I was recently thinking of January sneaking its way into my unprepared year and chewed that thought over with a friend. Billy cut down his first Christmas tree when he was six years old. He walked across the street into the Indiana forest with his little carpenter saw hanging straight down beside himself like his Dad taught him to carry it safely.
He didn’t feel the catch in his parent’s heartbeat as they watched him walk into the pine dome of a December afternoon. Dad said it could be no bigger than he. Hunting, and estimating, then using the saw as a marker against the top of his head and each tree, he found the one that maybe, just barely, rose above his head a tiny little bit so his parents may not notice if they measured. Mittens off, knees on ground, and a shimmy under, he bowed down and set his blade. The straight, long reach of his little man arms worked the handle until the teeth chewed through to the other side.
“I launched it to my shoulder,” He said to me during a business dinner, “And walked it out of the forest and right up to my bedroom.” Then he set it, and trimmed it and went to work making the rest of his life as deliberate as cutting a tree as tall as himself.
Just Good Cents
I began writing an anecdotal article for the Jordan Credit Union Good Cents publication in 1999. This is an archive of what was on my mind. Enjoy the random reading.
Red Wings
When I was about to start 4th grade, Mom bought me a pair of Red Wing cordovan lace-up shoes—they were beautiful. And sturdy. And red. Not a little kid color of red—these were a magnificent, dark, grown-up red. No clown-red, or sunburn red, or color-the soles-with-red-ink kind of red. They were divine. They were CORDOVAN red.
We took the bus downtown and walked from the corner to a storefront with only shoes in the window. There were red wings on the packages, and on the big white sign suspended on the front of the store. Every shoe in the store was a Red Wing. Magnificent Red Wings. And every one cost about a hundred thousand dollars.
They measured, and I walked, and I twirled, and I said, “Really, Mom, they fit perfect!” And we bought shoe polish. My own tin of Cordovan and a special cloth. I loved them—my only pair of shoes—my Cordovan shoes.
The day before school started, my shoes and I walked the few blocks to Sugarhouse Park. We ran along the creek bank throwing leaves into the twirl of the current and watched them twist downstream to where the creek meets the pond. My shoes and I ran to keep up. We slipped… and went under… and finally caught a fistful of bank grass. By the time I got us out, one of the three of us was gone. I was frantic. We limped downstream, sloshing through the eddies, trying to find the other. I was positive Mom didn’t have another hundred thousand dollars.
We searched until dark. I remember giving up.
The rest of the story as requested by a reader…
Not only did Mom not have another hundred thousand dollars, she made $2.11 an hour. We had half of a car because it ran half of the time and we ate pancakes for every meal as the end of the month rolled on to us. But she was gracious and empathic as I sobbed snot through telling her the story. I cried myself to sleep. And I know now that she must have too.
I ended up with fancy slip on shoes that had three chains with a relaxed drape across the top where shoelaces would have been. As I looked through my choices, I thought I’d choose something completely different than the Red Wings. The loss was just too painful to be reminded of them every time I took a step forward. Maybe it was the Red Wings that was the tipping point for Mom, I don’t remember, but the timing would have been the same week. She sought help and her community generously gave. We shopped at the church store for underwear, pants and shoes, and we ate meat again.
The first week of school I wore the shoes with chains. I had pretty feet and the one-inch high plastic black heels clicked on the linoleum tiles in the Girls bathroom. But the pretty shoes failed me in the 100 meter run. At Gymnasium period, the entire 4th Grade lined up on the playground to test for the President’s Fitness award. At the whistle, I leapt, and one shoe stayed in place. Retrieve, then toes curled, I shuffled across the playground toward the stopwatch and my teacher. Last place smelled bad, but it blinded me through tears as my teacher said, “You need to wear different shoes.”
Eventually, I outgrew the need of walking shoes and Mom outgrew our circumstances. She is now the President of the Board of Directors for JCU and I ended up in a wheelchair.
Red Wings, chained shoes, debt, and indebtedness taught me to walk in others’ shoes before judging the limp.
We took the bus downtown and walked from the corner to a storefront with only shoes in the window. There were red wings on the packages, and on the big white sign suspended on the front of the store. Every shoe in the store was a Red Wing. Magnificent Red Wings. And every one cost about a hundred thousand dollars.
They measured, and I walked, and I twirled, and I said, “Really, Mom, they fit perfect!” And we bought shoe polish. My own tin of Cordovan and a special cloth. I loved them—my only pair of shoes—my Cordovan shoes.
The day before school started, my shoes and I walked the few blocks to Sugarhouse Park. We ran along the creek bank throwing leaves into the twirl of the current and watched them twist downstream to where the creek meets the pond. My shoes and I ran to keep up. We slipped… and went under… and finally caught a fistful of bank grass. By the time I got us out, one of the three of us was gone. I was frantic. We limped downstream, sloshing through the eddies, trying to find the other. I was positive Mom didn’t have another hundred thousand dollars.
We searched until dark. I remember giving up.
The rest of the story as requested by a reader…
Not only did Mom not have another hundred thousand dollars, she made $2.11 an hour. We had half of a car because it ran half of the time and we ate pancakes for every meal as the end of the month rolled on to us. But she was gracious and empathic as I sobbed snot through telling her the story. I cried myself to sleep. And I know now that she must have too.
I ended up with fancy slip on shoes that had three chains with a relaxed drape across the top where shoelaces would have been. As I looked through my choices, I thought I’d choose something completely different than the Red Wings. The loss was just too painful to be reminded of them every time I took a step forward. Maybe it was the Red Wings that was the tipping point for Mom, I don’t remember, but the timing would have been the same week. She sought help and her community generously gave. We shopped at the church store for underwear, pants and shoes, and we ate meat again.
The first week of school I wore the shoes with chains. I had pretty feet and the one-inch high plastic black heels clicked on the linoleum tiles in the Girls bathroom. But the pretty shoes failed me in the 100 meter run. At Gymnasium period, the entire 4th Grade lined up on the playground to test for the President’s Fitness award. At the whistle, I leapt, and one shoe stayed in place. Retrieve, then toes curled, I shuffled across the playground toward the stopwatch and my teacher. Last place smelled bad, but it blinded me through tears as my teacher said, “You need to wear different shoes.”
Eventually, I outgrew the need of walking shoes and Mom outgrew our circumstances. She is now the President of the Board of Directors for JCU and I ended up in a wheelchair.
Red Wings, chained shoes, debt, and indebtedness taught me to walk in others’ shoes before judging the limp.
Mama Said
“To bed, to bed, your Mama said…”
My Mom said that every night for as long as I remember. Kevin, David and I could count on bedtime dragging out for at least 30 minutes longer between another drink of water, or, “I’m hungry,” or, “I’m scared,” or “Tell us about when you…” And during the drag-out, she’d sing-song her Mama phrase between drinks, and extra prayers, and another story about when she was little, you know… when the dinosaurs lived.
“To bed, to bed, your Mama said…” through thousands of bedtimes. Brothers and I would laugh at the ending every time. And my daughter did, and her granddaughter does too. It’s a tradition that has lived beyond its intention.
And the grandkids will pass it on to another generation or two. “To bed, to bed, your Mama said…before she makes your hiney red!”
“Mama, what’s a hiney?”
My Mom said that every night for as long as I remember. Kevin, David and I could count on bedtime dragging out for at least 30 minutes longer between another drink of water, or, “I’m hungry,” or, “I’m scared,” or “Tell us about when you…” And during the drag-out, she’d sing-song her Mama phrase between drinks, and extra prayers, and another story about when she was little, you know… when the dinosaurs lived.
“To bed, to bed, your Mama said…” through thousands of bedtimes. Brothers and I would laugh at the ending every time. And my daughter did, and her granddaughter does too. It’s a tradition that has lived beyond its intention.
And the grandkids will pass it on to another generation or two. “To bed, to bed, your Mama said…before she makes your hiney red!”
“Mama, what’s a hiney?”
The Ways We Remember
It’s 99% Delmar and 1% Tadaki – the palm-sized nest that Eileen found on her back porch delivered by the Dog God. The bird bed flew in on a Pacific wind this last Vernal Equinox. She held it in her palm examining the soft white hair woven through a few twigs. Soft and light, it is too big to be a Swallow nest; perhaps a Hummingbird; no telling since the lawn held no broken eggs. The white hair braided through and through with a few black ones for contrast. Ron will build her a pretty box to put it in beside the tagged collars. The dogs are gone – gifts to people who need them – Tadaki is mine.
Good Purchase
Amy is moving so she needed to clear out her garage to lighten the moving load. She ran across some used-only-once sleds that she didn’t want to take to flat Kansas. They are the Back-to-the-Future version of a metal saucer that was the latest innovation when I was a kid and hiked mine up the Sugar House hill. I’d drag it behind me as I clanked up the hill. A line of frozen gloves with kids attached stood in queue hanging on the steel handrail – a line all the way to the top. Amy got a bite on ksl.com, so she met the potential buyer at a nearby park. We’ll take them! The buyer said. Their family collects sleds; they have over a hundred; and they didn’t have these! They’ll reunion on the hill next winter.
Investment Palace
We’ve been redesigning our financial house with investments that will come through when we most need them. CDs are doing well and we’ve been fortunate to be able to roll them over at maturity when many people are forced to cash out. The ill economy has definitely affected our day-to-day spending. We have tried different things here and there – couponing, scaling back Christmas gifts, and we’ve been fortunate to be able to help our kids with a few things. Every few weeks we reevaluate our investment results to make sure the money walls are standing tall -- refinance, extra principal payments, and close in the payoff date. We have a piggy bank for spare change dug out of pants pockets and the car cubby hole. Someone challenged me to keep all the $5 bills that pass through my wallet and we have an antique bean pot stuffed full of Lincolns.
We’ve built up our capital – our financial capitol – so our foundation is sturdy. Five years ago we made a smart investment in a pink and purple Princess Bounce House we found in the classifieds. This weekend our daughter borrowed it so her soon-to-be grandkid could have the perfect birthday party in a pink Princess palace. Claire’s smile shows that the payout is working.
Leavings
A leaf followed us down the street today. Outside was windless and nearly quiet; just the jangle of tags clinking against Tadaki’s sturdy black collar and the whiz of electricity lingering on the tracks. Then tick, tick, tick… and stop... as we look back at nothing but a sound. Tick, tick… again, and it sneaks up like elves tiptoeing from tree to tree. Pears are blooming, and dried oak leaves from the winter chill are blowing away. Today one tumbled after us--as though we were its last chance at life again. We stopped to wait for it, but a sudden breath…whewww… sent it tripping skyward. I wished we could fly.
March Winds
Kevin, Kelly and Dave flew kites in the cool March winds. We assembled kites from kits wrapped together with sticks, plastic and a ball of string. Kevin always used an extra ball making his kite sashay so high that you could barely see the colors of his dragon tail -- torn from old dish towels – a rudder gliding the kite’s diamond belly above Sycamore trees.
Migration
Trash floats at 20 miles per day. Two years after the Japanese earthquake, people are finding pieces of oriental culture on beaches from Alaska to Oregon. Commercial fishermen watch plastic bottles float by when they are far out to sea. Chopsticks tangled in nets making a table of fresh sushi. Scratches of foreign language on plastic lanterns. Sheets of corrugated roofing bent in unnatural angles like cupped hands—palms up with pools of salt. Shiny parts of cars. Shards of glass washed smooth into ocean marbles. They float deeper in the sea; about seven miles per day. I may plan a vacation to Oregon in a few months to see them wash ashore.
Hands
Melba’s hands show the years she’s lived. And the way she’s lived. She asked to see my palms and we compared lines and knobs. Hers are impressive—evidence of living and loving. Her knobbed knuckles once tied knots to wrangle sheep. Now they hold Mario’s hands securely as she two-steps her 90-year-old sweetheart around the house—in a slow shuffle. She has bumps and deep, but soft divots that rip colored wool into strips then over and under and over, as she braids beautiful rugs made from old coats. I watch her pick up one of her crocks and she ran her skinny finger around the rim. She mentions that she stored butter in one similar to it. I wonder if it is the exact one that spent the summer on Cedar Mountain with her—then came full circle—back to squat on her big braded rug in the kitchen.
Inflate
Tiffany stayed at home this weekend. She said she needed to inflate with her family. I love that word. It's perfectly said. Tiff inflated by taking pictures of her family in the fallen leaves in her backyard. She lives in the mountains where leaves leave their rack earlier than they do in our valley. My leaves are still green with flecks of yellow. We still sit on the deck wearing a sweatshirt. The red glow of the heater drips down on us as we watch the World Series with a bucket of peanuts and a beverage. It's different for Tiff. Things are a little complicated right now and the strength of her family is built up by sitting in a pile of leaves that haven't gone musty quite yet. How wonderful is that simple reality.
Pennies
Most people I know don’t spend time worrying about how many pennies they have – I mean the small change kind. Pennies on a bank statement mean something because they are part of something bigger, like a balance. But small change pennies lay around lonely in cup holders, wishing they could put their Lincoln heads together and be something bigger; something bigger than a gob of coppers taking space in coat pockets or a couple of cents in loafers. Pennies are an afterthought; the seven percent we forget to calculate at the register. They are weight waiting to fulfill their destiny. To be rounded up; stacked up against silver. For other things it takes a gathering of thousands to make significant change, but think about this: what single thing can instantly make someone’s day significant? A penny. Save yours, but every now and then, toss one out in the parking lot to be found.
Rose Colored Skies
The sunsets in our valley are vivid and biblical as the sun slips down behind the Oquirrh Mountains. Clouds billow in summer anvil shapes, and streaks the color of citrus fruit sneak through to light up the wheat fields at the mountain’s feet. On calm days in the late summer, the sunset pallet is mirrored off the Great Salt Lake and splash watercolors of red across the valley to the eastern range. Or when a hot South wind rides in at dusk the sun says good night as a ball of blaze. This month’s fire scattered tragedy into the rose-colored canyon and blasted a spray of machine gun fire into town. For those watching across the valley, you couldn’t tell the difference between the fire dance of red ribbon wriggling its way up the ridge or the sun slinking its way down to bed.
Libraries
I’ve fallen out of love with libraries because of the glittery distraction of strip mall book stores, but recently, I’ve recommitted to strengthen my relationship with free books. The Malad, Idaho public library is a one-story building that from the outside has the personality of a squash, but when you step inside, the thousands of characters living on the shelves in their hardbound shells are a sonata of stories. It’s mostly a children’s library with book bags and bean bags and miniature sofa sectionals. There’s a table with red Naugahyde straight-back benches on either side and a stuffed toy of Chicken Little sits on top of the picture book shelf. The paperback chapter books stand on tall carousals and it is obvious that they have all been read: The Boxcar Children #102 in the series, the Black Stallion’s Filly and a collection of Paul Zindel novels. But the one that really reminds me that libraries tie us to the community around us as well as worlds beyond us is the torn cover and splayed pages of Charlotte’s Web.
Road Trip
I’m on a road trip as I write this. Amazing that technology has come far enough that I can WiFi from the middle of sagebrush and cows, instantly. Our caravan of two cars is twenty miles apart—a virtual caravan—because we are talking on the phone, and texting, so that makes us practically just a few feet apart.
I can check my caravan partner’s 10-20 by GPS, Map Quest our route and beam it to her, and order a bag of squeaky cheese from the Cheese Factory and pick it up in Beaver on our way through. It’s a small, close world.
What’s next? Hopefully, virtual gas stations?
I can check my caravan partner’s 10-20 by GPS, Map Quest our route and beam it to her, and order a bag of squeaky cheese from the Cheese Factory and pick it up in Beaver on our way through. It’s a small, close world.
What’s next? Hopefully, virtual gas stations?
Dogs, Dogs, Dogs
I spent the weekend with CCI dogs. They aren’t regular dogs; they are Service Dogs from Canine Companions for Independence. Thirty-eight pups in training were headed to canine college and nine were placed with folks that need them. There were a few dozen more just there watching. The day was a caricature of happiness full of dogs larger than life, making lives larger. Dogs, dogs everywhere dogs. Black dogs, yellow dogs, little dogs and big dogs. Dogs that play and dogs that lay. Dogs that do whatever I say. Dogs with coats and coats that shine. Dogs everywhere that do not whine. There were dogs in training and dogs that are trained. Dogs that were licking and dogs in the rain. Dogs helping boys and picking up toys. Dogs pulling wheelchairs and dogs going upstairs. Dogs, dogs, dogs helping dogs everywhere!
It was marvelous.
It was marvelous.
Buckets
I’ve been contemplating buckets, and the things we put in them, and other uses for buckets. Lunch buckets – full of baloney which when eaten in cars can fall between bucket seats. Or rain in the Springtime that comes down in buckets which may require a bucket brigade to fill up a bucket full of sand to stop the flooding. Lunch buckets are just a drop in the bucket when it comes to listing the uses of and variety of, buckets.
At our house, we say, your bucket is empty, when you aren’t being nice. And there is a hole in your bucket, if you are only half nice. And the only way you can fill up your karma bucket is to spread love. That’s the first item on my bucket list – to spread buckets of love – before I kick the bucket.
At our house, we say, your bucket is empty, when you aren’t being nice. And there is a hole in your bucket, if you are only half nice. And the only way you can fill up your karma bucket is to spread love. That’s the first item on my bucket list – to spread buckets of love – before I kick the bucket.
Familiar
I spent three hours on the road this morning driving home from Central Utah. As the sun rose over the East mountains and lit the rural streets of Salina, the sunlight on the slightly shaded barns sent long dark oblique shadows across the adjacent pastures. Shadows of cows became stretched boxes with squatty angled legs and horses elongated into giraffe caricatures. I drove alone, both in my car and on the road, and the Autumn air muffled the waking noises of the small towns. I remembered travelling to Panguitch as a child along the same road long before the faster route was built. The boarded up café at the Levan turnoff seemed to wake as I passed by and I saw 1960’s cars parked along the road waiting for their turn at the drive-thru. The morning sun glinted through my side mirror and I blinked away the image of that familiar yesterday as I made the final turn toward Nephi.
The Sweet Smell of School
The air smells like linseed oil on redwood getting ready for the early snow storm and yeast foam on Oktoberfest beer. It’s the time of year when the sun sets before it’s ready to say goodnight so it lingers on the East mountains until the very last minute until it’s past time to relent and say goodbye to the valley. It’s September, when sweat drenched kids start to smell like new corduroy and leather shoes and waddle to school with over sized backpacks filled with nothing. I braked for a red-flashing sign this week as the summer squash bus spewed sixth-graders and their siblings; then I took a deliberate breath to see if it smelled like rotting leaves yet. Soon, I suppose, but the Indian summer may linger a while longer until quaking aspen begin to change from green to lemon yellow and the backpacks start to bulge with new Scholastic books, Elmer’s glue and rotten apples.
A Matter of Perspective
As I drove to work yesterday near the Jordan River, I came upon a gaggle of tiny white chicks in the middle of the road. I squinted to see them better from 200 yards away as they spread themselves across both lanes. They were a square dance in unison; weaving among each other in little short lines; tipping, and bowing and doing a happy do se do. Like a mirage dancing out of hot August asphalt they flew up then fell, then up again. There we so many that they could not move out of the way of an oncoming car and my heart sank as many of the dancing chicks were scooped away.
The car passed with no concern of stopping! And as I neared, fearing a melee of tuffs and feathers I was surprised by the rise of white packing peanuts blowing in the morning wind.
The car passed with no concern of stopping! And as I neared, fearing a melee of tuffs and feathers I was surprised by the rise of white packing peanuts blowing in the morning wind.
Random Acts
We try to be a charitable family, so when Kristin and I tried to do five random acts of kindness one Saturday afternoon, we discovered that five are hard to do if you aren't proficient in philanthropy or charity. Aside from the several minutes we spent shopping, then donating, we hardly moved the kind-o-meter.
Our failure got me thinking of a couple things I could do to fill my karma bucket between major philanthropy opportunities that don't come along every day. I've been leaving pennies in parking lots and hoping someone feels the small rush of luck I do when I pick up one. We set books free on airplanes, park benches and train stops hoping the titles call out to someone to take them home. And I discovered that an, "I like your shoes," in elevators makes anyone smile all day.
Our failure got me thinking of a couple things I could do to fill my karma bucket between major philanthropy opportunities that don't come along every day. I've been leaving pennies in parking lots and hoping someone feels the small rush of luck I do when I pick up one. We set books free on airplanes, park benches and train stops hoping the titles call out to someone to take them home. And I discovered that an, "I like your shoes," in elevators makes anyone smile all day.
Word Play
We love words. Our family discusses, writes, and plays with words. It’s who we are. Talk, quip, read, chatter, confer and utter. We are novices, but words mean something to us. We spell, speak, verbalize thoughts from letters. And occasionally we say what we feel.
On a recent Girls’ trip to the beach we blogged, wrote, and talked for a week about whatever flew across our minds. The last day we stopped at the restaurant at the airport for a last beverage and chips.
We four women, forty- and fifty-something, sat in a booth next to another Girls’ group: sixty- and seventy-something. We typed out last minute emails and text messages to our daughters (twenty- and thirty-somethings), before we boarded the plane while the sixty- and seventy-somethings played a ferocious bout of Scrabble. Between sips and munches, I watched the sixties and seventies quip back and forth and marveled at the difference of how we cherished words. Generations use them differently to say the same thing; connecting to others in whatever way works.
However that works for you, say, “I love…,” to all your generations.
On a recent Girls’ trip to the beach we blogged, wrote, and talked for a week about whatever flew across our minds. The last day we stopped at the restaurant at the airport for a last beverage and chips.
We four women, forty- and fifty-something, sat in a booth next to another Girls’ group: sixty- and seventy-something. We typed out last minute emails and text messages to our daughters (twenty- and thirty-somethings), before we boarded the plane while the sixty- and seventy-somethings played a ferocious bout of Scrabble. Between sips and munches, I watched the sixties and seventies quip back and forth and marveled at the difference of how we cherished words. Generations use them differently to say the same thing; connecting to others in whatever way works.
However that works for you, say, “I love…,” to all your generations.
Trading Service
Recently, I spent a week in Southern California and shopped at Trader Joe’s several times. If you don’t know Joe, he runs a successful food store chain that dots cities up and down the Pacific and Atlantic Coasts. Their slogan says that they won’t steal your money; they are not “Pirates.” And it’s true. I watched an employee jog from car to car in the parking lot looking for a customer that had left their $.99 item at the checkout stand. I recommend Trader Joe’s to a lot of people.
Two days after my last Trader Joe’s purchase, I was in Chicago on business. Our company has a contract with a particular Car Rental so we are highly encouraged to use their service. Their slogan says that they are trying to be the number one car company, but my car experience with them will be my last. After seven separate really bad screw ups I decided to talk to the Customer Non-Service Representative to get a refund for my GPS non-service. He insincerely asked how I enjoyed my car experience, so I told him. I’m not sure if he decided to give me a full refund before or after I described how the parking attendant threw the car keys at the windshield.
Trader Joe made true customer service a part of the store’s culture. His service is actually the best; he doesn’t just try to be better.
Two days after my last Trader Joe’s purchase, I was in Chicago on business. Our company has a contract with a particular Car Rental so we are highly encouraged to use their service. Their slogan says that they are trying to be the number one car company, but my car experience with them will be my last. After seven separate really bad screw ups I decided to talk to the Customer Non-Service Representative to get a refund for my GPS non-service. He insincerely asked how I enjoyed my car experience, so I told him. I’m not sure if he decided to give me a full refund before or after I described how the parking attendant threw the car keys at the windshield.
Trader Joe made true customer service a part of the store’s culture. His service is actually the best; he doesn’t just try to be better.
Primary Care
Many years ago, Kevin’s eight-year-old little sister spent late October in Primary Children’s Hospital awaiting possible surgery to explore a massive lump on her neck. Their mother juggled time between being home with Kevin and his younger brother and being at the hospital with Sister. It was a lonely time for Sister and she missed Kevin terribly.
Halloween came; the lump remained, and doctors made plans to do surgery the following day if the lump had not reduced its massive size. Although Mother reassured Kevin that his little sister was being taken care of by loving nurses, he fiercely wanted to do something special for her. So Halloween night, he set off with a starched pillowcase intent on gathering candy galore. He ran from house to house through the late evening hours hollering, “trick-or-treat for my sick sister,” and filled the pillowcase half full.
The following morning Mother surprised Sister with Kevin’s love surprise, and Sister surprised Mother with a smooth lumpless neck.
Halloween came; the lump remained, and doctors made plans to do surgery the following day if the lump had not reduced its massive size. Although Mother reassured Kevin that his little sister was being taken care of by loving nurses, he fiercely wanted to do something special for her. So Halloween night, he set off with a starched pillowcase intent on gathering candy galore. He ran from house to house through the late evening hours hollering, “trick-or-treat for my sick sister,” and filled the pillowcase half full.
The following morning Mother surprised Sister with Kevin’s love surprise, and Sister surprised Mother with a smooth lumpless neck.
Lellow Cowboy Boots
Kris wanted "lellow” cowboy boots when she was three. And because she got them, she thinks the world is just and right. She may never know that for months, her mother scraped together pennies to give them to her.
There is a picture of Kris posing against a tree in Bingham Canyon Park wearing size 3T Levis, a homemade ruffled shirt, a rainbow-colored belt, yellow cowboy boots and a wrinkled smile showing the pride and humility that a three-year-old can muster when posing for a picture that she unconsciously knows will be her defining photo until she dies.
“All I want is lellow cowboy boots.” So a mother provides and makes a game of giving up milk and bread and eggs for months so the world really is just and right.
And a miracle happens; she grows up, giving and sharing all she has with children who want and hope for things we take for granted.
There is a picture of Kris posing against a tree in Bingham Canyon Park wearing size 3T Levis, a homemade ruffled shirt, a rainbow-colored belt, yellow cowboy boots and a wrinkled smile showing the pride and humility that a three-year-old can muster when posing for a picture that she unconsciously knows will be her defining photo until she dies.
“All I want is lellow cowboy boots.” So a mother provides and makes a game of giving up milk and bread and eggs for months so the world really is just and right.
And a miracle happens; she grows up, giving and sharing all she has with children who want and hope for things we take for granted.
Porches
I’ve been making porches lately. They are lovely little pictures made from scraps of fabric and nuts and bolts. I rip and tack strips of patterned fabric in cream, brown and black to build eaves and panes. There are single eave porches, A-frames and dormers and colonial squares. There are clay flower pots and tall shady trees. There are porches with stairs and dark wooden doors with places for keys. I build lights in the windows and blow smoke from the chimneys. And I thought I had mastered the building of porches—the framing, designing, securing and quilting—so I thought I’d build an entire house.
I followed the picture with perfect proportions. It was lovely, nearly perfect. But the lights in the windows were dimmer and the tree not as tall and it didn’t have soul, no soul at all. No people lived there so I added a sign. “For Sale.” And went back to building porches.
I followed the picture with perfect proportions. It was lovely, nearly perfect. But the lights in the windows were dimmer and the tree not as tall and it didn’t have soul, no soul at all. No people lived there so I added a sign. “For Sale.” And went back to building porches.
Fowl Gifts
I hope you love Spring as much as I do. Aside from the trite expressions about Spring being rejuvinating, a time for renewal, refreshing – it’s a great time to support our local bird population. My Mom taught me a gracious act of giving to our fowl friends when I was a little girl. We sat on the back porch, Mom on the top step, me on the next sitting between her legs talking about important 6-year-old things while she combed my waist-length hair. With each brush stroke, she pulled the loose strands from the brush and released them into the breeze. The result a couple days later were neighborhood bird nests woven with long, fine strands of Kelly’s white hair.
I passed down the tradition to my daughter -- twenty years later, new neighborhood birdlings were cradled in nests with long, fine stands of Kristin’s white hair.
I passed down the tradition to my daughter -- twenty years later, new neighborhood birdlings were cradled in nests with long, fine stands of Kristin’s white hair.
Backyard Tumbledown
My neighbors have a fallapart out-building in their vast backyard. It’s a hodgepodge of garage, garden shed, patio, and used-to-be sleep quarters (as far as I can tell). Until last summer it was the color of wilted celery; they’ve considerately painted it white, but we liked the celery structure better. The doors are off hinges, the windows are holes and the floor has 2-foot tall wild flowers growing up through dirt. It’s actually quite lovely and is one of my favorite views from every room in the back of my house. As I was watching it through yesterday’s early Spring heat, it reminded me that my brother and I covertly aspired to be the boxcar kids.
I recollected the random playhouses Kevin and I created throughout our childhood. Depending on our level of adventure at any given moment, we built Clubhouses (with a capital C), or found hideaways, hobo houses, and hidden brush huts. Once we created a mole hole of a fort just off a not-so-busy road in Draper that no adult could spot because they were too busy overlooking or disregarding a potential citadel. We cooked vienna sausages on a tuna-can stove and nearly caught the dried up ditchbank on fire before we were given up by the men in overalls at IFA.
I recollected the random playhouses Kevin and I created throughout our childhood. Depending on our level of adventure at any given moment, we built Clubhouses (with a capital C), or found hideaways, hobo houses, and hidden brush huts. Once we created a mole hole of a fort just off a not-so-busy road in Draper that no adult could spot because they were too busy overlooking or disregarding a potential citadel. We cooked vienna sausages on a tuna-can stove and nearly caught the dried up ditchbank on fire before we were given up by the men in overalls at IFA.
Remorse and Retraction
Johnny sells new and used cars at a local car dealership. He’s a great salesman – the kind you’d remember. But just to make sure you don’t forget him and the great deals he gives on cars, he sends out a newsletter every month. It has short articles about things like tire pressure safety, maintenance schedules and the expected lifespan of your wiper blades. Those are great tips, but the reason everyone looks forward to his newsletter is that he includes a recipe of the month. Recipes have nothing to do with car sales, but it makes you remember him when you’re ready to buy another car. It’s a marketing strategy that smart businesses use. When Johnny included his lip-smacking, half-pound green chili cheeseburger piled high with juicy condiments, he didn’t imply that the dealership endorsed fattening or meaty meals. It was just plain creative writing.
As it is with the Good Cents -- JCU endorses, good, sound money managing. They in no way endorse tattoos. But if you are feeling any level of remorse about getting a tattoo based on last month’s article, JCU will be happy to help you finance it. Just give them a call and they can tell you about all kinds of good ways to get that tat taken off.
As it is with the Good Cents -- JCU endorses, good, sound money managing. They in no way endorse tattoos. But if you are feeling any level of remorse about getting a tattoo based on last month’s article, JCU will be happy to help you finance it. Just give them a call and they can tell you about all kinds of good ways to get that tat taken off.
Tatted Up
We are an average middle-class family with no freaks, so it might be a surprise that my kids have tattoos. We don’t ride Harleys and my boys don’t wear ponytails and none of us smoke Turkish cigarettes. Bree tried to hide her ankle-art by wearing socks all summer long (picture waterskiing). We figured it out the first day, but made her fret being caught until September. Kristin has dolphins that she couldn’t hide from her Dad. The boys have arm bands and monograms aplenty, and “Bussio” scrolls down the full length of Jadin’s torso.
I always had a reluctance to dabble in tattoos because my Mom told me that if I wrote on myself, she’d write on my forehead with indelible ink – “Loser” in Sharpie scared me. But lately, I’ve considered a little “tasteful” tat on the bottom of my foot where no one can see it. It’s hard figuring out what you really want to live with - for life. Roses, dolphins, Celtic knots, lady luck, initials, goddess, anchors… My four-year-old nephew dreams of a tat on his chest of a tow truck with “a really big hook”.
I always had a reluctance to dabble in tattoos because my Mom told me that if I wrote on myself, she’d write on my forehead with indelible ink – “Loser” in Sharpie scared me. But lately, I’ve considered a little “tasteful” tat on the bottom of my foot where no one can see it. It’s hard figuring out what you really want to live with - for life. Roses, dolphins, Celtic knots, lady luck, initials, goddess, anchors… My four-year-old nephew dreams of a tat on his chest of a tow truck with “a really big hook”.
Wrapped in Giggles
Nicole’s nieces and nephew spent a few weeks in Primary Children’s Medical Center neo-natal intensive care unit. The triplets were born healthy but tiny, so they had a long hospital stay ahead of them while their organs could more fully develop before they went home. The nurses in the NICU (Nickyoo) are amazing people who love each child because of its challenges. And in their vast experience they learn to recognize happiness among electrical cords, IVs and monitors. A slight loving touch on the hand, a smooth brush along the cheek or soothing sound can calm a baby instantly.
At Primary Children’s, every child receives a blanket of their own. It’s a gift to each that makes a scary place feel more like home. In the triplet’s case, Nicole brought three blankets that her sister had made and they instantly brought giggles to the NICU. There were no colorful elephants or trains on the blankets; no pastel Winnie the Pooh or Noah’s Ark. Actually, there were no colors at all – only big, long strips of black and white material with various designs. They were big and bold and they made the babies giggle.
At Primary Children’s, every child receives a blanket of their own. It’s a gift to each that makes a scary place feel more like home. In the triplet’s case, Nicole brought three blankets that her sister had made and they instantly brought giggles to the NICU. There were no colorful elephants or trains on the blankets; no pastel Winnie the Pooh or Noah’s Ark. Actually, there were no colors at all – only big, long strips of black and white material with various designs. They were big and bold and they made the babies giggle.
A Fence Full of Thanks
It is anywhere--your town, my town, any child’s town—where miles of rail fences border pasture from road, and families live tucked among the hills in out-of-the-way places, yet right next door. It’s in the mid-West, the East, and Northern states where families find themselves in a place unfamiliar and frightening; a place that only hope and charity dare travel at will. It was in a small Southern Idaho town where a father found himself unable to grant his children the simplest of gifts in the frozen winter of 1968. It was a time when everything was dead with the chill of December mornings and his children’s toes peeked through small holes in their worn tennis shoes. He had used the last bill in his wallet to buy rice, oatmeal and a half-gallon of gas to get him home. It was a night of despair when there’s nothing else you can do but give yourself up to providence and hope that the sun shines again in the morning. And as he drove down the long narrow road, he saw a slight shimmer as the headlight caught a sparkle on the fencepost. There were no tracks, no footprints, no marks in the snow, but on top of each post was a single boot. One, then another, tucked nicely on top, each post held a gift—there were eight in a row. An angel of some sort had answered the plea of a poor man’s wishes to provide for his family. And though his troubles did not end that night, he never forgot the rush of gratitude he felt as he pulled the car to a stop and sat looking at the pointed-toed boots through a stream of tears.
Now, nearly forty years later, as you drive into town, along the Northern border of a rich man’s farm, there is a mile-long stretch where boots of every sort are nailed to the top of a post—each a token of thanks for a time when the smallest gift was needed the most.
Now, nearly forty years later, as you drive into town, along the Northern border of a rich man’s farm, there is a mile-long stretch where boots of every sort are nailed to the top of a post—each a token of thanks for a time when the smallest gift was needed the most.
Raccoons
It’s kind of creepy how raccoons have appeared in my life this week. I learned that according to Seneca legend, the raccoon got his mask by stealing food from the village lodge while sniffing around the doused campfire. He burned his nose on a hot coal and now wears an ash mask forever. Then in a random conversation, I was told that zoologists say that raccoons do not wash their food and they don’t eat cats.
Yesterday Diane left me a raccoon warning. She is the cat lady in our neighborhood and has been adopted by a robust and daring raccoon who she caught watching her watch TV one evening. Her cats’ food tempted him to figure out the cat door and every morning she wakes to find her cats’ water dish filled with mud—from washing his food. And perhaps it’s coincidence, but a lost cat poster now hangs on a telephone pole on our street. We are keeping our kitten indoors this week.
And hopefully it’s a random coincidence, but today I saw a black-masked, ringtailed road kill.
Yesterday Diane left me a raccoon warning. She is the cat lady in our neighborhood and has been adopted by a robust and daring raccoon who she caught watching her watch TV one evening. Her cats’ food tempted him to figure out the cat door and every morning she wakes to find her cats’ water dish filled with mud—from washing his food. And perhaps it’s coincidence, but a lost cat poster now hangs on a telephone pole on our street. We are keeping our kitten indoors this week.
And hopefully it’s a random coincidence, but today I saw a black-masked, ringtailed road kill.
Little Wolff’s Shoes
Warming the soles of souls… reminds me of a story I once read about Wolff, a poor, but good boy, reared by his rich, but rapacious aunt who berated him for giving one of his wooden shoes to a forgotten child on Christmas eve. The story goes on (as most forgotten-child-on-Christmas-eve-stories go) to bless Wolff with plentiful gifts while those that scorned the forgotten child were left with nothing on Christmas morning.
Though we are bombarded with these obvious allegories this time of year, we’ve all lived a moment when a pair of shoes or a lift up in some way really made a difference. It doesn’t take a Wolff-like sacrifice to give -- just give a little, then get along with the rest of your day. Call or stop by your local branch to donate.
Though we are bombarded with these obvious allegories this time of year, we’ve all lived a moment when a pair of shoes or a lift up in some way really made a difference. It doesn’t take a Wolff-like sacrifice to give -- just give a little, then get along with the rest of your day. Call or stop by your local branch to donate.
Lila’s Gifts
When I was a lanky, awkward 8th grader, Lila P. Burgoyne thought I’d grow up to be something special. She was the Roosevelt Jr. High School librarian and I was her 1st period teacher’s aide. She introduced me to Dewey and his decimals, Dickinson and her sonnets, and a seagull named Johnathon Livingston who introduced me to metaphor.
She taught, without lecture or syllabus, that who you read is who you become. And the frightful day that I left Roosevelt to transfer to Mt. Jordan, she gave me a hug and a wrapped package with four paperbacks which I immediately loved as much as I loved her.
Now that I’m grown, I'm not especially special, but the parts that are were made from Bronte, Bach, and Burgoyne.
She taught, without lecture or syllabus, that who you read is who you become. And the frightful day that I left Roosevelt to transfer to Mt. Jordan, she gave me a hug and a wrapped package with four paperbacks which I immediately loved as much as I loved her.
Now that I’m grown, I'm not especially special, but the parts that are were made from Bronte, Bach, and Burgoyne.
Winter Cherubs and Seraphs
Winter lingers here in the high desert and so often we wish it gone. Away, go away Winter and pull along the summer behind you. Please cold wind, blow out the fog and breathe in the sunshine. We wish for tomorrows that are warmer, cleaner, longer. Perhaps we could consider the present moment as the best we’ve ever had. Suppose we take off our hats, untie our mittens, lie down and fly away with snow angels.
Hot Wheels
Pedro has a 1992 half-ton 2-wheel drive truck. He starts it with a screwdriver jambed through a hole in the steering column. He shuts it off with a screwdriver jambed into the ignition – it’s the nicest truck in Baja.
An Orem man down the street from Chris bought a short school bus from a family with 12 children. He parked it on the side of his house and modified it with carpeting and a small flap door – for his cats.
Miguel bought live chickens from an unlicensed poultry farmer. The farmer had a hard time finding Miguel, so he delivered them to Juan, Miguel’s friend. Juan put them in his car and delivered them to Miguel – two days later.
Need a car? Call JCU.
An Orem man down the street from Chris bought a short school bus from a family with 12 children. He parked it on the side of his house and modified it with carpeting and a small flap door – for his cats.
Miguel bought live chickens from an unlicensed poultry farmer. The farmer had a hard time finding Miguel, so he delivered them to Juan, Miguel’s friend. Juan put them in his car and delivered them to Miguel – two days later.
Need a car? Call JCU.
Pick a Pack of Pickles
Don, my best friend’s dad, spent a summer canning. He got fixated on gardening, reaping and bottling. It sounds like a sensible hobby to obsess over if you have to choose a neurosis, but he involved the entire family in his burgeoning project. The harvest yielded thousands of verietal cucumbers, which grew up to be pickles. Bottles and bottles of pickles: sweets, dills and salt & peppers. Baby pickles, hamburger pickles and mustard pickles. Every day they pickled, pickled, pickled—until the last day, when Nicole threw rooster feed in the vat of swimming sweets.
And soured Don’s summer.
And soured Don’s summer.
It’s all Zeros to Me
I dreampt in color before I could speak. At age six, I learned the depth of survival by watching the man that slept by the dumpster at the corner store. I wrote my first insightful poem at age ten. But had I known before I was fourteen that 3.200000 was the same as 3.2, I would have had a lot less stressful childhood.
I got the abstract concept that a rich indian thought he might eat toast in church = math, but math just didn’t get me. Some time around age 38, the sense of it all dawned on me, and now I spend a good portion of my life drenched in its greater thans, sum of its parts and not equaled to’s. I’ve forgiven all math teachers for not letting me in on the secret of dropping zeros, but tell me this, what was toast doing in church anyway?
I got the abstract concept that a rich indian thought he might eat toast in church = math, but math just didn’t get me. Some time around age 38, the sense of it all dawned on me, and now I spend a good portion of my life drenched in its greater thans, sum of its parts and not equaled to’s. I’ve forgiven all math teachers for not letting me in on the secret of dropping zeros, but tell me this, what was toast doing in church anyway?
Summer Play
Sixty years ago, Mom said the funniest line in a neighborhood play. Her schoolmate had a fondness for writing plays, so he’d organize the neighborhood kids and direct a self-written masterpiece. Everyone had a starring role.
Twenty years later, I organized outdoor clarinet concerts and charged friends 5 cents a person to watch me play the one song I knew – Born Free. They got their money’s worth because I played it over and over. Most people walked out.
Twenty years later, my daughter -- “Her Majesty” -- regally robed in bedding and a sauce pan for a crown, ceremoniously waltzed down the stairs every day practicing her entrances into imperial events.
Twenty years later, a nephew just debuted as the Wizard of Oz behind the one elegant prop that kids ranging from ages 12 to 4 could create – an Emerald shower curtain.
Twenty, fifty, or ninety years from now, neighborhood kids will still be performing masterpieces – the kind that make summer play memorable.
Twenty years later, I organized outdoor clarinet concerts and charged friends 5 cents a person to watch me play the one song I knew – Born Free. They got their money’s worth because I played it over and over. Most people walked out.
Twenty years later, my daughter -- “Her Majesty” -- regally robed in bedding and a sauce pan for a crown, ceremoniously waltzed down the stairs every day practicing her entrances into imperial events.
Twenty years later, a nephew just debuted as the Wizard of Oz behind the one elegant prop that kids ranging from ages 12 to 4 could create – an Emerald shower curtain.
Twenty, fifty, or ninety years from now, neighborhood kids will still be performing masterpieces – the kind that make summer play memorable.
Money Harbor
The short walk to our mailbox is always made in anticipation that our ship will come in. Last week our ship did dock, even though it was only a kayak it was full of money. We kicked around how to spend it – trips, toys or togs, but practicality prevailed and the cash went toward our mortgage principal. And it reduced our loan by $55,000!!! With that savings, we can retire 4 years earlier! And we can cruise around the world 11 times on a ship that is 1,000 times bigger than the kayak that docked in our mailbox.
Child Labor
J.D. learned the Work Income Connection very young. At age four, he knew that work produces profit and profit equals savings. Although work was not forced upon him, he was taught the value of money very early. His grandparents and parents owned an orchard and family farm in Orem.
Every day, four-year-old J.D. systematically filled his little red wagon with seasonal produce and pulled it through the neighborhood selling Spring peaches, apricots, and sweet peas. In mid-summer, tomatoes, peppers, corn and cucumbers were piled high. And in Autumn he sold galas, jons and grannies; pumpkins, zucchinis and melons. It wasn’t hard for him to understand the ups and downs of economics. He sold produce all through his childhood, and in adulthood has reaped the fruits of his labors by following his early lesson that Profit equals Savings.
Every day, four-year-old J.D. systematically filled his little red wagon with seasonal produce and pulled it through the neighborhood selling Spring peaches, apricots, and sweet peas. In mid-summer, tomatoes, peppers, corn and cucumbers were piled high. And in Autumn he sold galas, jons and grannies; pumpkins, zucchinis and melons. It wasn’t hard for him to understand the ups and downs of economics. He sold produce all through his childhood, and in adulthood has reaped the fruits of his labors by following his early lesson that Profit equals Savings.
Vacation vs. Adventure
We have one compulsory rule when we vacation: There must always be an Adventure. Adventures find us. They are the obscure and random passage from the “planned” vacation to the “we-could-never-dream-up-anything-like-this” vacation. Adventures are always welcome, never anything you can find in Frommer’s guidebooks, but they make the memories we revive at family dinners. When our children were young, just going on vacation was an adventure, but the deeper we evolve into adulthood the grander the Trip becomes.
We’ve been in closed-to-the-public parlors in Versailles. Lost a boat at Lake Powell (always use an anchor). We were stopped at the border by a machine gun-rearing Federali as he asked our daughter on a date. (She declined.) We left two sons in Chinatown and lost two friends in Biarritz, France. We bartered for Fenway bricks in Boston. Were forced upon a bag of questionable clams from a gangster in Oakland and were doused with permanent orange curb paint in Mexico.
Plan your vacation but welcome Adventure when it finds you.
We’ve been in closed-to-the-public parlors in Versailles. Lost a boat at Lake Powell (always use an anchor). We were stopped at the border by a machine gun-rearing Federali as he asked our daughter on a date. (She declined.) We left two sons in Chinatown and lost two friends in Biarritz, France. We bartered for Fenway bricks in Boston. Were forced upon a bag of questionable clams from a gangster in Oakland and were doused with permanent orange curb paint in Mexico.
Plan your vacation but welcome Adventure when it finds you.
Global Warming
Science shows that large-scale temperature change is happening to the world around us in ways that are directly related to human actions. Face it, each action creates an equal and opposite reaction – when ice melts, water is created. We know we can change our behavior to sustain life for generations. Admittedly, it is difficult to measure the impact we have on nature.
But suppose that we embrace global warming. Imagine the phenomenon we would create by warming the soles of children. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. Let your fire warm those that are in the depths of cold and warm your heart as well.
But suppose that we embrace global warming. Imagine the phenomenon we would create by warming the soles of children. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. Let your fire warm those that are in the depths of cold and warm your heart as well.
Be Safe Not Sorry
I exposed a good friend to identity theft, and I’m mortified that the consequences could be enormous. I lost a check she wrote and it somehow appeared in Park City in the hands of someone named Gary. Gary left his first name on my friend’s answering machine, but didn’t leave a phone number. Hopefully he is honest. But in the mean time, while she and I are both sweating what the ultimate cost will be, her account information is out in the wild.
With all the security practices I follow at work and with my own identity, I ask myself, “What was I thinking!” This mindless action on my part could ruin her good credit and her life for the next few years – not to mention her trust and friendship. She has stopped payment and will need to open a new account at her credit union. I’ve learned that my shirt pocket is not the place for personal financial information.
With all the security practices I follow at work and with my own identity, I ask myself, “What was I thinking!” This mindless action on my part could ruin her good credit and her life for the next few years – not to mention her trust and friendship. She has stopped payment and will need to open a new account at her credit union. I’ve learned that my shirt pocket is not the place for personal financial information.
Mulling Over Mowing
I once lived near a man that cut his lawn with scissors. He scooted around the grass with his legs crossed Indian-style, clipping small patches at a time -- sharp, crisp, like a military flat top. He edged around the sidewalk as though he was shaving around Nature’s ears. He was beautiful cutting his beautiful lawn.
Today I’m watching an army of riding lawn mowers cutting in utilitarian unison. The lawn loosely resembles a broad pinstriped ball field but it is not beautiful.
Today I’m watching an army of riding lawn mowers cutting in utilitarian unison. The lawn loosely resembles a broad pinstriped ball field but it is not beautiful.
Playing Around
Panguitch Elementary School playground was the reason I went to see Great-Grandma. She was cool -- in a Grandma, white-haired sort of way -- but the Tidal Wave, wow, that was the ultimate kid cool. It teetered on a center pole, suspended like a tight-waisted petticoat in a Southern cotillion -- swinging back and forth to the sound of merriment. A wooden bench wrapped around the bottom so you got a bonus ride of swaying back-and-forth as it circled like a merry-go-round.
From Grandma’s, you could hear the clink, clink, clang of the chains as the wind knocked them against the pole. It constantly summoned me to the playground and some days, I’d spend the entire day lying on my belly rocking back and forth, around and around dragging kid fingertips in the sand. I’d count how many times I could go around until it came to a complete stop then I’d jump off and push ‘round and ‘round until it my legs couldn’t keep up.
I pine to play like that – alone for hours with no thought of getting on with something less boring, just dragging my fingertips making designs in the sand.
From Grandma’s, you could hear the clink, clink, clang of the chains as the wind knocked them against the pole. It constantly summoned me to the playground and some days, I’d spend the entire day lying on my belly rocking back and forth, around and around dragging kid fingertips in the sand. I’d count how many times I could go around until it came to a complete stop then I’d jump off and push ‘round and ‘round until it my legs couldn’t keep up.
I pine to play like that – alone for hours with no thought of getting on with something less boring, just dragging my fingertips making designs in the sand.
Traveling with Pins
During a recent Mother/Daughter trip to New York, Mom came up short on pins. She just simply forgot to bring one. Kellene had straight pins and safety pins. Nila made pin curls with bobby pins. Diane found a firing pin near a pin oak. Kristin got a pinprick from cotter pins. I was on pins and needles and Kylie called us pinheads. Kacy played pinball. Mom really needed pin money, but she just simply forgot to bring her PIN.
The Power of Twenty-One
Twenty-one is a significant number. At age 21, you’re grown up. When you die, you might receive a twenty-one gun salute. Century 21 may have sold your house. The Winter Solstice and Vernal Equinox fall on the 21st of December and March.
But did you know about Check 21? Check 21 is a law that became effective in October 2004. It has many aspects, but the biggest every-day benefit to you is online access to copies of your checks. It’s been years since I needed a copy of a check. This week, I needed it twice.
At JCU, you can find yours online.
But did you know about Check 21? Check 21 is a law that became effective in October 2004. It has many aspects, but the biggest every-day benefit to you is online access to copies of your checks. It’s been years since I needed a copy of a check. This week, I needed it twice.
At JCU, you can find yours online.
Give ‘Em the Boot
Pucci, Fantini, Cavalli, Zanotti. What do these fancy Italian names have in common other than they all end in a common vowel? Boots! Pointy toed, really nice, expensive boots.
Did you know that in Medieval Europe, the length of your scorpion (the sharp point of your boot), said you were really something? The longer your scorpion, the higher your social status. By the looks of the shoes in Fifth Avenue windows, fashion is swinging back to that style.
In Utah, when we think of pointy toes, we think of bronco bustin’, boot-pitchin’ and @$*% kickin’. But hopefully you are also thinking of warming the soles of children. Whatever your social status give your bucks and give ‘em the boot.
Did you know that in Medieval Europe, the length of your scorpion (the sharp point of your boot), said you were really something? The longer your scorpion, the higher your social status. By the looks of the shoes in Fifth Avenue windows, fashion is swinging back to that style.
In Utah, when we think of pointy toes, we think of bronco bustin’, boot-pitchin’ and @$*% kickin’. But hopefully you are also thinking of warming the soles of children. Whatever your social status give your bucks and give ‘em the boot.
Building a Brick at a Time
Dennis’ uncle had purchased a 1908 firehouse on old Main Street in a town near Des Moines. He paid $1 for it, with the stipulation that he had to improve its unsightly presence within five years.
Dennis was helping him restore the outside walls. The day I met Dennis, he and his uncle had visited a Chemist who was hired to determine the exact composition of the 1908 concrete mortar. Dennis’ uncle was not obligated to restore the building to its original state, just improve it, but he wanted to do it right. When they arrived at the Chemist’s office, he had caught the vision and he not only determined the ingredients, but had replicated the mortar exactly – same color, same consistency.
We’ve caught the vision too. The original Credit Union office is getting an entire new level; we’ve added a new bi-lingual branch in Midvale; and construction is in progress for a new branch in….
We’re improving it just for you.
Dennis was helping him restore the outside walls. The day I met Dennis, he and his uncle had visited a Chemist who was hired to determine the exact composition of the 1908 concrete mortar. Dennis’ uncle was not obligated to restore the building to its original state, just improve it, but he wanted to do it right. When they arrived at the Chemist’s office, he had caught the vision and he not only determined the ingredients, but had replicated the mortar exactly – same color, same consistency.
We’ve caught the vision too. The original Credit Union office is getting an entire new level; we’ve added a new bi-lingual branch in Midvale; and construction is in progress for a new branch in….
We’re improving it just for you.
Luke Warm Service
The waiter asked everyone at the dinner table if they’d like a beverage.
“Strawberry Lemonade. Pilsner. Water. Water. Water, lukewarm, no ice.”
The drinks came perfect, except the water, lukewarm, no ice. It was amply cold -- like snow.
“Excuse me, would you mind getting me another water, lukewarm, no ice? Just right out of the faucet, room temperature.”
He came back with a still glass of water, filtered, pure of any ice. “Perfect!”
There is something about good service that makes you want to come back to a place where someone listens. Lukewarm means lukewarm, not cold, hold the ice.
“Strawberry Lemonade. Pilsner. Water. Water. Water, lukewarm, no ice.”
The drinks came perfect, except the water, lukewarm, no ice. It was amply cold -- like snow.
“Excuse me, would you mind getting me another water, lukewarm, no ice? Just right out of the faucet, room temperature.”
He came back with a still glass of water, filtered, pure of any ice. “Perfect!”
There is something about good service that makes you want to come back to a place where someone listens. Lukewarm means lukewarm, not cold, hold the ice.
diversity4um
I met a new friend that I hope to keep for a very long time. She could be me, or I her, if it wasn’t for the geography and the timing of our births. She’s different but I didn’t notice at first.
I have a long-time friend with whom I’ve shared profound thoughts about His Holiness the Dali Lama, death and internment camps. He’s different, but I’ve forgotten that he is.
And another, that can design the most amazing art. She came from a place far away from my home and my culture, but I didn’t realize how far until just last week.
Dave asked me to be a charter member in his Diversity Forum. We meet over a lunch of cheese fries every couple of weeks to discuss Us and what really matters. I wondered why he chose me. I’m blond, 5’6”, 130 lbs, and have no distinguishing tattoos. I work and play and love just like everyone else. I’ve contemplated all my unique features and found several that could be “diverse” if I were to label them, but prefer not to. What I’ve found is that the more I look at the Yous around me, the more I find the Me in everyone.
I have a long-time friend with whom I’ve shared profound thoughts about His Holiness the Dali Lama, death and internment camps. He’s different, but I’ve forgotten that he is.
And another, that can design the most amazing art. She came from a place far away from my home and my culture, but I didn’t realize how far until just last week.
Dave asked me to be a charter member in his Diversity Forum. We meet over a lunch of cheese fries every couple of weeks to discuss Us and what really matters. I wondered why he chose me. I’m blond, 5’6”, 130 lbs, and have no distinguishing tattoos. I work and play and love just like everyone else. I’ve contemplated all my unique features and found several that could be “diverse” if I were to label them, but prefer not to. What I’ve found is that the more I look at the Yous around me, the more I find the Me in everyone.
Warming Up
Apple cider. Fuzzy mittens. Snowmen on a sunny day. Fleece blankets. Heating pads. Childrens’ toes in mukluks. Fire logs. Corn bags. Bowls of carmel popcorn. Heated seats. Scented candles. Sugar toast and hot chocolate. Long socks. Hot Chilis. Creamy turkey noodle soup. Warm your hands. Warm your heart. Warm the soles of needy Children.
Venus vs. Mars
He said he needed a new truck for the deer hunt. The side of my brain that thinks like a girl said that he definitely didn't. He argued that in order to be successful, he had to be fashionable. We bought the truck.
He was skeptical when I bought the vintage trailer. I thought it would be cool to camp in a bed that was as old as me. Vintage is fashionable, but fashion wasn’t comfortable. It sits unslept, waiting for someone else to catch the vision.
He said he bought it for plowing. The plow part of it is in storage waiting for a doozey of a Utah storm. The 4-wheeler part has racked up 300 mountain miles.
His reasons are different than mine. It doesn’t matter if it is boy-think or girl-think rationale, we still buy toys. You probably do too.
He was skeptical when I bought the vintage trailer. I thought it would be cool to camp in a bed that was as old as me. Vintage is fashionable, but fashion wasn’t comfortable. It sits unslept, waiting for someone else to catch the vision.
He said he bought it for plowing. The plow part of it is in storage waiting for a doozey of a Utah storm. The 4-wheeler part has racked up 300 mountain miles.
His reasons are different than mine. It doesn’t matter if it is boy-think or girl-think rationale, we still buy toys. You probably do too.
Summer Vacation
The first class of my first day of college at 8:00 a.m. Monday morning was English 110. At age 18 I knew everything, and was bound for literary infamy. I expected college to change my world into a mega-series of profound, meaningful moments. So when the first sentence from the English professor’s mouth wasn’t weighed with insightful philosophy, I was vilely disgusted.
“I want you to write an essay,” she said, “titled, ‘What I did on my Summer Vacation.’”
I walked out, and didn’t go back for ten years. Wisdom eventually came and I’ve learned that the simple things are what makes the complicated things endurable, so I want to share what I did this summer with the world.
I ate Philly steak at Fenway ▪ Planted strawberries ▪ Toured vineyards with my daughter ▪ Laughed to tears ▪ Ate Sunday brunch on a mountain ▪ Said thank you and good-bye to Orr ▪ Kissed my nephew ▪ Sat on the Grassy Knoll ▪ Volunteered ▪ Went to VA, KY, TX, DC, CA, MD, MA, IL, WY, NV, AL (twice), GA (thrice) ▪ Loved ▪ Worked full-time ▪ Fished ▪ Made a new friend ▪ Wrote that essay.
“I want you to write an essay,” she said, “titled, ‘What I did on my Summer Vacation.’”
I walked out, and didn’t go back for ten years. Wisdom eventually came and I’ve learned that the simple things are what makes the complicated things endurable, so I want to share what I did this summer with the world.
I ate Philly steak at Fenway ▪ Planted strawberries ▪ Toured vineyards with my daughter ▪ Laughed to tears ▪ Ate Sunday brunch on a mountain ▪ Said thank you and good-bye to Orr ▪ Kissed my nephew ▪ Sat on the Grassy Knoll ▪ Volunteered ▪ Went to VA, KY, TX, DC, CA, MD, MA, IL, WY, NV, AL (twice), GA (thrice) ▪ Loved ▪ Worked full-time ▪ Fished ▪ Made a new friend ▪ Wrote that essay.
Leaving in the Ninth
Seven bratwurst sandwiches, one order of nachos, two bags of ballpark peanuts, eleven beverages (mixed variety), licorice ropes, and several credit card swipes later, we dropped a cool $237 watching the San Diego Padres lose to the Minnesota Twins. There’s just something really warming about cheering for the home team in a stadium that’s about to be demolished. Qualcom, soon to be fan-free, will tumble to the ground with a couple dynamite blasts as the Padres move to a new home in downtown San Diego. We went there for one more game and to vacation with our children in the sunshine. But there was no sunshine. We huddled in the bleachers--some of us in shorts and sandal-clad--all of us bundled in sweatshirts and puffing into our clenched hands. Bottom of the eighth, Padres 1, Twins 4, bored, and no hope we’d catch up, we democratically agreed to get a jump on the traffic and warm our toes. Two hours later, Baseball Tonight reported the Padres gave the Twins a run for their money until the 13th.
Regrets, regrets, regrets. Thanks for sticking it out to the bitter year-end track.
Regrets, regrets, regrets. Thanks for sticking it out to the bitter year-end track.
Elvis and Ed
We camped next to Elvis near Strawberry Reservoir late one summer. We were taking the maiden voyage in our new trailer and Elvis, an oversized black Labrador and his owner, Ed, parked their truck and camper between two trees near our Eden-like spot on the side of the mountain.
If you gauge a man’s desire for adventure on what his camper looks like, Ed was an Everest-climbing, jungle-swinging, bug-eating crazy man. It was half aluminum, half wood planks and held itself together with tension, strapping tape and wire. In the true sense of utilitarianism, the wire doubled for a TV antennae that picked up a static square of snow and the intermittent voice of a sports commentator calling the second game of the World Series. Ed kept a permanent propane tank on the passenger-side floor of his truck. It was held up by a square of curled corral fencing and a smashed Coors box so it wouldn’t fall through the rust-thin floor, and over the course of the weekend, we added to his collection of beer and pop cans that he ritualistic tossed all around it. It was his way of following the “leave no trace” rule of camping.
Elvis and Ed were delightful neighbors and left a trace of amusement in our souls that J.D. and I often giggle over. Both of us have confessed that we secretly wish we’d run into the both of them on another weekend adventure.
If you gauge a man’s desire for adventure on what his camper looks like, Ed was an Everest-climbing, jungle-swinging, bug-eating crazy man. It was half aluminum, half wood planks and held itself together with tension, strapping tape and wire. In the true sense of utilitarianism, the wire doubled for a TV antennae that picked up a static square of snow and the intermittent voice of a sports commentator calling the second game of the World Series. Ed kept a permanent propane tank on the passenger-side floor of his truck. It was held up by a square of curled corral fencing and a smashed Coors box so it wouldn’t fall through the rust-thin floor, and over the course of the weekend, we added to his collection of beer and pop cans that he ritualistic tossed all around it. It was his way of following the “leave no trace” rule of camping.
Elvis and Ed were delightful neighbors and left a trace of amusement in our souls that J.D. and I often giggle over. Both of us have confessed that we secretly wish we’d run into the both of them on another weekend adventure.
M-Classy Car
It’s an air tight, shiny silver, classy SUV and it’s made by Germans. Well, some Germans, but mostly it’s made by ordinary Alabamans. An M-Class Mercedes Benz rolls off the assembly line every 2.7 minutes, 24-hours-a-day in Vance, a tiny town in Central Alabama. The local library is a Tuff-Shed, there’s no stop light or grocery store, but the stylish SUV is assembled in a modern two-million square-foot plant by Mercedes Team Members whom mostly live in Tuscaloosa.
Every screw, rivet and dashboard for a single car is made within 30 miles of Vance and shipped just-in-time to be delivered to the line two minutes before it is needed. I saw a silver, automatic, leather interior, with a right-hand-side steering wheel version assembled for Michael Townsend from Oxford, England. It made me want a new car even though I don’t need one, so I bought miniatures in the gift shop instead.
Every screw, rivet and dashboard for a single car is made within 30 miles of Vance and shipped just-in-time to be delivered to the line two minutes before it is needed. I saw a silver, automatic, leather interior, with a right-hand-side steering wheel version assembled for Michael Townsend from Oxford, England. It made me want a new car even though I don’t need one, so I bought miniatures in the gift shop instead.
So You Want to be a Doctor?
When my daughter was in the sixth grade she asked me to sign a contract that I knew I couldn’t honor. Kristin came home from school, sat me down, and asked for my financial and emotional support to attend college. Even back then, she had high goals for herself—she wanted to be an astronaut. We figured that by the time she was college age, her education would cost $100,000 to attend the schools she wanted. My head said I couldn’t afford it, but my heart wanted to give it to her. I signed. And I have panicked ever since. She has changed her major and hasn’t attended the school she initially dreamed of, but that hasn’t reduced the cost any. The medical field costs as much as space travel. She is doing fine, paying for most of it herself, and has held down a very successful full-time career since she started college four years ago. But all that will end someday when she has to focus on internships and a doctorate. Had I realized when she was born that life would be as expensive twenty years later as the experts were predicting, I would have saved 75% of my earnings for her education or applied for every scholarship available.
JCU awards seven scholarships every year to members with active accounts. An $800 and three $400 awards are given to any child between birth and high school graduation. For every deposit made in the child’s account within the last year, a ticket is automatically placed in the barrel. The more deposits made to the account, the better chance your child has to be presented one of these scholarships.
Three other scholarships are presented that require a written application. The Memorial scholarship is $1,000 and two Continuing Education scholarships are awarded for $500 each. Call the credit union for details. Don’t wait, in twenty years, it’ll cost $200,000 for that degree.
JCU awards seven scholarships every year to members with active accounts. An $800 and three $400 awards are given to any child between birth and high school graduation. For every deposit made in the child’s account within the last year, a ticket is automatically placed in the barrel. The more deposits made to the account, the better chance your child has to be presented one of these scholarships.
Three other scholarships are presented that require a written application. The Memorial scholarship is $1,000 and two Continuing Education scholarships are awarded for $500 each. Call the credit union for details. Don’t wait, in twenty years, it’ll cost $200,000 for that degree.
Healthy Competition
Every day around lunchtime there is a quiet but obvious competition outside my window. I work near a small lake that is mostly visited by migrating geese and ducks. Occasionally, local school children take a field trip to the lake to pick up garbage, but the most interesting visitors are the UPS and FedEx trucks that come every day during lunch. The Brown truck and the FedEx truck park in a single file on the nearly abandoned road adjoining the lake. After a minute or two, a driver appears from each truck. They walk to the footpath that parallels the shoreline without much conversation then stand toe-to-toe in a partial squat, and a ready, set, go is silently rocked. They blast around the mile-long pathway in a full sprint, heads back, breath steaming, and neither man slows for puddles, obstacles, or errant fowl.
FedEx always wins, but Brown always shows up.
FedEx always wins, but Brown always shows up.
Going Home
I met Isabel on a business trip. She was on the second of a three-leg trip from coast-to-coast and was pacing the aisle to relieve boredom. The flight attendant introduced us because she knew we would find something in common. Isabel was headed home to Apple-Something, Washington with her life-long friend, Bunny.
In that short conversation somewhere over Nebraska, I found wisdom and profound clarity in her simple answer, “Home,” when I asked where she lived. I thought about it for the next thousand miles and at the depth of my soul I wished I were home but I also knew that home was within me too.
Isabel slid off my lap when I finished mending her ragged, but precious friend’s half-stuffed leg. Her eyes blinked a yawn and the last thing the wise two-and-a-half year old said to me was, “Sleep.” I’m still not sure if it was a command or a blessing.
In that short conversation somewhere over Nebraska, I found wisdom and profound clarity in her simple answer, “Home,” when I asked where she lived. I thought about it for the next thousand miles and at the depth of my soul I wished I were home but I also knew that home was within me too.
Isabel slid off my lap when I finished mending her ragged, but precious friend’s half-stuffed leg. Her eyes blinked a yawn and the last thing the wise two-and-a-half year old said to me was, “Sleep.” I’m still not sure if it was a command or a blessing.
Princess
Rebecca is a shoe princess and she’s pretty proud of it. Her phone displays “Princess” when she turns it on and she has a tiara sitting on a shelf in her desk cubicle. She matches shoes with her purse, her barrettes, and her mood. She has red sequined slippers that sparkle as she walks across the parking lot at work. Her white and black Saddle Oxfords have ears and whiskers like a Wonderland Cheshire Cat. Beads, bangles, and bobbles doll up her toes and every day is a new one for her as she skips to her desk. Two- to three-hundred buys a decent pair that will hold their shape and beautify her feet and an accented purse just finishes off the wardrobe deliciously.
Princess wears glitter and satin and red alligator just as well as cow and canvas. There’s no doubt that her shoes make her mood. Skip on over to JCU and give a Princess her dream.
Princess wears glitter and satin and red alligator just as well as cow and canvas. There’s no doubt that her shoes make her mood. Skip on over to JCU and give a Princess her dream.
Be All You Can Be
Batman went to Home Depot with me last summer. He pushed a cart, held a door, and greeted people in the store with a firm, “I’m Batman,” when they asked the obvious question. When we got home, his face was streaming sweat and he had a red mark on his forehead where his black mask was too tight, but he was determined to remain the masked man until he was sure no one could see his real self. We dress up, and it has become a pretty elaborate game. One grandson is a knight with full chain mail and breastplate, another is an astronaut with “Crompton” spelled out right above the American flag across his lapel. The Crocodile Hunter has a six-foot croc and working headlamp. Zorro’s black peasant shirt and pants are accented with a red jeweled sword. We have a King with a fur-lined cape, crown, a staff, and a velvet bag of gold coins. And the best of all, we have a good time being whatever we want when we grow up.
A Yo Ho Ho and a Merry Young Soul
The week-long warm rain gave respite to hot asphalt and summer temperatures and I wished I was nine-years-old again. We lived two blocks up from Liberty Park and the City had not yet replaced the inadequate storm drains. When rain came, I was outside kicking through water as it rushed down the deep gutters. I discovered the exhilarating adventure of box riding; a summer luge event where I’d climb in and hang on for the one-block ride then jump out and drag it back home. Up the street, down the street, and up and down again until the box disintegrated beneath my weight. I had plenty of boxes so as long as the rain lasted, so did I. Sitting Indian-style was more stable but headfirst brought the bigger thrill. I’d blast down what I considered a class-five ride and splash hands, then head, then feet last into the temporary reservoir at the end of the street. Each trip down was a maiden voyage: flat box, folded box, rounded or square. It was a fine way to spend the afternoon alone—just me as the Captain of the U-Haul or pirate of the Johnny Walker. And when the cardboard sides sagged, I’d stack one on the other creating a maritime boneyard on the banks of my river.
The Coming of Summer
I changed a bicycle tire last week and it brought back the sentimental details of a summer slipping by. As a kid, my brother, Kevin, patched his bicycle inner tube nearly every day. He rode motocross before it was invented and he paid for his thrill by having to patch rubber after his adventure. He would wobble up the driveway on a flat tire, pumping his pedals just as fast as the sprocket would turn, then throw his bike from underneath his ten-year-old legs and scale the back step in a split second. I imagine him now: racing to the kitchen where he kept his tools, and out he’d run carrying two butter knives. I don’t remember even owning tire irons. In fact, I don’t know if they were invented yet either. All our butter knives had bent tips from his daily use out in the backyard. Kev would jab a knife in between rubber and metal and pry the wheel up and over the rim. Then a second one: jab a couple of inches from the first and run it all around the rim, popping one side of the wheel free. Yank. Into the house. Sink. Water. Slop. Tiny bubbles. Then outside again and a little glue. Rub. Hold. Then bend the knives backwards getting the tire back on. And finally: pump, pump, pump. The rubber smell still stays in my summer memorybank.
Four Little Monkeys…
Four kids climbed a tree down the street from me. It was a sunny Sunday afternoon long before dark was ready to blink itself on, before parents whistled them to dinner. One little boy had improvised a rappelling sling and hung suspended as he maneuvered his way down the skinny trunk. The others chased each other through the mangle of limbs and blossom buds like monkey shadows. It reminded me of day-long trips I took to my tree haven when I was a kid, and how the spring smelled like apricot wood. Once, my daughter told me that all she ever wanted was tree-climbing lessons. She didn’t have a tree when she really needed one, and I didn’t think to teach her that tree climbing was innately within her. Now she thinks she is too old to hang up-side-down by her knees from the lowest branch and brush her fingertips in the grass. Child, you are never too old to have a memory tree.
Hey, Take Some Advice
I had a Fiat that kept loosing wheels. When JCU financed it, Orr recommended that I look for something else. But it was cute, so I disregarded his advice and bought it anyway then spent a lot of savings fixing it every time the wheels flew off. It launched my daughter and I seventy-five feet into an onion field one day; the tire passed us going forty-five and landed another twenty-feet ahead. I withdrew cash. But with the top down and the summer air whispering yearnings in my ear I kept driving her. One morning I walked to my office in spiked high heels and briefcase in hand after she dumped me sideways on Main Street. I crippled into the bus zone on three tires, dragged the straggler out of traffic, left the top down and withdrew money. My advice: go for reliability, save some cash.
We Were There
The trucks rolled in with barricades and Coke, chain link fencing, banners, and jackets. Every conceivable gadget displaying torches, rings, and mascots were printed or silk-screened and we watched Main Street change from busy businesses to a quaint village. People moved from trains to busses, from heated doorways to ice crystalled air. Cities celebrated and we cheered as the flame ran through our State. We stood in the cold watching instant replays and crossed our fingers every time our athletes queued up. We prayed for safety and for success. We met strangers on trains and in lines. We dodged traffic. We warmed ourselves with glove liners and fleece hats and we warmed the Nation with hospitality. We sang, we smiled, we served.
The Birds
For months now, my neighbor has been irritated by the magpies that dive bomb his cat. He has made a new hobby of protecting his furry feline and his tactics have been quite amusing. It started last summer when the bird and cat game began, and back then he was amused by the chase. But as the Fall came along his humor dulled and now he’s just damn mad about the whole thing. Even through this cold, murky winter I’ve seen Bob in the backyard scramming the zebra-colored vultures to the tops of his cottonwood tree. He has recently resorted to primal hunting tactics. Early in the morning, before the lapis lazuli sky burns through, he clomps outside in sweat pants and moon boots and sets steel cages to trap the irritants. He actually catches four or five a day. But he hasn’t quite committed to the whole hunter thrill so he is on the catch-and-release program and lets them go every afternoon. Who do you think is more bored, the magpie or Bob?
…Asleep in Their Beds
Last night I dreamed of the power of a holiday loan: I gave three boys and their dad baseball tickets to five East Coast stadiums. I gave beginning, intermediate, and advanced obedience lessons to a very cute mutt. Bought CDs for my mother (the money kind, not the music kind), and a hip to my brother. I watched a dolphin kiss my daughter’s cheek as they swam off the shore of a beautiful Pacific island. I gave my mother-in-law the priceless gift of peace with death. My neighbors weedless lawns and grandkids and nephews stronger magic powers than Harry. I subsidized my colleagues for three-day workweeks. And as always, shoes, shoes, shoes to every child I met during one snowy night.
The Point
If I had pointed feet I would slip them into green, ball-toed slippers and dance about with elves. Or I would launch off a teeter-totter onto the backs of wild circus broncos and stand atop beglittered saddles in shiny, sequined shoes. If I had pointed toes I would be the fiercest of all pirates, and kick sand in the face of death with my scuffed thigh-high boots. Or jest about in old English courtyards with purple booties up to my knees.
If I had a choice, I would not wear brown or tan or bland high-heeled shoes. I would wear orange and blue with kaleidoscope laces, and bells on my toes so you knew I was there. Or, I might sneak about in the moonlit night and leave only imprints that I’d tiptoed by. If we all had shoes we could be cowboys, or clowns, or fishers in waders, or basketball players…or regular boys.
If I had a choice, I would not wear brown or tan or bland high-heeled shoes. I would wear orange and blue with kaleidoscope laces, and bells on my toes so you knew I was there. Or, I might sneak about in the moonlit night and leave only imprints that I’d tiptoed by. If we all had shoes we could be cowboys, or clowns, or fishers in waders, or basketball players…or regular boys.
Skeeter Spectacle
My neighbor has a water skeeter circus. Last summer she built a pond in her backyard and stocked it with plants and fish to make it authentic. And the skeeters came. This year they went missing, so she went to the Gully and collected more from the stagnant marshes there.
Diane found that if you tossed red ants near the skeeters they fought for the food. But she also discovered that she could entertain herself (and others) with a structured feeding regime. It’s hard to imagine, and especially difficult to take it seriously, but if you line up a few skeeters and toss red ants at them they will rear up on their hind legs and catch them in their mouths. They learned to anticipate their turn like the trumpet section in an orchestra--first chair skeeter, second chair skeeter… Mmmm, it is true--in the least likely places you can find imagination and wonder.
Diane found that if you tossed red ants near the skeeters they fought for the food. But she also discovered that she could entertain herself (and others) with a structured feeding regime. It’s hard to imagine, and especially difficult to take it seriously, but if you line up a few skeeters and toss red ants at them they will rear up on their hind legs and catch them in their mouths. They learned to anticipate their turn like the trumpet section in an orchestra--first chair skeeter, second chair skeeter… Mmmm, it is true--in the least likely places you can find imagination and wonder.
The Silver Bullet
In the 80s, Brent lived in Springville and worked in North Ogden. So with that kind of marathon commute, he needed reliable transportation. He didn’t want to put thousands of miles on his vintage Mustang so he went car shopping. Bottom line, he needed something inexpensive that got great gas mileage but was really fast. And he didn’t want anything flashy that would draw the attention of the Highway Patrol.
His solution was disposable Pintos. He always had two on hand—one he drove, and one he parked. The parked one was revved up once the running one didn’t any longer. He bought them for a couple hundred bucks each and drove them until they died. When I met him he had the Silver Bullet. She was originally silver, but had oxidized to primer gray. And oh, man, was she fast! There was an engine scoop on the hood that sucked oxygen and helped her glide nicely at 100mph. He usually didn’t bother repairing Pintos, but this one was special. She had taken him North for nearly a year with not even a broken belt or flat tire. But he moved closer to work, so he sold it to a friend, who sold it to a friend, who gave it to his kid, who sold it back to Brent for sentimental reasons. She sat in our driveway waiting for some minor repairs and hoping to be restored to her original 1976 stunning self. She served as a babe-mobile my fifteen-year-old daughter and her friend took on imaginary dates. We caught them once with their elbows hanging out the window pretending like they were cruising the Boulevard. Brent abandoned aspirations to fix her up and we sold her to our neighbor. If you want her, she’s still sitting in the same spot we left her six years ago, the credit union would probably finance you.
His solution was disposable Pintos. He always had two on hand—one he drove, and one he parked. The parked one was revved up once the running one didn’t any longer. He bought them for a couple hundred bucks each and drove them until they died. When I met him he had the Silver Bullet. She was originally silver, but had oxidized to primer gray. And oh, man, was she fast! There was an engine scoop on the hood that sucked oxygen and helped her glide nicely at 100mph. He usually didn’t bother repairing Pintos, but this one was special. She had taken him North for nearly a year with not even a broken belt or flat tire. But he moved closer to work, so he sold it to a friend, who sold it to a friend, who gave it to his kid, who sold it back to Brent for sentimental reasons. She sat in our driveway waiting for some minor repairs and hoping to be restored to her original 1976 stunning self. She served as a babe-mobile my fifteen-year-old daughter and her friend took on imaginary dates. We caught them once with their elbows hanging out the window pretending like they were cruising the Boulevard. Brent abandoned aspirations to fix her up and we sold her to our neighbor. If you want her, she’s still sitting in the same spot we left her six years ago, the credit union would probably finance you.
Do I Hear Fifty?
Fifty. Fifty. Going once…
Have you heard the tongue-rolling trill of an auctioneer? It’s an amazing thing to watch. Seemingly with no concentration he can spout off the name and price of an item in less than a second. If he is really good you can still understand him after he has yodeled prices back and forth and back again to bidders for hours. And the lower his voice, the more mysterious the auction becomes. You raise your hand in a sly, subtle wave hidden from the competition. Once you get caught up in the longing rhythm of anticipation, buying items from a sales clerk is oh… yawn… so… mundane. Each item grows more intriguing because the best is held for last.
My first auction bid was for an old dairy milk can. It was beautiful. The bids opened at $5 and I ended up hauling it back from Malad in the back seat for only $30. The worn red numbers “S60” on the side were indisputably handwritten by an Idaho farmer. I saw it lined up among truck parts, gas pumps, antique chairs, cast iron pans, kitten knick-knacks, used jewelry, bottles of buttons, and vintage Coke bottles. There was a Brownie camera and a mother of pearl inlayed concertina too. My husband was a child prodigy accordion player so that was especially interesting. We hung around until it was up for bid, but after two people jacked the price above what was in my wallet we left thrilled with our milk can and wash tub full of various farm implements.
Take a look on the JCU website for the online classified ads. It’s just about as good as being there except the trill is… Gone.
Have you heard the tongue-rolling trill of an auctioneer? It’s an amazing thing to watch. Seemingly with no concentration he can spout off the name and price of an item in less than a second. If he is really good you can still understand him after he has yodeled prices back and forth and back again to bidders for hours. And the lower his voice, the more mysterious the auction becomes. You raise your hand in a sly, subtle wave hidden from the competition. Once you get caught up in the longing rhythm of anticipation, buying items from a sales clerk is oh… yawn… so… mundane. Each item grows more intriguing because the best is held for last.
My first auction bid was for an old dairy milk can. It was beautiful. The bids opened at $5 and I ended up hauling it back from Malad in the back seat for only $30. The worn red numbers “S60” on the side were indisputably handwritten by an Idaho farmer. I saw it lined up among truck parts, gas pumps, antique chairs, cast iron pans, kitten knick-knacks, used jewelry, bottles of buttons, and vintage Coke bottles. There was a Brownie camera and a mother of pearl inlayed concertina too. My husband was a child prodigy accordion player so that was especially interesting. We hung around until it was up for bid, but after two people jacked the price above what was in my wallet we left thrilled with our milk can and wash tub full of various farm implements.
Take a look on the JCU website for the online classified ads. It’s just about as good as being there except the trill is… Gone.
In a pinch? Dial JCU
A credit union member recently decided to take a quick minute on her lunch hour to wash her car. There she sat enjoying the clean sound of spray and the gentle rock as the automatic brushes rolled over the car.
“I got through the undercarriage wash, the pre-wash, and the suds . . . then everything quit. The rinse cycle didn't happen, and the big entry and exit doors closed.
“What does one think when trapped inside the carwash? ‘These walls are pretty thick, I wonder if anyone can hear if I pound on one of the doors and yell help; but if I get out of the car and the water comes on, what then? Maybe if I honk the horn, someone will hear and let me out; will they have to use heavy equipment to get the doors open? I told myself to stay calm, then turned on the radio. Ok, so NPR is rather soothing…Bach, that's good. Think, think, think.’”
She tried dialing 911 from her cell phone…wouldn’t go through…concrete walls too thick?
Apparently 911 was at lunch too.
“I couldn't remember any phone numbers except the telephone teller access at the Credit Union.”
It’s ironic what we remember when we need help. She didn’t call the credit union, but I’m sure she could have opted out to the operator who would have happily called the gas station attendant to rescue her. Her co-worker made the call instead.
“Bach continued, and after a while, the doors came up, the dryer came down, and I drove my suds encrusted car out of the carwash.”
566-8402. Once again, repeat after me, 566-8402.
“I got through the undercarriage wash, the pre-wash, and the suds . . . then everything quit. The rinse cycle didn't happen, and the big entry and exit doors closed.
“What does one think when trapped inside the carwash? ‘These walls are pretty thick, I wonder if anyone can hear if I pound on one of the doors and yell help; but if I get out of the car and the water comes on, what then? Maybe if I honk the horn, someone will hear and let me out; will they have to use heavy equipment to get the doors open? I told myself to stay calm, then turned on the radio. Ok, so NPR is rather soothing…Bach, that's good. Think, think, think.’”
She tried dialing 911 from her cell phone…wouldn’t go through…concrete walls too thick?
Apparently 911 was at lunch too.
“I couldn't remember any phone numbers except the telephone teller access at the Credit Union.”
It’s ironic what we remember when we need help. She didn’t call the credit union, but I’m sure she could have opted out to the operator who would have happily called the gas station attendant to rescue her. Her co-worker made the call instead.
“Bach continued, and after a while, the doors came up, the dryer came down, and I drove my suds encrusted car out of the carwash.”
566-8402. Once again, repeat after me, 566-8402.
Vincent’s Shoes
“Shoes,” by Vincent Van Gogh hangs in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City. The picture is less than arms length long--only 20 x 17 inches—but it evokes a huge image of who could have worn the dark leather shoes.
I sat in front of the small painting last summer for two hours and watched the painting change as people walked by. I began to imagine that a hard working Dutch wore them clean through on the under soles, but every observer thought differently. One child saw them as childrens’ shoes, perhaps belonging to a small boy who walked through muddy streets selling bread. A man said they looked like his uncle’s ankle high shoes that he always left on the back porch after watering.
They sit askew on worn tiles, in a veranda perhaps, and the laces are rough cut leather strips of rawhide. There is a motion to them that is unseen, but surely felt because of the intricacies of the brush strokes. They must have danced and walked miles, and surely were scraped clean many times on the grass growing by the imaginary veranda.
Although they were stopped in time on the canvas, I watched as they grew older and more worn by the minute. And the more I looked, the more they intrigued me, and made me think about wearing things out. Sometimes things just need to be replaced even if they hold a personality--their practical usefulness fades. Shoes are like that.
You can be assured that the shoes you bought a child last year are very worn by now and warming a soul year after year certainly warms cold toes as well as your generous heart.
I sat in front of the small painting last summer for two hours and watched the painting change as people walked by. I began to imagine that a hard working Dutch wore them clean through on the under soles, but every observer thought differently. One child saw them as childrens’ shoes, perhaps belonging to a small boy who walked through muddy streets selling bread. A man said they looked like his uncle’s ankle high shoes that he always left on the back porch after watering.
They sit askew on worn tiles, in a veranda perhaps, and the laces are rough cut leather strips of rawhide. There is a motion to them that is unseen, but surely felt because of the intricacies of the brush strokes. They must have danced and walked miles, and surely were scraped clean many times on the grass growing by the imaginary veranda.
Although they were stopped in time on the canvas, I watched as they grew older and more worn by the minute. And the more I looked, the more they intrigued me, and made me think about wearing things out. Sometimes things just need to be replaced even if they hold a personality--their practical usefulness fades. Shoes are like that.
You can be assured that the shoes you bought a child last year are very worn by now and warming a soul year after year certainly warms cold toes as well as your generous heart.
Got Car?
My last business trip was made perfect with great company and great wheels. A colleague-turned-instant-friend shared her love with me—a shiny, bronze ’66 Convertible Impala. What a beauty she was! Beth and I sat up front, while Andy and Brandi rode in the expanse of back seat. We cruised through a Chicago suburb when the air was full of Lake Michigan humidity and clear dark sky, accented with a moon the size and shape of half a parenthesis. I rolled my head back to feel the wind through a mass of tangled blond, and they leaned forward together to hear Beth’s remarkable car story.
She had dreamed of owning a car exactly like the one she had in high school, but the likelihood of finding another was slim, she told us, through a broad gleaming smile. She hired a broker to find something she would like, as near to the original as he could find—and he did! She saw a photo the size of a large postage stamp of her coveted car, and gave him her ideal buying price. He committed to represent her by phoning in a bid to the auction house in Branson, Missouri.
On auction day, minutes before the bidding began, the broker waited for the bronze babe to come up on the block. He was unable to phone in from the office and…yes, you guessed it, his cell phone died just at the worst possible moment. I forget all the frazzled details of who called whom, and what transpired during the auctioning, but he managed to present a bid—THE bid. She wrote the check for $500 under her final offer price, and there we sat in the gorgeous ride, with just a sprint of oil smell on the manifold; as though she purposely perfumed herself with the spice of seduction.
She has fly-on-the-floor, four buttons on the dash, vintage “optional” lap seat belts, and a convertible roof that folds behind Andy like collapsed bellows. She’s got real radio dials—for AM only—“which didn’t work then, and doesn’t work now.” She gets four to a gallon, powers up grand, and sings low and pretty-like once she is cruising. She stays indoors in the rain—are you kidding!—and toasts your toes with heat from a blast furnace while freezing your cheeks—didn’t warm then, and doesn’t warm now. But she’s a ride I’ll never forget that left my heart warm and my cheeks sore from grinning.
She had dreamed of owning a car exactly like the one she had in high school, but the likelihood of finding another was slim, she told us, through a broad gleaming smile. She hired a broker to find something she would like, as near to the original as he could find—and he did! She saw a photo the size of a large postage stamp of her coveted car, and gave him her ideal buying price. He committed to represent her by phoning in a bid to the auction house in Branson, Missouri.
On auction day, minutes before the bidding began, the broker waited for the bronze babe to come up on the block. He was unable to phone in from the office and…yes, you guessed it, his cell phone died just at the worst possible moment. I forget all the frazzled details of who called whom, and what transpired during the auctioning, but he managed to present a bid—THE bid. She wrote the check for $500 under her final offer price, and there we sat in the gorgeous ride, with just a sprint of oil smell on the manifold; as though she purposely perfumed herself with the spice of seduction.
She has fly-on-the-floor, four buttons on the dash, vintage “optional” lap seat belts, and a convertible roof that folds behind Andy like collapsed bellows. She’s got real radio dials—for AM only—“which didn’t work then, and doesn’t work now.” She gets four to a gallon, powers up grand, and sings low and pretty-like once she is cruising. She stays indoors in the rain—are you kidding!—and toasts your toes with heat from a blast furnace while freezing your cheeks—didn’t warm then, and doesn’t warm now. But she’s a ride I’ll never forget that left my heart warm and my cheeks sore from grinning.
Who Plays with Their Savings?
Call me conservative, but who plays games with their money? Not me! And the crowd I hang with can’t afford to take chances with it either. I feel really ripped off if I lose $20 at Wendover. Not that I’m always frugal with what I earn, but I certainly want to make the most I can with what I have.
I’m not a financial genius, so I did a little research to see if JCU’s CD rates really stacked up against other offers. And wow! What they offer here is a great bargain. I shopped all over the country for the best rates on 1- to 2-Year CDs. I found that 6.6% was higher in every instance I saw. At most banks, the rate was 5.5% or lower. That alone made me want to transfer a wad into a certificate.
Then I researched early withdrawal penalties, and I couldn’t find any institution that wanted to talk about how I could withdraw even a little bit of my committed money without a penalty. I started thinking that if I wanted to bet that long shot on a horse in Evanston, I could take it out of my JCU CD, and even though I would most assuredly loose the bet, I wouldn’t lose my certificate of deposit rate.
I spent four hours checking out rates, calculating returns, and brainstorming ways I could play my money any better than a steady, secure CD. I called banks and brokers. Talked through possibilities and discovered improbables. What I found was that I could win a million with a few correct answers on “Millionaire,” or go to Vegas and have a sick feeling every time I turned over a card, hoping I wouldn’t lose more than $20. But it isn’t the thrill of the game I seek. It’s the Cash! I’m going with the CD.
I’m not a financial genius, so I did a little research to see if JCU’s CD rates really stacked up against other offers. And wow! What they offer here is a great bargain. I shopped all over the country for the best rates on 1- to 2-Year CDs. I found that 6.6% was higher in every instance I saw. At most banks, the rate was 5.5% or lower. That alone made me want to transfer a wad into a certificate.
Then I researched early withdrawal penalties, and I couldn’t find any institution that wanted to talk about how I could withdraw even a little bit of my committed money without a penalty. I started thinking that if I wanted to bet that long shot on a horse in Evanston, I could take it out of my JCU CD, and even though I would most assuredly loose the bet, I wouldn’t lose my certificate of deposit rate.
I spent four hours checking out rates, calculating returns, and brainstorming ways I could play my money any better than a steady, secure CD. I called banks and brokers. Talked through possibilities and discovered improbables. What I found was that I could win a million with a few correct answers on “Millionaire,” or go to Vegas and have a sick feeling every time I turned over a card, hoping I wouldn’t lose more than $20. But it isn’t the thrill of the game I seek. It’s the Cash! I’m going with the CD.
Get Out of Town
I think about that stretch of highway as the road to vacation. The one between Price and Green River on State Highway 6 where antelope and Bookcliffs sit in the dry windy desert. The first time I drove it I was on my way to meet my future in-laws. Since then, I’ve passed the spot so many times I’ve lost count.
Paper cups stand erect in rows of four or five along the shoulder, in the median, and along the highway berm. They were there when I discovered Moab, then others replaced the originals when I passed on my first trip towing the boat to the big lake. I assumed it was coincidence that there were rows every half mile. But now I know that with all other things in nature, symmetry is man-made. Big Gulps and medium-sized Pepsi cups—they stand right-side up half filled with rocks and there is no reason except levity that can explain why they are there.
I’ve thought of calling the Highway Patrol for an answer, but always get lost in my vacation once I’ve driven past on my way to weekend sun or National Parks.
Paper cups stand erect in rows of four or five along the shoulder, in the median, and along the highway berm. They were there when I discovered Moab, then others replaced the originals when I passed on my first trip towing the boat to the big lake. I assumed it was coincidence that there were rows every half mile. But now I know that with all other things in nature, symmetry is man-made. Big Gulps and medium-sized Pepsi cups—they stand right-side up half filled with rocks and there is no reason except levity that can explain why they are there.
I’ve thought of calling the Highway Patrol for an answer, but always get lost in my vacation once I’ve driven past on my way to weekend sun or National Parks.
A Smile and a Little State-of-the-Art
I don’t know about you, but I love to be treated as though I’m known. I checked into the Homestead for my honeymoon and the rest of the weekend everyone knew my name and my favorite drink. It made me feel important. I like it when the sales clerk remembers my shirt size and walks around the counter with my purchase and says, “Thanks, Kelly.” I return to that store and ask for considerate Casey whenever I purchase something expensive. She gets a good commission and I get my ego stroked. It works out for both of us.
But I also like technology and its benefits. Casey might be good at her job, but she’s no dummy, she is good because she utilizes her resources. All my purchases and preferences are recorded in the store computer, and with a discrete stroke of the enter key Casey remembers the things that are important to me.
I’m just a regular girl, not too many distinguishing features, not too impressive, but when the credit union teller sends my receipt back through the tube and thanks me by name, it makes me smile. Or when I visit the branch to access my safe deposit box and Mindy genuinely wants to know how I am doing, I come back again.
Technology and personal attention—that’s what makes me stay with a good thing like JCU. Its been around for fifty years because of personal service and advanced technology. I can either access the telephone teller and do financial transactions over the web or I can have a seat in Rennie’s office and have a chat and get the same results. I can get CDs or a checking account at a million different financial institutions, but why go somewhere else when I get great technology and hear, “I hope your day goes well, Kelly,” at the end of the transaction. That mix of old-fashioned, hometown consideration and technology at my fingertips is why I made the good choice to be a member.
But I also like technology and its benefits. Casey might be good at her job, but she’s no dummy, she is good because she utilizes her resources. All my purchases and preferences are recorded in the store computer, and with a discrete stroke of the enter key Casey remembers the things that are important to me.
I’m just a regular girl, not too many distinguishing features, not too impressive, but when the credit union teller sends my receipt back through the tube and thanks me by name, it makes me smile. Or when I visit the branch to access my safe deposit box and Mindy genuinely wants to know how I am doing, I come back again.
Technology and personal attention—that’s what makes me stay with a good thing like JCU. Its been around for fifty years because of personal service and advanced technology. I can either access the telephone teller and do financial transactions over the web or I can have a seat in Rennie’s office and have a chat and get the same results. I can get CDs or a checking account at a million different financial institutions, but why go somewhere else when I get great technology and hear, “I hope your day goes well, Kelly,” at the end of the transaction. That mix of old-fashioned, hometown consideration and technology at my fingertips is why I made the good choice to be a member.
JCU—Still Giving Out the Bread
Did you know that credit unions really began in Europe in the mid nineteenth century, and since then, all sorts of credit unions have literally “served” their members.
In 1846, because of a crop failure and famine in Germany, a cooperatively-owned mill and bakery was opened. It sold bread to its members at substantial savings, and two years later began providing credit to farmers to purchase livestock, equipment, seeds, and other farming needs. Even then, the not-for-profit "people's bank" was volunteer based and democratically governed. The members elected a board of directors and each member was entitled one vote.
In 1900, a Quebec court reporter, became aware of the outrageous interest being charged by loan sharks and organized the first credit union on this side of the Atlantic to provide relief to the working class. In 1909, some New Hampshire Franco-Catholics were the first to organize a credit union in the United States.
Since then, millions of people have used credit union’s help to get the “stuff” that makes their lives better. In the 1920’s, banks did not give consumer loans, so credit unions lent money to many people who bought things like cars and washing machines.
By 1930, there were a total of 1,100 credit unions. And by 1960, credit union membership was more than 6 million people at over 10,000 federal credit unions. That’s a lot of washers!
Our Jordan Credit Union was founded in 1950, and is now the eleventh largest credit union in Utah. It serves over 19,000 members, has over $87 million in assets, and like that first German co-op, is still providing loads of loaves of what makes our lives good!
In 1846, because of a crop failure and famine in Germany, a cooperatively-owned mill and bakery was opened. It sold bread to its members at substantial savings, and two years later began providing credit to farmers to purchase livestock, equipment, seeds, and other farming needs. Even then, the not-for-profit "people's bank" was volunteer based and democratically governed. The members elected a board of directors and each member was entitled one vote.
In 1900, a Quebec court reporter, became aware of the outrageous interest being charged by loan sharks and organized the first credit union on this side of the Atlantic to provide relief to the working class. In 1909, some New Hampshire Franco-Catholics were the first to organize a credit union in the United States.
Since then, millions of people have used credit union’s help to get the “stuff” that makes their lives better. In the 1920’s, banks did not give consumer loans, so credit unions lent money to many people who bought things like cars and washing machines.
By 1930, there were a total of 1,100 credit unions. And by 1960, credit union membership was more than 6 million people at over 10,000 federal credit unions. That’s a lot of washers!
Our Jordan Credit Union was founded in 1950, and is now the eleventh largest credit union in Utah. It serves over 19,000 members, has over $87 million in assets, and like that first German co-op, is still providing loads of loaves of what makes our lives good!
Resolutions
Oh, jeez. It’s time for those dreaded resolutions. I’m determined to keep mine this year so I set my goals low. I know I won’t loose weight or become Corporate Vice President. I won’t buy a new car or house. And I won’t be changing my hair color or have a clean desk. I can barely remember from day to day what it was I resolved to accomplish, so I jotted down my “Want To Do” list. If I accomplish five percent of the list, I think my life will be richer and fuller.
What I really want to do is: Write poetry. Ski. Watch baseball. Impress someone, just once, when it really counts. Watch birds. Enjoy snow. Catch fish. Play More. Charge less. Say I love you. Pet my dog. Donate a smile. Invest. See the sun rise. Enjoy Oreos. Buy gas earlier. Join in. Wear purple. Stop at lemonade stands. Be diplomatic. Laugh at my childhood. Write my Legislator. Thank my children. Ride fast. Be passionate. Inspire someone, anyone. Color. Edit less. Speak up. Call Grandma.
Your list is probably more profound; more organized; certainly more meaningful to you. Whether your days are filled with teaching, lobbying, managing, or retiring, I hope your new year begins with a little list-making and personal enjoyment.
What I really want to do is: Write poetry. Ski. Watch baseball. Impress someone, just once, when it really counts. Watch birds. Enjoy snow. Catch fish. Play More. Charge less. Say I love you. Pet my dog. Donate a smile. Invest. See the sun rise. Enjoy Oreos. Buy gas earlier. Join in. Wear purple. Stop at lemonade stands. Be diplomatic. Laugh at my childhood. Write my Legislator. Thank my children. Ride fast. Be passionate. Inspire someone, anyone. Color. Edit less. Speak up. Call Grandma.
Your list is probably more profound; more organized; certainly more meaningful to you. Whether your days are filled with teaching, lobbying, managing, or retiring, I hope your new year begins with a little list-making and personal enjoyment.
Christmas Reminiscence
This time of year makes me contemplate what binds us together as literal families and families of community. It’s the traditions, symbols, and stories we share that make us forever connected to each other. Here is my take on the homemade paste, refined cement, and just plain, white glue that makes us feel so connected to families this time of year.
Primary Childrens’ donations and food drives. Pinenuts. Finding the perfect tree on an icy cold, dark night.
A new toothbrush found tucked deep into my New Year’s stocking. For generations, my family has celebrated new beginnings by hanging our Christmas stockings out one last time for the little New Year to fill with joy. That joy came in the form of an orange, candy, very small and inexpensive gifts, and the much anticipated new toothbrush.
Nut crackers and shelled walnuts, pecans, and Brazil nuts. Salvation Army bells. Paper doily angels.
A friend from a fatherless family of ten children remembers dismantling their Christmas tree, carefully reboxing the ornaments, and discarding the dry, brittle boughs. One year, lacking another adult voice of reason, his mother took advantage of the timber and gradually feed the tree into the fireplace for an evening of warmth and continued holiday spirit. Unfortunately, ten eyebrow-singed children and an astonished mother stood dumbfounded when the tree spontaneously ignited, shot a twelve foot flame out the chimney, and left the living room carpet nothing but scorched shag and black cinders. It was his most memorable holiday family activity.
Hot chocolate and toast after a night of caroling. Lifesaver books. Quilted tree skirts. Building Frosty out front and having him around until February.
Marsha decorates a tree for each of her children. Now they now take their tree where they spend the holidays. Emily’s sits in her college dorm room, Jeff keeps his Polar Express tree in his teenager bedroom, and Jason’s wedding trousseau consisted of a $10,000 life insurance policy, and his three-foot Christmas tree.
Nine women--mothers, sisters, daughters, and nieces—dip dozens of homemade chocolates and create after-the-Thanksgiving-dinner crafts.
Building forts in the snow. Yard art. The old-fashioned round Christmas lights Julie’s grandparents handed down to her.
But most of all… you!
Happy Holidays.
Primary Childrens’ donations and food drives. Pinenuts. Finding the perfect tree on an icy cold, dark night.
A new toothbrush found tucked deep into my New Year’s stocking. For generations, my family has celebrated new beginnings by hanging our Christmas stockings out one last time for the little New Year to fill with joy. That joy came in the form of an orange, candy, very small and inexpensive gifts, and the much anticipated new toothbrush.
Nut crackers and shelled walnuts, pecans, and Brazil nuts. Salvation Army bells. Paper doily angels.
A friend from a fatherless family of ten children remembers dismantling their Christmas tree, carefully reboxing the ornaments, and discarding the dry, brittle boughs. One year, lacking another adult voice of reason, his mother took advantage of the timber and gradually feed the tree into the fireplace for an evening of warmth and continued holiday spirit. Unfortunately, ten eyebrow-singed children and an astonished mother stood dumbfounded when the tree spontaneously ignited, shot a twelve foot flame out the chimney, and left the living room carpet nothing but scorched shag and black cinders. It was his most memorable holiday family activity.
Hot chocolate and toast after a night of caroling. Lifesaver books. Quilted tree skirts. Building Frosty out front and having him around until February.
Marsha decorates a tree for each of her children. Now they now take their tree where they spend the holidays. Emily’s sits in her college dorm room, Jeff keeps his Polar Express tree in his teenager bedroom, and Jason’s wedding trousseau consisted of a $10,000 life insurance policy, and his three-foot Christmas tree.
Nine women--mothers, sisters, daughters, and nieces—dip dozens of homemade chocolates and create after-the-Thanksgiving-dinner crafts.
Building forts in the snow. Yard art. The old-fashioned round Christmas lights Julie’s grandparents handed down to her.
But most of all… you!
Happy Holidays.
Box Tops
The man who invented the Cheerios box top lives in Utah. I don’t know if he envisioned the impact a simple box top would have on the development of generations. That little eight-inch by two-inch piece of paper has brought three or four generations a lot of entertainment.
Do you remember sitting quietly at the kitchen table shoveling Rice Krispies or Wheaties in your mouth without even realizing that you were eating? My brothers and I would sit there reading every spell-binding sentence on the back of the cereal box. And we would manage to forego conversations of any kind just to read through every word of every side, and the top and bottom. There was a gold mine of free stuff. There were offers for toy guns, miniature Barbies, and Nerf balls of every kind. There were multi-colored army men. And cowboys and Indians, with one each of a Mustang stallion and accompanying corral fence which actually opened. The actual size looked bigger on the box than in real life.
My mother sent away box tops for a secret decoder ring. She got accompanying cryptic messages and a magic pencil. My daughter got magic ponies, Cabbage Patch clothing, and her favorite, Superman paraphernalia.
Free stuff gets better and better with each generation. Mom saved box tops for two months for her ring. I only had to eat a couple of boxes of any kind of Kellogg’s cereal. And my daughter could save soup can labels and get a free computer for her school. Now, all we have to do is use our VISA and we get free money!!! One percent of what I spend this time of year is a big bonus for me. And if I buy my Lucky Charms and Cinnamon Crisps with my VISA, I can get the latest Poky Mon toy and my one percent!
Do you remember sitting quietly at the kitchen table shoveling Rice Krispies or Wheaties in your mouth without even realizing that you were eating? My brothers and I would sit there reading every spell-binding sentence on the back of the cereal box. And we would manage to forego conversations of any kind just to read through every word of every side, and the top and bottom. There was a gold mine of free stuff. There were offers for toy guns, miniature Barbies, and Nerf balls of every kind. There were multi-colored army men. And cowboys and Indians, with one each of a Mustang stallion and accompanying corral fence which actually opened. The actual size looked bigger on the box than in real life.
My mother sent away box tops for a secret decoder ring. She got accompanying cryptic messages and a magic pencil. My daughter got magic ponies, Cabbage Patch clothing, and her favorite, Superman paraphernalia.
Free stuff gets better and better with each generation. Mom saved box tops for two months for her ring. I only had to eat a couple of boxes of any kind of Kellogg’s cereal. And my daughter could save soup can labels and get a free computer for her school. Now, all we have to do is use our VISA and we get free money!!! One percent of what I spend this time of year is a big bonus for me. And if I buy my Lucky Charms and Cinnamon Crisps with my VISA, I can get the latest Poky Mon toy and my one percent!
Tales Afoot on the Roadside
There is a shoe fence at the mouth of Spanish Fork Canyon. It is an odd structure of stories. There is no narrator or plaque explaining the wooden posts—each topped with a leather or canvas or genuine vinyl shoe. There are: small dancing shoes and large logger shoes; pumps, clogs, wing tips, oxfords, boots with laces and without; steel toes and worn toes, pointed and round; square-toed harness boots, Keds for running; and comfy Grandma shoes, too. All are worn past practical use but the stories they must tell is what interests me.
There is a size 12 with basketball wins and losses. Quick pivots and stops have worn the ball to nearly nothing. A Tony Lama is curled at the tip and worn at the heel from wrangling and kicking pies then dancing its cowgirl through the night. There is a boy’s shoe worn clear through from coaxing rocks down a gravel road. Blue ink has carefully colored Lisa on the side and it makes me wonder what kind of boy drew his girl’s name for me to see.
In the winter, the row of misfits look like 100 legs kicking their way up through the snow—seeking warmth from the sun. Somehow, the childrens’ shoes seem more stark than the others. Most are scuffed and too small to wrap their tongues around the post. They seem too temporary, too tossed-out before their time, too small for the large lives they must have lived. And I consider what warmth a new pair would give to an eight- or twelve-year-old who writes longings on its sole.
There is a size 12 with basketball wins and losses. Quick pivots and stops have worn the ball to nearly nothing. A Tony Lama is curled at the tip and worn at the heel from wrangling and kicking pies then dancing its cowgirl through the night. There is a boy’s shoe worn clear through from coaxing rocks down a gravel road. Blue ink has carefully colored Lisa on the side and it makes me wonder what kind of boy drew his girl’s name for me to see.
In the winter, the row of misfits look like 100 legs kicking their way up through the snow—seeking warmth from the sun. Somehow, the childrens’ shoes seem more stark than the others. Most are scuffed and too small to wrap their tongues around the post. They seem too temporary, too tossed-out before their time, too small for the large lives they must have lived. And I consider what warmth a new pair would give to an eight- or twelve-year-old who writes longings on its sole.
Back to School
I kept my first pencil box until I was thirteen. It included all my school treasures from Mrs. Gulbransen’s kindergarten class. It held a nine-pack: red, yellow, blue, orange, purple, green, black, brown, and white. Somehow I managed without heather tip, sage, gunmetal, balsam yellow, or feather red. The box cost 29 cents—the deluxe—and included two #2s, a wooden ruler with fulls and halves marked up to six, a jumbo pink pearl, a nine-pack Crayolas, and a sharpener that broke after I learned g, h, and i. The Big Chief writing pad was 15 cents extra. Dad loaned it to me, but I had to recite the Pledge of Allegiance three times in a row. It took me three days to memorize “indivisible for liverty and justice…”. Undoubtedly the hardest cash I ever paid back.
Now pencil boxes are plastic, empty, and 88 cents for the economy model. So, for a family of four kids, that’s $59.40 for the same things my 44 cents bought. When you toss in new shoes, levis, t-shirts, undies, socks, and a belt, that’s a pretty good reason to use a credit card or quick loan, I’d say.
Now pencil boxes are plastic, empty, and 88 cents for the economy model. So, for a family of four kids, that’s $59.40 for the same things my 44 cents bought. When you toss in new shoes, levis, t-shirts, undies, socks, and a belt, that’s a pretty good reason to use a credit card or quick loan, I’d say.
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