you approach from the south. Go ahead, sue me.

They Are Covered

There was a sign displayed prominently in the auditorium yesterday to let everyone know that any taping they did became their property, and by signing the form, we were signing over our right to the images they made. I was impressed by the creative wording in their legal notice:

...understand that we may videotape you and use your name and likeness in all media, whether now known or hereafter devised, throughout the universe in perpetuity without restrictions...

So, if anyone invents a new type of media, they can use my image there, too. In perpetuity. Whew.

Pick Me! Pick Me!

Today I successfully passed the written test for the game show "Who Wants to be a Millionaire?" I read in the paper that they were having contestant auditions at a local casino this morning from 7:00--11:00 A.M. I figured it would be a popular destination, so I got up early and got in line at 6:45. However, I was approximately #618 on that line! No, seriously. Whew...apparently some people had actually arrived the night before and stood/sat in the line until they herded the first 300 folks into the auditorium at 7:05 to take the written test for the first sorting. About an hour later, those people exited and group two entered. I was #18 of group three. I know because I have a refrigerator magnet with that number written on the back.

This was an important number, because it was my identifier to record on my Scantron answer sheet, along with my name. We were seated in an area where the casino hosts concerts of not-quite-headliners (Coming July 5!! Davey Jones & Memories of the Monkees!! General seating $9.00!) [I actually attended a Dwight Yoakam Concert there when I first arrived in Las Vegas and it was pleasant venue.] Anyway...we heard the spiel about not talking to seatmates, fill in the answer sheet correctly-- questions on the form are numbered left to right, but Scantron answers are filled in top to bottom--and that we will be warned when there are only five minutes and then one minute left. We all opened the manila envelope and began; we had 10 minutes for 30 questions.

There were several options for being picked. There was a movie trivia show--we all took the movie trivia test first. I knew I flunked it as I took it. I guess I don't go to enough movies. There were also options for engaged couples, people who'd brought a photo of themselves dressed in a Halloween contest, and one I look forward to: three generations with a child (12 -18), a parent, and a grandparent. And then everyone else who just wanted a chance at the regular show. After the movie test, everyone took the regular test of 30 questions of general knowledge. All other specialty show hopefuls had to pass that quiz to go on for an interview.

Through the magic of Scantron, they had the results ready in just a few minutes, and the Lady in Charge began to read off the numbers of those who passed, and therefore, got to stay in their seats for further instructions. Talk about tense!! She read and read, and we realized they weren't in any special order, so everyone leaned in just a little--hoping, hoping. Second to last number, "18!" WHEW!! I KNEW I'd come pretty close, so I had started to worry that somehow I hadn't passed, even though there were only two questions I'd really wondered over. We were given a small packet to complete and told to return at 2:30 for a face to face.

That went well, duh--I have good interviewing skills. Plus, I think it helps to have as your reason for trying out, "It would be fun! You get to be on t.v. and show how smart you are! My students would love to watch me and, hey! Trip to New York City!" Instead of, "Well, this would really help pay my student loans." Anyway, then several of us were sent to the back of the room to have an interview on camera. They insisted that your chances of appearing on the show are not increased by being filmed, but it felt fun to do it. We will receive a post card within three weeks to inform us of our status (or non) as a member of the contestant pool.

So, I blew off most of a day in this endeavor, but I talked to some fun people in the line, and if I get a chance to be on another game show--well, that will be fun too! Oh, yes, and the million dollars.

Teacher Learns Again

Life is never easy. I remember as a young married woman, I had a recurring delusion that if we could just solve whatever problem was creating the current strife, then we would be fine and we would live Happily Ever After. Really. I don't remember when I realized that there would always be a new problem. Or a repeat of the Same Old Problem. I also didn't realize that as time goes by, people change, circumstances change, and problems--rather situations--that you could never anticipate, bob to the surface of relationships colliding with the status quo. There will always be something. The trick is learning how to deal with it in the context of your relationship reality. You might wish to alter that reality, or you may ignore that reality, but it is still reality. So, the real challenge of grownup life and marriage is recognizing reality. Then, work with it.

Today, I had to give our Relief Society lesson because my scheduled teacher was off dealing with an unscheduled family emergency. But I don't ever mind giving the lesson. I would be willing to teach every week, but I know that is not the plan. Anyway, our source was a conference talk from the May Ensign, called Concern for the One, by Elder Joseph Wirthlin. He talked about three causes of people becoming the Lost Sheep of the parable. It was a powerful talk that could be given over and over in every meeting in every country. I wrote three questions on the board:

• Do you ever feel different, or weird, like you don't fit in?
• Do you ever feel weary, too tired to go on with your life, overwhelmed?
• Do you ever feel like you just can't understand or follow some of the doctrines of the Church?

As I wrote them, one lady called out, "Are you reading my mind?" Several other sisters laughed and concurred. It was a great lesson. We talked about how everyone can feel they don't fit in at some time in her life: too old, too young, unmarried, divorced, widowed, rebellious children, no children, not enough children, wrong hair, wrong politics, different cultures. But there isn't a dress code (other than basic modesty) nor it there a "correct culture" or official family status. I know what the basic doctrine teaches: family family family--that is an ideal and we can all strive for it, but we live in reality. One mother described how prickley her unmarried-with-a-son daughter has been for years around Church members. Then talked about how loving members of her daughter's ward in another state have helped her to sooth the hyper-consciousness of this glaring deviation from norm. People in her ward searched out the Lost Sheep, not content knowing they had their Ninety-Nine. I've complained in past posts about feeling excluded in this ward. It is still an issue, but to close the lesson today, I concurred with Elder Wirthlin's testimony that God is, in fact, our Parent, and just as we may sorrow for our children's choices, He feels sorrow about ours, but His love and care is unchanged. Each individual human is His child. I couldn't get out of the room from women approaching me with tears in their eyes about personal situations and how great it was to have this lesson. I was surprised to learn of some of the sorrows I had not known about.

No, I can't explain everything that may seem contradictory or impossible in doctrine--I don't have to!!! Lucky deal!! I maintain that this is the purpose of eternity. We'll have a different view then. We'll know what God knows. We'll know the underlying causes of some of life's inexplicable troubles. We'll have the benefit of mercy to temper justice. But I'm really glad I got the chance to be there in RS today and teach this lesson. It reminded me that I'm not alone in having seemingly insurmountable problems in my life. It reminded me that helping others always gives comfort to the giver, too. It reminded me that I continually need to keep my eternal perspective instead of the view that only looks at next week. I get tired of trouble, everyone does. It is soothing to share with other women, even though no one can solve others' life conundrums. But we can cheer each other up.

A Trip to the Past

We went to San Diego last week. Cool Guy attended a UAV conference, so I went for a couple of days just to enjoy San Diego and, hey, free hotel room! He picked me up from the airport, we drove over to our old original haunt of Ocean Beach. As he drove around the edge of the earth on Sunset Cliffs Road, I said, "We should move back here." He laughed and said, "Well, it took you 15 minutes to say that. It took me 10 minutes to say it when I arrived here yesterday!"

So, it is established. At some point, we really need to move back and live by the ocean again. There's nothing like it. The scent, the sound, the birds, the surfers, the shells, the misty clouds--all of it. We parked and stood out on the cliffs watching the waves pound against the rocks, spraying water up in the air. The surfers were bobbing up and down waiting for the right swell. Pelicans soared along, just above the crest of the waves, floating in the air up and down with the height of the water, never touching it, but so close. There were lots of gulls, terns and cormorants. Sigh.

Then, we drove around to all the places we lived while there. All of our houses/apartments are still there except for the little "chicken coop" house where the children were born. I was astonished that one domicile was still there--and occupied. When we were moving into it in 1975, our painting was interrupted by a fellow wearing a badge identifying him as working for the county health office. His goal was condemnation of the structure! He was appalled that our sleazy landlord was renting it out AGAIN! Apparently, the house had been damaged in a fire, and superficially repaired. But, we lived there for about 8 months, before getting an offer for a really nice place from an acquaintance who wanted us to house-sit for her. But, there was our old place, still inhabited.

County 0 Slumlord 3 (or however many over the years...)

Not the Dream He Talked About

I feel so apprehensive about this year's presidential political race. I saw a man wearing a shirt recently that read "Realizable Dream" with the words over a picture of Barrack Obama. I know how important it is to many Americans that his campaign has been successful and that he is the nominee. It is exciting to me, too, that in my lifetime, our nation has become a place where it appears that race isn't a barrier. Except that this whole thing seems to have become narrowed down to just race. I read an opinion piece in the Saturday Washington Post (which I cannot find now) the seemed to say that if Obama isn't elected in November then America really is just its same old racist self. Here is another opinion writer from the Post with a similar view:

For some civil rights loyalists, myself very much included, it's hard not to feel a spine-tingling thrill. But for a surprising number of others, the overwhelming feeling last week was apprehension. "I knew the real war was on," one friend told me. "Obama had crossed the point of no return. It was like when Jackie Robinson finally made it to the major leagues. . . . Now the gloves would come off, and failure [in November], I knew, would feel like we all had lost it -- all of black America."

These two writers' opinions were jaw-dropping to me. It implies that we cannot look at ideology, or political opinions of the candidates, but that only race matters. If one doesn't vote for Obama, then one is a racist. If Obama doesn't win then it just shows how prejudiced and white-monolithic our country is.

This concept is a complete repudiation of Dr. King's opinion from his famous "I Have a Dream" speech (the anniversary of said speech will be the date Obama will accept the nomination of the Democratic party.) But Dr. King didn't say "I have a dream that someday a black American will run for president and you all had better vote for him or you'll be forever known as racists." He said, "I have a dream that someday my children will be judged not by the color of their skin but by the content of their character." So what is the point of having choice if we will be criticzed and judged if we make a different choice than the "acceptable" choice? How can we overturn this poisonous concept that a vote not cast for Obama is an indicator of one's ill feelings toward black Americans? Candidates ought to be chosen because of their integrity, policies, and capabilities, not something the gene pool gave them. These two candidates are full-grown human beings, with experiences, histories of public service, and clearly stated philosophies. They are NOT stereotypical group representatives.

A colleague of mine, who is black, (and with whom I have wide-ranging political discussions) pointed out to me that he despises the trend to treat black Americans as a collective group, with one single goal, and one single needs' package. He also rejects the notion that he should be looked at for anything but his own opinion. In fact, he turns it back on me whenever I foolishly imply that he (my friend) is the spokesman for his race, and asks me to tell him what all "white people" think of some issue. That a black American in a leadership role should, and can, speak for the entire group is ridiculous--as though everyone who is black in America thinks just alike or has the same issues, problems, and concerns. It is an absurd concept and we can't seem to banish it from public discourse.

Are we all this simple-minded? Shouldn't we each raise our voice whenever we hear this being done and knock it out of public discourse? It will be difficult, but there will be no progress whatsoever in race relations in America if we are only permitted to notice is melanin and not policies.

Magic Night

It was such an awesome evening that we could hardly come inside. We ate dinner on the patio, and brought out some ice cream for dessert. A hummingbird hovered in front of the trellis, snacking on nectar from the orange trumpet flowers covering the vine. Our neighbor's son and his friends were jumping their skateboards on a rail in their driveway. Since it was only 83 degrees we needed more time out in it. So we donned the boots and helmets and went for a motorcycle ride.

It's amazing how quickly you leave behind the city when you go northeast from Las Vegas. We paralleled the Air Force base runway for several miles and it felt like that scene in "Top Gun" when Maverick raced his bike alongside the Tomcats taking off. Jet after jet swooped into the air drowning the sound of the Harley. They're doing a multi-national training exercise right now, and so the night will be filled with jet noise this week.

It wasn't even hot. Usually this time of year, a ride into the desert is like a trip through a convection oven. But the further we got from the city, the cooler the breeze on our faces. Well, cool may be a bit of a stretch, but it wasn't hot. It smells good in the desert. The plants are mostly tough and hardy, and one way to protect your scrawny little plant-self from predators or the moisture-sucking heat is to have a pungent resin. At the end of warm day the dirt, rocks, and plants all give off a scent, and it beats the smell of hot city pavement.

By the time we returned, the sky was dark, stars were blinking, and the finger-nail moon was a silver curve over the black mountain outlines. People were sitting in their front yards, bicycling up the street, or just walking in the unseasonal, fantastic, moderate evening air. All we needed was a waft of ocean breeze, and you'd have thought we were in San Diego.

Oh, Beautiful

Driving along the extreme east edge of the valley, I could see the vast panorama of Sin City spread out before me. The west mountains were indigo silhouettes jutting up into the gauzy glare of the descending sun. I came around a bend and Ray Charles' voice sang "Oh, bea-u-ti-ful for...." through the radio speakers just as four jets rose from the desert floor in front of me in tight formation. The Air Force Thunderbirds were practicing their swoop-up and barrel roll. It was a spectacularly beautiful spacious sky, filled with red, white and blue F-16's.

America, America.

Last Day

It was the last day for students in this school year at my building. I word that carefully because I am acutely aware of my friends who are just starting their final 10 weeks (!!) of school at the year-round building I left. I really, really feel for them. Again, school ended JUST in time. No felonies were committed by teachers in our building! I came awfully close with a couple of the boys I dealt with daily. I just continue to wonder how in the world some of the students I've taught are ever going to have a successful adulthood. Probably some of them won't. I mean, I read in the newspaper about people in their early twenties who are arrested for really terrible crimes, and also some really incredibly stupid behavior and I figure that I could probably tell you how they acted in fourth grade...

But enough of that---tomorrow is another day. Next year it'll all be better. I'll be in total control. I'll have some alternative behavior plans. I'll train them better. They'll be easier to deal with. Pigs will fly. Hell will freeze over. I figure that as long as I can wake up each morning and feel positive and optimistic that TODAY will be a GREAT day and things will go well, then I'll keep being a teacher. Last year, honestly, I stopped feeling that way. I knew that each day would be the same nightmare as the day before and it took a lot of work to get out of bed and go to that school. But--this year: everyday I felt like Pollyanna: today will work!! And it mostly did.

So, now I have two days of filling out data folders with information that no one will read next year, and completing reports that are "legal documents" that go in their permanent files and no one will ever look at again. Then I'll put away all the junk, clean off the tops of all my desks, filing cabinets, etc. (By then, you realize it'll be August....) No seriously, I'll be all done on Friday afternoon, I'm sure.

Next week, I'm going to San Diego for a couple of days with Cool Guy who is going to some convention and that will be the official start of SUMMER--first one in four years.

A Perk

I got a coupon in my school e-mail during May for Teacher Appreciation Month that offered a discount to teachers for many of the big shows in Las Vegas. So last week when our son and his family were here, we went to "Stomp Outloud" and it was FANTASTIC! We took our 5 year old grandson, too, and he enjoyed it almost more than the adults. It was so entertaining and he is a musical kid who is talented at singing and dancing. I highly recommend this show if you're coming to visit us this summer. Go to the link, if you haven't heard about it, and you'll be intrigued. I'll go with you and we can get the "locals" discount at least.

Then last night, for a belated anniversary outing, we went to "Mamma Mia!" -- the Broadway show created around ABBA music. What a blast!! We had really good seats, front and center. The cast is wildly enthusiastic which impressed me since they've been doing this twice a night for six years (!!) and the show itself is highly entertaining. It's closing at the end of this year and so they're offering half-price tickets for the entire house through September. Again, if you're even thinking about a Vegas trip, come before then and see "Mamma Mia!"--it's fabulous!

**Special Notice to Offspring: your parents miss you...we'll take you to see ABBA music...swimming pool season is here...love to have you visit, even for a weekend...

Pity Party

I realize that I've been blogging less lately because lots of the things bugging me are just too personal to blog about. Here's one that bugs me that I'm willing to put out there, but I'll probably sound whiny and self-centered. Oh well.

I've been part of the RS presidency in my ward now for about seven months. More and more I realize that I'm just the third wheel on the bicycle. The rest of them are all "natives." They've lived here for most of their lives--they were born here, or in this region. (The old southern Utah and southern Nevada era was very combined--many family inter-relationships cross back and forth.) Therefore, when we get talking in a meeting, someone will say "Oh, did you know that Sis. Blah-de-blah is a [some family name]? " Then the conversation will veer off into some obtuse antecdote about her great-aunt who dated one of the ladies' uncle's cousin and how they always went to the Manti pageant for their family reunion and how her second cousin married the temple president's brother-in-law Marvin and their kids were all on the same team as someone's grandchildren and now they're all living in a different stake and he was her former bishop and don't they all miss the ward that used to be before they re-aligned all the boundaries? And I'm sitting there not knowing a single soul they're all reminiscing about in their secret "Las Vegas Pioneer Code". It happens so regularly that I no longer even try to pay attention, because they don't care that I don't have a clue. They're not talking to me. They're just talking to each other.

I really have a different personality than them---I honestly don't care about designer purses, nor do I drink diet Pepsi for breakfast. And if I did, I wouldn't brag about it, or maybe if I did, I wouldn't think anything about bragging that I drank diet Pepsi for breakfast. I've never been the sort that lunched--they are. I'm not a fashion plate--they are. But if I contribute a thought, or an antecdote, I get a response of "Uh huh..." and then they just go right on. Translation: booooring. You know--the tone people take with a child? Perhaps I'm just being too sensitive. I don't think I'm easily offended. But I'm starting to get a little touchy here.

I think the main reason the RS president picked me for a counselor is that she liked a talk I gave a couple of years ago on Mother's Day because it was a non-traditional one. I pointed out that I had come to realize how many women didn't like Mother's Day and why they didn't and I addressed those concerns. But the more I serve with her, the more I realize she dismisses me in little ways. I recognize that she and the other counselor have more in common: they're both moms with kids at home. Being redheads, they tend to have similar, very dynamic personalities and know how to get their own way really well. And they're accustomed to being the alpha-girl in their circle. Me, too. But, I'm waaay out-done here.

I keep finding out all the occasions they "get together" as women and families, and have fun, and associate informally. I don't get invited. It's not just because I work. The RS president has a more-than-full-time job with the school district. However, when we moved this time, I noticed that having no kids really made the transition harder. I don' t have a very big footprint in this ward. I go to many events, I help out as often as possible and I don't feel old and out-of-it, but I guess I'm seen as an old lady. I'm just not READY to be an old lady.

Ironically there is a certified Old Lady in our group, the secretary. But, she is one of those "old family" people, and, like the president, has worked in the school system forever and a day. She is a terrific and entertaining person and I like her very much. But, she is very compatible and "in" whereas I am definitely "out". I'll bet they don't even realize they're doing it. (Because they're self-involved to a great extent----oooh just saying that sounds so SELF INVOLVED...) But it makes me think hard now about the presidencies I've been part of in the past and I wonder if I was the cause of other women feeling like they weren't really part of the Cool Group. I hope not. And I definitely am learning something for the future.

NOT Just the Grammar Police

I've chronicled my inability to overlook bad grammar in public, and my esrtwhile attempts to fix it. But today, I got a chance for REAL enforcement.

I (and many of my fellow teachers) are certified School Safety Patrol Volunteers, with credentials from the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department. We've been trained, photographed, vetted, and given safety-green vests and stop signs to use after school. We actually have the authority to stop traffic on city streets around our school during the 10-15 minutes after school when the families are picking up their students. If you don't obey us, we can take down your license and a policeman will go to your home and give you a ticket--on our say-so. Hmmm...maybe they just mail you the ticket.

Most people really are nice, follow our directions, and realize that in 10 minutes, it'll all be over with and they'll be home again. After all, everyone comes at once (3:30) to pick up their children and so it is crowded. Our only purpose is to keep the students safe as they leave the school.

Today, we were short one of our teachers because he was sick, and his sub didn't come out to help. No problem, there are really more than we need at our spot. It is a sticky spot because there are two lanes merging. One group of parents are pulled over in a pick up spot, off the street, another group of parents are pulled over at a sidewalk alongside the street. We alternate between letting cars leave from each place, and I stop traffic on the street so the cars can exit the pull-in-pick-up lane. There is always a long line of cars creeping up this street waiting for their turn to pull-in or pull-over. It's crowded. But, again, if you're one of the family members who do this daily, we all know the drill.

A guy came along today who DIDN'T KNOW THE DRILL. I didn't recognize him. I don't know if he intended to pick up a child, or if just made a mistake of trying to drive up this obscure side street today at 3:30. He pulled to a stop right in the middle of the street, blocking all the cars. I gestured for him to move on. I called out that he should keep moving. He rolled down his window to yell at me--I pointed out where he could pull over to either side if he was picking up a student. No cars could move in any direction. I said he needed to move on, again, and he put it in park, got out of his car and stood up to yell at me.

"You have the whole f*&** street blocked here, g**%$# it!! What do you think you're doing, g**%#@?? The whole g**%&$# f **%*$$^ street!!"

At that point, several parents were quickly writing down his license number for us. No one wanted their kids run over or cursed at by this big scary man. I stared at him in amazement, dressed in my bright green vest that says "safety officer", holding my big old stop sign. Well, yah, we're blocking the street. That's our job!! Just as quickly, he got back into the car and drove away.

So, after we sent off all the students, I took the license plate number to the office and filled out my report for the police. Really, I'd just like to have a chance to sit down quietly with him and ask him if he'd never come up that street at 3:30 on a school day before. I'm pretty sure it was just a new experience for him. (I recognize most of the cars and families by now.) I'm also pretty sure he won't make that mistake again. Especially after paying the ticket.

Severe Weather Alert

I was scrolling over the weather places on my screen where I have listed a number of places where we've formerly lived, and where various off-spring and relatives currently reside, and a little box popped up declaring a "severe weather alert" for Ventura County, California.

I've been in some severe weather there. Once, it got so cold, ice formed on our dog's water dish. This might not seem so bad, but it was a big problem for the inland orange groves where freezing temperatures several nights in a row threatened their crops and almost killed thousands of acres of strawberries. Also, we've had stunning rain storms that overwhelmed the gutters, flooded our patio and had to be swept out of the kitchen, and caused cascades of mud to rush off the mountainsides along the Pacific Coast Highway, closing the road.

But this particular Severe Weather Alert was to warn of temperatures in the 80's and 90's at the beach. I realize that if it was in the 80's and 90's at the beaches, then the inland valleys would be sweltering in the 100's. Many people in Southern California don't have air conditioning. You rarely need it. So, it would be severe weather for people who aren't equipped for the really hot temperatures.

But, 80's and 90's at the beach is more like a dream come true--whooo-hoooo, surf's up, see you later, I'll be swimming. I found it an amusing characterization.

Honoring Mothers

Yesterday, as we cleaned up a post-funeral luncheon at church, I listened to two of my associates discuss the pending Mother's Day service at church. One of them said, "Well, if I hear again the one about how I'm screwing up my kids because I work, I'll get up and walk out." The other one agreed and recounted how it would inflame her whenever she heard that said at church because, as a single mother, who else was there to earn the money? I just listened because I made the deliberate choice to not work when my children were small, even though, for many years, we lived just above poverty in order to pull that off. Sometimes I even regret that I started working when I did, with the last two as teens, because I can see that my not being there at the end of the school day was not a good thing. Sigh. You can't win as a mother. So stop trying to conform to others' expectations.

I've also begun to realize that it is inevitable that your own children will grow up to be critical of you in some way. This just has to be, or they cannot ultimately separate themselves from you and go off and be independent adults. If you, the mother, cannot have failings, then they cannot be released from being children. I know how critical I was of some of my mother's ways, and I vowed to not repeat the same irritating things with my offspring. I've found that they will just choose new things to be irked over.

When I was a young woman, I felt that my mother tried to "run my life". So, I try to not tell my offspring what to do. Then I find out that one of them craves my advice, but feels it is pointless to confide concerns because I do not offer advice. Sigh. I wasn't going to hyper-manage my children's appearance. (I was visiting my mom and I realized that she was really ill, just before her death-- because in the several days I spent with her, she didn't complain about my long hair even once.) But one of my children once asked why all the many photos of them show rag-a-muffin children playing together outdoors, when our cousins' photos are all filled with them perfectly dressed and coifed. (Our dad tended to follow the kids around and capture unposed, arty moments, often at the end of a long hard play day. Most of the cousins photos were posed at some event we were too far away to go to.)

But, it's okay. I've also figured out that we each can only do the best we can at any given time in our lives. My mother was a fabulous mother. When women write about "having it all" they have NO IDEA. A farmer's wife truly Has-It-All: the milking, the gardening, the cooking, the cleaning, the diapers, the laundry, the baling, the truck driving, etc. She was a whirlwind, a multi-tasker before it was defined. She had her ideas of how things ought to be and, by golly, that is how they were done. But, thanks to her, we all learned how to work hard and take care of ourselves and anyone else we could see who needed taken care of, and still have a cheerful countenance and loyal friends. She and my dad really loved each other, and supported each other. And they yelled at each other, now and then, too.

Mother's Day is a mine field. Some years I've been really touchy about the rituals and have felt overlooked or underappreciated. Some years I have been very sensitive about my female friends, especially at church, who couldn't have children, or who've never married. But, their status does not alter the fact that motherhood is an institution worth honoring. As a mother, I realize that what counts isn't how my children act on this contrived holiday, or how anyone at church tasked with speaking on the topic presents their thoughts.

Really, I feel honored as a mother when I recognize the best qualities of my mother, channeled through me, coming out in my children. When they show no fear of hard work, value family relationships, and act in Christ-like ways then I know that my job as a mother has been done well enough and I'm just part of a long, long chain of "good" mothers, even if I still get griped about, now and then.