Monthly Archives: August 2009

5 Things You Should Know About My Day Yesterday

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1. At work yesterday I was able to sit in a private concert with Mack Wilberg, the conductor and musical director of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, as he played for us, piece by piece, his plans for the Choir’s next album. All I can say is that I was thoroughly moved, transported to a beautiful place. It will be an album you will want to listen to over and over again. Cross my heart.

2. I thought about Nutella for the majority of my train ride home.

3. For dinner, I ate a sandwich piled high with tomatoes and cucumbers fresh from the garden. That might be my favorite thing about summer.

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4. I test drove a new (to me) car. I think I might put mine up for sale this weekend. Maybe.

5. I said to Frit as we walked out of the Dairy Queen with our mini blizzards, “I don’t know why anyone under 40 would want to date me. I wear house slippers to the DQ, I need to be in bed before 10:00 p.m. if I want to function properly the next day, and I prefer to be at home working on a puzzle* rather than being out on the town.” She laughed and said, “I don’t know why anyone under 80 would want to date you.”

6. Here’s a bonus, ’cause I know you’ll love this one: When Frit got home from work I started to do a little dance for her (cuz that’s what we do around our house when someone comes home), but I tripped (over my own foot) when I started my jig and slammed into one side of the kitchen counter and bounced over to the other counter, where I landed in a heap of laughter. Frit continued to belly laugh the entire night at random moments every time the scene popped into her head again. Maybe sometime I’ll video a reenactment for you — just ’cause I love ya.

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*It’s the puzzle’s fault I haven’t posted a good post in the last few days. All I can say is if you thought blogging was addictive, try doing a jigsaw. We set up one of those portable, fold-up buffet tables in the living room, and the first night we sat piecing it together for hours whilst we watched My Fair Lady on VHS. The next day it was all I thought about at work. Frit even dreamed about it all night the day before we finished it. Needless to say, we’re off to the Wal-Marts to get another one soon.

Parting Shot: 8/27/09

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My Grandma Sally always asks about my garden whenever we talk, which I love, because I love talking about my garden, as you all know. At the beginning of planting season she sent me a packet of seeds for Four O’Clocks so we planted them just for her. The odd thing is that they bloom at 8:00 a.m. and are usually closed at 4:00 p.m. I still haven’t figured that one out. But they’re lovely little flowers, small and dainty. So Gram, here they are. Planted for you. Hope you enjoy!

G’night!

Parting Shot: 8/25/09

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In an effort to suck every last drop of fun out of summer, Frit and I have gone to a couple SLC Bees games this month. Tonight was particularly splendid because we randomly ran into my baby sister (who knew she’d be there?!). So FUN! I love her to pieces and in fact, I was so excited to see her I couldn’t stop smoochin’ and squeezin’ her cute face.

But anywho … in honor of baseball, in honor of the Bees, in honor of ballpark dogs and cracker jacks, and in honor of America’s pastime, tonight’s parting shot is a tiny peek at the neighbor sitting next to us there behind home plate. The little neighbor who was scared to death of us when we first sat down, but was sluggin’ Frit’s arm like he was Babe himself and yackin’ her ear off by top of the 3rd inning. Bless his little heart. (Don’t you just love those little feet and pint-sized Converse. Precious!) Play ball!

G’night!

Raining Pink

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A couple weeks ago, Frit and I hostessed a baby shower for Frit’s sister Brenda (but we call her Shmovel). This is her fourth baby so she wasn’t too keen on being thrown a “shower” per say, but it’s been about ten years since her twins were born, and we all adore her, and though she wouldn’t say it, she was definitely in need of baby goods–particularly baby girl goods since she only has boys. SO, the compromise was a “girls lunch” with her mom and sisters. BUT, as we all know … I kind of get carried away with party planning aaaand the “girls lunch” ended up looking, feeling, and tasting a whole lot more like a “baby shower” than a “girls lunch.”

I tried. I really tried to be low key. But … it’s pointless. I just can’t help myself!

Frit made a diaper cake:

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I sewed bedding for the crib:

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We offered a stunning display of quiche, salads, and goodies:

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dipped chocolate-caramel pretzels for favors:

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(we actually wrapped them in celophane and tied them with pretty ribbon
but we ate all of them before I could take a picture)

And baked an assortment of cupcakes (of course)! I do love me some cupcakes!

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‘Twas a perfect shower. Er…luncheon. Oh who am I kidding?! It was a shower.
Thanks Shmov, for forgiving my inability to keep it simple.

If I Knew I Could Not Fail

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If I knew I could not fail, I would tell him I love him and move to Paris. Not that I would leave as soon as I told him I loved him … but since I can’t fail – he would say he loved me back and then come with me. To Paris.

I would write a book and paint the world. He would play the guitar and make me laugh. We would live off tips gathered on street corners, selling art to tourists. We’d walk through parks and eat in cafes. And maybe just spend an entire day in the Louvre staring at Monet’s Water Lilies. We’d take French classes. We’d sit in cathedrals from dawn to dusk just to watch the light change as it filters through the stained glass. We’d ride bikes. We’d eat pastries. We’d take weekend trips to Tuscany. We’d sleep in fields.

We’d wake up each morning with no plan except to follow our hearts. We’d go to sleep each night knowing we had. We’d be content to – be.

I think I’m just tired these days. Tired of my plans. Tired of my calendar. Tired of my to-do list. Tired of the voice-mails. For some reason, living out of a backpack and watching the world from the Eiffel Tower seems perfect. I used to want to be at the front of that racing world. But this week, I just want to sit on a bench, in the middle of a garden, not saying a word, not worrying that it’s silent, hand in hand, watching flowers grow.

If I knew I could not fail – I would loosen my white-knuckled grip on responsibility. I would let my hair down. I would say what I really feel. I would follow a whim.

***

If you knew you could not fail, what would you do?

Sinking Sunset

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Sunsets sink so slowly, but in an instant they’re gone. And what once blinded, yet held spellbound, my eyes now rests gently behind the jagged mountains, illuminating the silhouette of yet another horizon, leaving, long after it is gone, its florescent residue on tips of clouds … still changing the sky the deeper it falls.

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So it seems are the experiences of my life. Heartache, at the time, feels to last for an eternity, but in a moment, the tears are dry. Even the delight of supposed never-ending ecstasy ultimately wanes. The last petal eventually falls from even the most enduring of blooms. The fullness of high tide always ebbs. And in time, a cocoon tucked tight for what appears too many seasons, one day opens and unfolds the beauty of flight.

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What makes me stay and watch and wait?

I stay – because I know the cocoon will open, the sunset will soon become sunrise, and fallen tears will dry.
I watch – because I know I’ll be left with a new horizon filled with the richness and color only light can bring.
I wait – because I know that the farther it flies, or sinks, or falls, the more beautiful the sky becomes.

She Knows What She’s Living For

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I graduated from high school in a class of 23 seniors. And then I flew 3,000 miles across the country to become a freshman in a school of 30,000. We had no family nearby and I knew no one. The dorms were full so I stayed with friends of my parents those first few weeks. But one day near the end of September, I got a call that a room had opened on campus.

The next morning I went to check it out. I meandered through the covered walkways searching for the right building when I saw a couple of girls, a tall blond and a friendly brunette, walking in front of me. They looked nice and so I asked, “which way to T-Hall?” “That’s where we live,” they said. “You can come with us.” As it turned out, they lived on the same floor where the open room was located.

Catie, the brunette, became one of my first friends at BYU. She was happy and easy going with friendly eyes and a quick smile. She was from Tennessee so we immediately had Southern rapport and I loved to listen to her play the fiddle (though she didn’t do it often enough if you ask me). She and about eight other girls happily welcomed me into their group and our first year of college was filled with races in the laundry carts (and on my roomate’s motorized wheelchair), “white trash registration nights” where we dressed up like white trash (I don’t know who picked the theme) and stayed up to call in right at midnight to register for classes (this was back before online registration), football games, bus trips to Spanish Fork to watch movies in what amounted to a projector in a barn, tumbling on the extra mattresses in my room, strip spelling bees, and about a gagillion more pointless but SO fun activities.

The following year, our large group split into three smaller branches as we all moved to off-campus housing. Over the next few years some of us lost touch (luckily refinding each other recently through blogs and Facebook), but Catie and I always remained friends. We both enjoyed going to late night dollar movies in our pajamas. And oh, good golly miss molly, was she ever a movie talker! “Why are they doing that?” “What is going to happen?!” “How is she going to get out of that?” And I’d have to say, “Catie I’ve never seen this either and I’m not a movie talker, so let’s not talk.” It makes me smile to remember.

She left on her mission a few months before I left on mine and when she got back she found a wonderful man “who didn’t bug her” to marry. They had two beautiful children and then a couple years ago when she was pregnant with her third she was diagnosed with cancer. I cried myself to sleep the night I found out. They took the baby pre-maturely so Catie could continue her chemo/radiation treatments. And soon enough the baby (Sarah Grace) and Catie were well and whole and healthy.

But after a year in the clear, we found out this past Spring that the cancer had returned, this time in her lungs, and that it is inoperable. As soon as I heard, I called Mandy, another friend from freshman year and together we cried for our Catie.

While I was home last month I drove up to North Carolina to see Catie and her home and her family. We didn’t have much time, less than an hour, but we sat and we talked and we laughed and we cried. Even now, I cry. Not because of hopelessness (because it’s never hopeless) but because of love–love for my friend, and all of her strength. Love for who she is and who she was. Love for who she is becoming.

And though she’s tired, oh is she ever tired, she still fights. And though there are no answers to the why’s, she still believes. And though this part of her life is not something she’d choose, she knows what she’s living for.

Catie, we love you and pray for you and believe for you. And we’re here. For you.

Parting Shot: 8/13/09

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This little lovely belonged to one of the sweet-grass basket weavers in Charleston. As I photographed her grandmother, she made it known that she wanted her picture taken too. Then she wanted to take a picture of her grandmother, and then a picture of me. And then she wanted to see them all on the camera screen. I wish I could accurately portray how the scene played out. But this picture, and those eyes, is all there is.

G’night!

The Wanderlust of a Gypsy

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I don’t know if it’s because I’m the oldest or if it’s just the temperament I came with regardless of birth order, but I’m not one to make rash decisions. I’m not one to jump without looking first. I like to know what’s going on and when, in advance. I like schedules. I’m careful and calculated when making decisions. When I go on a trip, I usually have what Frit (mockingly) calls the “travel folder” with all my reservations and maps printed, along with brief histories of interesting points of note along my route. Now this is not to say that I’m completely inflexible. I’m actually fine (well mostly fine) if the plan changes, I just like there to be a plan to begin with.

But …

There’s this other part of me, hiding deep behind the color coded planner, travel folders, and reminder alarms on my Blackberry. She’s wild and Bohemian. She cares not for time or responsibility. She just wants to go, see, do, taste, be. She’s the voice that whispers, “sell it all and go live on a beach in Costa Rica. Wear beads in your hair and rings on your toes and work each day only to eat that day. Travel from place to place and be a sort of Florence Nightingale meets Mother Teresa meets Michelangelo. Meet people. Love them. Teach them. Paint them. See where life leads you.”

I know. I know. Very hippie new-agey I realize. But there it is. The truth in black and white. And generally this other part of me is content to sit quietly. But every now and again, she takes a step out of the shadows. At which point, the responsible me that dictates this life hushes her and reminds her about our bills and commitments and relationships. That we can’t just up and leave.

But lately …

My free spirit has been more bold and a bit more demanding. And I find myself caving to the beauty of possibilities, the prospect of freedom. No, I’m not headed for Costa Rica with nothing but a knap-sac. But on this last vacation, after the wedding festivities were over … there was no travel folder to speak of. I know. I’m really living on the wild side. I was so totally invigorated at the prospect of flying by the seat of my pants. Turning left or right based solely on desire.

Frit and I began trying to leave the island in the morning, but with no plans and no schedule, it took a few hours to make it five miles as we wandered to our hearts’ content. We stopped for lunch at a hole-in-the-wall dive where we had the most sinful sweet potato cornbread and key-lime pie. Oh and crabcakes. And hushpuppies. And macaroni and cheese. Ay-ya-yai.

We made a last minute stop for “one more hour” at the beach. We bought peaches on the side of the road. And with no map or idea where we were sleeping that night, we found ourselves two hours “off course” in Charleston, walking along the Battery, eating ice-cream cones as big as our heads that melted faster than we could lick ‘em, leaving our fingers chocolate stained and sticky. We bought rings made out of antique spoons and browsed the handmades in the open-air market.

We stopped and talked for a while with this lady …

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And with this lady …

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And watched as they weaved their history into every stitch of their baskets.

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At sundnown, we headed west, then north, and slept in a city whose name I can’t even remember.

The next morning, it was (unfortunately) time to “report for duty.” Real life was calling and I was forced to silence the gypsy inside reminding her that there was a price (plus interest) for her frivolity.

To which she replied, “That is fine. But you let me follow my wanderlust for a day and you loved it as much as I did. And it won’t be long before you let me out again.”

To which I replied, “You’re right.”