Memories

I hear that frespa in Gilbert had a really busy day on Saturday.  That pleases me no end.  Except that I hadn't made my appointment, and therefore couldn't get squeezed in.  As a result, I spent Father's Day un-manicured.  So, who noticed?

A young man stopped to see me Sunday.  Well, he still seems young to me, though he's in the latter half of his fifties.  He was a close friend of my middle son, became a lawyer, married and had four kids, and I hadn't seen him for years and years.  He still calls me "Mom" and has hardly changed a bit -- unless you call having a salt and pepper beard a change.  Ron even looks slightly like my son, though Paul's beard is almost as snow-white as Santa's.  

Ron was almost like another son. At some time or other I must have told him to make himself at home, because he did. I remember being busy folding laundry in a back bedroom when I heard the front door open and close.  I listened quietly. For some stupid reason or other, I didn’t call out, but waited for a clue to guess which child it was.

I heard the refrigerator door open and close, a cupboard door bang shut and liquid (I presumed milk) gurgle into a glass.  The toaster clicked down, and I smelled bread warming.  A drawer squeaked slightly, chair legs scraped over tile, and I heard a knife spreading butter.  While I was debating about going into the kitchen or just waiting to see what would happen next, the tap ran water, the dishwasher door closed, and the front door as well.   Ah haw.  The dishwasher clicking shut was my big clue that it wasn’t one of my kids.  It had to be Ron.

Ah, memories.  They’re what make life worth living.  Great in the making, they’re even more so in retrospect.

Free Time? What's That?

I loved Cindy's post on color and free time. One hallmark of a good writer in both prose and poetry, or so I've been told, is the ability to encourage readers to think. It may be easier to write, and very tempting, but didactic composition has a tendency toward being too preachy, and is lack of choice is apt to turn readers away. Of course it depends on who's writing, but it still stands. Everybody does not react positively, even, or especially, to prophets. However, the greatest example, Christ himself, taught in parables, multiladen with food for thought. Cindy's blog last week took me into paths I didn't expect to take. I'm not going to re-quote it here. If you found this, you can find hers. She did indicate that black (the title of this blog) was to be avoided, because we all need free time. I agree with the concept.

However, being rebellious, I chose to color myself black, that svelte, slimming, sophisticated color. Why? Because all those lovely things on her free time list have often made their way to my 'to-do' list at some time or other. When I take too long and get too little done, it's not free time I've used, it's time stolen from something else -- often sleep. Nothing is free. We barter for our 'free' time with forfeiture of other joys or goals we might have chosen. I no longer choose some of Cindy's colors. I seldom watch TV any more, nor sip sodas, and I prefer to drink my water un-iced; I hardly ever go to a movie, but I do put a tape or DVD on now and again. I schedule reading scriptures, fiction, non-fiction; writing is definitely on my list; I schedule shopping trips whenever it's necessary; and exercise is usually the last item crossed off on my list. I'll talk forever on the phone, but seldom look up a number and dial a friend, I've never quite finished any one day's to-do list, and napping always takes me by surprise. Now, if you had "knit, crochet, or other handwork" assigned a color I'd take that. Or a color for Sudoku. The real trick is to like what's on the list. Since for some reason or other we've chosen what to do, or what to list, then we surely want to at least have it done. That's reason enough to decide to like our choice and gladly get at it -- unless we can assign, pay, or talk someone else into doing it for us. Since everything on the fun list could be allocated as scheduled time, and since we're all given 24 hours a day with a hint that we're accountable for every moment of them, I ask again: "Free time? What is that?" Can you see my tongue in my cheek?

Apology

I discovered long ago that email doesn't always go through with the same line set-up that I write with, but I thought blogs did better.  No, cut and paste can be terribly scattered and hard to read.  Sorry.  if I'd taken time to preview before publishing, the following blog would have looked (and read) much nicer.  I could go back and edit it, but why?

Life is full of little oops and sorrys, but even fuller with ahs and yippees.    (Spellcheck doesn't like me to be creative with my spelling, but please bear with me and forgive my idiosyncrasies.  After all, I'm the publisher here, and have no editor breathing down my neck.  However if you're a spelling purist and it annoys you, jut let me know.  I can reform when I deem it necessary.) 

Passalong for your enjoyment

Sorry, I've neglected this spot for over a week.  It's time I got busy.  Sorry this blogspot is still so unadorned.  It's actually a test to see if anybody will read just for the fun of reading, instead of for all the trappings.  Don't get me wrong.  I love trappings, too.  But then, I've also published a little picture book with no pictures. It's rather fun, and a real challenge, to be different.

Today is my wedding anniversary, and the second one I've celebrated without my husband.  It's not sad, so far, but it does seem a bit empty. It's not the first time I've been without his physical presence.  He spent a year in Iceland without me, and another year in Vietnam.  His decease seems more to me like just another overseas assignment with no dependents allowed to accompany him.  Therefore, I'm determined to fill today with all the fun things I can think of.  After all, life is still good and, as Charles claimed, "sweet to the taste and very desirable."  

Here are a couple of quotes from my email that I'm passing along.  Don't ask where they originated.  I have no idea.  I do know, however, that I don't have to have created a thought to enjoy it.  I'm surrounded with great people, great friends, great thoughts, great sights, and even great opportunities.  There are also a few unsavory things in life, but I try to keep them shoved into the periphery.  

Life is not measured by the number of  breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.

This was forwarded to me by my firstborn, Marolyn.

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WARNING TO WOMEN!      You've heard about people who have been abducted and had  their kidneys removed by black-market organ thieves.    My thighs were stolen from me during the night a few years  ago. I went to sleep and woke up with someone else's  thighs.    It was just that quick.    The replacements had the texture of cooked oatmeal. Whose  thighs were these and what happened to mine? I spent the  entire summer looking for my thighs. Finally, hurt and  angry, I resigned myself to living out my life in jeans.    And then the thieves struck again.    My bum was next. I knew it was the same gang, because they  took pains to match my new rear-end to the thighs they had  stuck me with earlier. But my new bum was attached at least  three inches lower than my original! I realized I'd have to  give up my jeans in favour of long skirts.    Two years ago I realized my arms had been switched. One  morning I was drying my hair and was horrified to see the  flesh of my upper arm swing to and fro with the motion of  the hairbrush. This was really getting scary - my body was  being replaced one section at a time.    What could they do to me next?    When my poor neck suddenly disappeared and was replaced  with a turkey neck, I decided to tell my story. Women of the  world wake up and smell the coffee! Those 'plastic' surgeons  are using REAL replacement body parts -stolen from you and  me! The next time  someone you know has something 'lifted', look again - was  it lifted from you?    THIS IS NOT A HOAX. This is happening to women everywhere  every night.    WARN YOUR FRIENDS!    P.S. Last year I thought some one had stolen my Boobs. I  was lying in bed and they were gone! But when I jumped out  of bed, I was relieved to see that they had just been hiding  in my armpits as I slept. Now I keep them hidden in my  waistband.    Thought this was too 'important' not to pass on Have a  wonderful day - with a joy filled heart    BTW - These same thieves come in my closet and shrank my  clothes! How do they do it????     Hope you enjoyed it.   Have a good day. Anna

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May is all but gone, Welcome June

May is so close to over, I'm not sure I'll have time to write and post anything still in this month.  But let's see what I can do in 25 minutes.

Thursday, 28th, I took Pamela Goodfellow, my writing teacher, to frespa and for pedicures.  I went all out with blue polish and white daisy flowers with a yellow rhinestone center on my big toenails.  Pamela chose purple, which went on somewhat browner, but flowers lightened her toes, too.

We chose Thursday so we'd feel fun and frivolous at our class outing in Forest Lake with the rest of the class.  And we did.

Louise and Larry have a beautiful cabin, on a large lot where nature reigns and loving care enhances.  Just a couple of months ago, Larry finished and installed eight magnificent stained glass windows he designed and constructed, with pines, water, sky and mountains.  Most impressive, and fit right in with the rest of the decor.  

We finished our last class of this section, had a great time with critiquing, and ate like royalty--better than some.

Louise and I are writing our memoirs, and all the class were delighted to meet Larry, especially after hearing so much of his antics in previous classes.  He outdid our expectations.

Two more minutes to go to make this a May blog.  I'm a slow writer.  Let it suffice to say life is still wonderful, rewarding, and I can hardly wait to see what tomorrow brings.  It's usually some dumb thing I manage to do, but it's always interesting.  I like this growing old.

Memorial Day and Memories

Gracious me, it's nearly ten o'clock in the morning and, except for a couple of great-grandsons, the whole household seems asleep.  I've been at the computer most all morning, enjoying the quiet.  Eight-year old Preston was busy drawing when I went downstairs to check, and I saw Jeremy, who is four, scooting around with hands full of TV remotes and cell phones.  I decided to leave them to their parents.  

Eileen and Ryan and their four children are down from St. Johns for the weekend.  Last night the house almost rocked with the noise of celebration, honoring Amy and Jet, both just graduated from high school.  Today, we're recuperating.

Marolyn called an hour or so ago, and with scratchy voice asked if any of the family were planning to come over her direction. She lives closest of any of us to the Memorial Cemetery where Charles' body is buried.  We talked about Staci and shared her blogs, one or the other reading aloud a favorite part.  We're very biased, of course, being her mother and grandmother, but there's no doubt that Staci does a great job, and the pictures are adorable.  She's at and when I get through here I'll see if I can figure how to get it linked to mine.  

I told Marolyn how I'm concentrating on my bio, and how I'd been told, "You're still healthy and alert, but you have no guarantee of how long you'll stay that way," which adds to my urgency for setting more immediate goals. My children can't write my book for me. That led to how and when Charles left.

"I'm sure, Mom, that when Dad got called he said, 'Wait a minute.  I told my wife I'd walk her through our income tax this morning.  Just give me another hour.'  But then, he'd have reconsidered and added, 'Okay, I'll go.  She's smart enough to figure it out,' and he went."

We laughed, and talked on, but the more I thought of it, the tighter my throat became, and soon I simply could not talk.  It surprised me.  I'd always known that anger shuts me up, but not this completely.  I can at least bawl.  This morning, in mere moments, I'd tightened until I almost believed there was no way I could get even a tiny squeak past my closed throat.  With supreme effort, I forced a few words like, "I'm ... not ... sad ... just ... emotional. ... I ... love ... you. ..." and I hung up.  Never before have I felt my throat so constricted, and I doubted I could even swallow.  But in that, I was wrong.  A cup of water, and I was back, more or less, to normal.

By this time, I heard more movement going on downstairs and went down to see what Kat and the Browers were planning for today.  We even talked about memorial day.  Ryan said in St. Johns the scouts always raised a new flag over the cemetery, to replace the wind-tattered, sun-bleached old one.  It was his troop's turn to officiate today, but he'd turned that over to his assistant scoutmaster.  Ryan has four generations of ancestors buried at St. Johns.  His parents moved back this month, so there are two more generations living there.    

I told my childhood memories of memorial day.  By late May in Archer, Idaho (near Rexburg) the chances were good of having gardens full of flowers.  Lilacs and peonies especially come to mind.  We'd pick wash-tubs full of blooms, gather rakes, hoes, and even shovels, and head for the cemetery.  

A barbed-wire fence surrounded the graveyard, with a cattle-guard at the entry instead of a gate.  On another side we kids loved to climb the four-or-five step stile over and back until our mothers called us away to our duty.

This was the day for annual grave cleaning.  That meant we came to hoe the weeds, rake off the graves, shovel soil back to smooth, rounded mounds to match the size of each grave, and then spread our flowers over the top.  With so many of the Wilcox family living nearby, our family graves got pretty well covered, and on good years we had flowers to pass on to others.

I could talk of all this easily, but when I even thought of suggesting we go to Charles' gravesite, I felt my throat tighten, and all I wanted to do was go back upstairs.  So here I am, still with no idea of what I'll do today.  Maybe, since it's not far away from noon, I can begin preparations for whatever comes by showering and getting dressed.

This is Fun

I just got back from frespa, with French-tip nails and a new haircut and style.  I feel pampered, and love it.  My granddaughter Lisa took pictures of me with Alissa, the hair stylist, but things got too busy to post it right then.  We're not giving up.

And I thank Krista, Marsha, and Kari for responding to my blog already, while I was gone.  Your attention and love seem to raise my spirits as surely as elevators raise my body.  I notice, though, I do have to push the right button.

I thought I had reformed when I got nine whole hours of sleep night before last.  But I stopped by the spa yesterday, Lisa opened this blog site, and between it and email, I stayed at the computer until five this morning.  I still managed four hours sleep before ten.  I'm thinking of a nap now, but the bishop and his counselor are coming to visit me in about half an hour.  You know, another "taking care of the widows" duty visit.  I'm looking forward to it.  It's like getting pampered in still another direction.

It feels so good, I think I'll look for ways to pass it on.  

As soon as they leave, I'm going to write.  On my bio, that is. Somebody in ANWA, I forgot who, recommended Jack M. Bickham, and I checked three of his books from the Chandler Library:  "Scene & Structure," "Setting," and "Writing and Selling Your Novel."  I started on the latter just before I left for the spa.  I can hardly wait to read more.  He's very persuasive. I'm ready to commit myself to so many pages, or words, per day, and do it first, not last.  Now, there's another puzzler.  Do I first read more of him for motivation?  Or write first and then read for confirmation?  Shucks.  What seems easy isn't always so.

I think I'll not even try to estimate how many goals and commitments I've espoused and forsaken.  That's in the past. I'm aiming for the future.  When I get all dolled up, there has to be somewhere to go, and filling goals just might get me "on the go."