Warming

I'm beginning to learn that it's the sweet, simple things of life which are the real ones after all. ~Laura Ingalls Wilder

Not a cloud in the sky today. Kent says it's supposed to get up to 60 degrees before the day's over. It better hurry.

Following in her footsteps

Always, mopping my floor makes me think of Sarah. I'm huffing and puffing pushing and pulling my mop across the kitchen ceramic tiles, seeing my sister. It's because when I went to stay with her two and a half years ago for a few weeks I mopped her way big kitchen floor. Same thing - tiled, water only, sponge mop. And into the laundry room where Mushu's kitty box is, and muddy clothes from someone's hike up Sleeping Giant.



I see Sarah in my mind's eye riding her bike over the island; at the kitchen table with Kaylee, home-schooling; lounging in front of something on television they've DVR'd; absorbed in conversation with Danny; studying for Seminary; calming herself through a "seizure" or episode; laughing out loud.

I was mopping at Sarah's house the day (July 25th) I got a phone call about the deaths of two children in a family from the ward Kent and I were in in north Centerville. There was a head-on collision that took Travis, 28, the oldest, and Desiree, 15, youngest and only daughter. I had to hold on to the mop when I heard, and I remember the floor slick and glistening as I skidded out of the kitchen to collapse in Sarah's living room under the piano. I cried and cried.

Seeing my wet floor this morning here in Georgia I consider absolutely blissfully how Sarah dries her floor - she shuffles across it on towels! Really. I mopped and she dried coming behind me. I think about Sarah getting up in a few hours to teach Seminary in Kapa'a. It's 3:00 in the morning at this hour in Hawaii - she has two more to sleep, then down the mountain to her church building



to teach her final lesson this week. Linda taught ours three hours ago over a pancake breakfast. Some of the kids had chocolate chips in their pancakes: when I cook for Seminary I always ask "who wants!" then oblige - a few handfuls sprinkled in the batter before I flip the pancakes.

A couple of days ago I called Sarah and we talked Seminary. We do that. She told me she got a lined tablet in the shape of slippers (flip-flops) one afternoon at the store and the next day gave each student one footprint and had them write something like I will follow in Christ's footsteps by: and fill the page with ideas. She had shown the class the same video I'd shown our kids during the week, Paul's missionary travels and all he suffered before the common people, Jewish leaders who despised him, and ultimately kings on their thrones, and never even once counting these sufferings anything but service and joy for Christ's sake. The video shows a prison he is believed to have been held in for two years prior to his execution, twelve feet underground and accessible by only a hole which, when sealed, makes the dungeon completely and utterly dark. Two years. . . Sarah wanted her students to really engage in what it would be like to follow in the footsteps of Christ, or Paul perhaps in this setting. I got goose bumps listening because it's right where I've been teaching too exactly, and I wanted this object lesson for our kids. We did it yesterday. I asked them get out a piece of notebook paper from their folders and . . . draw their foot! HUH? they said. Then it dawned on them and they set to, and Saleah had to get two papers and tape them together to get her big Nike traced around. I handed out markers and colored pencils and they decorated them and wrote their ideas under the caption I gave them: I WILL FOLLOW IN CHRIST'S FOOTSTEPS BY . . . They shared with the class what they wrote - I said just one or two words since it was almost time to go, and we skittered around the room with short responses. (Ian answered dying. Of course, and he grins. Always.) I taped them on the front of the fireplace in kind of marching order. Anna was still busy making hers checkerboard even after the closing prayer, like her Vans. I'm thinking about all this in a heartbeat, mopping my floor.

My clean floor makes me happy, and I'm considering Sarah is probably very extremely happy she can mop her own these days.


Beautiful Sarah and our amazing mother

Memories of Grandma

Right the morning Grandma passed away I pulled my scrapbooking tools out and began making a page. How do you conceive of ONE page only for your 95 year-old grandmother? That struck me full force as I chose papers, colors, blending modes and gazed at old photos. I chose one of the most recent photos of Grandma, her 95th birthday party last summer. But I left off scrapbooking when I flew to Utah for her funeral and to be with family. No amount of looking at pictures in my picture file or dabbling with Photoshop Elements brings me the same satisfaction as being there! It was an amazing interruption.

One of my favorite memories from then is of being in Grandma's apartment most of one evening. With about a hundred members of the family! I loved being near her things, roaming through her rooms, talking privately in turn with my parents and aunt and uncle in that place. I also loved being able to sing at her funeral the following day - looking down from the pulpit toward her casket, beautifully draped with flowers, considering her life, and into faces of my loved ones. I imagined Grandma with us each of those times.

Yesterday, miles and time away, I got back to scrapbooking Grandma's page. It's taken me a long time to get it the way I want, but I think I have and I'm satisfied. There can be many, many more pages of Grandma can't there, so the pressure comes off after awhile and I've worked on it just doing what feels pretty and natural. Honestly I'm not surprised at the page - wowed a little at how it makes me feel looking at it - but not surprised at the colors that emerged. (They do when you're crafting, emerge.) This combination, brown, turquoise-blue and cream, is my favorite in the whole world. I'm so happy with its simple beauty accented by black and white in places and the bright rouge on her cheeks and lips. It's natural. It's me, but it's her I imagine, too. Quite beautiful.

I'm describing a process, right? Of grieving I think. I started virtually the hour I knew she had died. Creating to express sadness - my beautful grandmother died today is what I thought the caption would be. Creating, and the inspiration is always love and passion; who and what you feel and honor as you work, not necessarily the thing itself. It's the heartbeat of any creation. Grandma's as real to me this minute as she has been all my life, and my scrapbooking helps preserve her deep inside me. She cannot come out of me, though not because of the photo or scrap page. Because I love her and she loves me.

Paying attention

Yowsers! I am all about these good waffles



cooked in my Chef's Choice International Waffle Pro Taste/Texture Select 830 that I got for Christmas but really in November, whatever. I love the heart shape! And that there's two cooking settings: uniform through and through, and crisp on the outside, tender in the middle. Comes with a light/dark setting and a dinger. Waffles every 90 seconds.



But you guys don't even get it - this recipe is so, so good! See how they're oaty? They're outrageously healthy. Milled flaxseed and light vanilla yogurt and seven-grain cereal. Wheat flour. And pure maple syrup IN the batter! Light butter, soy milk if you prefer (well, we used to) and normal stuff like regular flour, leavening and eggs and salt. Whip the egg whites separately for lighter waffles, but don't dirty another bowl if you don't mind a hearty, crispy waffle.



Can you believe it! This is



to die for.

(Better I bet with Buttermilk Syrup, Sandra Hale's recipe. I've got to get it from Erin.)

---
I'm glad to be back in my Seminary routine. Ten days gone from here kind of got me out of the habit of scripture study. It feels good again to be in the scriptures and then share the things I learn with the students; and to be home to read every morning with Kent and talk about what we read. At Stake Conference Saturday night and again on Sunday I listened for principles (took notes about them) that can make me a better person if I'll honestly follow them and not forget - get out of the habit. One I've given a lot of thought to in the last couple of days is obedience, always obedience to the Lord's commandments. How many times do I hear it spoken from the pulpit and read in the scriptures "if ye love me, keep my commandments," and yet am only selectively obedient. The inverse of this scripture could be, "if you keep my commandments ye love me." I profess to but am selfish.

So I won't climb on any soapbox - I can't. Too aware how I'm not enough of a disciple. But a little bandwagon, a little place to toot my own horn from, give my voice to, for the happy gratitude I feel for these January days all in a row I wake to and work in and commit myself to. It calls for paying attention.

Beauty gone

The man who lives next door to us has had the pecan trees in his back yard and the side yard between our houses chopped down! The canopy is gone - I feel like I'm under a Texas sky. I'm way sad. I look out the window as I write and see wide, wide sky now, no trunks or limbs.

Where will the squirrels live? (In our lot - they'll move to our trees.)

Spring and summer will be different without the beloved trees, even if they were on the neighbor's side of the fence.



I love our own, and hope they aren't too brittle to stand for another year - it is the reason I think why the neighbor may have had his cut down - too brittle, or maybe they were diseased - I don't know. I hope not. We wonder why people worry and annihilate the trees when they are beautiful and economical (they cut down the air conditioning bill every summer because of their strong shade on the house), yet it may be true that his trees needed it, or were more work than he could handle, or he was afraid they'd crash onto his roof in a wind. Maybe ours will do us that way (!) and I'll be singing a different song in the future, but oh my, trees are glorious and I'm sad.

From my journal

January 9, 2009 I am rich among women, this I know. Jan Hunt accepted to teach two days of Seminary and with a happy face! I sent her off to Linda Rhoden on the telephone for instructions on what lessons, and how and when and where. Eli Peterson came through for one day at the end of next week too, leaving Linda to teach only four of the seven. I’m ecstatic. We’re rich! I can go! I’ve talked with Linda at least three different times on the phone and she’s taking a heroes’ portion of work to move class to Mangus’ house this weekend, literally. She’s coming over Sunday night with the truck and her husband to load the chalkboard and all the scriptures and folders and several church chairs and little Seminary things out of our garage that’ll be needed by her and Jan and Eli for class for seven days. (Thank goodness a parent of one of the students has offered her house now, and it’s right around the corner from mine! Miracle, Happy days! Blessings!) Linda’s also coaching Eli and Jan about what to expect, protocol for class and directions to Mangus’ house, etc. A regular answerer of FAQs. I’ve worried about her because she’s the Compassionate Service Leader in R.S. along with being the Seminary co-teacher so it’s a lot, though she doesn’t normally teach but one day a week in Seminary. It’s times like these . . . .anyway, Kent has decided to come to Utah for a week, and that’s what’s made this transfer of Seminary to a new location necessary all of a sudden. He’s coming! He found out, we did actually, that Karen Bradford is coming with Chris, and Valerie with Mark, and of course Brent will be there with Marcia. Alone of us all Glen Hale will not be in town for the funeral from Hawaii with Sarah. Sarah’s there by now – left yesterday afternoon, and I’m feeling like a red-headed stepchild for not being there before tomorrow morning. Agh! Of course Laura and Sharm live in Utah and will be to everything. I’m over the moon to be with Kent on this trip and he’s the same about not being home alone and about finding a nonstop flight on Delta without trouble or cost, on the turn of a dime. That his boss is not keeping him here on technicalities at work, though it’s before the 15th of the month and time for financial reports, and that he’s worked like a machine and managed to get the preliminary reports to him; and that he’s well enough by far now to travel and do this strenuous thing. Miracles! Wealth and blessings! I can’t tell you. I packed and gave the perishables to Regina and watered the plants and spoke to them tenderly and Kent stopped the mail and the newspaper and I told Jean across the street I’m going and that after all Kent’s coming, which shocked her, and she will watch our house. I returned books to the library and I don’t know what else – fixed up everything that had a due date on it, including the half gallon of milk that had to be put in the freezer, and the yogurt and sour cream besides.

January 11, 2009 At 3:00 a.m. I got up to go to the bathroom and passed by where Sarah’s sleeping here at Reva’s. She called my name in kind of a squeaky voice and I knew she was having a nighttime seizure. I groped my way to the couch bed and asked what I could do. She asked for Ibuprofen and I went to my room and got it from my purse. A night light was on and I could see her better now so I gave her the medicine and water and snuggled into bed with her. Kent soon came by, I guess realizing I was out of bed, and we all giggled and talked. Kent wasn’t much for staying up, being a man and old and all that (he won’t mind my saying so), so Sarah and I were alone again talking and giggling and way tired and she finally turned over and said goodnight. Should I go, I asked her. I don’t care, she said in her squeaky voice again, but she was almost sleeping. Stay if you want. I got in my bed in the other room at about five o’clock and slept for an hour.

(Sunday night at the Bingham's house) . . . though I live in Georgia I was given the assignment of special music for the funeral and was asked to sing myself, so I’ve been fretting a little. A lot! I picked Abide with Me for my solo and O My Father (to the tune of Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing), each arranged by Sally DeFord for the two special songs. I handed out sheet music to the ladies and for about a half hour we worked like a real choir. The first pass through - hearing the gorgeous accompaniment by Marilyn Chamberlain (cousin)



and trying to sing the first few notes - every woman in the room gulped and started to cry. O my Father, thou that dwellest . . . no singers. We had to stop and fan ourselves and hug and laugh a little and start again and even then, some, Mary Bingham Lee (cousin) and Sarah Hale (my sister) couldn’t go on. At all. Mary because she was so in tears, and Sarah because she began to tremor and had to sit quietly by and watch and lip sync. (Sarah has recovered remarkable from two and a half years of seizures and tremoring and paralysis that still today can be brought on by over-stimulation. She controls it extremely well and works hard in public especially to keep herself from fully seizing.) If I could have frozen time right then I would have held these two wonderful women and friends in my arms and cried with them. All of us would have, but it was late and we kept going. I tried to lighten it up and truly, happily, we began to sing like angels.



Many of the husbands and men and boys and girls in the house listened, some from above us on the stairs and balcony, some leaning against the wall behind us. What a glorious time together – it will not happen like this ever again in this world but was a precursor and a promise for our lives after this.

I long for it!

January 12, 2009 The funeral was magnificent! I'm sure Grandma's pleased.

January 14, 2009 (In Idaho with the Holbrooks) Kent took a nap after lunch – I’d played around on Mom’s computer for a while and was bored, so I put on my shoes and coat and walked around the square mile Mom and Dad live on. Four miles. Quite the adventure really, not for cold or sheer winter beauty but because I drank an entire glass of water right before I left, and a mile and a half into the walk really, really wished I hadn’t. Stubborn me, I kept going instead of turning back, as anyone reading this will have already thought of (I started out with the idea of the whole four miles, right?), then practically had to race to the house. I was mighty relieved to enter the front door. I’ve walked these same miles before another time when I came to Pella, this section of Burley Mom and Dad live in, but not in winter. It is a different experience with wind cold around you and the fields ice and mud. The beet dump is mucky as is every ditch or culvert and even the shoulder of the road where I lolled off the pavement once in a while. Fields all around me are fallow except those with hay in them, which is short-cropped. The sky is too, too much here, unbroken but for here or there, and the sun slants into your eye from three of the four (square mile) angles. School buses caught me on the road twice with their black exhaust and staring little people, and riders in their high pickups gaped as they passed – what, a woman walking in navy twill pants, white sneakers and a hoodie and sunglasses? In Pella? Ridiculous. Not heard of. I arrived home flushed and chapped and fairly exhilarated.

Home

Erin said about two weeks ago that I HAD to put down whatever I was doing right then and get and read The Guernsey Litarary and Potato Peel Pie Society. How I got the book just recently is a short story I'll relate later, but (ending the book this very minute) right now (before I go to bed after a very long day being taxied and shuttled home from Utah) I want to post this quote from the Acknowledgements at the back of the book by Mary Ann Shaffer, the author:

"I hope, too, that my book will illuminate my belief that love of art - be it poetry, storytelling, painting, sculpture, or music - enables people to transcend any barrier man has yet devised."

Oh my goodness read this book!

Writer's cramp

I just gotta run in here and say a little thing . . .

I crave to write like Courtney of cjane or Susan Hilverda or Heather Bristow or Jenny McKasson. Just crave it.

Sigh. Done.

Family

I love this picture of the kids. But I have to do another one with Noah in it! 3 x the joy!

Fritterin'

We're watching football right now, or Kent is and I'm on the computer. He just walked into the kitchen singing it must be fritter time, it must be fritter time . . . He's in a jovial mood even though Utah's ahead of Alabama 13-0. He's glad he didn't call Scott and razz him about how much 'bama's gonna beat Utah by.

Oh man, me too.

Here's a scrap page I finished a couple of nights ago listening to football.



And another.



Kent is happily eating a cherry fritter now. But not as happily as if Alabama was winning.