tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-296789132024-03-13T13:01:09.653-07:00Don't Let the Bed Bites Bug YouKarenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002824888626862844noreply@blogger.comBlogger84125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29678913.post-67740348744596936722012-03-07T23:18:00.001-07:002012-03-07T23:42:49.119-07:00Identifying With Ian<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF_pBtyB25wiJrzR3qGX4Rk-yW4lIW5CZXdfB7L8wukUoGbl0quCY9U7IoFdsSJPWxcrE74f-hB-hFw69F1BjYVQLZKIZzNppyKetpSWpQ-PyjuWW2k-QCIQ5yF3fvWKJPAN2Z/s1600/NicolFamily78.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF_pBtyB25wiJrzR3qGX4Rk-yW4lIW5CZXdfB7L8wukUoGbl0quCY9U7IoFdsSJPWxcrE74f-hB-hFw69F1BjYVQLZKIZzNppyKetpSWpQ-PyjuWW2k-QCIQ5yF3fvWKJPAN2Z/s320/NicolFamily78.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo courtesy of Pam Stephenson. Thanks, Pam!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
See the toothless spaz on the left taking the photographer's dumb joke a little too seriously? That would be yours truly, age 7. I have a kid who is the same age I was in this photo, and I can't help but think of him when I look at it.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNnP0syw0kRDMhbgOn4O1HSMzJEq7YWa8M6VKZMG-MPHx6lguLnBKx1mVLrX3F8gLFQwhmpOXSctYGfr9mJEqtsnxD6y5MDYeoa8qkhz74L5YfxfjEXL4EOWpIX4Q6kYZtJ2bQ/s1600/IanPool11BW.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNnP0syw0kRDMhbgOn4O1HSMzJEq7YWa8M6VKZMG-MPHx6lguLnBKx1mVLrX3F8gLFQwhmpOXSctYGfr9mJEqtsnxD6y5MDYeoa8qkhz74L5YfxfjEXL4EOWpIX4Q6kYZtJ2bQ/s200/IanPool11BW.jpg" width="161" /></a>Ian is carefree, in about as many ways as you can define the word. He is confident in being himself. He has no major concerns in his life that cause him to worry. He is carefree in not being care<i>ful</i>. He takes risks. The things <i>I </i>want him to worry about, he doesn't care about. Basically, he is a happy kid, still looking forward to his life, confident that his future will always be as rosy as his present.<br />
<br />
I think I was that way when I was seven, when I still thought the world was a magical place where everyone was nice and played by the rules, and princesses were living out their fairy tale lives in lands far, far away from mine.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3_Mi7tENzZAnpEhvj_0dz65mwstbn5aJqvoIbMoSELfa6dFpIcfV3NcShJkEq1WmGUUB9tPYvMu5_G-1vEQbgqqalk63gUu_c5-1-GFhmotvvLPVgiiKEsqIci46qOZsOszvT/s1600/IanRockBW.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3_Mi7tENzZAnpEhvj_0dz65mwstbn5aJqvoIbMoSELfa6dFpIcfV3NcShJkEq1WmGUUB9tPYvMu5_G-1vEQbgqqalk63gUu_c5-1-GFhmotvvLPVgiiKEsqIci46qOZsOszvT/s1600/IanRockBW.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This</i> precious child ate all the Thin Mints?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Like Ian, I made friends easily, and like Ian, I was confused and devastated when other children had unfriendly intentions. Unlike me, Ian moves on without dwelling on it.<br />
<br />
In the frenzy of daily life, Ian will often be found at the center of the chaos, laughing and enjoying himself despite the disorder that may be happening around him. When our little Annie died, Ian was like a little angel around the house, constantly dispensing hugs and kisses and other unusually sympathetic gestures for a nearly three year-old.<br />
<br />
This angel also has his little devil moments: sneaking outside with bare feet to jump on a snow-covered trampoline, chasing his sibling around the house with a spray can of Lysol, devouring every snack in the cupboards when my head is turned.<br />
<br />
Ian has been like a little gremlin lately, leaving a trail of evidence- crumbs, lego, and occasionally drops of blood (I too was a nose-bleeder)- from one crime scene to another. His antics have incited both of his parents to frequent scoldings, enough so that when a sentence starts with "Ian...," we immediately brace for impact (we recall how he taught his kindergarten class the bird gesture, and I'm not referring to Napoleon Dynamite's "happy hands").<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1C68dSP9c9PhM-35hw-PbuiKURSDzrg3YM1w5aQ9fnMxftwnj78ZDNtOXPyRNKBBQKDqeCctZwDhCPJDVWyffd-FGMWM9gw1HzqaX17BtvmGD3DPILksJn02yVSqGHV5u1ISr/s1600/HallowIan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1C68dSP9c9PhM-35hw-PbuiKURSDzrg3YM1w5aQ9fnMxftwnj78ZDNtOXPyRNKBBQKDqeCctZwDhCPJDVWyffd-FGMWM9gw1HzqaX17BtvmGD3DPILksJn02yVSqGHV5u1ISr/s320/HallowIan.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">HallowIan</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Heaven help me, despite the sighs and eye-rolls I often offer this boy, I think my life could use a little Ian-emulation. So what if I blow off my responsibilities now and then to the annoyance of folks around me? I can still be happy and laugh at myself. So what if I draw a little blood now and then? It'll dry up and my cool scar will make a great conversation piece, and I love to talk. I may not give myself license to raid the cupboards, but maybe a good bounce on a snowy trampoline is just what I need.<br />
<br />
Bless his little heart, Ian's happy, oblivious, spontaneous spirit has been a blessing to me and our whole family. Next time he does something that makes me want to put him on the naughty step, maybe I'll just join in the mischief instead.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002824888626862844noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29678913.post-54956507786116485702011-11-01T21:38:00.002-07:002011-11-01T21:41:24.910-07:00Hallelujah, it's November.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMerOcjsP_gYlHyF0QAe2alBAC1paAvOOZc3eM0bXShttfPbqgBxhNrS6BPe1K_jo2EUggYqm3M65Iclkm508TvJZN21uqDIeXp2-PeF1dBVCbc5dzNfC9UBp8cGgyETeYcY_L/s1600/CIMG9372.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMerOcjsP_gYlHyF0QAe2alBAC1paAvOOZc3eM0bXShttfPbqgBxhNrS6BPe1K_jo2EUggYqm3M65Iclkm508TvJZN21uqDIeXp2-PeF1dBVCbc5dzNfC9UBp8cGgyETeYcY_L/s200/CIMG9372.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Annual pinata party</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<i>The photos below are from some of our various October events. I apologize in advance for the rant.</i><br />
<br />
What was that blustering gust of mayhem that just blew past? Ohh. Octohhhhhhh-ber. Is it just me, or does anyone else feel like October has become a contender for "Craziest Month of the Year"? I'm really not sure if even December beats it anymore. At least in December, you get a week of recovery time before New Years Eve, and even then there is always a sense of "it was all I could do to get myself gussied up for the evening. Hurry up and bring on January so we can put the holiday mania behind us" amongst the folks who still have enough energy left to celebrate (ie: people who are not the moms of 5+ children).<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div style="text-align: right;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbBFH-GHMRJSMEuxw2G6QaoclVe0IbqyW9UXQIe1eiUUib0-xIWw59cBQyT7PUzG2htJRX3aosRE4jU6tGDDQ1TwIMKxC_Gngb9zrEiNjwGv_zny1eFa07oJGMeIMAq7zoBddG/s1600/Pinewood11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbBFH-GHMRJSMEuxw2G6QaoclVe0IbqyW9UXQIe1eiUUib0-xIWw59cBQyT7PUzG2htJRX3aosRE4jU6tGDDQ1TwIMKxC_Gngb9zrEiNjwGv_zny1eFa07oJGMeIMAq7zoBddG/s200/Pinewood11.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pinewood Derby</td></tr>
</tbody></table>October is different. It's like a whole month based on the supermarket check-out phenomenon that happens when every shopper in the store decides all at once at the very same moment that it is time to rush the registers. An electrical charge is in the air. Everybody tries to make their way up to the check stands looking as casual as possible, glancing via peripheral vision at the other shoppers to gauge whether they have the same intention and jockeying for position to be the first to reach the shortest line. Everybody has a plan in October. People who didn't want to hold their event in the summer or at back-to-school time want to beat the holiday rush. People who live in climates with changing seasons want to get their event in before the cold comes. Schools are administering mid-term exams and holding parent-teacher conferences. And every school, office, club, church, fire station, police station and gas station has to have its ANNUAL HALLOWEEN PARTY.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaE_icU3nF_Ri8AKY-B1b0RzWfgxZSqxb7LJaXi30gXtn1Krouw60fasiLhys4Ei0GH3gwbGO8I0E0tWdxnCrDrOIlCwbetAFp873c693z7_L-rHGrixsa0jipahS86fIqdxkj/s1600/Grandma%2527s90.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="148" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaE_icU3nF_Ri8AKY-B1b0RzWfgxZSqxb7LJaXi30gXtn1Krouw60fasiLhys4Ei0GH3gwbGO8I0E0tWdxnCrDrOIlCwbetAFp873c693z7_L-rHGrixsa0jipahS86fIqdxkj/s200/Grandma%2527s90.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cousins at Grandma's 90th</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I'm the last person to knock Halloween. How can you beat a holiday that is based on costumes, candy, and scaring yourself to death? All wholesome pursuits. It has always been a favorite holiday of mine. But something happened to the Halloween I fell in love with so many years ago. When did the grittier Halloween that consisted of slap-shod homemade costumes and the aromas of burning pumpkins and shaving cream get commandeered by sexy nursery rhyme characters and over-priced bags of candy? Since grown-ups started deciding that Halloween is more about them than their kids, that's when! Come to think of it... when MY generation became grown-ups, THAT'S when! And I'm one of the culprits! Oh help me. What monster have we created?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMTuD_LjyHwRjX9NrNAVYnqonkwRt-DOTDPLdKGBPiEBKtwAuST5zxxc6N-bcEQiB6pwfOZBpGONKVrsrLyQGZmx1px4wh6EkY_OLvt8aFxXvb7zEjspF_SyuiOaOjSf-OCCKW/s1600/IanHalloween11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="119" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMTuD_LjyHwRjX9NrNAVYnqonkwRt-DOTDPLdKGBPiEBKtwAuST5zxxc6N-bcEQiB6pwfOZBpGONKVrsrLyQGZmx1px4wh6EkY_OLvt8aFxXvb7zEjspF_SyuiOaOjSf-OCCKW/s200/IanHalloween11.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">School parade</td></tr>
</tbody></table>This month our family attended 7 family/friend/church Halloween parties (had to decline one), the school parade, 3 class parties and a Halloween music recital . I love a good Halloween party, but anymore, by the time October 31st rolls around, it's almost anti-climactic. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKRQ3afRwCJ5xrGkCdx6Q2lQdOnljJbiTdonjTju2Vo3eLjbzJlcHY6NGMCGYFbFSEVYtdkC_SyuWJrTSyIsUv_EmsMkWS8lF_Waz0R8jU-jTBuT9yi8n5C1q-qXoKdIoBdt2I/s1600/CIMG9349.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKRQ3afRwCJ5xrGkCdx6Q2lQdOnljJbiTdonjTju2Vo3eLjbzJlcHY6NGMCGYFbFSEVYtdkC_SyuWJrTSyIsUv_EmsMkWS8lF_Waz0R8jU-jTBuT9yi8n5C1q-qXoKdIoBdt2I/s200/CIMG9349.JPG" width="200" /></a>If I were in charge, I would ask everyone to postpone all non-essential events until the first two weeks of November. If your organization regularly holds an event in October, ask yourself, "is this event needful, or are we only doing it because it is Halloween?" Needful stays. Halloween gets to be reclaimed by school kids and families and girlfriends who are having a witches night out at a local shopping venue (ahem). Also, if at the start of October you know someone who has already begun planning a Halloween party, you aren't allowed to throw one. Sorry, hold yours next year. Around September 30th, if you don't mind.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiM3bXHcSrWxE1yUjltAZZwUKrnYvXPpxCd1EDE0sPsLTKDzUWX-1i3EqiPL_Cso1z9ZPvGibBMw0QlJPyeoUVkpbGS-gvbZT46A9UIHqPsqjIj_phN5MsejLdfz6DldEL3NNm/s1600/CIMG9370.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiM3bXHcSrWxE1yUjltAZZwUKrnYvXPpxCd1EDE0sPsLTKDzUWX-1i3EqiPL_Cso1z9ZPvGibBMw0QlJPyeoUVkpbGS-gvbZT46A9UIHqPsqjIj_phN5MsejLdfz6DldEL3NNm/s320/CIMG9370.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Abby competing at the FPC Ceilidh</td></tr>
</tbody></table>(Just kidding, kinda. It would actually be ideal if we could just add another week to October to fit all the stuff in. Then again, that would just open up the possibility of even more stuff...)Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002824888626862844noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29678913.post-56814911746222672122011-09-17T16:53:00.001-07:002011-09-17T21:38:54.179-07:00Has It Only Been 17 Years?<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGpvnTX4xNz1Y0aKcWhkIniqBHuPyNMrPKM0n4JTgHRAvDlVJ1Y8F20p1eisL4xuIe0fgT3jH7IGK0zUsK2dvRDj-H6kjiltcRwHjZMe3RiGkegTBhMW2d-qklO_xiGPyKaPop/s1600/engagement1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGpvnTX4xNz1Y0aKcWhkIniqBHuPyNMrPKM0n4JTgHRAvDlVJ1Y8F20p1eisL4xuIe0fgT3jH7IGK0zUsK2dvRDj-H6kjiltcRwHjZMe3RiGkegTBhMW2d-qklO_xiGPyKaPop/s320/engagement1.jpg" width="221" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Engagement photo, June 1994</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Seventeen years ago today, Scott and I embarked on the comedy of errors that has been our marriage. I use the word "errors" in the Bob Ross sense, harking back to his famous quote, "there are no mistakes, just happy little accidents." I'm pretty sure marrying Scott was neither error nor accident, but we've had plenty of comedy. And a few (at least 2 for certain) happy little accidents.<br />
<br />
Scott and I had never met, but we were both finishing up LDS missions in Japan (Scott was in Hokkaido, I was in Okinawa) during the summer of 1993. Scott had been at BYU prior to his mission, but wasn't going to return in time for the beginning of the BYU fall semester. I had been trying to transfer to BYU but missed the deadline. We both ended up registering for fall at the University of Utah.<br />
<br />
One of the classes I registered for was a Japanese calligraphy class, specially designed for students with spoken Japanese but less reading/writing experience (read "LDS returned missionaries"). On the first day of class I arrived early and was pleasantly surprised to find a few familiar faces. We sat and visited until our instructor, Tamanaha Sensei, entered the room and began first-day formalities.<br />
<br />
Roll had been called and books cracked open when a blatantly tardy but extremely cute guy walked into the room and took the last seat. I made a mental note to meet this guy at my next convenience.<br />
<br />
The next day I was on campus with a little extra time to kill before Japanese class, so I found a spot where I could pull my book out and study. Confused by a couple of elements in the chapter, I looked up from my book and noticed another student, the same book held up to his face, sitting only about 15 feet away from me. Without much thought I hopped up and walked over to get another perspective.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHe3UCZlZ_PliczvyKYFFw5izBbLAlQ-_8PlJ3CgbKWYSw5MQYbamnLBrTXWjjx9Fwt-Ky15nQ4mv8EmfWfR562hF-Dm4WdjAztOk3FHb_b6HZFri2XuH_A1J3EE7Jncda59DJ/s1600/weddingtemple.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHe3UCZlZ_PliczvyKYFFw5izBbLAlQ-_8PlJ3CgbKWYSw5MQYbamnLBrTXWjjx9Fwt-Ky15nQ4mv8EmfWfR562hF-Dm4WdjAztOk3FHb_b6HZFri2XuH_A1J3EE7Jncda59DJ/s400/weddingtemple.jpg" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">September 17, 1994, Los Angeles LDS Temple</td></tr>
</tbody></table>"You must be in my class" I called ahead of myself as I strolled over, and the book lowered to reveal Extremely Cute Blatantly Tardy Guy. <br />
<br />
Then Scott walked by and tripped over his own shoelaces. Just kidding. Scott was indeed, Extremely Cute Blatantly Tardy Guy (and pretty much still is, bless his heart).<br />
<br />
The rest, as they say, resulted in 17 years of our Japanese skills paying off when we wanted to talk about people behind their backs and keep secrets from the kids.<br />
<br />
We were young when we started out, so we've really grown together and shared many of life's significant experiences. Our "happily ever after" has had a few not-so-happy moments and occasionally colorful language, but I firmly believe, as I've told Scott many times, marrying him was the best thing that ever happened to me. I'm looking forward to the next 17 years. I love you, Smoochy!Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002824888626862844noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29678913.post-63486473925362960602011-09-09T14:08:00.003-07:002011-09-09T22:17:34.219-07:005 Years of Overcoming the Bugs<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoZp_YPI_uhmeD9ebtrEqKB004Rn_QzTIi7Ne-lKfTDoNA5MudzL7hEM1bhviPHRZs-QXnkNA9sk92nDb-W0dXEcGmqohSQSF9hMFOL_rF50XcvykKzuEv0PFdAXhinfaC40gk/s1600/Scott+Colemere+family+20051204.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoZp_YPI_uhmeD9ebtrEqKB004Rn_QzTIi7Ne-lKfTDoNA5MudzL7hEM1bhviPHRZs-QXnkNA9sk92nDb-W0dXEcGmqohSQSF9hMFOL_rF50XcvykKzuEv0PFdAXhinfaC40gk/s320/Scott+Colemere+family+20051204.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christmas 2005, expecting Annie.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I just realized last night that my blog is 5 years old! Happy 5th Anniversary to me! You can check out my first few posts in 2006 <a href="http://goodnight-sleeptight.blogspot.com/search?updated-min=2006-01-01T00%3A00%3A00-07%3A00&updated-max=2007-01-01T00%3A00%3A00-07%3A00&max-results=35">here</a>.<br />
<br />
I can't say I've been blogging for all 5 years, as there were a couple of years ('08, '09) when I was, well, trying to figure my life out after losing a child. It's probably just as well that I wasn't blogging during that dark time.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ZmeONwqhkcXQiujSEkH1ZHjRaMkZBEZYozlySG7Psomv_FhYRnqmaS8tRPKBUygPrlNYWyUdAt5qJVempWQOmqnhgnrOOx5qetKeEMHE9rQ0-7lXV2q0s2aOGASD0unVvg8y/s1600/Halloween06.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ZmeONwqhkcXQiujSEkH1ZHjRaMkZBEZYozlySG7Psomv_FhYRnqmaS8tRPKBUygPrlNYWyUdAt5qJVempWQOmqnhgnrOOx5qetKeEMHE9rQ0-7lXV2q0s2aOGASD0unVvg8y/s200/Halloween06.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Halloween 2006, with Annie.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>When I began blogging, it was mostly out of interest in the concept. I enjoyed reading blogs, and the idea of having my own site- before I had ever even heard of a "Facebook page"- seemed like a fun opportunity to play with. I used my blog to remark on silly things and keep my followers (my mom and sisters, basically) updated on family happenings.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip-MS5-PX9oSlmkcXAyxTZNypCAyxxAfKgQ5WDDanOweWxyFbv8gsKAM1LgFgRT4V1mKivdi1sQ5HAc9ezQ6s8kOiwSF48hherL51bIS-MofWuyWZ4rOAvwzvbAsbQszy9_W57/s1600/colemerestsign07.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip-MS5-PX9oSlmkcXAyxTZNypCAyxxAfKgQ5WDDanOweWxyFbv8gsKAM1LgFgRT4V1mKivdi1sQ5HAc9ezQ6s8kOiwSF48hherL51bIS-MofWuyWZ4rOAvwzvbAsbQszy9_W57/s200/colemerestsign07.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2007, Shropshire, England.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I started my blog about 3 months after the birth of my fifth child, Annie. I was overwhelmed and stressed as a mother, and my blog gave me an outlet for my lighthearted side. When I look back at the things I wrote then, it is evident to me that stressed though I may have been, my natural inclination toward cheerfulness was still untainted by the sad events that were to come.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhhHzarSPTg-fG3txOd5279AHxhlQTRghBuOg00pjNsf9zFhH9mqfojQkBHOGoiKkcVpEDya6w3wH4XH32GjmgjoOqKi0K1EjJRx_9MWkqJpZCFzyQ-Moa6tkJaoNMB4sqL0CZ/s1600/meAbby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhhHzarSPTg-fG3txOd5279AHxhlQTRghBuOg00pjNsf9zFhH9mqfojQkBHOGoiKkcVpEDya6w3wH4XH32GjmgjoOqKi0K1EjJRx_9MWkqJpZCFzyQ-Moa6tkJaoNMB4sqL0CZ/s1600/meAbby.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2008, with Abby.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>At first I tried to keep my blog going after we lost Annie. During the initial months after the funeral (2007), we rallied as a family and I depended on the normal routines to help the kids cope and keep myself from losing it. Scott and I relied on each other for support. As time wore on, however, it became harder to keep up the positive momentum, and looking back I can identify how we withdrew quite a bit in our grief. I had been the children's song leader at church prior to this time, and after we lost Annie, I no longer could summon the cheerleader in me or the creativity that made me effective in that job. I felt the same way about blogging. I let DLBBBY sit unattended in cyber-space.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ4g2KP2oWSOb5G88Z2eoMe9pdVj_LOznQfvDZLT1BvtXPYt6XeM40lz2BgnUpH4WSFX6rfinabdKDsuWM6LTn9lwPC3NxB7yXiQGm8JPYvp8FGlaWExTyHCoMivSMA2pAyMjc/s1600/karen+on+our+15th+with+flowers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ4g2KP2oWSOb5G88Z2eoMe9pdVj_LOznQfvDZLT1BvtXPYt6XeM40lz2BgnUpH4WSFX6rfinabdKDsuWM6LTn9lwPC3NxB7yXiQGm8JPYvp8FGlaWExTyHCoMivSMA2pAyMjc/s200/karen+on+our+15th+with+flowers.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2009, enjoying baby Bobby.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
I am relieved to now be able to say that life <i>does</i> go on, and there is still joy to be found after tragedy. It seems fitting to be thinking about how tragedy has affected my life just before 9/11, too. I think I can draw many similarities from how our country has healed since that event to how I have healed since my significant loss. We've moved on, we've become stronger in many ways, but we'll never forget, and we'll never be the same. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCfyS8NuPAXvuocgSBqNn0dMf5jGlC4PlSZrkG3jfbh5sVIdz8qfyi7K20qZc6jU-_jR-ThGuyZUmG3h_1HTN4-Q1CmnYrtYAEST-3NmW94bg19xhIxLmQPMdgwUJAvBgo5gkK/s1600/meKimmy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCfyS8NuPAXvuocgSBqNn0dMf5jGlC4PlSZrkG3jfbh5sVIdz8qfyi7K20qZc6jU-_jR-ThGuyZUmG3h_1HTN4-Q1CmnYrtYAEST-3NmW94bg19xhIxLmQPMdgwUJAvBgo5gkK/s200/meKimmy.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2010, 40th Birthday in NYC with Kimmy.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The trajectory of my life was affected more than I ever anticipated by the events of the past decade, and I am a different person now than I was even only 5 years ago. I know I'm less concerned with the superficialities of life, more interested in relationships and life lessons. Seems like these are the things I'm blogging about the most nowadays.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiM3SasX_J9rEgVqVOSM14j5C6qUXvn3cCMmn1v6MmojcIh37bLFSqUKsOs_WlrMN16pbVs80d348_ESq-QPUIuaf2y1kRwCEC3pcptuQkitaHX46DoAQenpItAyEUCyuglj_k/s1600/colemerefamily+186.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiM3SasX_J9rEgVqVOSM14j5C6qUXvn3cCMmn1v6MmojcIh37bLFSqUKsOs_WlrMN16pbVs80d348_ESq-QPUIuaf2y1kRwCEC3pcptuQkitaHX46DoAQenpItAyEUCyuglj_k/s200/colemerefamily+186.JPG" width="133" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Scotty and me, 2011.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Thankfully, I have been blessed with many joyful events over the past few years, and my family has been enjoying a season of recovery and happiness. As my dear friend Karen L. commented after my very first post, "... life is part yuck. The trick is not to let it bug you."<br />
<br />
I'm so glad now that I have my blog to help me remember who I was and who I am becoming. I hope I'll be able to look back again 5 years from now and learn even more. Thanks for coming along for the ride.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002824888626862844noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29678913.post-85643281497469363542011-09-07T14:00:00.001-07:002011-09-07T19:32:07.423-07:00Back to Being Schooled<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2ec9p8Hkha9k2Iqm8WJwQdD_hAB2qoYjCPpde4BLBoX4TGxaEnHd-7b7Q-usWPqV5W74xHKUT7wUgVRK7IwD3G0WzYvBrqbi90r2oX0YHY-SPC4LMw0ovzf2_YbbLbvsb5ZH0/s1600/eastcynpic11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2ec9p8Hkha9k2Iqm8WJwQdD_hAB2qoYjCPpde4BLBoX4TGxaEnHd-7b7Q-usWPqV5W74xHKUT7wUgVRK7IwD3G0WzYvBrqbi90r2oX0YHY-SPC4LMw0ovzf2_YbbLbvsb5ZH0/s320/eastcynpic11.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Labor Day last hurrahs at East Canyon.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Since the whole "Back to School" mind-shift began a few weeks ago, I've witnessed a transformation that usually happens with my kids when shaking off the lethargy of summer. Some of their familiar school-year characteristics are back, along with a few new epiphanies. If I could put words in my kids' mouths, the following would be what their actions have been teaching me lately:<br />
<br />
Wesley: When you realize what you want from your future, buck up and do what you have to do to get it.<br />
<br />
Abby: Leave your imagination on auto-pilot so the creative juices can keep-a-flowin', and write everything down. Accessorize. <br />
<br />
Andrew: Incorporating some magic into your life makes everything more exciting. Hurry up and get your "have tos" done so you can get back to the magic.<br />
<br />
Ian: Shake your bootie and don't stress. Everything will work out. (This is not new. It is probably Ian's life theme.)<br />
<br />
Bobby: Celebrate every triumph. Do the potty dance.<br />
<br />
I've been a little consumed by the hustle and bustle lately, and amazingly, haven't felt the need for pontification. I'm finding observation to be more fulfilling at the moment. I think my own rhythm has changed with the new school year, too. Doing things a little... differently.<br />
<br />
I had popcorn for breakfast this morning. It <i>is</i> a grain.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002824888626862844noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29678913.post-15646731694353079862011-07-16T15:55:00.003-07:002011-09-07T21:03:33.939-07:00Wha's Like Us?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh3PogoQOfDwTeXsJA0zV5hbAVow6cAq7DgSiGUlDu6qN60ur4FTHBKZbpuBQZ7xySNABko5CLCsStRmXCJig_rSPyNgCTfGesEHJhdA5bu_wEm1GHLQn4Br-oZhG-_OiDG9He/s1600/AbbyTribPayson11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh3PogoQOfDwTeXsJA0zV5hbAVow6cAq7DgSiGUlDu6qN60ur4FTHBKZbpuBQZ7xySNABko5CLCsStRmXCJig_rSPyNgCTfGesEHJhdA5bu_wEm1GHLQn4Br-oZhG-_OiDG9He/s400/AbbyTribPayson11.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>I've been a little immersed in Scottish-ness for the past couple of months, and our Highland Games tour took us to Payson last Saturday for one of our favorite events. The beautiful park venue, friendly vibe and nonexistent entry fee lends to a casual, family-friendly feel at the Payson Scottish Festival. The <a href="http://www.sltrib.com/sltrib/news/52159637-78/scottish-festival-highland-payson.html.csp">Salt Lake Tribune </a>did a nice write-up which included the photo of Abby, above.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXUVcGzxVfQAhAFyytNveQWYRmqZf5IgxGmHFk3mT8vZiLwKDvsbPVR5Tk3PkO5I7w57WFXQx9PG4KIdck-5UU7EvO8UdujIGVnSV9VUPx8ExyMOrQet1wKOZLDe4Yg7agLs1Q/s1600/highlandfarewell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXUVcGzxVfQAhAFyytNveQWYRmqZf5IgxGmHFk3mT8vZiLwKDvsbPVR5Tk3PkO5I7w57WFXQx9PG4KIdck-5UU7EvO8UdujIGVnSV9VUPx8ExyMOrQet1wKOZLDe4Yg7agLs1Q/s1600/highlandfarewell.jpg" /></a></div>The night before Payson, Abby and I attended a fantastic concert at the Sandy Amphitheater by Kiwi performer of Scottish-themed music, Steve McDonald. His music is sentimental but exuberant. I bought a CD and he signed it. Abby and I have now listened to it at least 10 times. If I've been immersed in any Scottish-ness, I have no one but myself to blame! <br />
<br />
The CD we purchased is titled "Highland Farewell," with a collection of songs that tell the story of the "Highland Clearances" that took place when land owners drove poor farmers off their lands and replaced them with herds of sheep, prompting an exodus which led some of the highlanders overseas. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UsGoXYEhsl4&feature=related">This song</a> is about the strength of the Scottish people who did indeed "rise again" and thrive in many different places on earth. Now, apparently over 120 million people around the world claim Scottish clan heritage. Could you even fit 120 million people in Scotland? That number would surely spin the head of the guy who first said <i>"wha's like us? Damn few and they're aa deid!"</i><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqceBenl4fMUujd0fFWskDi3UFio4gFae_AnPgTjhV6468kPiGx5iRmzAdeU7rs1EkdmCN7VKRcFdan-3AMwrvZeSY9o_9dMD-lrG2g6WAgJs5p4oyhF3Q0ie52YdqtdiJ0jHt/s1600/Campbellcrest.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqceBenl4fMUujd0fFWskDi3UFio4gFae_AnPgTjhV6468kPiGx5iRmzAdeU7rs1EkdmCN7VKRcFdan-3AMwrvZeSY9o_9dMD-lrG2g6WAgJs5p4oyhF3Q0ie52YdqtdiJ0jHt/s1600/Campbellcrest.gif" /></a>Anyway, while searching for Steve McDonald videos on You Tube, I happened across a neat series of documentaries called "the Clans of Scotland." Very interesting, if sometimes harsh stuff. I did want to thump the host a few times as he brusquely detailed the history of Clan Campbell, although I appreciated his pointing out that over 800 Campbells were slaughtered in 1644 by the MacDonalds in Inverary, prior to the unfortunate and more well-known events of Glencoe (in which 38 MacDonalds were killed). Frankly, pretty much every different clan episode I've watched has outlined a bloody progression of battles, squabbles, and land-grabs. My favorite line from a sturdy highland reenactor was: "If you were'nae fat and strong, you did'nae survive!" This sentiment may become my new motto.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4uCMWkWapFPDVQvVOkG0PZen-6zWbwnB3aMG4ATM0xt8oopj8U0EOPuEwcp3f8qV0xFgONY1OvyVvIXmj_fNwuXM1ExIDJdD7VqwR5HUQJR0orIcZQpmnlxM9E_gZse0qUP36/s1600/macdonaldcrest.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4uCMWkWapFPDVQvVOkG0PZen-6zWbwnB3aMG4ATM0xt8oopj8U0EOPuEwcp3f8qV0xFgONY1OvyVvIXmj_fNwuXM1ExIDJdD7VqwR5HUQJR0orIcZQpmnlxM9E_gZse0qUP36/s1600/macdonaldcrest.gif" /></a>This <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HfAY95Trayg&feature=related">link</a> will take you to the 2nd in a series of 3 videos that complete the Campbell episode. It explains how the Campbell and MacDonald feud was wrapped up in the religious reforms of the time. I've included it here, mainly because I love the dude who speaks at 3:30, Professor Ted Cowan. His enthusiasm for the subject (and his FABULOUS Glasgow accent) made the whole series for me.<br />
<br />
Growing up, I remember Gran always expressing her distaste for history class because "history was so bloody." If this was the stuff she was getting in school, I don't blame her for feeling that way! Gran was a Campbell, as were some of my ancestors on the other side of the family. Though I've connected myself officially to Clan MacNicol recently, I grew up understanding that my family felt its strongest connection to the larger, more widely renowned Campbell clan. When I was 9 and my my family was on a road trip through the Scottish highlands, my father's loyalties were embedded in my brain when, after reading "CAMPELLS NOT WELCOME" on a sign on a restaurant door, my disgusted dad marched back to the car announcing, "we're not eating here!"<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdv6XI_fhjE8vtoIZ2resGn4Sl4taIednppEWuD0GUMvs9dIm6zVl1zl5S4ufew-GarqXtBLurtfaqhBgyxShRAFM3F6xTvnjxTcJiwiglEWvfYts4pgyvXSulaL21fn0bMRQO/s1600/rosscrest.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="164" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdv6XI_fhjE8vtoIZ2resGn4Sl4taIednppEWuD0GUMvs9dIm6zVl1zl5S4ufew-GarqXtBLurtfaqhBgyxShRAFM3F6xTvnjxTcJiwiglEWvfYts4pgyvXSulaL21fn0bMRQO/s200/rosscrest.gif" width="200" /></a>Now I'm married to someone with MacDonald (and other) clan lineage. I'd like to think that modern thought allows us to look past the old clan biases, but the fact that I put so much effort into trying to not think about the rift only shows how some old ways of thinking might just be embedded in DNA. It is fun going to different highland games, though, and walking from clan tent to clan tent with my kids telling the people, "we have some Rosses! We have some Nicols! We have Campbells <i>and </i>Mac Donalds!" It's much more enjoyable to revel in the bonds than in the rivalries. I hope that my kids will take pride in all their Scottish connections.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZdoS3UPjMC41L4jAEVzhRYg3Eo3tVUrHTGd3wLDW96Bt5omLivE0c9w3iY58W73sSyveDuEtPtRpNDjpRajztbiSh82zK9fCrcgmQkGIQ-t4xShtiUg02KpW5Ah_AQrqnVqQy/s1600/macnicoltartan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZdoS3UPjMC41L4jAEVzhRYg3Eo3tVUrHTGd3wLDW96Bt5omLivE0c9w3iY58W73sSyveDuEtPtRpNDjpRajztbiSh82zK9fCrcgmQkGIQ-t4xShtiUg02KpW5Ah_AQrqnVqQy/s1600/macnicoltartan.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">MacNicol tartan</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
My Aunt Jean once said to me, "there are none so Scottish as those who leave Scotland." This may be true, and judging by the turn-outs at local Scottish events, applies to plenty of folks who never lived there in the first place! My Scottish friends and family may think my fixation is a little ridiculous, but I'm sure having fun with it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i><br />
</i> <br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.sltrib.com/sltrib/news/52159637-78/scottish-festival-highland-payson.html.csp"><br />
</a>Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002824888626862844noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29678913.post-30525871270389816982011-07-02T00:40:00.001-07:002011-07-02T00:53:49.922-07:00These aren't my kids; they're my entourage.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6mGKU4LXHrntXPPWXyMh1hJ-2QpdYGdvCcCrWQfoKah6EESNg9vM5pcn55yWv2-lf0ndDKmdkP4lXAQBrs1ryLuS8CPve6TUD0RjwTMpaSWQeHtKXeMTmqk7j9fYRS4Tmnpih/s1600/colemerefamily+041.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6mGKU4LXHrntXPPWXyMh1hJ-2QpdYGdvCcCrWQfoKah6EESNg9vM5pcn55yWv2-lf0ndDKmdkP4lXAQBrs1ryLuS8CPve6TUD0RjwTMpaSWQeHtKXeMTmqk7j9fYRS4Tmnpih/s320/colemerefamily+041.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Us last month. We were on a slope: no growth spurt for me.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I've spent a lot of time contemplating family lately (you'd have no clue based on my last two posts). A documentary called <a href="http://byutv.org/watch/b3dfa9f3-6e20-4d64-af96-fbf3fd64670a">New Economic Reality: Demographic Winter</a> has left my mind buzzing about the impact that families (or lack thereof) have on cultures and their futures. I have attached the link for part 2, which is less statistical and more human-interestical (oh yes I did) than part 1, but if you have the time, I recommend watching both. The overview of how societal events over the past century have resulted in changed families, economic decline and an uncertain future is broad in scope and not so simplistic as to be strictly ideological. Lots of interesting experts and graphs. I thought much about my sociology degree-holding sister while watching. I bet I would have found her courses very enjoyable.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAutWjmTWDVNbAuq3dYlgg_1z_7U7B81HiYhf_qZ9MiypmtBHKgD_WlBCqAmdIyiO2F8HhH4EkhpId9X-g5kjHT5gPFpI_A_oHGxSkjy_TpX08DTu37dPt8L_-WHIaXW00HNHX/s1600/augades.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAutWjmTWDVNbAuq3dYlgg_1z_7U7B81HiYhf_qZ9MiypmtBHKgD_WlBCqAmdIyiO2F8HhH4EkhpId9X-g5kjHT5gPFpI_A_oHGxSkjy_TpX08DTu37dPt8L_-WHIaXW00HNHX/s320/augades.jpg" width="320" /></a>In the spirit of promoting families, I'd also like to call your attention to our friends, the Augades. Scott and I met Steve in our fateful college Japanese class, as he had also served a Japanese mission. About a decade later, he and Deidra moved into our neighborhood, and now our sons are buddies. This very cool family (you don't get much cooler than a roller derby mom) recently returned from China with their adorable new daughter and sister, Daisy. <a href="http://stevedeidrazack.blogspot.com/">Deidra's blog</a>, among other things, documents their road to adoption, the anticipation and anxiety, and ultimate union with darling Daisy. Recent weeks have read like a travel diary, and now I feel as though I too have walked through busy, gritty Chinese streets. I'm a hooked follower, Deidra; keep up the awesome writing!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQWPW59ouCvCxmuD4iZN8csTOmd31_TkY0Ci0y7-EHN999Sc705hV81iVYlbu8dMExxR9Q5xQw-KNqt-DvIZBzJpDU5ikxAJY-qy1cjUk-Y8WCSohbVRq3utKNIO9On0JChG3b/s1600/USA-flag.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQWPW59ouCvCxmuD4iZN8csTOmd31_TkY0Ci0y7-EHN999Sc705hV81iVYlbu8dMExxR9Q5xQw-KNqt-DvIZBzJpDU5ikxAJY-qy1cjUk-Y8WCSohbVRq3utKNIO9On0JChG3b/s200/USA-flag.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>I wish everyone, whatever your family situation may be, lots of love and harmony. And to my American friends, I wish a fabulous Fourth full of punks and blooming flowers. (If you don't know what those are, maybe you're from California.) I'll leave you with my own rendition of "the Stars and Stripes Forever": Three cheers for the red, white and blue! Da da da, da da dee, da, da-daaaaaa da. Da da, da da da, da da daaaaaa, da da da-daa, da da doooooo..... etc. ;) <span style="font-size: xx-small;"> -this is what happens when you blog after midnight</span>Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002824888626862844noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29678913.post-31075940644675234772011-06-19T21:48:00.008-07:002011-06-22T17:25:55.685-07:00Happy Father's Day!<div style="background-color: orange; color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">In 1994 I did a little biography of my father for a history class I was taking. Most of it consists of an interview I did with him, and I thought it would be fun to post a portion of it for Father's Day. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">The full story is fascinating, but long. If you just want to read a blurb, read the paragraph titled <i><b>Eureka</b></i> and see why my dad was so drawn to So Cal life and immigrated soon after.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">I think most people who know my dad have no idea how adventurous his early life was. Here is a glimpse, in his own words. (Apologies for poor editing. In the interest of getting this post done, I have typed up a storm and will edit as time permits.)</span></div><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr461DYSdEKDxVeq0_Nuy6lWfzLy5QRfcPaph4EWzRxQpCBxz0yggg5XceNAluohqo34DITDbXQmgK2VEOcBZivAEaXOjXCEarCJnvRZlNrPt2voK_2FHeV9E4yRD86EjnJBxK/s1600/Dad1957.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr461DYSdEKDxVeq0_Nuy6lWfzLy5QRfcPaph4EWzRxQpCBxz0yggg5XceNAluohqo34DITDbXQmgK2VEOcBZivAEaXOjXCEarCJnvRZlNrPt2voK_2FHeV9E4yRD86EjnJBxK/s400/Dad1957.jpg" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Al Nicol, 1957</td></tr>
</tbody></table><b><span style="font-size: small;">1953, Greenock, Scotland</span></b><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"> Being the romantic that I was, read a lot of stuff by Scottish writers: Stevenson, Scott, real romantics, I always really wanted to go to sea. I had worked in the shipyard, seen them built, and had crawled through them while they were being built. I had a real understanding of how a ship was put together and how it was launched and how it was sailed, and I had seen them come into our hometown with cargoes and this kind of thing. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">The British Sailors Society, I think that's what it's called, a philanthropic organization, was looking for candidates that they would sponsor to the naval school in England. I had heard through the minister of our church that this was available, and I said "sure! I'd like to try for it." I was involved in what was called the Boys Brigade, the Scottish equivalent to the Boy Scouts; a little more para-military than the Scouts. [Out of our Boys Brigade group] ...one kid that was a year older than myself and I took the test. For the west coast of Scotland, big area, he won first place for the Senior boys and I won first place for the Junior boys, both of us coming from the same little group. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i><b>Naval Academy</b></i> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">When I went down to England, I went up to Glasgow on the train, traveled with the other boy I met there, and only two of us were going down to London. When we got to London, we met a naval officer in his uniform. The qualifications for getting into this place were you had to be 5'3 1/2", and 15 and 8 months was the minimum age. On the day I got there I was exactly 15 and 8 months old, and 5'3 1/2" and stretching. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">While at that school we learned navigation, international codes, and it was quite competitive amongst the boys because they would pay us extra allowance as we got [special naval ratings used within the school]. I remember these officers were all ex-Royal Navy officers. The captain of the school was an actual captain; he had four bars on his arm. We had to stand watch as quartermasters in the front of the school lobby, where we kept our log, and you recorded everything that went on: who visited the school, who came in and who went out, and you polished the brass while you were on that duty. We scrubbed floors, did a lot of physical exercises, we learned knots how to go up ship masts on bosun's chairs, and how to tie ourselves so that we wouldn't hang ourselves. Many of us were afraid of heights, and one had to overcome those things. We also had a yacht we'd take out into the Dover Harbor, which is an enormous harbor that led out into the Channel. We would take that thing out under full sail and [virtually] capsize it. We'd learn how to right it again by crawling around to the other side and pulling it back up. And we used to run around just with shorts on and naked. We were tough as nails. We would read these great stories about Hercules and all that as a kid, and we were becoming that. We could walk through walls.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Me: Even at 5' 3 1/2"? </i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Even at 5' 3 1/2".</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">When we were ready to leave, myself and another fellow were chosen to be photographed, and that became the national poster for a fund raiser in Britain for the British Society with the caption "Off to Join Their First Ship," or something of that nature.</span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOz4DAd9s3NNBpW88Vg4qcbwcmJDULiGBf4aiaz4FtzyB55ElRbrZVwax_df3hzceXWNe-3lkBqNrl0kfag8Pc8EyksLkjty_f2LmSMvlNC8Wy87vEmwLdIc7iHTfC4zKS8Qs3/s1600/DadAGoodSendOff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="388" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOz4DAd9s3NNBpW88Vg4qcbwcmJDULiGBf4aiaz4FtzyB55ElRbrZVwax_df3hzceXWNe-3lkBqNrl0kfag8Pc8EyksLkjty_f2LmSMvlNC8Wy87vEmwLdIc7iHTfC4zKS8Qs3/s640/DadAGoodSendOff.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Actual caption: "A Good Send-Off For Their First Ship". Dad is center left, holding bags.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-size: small;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i></i> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXSw5sQjDmmrQPxFI65vaVJRQqJIH8j_1KiTKWJK0sP_jW2OEuLcFsdnLdSwKwiKCNC2AUhx_7ZeRl1nbo4jBUMO8VZ3FEqD6A53sj3tQGgNoBImCD_rs3DBa7FKLkjeShZmyj/s1600/orcade3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXSw5sQjDmmrQPxFI65vaVJRQqJIH8j_1KiTKWJK0sP_jW2OEuLcFsdnLdSwKwiKCNC2AUhx_7ZeRl1nbo4jBUMO8VZ3FEqD6A53sj3tQGgNoBImCD_rs3DBa7FKLkjeShZmyj/s320/orcade3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Orcades</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-size: small;"><i><b>Orcades </b></i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">I left school with this fellow, took a train up to London again, and went down to an area called Tilbury Docks on the Thames. There was our ship, the Orcades. It was on the Orient Line. The Orient Line became the P & O Line; the P & O Line is the owner of the Princess Cruises. Magnificent ships. To me they were at that time, anyway. We sailed from Tilbury. On three occasions we did cruises in the Mediterranean, just like ships do cruises to Alaska and around the Caribbean, etc. At that time we did Mediterranean. Again, this was just a thing that was opening up after the war. People were becoming wealthy, where they could enjoy this kind of thing. These ships were used for taking people to Australia and New Zealand as immigrants, and in the summer they were being used as cruise ships. We were all over the Mediterranean. Gibraltar, the French Riviera, the Italian Riviera, Majorca, Naples, Sardinia, Greece, Rhodes, Turkey, Lebanon. Lebanon was the most beautiful place I have ever seen. Beirut was unimaginable. It was something like out of Hollywood movies. It was technicolor. the place was just ajam. We'd be anchored off shore and looking at it, and people would be flying by in speedboats; those old, wooden, mahogany, highly polished speedboats, and tanned men and women. It was just opulent. For a kid, it was just overwhelming. It was opening up Pandora's box to what the world was. We went down to Egypt, all across North Africa, and saw life in the raw as well as the opulent aspects of it.</span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4mHDJT4_dnDlq9dQr4745pnn_fr0Xxcur9Y3TekaGl7y5ouaWmejRRmSRJqoPDRC0sgvb0vBCsQl4A39dNbvnfTLyuOpEwoxNAOPFojQk4coezKNmSKog7lHC7-TttQQaFZSk/s1600/Orcades..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4mHDJT4_dnDlq9dQr4745pnn_fr0Xxcur9Y3TekaGl7y5ouaWmejRRmSRJqoPDRC0sgvb0vBCsQl4A39dNbvnfTLyuOpEwoxNAOPFojQk4coezKNmSKog7lHC7-TttQQaFZSk/s320/Orcades..jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Orcades, random spectators.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><br />
<i><span style="font-size: small;">Me: What was your job on the ship?</span></i><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">I was assistant to the chief officer. What did I do? I cleaned brass, handrails, was responsible</span><i><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></i><span style="font-size: small;">for the flag bin and pennants</span><i><span style="font-size: small;">, </span></i><span style="font-size: small;">and when we were coming into a country of port it was my responsibility to hoist the proper ensign to the yard-arm, acknowledging the country we were coming into, and request doctors or a pilot. These are all different international codes that one uses. On really windy, stormy days, I'd get the doggone thing trapped around the lanyards, and in the old ships blowing the horn meant something. I'd be out there and these pennants wrapped around one of these guys going into the horn, and I'd pull and pull and pull and eventually the old horn would take off. The skipper would run out from the wing of the bridge and scream at me, and all the rest of the officers would come out and look at me like I was some kind of fool, but it was a maturing process.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><b><i>World Cruise </i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">We left there and went on a world cruise. On the world cruise we first sailed to Trinidad, and then through the Panama Canal. As we approached the Panama Canal, you literally could see the same evidences Columbus had seen: flowers, scents. In the Caribbean, you couldn't see land, but you saw all this flotsam of flowers and vegetation. It was exciting. The history books just began to open up for you. When we got into the Canal, I remember being up at about 5 in the morning. When I was actually working doing all of this flag stuff, that was generally when we were out, away from the coast. Once we got into the coast, my position was up at the bow of the ship, FO'C'S'LE [abbreviation for forecastle] we called it, the front of the ship. I didn't eat that day. 5 in the morning, and I was there until about 10 that night until we got through to the other side. It was the most fascinating thing I had ever experienced. At the time we were going through, we were the first major ship to have used the canal, of the size we were. Halfway through the canal at that time, they had problems with a mountain that threatened to fall into the canal. So, they decided to just remove the mountain. I saw trucks that I had no idea existed. These were trucks where men literally climbed up ladders to get into the driver's seat! They had like 12 foot wheels, and they were removing a mountain. Well, today that mountain's gone, and I saw that process. The older fellows would tell me about all the cottonmouths, and different snakes that were in the area, and it was all just very interesting.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i><b>Eureka </b></i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">We came up the Pacific coast to Los Angeles, and on the way up we passed big turtles swimming in the ocean. There was a lot of different wildlife, but the turtles just amazed me. You could just look down and there they were- huge things. As we came up to Los Angeles, the thing that struck me was seeing the beaches, I guess from Huntington Beach up through Long Beach, just this white strand. The harbor itself was unimpressive. I remember we had opened up this route. We were the first ship to do this tourist cruising, and as we came into Los Angeles, the sheriff posse was there. I thought, this is Hollywood. Just glamour personified. And all these two-toned cars, the 54 and 55 DeSotos, and Chryslers and Pontiacs. And it smelled different. That's one of the things that impressed me about America. The smell. For some people it's visual, but for me, it was the smell. America smelled different.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Me: What did it smell like?</i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Oh, onions and hamburgers and cigar smoke and gasoline. It was just different. It was fabulous and exciting. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i> </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Me: What does Britain smell like?</i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">I don't know. Old. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i> </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Then we moved from Los Angeles up into San Francisco. Oh my goodness, that was exciting! I remember coming in under the Golden Gate Bridge. We came into the harbor, the docks where the clock tower is, and right in front of us was the Union 76 oil symbol- big, orange. That's when the smells really got to me, in San Francisco. Well, I was on watch until 8 that night. A couple of us got off, and we walked from the ship, all the way up Market Street to Powell. That was 5 miles! And along the way were these hamburger stands, hot dog stands, ice cream, popcorn, cigars, cabs, people dressed the way they were dressed, the smells were overwhelming. Coca Cola soft drinks- things we had never been exposed to! When we got up there we thought, "Gee! we're going to have to get back! We're going to get shot for being out!" We were kids, but we were living a man's life, really. We had a man's responsibility. We had a job to do, and we were expected to do it, even though we reported to supervisors who were somewhat concerned about us. But there weren't too many 16 year-olds that I could see running around Market Street at midnight that night as we started walking back to the ship!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGEG5YdTNmB8YON88-L73l3-71tGiKpg5CdF07aUTuVhf34VwADR566CeMXXhONLfQzIJnBgr2LSMlzvyJzK42lJaaDSTvajYB44c4SdwX_eohqExCCZWllAjfGaYmeKdBrKMs/s1600/DadGroupSailors.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="457" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGEG5YdTNmB8YON88-L73l3-71tGiKpg5CdF07aUTuVhf34VwADR566CeMXXhONLfQzIJnBgr2LSMlzvyJzK42lJaaDSTvajYB44c4SdwX_eohqExCCZWllAjfGaYmeKdBrKMs/s640/DadGroupSailors.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad is second from left, with the tell-tale toothy grin (doesn't he look just like Valerie?).</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-size: small;">From there we went to Vancouver, then left Vancouver and went to Hawaii. We went up to the USO club in Hawaii and saw military guys swimming with scuba gear. I had never seen scuba gear before, and I wondered what it was. It was incredible. The Aloha Tower was right next to it, and from that point on we'd see movies with Burt Lancaster and Sinatra and "From Here to Eternity" and whatever, and bullets flying into Aloha Tower. The kids, as we sailed into the harbor, swam out to meet the ship, and they would lie on their backs and put their feet on the bow of the ship and let the ship push them into the harbor. Now, we weren't going that fast at that time, we were just maybe coming into position, but I marveled at the ability of these kids to swim the way they could swim. They literally were like fish. People were tossing them money off the ship and they were diving for it, and it was fascinating.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEVnuJirPOY1rBsFtaaM3OF4xfoUfU7ZKXUce-yagmYDyOU16gP9iGwY-fU0ea_PXzNu86yYUyJ5H3D06sN6rz_xHHasCqggGBAKfp5OHvn7wj2x-HZOyVVbGRhCO0aaSNqp4L/s1600/orcadesposter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEVnuJirPOY1rBsFtaaM3OF4xfoUfU7ZKXUce-yagmYDyOU16gP9iGwY-fU0ea_PXzNu86yYUyJ5H3D06sN6rz_xHHasCqggGBAKfp5OHvn7wj2x-HZOyVVbGRhCO0aaSNqp4L/s320/orcadesposter.jpg" width="230" /></a></div>We left Hawaii and went to Fiji, New Zealand, Australia, went back up again and came back down again. Now, the last time we came into Hawaii, we were off Diamond Head at about 4 or 5 in the morning. I was standing with the chief, and he was smoking his pipe, and a DC7 flew overhead. This was about September 1955. He said, "That plane left Los Angeles last night." It took us 4 days! He said, "that's the future." I don't think I was very astute at the time to recognize what he was saying, but I remember thinking at the time, "I want to be an airline pilot!" (Not necessarily a ship captain.) That's when I made up my mind, I was coming to America. I had the offer to come to America at this time and I thought, "I'm really going to go for this."<br />
<br />
<i><b>Storms at Sea</b></i><br />
Anyway, back down the Pacific again to Australia, around the Bight of Australia, where I encountered the worst storm I ever experienced in my life; and I had experienced a number of hurricanes on the ship. On the bridge of the ship there is a gauge that registers the roll of the ship, and if you get into a situation where you are rolling dangerously, you can capsize. We were rolling quite badly, but the sea was becoming mountainous. The distinction between storms is that you can have storms flying at you; rough, choppy, or you can have seas that just grow up to be mountains. They are enormous. We were starting to dive like you've seen the destroyers in war shows. Now, this was a big ship. This was no destroyer. We could get a half dozen destroyers on our side. At one point I was on the bridge and I could see this thing coming toward us. You get into rhythms with waves, and we were out of synch with this particular wave. It was just a mountain. Just a mountain of water coming towards us, and just higher than my level of vision was, and I thought, "we're in trouble." The ship went down, and this thing just flowed right over the bow of the ship. Now, the bow of the ship to the water line of the ship I was on was about 45 or 50 feet, and all of that is submerged, the water is raging down over the top of that, hitting the bulwark, which is the bridge superstructure, and I honestly thought I was dead. And the ship began to shudder as it came up, and the water is pouring off of it, but it came up, and we got through. There were other large waves, but nothing of the magnitude of that particular wave. We had just gone right into it- a mountain of water. And I had been in the North Atlantic where we had to stop for 3 1/2 days it was so rough, because the captain was afraid we'd bend the prop shafts. So, I think I know what some rough water is.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpaP1xT_3yWE6M-T_MKTCui5XWIhBAxf4MpjVqqOpssW871PeSMEn5jVk9yzH8F3Ib1vb-2cP1hSq-b3xZTktseHllejyCRojA2Kg9Vq_dprvRw_f_OzWNbf3qbr9OAcg14Bih/s1600/orcades2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpaP1xT_3yWE6M-T_MKTCui5XWIhBAxf4MpjVqqOpssW871PeSMEn5jVk9yzH8F3Ib1vb-2cP1hSq-b3xZTktseHllejyCRojA2Kg9Vq_dprvRw_f_OzWNbf3qbr9OAcg14Bih/s320/orcades2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pic found online- I'd love to get my hands on one of these!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We went up to India, into Colombo, Ceylon (now Sri Lanka). The Indians came down to unload the ship; we had taken a lot of canned fruit from Australia. Their unions controlled the cranes on the ships; we couldn't use them ourselves, we had to allow them to do that. They were swinging this stuff back and it's hitting the side of the ship and busting cases of fruit and it's all over the place, and they're running around in pants and a singlet (a t-shirt without sleeves), it was blazing hot. You could fry eggs on the deck of the ship! and they worked that way from 7 in the morning until 5 at night. Then this person came up with buckets of tea, a milky tea, a big bunch of green bananas, and (I forget what the Indian name is), but pancakes basically, flapjacks, and they would roll the banana in those, eat those and drink the tea. After having worked all day! So we stacked up all the cans that had bust loose, and our lockers were just filled up with cans of fruit! I'm beginning to grow by now. I'm eating like a horse on this ship.<br />
<br />
We left Ceylon and went over to Aden (Yemen), and started to breeze up through the Red Sea and into the Suez Canal. As we were going through there, there was a Russian oil tanker in front of us in battleship gray, with a big 105mm gun mounted on the stern on the poop deck. It was just ominous. This was the time of the cold war and everything else. I really wasn't a political person, and I really didn't know much about it, but this thing was just ominous, and we were sailing in after that.<br />
<br />
And as we were sailing up through the canal, we'd see an orange float by, and you wouldn't see anything else. The canal was built up along the sides so you couldn't look over to see the rest of the landscape. By the time we got up into Alexandria, I remember it was late at night and all these fellows came out in little boats, little skiffs, and they surrounded our ship and were selling their goods to the passengers and crew. By this time I knew for sure that I wasn't coming back. I don't think I had told anyone. But I wanted one of these beautiful carved leather travel bags that I had seen other fellows in the crew with, and I knew they had bought them in Egypt. So I got a pair of old jeans and a couple of woolen sweaters and shirts, and I haggled with these guys for oh, hours. Eventually I lowered my stuff down the side to them, and they gave me one of those leather bags, a little carpet effect that one normally puts on the back of a couch, which was an Arabic scene with a camel and some pyramids (you know, a cheap thing, but in a kid's eyes I thought it was something), and a half tea set that was made in Japan! It had dragons on the cups and things in gold and green, and you would turn them up and they were translucent and they had the face of a Geisha. I just thought these were wonderful, and I took them home to my mother. Along the way I picked up elephants that had been carved, and boxes of coral and shells from Fiji, a koala bear from Australia and boomerangs from Australia. I was carrying a ton of junk with me.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUpZUosMH_WuizCm-IgtrgvT9rnG-A-bXpVOQbN0oeWqhqdNz_b_OEBfeON7znVbE2bgTzWluf6-dNKh-At5wyiSkgkQaJaPzXYwvTLzckNUDEegnlVGY_IpnKlPrc5GAAUB_W/s1600/Dad1955.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUpZUosMH_WuizCm-IgtrgvT9rnG-A-bXpVOQbN0oeWqhqdNz_b_OEBfeON7znVbE2bgTzWluf6-dNKh-At5wyiSkgkQaJaPzXYwvTLzckNUDEegnlVGY_IpnKlPrc5GAAUB_W/s320/Dad1955.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1955</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We sailed up to Naples, and went from Naples to Marseilles. As we came into Marseilles, the minstrel winds were blowing down through the Rhone Valley, and if you study geography you'll know that in the fall these winds come flying down out of the Central Plains. They had a troop ship that at the time had the largest funnel of any ship afloat. It was called the Louis Pasteur. They were loading up this troop ship with Foreign Legion people going to Algeria to fight in the war that was going on there. We had a terrible time getting in. We were firing lines ashore attached to our cables so we could crank ourselves into the pier. It took a long time to do it, but eventually we got in. That was the experience I had in Marseilles. And you could smell it. Marseilles stank. Oh! America was one smell, but Marseilles was a sewer.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilEcsQxiUCi5085FBgSZjXI51YTV6PXO-t0x7rSYSUebIQ2FCLh3dTOLuPONIkFTdcnLkW51vCaPAHlH9sLY7ZVcQXY02BFABbGg30QrkGu8E9yXY7FxZdakdLwvaunzekguWD/s1600/DadDischargeBook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="443" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilEcsQxiUCi5085FBgSZjXI51YTV6PXO-t0x7rSYSUebIQ2FCLh3dTOLuPONIkFTdcnLkW51vCaPAHlH9sLY7ZVcQXY02BFABbGg30QrkGu8E9yXY7FxZdakdLwvaunzekguWD/s640/DadDischargeBook.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fair-haired and fresh complected, with documentation to prove it.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I didn't mention the fact that I stopped in Portugal and Spain on a number of occasions. I was in Portugal when we were berthed next to the Andrea Doria. The Andrea Doria was the Italian liner of the day. It was everything. It sank when it hit the Stockholm just off New York harbor in 1957 or 58. I mean, I saw it, I was acquainted with it, I knew what it was like, and to think of that ship drowning, in a sense, was sad.<br />
<br />
<i><b>Returning home, a changed man</b></i><br />
We got into London, our home port of Tilbury Docks, the fog was tremendously thick, and it was swirling. The chief said to me, and he was stoned (everybody was stoned, I think, drunk. It was cold, freezing cold. We had been up all day, and I was running around delivering bottles to these guys), he said, "if we don't get in this time, we're going to be here until after Christmas." This was about the 22nd of December, 1955. As it swirled, it opened up and the pilot said "let's go for it." We went up and got in through the locks and to the pier. Every other ship that was behind us that night didn't get in until after New Year's Day! It was midnight by the time we got in. I went up to London the next day with a couple of fellows, old men (they were in their thirties), who had taken me under their wing. They were Scots fellows also. We went to the Odeon theater in Leicester Square. Magnificent place. Plush carpet about 2 inches deep. We took out a roll of bills. Money was no object! And here am I sitting up in the balcony of this plush, plush place (I don't remember what I was watching, one of the "Doctor At Sea" type movies, British movie), and I just thought, "I am king!"<br />
<br />
<i>My dad followed his dream to California the following year, settling in Glendale and then Pasadena, where he still reigns as "king</i>.<i>"</i> <i>I love you, Dad! Happy Father's Day.</i>Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002824888626862844noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29678913.post-85620120220037110932011-06-18T13:14:00.000-07:002011-06-18T13:14:44.955-07:00Heritage<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyoc5bgO5be-TQaHcATQ8BJpJhYkvux1ePSBOwv1ZQhWJDbshP3nCstkJ6S6k6NbdwVVFZFQ8hK6aS8N0vSXoB2r_OaVqMsTaEO4np7Vd-8KPQ959EsXjSx-foCP6GSaZESMp0/s1600/gran.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyoc5bgO5be-TQaHcATQ8BJpJhYkvux1ePSBOwv1ZQhWJDbshP3nCstkJ6S6k6NbdwVVFZFQ8hK6aS8N0vSXoB2r_OaVqMsTaEO4np7Vd-8KPQ959EsXjSx-foCP6GSaZESMp0/s320/gran.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gran and Granda Nicol</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I spend a lot of time thinking about my heritage. I don't know if everyone thinks about theirs as much as I think about mine, but it is pretty constant for me. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil7TkQZIh6XRDn5Xmb0t6nRc1hm-3xZwIrbQqv3XuDzclljEcLWmlzs7NjhnH4-FeDVUoSWQ5Ipin_mooCEQiYVxS5D3NNsKemhVMWLxJszGDKsh5vB4_t2mt0ls_K1MFif5H7/s1600/Judkins.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil7TkQZIh6XRDn5Xmb0t6nRc1hm-3xZwIrbQqv3XuDzclljEcLWmlzs7NjhnH4-FeDVUoSWQ5Ipin_mooCEQiYVxS5D3NNsKemhVMWLxJszGDKsh5vB4_t2mt0ls_K1MFif5H7/s320/Judkins.jpg" width="231" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grandpa and Grandma Judkins</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I think a lot about the dusty, tired Mormon pioneers when I have spent 15 minutes weeding, and I tell myself to not be a wimp. I think about my Gran when I put my baby down for his naps, and I sing a lullaby she used to sing to me. I think about my Grandpa whenever I hear a train whistle (more like horn, I guess) from across the valley. I think about my 13 year-old great, great, great grandmother who accompanied her little brother on the voyage from England to the US, no parents, when I question my children's abilities to handle responsibilities around the house. I think about my great-grandfather, gleefully plunking out happy tunes on the old upright that still sits in my Grandma's house, when my little boys sit down at our old piano to entertain themselves. This is all just scratching the surface. Maybe I have a psychological fixation. Whatever it is, I wonder, imagine, remember and just plain think about my ancestors a lot.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip6x0pTQSrvxxmGLssbSGem6NRlAEbWJnqs8i4s8sSA__PrOkbNhUDZwMSBakbl4HV7FfiTyjerh4SYYqSV42IpGyf_9wD7slodQb6lgTGp6xW9rwjMy9p6Ym0NDZyw3SusJjC/s1600/slcgames+11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip6x0pTQSrvxxmGLssbSGem6NRlAEbWJnqs8i4s8sSA__PrOkbNhUDZwMSBakbl4HV7FfiTyjerh4SYYqSV42IpGyf_9wD7slodQb6lgTGp6xW9rwjMy9p6Ym0NDZyw3SusJjC/s320/slcgames+11.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Abby, Caelei and Courtney, dancing the highland fling.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>It shouldn't be surprising, therefore, that I directed my daughter toward embracing her heritage when I found a Scottish highland dance teacher about 5 years ago. I'm greatly relieved that she loves it so much, so I don't have to feel guilty for forcing her do something she doesn't like (which I would... just kidding). Last Saturday was Abby's 5th competition at the Utah Scottish Association's annual Highland Games at Thanksgiving Point, and her first as a Premier dancer, the highest designation among students of highland dance. Considering she would be competing against more advanced, experienced dancers, I was very pleased that she came away with a 3rd place in the Highland Fling and a 3rd place in Seann Triubhas.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU8X-hrXGkeb-19CA-zzbRKJPon-f_dI0lNaTj1wMnjClLgbilFWuxy7P1itVqQkOPVwcn2rj0D9BQIK1jEOILTo5mdb_jhfdOkl_AmyP5rfGpnKm1rbjxdCjFsswiKGckV_6M/s1600/clannicol.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU8X-hrXGkeb-19CA-zzbRKJPon-f_dI0lNaTj1wMnjClLgbilFWuxy7P1itVqQkOPVwcn2rj0D9BQIK1jEOILTo5mdb_jhfdOkl_AmyP5rfGpnKm1rbjxdCjFsswiKGckV_6M/s1600/clannicol.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wishing I had a coffee table.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We did our annual post-dancing tour of the booths and vendors, enjoying a sausage roll (Abby) and a steak and mushroom pie (me). I also made my membership in Clan Mac Nicol official; something I've been promising the clan reps I'd do someday, and I think I caught them totally off-guard when I finally did it this time. I mainly did it for the cool book (<u>The Highland Clan MacNeacail ((MacNicol)) A History of the Nicolsons of Scorrybreac</u> by Sellar and Maclean) they gave with membership. A decent deal, I thought. I'll also have VIP access to "Scorrybreac," clan lands, next time I find myself on the Isle of Skye (audibly snorting as I type).<br />
<br />
I don't have a lot of information about the Nicols beyond the past 2 generations, so I wonder about them all the time. From what I have learned, however, my dad's aunts and uncles seem to have been a jovial lot, and I'm content to imagine them that way for the time being. I'm fortunate to have much more information from my mom's side of the family, and I guess I could equate my membership in the Daughters of the Utah Pioneers (stop laughing) with my clan membership. I'm a social creature, heaven help me.<br />
<br />
Mormons really dig the scripture from Malachi 4:6: "And he shall turn the heart of the fathers to the children, and the heart of the children to their fathers..." I guess you could say my heart has been turned or something, and I'm not looking for bypass surgery anytime soon.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002824888626862844noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29678913.post-3093924392893548732011-06-02T10:58:00.004-07:002011-10-10T16:21:10.042-07:00Bird Watching<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Well, I've had conversations with a few different moms now regarding "<a href="http://goodnight-sleeptight.blogspot.com/2011/05/out-of-foul-mouths-of-babes.html">the incident</a>." It's interesting the different takes on the situation people come away with. One mom is convinced that flipping the birdie <i>wasn't</i> Ian's idea because <i>her</i> son said it was another kid, another mom is sure it <i>was</i> Ian because<i> her</i> son said it was. Nobody seems overly upset, and we all agree that the kids don't even realize the meaning of what they were doing.<br />
<br />
Frankly, as long as we aren't getting egged over it all, I'm ready to just put it behind us. Not that I condone such behavior, but I just don't think it warrants any further concern. It makes for fun blogging, though, so I'm milking it for my own purposes now. More than anything else, going through this little experience has caused me to reflect on how my perspective on parenting has changed over the years.<br />
<br />
I'm sure if this incident had happened to my first kindergartener, I would have reacted with sheer mortification and horror. I think now I just realize that every kid is going to embarrass his/her parents at some point, and if somebody doesn't have enough kids to get at least one who's a nut ball, they are probably being spared for a different form of humiliation such as an 11 pound goiter. Nothing against people with goiters, but just be aware that if you are mentally criticizing my parenting when my 6 year old is doing his thing, I may be putting a curse on you.<br />
<br />
Oh, that sounds so vicious. I'm sorry. See? This subject has been weighing heavily on my mind lately.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;"></div>We sat behind a cute couple with a new baby in church on Sunday. The newborn slept, carrier completely covered by a blanket, throughout the entire service. My kids, on the other hand, switched places on the pew several times, sang obnoxiously and inadvertently decorated their flesh and clothing with ink whilst passing ball point pens back and forth to entertain themselves drawing pictures. I noticed the corner-of-the-eyes looks from the couple in front of us, and yes, I went there in my imagination.<br />
<br />
I remember being "that couple". Before Scott and I had kids, and I'm sure as new parents, I had idealistic plans for my family, too. I rolled my eyes at the obnoxious kids in church, and made mental notes that "I will <i>never</i> let my kid do <i>that</i> in church!" I knew I would train them up so expertly that I would never deal with bad behavior or crusty attitudes.<br />
<br />
I am now convinced that there is a real curse that comes upon the self-righteous folks who judge other parents, because I'm living in the curse now! I must have really been a judgmental arse, boy, 'cause I <i>am</i> the parent of the kids calling attention to themselves. And I really think it is a different experience for parents of boys. Multiple boys, specifically. Because you could have a family full of girls who bicker over clothes and the bathroom and chewing-with-open-mouths at home (like the family I came from), but they aren't likely to sit in the chapel making sound effects for the robot they are drawing or (heaven forbid) force bodily noises for their own entertainment. Less likely, anyway.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>So here I am, living with 4 boys who rough-house, dent, ding and stink up the house, and one poor girl who regularly retreats up-wind. She can run and bike and yell with the best of them, but I can honestly say she is <i>not</i> the one I get calls from the school about, or who put the hole in the wall next to the basement stairs, or wedged a now half-melted crayon into the heating vent, or leaves a trail of Legos right at the bottom of the stairs where your bare foot will land, or forgets to flush, or who brags about camping with the Scouts the time when <i>nary a boy brushed his teeth for 5 days</i>.<br />
<br />
You gotta love them. And I do, but it is a whole different world, the little boy world.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>So, no signs of any more bird flippage, neither at school nor home. There are bigger things to deal with, and I know that I have at least 17 more years of "incidents" to look forward to. I plan to parlay those years into some pretty good Mother's Day gifts when these kids are grown. :DKarenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002824888626862844noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29678913.post-25279343050006499192011-05-26T09:59:00.002-07:002011-05-26T10:17:48.602-07:00Out of the Foul Mouths of Babes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF-dDyNXYOQw-eUbmoMEcvZK_ZC6vKrrrZfjVhfODMpxLkz6_6Z7qbgbhG29F0cxds1_jMUDB9lcn49k8hRBA0LGu8Wz7JKBVu2NwvosENj9FY2nq_KLlrTuLRqmqoYRcKwuLP/s1600/Outnumbered.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF-dDyNXYOQw-eUbmoMEcvZK_ZC6vKrrrZfjVhfODMpxLkz6_6Z7qbgbhG29F0cxds1_jMUDB9lcn49k8hRBA0LGu8Wz7JKBVu2NwvosENj9FY2nq_KLlrTuLRqmqoYRcKwuLP/s320/Outnumbered.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>One of my favorite new TV discoveries is the BBC series <a href="http://video.search.yahoo.com/search/video?p=outnumbered+bbc">"Outnumbered,"</a> airing weeknights at 10pm on KUED in Utah. It is the most realistic comedy I've ever seen about what it is like being a parent, and I understand that the show includes quite a bit of improvisation. I'm sure the episodes we are getting aired in Britain 2-3 years ago, but I completely identify with every single one. The issues of parenthood are timeless.<br />
<br />
A recent episode showed mother Sue on the phone with her son's school teacher. We only hear one side of the conversation, Sue indicating that her son "doesn't know words like that...(pause)... well, he knows that one... (pause)... and that one..."<br />
<br />
Yesterday I pulled up to the school to pick up one of my youngest, only to have the teacher approach my window to let me know he had led his table in a group display of an inappropriate digital gesture. (Groan.)<br />
<br />
The teacher indicated that he hadn't participated, but that it was "his idea." We appropriately scolded him, but he has been tearfully insisting that it was actually the idea of another kid. Whatever the case may be, I'm sure he has no idea what the gesture means.<br />
<br />
I do know he likes attention, though, and loves to be the clown making everyone laugh, including himself. His mischief is punctuated by his giddy aloofness, not deviousness. Even now, I am listening to his happy-go-lucky voice, half singing, half narrating his imaginative solo play in the backyard. I remember being a little like that myself as a kid, no clue that silly mischief could possibly have a deeper, highly offensive meaning.<br />
<br />
So, somehow I need to figure out how to convey to him that naughty gestures and words ARE highly offensive, and not an appropriate way to make people laugh.<br />
<br />
Then he comes and wants to tell me all about the amazing Sesame Street animal segment he just watched about the "aardfart." (Provoking my immediate laughter. I am clearly part of the problem here.)<br />
<br />
This is going to be a long process.<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/tDJe4gmxlbI?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe>Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002824888626862844noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29678913.post-21843985123408910162011-05-18T19:05:00.003-07:002011-05-20T11:42:30.134-07:00Meet Garrick<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4avCdqJRiX8QxiAPKNyk7vrULfiV1aSjAnlMF6YCfDvQkD0IT5t1SqiksoHh-WH-CvJSeGGWWg84Sv19A1HDRdmgRCcZiLA0GKveivHMxrcncH8tC5QrBAvVdY0iXQPJIh3Gz/s1600/IMG00522-20110513-1521.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4avCdqJRiX8QxiAPKNyk7vrULfiV1aSjAnlMF6YCfDvQkD0IT5t1SqiksoHh-WH-CvJSeGGWWg84Sv19A1HDRdmgRCcZiLA0GKveivHMxrcncH8tC5QrBAvVdY0iXQPJIh3Gz/s1600/IMG00522-20110513-1521.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This photo is not pixelated; it's impressionistic.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="color: #b45f06;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">We once had a neighbor named Garrick,</span></div><div style="color: #b45f06;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #b45f06;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">a fellow who's quite esoteric.</span></div><div style="color: #b45f06;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #b45f06;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">He's sassy and sly,</span></div><div style="color: #b45f06;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #b45f06;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">and with rolling eye</span></div><div style="color: #b45f06;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #b45f06;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">he leaves us in laughter hysteric!</span></div><br />
<br />
<br />
Garrick recently told me that, after weeks of following my blog, he wondered why I hadn't yet mentioned him. This caused me to wonder also, as Garrick is quite an interesting character.<br />
<br />
Garrick was one of the first neighbors on our street we met and became friends with, lo, nearly 11 years ago. He gave us a young pine he wasn't fond of, and it has flourished in our yard. He helped set up our swing set. He helped me do flowers for Lesley's wedding. Garrick is a multi-talented, neighborly neighbor.<br />
<br />
He also snuck into our backyard once and shut off our power.<br />
<br />
He's just that kind of guy.<br />
<br />
Truthfully, Garrick is a bit of a handful, as I'm sure Cari will attest. But we've had lots of fun and laughs with this guy. Thanks for being an awesome neighbor and friend, Garrick!Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002824888626862844noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29678913.post-19302181917485569822011-05-11T12:19:00.002-07:002011-05-11T13:27:26.216-07:00Mother's Day PTSD<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmScZyVtn-0A_6AcgygGuiQd8uAC4DUKzKmGBUtTWqMczqj0oDdFY8z7a_PUzrdzCEYFZbHS5kR7LgleTOq4j109TvCRYW5l9zoCUjgGG0zb_5gvJz7zqVoMU2v53TyiPoZT4Q/s1600/CIMG8882.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmScZyVtn-0A_6AcgygGuiQd8uAC4DUKzKmGBUtTWqMczqj0oDdFY8z7a_PUzrdzCEYFZbHS5kR7LgleTOq4j109TvCRYW5l9zoCUjgGG0zb_5gvJz7zqVoMU2v53TyiPoZT4Q/s400/CIMG8882.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>I hope Mother's Day weekend treated every mom well! I was so busy enjoying it, I didn't find time to blog. and I think I'm still recovering from it. I have, however, been contemplating what being a mom, specifically, <i>my</i> being a mom, means to me. So, even though I may be a few days late and dollars short with this post, I still feel compelled to express my thoughts.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbXDJih_zHCoNhJEMF7h4qZ_P-HgQUljSNzz7KNFihPyBnJX3f6vdhPNE8vCSZs7kivYKEhPHZOVe1FJ7jyo35n9KAZcdIfrzCQtQN4_HsolFDdT1xtBNTGrPEQ3uhg4xFgvc-/s1600/GrandmaDoris.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbXDJih_zHCoNhJEMF7h4qZ_P-HgQUljSNzz7KNFihPyBnJX3f6vdhPNE8vCSZs7kivYKEhPHZOVe1FJ7jyo35n9KAZcdIfrzCQtQN4_HsolFDdT1xtBNTGrPEQ3uhg4xFgvc-/s1600/GrandmaDoris.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grandma</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRQQrmBZHRWh9jazwPQh-mzqY9pyEaV65b9bEjE_EoczN2BduV1fmMq4oF3UKf_zCy_kjuHKQ2Yk_ZLbVnqEqcdKUQt2lvxl0-FT-g4rUY1nQTN8ygb-SaqCsw-17W7JKW0IQE/s1600/GrandmaDeAnn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRQQrmBZHRWh9jazwPQh-mzqY9pyEaV65b9bEjE_EoczN2BduV1fmMq4oF3UKf_zCy_kjuHKQ2Yk_ZLbVnqEqcdKUQt2lvxl0-FT-g4rUY1nQTN8ygb-SaqCsw-17W7JKW0IQE/s1600/GrandmaDeAnn.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I have an amazing mom. I was lucky to have her close enough to spend a good part of Sunday with her this year, as she has been visiting my equally amazing grandma. Aren't they gorgeous? I have great childhood memories of them both. My mother was patient and selfless, made awesome dinners and sack lunches, introduced me to the Beatles and Tchaikovsky and set me on the path to good grammar (though I've yet to reach her level of proficiency). My grandma was unconditionally loving, grew her own cucumbers and pickled them, enjoyed mildly naughty humor and warbled with the best of the old ladies at church. Now as an adult, I appreciate so much more about who they are and what they did for me. Both of them taught me things I've incorporated into my own momhood, which began almost 15 years ago.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIO_WMCdNTWjjqDAIbU-lgWJ8A1dwNTRA9Ppa1gzXyNjg2cJsHvuSbYB3KU80jsvAdszXql7JEG6LNt9Fbztu4Pf1rfarEpdBTVJ21oQrTXPFhW3jx89d9leVNud-Acg2Z-cd7/s1600/CIMG7923.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIO_WMCdNTWjjqDAIbU-lgWJ8A1dwNTRA9Ppa1gzXyNjg2cJsHvuSbYB3KU80jsvAdszXql7JEG6LNt9Fbztu4Pf1rfarEpdBTVJ21oQrTXPFhW3jx89d9leVNud-Acg2Z-cd7/s320/CIMG7923.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These are the people who are s'posed to help me get a nap.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Since becoming a mom, I've enjoyed Mother's Day. I like the homemade gifts and handprint cards from school. I like getting my flower at church (or CD, as was the case this year). I like getting a guilt-free nap.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOnGTf_TsXWF8cWWaLbtjFBGNGTj0gg66q7fR-QBFSXzx3thM0s1769tI0EOGSl13zg3dGUxtjbdVlvNcVO4PdwtxcuyMsxpeT6UcmOLQhhNVBBviLQB9vmHEgi4GBwG168D9D/s1600/2010-8+First+Day+of+School+%2526+Abby%2527s+Violin+concert.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>I know there are women who dislike Mother's Day, including my mother-in-law, who over the years has dreaded listening to the old men at church stand and recount the perfections of their dearly departed mothers. Guilt trips can certainly be a reason to dislike Mother's Day, as can feeling insufficiently recognized. I have a friend whose husband (the father of their children) has flat out told her he doesn't celebrate Mother's Day! Dork.<br />
<br />
Scott is great at Mother's Day. He assumes the responsibilities I usually shoulder, and rallies the kids to dote on (and give space to) me so I can rest. Maybe Mother's Day is meant to be more than a day for dads to take care of the kids, but I have no problem with that aspect of the holiday! I'll do the same for my husband on Father's Day, after all.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5FOQFarjVz4cvW5RFXRigmM5n2kqyyVzaKbXHOh6GBbaCf8ITGB7wDd16rqhBfcTYYqi_F1rtYXwxOh2BQ7k4U_6CrmJQAZr662_FuSimI5dvnw2IajxCteqU4vAQhuP2hax_/s1600/IMAG0022.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5FOQFarjVz4cvW5RFXRigmM5n2kqyyVzaKbXHOh6GBbaCf8ITGB7wDd16rqhBfcTYYqi_F1rtYXwxOh2BQ7k4U_6CrmJQAZr662_FuSimI5dvnw2IajxCteqU4vAQhuP2hax_/s400/IMAG0022.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This year, Scott signed me up for a 5k the day before Mother's Day. I took 1st place in my age category, so he is forgiven.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMaIMQloYx9nr9CMlm0v1wFpmqUlp2EOLa99TFUGuX8V_KP4K0e13pwtMRhasc3LDWfAEtuIDW79P-U_CaDlSRe-1mGGgR887oeyjf9_3H3Z5YYRUa7-Vao7Eogj-UR3LooxKH/s1600/ViolinConcert910.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMaIMQloYx9nr9CMlm0v1wFpmqUlp2EOLa99TFUGuX8V_KP4K0e13pwtMRhasc3LDWfAEtuIDW79P-U_CaDlSRe-1mGGgR887oeyjf9_3H3Z5YYRUa7-Vao7Eogj-UR3LooxKH/s200/ViolinConcert910.JPG" width="161" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At Abby's recital, 8/10.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I like the fact that on Mother's Day moms are recognized, not just for being beautiful, cuddly and sweet, as many of us indeed are, but more importantly for all the <i>crap</i> we put up with. If I were to write up a job description of what it is I do everyday, many of the details would border on the ridiculous. If I wanted to be classy about it, I could say that my duties would cover many different positions found in a typical Fortune 500 company: secretarial, janitorial, mail room, human resources, P.R., food services, car service and lots of after-hours unpaid meetings and paperwork, paperwork, paperwork! (Though no self-respecting business would allow their clients to ride in my <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HEFE3B0Rje0">car</a>!-- Be sure to go to that link. You'll die laughing.)<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifSw5aSfeCf-nS-ARtUa5B5m0LhktxZZ2dhMEmCY6Me_7-rktR9BHthOHdV3AAn6Wh9hezFoqU_G_fQUlqYcTNHSqs7XI2sr4TjBaNtgetWoStfOX3fExyXxraLMiCCUIyRFmB/s1600/IMG00468-20110328-1455.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifSw5aSfeCf-nS-ARtUa5B5m0LhktxZZ2dhMEmCY6Me_7-rktR9BHthOHdV3AAn6Wh9hezFoqU_G_fQUlqYcTNHSqs7XI2sr4TjBaNtgetWoStfOX3fExyXxraLMiCCUIyRFmB/s200/IMG00468-20110328-1455.jpg" width="200" /></a>The truth of it is, I just finished a 15 minute game of "Where's Bobby?" with my toddler who just discovered the sliding doors on his closet. I seem to have endless conversations about excrement. I have to change my shirt a couple of times a day because these people ooze and squirt and spill constantly. I have a serious case of "Mother Brain" amnesia. I am reminded regularly that I can't remember algebra (and therefore remind myself regularly that I <i>have</i> my degree and shouldn't <i>have</i> to remember it anymore), and I regularly forget the names of my children (that I picked out for them). <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga-6ScunRMu1SK-Sa-xNBznV5-GURagwmgJA31ymTHrzNCxAbqjcUXQfusUBKcP2Z2AK2U2jtWr53ayJ17IqYyU2JYbOfbWrbbQj_XwkoLb9-gQT_MXbKw0mLdL6bBzSgDROFq/s1600/tennis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga-6ScunRMu1SK-Sa-xNBznV5-GURagwmgJA31ymTHrzNCxAbqjcUXQfusUBKcP2Z2AK2U2jtWr53ayJ17IqYyU2JYbOfbWrbbQj_XwkoLb9-gQT_MXbKw0mLdL6bBzSgDROFq/s1600/tennis.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tennis with Andrew.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Then again, I also get to snuggle a sleeping baby while removing him from his car seat and settling him into his bed. I am the recipient of breathy little boy cheek-kisses after school everyday. I get to introduce my favorite music and interests to my older kids, and share their excitement in appreciating anew what I've taken for granted. Not bad job benefits.<br />
<br />
In all seriousness, I have realized that part of the reason I feel valuable as a woman and mother is because I am a part of a religious culture that holds motherhood in high esteem. I also like the fact that it is becoming increasingly popular to recognize women in general on Mother's Day, as even in our modern society, women in almost every setting are still doing a lot of "mothering" to their neighbors, co-workers, and even their own parents. Mothers or not, it is so nice to have a day when women can be recognized for their unique contributions to the world. In a recent world-wide conference, LDS members were reminded:<br />
<blockquote>Our doctrine is clear: Women are daughters of our Heavenly Father, who loves them. Wives are equal to their husbands. Marriage requires a full partnership where wives and husbands work side by side to meet the needs of the family. - <a href="http://lds.org/general-conference/2011/04/lds-women-are-incredible?lang=eng">Elder Quentin L. Cook </a></blockquote><br />
Though I have worked outside the home at times, I have never questioned whether my contribution to society was less while being at home full-time. I appreciate what Elder Cook had to say on this subject:<br />
<br />
<blockquote>These are very emotional, personal decisions, but there are two principles that we should always keep in mind. First, no woman should ever feel the need to apologize or feel that her contribution is less significant because she is devoting her primary efforts to raising and nurturing children. Nothing could be more significant in our Father in Heaven’s plan. Second, we should all be careful not to be judgmental or assume that women are less valiant if the decision is made to work outside the home. We rarely understand or fully appreciate people’s circumstances. Husbands and wives should prayerfully counsel together, understanding they are accountable to God for their decisions.</blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUaD9TKcNC_FXLBnFp3frjCL6iCuAL78sl5OBIkFaSXilDPjpn3Y7ib0Ce9C11hyphenhyphenZ50We3hR77wBldLUKbBd7E8zJ0vZOjLHZeqkHkRPCS2aeLcj4Qtzx9xN8XTcVR4PrWiTa3/s1600/mother%2527sday11No2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUaD9TKcNC_FXLBnFp3frjCL6iCuAL78sl5OBIkFaSXilDPjpn3Y7ib0Ce9C11hyphenhyphenZ50We3hR77wBldLUKbBd7E8zJ0vZOjLHZeqkHkRPCS2aeLcj4Qtzx9xN8XTcVR4PrWiTa3/s400/mother%2527sday11No2.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
I love the idea that as I go through my experience as a mom, I'm performing a divinely sanctioned task. It is this thought that gets me through the difficult days, and makes me smile on the good ones. God and I are in this job together. He's my boss, and I'm very thankful he has employed me as a mom.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002824888626862844noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29678913.post-33916909479085879442011-05-06T13:22:00.000-07:002011-05-06T13:22:34.981-07:00Spring Fever: Wreaking Havoc or Reeking of Havoc<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR3MKM9-8_hMhJN_02Pe1rcyw_AQT6chEwdEgRMWGyoFuxehZZ5GTC4KJRDSC0b0Q6ez1Bh9rGh59f34q3LYm_Njg-zObIBmXcK0-6GHbJwS8XQIOKbGCZe9jktl3r9LPkX5vG/s1600/tramp411.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR3MKM9-8_hMhJN_02Pe1rcyw_AQT6chEwdEgRMWGyoFuxehZZ5GTC4KJRDSC0b0Q6ez1Bh9rGh59f34q3LYm_Njg-zObIBmXcK0-6GHbJwS8XQIOKbGCZe9jktl3r9LPkX5vG/s200/tramp411.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tramp: official toy of Utah. Or should be.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We've finally had a few consecutive days of good spring weather, and the kids have been on the trampoline and their bikes, attempting to recover from some serious cases of "cabin fever." Not enough for Scott, though, who apparently thinks our kids are missing some essential childhood experiences.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div>Funny what you learn about your spouse after 16 years. I already knew Scott had a mischievous side, and a mischievous little giggle to go with it. When Scott and I got engaged, his sister Kristina came up to me with a completely straight face and said, "your kids are going to be hellions." So far, none of our children have displayed the mischievous tendencies Scott was apparently renowned for, much to Scott's disappointment. A recent conversation between Scott and Wes was very revealing.<br />
<br />
Wes: "I'm bored."<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw3MQBOqpUDAzkNW_6cAzjkMQPouoguFrzfammIdDBLNmTX1_pQE69TOgW0GU6lVM1g7uQUHY3sNk2meyS15xYKHmElTP7FnOu1NEYiALE7v1G2wtkY5aKDimJ4FFfdKhdyCf8/s1600/8-2010+Kings+Peak+hike+%252817%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw3MQBOqpUDAzkNW_6cAzjkMQPouoguFrzfammIdDBLNmTX1_pQE69TOgW0GU6lVM1g7uQUHY3sNk2meyS15xYKHmElTP7FnOu1NEYiALE7v1G2wtkY5aKDimJ4FFfdKhdyCf8/s200/8-2010+Kings+Peak+hike+%252817%2529.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Still exploring: Scott & Will, 7/10.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Scott: "You're crazy. When I was your age, I would have been out exploring."<br />
<br />
Wes: "Pretty much everything to be explored has been discovered by now, Dad, there's nothing left to explore." (Well, true, I guess we can't expect Wes to ever know the joys we had on our expeditions with Louis & Clark.)<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9_MBdGmFyRFpUGwxU1VBgbwmnWodZunG5zdeIOhq6XqMig8mvjPgHaU9IVpEf7GLMWGwuFTNZZfYv_TP66fyuSEpDxl0G-DHyePjEGHSxKXCU-h8pvyo_2KOj-DwakCZgNI6i/s1600/IMG_7997.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9_MBdGmFyRFpUGwxU1VBgbwmnWodZunG5zdeIOhq6XqMig8mvjPgHaU9IVpEf7GLMWGwuFTNZZfYv_TP66fyuSEpDxl0G-DHyePjEGHSxKXCU-h8pvyo_2KOj-DwakCZgNI6i/s200/IMG_7997.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Atop King's Peak, 7/10.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Scott: "Are you crazy? When I was your age, I would have been all over that golf course." Scott points in the direction of the nearby neighborhood links.<br />
<br />
Wes: "What would I do over there? I'm not into golf."<br />
<br />
Scott (rolling his eyes): "I would have been all over that place, checking it out, finding golf balls, trying to joy-ride a golf cart..."<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLtmBITG7lyj4OWSu4187kY5JWiNAUGDAX3Lp2rV9_BRo59jWEk0_S5ucMvjzZjO67LsJ5TSjkhRfZCgqchHheRouwLTssvozHu-gFYDeKF-2peljItEzqxJDyD4r6Q8N-YBbN/s1600/pebblebrook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLtmBITG7lyj4OWSu4187kY5JWiNAUGDAX3Lp2rV9_BRo59jWEk0_S5ucMvjzZjO67LsJ5TSjkhRfZCgqchHheRouwLTssvozHu-gFYDeKF-2peljItEzqxJDyD4r6Q8N-YBbN/s1600/pebblebrook.jpg" /></a>I immediately started laughing, thinking about a mulleted Scott attempting covert operations at a golf course.<br />
<br />
Scott went on to regale us with stories of his glory days of juvenile delinquency, taking down friends Ryan and Will with him.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN4H81IBweF9_X6Xujk9wBVMLWb3eMSXLrvG_z5eCyv69BYkGNSj1AS-WCbK0HsvdlxhzrbNlB1FAuElz9sgPSx96CtNxJ1ezf1QItBnzolY3gG6Juxa9vWzb66g1NjJnnIXuv/s1600/sandytri10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN4H81IBweF9_X6Xujk9wBVMLWb3eMSXLrvG_z5eCyv69BYkGNSj1AS-WCbK0HsvdlxhzrbNlB1FAuElz9sgPSx96CtNxJ1ezf1QItBnzolY3gG6Juxa9vWzb66g1NjJnnIXuv/s1600/sandytri10.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tri-ing together, 9/10.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Now, I don't mean to imply that Scott was up to anything devious in nature, but I think it would be safe to say that Scott had occasion to use some of his scouting skills outside of the camp, so to speak. Anyway, while Scott's stories are funny to hear about and I smile thinking of him up to his boyhood capers, I find it even funnier that all of this golf course madness has occurred to him... as an <i>adult!</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUtEf53SXR1drJ225WQ0BxvTC2ji6IGNq-MFc1AF6OYsqEM8RxEfaFkR5L6dXpGLRcS0awcMpr7HEUEfmw9Q4CpOIIkrf2-pMl96Z86WXKOd2UwkT3_52437Gl6ZcBizkAgMT_/s1600/DSC07708.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUtEf53SXR1drJ225WQ0BxvTC2ji6IGNq-MFc1AF6OYsqEM8RxEfaFkR5L6dXpGLRcS0awcMpr7HEUEfmw9Q4CpOIIkrf2-pMl96Z86WXKOd2UwkT3_52437Gl6ZcBizkAgMT_/s320/DSC07708.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Having his own adventures: Wes at Lake Powell, 7/10.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
As far as I'm aware, Wes has a mellow teen life at the moment, hanging with his buddies, riding his bike, playing a few video games. I <i>am</i> relieved I'm not getting calls from golf pros (or police, for that matter), asking me to come pick up my son and banning him from the premises. Now that he's had the idea, though, I'm not so sure I won't be getting such a call about my husband!Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002824888626862844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29678913.post-78732180699505792732011-05-05T11:13:00.002-07:002011-05-06T13:33:08.053-07:00Tender MerciesI had a light-hearted essay ready, but in light of the fact that the father of a good friend passed away today, it didn't seem right to post it. Instead, my thoughts have been dwelling on the tender mercies that seem to arise at our darkest moments.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFXRbP8dJYMNrtpo-2ytbPt2cdp_8XPt0MJHhBDC1vv8SSEsyzr1J59Pfs5ijoB9Hzjx2wZdiDfNJ5Xx-NjUN5KMrftBKPODidi1Bn6xs6H1OR_JZmFSTVqZAlUZ5S0G4MnY5S/s1600/Psalm+145v9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFXRbP8dJYMNrtpo-2ytbPt2cdp_8XPt0MJHhBDC1vv8SSEsyzr1J59Pfs5ijoB9Hzjx2wZdiDfNJ5Xx-NjUN5KMrftBKPODidi1Bn6xs6H1OR_JZmFSTVqZAlUZ5S0G4MnY5S/s320/Psalm+145v9.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Free Bible verses available <a href="http://www.ericexplores.com/wallpaper/verses01/verses.shtml">here.</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Life can be mercilessly unfair, yet also extremely generous. My friend's father is no longer in the presence of his family, blessing their lives with his intelligence and humor, but she was able to (what now seems miraculously) cross the country to spend the last few days of his life with him. <br />
<br />
Remembering my own experiences with <a href="http://goodnight-sleeptight.blogspot.com/2007/03/little-annie-caught-cold.html">grief </a>I began to think, what can I say to her- to anyone- to sufficiently convey sympathy and hope? Nothing seems right. Truly, grief is so intense and personal that it is probably more important just to be available to a grieving person, so that they know they are not alone.<br />
<br />
It is after the initial shock of loss that words of hope seem more appropriate. More than anything else, what I would want a grieving person to know is that life <i>can</i> and <i>does</i> go on. That it is no tribute to your deceased loved one to let their loss destroy your future. Rather, when we move forward with positive goals in their honor, we are a living memorial to them every day.<br />
<br />
I also know that surviving my own grief was made possible by the knowledge of a loving Heavenly Father, whose love and tender mercies sustained me. I am so grateful for His plan that will enable us to be together forever when this life is over.<br />
<br />
I'm getting to the age where many of my friends are losing their parents. It is a transitional experience, I'm observing. My love and prayers go to all such friends. May you feel the Lord's loving arms around you at this difficult time.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/y7XA5X5CxJc?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002824888626862844noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29678913.post-48432789625140368322011-05-02T08:49:00.006-07:002011-05-05T10:27:38.323-07:00Osama bin nice knowin' ya... but not really.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo30-ni533QHD5LU8CSQyem760_XzQd5YAkCxkVtpJnB_u1uJuaawAHU5Tywtvd0_TABwLaR9aKQxDDup90NvraYiEf_8KDPZuhSsYcqIV-_F2EgJ9oyhvYy91TnWCeehfPFL8/s1600/firefightersflag.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo30-ni533QHD5LU8CSQyem760_XzQd5YAkCxkVtpJnB_u1uJuaawAHU5Tywtvd0_TABwLaR9aKQxDDup90NvraYiEf_8KDPZuhSsYcqIV-_F2EgJ9oyhvYy91TnWCeehfPFL8/s320/firefightersflag.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>It took 'em almost 10 years, but better late than never.<br />
<br />
The morning of September 11th I woke and turned on the news. That is not a part of my regular routine, but I switched it on before getting out of bed that day. Immediately, the terrible images of tower Number 1 came on the screen. Soon thereafter I saw the second plane hit tower Number 2. 5-year-old Wes came walking in and climbed into bed with me. Maybe I should have sheltered him from the news, but after explaining that "airplanes crashed into those buildings," we sat mesmerized together. <br />
<br />
I called my parents. They were watching, too. Scott called me from work. They were watching; nobody was working. A couple of hours later Scott came home. We hung our flag. We left the news on all day. That day, and over the next several months, we agonized with those searching for loved ones, cried with the firefighters and cheered with the Ground Zero search teams when President Bush shook his fist at Osama. We watched as friends, loved ones and neighbors left to go to war. Our new favorite song became <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ruNrdmjcNTc">the Angry American by Toby Keith</a>.<br />
<br />
We had our own revenge. We went on with life, Andrew was born the following year. We flew across the Atlantic. We continued to fly our flag.<br />
<br />
Wes has always been a sober kid, but I have no way of knowing how much witnessing 9/11 as a kid impacted him. He's a patriotic kid, though, and often talks about a possible future in the Air Force. Andrew is a child with a lot of turbulence in him. I only hope it is how he was born to be, and not due to 9 months of gestating with a stressed-out, "threat level orange" mom. Andrew is a bright, creative light that wasn't extinguished by some sucker in a cave.<br />
<br />
Oh yeah, about that. I hope Osama's cave-dwelling comrades are aware that he was knocked off in a mansion, chillin' on a pillow-top mattress.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm_lsXC2nIRuW_TwIghb0fkz37pPXeC0SFesZYCyC1tVFsg0SrahB8wOqkcJKgjPV7wXbQt8tn18hvdNKqM8sJmnto9sDxnHwO3yLZhhBUpO1-6M9njeVkLcUseG1zZg2yzDhP/s1600/eaglegodbless.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm_lsXC2nIRuW_TwIghb0fkz37pPXeC0SFesZYCyC1tVFsg0SrahB8wOqkcJKgjPV7wXbQt8tn18hvdNKqM8sJmnto9sDxnHwO3yLZhhBUpO1-6M9njeVkLcUseG1zZg2yzDhP/s320/eaglegodbless.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
Last night as Scott and I sat in bed watching the President's speech, a 14-year-old Wes came walking in. We were able to give him the news. Good news, this time. <br />
<br />
Today, the world is heaving sighs of relief with a different American president. Our lives went on. The good guys won. Today, I'm flying my flag again.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002824888626862844noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29678913.post-65647738505976460472011-04-29T10:26:00.002-07:002011-04-29T13:00:15.053-07:00Royally Interested<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKAeZaVZGGEZKcOpvXKQUEJslI-34PGaXwDmJ-A-ZzOIjvMttOI27HM9yP5PtSPgJC2esCQuHWY1MZ1951utFhxOwKVG9EBmXIERJlIjQPUlBo_GKXOJ-tLpLCKUS9VMMu-VLz/s1600/souvenirs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1fx2JXLyNCbRn7VrGxruLgaTo_klU3Bi9UDY1lMmE0fub-hpX9d7cxP9pXxBos9YCwkfDd4eHzMV-JSZBqcOa_J67xF5bw225T5DYnh6sCRdZMfLEWUQoHkDDUZInGoUo3UJt/s1600/Westminster071.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicsC3_hG8q5fUDH9TZvWX7jyodmu7_eD73nqIWOQTYBE3fDx-uyFy-BI8ALTkZ5QOghdPMuvAQstVUEQGjk8HZQAGX39iiQ-9ytyCqkf53x78Xf0Tvr9ghcnKsdEnHPMmIru_o/s200/will-and-kate-pez-dispensers.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">For your royal pez.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="color: red;">Why are Americans so interested in the British royal wedding? </div><br />
I've heard and read many comments lately, from friends planning to view the wedding live (4am here in Utah), to friends definitely NOT planning to view the wedding (and making that clear to everyone who brings up the subject), to people like me, who just want to see some good recap footage at a more respectable hour. I haven't come across too many folks who are either unaware or uncaring altogether; even the disinterested seem to be animated in their disinterest, making them inadvertently a part of the hype (which strikes me as funny).<br />
<br />
<i>I</i> am an American. Why am<i> I</i> even remotely interested? <br />
<br />
I confess to having an interest in the royal family that began during my childhood. When I was little and my Gran took her yearly trips "back home," I sort of assumed that she knew the queen. I remember after one trip when I asked her if she had seen the queen, Gran replied jovially, "och yes! I had tea with the queen!" I took her seriously. She brought back different royal paraphernalia over the years- souvenir china from the Queen's Silver Jubilee back in 1977, various Charles and Diana literature and commemorative coins. <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_aeL5rMrvqCFA6aGufpj3P5fCg2T0MFkXw4M-apxkJncGTosS9QU3UkJo128AGZlFvOeoIfsjBZo9lpiwo04SL9njKaBr1h0r9zMjgcGCHGMsHF3kPTob1s-dPnrQ8VwDWheW/s1600/Westminster071.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_aeL5rMrvqCFA6aGufpj3P5fCg2T0MFkXw4M-apxkJncGTosS9QU3UkJo128AGZlFvOeoIfsjBZo9lpiwo04SL9njKaBr1h0r9zMjgcGCHGMsHF3kPTob1s-dPnrQ8VwDWheW/s400/Westminster071.jpg" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Scott and Abby, Wesminster Abbey, July 2007.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
My dad even woke me up (at what must have been 3 or 4 in the morning) to watch Charles and Diana's big day when I was 10. (Sigh.)<br />
<br />
I did not rise at a ridiculous hour to watch the wedding today, but I flipped the television on before I left my bed this morning to catch a few images. The bride was lovely, the groom charming, the crowds impressive and the bells delightful. Scott was annoyed by the crass American news commentators, but what can you do.<br />
<br />
As an adult, my interest in the British royals is now more academic, maybe. Where as a child I was caught up in the splendor and fantasy of it all, now I find it more interesting to look at who has been on the throne over the past few centuries and how things have played out based on their policies and personal choices.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrghtPaUb1vhq3pPiuAFkqb222aJghn6QfFkTCuXvNuhpD3HX1iTpEUsn56jPX4edofi_LJuFK94YY8QoiDYgyEp61M-G6jWzskkoAPTQYw9wUNdL_Z_1XMjv7DA1x6Qd3CW3C/s1600/Queen+Victoria.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrghtPaUb1vhq3pPiuAFkqb222aJghn6QfFkTCuXvNuhpD3HX1iTpEUsn56jPX4edofi_LJuFK94YY8QoiDYgyEp61M-G6jWzskkoAPTQYw9wUNdL_Z_1XMjv7DA1x6Qd3CW3C/s200/Queen+Victoria.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Queen Victoria, 1819-1901</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I feel so sorry for poor misunderstood King George III, who suffered from a blood disorder with symptoms that were misdiagnosed as madness. I admire Queen Victoria who ruled during a time when women in her country (and this one, for that matter) had limited public influence. I have become more and more disappointed in tacky King Edward VIII for abdicating for Wallis, though I'm glad he did, because I think his brother did a good job and I like Queen Elizabeth II. I thought the Queen Mother was cute. Not too keen on Prince Charles because I was on team Diana, and don't get me started on Camilla. Prince William seems to have his head screwed on straight, though, and I'm very pleased he has married such a seemingly dignified, modest woman as the new Duchess of Cambridge.<br />
<br />
So maybe my interest in the royals is more than just academic. Okay, I flat out dig them. Chances are, anyone who has endured this far through this blog post does, too. I hope they maintain their traditions, keep their act together and make their countrymen proud.<br />
<br />
And I hope now my angelic Gran occasionally sneaks a peek of the queen and her tea.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002824888626862844noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29678913.post-63960405882249691572011-04-27T11:13:00.000-07:002011-04-27T11:13:26.121-07:00Star Trek: the Next Generation of Geeks<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjonvdLU9226Y6uKvIcOAG1O0rBaHQ4tHJJs1kUkqoR1M7zk7Rr_TYsm6SXRdz-btLQAZra83lQ-q6mLcf8JXoarG4fqL_eRjWe9k_hpmSAxdtBQkznAlctXu9Atv5qHwQmiUa1/s1600/trekdolls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjonvdLU9226Y6uKvIcOAG1O0rBaHQ4tHJJs1kUkqoR1M7zk7Rr_TYsm6SXRdz-btLQAZra83lQ-q6mLcf8JXoarG4fqL_eRjWe9k_hpmSAxdtBQkznAlctXu9Atv5qHwQmiUa1/s1600/trekdolls.jpg" /></a></div>Wes got into the car after school yesterday and began telling me about a discussion he had with a few classmates. You see, our family watched the most recent Star Trek movie last Monday night for Family Night. I guess the topic came up in class, so Wes participated in the discussion.<br />
<br />
Wes is actually pretty familiar with the Star Trek series', having seen several Star Trek movies, episodes of The Next Generation and Deep Space Nine. I'm not sure if he's seen any of the original series episodes, but I suspect he's seen a couple. Or at least You Tube clips of them. Anyway, I guess the consensus in the conversation was that the most recent movie was "am-may-zing," and a brief discussion ensued regarding the cooler aspects of the action. Eventually of course, they began to extoll the genius of the various television incarnations.<br />
<br />
Then one of the guys said, "Star Trek is really cool, but I HATE The Next Generation."<br />
<br />
Wes turned his head sharply to look directly at me, his face taking on an aghast expression. Eyes popping out. I think I snorted and laughed. I've created a monster.<br />
<br />
A year-or-so ago I began bringing home library DVDs of The Next Generation, which I will henceforth abbreviate to TNG. We are not so cool as to own our own library of them, but the Salt Lake County Library System has quite a large collection, especially of season 3, for some odd reason. My kids devoured them, as well they should have.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijvOuBU9MjvJbn5e-u5xRa6ITtJ4-H3KucxXMryDPgrphfjDssVPmQr1-nM4G-Bvjl107_d7sTSK1pLklsMpfPUvl9IGt5WQNKR51HqoxFngEFRhyZTHPmLmN2NWZrOGPaDNcF/s1600/kirk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijvOuBU9MjvJbn5e-u5xRa6ITtJ4-H3KucxXMryDPgrphfjDssVPmQr1-nM4G-Bvjl107_d7sTSK1pLklsMpfPUvl9IGt5WQNKR51HqoxFngEFRhyZTHPmLmN2NWZrOGPaDNcF/s320/kirk.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
Back in nineteen eighty yadda when TNG came out, I thought that the world had been overtaken by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dax_%28Star_Trek%29">symbiont </a>geek-beings who were commandeering the television air waves. (Little did I know. Oh, how little did I know.)<br />
<br />
I remember having a brief conversation in my Latin class (first clue) with my friend Jun about it. I was expressing a common view of the time that it was lame to try to ride the success of the original. Jun simply shrugged his shoulders, smiled and said, "it's actually a pretty good show." Jun was impossible to argue with. He's too friendly and he always makes sense. So, I just left it there and went on my ignorant way.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://craziestgadgets.com/2010/12/15/star-trek-cookies-wont-live-too-long-nor-prosper/" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTppJ5FFTb5mVaQ3lz2e5rKVCTpaRbDYl20foStXkbcoRAhZJLPRQlH8FUE20w6Wb3i5ciqcS9mhuEV4gF7FOknj_hYqHHN8WPfkAf_fBIL3DGhzmSJQ6aIsULZ4xnOuB6bSGA/s200/star-trek-cookies-500x350.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not my <a href="http://craziestgadgets.com/2010/12/15/star-trek-cookies-wont-live-too-long-nor-prosper/">creation</a>, but cute!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Fast-forward a few years to 1993. I'm at the Uof U and dating Scott. Scott and I had an evening Japanese class together. Scott was living at home (lame) and I had a cool college apartment with fun roommates and a nearby hot tub (hip). Scott liked to come over after class, serendipitously pull his swimsuit from his backpack and take a dip in the hot tub which conveniently closed at 10, just in time for TNG re-runs. (I am aware that I ran-on in that sentence, but I sure enjoyed it.)<br />
<br />
Soooo, I basically became a fan of TNG out of humoring the guy I liked. I can't think of any other scenario in which I would have been willing to give that show a try. Lucky for me I did, though, because it became our nightly ritual for YEARS. At least until 2003 or 4, or whenever FOX 13 finally took it out of it's late night line-up. <br />
<br />
Now Patrick Stewart is one of my heroes, and the reason I made Scott promise me he wouldn't do anything rash if he began going bald. We didn't consciously name our son after Wesley Crusher, but we do have suspicions that the name took hold sometime during 9 months of faithful viewership. We also like to utilize handy quips such as, "you weren't like this <i>before</i> the beard," when applicable.<br />
<br />
Wes's school conversation degenerated into a debate over which was the bosser character, Spock or Data... Data could "kick Spock's trash"... Spock wasn't a robot and he had cooler ears... Oh help me. I need to sit these boys down and explain how both characters were integral to the vastness of the storyline. And how Spock is cool because he hosted "In Search Of" and how yes, Data would kick his trash.<br />
<br />
Oh yeah, and my dad met "Q," so we're just cool. I think now I'll go bake a <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5c2xXrsk0I0">cellular peptide cake with mint frosting.</a><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVYsswx7NaaRRdeVEy7GTIFZMKRGE1iHfEu0Z80E83r02oUAk4fOol_7a-Xq3-A8qzbjlFfQDxJ7dnfxQXP7tVOk415kiBFsYUbnx3Gl1RoV1K09hL2KBigCtzhcc3_YC5mLkC/s1600/trekfam.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVYsswx7NaaRRdeVEy7GTIFZMKRGE1iHfEu0Z80E83r02oUAk4fOol_7a-Xq3-A8qzbjlFfQDxJ7dnfxQXP7tVOk415kiBFsYUbnx3Gl1RoV1K09hL2KBigCtzhcc3_YC5mLkC/s640/trekfam.jpg" width="428" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is not our fam, but I think I'd like to meet these people. Mom was smart to go with a season 1 Deanna Troi wardrobe selection. I wonder if Dad is really a doctor or something, ala blue uniform. Read many fabulous comments about this photo at <a href="http://awkwardfamilyphotos.com/2010/01/20/the-final-frontier/">Awkward Family Photos</a>, another of my favorite time-wasting sites.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002824888626862844noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29678913.post-28797893640410171712011-04-26T10:39:00.004-07:002011-04-26T13:15:23.915-07:00Crock Pot Ham Bone Soup<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIyVGOOAjBOc4tU_PxsUWylqgtzIh6qsZIp0RdBfNjroBEmsw1NH2gFCUBoipfzUlRk-JXavBYUxw0I5MEh846_E28XtIVZI5m82cplvkBZOwkpK1lscvpwT6xFDOO-F7PEd0Y/s1600/hambone+soup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIyVGOOAjBOc4tU_PxsUWylqgtzIh6qsZIp0RdBfNjroBEmsw1NH2gFCUBoipfzUlRk-JXavBYUxw0I5MEh846_E28XtIVZI5m82cplvkBZOwkpK1lscvpwT6xFDOO-F7PEd0Y/s200/hambone+soup.jpg" width="200" /></a>We have a ham bone in our house, and no, I'm not talking about Ian. Perhaps you have one left from your Easter feast, too. I love this yummy recipe, a change-up from typical takes on ham bone soup I've had before. Lots of the ingredients are things I keep handy in my pantry and food storage, and you probably do, too.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="ingredients" style="margin-top: 10px;"><h3> Ingredients</h3><ul><li class="plaincharacterwrap ingredient"> 1 ham bone with some meat</li>
<li class="plaincharacterwrap ingredient"> 1 onion, diced</li>
<li class="plaincharacterwrap ingredient"> 1 (14.5 ounce) can peeled and diced tomatoes with juice</li>
<li class="plaincharacterwrap ingredient"> 1 (15.25 ounce) can kidney beans</li>
<li class="plaincharacterwrap ingredient"> 3 potatoes, cubed</li>
<li class="plaincharacterwrap ingredient"> 1 green bell pepper, seeded and cubed</li>
<li class="plaincharacterwrap ingredient"> 4 cups water</li>
<li class="plaincharacterwrap ingredient"> 6 cubes chicken bouillon</li>
</ul></div><div style="border-top: 1px #ccc dotted; margin-top: 20px; width: 300px;"></div><div class="directions" style="margin-top: 10px;"><h3>Directions<span class="plaincharacterwrap break"> </span></h3><h3 style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="plaincharacterwrap break">Place the ham bone, onion, tomatoes, kidney beans, potatoes, and green pepper into a 3 quart or larger slow cooker. Dissolve the bouillon cubes in water, and pour into the slow cooker.</span><span class="plaincharacterwrap break"> </span></span></h3><h3 style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="plaincharacterwrap break">Cover, and cook on High until warm. Reduce heat to Low, and continue to cook for 5 to 6 hours. Serves 4. </span></span></h3><h3 style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="plaincharacterwrap break"></span></span></h3><h3 style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></h3><h3 style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;">I added a bay leaf and carrots, left out the peppers per Scott's specs, and doubled the recipe to the extent my average-size slow cooker allowed. <span class="plaincharacterwrap break">I found this recipe at <a href="http://allrecipes.com/">allrecipes.com</a>, my new favorite cooking site. </span></span></h3><h3 style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="plaincharacterwrap break"> </span></span></h3></div>Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002824888626862844noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29678913.post-31995616000956308492011-04-24T20:50:00.003-07:002011-04-25T06:47:01.745-07:00Celebrating the Resurrection of Jesus Christ<div class="MsoNormal"><i style="color: #ffe599;">I was asked to deliver an Easter message about the resurrection in church today. This is not my complete talk, as much of it was extemporaneous, but here is the gist of my message. I hope everyone had a beautiful Easter. </i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2gnj0GLd6R-sYOXOEEyQZiLsZxO6CtIoZps1O0yDQwGuWX4K-j109tjeNQE-QxYMtUkFKedYplImv5F68Ock_2H8xWfri4lg86MyFy81ifUNTR10VLQ2Z-cPQ3Pa1_zolYGOy/s1600/resurrection.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2gnj0GLd6R-sYOXOEEyQZiLsZxO6CtIoZps1O0yDQwGuWX4K-j109tjeNQE-QxYMtUkFKedYplImv5F68Ock_2H8xWfri4lg86MyFy81ifUNTR10VLQ2Z-cPQ3Pa1_zolYGOy/s400/resurrection.jpg" width="299" /></a>In a world filled with war and grieving, economic and natural disasters, uncertainty and loss of hope, how wonderful it is that we have a day set apart to remember God’s plan of hope for us. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This is the day that gives humankind the greatest reason for hope, the greatest reason to celebrate the life of our Savior. The day that reminds us that because of our Heavenly Father's great love for us, he provided a plan that will allow us to be forgiven of our sins and have eternal life. Standing at the pinnacle of the Savior’s experiences on earth is the amazing miracle of the resurrection.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As with other aspects of the Savior’s life, His resurrection was not only an experience that was necessary for his own personal transition into Eternal Life, but also an example for us to gain a greater understanding of our own purpose and plan. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ffe599; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">1 Corinthians 15:20-23 </div><span class="versetext" id="1co15-20" style="color: #ffe599; display: inline; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span class="versenum">20</span> <span class="strongs">But</span> <span class="strongs">now</span> <span class="strongs">is</span> <span class="strongs">Christ</span> <span class="strongs">risen</span> <span class="strongs">from</span> the <span class="strongs">dead,</span> and <span class="strongs">become</span> the <span class="strongs">firstfruits</span> of them that <span class="strongs">slept</span> . </span> <span class="versetext" id="1co15-21" style="color: #ffe599; display: inline; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span class="versenum">21</span> <span class="strongs">For</span> <span class="strongs">since</span> <span class="strongs">by</span> <span class="strongs">man</span> came <span class="strongs">death,</span> <span class="strongs">by</span> <span class="strongs">man</span> came <span class="strongs">also</span> the <span class="strongs">resurrection</span> of the <span class="strongs">dead.</span> </span> <span class="versetext" id="1co15-22" style="color: #ffe599; display: inline; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span class="versenum">22</span> <span class="strongs">For</span> <span class="strongs">as</span> <span class="strongs">in</span> <span class="strongs">Adam</span> <span class="strongs">all</span> <span class="strongs">die</span> , <span class="strongs">even</span> <span class="strongs">so</span> <span class="strongs">in</span> <span class="strongs">Christ</span> <span class="strongs">shall</span> <span class="strongs">all</span> be made <span class="strongs">alive</span> . </span> <span class="versetext" id="1co15-23" style="display: inline;"><span class="versenum" style="color: #ffe599; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">23</span><span style="color: #ffe599; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><span class="strongs" style="color: #ffe599; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">But</span><span style="color: #ffe599; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> every </span><span class="strongs" style="color: #ffe599; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">man</span><span style="color: #ffe599; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><span class="strongs" style="color: #ffe599; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">in</span><span style="color: #ffe599; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> his </span><span class="strongs" style="color: #ffe599; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">own</span><span style="color: #ffe599; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><span class="strongs" style="color: #ffe599; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">order:</span><span style="color: #ffe599; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><span class="strongs" style="color: #ffe599; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Christ</span><span style="color: #ffe599; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> the </span><span class="strongs" style="color: #ffe599; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">firstfruits;</span><span style="color: #ffe599; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><span class="strongs" style="color: #ffe599; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">afterward</span><span style="color: #ffe599; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> they that </span><span class="strongs" style="color: #ffe599; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">are</span><span style="color: #ffe599; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><span class="strongs" style="color: #ffe599; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Christ's</span><span style="color: #ffe599; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><span class="strongs" style="color: #ffe599; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">at</span><span style="color: #ffe599; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><span class="strongs" style="color: #ffe599; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">his</span><span style="color: #ffe599; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><span class="strongs" style="color: #ffe599; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">coming.</span> </span><a class="bookmark-anchor dontHighlight" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=29678913&postID=3199561600095630849" name="20"></a><span class="verse"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Easter is a wonderful time to contemplate the symbolism of the resurrection of Christ. Every year at Easter, we are given a reminder that not only is death not permanent, but it is possible to change, through Christ’s atonement. We can forsake evil and end lives of sin, and be reborn into a life of striving for purity and righteousness. We see this symbolism in the ordinance of baptism, where immersion in and then exit from water represents the resurrection of Christ and being reborn as his follower.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When I think about the beautiful promise of the resurrection, I am filled with joy at the thought of rising and being reunited with those I love. It is this promise that has helped me to carry on after the deaths of my loved ones. It is what sustains me through difficult times in life, knowing that there is a bright eternity filled with happiness and everlasting life ahead.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We may not understand why the world must experience the turmoil and sadness inherent to earthly existence, but just as the disciples of Jesus’ time, we are invited to have faith that through our trials, if we endure them well, there is a bright and beautiful future awaiting us.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I express my love and gratitude for my Savior on this Easter Sunday and always. In His name, Amen. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/EpFhS0dAduc?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002824888626862844noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29678913.post-76184399366068816542011-04-21T22:08:00.005-07:002011-11-08T18:08:07.058-07:00Places I Love...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjix1zQNyKpWZ51P1I9g1Yg1GnmnvVdVqnmx91fsckZgaO3Ml8XA7emqlE2VCTtcu2KpAys6vuvqyVjsl7tNfg5i_CN-V9qbqMUhyphenhyphenCVHhy4DvSUFjJJqRNDjF-Lp7BTDGE4io5X/s1600/Pasadena+Greetings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjix1zQNyKpWZ51P1I9g1Yg1GnmnvVdVqnmx91fsckZgaO3Ml8XA7emqlE2VCTtcu2KpAys6vuvqyVjsl7tNfg5i_CN-V9qbqMUhyphenhyphenCVHhy4DvSUFjJJqRNDjF-Lp7BTDGE4io5X/s320/Pasadena+Greetings.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Pasadena</span></b></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="color: #ffe599;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Where to begin? How do you sum up what is special about the place you spent your entire childhood? Well, here goes.</span></div><br />
I know some people grow up looking forward to the day they can escape their hometown. Though I haven't been an official resident since 1993 (when I got my Utah driver's license), that is not the case with me. Pasadena is a wonderful place, and though it was not my destiny to spend my entire life there, it was a great place to grow up.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNmLlShmYplO7waW3DTIK-NK9WhE246uwxQsm_KmuyMJ6AjB74m63ADxT0RX0iiPp7tyPbdmKFJjIEx_0RyrizgLvmn_A-5umqSCfMrMITgC0wnVHc99tnoF6wIXYXhRLI0nmz/s1600/GlenSummer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNmLlShmYplO7waW3DTIK-NK9WhE246uwxQsm_KmuyMJ6AjB74m63ADxT0RX0iiPp7tyPbdmKFJjIEx_0RyrizgLvmn_A-5umqSCfMrMITgC0wnVHc99tnoF6wIXYXhRLI0nmz/s320/GlenSummer.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The old homestead.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>One of my earliest childhood memories is sitting on the front seat of my mom's white '67 Mustang with blue interior, turning on the AM radio and listening to "Windy" while heading east on the 210 freeway. No seat belt, of course. Ah, the good old days! I think one of the most beautiful stretches of freeway in the country is where the 210 turns into the 134, between Orange Grove and the San Rafael/Linda Vista exit. Not just because that is the exit to the Nicol family home, but because it is just crazy picturesque. Lush freeway plantings frame views of the Colorado Bridge, the Rose Bowl, the Arroyo Seco, the San Gabriel mountains and that cool old court building that is in all the old Pasadena paintings.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB61ZQ3m8Jwxqn-njjBx8yJBPffyKF8PtIfBOhb9ptstiriLAlK7AmF-frJ1UT6ldQXeOn_GC-09N32wxCMVXOZILvJXsT3CjoYZwr6rCFFlksD6UpuhH662r61GnIgAWSde87/s1600/ColoradoBridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB61ZQ3m8Jwxqn-njjBx8yJBPffyKF8PtIfBOhb9ptstiriLAlK7AmF-frJ1UT6ldQXeOn_GC-09N32wxCMVXOZILvJXsT3CjoYZwr6rCFFlksD6UpuhH662r61GnIgAWSde87/s400/ColoradoBridge.jpg" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View under 210 fwy, Colorado bridge in background.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Really, if there is one word to describe Pasadena, it must be <b><i>lush</i></b>. Maybe I only think that now that I live in a semi-arid desert. Truly, though, when you think of what Pasadena has represented over the years- roses in winter, for example- it fits.<br />
<br />
Pasadena found its place on the map in the early part of the 20th century when big business tycoons and other wealthy east-coasters started building winter homes there (Wrigleys, Gambles, et al). They of course hired famous architects to build their homes (Greene and Greene, Frank Lloyd Wright and their minions). Charming Victorian builds made way for Bungalows and Spanish villa-style homes, and as neighborhoods started to furnish the landscape, smaller versions of the iconic homes popped up. Homes like my parents', built in the late 1920's, are typical of Pasadena. More building took place in subsequent decades, so the now well-established neighborhoods also have lush, established landscapes.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizgGDs_PfX-ErTti7vywtLvxd98yDADq6FSp7iCYmtfM69gCE77WMx-k8-fNDGEv93pF1T4xV_gc29zqPNOLP6l8Xs8snXo95d1f_hCzcBJwaREI-2ndizl7JveBArs7FYSiu6/s1600/San+Rafael+School+II.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="111" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizgGDs_PfX-ErTti7vywtLvxd98yDADq6FSp7iCYmtfM69gCE77WMx-k8-fNDGEv93pF1T4xV_gc29zqPNOLP6l8Xs8snXo95d1f_hCzcBJwaREI-2ndizl7JveBArs7FYSiu6/s200/San+Rafael+School+II.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">San Rafael Elementary School</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I think most people who grow up in Pasadena- or who move there because they like it- appreciate the historic nature of the city. The public school buildings are beautiful and old. "Old Town" is a trendy business district where people spend their Friday nights milling about, enjoying the refurbished old (and made to look old) shops and restaurants. And do most city dwellers in the world care about what their city hall looks like? Pasadena City Hall is iconic to Pasadenans. I understand it has been equipped to host large weddings in the courtyard now! Not the typical scene for a city hall wedding, for sure. As high schoolers, my friends and I actually went to "hang out" around city hall at night, sometimes just to sit on the ledge of the fountain to chat. <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKWOOoM0ZeA9Ff-2PbVQTUjlJ2KTKh1aySpheT22CLs_HmK1wq0Q-2r6x-J-tbJ1HTsnFy9u8ILNnEIH5CRmhs6ocHa5IcWZtHyKjV7Z6uJoXd91nc45pcfPydKGIKNgPUXSn2/s1600/pasadenacityhall.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKWOOoM0ZeA9Ff-2PbVQTUjlJ2KTKh1aySpheT22CLs_HmK1wq0Q-2r6x-J-tbJ1HTsnFy9u8ILNnEIH5CRmhs6ocHa5IcWZtHyKjV7Z6uJoXd91nc45pcfPydKGIKNgPUXSn2/s320/pasadenacityhall.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pasadena City Hall</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
I'm realizing in relating all this that when thinking about what I loved about Pasadena, the setting is inextricably connected to my memories. It is easy to get all wrapped up in the high-fallootin' charm of the city. Certainly there is more to love about Pasadena, and bearing in mind that my opinions were formed over 20 years ago (and are not necessarily high-fallootin'), here is my list of favorite things: <br />
<br />
<ul><li>I love the damp, humid chill of Pasadena evenings.</li>
<li>I love the yummy smell of the night-blooming jasmine everywhere.</li>
<li>I love the thump of bass you hear as you drive by backyard parties.</li>
<li>I love the jogging scene around the Rose Bowl.</li>
<li>I love seeing familiar Pasadena sights regularly on the big and small screen.</li>
<li>I love that when you suggested "taco truck?" everybody knew exactly where you would find said truck.</li>
<li>I love the Norton Simon Museum and Gamble House.</li>
<li>I love the great restaurants, from Tops to Shogun.</li>
<li>I love that my personality was shaped by diverse and interesting friends and teachers, in school environments completely unique to Pasadena.</li>
</ul>Some of my familiarity with Pasadena developed on my bike with my friend Leslie. The first day I met her I took her on like a 5 mile ride (we were in the 4th grade) and shocked her into friendship with me. We would cruise the lesser-known roads of our neighborhood, ride across the different bridges that span the Arroyo Seco, venture over to the Orange Grove side of the hood and sometimes ride down into the Arroyo itself. There was a cool casting pond down there where we collected tadpoles. Also, Robert Reed's home was a short bike ride from my house, and we would cruise it hoping one of the Brady boys would come strolling out.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhILHX4i2zJSdkdLOai0jBs9u4-2UmT_cni8mhE7a3JEP0RFwMgHrSRvIj0E63KPZG7X5LXeMH5gH9bceNDsNSPel2w4UiKp0IjDwEIQtphyphenhyphen8xopraZOW2MG-n79LgOXc_oFd9l/s1600/robert+reed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhILHX4i2zJSdkdLOai0jBs9u4-2UmT_cni8mhE7a3JEP0RFwMgHrSRvIj0E63KPZG7X5LXeMH5gH9bceNDsNSPel2w4UiKp0IjDwEIQtphyphenhyphen8xopraZOW2MG-n79LgOXc_oFd9l/s200/robert+reed.jpg" width="141" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Robert Reed</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Another great thing about Pasadena: random obscure celebrity sightings are common. The great legend of Glen Summer Road is that Eddie Van Halen played in Jimmy Cronin's garage band next door. I was too young to appreciate their tunes, and I think my mom actually called over there once or twice to ask them to turn down the volume (snicker!). I finally met (using the word loosely) Robert Reed (rest his soul) while working at Jacob Maarse Florists. Well, I rang up his order. He was nice. I didn't get to participate in the Super Bowl half-time show with Michael Jackson at the Rose Bowl with lots of my friends, but I did see him at Magic Mountain (which is not in Pasadena. I digress.).<br />
<br />
I didn't always love everything about school as a student, but one thing is for sure, I would be a very different person had I not attended Pasadena public schools. I dare say my perspective on the world would be different. I know the schools have changed a lot over the years, but when I was there, I had lots of amazing teachers who cared about their students and taught well. Because I was in the very diverse environment that was the PUSD, I learned about living and cooperating with people of different races and cultures. I made friends who are dear to me to this day. I know the unique influences from my growing-up years have made me the person I am today, and I'm very grateful for those influences.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXLNBuPI95b5b5M8202UUns7pmrmtL8J4J74wHqZYOTxLTLLxLKvbnyzw42JX1jwDv1E9sFK4HPQJACKi2RfocVVfXnDD9jnhch0n9MZMDTC0JleDPpKKo0w5rHoLuUuR7v1Fv/s1600/IMG00019_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXLNBuPI95b5b5M8202UUns7pmrmtL8J4J74wHqZYOTxLTLLxLKvbnyzw42JX1jwDv1E9sFK4HPQJACKi2RfocVVfXnDD9jnhch0n9MZMDTC0JleDPpKKo0w5rHoLuUuR7v1Fv/s320/IMG00019_2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wes, self portrait at 2010 Rose Parade. Sorry for poor quality.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Finally, one cannot talk about Pasadena without mentioning The Stadium and The Parade. I never did get to go to a game, but went to the parade many times. Camped out once (it was a BLAST, but once was enough). For my friends and me, as far as we were concerned, we had ownership in those events. We were significantly tied to them, whether or not the organizers realized it. We all tried out for the Rose Court, and celebrated together when our good friend Mona became a princess. We thought we were something else for having our high school homecoming games in the Rose Bowl, and it really was thrilling to be a kid on the field with the band and as a cheerleader. I even participated in a couple of church events in the Rose Bowl: first a huge conference with LDS Church President Spencer W. Kimball in 1977 or so, then in 1987 for a massive youth dance festival. Both times I truly felt like everyone else was there on my territory.<br />
<br />
Ah, Pasadena. So much more to say, but some things just have to be experienced to be understood. My perception of Pasadena is based on my unique experience. Fortunately, my experience was positive enough to leave me with a fondness for my hometown. I suddenly have a late night hankering for tacos.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002824888626862844noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29678913.post-8073722452870406152011-04-19T22:10:00.005-07:002011-04-21T23:22:10.342-07:00Places I Love...<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwLYiyIbgatiCbi9GA-WQeZ_4x5Yne33ytQwM_j59bGjL6ckGuuqBmCpYwSOJmAEeTkR55DXBTTb6M_0iITx5qUFG8DQRqN2QPC4fPyqkecA1xDseRM1fl94VUZ0SZFo8fa9kL/s1600/snowbird09.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwLYiyIbgatiCbi9GA-WQeZ_4x5Yne33ytQwM_j59bGjL6ckGuuqBmCpYwSOJmAEeTkR55DXBTTb6M_0iITx5qUFG8DQRqN2QPC4fPyqkecA1xDseRM1fl94VUZ0SZFo8fa9kL/s320/snowbird09.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After a gondola ride at Snowbird.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Utah</span> </b><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> </span></span></div><div style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"></span></span></div><span style="font-size: x-small;">aka "the land of mine inheritance". A little Mormon humor for my pleasure. </span><br />
<br />
I've been wanting to write about my favorite places for a while. Not because I want to give a travel log or anything, but just because I have been impacted by them and want to share. Some of the things I love about my favorite places are common, some obscure, but in every case significant to me. I thought I'd start out with my present location.<br />
<br />
I can't imagine there are too many people interested in reading this who don't already know my life's story: So Cal girl who left home for college in the late 80's and spent the next 5 years going back and forth between home, Idaho, Japan and ultimately, the University of Utah. (How I ended up at the UofU and subsequently met my husband, Scott, is a little freaky and a post for another day.)<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbcm6hUYrQDj8JRvJbST9CbXvQgS674ZbaC2UxAg2tXF0Xc7FuYV2cLPLfprm4R8iq_wgvomEMtA8gSUfcAMgx3WqNVnF9SLI5cEE4q5052N9oQuyIajra0PP2sp3jxE6fRUwn/s1600/Ben+Lomond.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbcm6hUYrQDj8JRvJbST9CbXvQgS674ZbaC2UxAg2tXF0Xc7FuYV2cLPLfprm4R8iq_wgvomEMtA8gSUfcAMgx3WqNVnF9SLI5cEE4q5052N9oQuyIajra0PP2sp3jxE6fRUwn/s320/Ben+Lomond.jpg" width="320" /></a>Prior to making the move to Utah, I spent all but one summer of my life vacationing here. My grandparents' home is at the foot of Utah's Ben Lomond (right), near a couple of canyons and a lovely river. When I was a child, staying with my grandparents was the closest I ever came to experiencing life in a rural environment, having always lived in a suburb of Los Angeles. They had a huge yard with vegetable gardens and fruit trees, shared a fence with neighbors who had horses (the horses loved us for feeding them my grandma's apples) and of course incredible mountain views.The summer days were hot and dry, the nights breezy and comfortable, and the occasional evening thunderstorms always an anticipated treat.<br />
<br />
Utah was where I first camped, caught a fish, dug a potato out of the ground, built a tree house, held a baby kitten, ate a tin-foil dinner, spit a cherry pit, rode in the back of a pick up, shot a bottle rocket and got a perm (not all vacation choices warrant sentimentality).<br />
<br />
I had fun cousins, aunts and uncles in Utah, and it seemed like every time we went to the store I met a new relative. I loved poring over the family photo albums and reading the events recorded in the family Bible. A few generations worth of ancestors had lived and died in my mother's childhood home, and I always had a sense of connection to my heritage when I was there.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTOLfxO_y4WD6MCLmKfhZaKiRS3l9rIZvEY-ya6DocINR_VSzTwoDfhM3J0CGazGcVC8dwPMCwetnoQ4ZIVAL2zDoZo_eLsRe1qZLKrZUF6YRMCB6iCr3jakChgjtpXG_ftB75/s1600/Utah.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTOLfxO_y4WD6MCLmKfhZaKiRS3l9rIZvEY-ya6DocINR_VSzTwoDfhM3J0CGazGcVC8dwPMCwetnoQ4ZIVAL2zDoZo_eLsRe1qZLKrZUF6YRMCB6iCr3jakChgjtpXG_ftB75/s200/Utah.jpg" width="200" /></a>With such fond memories to fuel my impressions, I never found it difficult to imagine myself here. So, when it came time to make college plans, Utah seemed like a logical choice; away from home but near family, familiar enough for an easy transition. I've loved it since day one, and though I will always have a fondness for my home town (another <a href="http://goodnight-sleeptight.blogspot.com/2011/04/places-i-love_21.html">Place I Love</a>), I've never looked back.<br />
<br />
A few of the many reasons I love Utah: <br />
<br />
<ul><li>I love that the high schoolers have their proms at the state capitol.</li>
<li>I love the glorious fall colors and the first snowfall.</li>
<li> I love the graffiti-free school yards and great teachers.</li>
<li>I love my proximity to canyons and lakes.</li>
<li>I love my surprisingly diverse neighborhood.</li>
<li>I love <a href="http://www.1019theend.com/article.asp?id=551949">101.9 the end</a>.</li>
<li>I love Pioneer Day.</li>
<li>I love the roadside produce stands.</li>
<li>I love that we now have In-N-Out... a little flava of my youth when I'm feeling nostalgic.</li>
<li>I love the easily navigable Salt Lake International Airport.</li>
<li>I love living among adorable families of quail.</li>
<li>I love that my children are growing up with the things I loved about this place.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirLF7gVVq-3707SjOSqK_3gaScV7MvJRQMlmP9TK_yjI5KmyiAakpaj7cFjf50H2elQQgw6DiD1lE_Iipss8gOyNE9MO0HSzaSq7CkMsVNOnhvbX1c00xypyhxcuZrI1yZS7pa/s1600/CIMG8033.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirLF7gVVq-3707SjOSqK_3gaScV7MvJRQMlmP9TK_yjI5KmyiAakpaj7cFjf50H2elQQgw6DiD1lE_Iipss8gOyNE9MO0HSzaSq7CkMsVNOnhvbX1c00xypyhxcuZrI1yZS7pa/s200/CIMG8033.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Andrew in Great Grandma's backyard.</td></tr>
</tbody></table></li>
</ul><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBG5dd9YccJmjUjw-Xgv65GVWKc5lu987G-Zh75VXZ-JWPLkU8xxdDX8dL2n5bHNEs1MvJzO_TM5HSg37hDe_cKbuwyCwQP4_-sBsxCph89acUrXdTYWxflpfbTDPm1cqGPTWw/s1600/CIMG8035.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBG5dd9YccJmjUjw-Xgv65GVWKc5lu987G-Zh75VXZ-JWPLkU8xxdDX8dL2n5bHNEs1MvJzO_TM5HSg37hDe_cKbuwyCwQP4_-sBsxCph89acUrXdTYWxflpfbTDPm1cqGPTWw/s200/CIMG8035.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Abby and Bobby.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9ce1ZUY0oPSTsc-Ta2P9tjdoORpmr0YSZqF9h_1-4nCN63oM7ywHrIdM0Sr1kN1Q8LQ7FNljVN35I2yhahOA3rHu0VBBpnQQGHnkgldHAfXofNd1nbrLKtgJapDyvln6XOrhU/s1600/CIMG8071.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9ce1ZUY0oPSTsc-Ta2P9tjdoORpmr0YSZqF9h_1-4nCN63oM7ywHrIdM0Sr1kN1Q8LQ7FNljVN35I2yhahOA3rHu0VBBpnQQGHnkgldHAfXofNd1nbrLKtgJapDyvln6XOrhU/s200/CIMG8071.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wes fishing at Powell.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSitMQfDR9J6RowVuBPX_KhUjr1rC1rRq-7hEDv6yT2GTog537nYn7O3Rrzx34CqJY4KApvjltp8tJV_-otUDsXFx7zJ-2BbMjl0q8sALYucWyToee44vg454u7klxt91Snlhf/s1600/lake+powell+2010+014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSitMQfDR9J6RowVuBPX_KhUjr1rC1rRq-7hEDv6yT2GTog537nYn7O3Rrzx34CqJY4KApvjltp8tJV_-otUDsXFx7zJ-2BbMjl0q8sALYucWyToee44vg454u7klxt91Snlhf/s200/lake+powell+2010+014.JPG" width="133" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ian & view from Sunrider's roof.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I camped last summer, but haven't caught a fish in years (if you don't count the catfish that Rob Carlson caught with his bare hands when I chummed it at Lake Powell a couple of years ago), nor have I had another perm since I've lived here. Our neighbor's cherry tree branches encroach on our yard, but I never eat the cherries, let alone spit out the pits. I do love the view of the snow-capped mountains through its blooming branches in the spring, though, as well as all of the many other blooming trees that decorate the landscape annually.<br />
<br />
Utah isn't for everybody, and there are a few things I do not love about it (could they please start a new driver's training class here called "how to navigate a 4-way stop"?!).<br />
<br />
It would be nice to live a bit closer to the rest of my family, and I sometimes miss the beach (and let's be honest, Disneyland). <br />
<br />
But as for me and my house, I guess you could say, this is the place.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002824888626862844noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29678913.post-57993499092957264552011-04-14T09:30:00.015-07:002011-04-21T22:54:22.225-07:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD-F-tUSq6cZhshTrNySonyTdz-b_XhgSNrg3RaCSy4i08zSdGU-eD44Bw8kWrIEGHEk4pniH1lOA1BEFfIv5PdHh_xAIiiTqnOaUJQ8xNI-WKp_9eJ8_p4rrJScU-8DszcgXh/s1600/bdayscott.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595484572735986962" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD-F-tUSq6cZhshTrNySonyTdz-b_XhgSNrg3RaCSy4i08zSdGU-eD44Bw8kWrIEGHEk4pniH1lOA1BEFfIv5PdHh_xAIiiTqnOaUJQ8xNI-WKp_9eJ8_p4rrJScU-8DszcgXh/s320/bdayscott.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 225px; margin: 0 0 10px 10px; width: 225px;" /></a><span style="color: #ffcc00; font-size: 180%;">You Say It's Your Birthday?</span><br />
<br />
Happy Birthday to my hubby! Weird guy that he is, he actually asked for a race entry for his birthday. Scott doesn't just go running, he goes run-nang, ala Forrest Gump. Bless his heart, I should be grateful I don't have a superficial guy who wants designer jeans for his birthday, but I still can't help but roll my eyes and smile. You go, Scooter!<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimJc-HR3WA6z9w2nWNwHm1k4N1TM-zIjdzIyd-Jz6qO2MtyQNgDx0YHhcyvQap0xF4u7ZsPGcL0FZc5ykL7gkniuu18Iac5Ol1UshbO4CmQeoezjT5BIC4ObcubdtrLF5EG7yT/s1600/scottbenets.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595498328675039170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimJc-HR3WA6z9w2nWNwHm1k4N1TM-zIjdzIyd-Jz6qO2MtyQNgDx0YHhcyvQap0xF4u7ZsPGcL0FZc5ykL7gkniuu18Iac5Ol1UshbO4CmQeoezjT5BIC4ObcubdtrLF5EG7yT/s320/scottbenets.jpg" style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Scott in New Orleans, saving some of his Beignets for later.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I wanted to post a funny birthday video on Scott's Facebook page today, so I spent a few minutes analyzing the You Tube selection. I picked <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8eLFk0I-lCI&feature=related">one</a> that I thought first offensive, then realized it was right up Scott's alley.<br />
<br />
You Tube has no shortage of birthday-related videos, but as with every other subject matter, you sometimes have to wade through the lame and annoying to find the charmers. This <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DtjCXPxhMuc&feature=related">one</a> is the epitome of Nicol sister humor, I'm sure Lesley and Valerie would agree. I didn't post it to Scott, however, because it makes a few references that certainly don't apply to him, and I didn't want to give any cause for misconception!<br />
<br />
So now on to baking Scotty's cake. He will be pleased to know this isn't it, but if you get some twisted joy out of ugly cakes, be <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBOZKY0Bm4kaDlfEf1Tcpiy4Vdi5zMO_vjqO_FVdYxN75vETUbda3GNPQQIcRG9E4YV9LW-LfuZ3zp2RNyvFwVavLsy7O5iLNgH_mxUH_-OzBIy0rJQ-OWDDebg83fsTIqlUvf/s1600/BDayCake.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595484860160397474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBOZKY0Bm4kaDlfEf1Tcpiy4Vdi5zMO_vjqO_FVdYxN75vETUbda3GNPQQIcRG9E4YV9LW-LfuZ3zp2RNyvFwVavLsy7O5iLNgH_mxUH_-OzBIy0rJQ-OWDDebg83fsTIqlUvf/s320/BDayCake.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 230px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 320px;" /></a>sure to take a trip to the <a href="http://cakewrecks.blogspot.com/2010/04/let-me-count-ways.html">Cake Wrecks</a> blog. Please go to the bathroom first. You <span style="font-style: italic;">will</span> laugh your head off.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #ffcc00; font-size: 78%;">HAPPY BIRTHDAY SCOTT! HAPPY BIRTHDAY SCOTT! HAPPY BIRTHDAY SCOTT!</span><span style="color: #ffcc00;"> </span><span style="color: #ffcc00; font-size: 78%;">HAPPY BIRTHDAY SCOTT! HAPPY BIRTHDAY SCOTT! </span><span style="font-size: 78%;"><br />
</span>Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002824888626862844noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29678913.post-39839850183914187422011-04-13T07:55:00.008-07:002011-04-13T08:54:22.387-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaFYa_QDs9gOqewe6alNexfE8NODSodWWy52wKuy73_z3TBerU7EjWdPFxgTfv2pyyzlVJ9LqzdkXamiO27bsHrwK1XuREbTjhVWOSXLw4w3p3rvcvEm3aHOZaEl2BGeqdKzuW/s1600/moon-and-stars.png"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 286px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaFYa_QDs9gOqewe6alNexfE8NODSodWWy52wKuy73_z3TBerU7EjWdPFxgTfv2pyyzlVJ9LqzdkXamiO27bsHrwK1XuREbTjhVWOSXLw4w3p3rvcvEm3aHOZaEl2BGeqdKzuW/s320/moon-and-stars.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595095581461565458" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 255);font-family:times new roman;font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">Channeling Wayne Dyer...</span></span><br /><br />I am not a Wayne Dyer fan. Not because I think he is evil or wrong or anything, but mainly because PBS always breaks him out during their pledge drives and it messes up my personal viewing schedule. Specifically, he always seems to preempt Lark Rise to Candleford, which should be some sort of misdemeanor. I have given him a try. A couple of tries. He seems to just say lots of feel good stuff you've heard hundreds of times before, and he likes to showcase his daughter's singing. Why am I reviewing Wayne Dyer? I guess because I heard him say something once, the one thing he said that stood out and stuck with me. Something about when you wake in the night, don't go back to sleep, listen. Hm. Well, if I was supposed to get a message last night, I'm not sure it registered.<br /><br />I woke up during the wee hours, startled by house sounds that happen when my furnace goes on. I listened for a minute. More snap-crackle-pop sounds, typical of my house. My heart was thumping and I knew I wouldn't fall back asleep right away, so I did a patrol of the house. Doors all locked? Check. Wes fell asleep with his light on again? Yep. Turned off lights, let the dog out and back in again. Went back to bed and couldn't fall asleep. I can't get Japan off my brain. I feel so awful for the people affected by the Fukushima nightmare. I said a prayer for Japan. Then I started to worry about what would happen in a comparable earthquake here, am I living in an unreinforce<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Rkb3PLywqQjtT9pKRGUa1wVgY2YXSxdnaC14538m9nyN9K4DRK05aXwEDtB5vsUIfYe88fApZ7bLe26GYW3pzDzCn6yXAYM09kL2pc2ruB-iziGco6nLKd2NDeARzZS0uvGl/s1600/Moon+%2526+Stars.GIF"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 135px; height: 131px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Rkb3PLywqQjtT9pKRGUa1wVgY2YXSxdnaC14538m9nyN9K4DRK05aXwEDtB5vsUIfYe88fApZ7bLe26GYW3pzDzCn6yXAYM09kL2pc2ruB-iziGco6nLKd2NDeARzZS0uvGl/s200/Moon+%2526+Stars.GIF" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595094954744783506" border="0" /></a>d masonry house, would people in the basement be squashed, yadda. All the while I have an old Scottish tune stuck in my head. After finally falling back asleep, I woke again this morning with the same tune stuck in my head. I think it was even in my dreams. Weird night.<br /><br />I listened last night, and the only message I got was that I should sleep with cotton balls in my ears, 'cause if I do wake up, my REM sleep will be a lost cause. As will my morning. Now I'm just bugged and blaming Wayne, if for no other reason than he is there to be blamed. And it's easier than blaming my furnace.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002824888626862844noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29678913.post-4969155224562133762011-04-04T08:02:00.011-07:002011-04-17T14:38:05.238-07:00Summon Your Eagle Powers!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5YAccNhEnnp5Or3MZYjpAsg-B9dbgSbS9A_1oxINPnf-8lm5hq50S37hUI8PRLXMHfpju1r-B-FwvCe7Bf2CFO14jLv5WzcW36VqLW9QoeIMQzQUe5lGbKsjvHueXB6F8kF0-/s1600/eaglet.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591846511539517330" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5YAccNhEnnp5Or3MZYjpAsg-B9dbgSbS9A_1oxINPnf-8lm5hq50S37hUI8PRLXMHfpju1r-B-FwvCe7Bf2CFO14jLv5WzcW36VqLW9QoeIMQzQUe5lGbKsjvHueXB6F8kF0-/s200/eaglet.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0 0 10px 10px; width: 196px;" /></a><span style="font-size: 85%;">(Thanks, Scott aka "Nacho")</span><br />
<br />
My friend Heidi turned me on to a website that has a <a href="http://www.ustream.tv/decoraheagles">ustream live broadcast of an eagle's nest</a>. Two days ago the eggs began to hatch, and the last egg is expected to begin hatching any minute. You can see the two little fuzzballs and the remaining egg every now and then as the eagle moves around. When I first went to the website, I thought, "wow, this is tedious!" Didn't think I'd last long on that site. Funny enough, it becomes a little hypnotic watching the eagle, and now I keep checking back in case I miss something!<br />
<br />
I guess I find it <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoTEWyq9cwzsNXZA7SbxeR5fRE7v5RO8HutN-R0VHNJHyicb1KO3KkbY9WexjMeso5V6KLSGhpdqwIPkj7Qaklq79mszIslbNi-eja1AhmGnIgw2m1U2OCrkZ5kPy8ubalEsNN/s1600/brokenbranch11.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591846883341084770" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoTEWyq9cwzsNXZA7SbxeR5fRE7v5RO8HutN-R0VHNJHyicb1KO3KkbY9WexjMeso5V6KLSGhpdqwIPkj7Qaklq79mszIslbNi-eja1AhmGnIgw2m1U2OCrkZ5kPy8ubalEsNN/s200/brokenbranch11.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 150px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 200px;" /></a>nice to be witnessing this rite of spring because winter seems to want to keep its grip on us as long as possible this year. The 6-or-so inches we got yesterday weighed so heavily on our budding globe willow, 4 or 5 large branches fell. We only found out because our neighbor called to let us know. Enjoying a lazy Sunday and still in my pjs, I got in my car and drove through the storm to the other side of the house to investigate (I know, I just bumped my carbon shoe size to 12). <span style="font-size: 78%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Photo taken today. Happily, snow is melting.</span><br />
</span><br />
Considering it is still early April, I realize I'm being unrealistic not to expect snow in Utah. After all, about this time last year we had occasion to build a snow bunny!<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzYfOUgb02Lfon7jUSEx7d6R7TGHOiM9VV70Twkj72ucO_5Jox3NIICB_f5fwT1CtBAQXN6NC-Q1COMWy85i8AQ6PyzkRPw3I1QMn8sh_bxrZ7XB-lhrHNhEXwFXnuM7DAOMjM/s1600/snowbunny10.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591847691813237026" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzYfOUgb02Lfon7jUSEx7d6R7TGHOiM9VV70Twkj72ucO_5Jox3NIICB_f5fwT1CtBAQXN6NC-Q1COMWy85i8AQ6PyzkRPw3I1QMn8sh_bxrZ7XB-lhrHNhEXwFXnuM7DAOMjM/s400/snowbunny10.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a>Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16002824888626862844noreply@blogger.com0