A Little Cheese with that Whine
16 Feb 2012 2 Comments
It’s a multiple swear-word kind of morning, but I refrained (I had the Bishop’s son in the car, after all, and that’s as good a reason as any). It’s also the kind of morning to get a speeding ticket, but I just got a flash of lights as a warning instead. Thank goodness! My mind was preoccupied with a variety of dark thoughts, including the fact that Conner forgot his essay and needed me to get it to him (the kid is the epitome of the absent-minded professor- he doesn’t need parents, he needs a personal secretary!) and I guess I had the ‘pedal to the metal’.
What set me off? It could have been any number of things…I could blame multi-tasking. I was trying to change sheets, do laundry, fold clothes, pack towels and manage a virus attack on the computer we just got back from shop as the kids were getting ready for school. I was also annoyed to find pink blotches all over one of my new sheets and no pillowcases for the spare set. Where does all the missing laundry go? I’d like to know! I have a whole basket of socks without mates…
It didn’t help that we had Kate drama this morning. I have to say that it’s been much easier around here with one less hormonal girl to contend with, but the doctor has warned me that Kate is primed and ready to join the ranks of the irrationally emotional and overly-dramatic females of the world. There have been the usual tell-tale signs, mainly an uptick in the number of fights she picks with her brothers, and as increase in the amount of times they end with the boys muttering “What is the MATTER with YOU?” as she slams a door in their faces, that kind of thing. One minute she’s fine, the next minute she’s prostrate on the kitchen floor sobbing! She was moving even more slowly than usual today (at the pace of cold tar). We didn’t really have time for a breakdown this morning, but then Kate never has had a good grasp on the concept of Time. So it was off to my room for a ten minute coaxing session to get her to tell me what was wrong. (I’m sure me yelling at her to hurry up didn’t help, but I’m not the most patient person.) “I’m FAT!” she wailed. Apparently, the recent visit to the doctor’s office had alarmed her. ‘You are not fat.” I said, “You’re growing into a young woman.” The look she gave me said she thought that was just so much crap. I didn’t blame her. “It’s going to be fine.” I said. She didn’t seem convinced, but she stopped bawling so we could leave for school.
‘Poor thing,’ I was thinking on my way home from dropping her off. Eleven is pretty young to start all of that. Then the policeman flashed me as he passed and I slammed on the breaks. He got my attention.
I’ve been pre-occupied with A LOT of things lately, but mostly with getting ready to move, again! This move will make fifteen. I honestly don’t regret most of the moves we’ve made. Being in the hotel business is a lot like what I imagine being in the military is like. We’ve lived in many interesting places, had a number of growing experiences and made a lot of great friends. I wouldn’t trade any of that. And I guess I’ve gotten used to putting a positive spin on it, even when it hasn’t always been particularly pleasant. This move to another house, however, is different than our most recent moves. It really will be a good thing for a lot of different reasons. We’re excited and looking forward to this one. Time is dragging for me until we can move in, even though there is a lot to do both here and there. Patience is NOT among my virtues! I would much rather just get it done and over with- quickly. Yes, I’m a band-aid ripper!
And then there are piano lessons today- which nobody practiced for! I’m just as much to blame for that as the kids… we have no good excuses. The kids spent a lot of time on the piano this week, but they were composing a song. I’m talking making up a duet and copying it down onto sheet music paper. It was actually pretty impressive and I guess that’s why I didn’t stop them, though they really should have been practicing their lessons instead.
And of course, there are more loads of laundry to be done, more boxes to pack, muddy dogs to clean up after, dinner to make…which would necessitate me going to the store…and some paperwork to fill out and fax. AND THE CHOCOLATE IS ALL GONE!
You know, I really shouldn’t be writing this… I’ve got a lot of stuff to do today!
My Niagras
12 Feb 2012 2 Comments
The mother of all falls, an im
p
a
tient,
impulsive,
stupidly
reckless
reaction
to a
relentless
nagging
doubt.
If the fence
were shaken,
would it be Stay
or Go?
I, ever the sick
saboteur,
douse the friendly fire
then watch,
and wait in the chill
to see if a Phoenix will
rise from the ashes.
Oh so dangerous, this futile
game of tumbling,
churning emotions:
Hope, Fear, Regret,
Remorse and the morbid
sense of Relief
that comes from finally
knowing the truth;
followed, inevitably, by
a season of mourning,
flagellation and penitence,
a time of letting go and
of grudging acceptance
and then, Peace…
until the roar of rushing water
up ahead signals another fall.
Delusion
12 Feb 2012 Leave a Comment
Delusion is not the name of a new perfume (but it would be a pretty good one, don’t you think?), it’s an ailment brought upon by age and I’m afraid I’m succumbing to it! Let this be a wake up call to all of you. Here are some warning signs to watch out for.
Let’s talk about imaginary friends. I’ve recently deluded myself into thinking that Estee Lauder is a close personal friend, not a worldwide corporation devoted to making money. I’m a loyal customer, faithful to a fragrance called Beyond Paradise (further proof that I suffer from Delusion). Estee emails me several times a week. She is forever telling me that the most beautiful face in the world…is mine. Who wouldn’t love a friend like that? Some may call me naive. I do recognize that “Look as young as you feel” is just an attempt to get me to purchase Advanced Night Repair Anti-aging Serum, however, I prefer overlook that and focus on the positive messages behind the pitches. It’s not bad advice, after all. When Estee says, “Your shade.Your finish.Your foundation.Every shade of beautiful.” what she’s really saying is that I have options and shouldn’t settle. Likewise, “See the dramatic difference for yourself” and “Experience the miracle of beautiful skin” are merely gentle nudges to explore the possibilities. It’s all rather empowering!
Closely related to this form of delusion are “I can look as young as I feel” and “I’m not getting old”, both of which are quickly being debunked for me by a series of unfortunate events related to things such as hair loss, weight gain, blindness and muscle loss. For example, the other day I stood in between aisles of shoes, balanced on one leg attempting to put on this shoe when the unthinkable happened, I SLIPPED OFF MY OTHER SHOE AND LANDED ON MY A…AMPLE BACKSIDE! Pain and injury were not foremost on my mind as I jumped up, however, it was public humiliation I was most concerned about. Fortunately for me, I was the only one in the aisle and I don’t think anyone saw it (but that could very well be another form of delusion in and of itself). No matter what anyone tries to tell you, it all starts going downhill after forty! If that person trying to tell you otherwise is under forty, they don’t know what the hell they’re talking about. If they’re older than forty and trying to tell you that, you can bet they’re suffering from Delusion.
Having recently acquired an i-phone (don’t get me started on all of the delusions associated with this one!), I now find myself suffering with another delusion: the personification of an inanimate object. You see, I’ve begun talking to my phone. I’m convinced that inside it lives my very own personal assistant, usually very helpful with information, maps and such, but with a mind of his own and a penchant for criticizing my writing. We are constantly arguing. I don’t appreciate being second guessed about my texts. He (yes, I’ve decided it must be a man) is always interrupting me and putting words in my mouth, er…texts. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate being saved from embarrassing mistakes, like the time I accidentally wrote, “…a nice trip down mammary lane”, but it’s exhausting fighting over words and meaning all of the time!
Finally, we delude ourselves into thinking we are good at things when we are not. For me that is writing poetry. No matter how many times my poetry has been shot down, crashed and burned (and that would be every time!), I still feel compelled to dabble in it on occasion, usually when a dark mood, brought on by personal angst, strikes. It’s not pretty or pleasing to anyone but me, but it serves a purpose: a form of emotional retching. And where’s the harm in uttering a few overly dramatic refrains and mixing multiple metaphors if it makes me feel better?
Similarly, where’s the harm in a few delusions? The stark realities of aging would likely be unbearable for most of us if it weren’t for the little delusions we entertain. It’s not like we’ve got one foot solidly in Delusion and we’re trying on Crazy with the other! Is it? (Hmm, I wonder…)
The Sugar Shack
22 Dec 2011 4 Comments
I was stunned and saddened yesterday to learn (when Larry dropped me off and promptly left) that my favorite store was CLOSED for renovations! It was grounds for using a swear word (especially when I realized that it was cold outside and I would have to walk a couple of blocks to find somewhere else to hang out until he could come back and get me!). I didn’t swear. I had already used up my one allotted swear word earlier that day when I accidentally poured eggnog on my Rice Checks, but that’s another story…
It was disappointing that Goodwill was closed because I had been hoarding my receipts and had finally earned a twenty dollar off coupon. It’s hard to explain to anyone who doesn’t suffer from superstitious obsessions the implications of that, but I’ll try. You see, whenever I have earned twenty dollar off Goodwill coupons before (it takes me anywhere from six months to a year) I have stumbled upon the most fantastic finds, veritable treasures of useful, beautiful things that I could never afford, such as a Pottery Barn wool hooked rug (originally costing $400) which ended up costing me only ten dollars with the coupon. I was giddy with anticipation, but not solely because of the coupon.
There is something special about a thrift store at Christmas time. For one thing, they are usually jam packed with interesting things to look at and other, like-minded people who share a passion for re-purposing unwanted items. For another, everyone is usually very friendly, easy going and happy to be there. I know this may be met with some disbelief. Who could possibly be happy rummaging through other peoples’ junk and discarded goods? Well, I would say just about everyone in the place! It’s like a self-help group for the terminally cheap.
From the clerks to the patrons, people are singing along to the music playing in the background, usually some fifties or sixties tune. Some are even showing off their dance moves in the aisles. And they’re pretty good! Granted, some of them may be drunk, and a lot of them may be crazy, but there’s a good time to be had by all.
Larry and I recently visited Canon City, Colorado (home to Colorado Territorial Corrections Facility- complete with a Prison Museum and Gift Shop for visiting masochists; you have to hand it to the locals, they leave no marketing stone unturned!). But that’s not why we were there. Larry was helping out one of his hotels and I was just tagging along.
When visiting a new place, I look for thrift stores and junk shops like other people would look for tourist attractions. And I wasn’t disappointed here! Larry saw the sign at the same time I did as we drove by. “DO NOT go to Goodwill!” he said, looking at me sternly, “I won’t be that long!”. He would much rather I’d go to Hastings, which is saying something!
I dropped him off and went back. This Goodwill was in an old building in the downtown district, which made it all the more interesting for some reason, maybe the anticipation of there being really old stuff there. Inside, the crap was pleasantly arranged and tightly packed. It was a small store, but they fit a lot in it. The clothing was color coded on circular racks, which I thought was a novel approach for a Goodwill. It almost felt like a regular store. The clerk was dancing and singing to a catchy little song called, The Sugar Shack, which I came to learn was by Little Jimmy Gilmer and the Fireballs.
There’s a crazy little shack be..yond the tracks…And evr’ybody calls it The Sugar Shack…
I was a little worried about what I would hear next. My generation’s music is sadly all about innuendo and the generations’ after mine are just plain ‘in your face’ explicit. But the 60 year old clerk was grooving.
Well, it’s just a coffee house, and it’s made of wood. Es..pres..so coffee tastes mighty good.
I relaxed. The clerk hung some clothes on the red/pink rack and sashayed away.
That’s not the reason why I’ve got to get back…To The Sugar Shack. Whoa Baby! To that Sugar Shack. Yeah Honey! Sugar Shack…
Hidden in the back corner of the store in the book section was a little coffee shop of its own. This coffee was free for the taking and huddled around a couple of tiny round tables were, what I assumed from their conversations, homeless people chatting over a warm cup of Joe. There was barely room to maneuver a cart in the place, but everyone did it, politely. Sorry! Oops! Pardon me! inevitably led to Oh, that’s cute! I had one of those ‘back in the day’! Excuse me, which one do you think? Leather’s supposed to be warm, isn’t it? It was the most social shopping experience I’ve ever had and with a bunch of strangers, no less! I was thoroughly enjoying myself.
Sugar Shack…Whoa Baby! I hummed under my breath.
My cell phone rang and I knew it was Larry. “Hello?” I answered hesistantly, the music playing in the background sure to give me away. “Where are you?” he asked accusingly, in that tone that indicated he already knew. “Don’t worry, I’m done.” I replied. And unlike some times when I’ve said that, I really was. I walked out of the store with only a tiny silver musical Christmas tree, a memento of the holiday spirit I had just experienced.
It hasn’t always been like that. This fascination with thrift stores was originally born of necessity and desperation. From house wares to clothing, whatever odd item we needed could be found at thrift stores for a fraction of the price. One day I jokingly told my kids (who have been dragged from birth from one thrift store to the next, so much so that Kate was under the impression, until recently when I had to spell it out for her, that we were going to Good Whale again, not Goodwill) that whenever we need something I just call out, “Good Whale, barf me up yellow shirt!” or whatever it is that I happen to be looking for at the time. Amazingly enough, Good Whale always provides!
I thought about that yesterday when Larry dropped me off at Savers instead (the next best thing to Goodwill). “Good Whale,” I whispered, ‘barf me up a little red sweater.” And lo and behold, it appeared!
There’s a crazy little shack be..yond the tracks and evr’ybody calls it The Sugar Shack…Whoa Baby!
A Normal Mormon
16 Dec 2011 7 Comments
I don’t think about being a ‘normal Mormon’ very often- mostly because I’m not one. But also because where I live, in Edgewood, New Mexico, I’m not burdened with that expectation. To most people out here where we live, all Mormons are a little strange. So following that logic, I live up to expectations just fine!
It’s not until I come in contact with things and people from ‘home’ that I’m even reminded that there is such a thing as a ‘normal Mormon’. Usually it’s when someone from home comes down here to visit and the first thing they notice is that people don’t have acres of well-manicured lawns or tall, stately trees (for the most part) or large, lush gardens. We laugh at their shocked expressions and attempts at compliments, “Wow! It’s very… brown… and natural looking down here,”
There are a lot of things people from home take for granted, water being one of them; a relatively cheap cost of living is another. And basements. Having no need to lock their cars or houses, especially when they are in them, is another. As is the peace of mind of knowing that everyone driving around on the roads with you knows what they’re doing.
I’ve been thinking a lot about home lately, as the time to take Anne Marie up to BYU-Idaho nears. For all intents and purposes, we are taking her ‘home’ for that final and probably most important leg of her education. Larry and I could not have hoped for a better place for her. Our experiences at Ricks, now BYU-Idaho, and working and living in Rexburg were wonderful. We loved the school and we loved the people. They are a good, hard working, honest, and valiant people. For the most part, they are what I think of as ‘normal Mormons’ and I really want Anne Marie to experience living and going to school in a community like that.
Having said that, I’m feeling some trepidation. I woke up this morning thinking about the consequences of exposing Anne Marie to not just the ‘normal Mormons’ but the ‘extraordinary Mormons’, of which there are so many concentrated up ‘home’. The ones who have six or more kids, volunteer at all of the schools, are Relief Society Presidents, teach piano lessons, orchestrate a variety of extra-curricular activities for their children and still have an immaculately clean home and a menu of interesting, delectable meals called things like ‘Mexican Haystacks’ (which are similar to Hawaiian haystacks- just with a different sauce and toppings). These people, and I guess I’m thinking more of the women, are made even more extraordinary by their kind, gentle natures, patience and Christlike conduct.
What is my daughter going to think? That she was jipped, that’s what! And then will come the realization that these are people who have their acts together, unlike her family!
Normal Mormons don’t seem as troubled by drama in their lives. Not that they probably don’t have any, they just cope with it better. Although I used to think that normal Mormons didn’t have problems, I’m older and wiser now! Normal Mormons just comport themselves a little better than the rest of us and tend to do their ‘falling apart’ in private. Unlike the rest of us, who wear our trials like its Crazy Hat Day, they’re quite adept at keeping the ugly things under wraps and smiles on their faces. You’d never know anything was ever wrong.
How do you know you’re not a normal Mormon? If you’ve ever sat in a dark closet and cried your eyes out before or after church, you’re not a normal Mormon. If you’ve ever left your dirty dishes piled in the sink and on the counter for an extended period of time (longer than a day), you are not a normal Mormon. If you do not have at least a year’s supply of food storage and individual emergency 72 hour kits for everyone in your family, you are not a normal Mormon. If you’ve contemplated going on vacation and NOT stopping to visit family in the vicinity, you are not a normal Mormon. If your underwear is actually ‘holey’ and a dull gray color rather than a brilliant white, you are not a normal Mormon.
Yes, I’m worried that after four years in the land of ‘normal and extraordinary Mormons’ my daughter won’t want anything to do with us (that is, me). I’m afraid she will call home one day and say she’s getting married, but not to worry, her future mother-in-law will help her with everything, including my dress- we just need to show up for the ceremony. We will be like the Beverly Hillbillies pulling up in our old jalopy with me strapped into my rocker on top. She’ll scurry us away to make us presentable and pray we don’t start going on about gas- ours, not the car’s, our wonder at how ‘all these ladies manage to have the same hair-do’ and the grass- “Keep your shoes on, for heaven’s sake!” she’ll inevitably say. HEAVY SIGH.
I didn’t intend to become an embarrassment, it just sort of happened. Out here, no one asks what you do for a living, they don’t care how you dress, they don’t put much stock in the car you drive or how your house is decorated. They’re glad to see you if you feel like being social, look you in the eye, ask you how you’re doing and really want to know. Living in what I call ‘the mission field’ has added a dimension to the gospel and my testimony that it never had at home. I’m grateful for that. I’m grateful my kids have had that experience. I can’t say that I’ve heard and seen everything, but there’s not much that shocks me anymore, except maybe snobbery. I’ve come to understand that the gospel and the church are not for perfect people, they’re for the imperfect who are trying to do better. It’s all about helping each other along.
I greatly admire the normal Mormons, though I don’t consider myself one of them, nor ever likely to be one of them. That’s okay with me. I feel like I’m where I belong, where I’m needed, where I can be of some use. If anyone understands what it feels like to stand imperfect against models of perfection, it’s me. I struggle with depression and self-doubt. I struggle with my weight. I struggle with negativity and an inclination to swear. I struggle with forgiving and forgetting. I struggle with housework and being a good mom. I empathize with others who struggle, whatever those struggles may be. But I believe in the power and love of Jesus Christ, in the power of His gospel to rescue us all. I believe there is strength in numbers, and that there is nothing we can’t do if we stick together and help one another. That’s really the basis of being ‘Mormon’. The ‘normal’ or ‘abnormal’ part really doesn’t matter at all.
Comments
28 Nov 2011 Leave a Comment
When you guys comment on a post, are you receiving an email with my reply? Just FYI, I DO reply to each and every comment, so if you’ve left one you should have received an email. If not, I need to know so I can fix that. Thanks! 
The View From My Desk
28 Nov 2011 Leave a Comment
I’m sitting here at my desk, looking out the window (I’ve had a terrible case of writer’s block lately, so Sitting and Staring are about all I’ve accomplished at this desk). It’s a gorgeous, sunny, blue sky kind of day…until you walk out the door and freeze your butt off. It reminds me of the “Pull my finger.” joke. I’ve fallen for it so many times I should know better by now. Beware of Mother Nature and WEAR A COAT!!!
It explains why people from Edgewood, or ‘the other side of the mountains’- as people in town like to refer to us, come into Albuquerque conspicuously bundled up like they’re expecting a blizzard. And why our cars tend to be caked in dust, mud or sporting a foot of snow on the tops. The temperature and weather variations from one side of the mountains to the other are vastly different. Driving into Albuquerque is like entering a whole other world…
Recently, Larry’s parents came to watch Kate accompany the primary on the piano as they sang ‘Praise to the Man’ for the primary program. After church, my father in-law expressed his dismay at the announcements made in Priesthood meeting by one of the ‘old timers’ of the ward: “Brethren, don’t bring your firearms to church.”, which caused quite a stir and no small amount of confusion, as there was a ‘Conceal and Carry’ class taking place that same week.
Larry and I weren’t as alarmed as he was about it. I guess you get desensitized to all the ‘gun talk’ after a while. Nearly everyone out here has guns, which they use on a regular basis for leisure and… well, leisure. Many an Elder’s Quorum, Scouting and Young Men/Young Women activity takes place at the Shooting Range. The ward calendar is arranged around hunting season and jerky recipes are exchanged with more enthusiasm than ‘Better Than You Know What’ cake recipes. Okay, I might be exaggerating. The ward calendar is actually arranged around an annual ward motorcycle/four wheeling trip called ‘Hole in the Rock’.
I suppose that makes us rednecks. Guilt by association. Larry and I don’t own a gun or a motorcycle, but Larry has taken to wearing cowboy boots and buying his jeans at Boot Barn. It’s a slippery slope to building a chicken coop and picking up a goat- you know, just to keep down the weeds. There’s no telling how far it may go. Next Christmas you could find yourself making sage scented bars of goat milk soap to give away as presents.
Speaking of presents, Kate handed me her Christmas list a couple of weeks ago. It was more advanced than any I had seen from my other kids. She’d included pictures of the items and price comparisons from different stores, along with special offers/incentives and cost estimates- stocking stuffers included. Yesterday I received a follow-up email, as a friendly reminder. I don’t know what Kate is going to be when she grows up, but whatever it is, I expect she’ll be good at it. Hopefully, she’ll make a ton of money, too, and take us on Hawaiian vacations when it gets cold. Of course, we’ll have to find someone to milk the goat…
‘Tis the Season for Nastiness
16 Nov 2011 10 Comments
I am SO looking forward to the holidays this year, more so than in years past. I’m even contemplating putting up the Christmas tree for Thanksgiving. Yes, I’m crazy! I’ve been eating way too many of Anne Marie’s ‘to die for’ biscochitos and I have several Christmas present sewing and craft projects in the works. This year we are planning to do some service as a family at Casa Esperanza, a hotel of sorts for cancer patients and their families while they are receiving treatment at the University of New Mexico Hospital. I am excited for all of it!
But is it just me, or does there seem to be a bad case of ‘Nastiness’ going around these days? With party against party, candidate against candidate, religion against religion (and let’s not forget the Jerry Springer, Housewives of Wherever, and other like reality TV programs based on contention) it’s hard to ignore it.
The other day, Anne Marie came home in tears from a rough day of work at the dollar theater. She’d dealt with a lot of rude customers and a verbally abusive manager, who all took out their frustrations on the theater employees. At her second job, a gym for women, all the money she had been collecting from clients for a Thanksgiving food drive suddenly disappeared. Gone!
Larry’s response was, “Tis the season of Nastiness.” The kids and I were confused. What was he talking about? This was the season of pilgrims and Indians, Santa and elves, turkey and presents and, oh yeah, baby Jesus and wise men! Isn’t this supposed to be the season of gratitude, giving and peace on earth, good will toward men? In Larry’s experience working with the public, the holidays seem to bring out not just the worst in people, but the worst people, period.
I guess this term is quite common. In an interesting coincidence, there was an article in the Washington Post about Mitt Romney. It was titled, “A Nice Guy in a Season of Nastiness” and detailed the account of his kindness toward his unfriendly foe, Rick Perry during his most recent crash and burn in the debates. Rick Perry’s attacks on Romney’s religion have been particularly vicious. Like Romney, or hate him, as Rick Perry seems to, you can’t take that kindness away. It made me smile and think.
There have been some ugly public incidents of anger and just plain meanness at church recently. There have been some hurtful rumors circulating. There have been personal attacks made against others doing their best to serve in their callings and a general lack of consideration by those being served. As our family wrapped up our latest reading of the Book of Mormon, a couple of verses in the second to the last chapter kept running through my mind.
In these verses, the prophet, Mormon, is lamenting the sorry state of his people (mostly of their own doing) and fearing for their literal, physical destruction. He says, “…for they do not repent, and Satan stirreth them up continually to anger one with another.”
“Behold, I am laboring with them continually; and when I speak the word of God with sharpness they tremble and anger against me; and when I use no sharpness they harden their hearts against it; wherefore, I fear lest the Spirit of the Lord hath ceased striving with them.”
“For so exceedingly do they anger that it seemeth me that they have no fear of death; and they have lost their love, one towards another; and they thirst after blood and revenge continually.”
We don’t have a Lamanite army poised to destroy us these days, nor am I aware of many of us that are ‘out for blood’ – literally. (I guess there’s that delusional vampire crowd… and drug cartels. Oh! And gangs. And terrorists. Maybe there are a lot of people out for blood these days!) But all around us, and even where it has no place, like at church and within our own families, there is an undercurrent of anger.
You see it in the disregard of law and the rights of others in the Occupy America movement. You see it in the sports arena. We are constantly bombarded with reasons to be angry and ‘egged’ on by one faction or another. But we are also constantly being cautioned by a living prophet and apostles, as well as by local church leaders and teachers to beware of these snares of the adversary: pride, ingratitude, selfishness- and pleaded with to follow Christ and keep our covenants, lest we fall to a different kind of destruction of a spiritual nature.
Do we listen? I’ve wondered. Do I listen? Do I ‘tremble with anger’ on occasion? Oh, yeah! Or do I just harden my heart- against wise counsel, against those who give it, against those who have offended me? I’m probably more guilty than most. I have a sharp tongue and an equally sharp sense of justice and when I feel like something is unfair, I’m all over it like flies on a cow pie.
Lately and more frequently than I’d like to admit, I’ve caught myself thinking ‘dark thoughts of revenge’. I find myself dwelling on offenses and constructing potential ‘come backs’ in my head; words and acts with retaliatory stings. I find it hard to ‘like’ some of the people I associate with, let alone ‘love’ them.
Nastiness, as it turns out, spreads like wildfire from one person to the next, growing in both in size and ferocity with alarming speed. Misunderstanding sparks misunderstanding. Harshness sparks harshness. Judgement sparks judgement. Anger sparks more anger and revenge more revenge. On and on it goes, taking down everyone and everything in its path.
A fire out of control is frightening thing to behold. I’ve seen a few of those in my lifetime. The destruction left in its wake is even more sobering. After the Yellowstone fires in 1988, what was once one of the most beautiful national parks was left a charred and smoldering wasteland. It saddened those of us who had grown up visiting the park each summer to see it so hideously scarred. I felt compelled, in a twisted sort of way, to buy a souvenir- a t-shirt showing Smokey the Bear asking campers arriving at a burnt out campground if they would prefer smoking or non-smoking- just so I would never forget the tragedy.
Unfortunately, we do forget. We snipe at one another with no regard for the damage we’re inflicting. We engage in gossip, as either the originators or the perpetuators, with little thought for the consequences. We hurt and offend others with thoughtless words and deeds. It must be sad to our Father in Heaven and our Savior, Jesus Christ, to see us playing with fire, burning ourselves and others, and starting blazes that will grow exponentially and ultimately, be impossible to contain.
The Book of Mormon is a history lesson taught by prophets of god, meant to save us from the terrible fate that befell an ancient people. ‘Beware of these things, lest ye also fall’ it says to me. ‘Nastiness’ is only one of the potential pitfalls we are warned about, but I can’t help but thinking it must be key, one of the most important for us to learn, coming at the very end of the book, as it does- the words of a prophet to a deaf generation written for the benefit of another, whom he hoped would listen.
It’s not easy to ‘turn the other cheek’, to ‘return kindness for unkindness’, to ‘take the high road’ or ‘be the bigger person’. Maybe that’s why they’re called ‘expressions, things we say, not necessarily things we do. As followers of Christ, however, doing as he would do is the very expression of our love and dedication to Him. Sometimes we justify our bad behavior. “They had it coming…” we think. “I’m not as bad as some people…” we rationalize. But as Disciples of Christ, these claims are hollow. We are held to a higher standard. And we know it.
I don’t want it said of me, by the prophet(s) of my days, as Mormon said of the people in his, “…they are alike brutal, sparing none…without principle and past feeling…” That’s not the kind of person I want to be. That’s not the kind of society I want to live in.
Do I think it’s possible for us to turn this ‘Nastiness’ around and take back the reasons for the season, one person at a time? I can’t help but think that if each of us would focus on doing that in our own circles of family, friends, church and community that it would have a dramatic effect. Instead of taking to the streets in a show of anger, let’s ‘occupy’ each other’s hearts with Christ-like love. Who’s with me?
In Lieu of a Better Idea…
07 Nov 2011 4 Comments
In lieu of a better idea, I’ve decided to post what I’m anticipating will be the first chapter of my novel, The Welded Link. It’s not as ‘gripping’ as a first chapter should be, I’ll admit, nor typical of the rest of the chapters in the book, but I believe it’s necessary to set the stage for the rest of the story. I could be wrong, however, and so, I reserve the right to change my mind at any time, for any reason that suits my fancy! Never fear, there is a gripping chapter close on it’s heels, which some who’ve read the story feel should be the first chapter. We’ll see what you think, if I can manage to keep you reading after this!
You may notice something unusual in this chapter in how the main character is written. I’m not going to tell you what it is, other than to say that it was done intentionally. I’m curious to see if any of you will ‘complain’ about it. 
As always, I appreciate and look forward to hearing your thoughts, comments and opinions- whether you complain, or not!
THE WELDED LINK
Chapter One (Tentatively)
A Burning Question
“Miss Castle, are you gonna teach at this school ‘til you die?”
Well that’s a new one! Miss Castle mused, grateful that she was facing the blackboard and not the children. The question had left her flabbergasted. She thought she’d heard everything, but apparently, she hadn’t!
It hung in the air like smoke from a stink bomb. The concepts of ‘teacher’ and ‘dying at school’, used together in the same sentence, had a disturbing effect on teacher and students alike. The little dark haired boy who’d ‘launched’ the offensive question sat at his desk worming his index finger around in his nostril, in an equally offensive manner, watching her closely.
An unnatural silence fell over the room as twenty-one pairs of eyes looked up at their teacher at the same time. Finding the tables ironically turned, Miss Castle squirmed uncomfortably under the scrutiny of her class as they waited for her reply.
Ah, first graders, Miss Castle thought, smiling grudgingly, as she looked from one curious face to another. They are honestly charming and charmingly honest. They were the reason she enjoyed teaching. Each new school year promised to be as unique as each new student.
Luckily for Miss Castle, first graders have short attention spans and the question went forgotten when the dismissal bell rang a moment later. At least the children had forgotten it.
The question was still on Miss Castle’s mind, however, as she walked into her friend’s classroom next door. She looked up from her thoughts in time to catch Jared West stealing a kiss from his soon-to-be wife, Miss Melanie Norris, Miss Castle’s best friend and co-worker. Walking in on them so frequently now like this, it should have no longer come as a surprise. Even so, she blushed, covered her eyes, and turned to leave.
“Sorry!”
“Wait! Come back!” she heard Melanie call behind her.
But Miss Castle pretended not to hear and walked briskly down the hall to the classroom of Lucy Christiansen.
Miss Christiansen was engaged in a serious conversation with one of her second graders, a red-headed boy named Henry. He stood before her, somewhat slumped and defeated in posture, his head and eyes downcast.
“Now Henry, the next time you feel like picking a scab, please come up and ask for a band aid instead,”
“Yes Miss Christiansen,” he answered sheepishly.
“We were lucky Beth made it to the garbage can this time. I really hate to clean up vomit, Henry.”
“Sorry, Miss Christiansen. I won’t pick ‘em anymore.”
“Thank you, Henry.” she replied, patting the poor boy on the arm.
Miss Castle exchanged sympathetic goodbyes with Henry as he passed.
Lucy Christiansen was warm, but firm, and very proper. Her appearance, posture and manners were always impeccable. Having a knack for being politely blunt, Miss Christiansen could say the most difficult things in the nicest of ways. Miss Castle admired her friend’s qualities, sometimes even borrowing one or two of her choicest lines to use with her own students.
The initial need to share Jonah’s burning question with someone was quickly squelched by Lucy’s own news.
“Guess what!” she said excitedly.
“I don’t know. What?”
“I’m going to buy Nana’s house!” Lucy said, her eyes flashing with excitement.
“Of course, Nana will still live there, but it will be mine!”
“I’m happy for you!” Miss Castle replied, sincerely.
Lucy had lived with her Nana from the time she’d entered college and the ten years since her graduation. It wasn’t Miss Castle’s idea of independence, but to each her own, she decided with a sigh.
“I’ve told you that you’re welcome to move in with us.” Lucy said, mistaking the reason for the sigh. “There’s plenty of room.”
Miss Castle stifled a laugh. Lucy was kind, but the big old house taken over by decades of kitschy bric-a-brac was not her idea of ‘home sweet home’.
“I like living on my own,” Miss Castle declared.
Lucy looked at her friend doubtfully.
“I don’t know of a single soul who really likes being alone all of the time,” she chided as she began vigorously disinfecting the classroom surfaces.
“I’m not alone all of the time! I’m surrounded by twenty-one children all day long for nine months out of the year!”
“You know what I mean.” Lucy Christiansen said, arching her fine ginger brows.
To the contrary, Miss Castle found she liked being alone. There was something liberating about not having to account for her activities to anyone. If she wanted to eat left over Chinese food for breakfast, she could. If she wanted to watch obscure foreign films with subtitles, who was to say anything about it?
“I’ve rented ‘Gone with the Wind’ for tonight,” Lucy said between fumigations, “Its Nana’s favorite. She found this recipe for a non-alcoholic version of a mint julep, and I think she’s making a pecan pie. Why don’t you come over?”
Lucy tried her best to tempt her friend, even venturing into her Scarlet O’Hara impersonation.
“Why I do declare! There isn’t a more handsome gentleman in all ‘a Colorado than Mr. Rhett Butler!” she said batting her long eyelashes wildly.
“And I suppose you’ll be expecting him to show up on your doorstep just in time for a slice of pecan pie?” Miss Castle mocked dryly.
“I surely will!” Lucy replied, still in character, fanning herself with a Lysol-coated paper towel.
“I wouldn’t dream of intruding on that, but thanks!” Miss Castle said, coughing slightly as she got up to leave. She should have thought twice about interrupting Lucy’s compulsive after school cleaning ritual.
An evening with Scarlet, Lucy and Nana sounded nothing short of entertaining, but she felt the need be alone to think.
Although innocent enough, Jonah’s question weighed heavily on her mind. Could she see herself teaching at Eden L. Harvey Elementary school for the next, say, thirty five years or so? The school had stood as a landmark in downtown Pueblo for decades. Would that to be her fate, as well? Perhaps she found the thought so disturbing because it could actually happen! She had no trouble picturing her friend Lucy doing just that.
Teaching in Pueblo hadn’t necessarily been her dream. It had just happened. It was the idea of living several hours away from her parents that had been appealing.
With Jonah’s question on her mind, she had to ask herself if this was where she pictured herself growing old. At twenty-seven, she hadn’t really given that much thought.
There was nothing like the impending marriage and departure of a best friend, and the swan dive into spinster-hood by another, to get a single school teacher thinking about her life. Melanie Norris would be marrying at the end of June and moving to Denver to begin a new life with Jared. Though genuinely happy for her friend, Miss Castle would miss her terribly. They had started teaching at the school at the same time and connected immediately. Their principal dubbed them the Dynamic Duo of First Grade, refusing to call them anything but Norris and Castle. But while Castle had buried herself in night school, Norris had become involved in the program for single adults at church where she’d met Jared. Norris had tried everything to get Castle to go with her to the various activities and to set her up on blind dates with Jared’s friends, but Castle always used night school as an excuse.
Now that the master’s degree was hanging on the wall, Castle wondered apprehensively how she would fill her free time.
“Castle!”
She turned to see Joanie Lee, the principal, walking swiftly down the hallway toward her. Joanie was somewhat knock-kneed and swung her arms wildly when she walked, making her stride interesting to watch, especially when she wore one of her signature drapey knit suits. Mrs. Lee was a tall, sturdily built woman in her late fifties with short gray hair and piercing blue eyes. She always looked and sounded as if she were in a hurry, whether she was or not.
“We’ve had to move Norris’ bridal shower to Thursday. Will that be a problem for you?” Joanie said breathlessly, finally catching up to Castle.
“No.” Castle replied off-handedly.
“Is she still here?” Joanie gestured to Norris’ door.
“Yep, but I would knock first!”
“Up to that again, are they?” Joanie chuckled.
Castle nodded.
“By the way,” Joanie said, handing Castle a paper, “here’s your contract for next year. That master’s degree helped your salary quite a bit!”
Castle looked at the figure on the contract.
“Thanks.” She said, lacking enthusiasm.
“Something wrong, Castle?”
At Castle’s silence, Joanie led the way into her empty classroom and shut the door behind them.
They sat down on two of the desks in the back row and Joanie proceeded to pull out one of the small chairs on which to rest her feet.
“Spill it.” She commanded.
“Nothing’s wrong, necessarily,” Castle hesitated.
“Is it Norris leaving?” Joanie probed.
“Well, I have to admit that’s probably a factor.”
“You and I both knew it was only a matter of time, Castle,” Joanie said. “Norris is an outstanding teacher, but for her it was only temporary. Her dream job is to be a wife and mother.”
Castle smiled. Joanie knew Norris well.
“Jonah Parkinson asked me if I was going teach here until I died,”
She expected Joanie to laugh. Instead, the older woman looked at Castle with a piercing blue gaze.
“I take it the thought of that is bothering you?”
“Well, I…who thinks that far ahead?” Castle asked, somewhat discomfited.
“So the answer to that question is…?” Joanie prompted in her brusque way.
“Well, no, I don’t want to die here- in Pueblo.”
“Then what do you want to do, my dear Castle?” Joanie asked, sitting back, contemplating her swollen, misshapen ankles as she waited for the answer.
“I guess I’d like to see what’s out there, live and teach in some interesting place.”
“And where would that be?” Joanie asked as she turned her toes out, and then in, evaluating her ankles from both angles.
“Guam or China or something, I don’t know!”
Joanie pulled her feet in abruptly and looked Castle in the eye.
“There are a lot of creepy crawlies in Guam, Castle. You’d hate it,” Joanie said with a smirk, reminded of Castle’s hysterical reaction when a snake got loose during a recent show and tell, “and I hear Chinese is a very difficult language to master. Are you really serious about that?”
Castle shrugged, “I don’t know, probably not. I just threw it out there.”
“You and Norris are like my own kids, Castle,” Joanie said with a sigh, “and so I’ll say to you what I’ve said to them. There comes a point when you need to go after what makes you happy.”
“I don’t even know what that is,” Castle replied, mystified. It sounded foolish to her to consider leaving a perfectly good teaching position in pursuit of something as hazy and illusive as ‘happiness’.
“Give it some thought. It’ll come to you. Think of it as an adventure!”
“Are you trying to talk me into quitting my job?” Castle asked accusingly.
Joanie did laugh this time.
“Not until you have another one!”
Technical Difficulties, Otherwise Known as ‘Oops!’
31 Oct 2011 Leave a Comment
Due to the technical retardation of this writer, I somehow, inexplicably, mysteriously ended up losing half of the Remind Me post as I published it! I’d really like to be able to use the line, ‘I experienced technical difficulties beyond my control’ , but in all truth, it was completely my fault and the click of the wrong key that did it. Hours later I was able to reassemble it, though not in it’s full glory, and republish it. I had not listened to my wise husband’s advice to write my posts on Word first and then transfer them. Had I done that, I wouldn’t have lost it and had to start all over. Note to self: LISTEN TO YOUR HUSBAND!!!
Garrison Keillor has a true story of accidentally leaving a first draft and only copy of a manuscript years in the making in the men’s room of a train station. He immediately went back to get it, but it was gone. He always felt it was his most brilliant work and he could never recreate it no matter how hard he tried. From the ‘ashes’ of that experience came the phoenix that is Lake Wobegon, an American masterpiece!
So, I guess I’m in good company- in losing a piece of writing, not in creating an American masterpiece!
If you are a subscriber and only received a partial posting (which you did, but didn’t know it), you can read the complete Remind Me post by clicking again on the title in the automatic email sent to you. It will automatically refresh. As in Mr. Keillor’s case, my ‘first’ draft was infinitely better, but, alas, it’s gone forever and my second try just wasn’t the same. OH WELL!
Thanks to all of you who have been reading. It makes me work harder to be a better writer and I really appreciate the motivation of knowing it’s going to be read. I’ve had 326 views of my blog so far, surpassing any expectations I had when I started it! Thanks again for your support!
My name is Rebecca Reynolds Colson, and this is a running narrative of my thoughts as I try to balance my love for writing and other interests with my roles of wife and mother and my desire to live a life of faith. The title of the blog was taken from the title of a book of essays I hope to write someday for my kids, to give them some perspective on 'that crazy lady' that raised them!
