Fowl Memories

When I dropped Jenna off this morning, I noticed several seagulls appeared to be basking out in the field.  The sun was just starting to peak its head over the horizon. It had rained earlier.  I’m certain that the lawn was wet.  I suppose they could have been looking for worms

I was reminded of Roland’s answer to all of his children having asked, “Can we take one home?”

And Roland would answer with, “If you can catch one, you can take it home.”

The boys would wear themselves out as they chased the birds around – never having caught one, though I would imagine Biff came close.  He’s an animal charmer, that one.  Perhaps his magnetic charisma works just on the mammal group in the animal kingdom.

I have home videos of both Jenna and Kayla approaching ducks and watching the ducks move at the same pace.  With Kayla, it was near the temple grounds in Idaho Falls.  Jenna was much younger when she sought out a particular bird at WheelerFarm

I remember hearing stories about a family picnic involving Corey, Kayla, mom and dad.  I was told they were eating blueberry pastries of some kind.  A seagull swooped down and took the remainder of somebody’s dessert and from what I understand, Kayla cried.  I don’t even think it was her dessert – the fast action of the bird had scared her.

When I was in high school, I took a psychology class.  We had learned about Pavlov’s dog.   The instructor’s wanted us to do a similar experiment using pigeons.  We were divided into groups of four or five. Each group was given a pigeon.  We were told to mark the pigeons so that we could know with certainly which group went with what pigeon.  I remember someone from my group had drawn glasses on the pigeon.

Pigeons are stupid birds.  At least the seven pigeons that became a part of our psychology class.  At first the teachers thought we were not taking the assignment seriously, that we were not putting in our best effort, that we weren’t fulfilling our part of the experiment. We kept at it for two weeks.  But as all seven birds failed to accomplish whatever we were trying to get them to do (it wasn’t ringing a bell and salivating) the instructor’s finally agreed that they were stupid birds.

Perhaps the Background Will Tell You

I’m a close-up – zoom-in-on-the-face type of gal.  But as I tackle my new project of cropping over 900 photos (It might be to a thousand) I have caught myself looking at things in the background.  Particularly in the old photographs.  Dads Bel Air Coupe, the yard we’re standing in, the couch before it was reupholstered, when there was a kitchen wall with window and no back room, etc.

Sometimes the background will offer a clue as to what year it was taken.  And if there is a Christmas tree, I would say it’s safe to guess the picture was taken in December.  And if I find a date or place on one photo and I see we are wearing the exact same things in another, I think it’s safe to assume the two may have been taken at the same time.

My paternal grandmother designed her house – created the way she wanted it to look.  And then one day she had to give it up and move into a condo that was closer to where I lived.  I could and did ride my bike to grandma’s condo on occasion.  I missed her house though.  I missed the space.  I missed the discoveries.

Grandma sold her house after my baby brother and cousin were born.  We have pictures of them both wearing yellow – babbling in turn as though they were having a conversation.  Although only one month apart, Edmund was twice as big as Corey.  Corey looked more like a doll next to Edmund.

I wish my younger cousins and siblings could have enjoyed grandma’s house and be able to share in the same memories as Patrick and I as well as two of our cousins.  When you’re little, you somehow believe things will last forever. Even when you’re not so little.  When you’ve had something as part of your life on a daily basis that you somehow take it for granted that it will always remain.

And now I face the same nostalgic challenge with my own mom’s house.  The house I grew up in.  The house that will belong to somebody else and become more of a distant memory for me and my sibs and our children.  Kayla’s two children won’t remember it at all.

We used to have a door with a window built into it.  I’d forgotten about that.  I was reminded when I looked at a photo with some ugly curtains hanging over where the window was.  I loved that window.  I was sad when we had to replace the door.  A peep hole isn’t near as exciting as an entire window.

Often it is the backgrounds that help me decide when the photo might have been taken.  I know approximately when we added the back room.  I don’t remember when we replaced the back door – or why.  

I had included this picture in an earlier post.

You know how sometimes you can get your picture taken at a certain attraction and you can obtain a copy of that photo on t-shirt, keychain, mug or what have you.  Back when this picture was taken, the draw was to have it made into a postcard.  It was through this photo that mom recognized the same background as the one in possession of my neighbors.  Turns out that his dad and my great uncle were pals.  Because of the background and putting the pieces of the puzzle together, we were able to identify who each person was.  Before the background discovery, our neighbor’s had never known who the little boy was on the grandfather’s lap.  Turned out to be my uncle Dick.  And this is of my great uncle and paternal grandmother.

I had also found a photo of Patrick in which he was sitting at a pavilion which to me looked like Hogel Zoo – but as there are several pavilions all throughout the world, I had no way of knowing for sure if it even was a zoo or a park or family vacation or a day trip or what.

As I continued through the photos, I found one of Patrick, Kayla and me in front of the seal display.  Patrick was wearing the same ugly shirt which he had been wearing in the pavilion.  So I think it is Hogel Zoo – and Kayla appears to be five or six and so that gives me an  year.

We may have felt stylish in the 70’s – but we weren’t.  It seems somewhat embarrassing to look at what we wore. ALL of us – even our conservative dad who kept his crew cut for many years and had not parted with his plaid sports coat until death.

I’m sure there’s more to come as I continue to crop and organize and rename and file.  Driving myself down memory lane.  Smiling occasionally with each memory while shedding tears with others realizing it will only be a memory now.  The house hasn’t been the same for the last year – especially for mom. It hasn’t been mine for over ten years now.  But now it’s more permanent.  It won’t belong to any of us.  It will become a thing of the past.

It Amazes Me What I Can Remember

          It’s been almost 40 years since Jill and her family moved out of my mom’s neighborhood.  They are the first family that I remember having moved.

          It’s only been in the last couple of months that I got in touch with Jill through facebook. She has since moved back to Utah. I told her about mom and made arrangements for us to visit.

          And so the other day Jill drove to mom’s house and we visited for a while.  She told me how she and mom had spent many a days visting at each other’s houses.  And made it known (for the first time) that her youngest had had a crush on me when we were younger.  Really?!  Because I had had a crush on him and wasn’t aware that he had felt the same way until Jill took us to lunch.

          I think the greatest thing was watching mom’s recognition when Jill first arrived – like nothing had changed.  But time has changed us all.  And mom didn’t remember doing lunch once we left the restaurant.

          This is a picture of the two kindergarten classes, the principal and the two kindergarten teachers.  It is the only colored class photo in my possession.  The rest are black and white squares.  But all the “class pictures” that I have are not just class but entire grade.  I like is that the picture included everyone in my grade – and not just the class I attended.

          I don’t know if mom wrote the names on the back of this particular photo.  I forgot to scan them in if she did.  But I actually do remember.  45 years.  53 faces.  And I seriously am able to put a name to 43 of them.  Not just first names, but last names as well. Give me some time and I can get at least 6 more.

          We had a lot of Lindas and a lot of (last name) Nelsons – though I’m sure each was spelled differently.  And I think Paul looks like a cut out.  But they didn’t crop and Photoshop and insert back then.  So probably not. 

          I’m a little embarrassed at not having recognized my neighbor from across the street – I don’t think it’s the best picture of him.  But I was able to pick him out because of the sweater.  5 boys in the family.  I think each of them wore it.  I think it might have even been passed on to the grandkids.  That would really be some super-strength fabric though. 

          I don’t know what happened to Mrs. Cannon.  I always wished that my teacher had been Mrs. Flinders.  But she did not finish out the year with us.  Nor did Miss Nelson who followed her.  No, my kindergarten year unfortunately ended with a Miss Wamsley – I’m quite certain it was Miss.  Can’t imagine any guy purposely marrying that old dragon. She was so bad that even the parents complained about her.

          I wish Jenna could experience the stability that seemed to exist in my own childhood.  I suppose I am able to put first and last names with so many of the faces is because I actually graduated high school with most of them.  Oh, there were the occasional moves – but not like today.

          When I was younger, I could step outside my house at any given time of the day, and there was always at least twelve other kids outside for me to play with.  Jenna doesn’t have that over here.  There are very few children in our neighborhood.  And there are only a few on the street who stay for more than four or five years.  I hope we will be able to move again – but because we want to – not because we have to.

          May I continue with this memory and not ever have to burden my kids with a memory disorder – because it’s rough.

         

I’ve Been Forced to say Good-bye

          Saying good-bye is not always a bad thing.  Especially when it only invites clutter and chaos. In 1985 I was on my mission.  It was my second Christmas in the mission field and my family decided to send me a tape and king size card with greetings from various friends and neighbors from my home ward. 

          A 22X25 poster paper was purchased and folded in half.  My family decorated the front with pictures which represented my personality – a picture of Baloo and Mowgli from Jungle Book (I love Disney’s animated version of that show) Ziggy, a picture of ceramic nativity set, trees and flower in bloom, dance shoes, real mountains (Utah mountains,   not the hills of Virginia where I served) the Salt Lake Temple, dolls, golden plates, scripture  paintings  , and musical icons. 

          In addition to all the magazine cut-outs were two actual photographs.  One was of me with my missionary name tag and the other was a recent family gathering that I would guess Corey had taken (as he was not in it) which included my dad’s mother, brother, sister and their families – or parts of them anyway (my uncle’s oldest two are also missing from the photo)

My 11X14 card contained signatures from so many – it was an honor that my family had gone around with the tape recorder to so many of my ward family.  I think they must have gotten all of them with one devise or the other.  Some would sign my card from self and spouse – and then I would find spouses signature elsewhere on the card.  Some would just sign names without a greeting.  Most were just typical Christmas greetings – but there were some that added personal comments.  Surprisingly, I still remember everybody who had signed the card.

Corey had placed on the back:  “When you care enough to send something better than a Hallmark” and “the Best Homemade Card Company around” – it still makes me smile – and really, it doesn’t take up that much room.  But it’s been bent, torn in places, and some of the pictures have faded.  I don’t really NEED it.  Time to say good-bye.

I don’t know where the tape is.  I have several shoe boxes full of cassette tapes.  Most I will end up throwing away – or use them for recording things I would like right now. I think most tapes contain something that I want – but certainly not all of it.

I remember a couple of people singing Christmas songs on the tape that my family had sent along with the enormous card. One visitor said that she wasn’t aware that I was even on a mission.  It was nice to hear so many voices that had been familiar to me. My family obviously put a lot of thought into my gift and thus I cherished it.  Still do – just not in a tangible way.

There Must Be Uniformity at the Pulpit

          

Shortly after Roland was called to the bishopric, he was asked to summarize a talk that had been given about the conformity of testimonies and submit it to the monthly newsletter – which actually didn’t exist before this particular bishopric. 

Now there are a few people in the ward who tend to drone on and on until the gratitude that is felt in their hearts turns into penetrating boredom on the part of the audience.  Every ward has them.  They start off by expressing what it is that brought them to the podium – and then they take us on a stroll down memory lane, or into their health, or into their entire week.  Gradually the testimony gets lost in their words.  And all eyes turn to the clock and you can almost hear a chorus of silent groans.

Sometimes there is a dead silence and often times the droner just feels it’s his (or her) duty to fill the silence while the audience wonders which is worse: the silence or the droning on and on.

Today it was announced in each first meeting (primary, Relief Society and Priesthood) that if one spends more than three minutes at the pulpit than it is no longer testimony.  And we are reintroduced to five subjects that should be topic of one’s testimony.

I get it to a certain degree – the timing thing.  Sadly, it doesn’t seem to register with the ones who are guilty of running off the mouth.  And though I do have a testimony of the five given subjects, I don’t always feel inspired to share – especially because it now seems so conforming.  I like to hear individual experiences and a brief history of the belief – but not by just one individual for the whole entire meeting.

Sweet Jeff got up to bear his testimony.  He’d written it down so that he wouldn’t stumble.  And yet he did.  He is a member of the special Olympics.  They treat him like he matters, but not all people do.

Our ward mission leader quickly followed him up to the stand, and stood by his side.  The words he used were non-conforming and perhaps out of line with what a true testimony is – but it was real.  It was genuine.  And as he teared up with his plea for prayer support, the ward mission leader stepped closer to the mike and finished reading what Jeff had written.

Before Corey had even decided to go on a mission, my dad had had a series of strokes.  His brain wasn’t able to communicate to his muscles quickly enough to have them do what and when he wanted. 

He had a one or two minute talk, but it had taken him an entire minute just to get out the first sentence.  Corey lovingly put his arms around dad and asked him if he (my dad) would like  Corey to finish reading it.  That moment between Jeff and our ward mission leader triggered those memories.  I started bawling.  But it was actually a good memory – for there had been so much gratitude on my dad’s part – it shined as he told Corey “thank you.”  And I wasn’t the only one crying.  Those who didn’t cry (if any) were definitely in the minority.

Shortly after Jeff sat down, a couple came to the stand.  Roland and I often refer to them as Frank and Marie Barone –though he is certainly way more humble than Frank could even dream of.  It’s just the constant bickering they seem to do with one another.  They genuinely do love one another.  And perhaps their arguments are just playful on their part (well at least on his) it still doesn’t seem in harmony with a happy marriage.

He got it.  His testimony was short, sweet, covered at least three of the subjects.  He was very humble.  His testimony was genuine.  It was nice.

His wife didn’t drone on as much as usual – but she did drone.  Time to sit down, Marie.  Oh, I would not want the bishop’s job for anything.

I enjoy watching the second counselor.  His expressions often mirror my own thoughts.  He looked like he was trying to keep from laughing while the bishop painfully checked the clock.  She finally sat down without his inviting her to do so.

Overall, it really was a nice meeting.  Not a lot of conformity.  I must say I liked that as well.  I realize that I do not go to meetings to be entertained.  But the heart gives me more focus than guidelines do – though I really do understand their purpose.  I just think it’s sad that so many of us have to be asked to conform because there are individuals that just don’t get it – even with the guidelines.  

A Triggered Doughnut Memory

          When Jenna and her classmate left the car this morning, they were talking about doughnuts – more specifically doughnut holes. 

          I took Highness for a walk and smiled as I thought at a memory about disappearing doughnuts.

          My brother Corey and I are nine years apart.  We seem to share a lot in common – particularly food habits.  Eating whatever is quick or handy.  Our kitchen skills were not the greatest. Plus we both appeared to be on the lazy side.

We also have a brother Patrick – who is two years younger than I and our baby sister, Kayla, who is thirteen years younger. They are both survivor’s. And both were quite comfortable in the kitchen from an early age.

         

When we were younger, we used to taunt Corey by saying that Kayla could be out in the dessert and live off the land; she would never go hungry.  Corey, on the other hand, could have starved to death less than three feet from a fully stocked refrigerator.

Afterall she was four and he was eight when he ran down the hall to our mom’s bedroom.

“Mama! Mama!  Kayla is making toast!”

“So.”

“But I’m older than her.  And even I don’t know how to make toast.”

I don’t recall how old Corey was when our family received one of those novelty doughnut makers.  It was actually quite a cool product according to the late ‘70’s standards.  Patrick had made dozens of doughnuts (note: only two doughnuts can be cooked at a time) and Corey decided that it was going to be his turn.

He had asked my mom if he could make doughnuts.  She said “no” – but he pressed her.  I don’t know if she finally gave in or if he just chose to disobey.  But the girl from across the street had come over and he decided that they would make doughnuts together.

He obviously did not follow a recipe as he used at least one cup of baking soda.  The doughnut batter had already been poured into the doughnut maker when Patrick and his friends (also from across the street) and I watched as he tried to impress Becky with what would be the first doughnuts he had fully made by himself.

The look on his face was priceless as he opened up the container and the batter he had worked so hard on had disappeared – except for a tiny bit of residue in the bottom.  Becky lovingly scooped up what was left and held it to her mouth and tasted it. 

“This is really good,” she said in a pathetic attempt to make Corey feel better. 

The look on mom’s face was quite hostile.  She had specifically told Corey NO and there was really no way we could salvage the rest of the batter (did I mention he had doubled the recipe?)  and we all sensed that Corey was going to get a beating so severe that we might all feel the pain from it.

But then Becky’s brother laughed about his own memories and said, “It’s alright Corey.  We all make mistakes” and then proceeded to spit out every bad thing we had ever done – burning experimental dinners, hiding food (I specifically remember half a roast and a turkey) in his room and then forgetting about it (but an unpleasant odor would reveal what he had done and he would get into trouble for it), lighting the grass on fire . . . the list went on and on.

It was quite a few years later when my mom said Becky’s brother probably saved Corey’s life that day.  You’d think after all those horrifying memories she would have wanted to strangle us all – except she was laughing with us.  Except for the grass fire.  That had been way to close to the house.

I think Corey and I have both gotten better in the kitchen.  Still not our favorite haunt.  But we won’t die of starvation.  I don’t recall what happened to the doughnut maker.  

Finding Time for Family Portraits

          My mom had always made arrangements for family portraits each year – not that big of a deal when we were living at home.  But after my first brother got married and started having children of his own, and mom’s grown children all had jobs – the portrait scheduling thing became more of a challenge while trying to work it around everybody’s personal schedule.

          It’s funny – because I don’t recall any family photos with mom or dad’s siblings and their posterity – though we attempted at least a few times on my dad’s side.  I think there are at least two photographs – but I have no idea whose possession they ended up being in.  I haven’t actually seen them since the years they were taken. 

          I don’t know when it was that I took over the scheduling of trying to get everybody at the same location at the same time.  Not that I did a terribly great job.  The last time that we did a family picture with my sibs and our posterity was a week before Jenna turned one. 

          I used to keep the photo by the door of our old house.  Everytime Bill (my brother-in-law/photographer that I mention here) would say that we were long overdue for an updated portrait.  Well yeah.

          That’s just my side of the family.  Six weeks after the family photo with my sibs and posterity, we went back east to see Roland’s brother get married.  Roland and all three sisters were there, and we did get a shot of mom and her five children – but that was the extent of it.  We hadn’t tried posing the entire family clan – not that the entire clan was present.

          We did get pictures of a bunch of us when we went to Tucson for his mother’s birthday mentioned in this post but still not the entire gang was there.  I haven’t actually met all of his family.

          Most of the family photos we have are of my family.  They are the ones in all the wedding photos and any additional family portraits we may have taken.

          The last intermediate family picture we had taken was when Jenna was four.  It was taken less than a week before Tony left for Brazil.  The following year Randy left for Portugal.  And now I have a nephew serving in Canada (all LDS missions by the way)

          So this week I have all three of the boys  in Utah and still found myself working around schedules in order to get some pictures done and asked Bill if he’d be able to take family pictures this morning before my first granddaughter (first grandchild) was blessed.  We were still missing three from my extended family.  My nephew (though his family had a large cut out of Mitt Romney with my nephew’s face glued over Mitt’s), my brother Corey and his spouse.  (Wish I would have thought of getting cut outs for them).

          I realized that not only is it harder to schedule, but to actually position everybody and keep them laughing though the position is causing them pain or the baby is getting heavy or running out of shot or what have you.  I am so grateful for my brother-in-law’s willingness to take the time to take our photos – unfortunately he was not in many of them because of trying to get the perfect expressions from our rather large group. There were eighteen of us plus the cut out plus the two that may be photo shopped in with us.  That would be awesome. 

          That’s still not as large as mom’sneighbors (our second family)  who have roughly 35 individuals to work with.  That’s a lot of people.  A lot more schedules to work around.  I don’t know how long it’s been since their last family portrait.  I don’t think they actually are able to get their entire clan together each year – but I could be wrong. 

          I’m grateful to be able to preserve memories through photographs and for the love and support my family has shown one another and working with me to make it possible.  Thank you all.  And thank you Bill!

Journal Jars

I once attended a Relief Society enrichment meeting where we made “journal jars”.  What is a “journal jar”? you may ask.  It is a jar containing questions that will hopefully provoke thought to get written answers one may record in his or her journal. 

Questions like:

“Do you remember your grandparents?  What special memories do you have?”

          “Did you have a favorite radio or TV show as a child?”

          “Tell about the changes you have seen in your lifetime: society in general, technology, fashion, politics, laws, inventions, etc.”

          Jenna absolutely LOVES to explore these questions – or my answers rather.  Often she can answer for herself, but many ask for detail on things that she hasn’t experienced yet such as marriage, parenting, high school, dating, etc.

          The idea of the journal jar is to record memories.  But Jenna loves to use it as a conversation piece or in place of playing games.  And I like that she likes it.

Some of the Places where my Mind takes me

          It’s time to get my hair cut – or at least thinned out.  I feel like I have a heavy scarf draped over the back of my neck.  I have been pulling it back – but some days just don’t seem to matter.

          We’re down to just one car.  Jenna and I have to get up in the morning to leave by 6:30 to take Roland to work.  Jenna stays in her pajamas, wears slippers out to the car, buckles herself in, lies down and throws a blanket over herself. 

          Roland turns the heater on – I usually turn my side down before we arrive to his work (one nice feature which still exists on the car – passenger and driver can adjust to different temperatures) I shut the heater off before completing the journey home.

          We return home one hour before I take Jenna to school.  By that time I have the A/C on.

          Biff and Roland put up the A/C in our living room the other night (on Biff’s birthday actually). We’re expecting rain now.  It always rains after we put up the A/C.  Though yesterday seemed unbearably hot, it’s been quite overcast today.  I see several people out in their yards working – pulling weeds, planting.

          I went out to see my mom.  We used to be rivals when we played word games like Scrabble or Upwords.  Mom was a sore loser, but even a more prideful winner.  It was all in fun. 

         

          That was then.  I continue to play games with her in order to stimulate her brain, but there is really no point in keeping score anymore.  No longer do we share our playful competiveness.   She seems to have lost interest in how to keep score and doesn’t bother looking for points so much as just getting rid of her letters. 

          Seems I need to work harder at getting her to smile or understand a joke.  And we have all repeated ourselves almost as often as she has.  Very little seems to stick with her anymore.  This change is hard on everybody.  And there are some of us who have questioned as to how much longer until I am in her shoes.  (I often wonder if I’ll be there tomorrow – for real)

          I’ve been searching through tapes and taking glimpses of home movies – not really that far in the past.  My mom is more put together and aware of things even just a few years ago more so than now.

          My niece and her husband live in the basement.  They don’t have their own private entrance.  Seems “grandma” is forever locking them out.  And so my niece has learned to always have her keys on her – even if she is just in the yard.

          Just as the weather changes, so do our lives.  Sometimes we can revisit where we were – but often we’re forced to move on or ahead and don’t have the capability of revisiting – not even in photographs.

So Much to Be Grateful for

          This month started off with a funeral.  Roland’s eldest sister had passed away unexpectedly.  But our final moments with her were spectacular.  We had gone to visit the family to celebrate mom’s birthday (which I have mentioned in an earlier post.) 

               

We are all so much grateful that Roland was able to return and that we have been able to meet our expenses – though it has set us back in other ways.  We have been blessed.

And yesterday represented new life as Jenna entered into the waters of baptism.  Something she had been looking forward to for well over five months, as we have attended several others.  She didn’t think it fair that all her friends were getting baptized before she was – although that hasn’t really been the case.  (Have I mentioned that my little girl is quite the drama queen?)

The Spanish ward was in charge of the program.  The opening hymn was “Choose the Right” which was sung in English. The opening prayer and first talk were given in Spanish – with translator for the talk.

Ironically, Jenna just happens to be learning Spanish with her schooling.  Each morning she spends the first three hours receiving instructions in Spanish – so she didn’t really need the translation.  She understood the talk.  And I watched her listen with understanding.  And it was marvelous.

Her oldest brother, Biff, baptized her.  What a great experience for both of them, as he had never had the honoring of performing a baptism before.

I assisted Jenna with getting dressed while Roland shuffled those in attendance to another room (there were four primary baptisms for four different wards;  You may wish to refer to this post  if the words ward and primary don’t make sense to you) and introduced two of Jenna’s uncles who I had asked to sing a few primary numbers in order to maintain the Spirit.

A book of Jenna’s memoirs was passed around so that her friends and family could add their thoughts and advice.  And after everyone was accounted for (Biff had taken a little longer at changing and getting to where the rest of us were) a circle of priesthood holders stood around her, and Randy confirmed her a member of the Church.

It was a beautiful ceremony.  And I am so grateful for the outcome.  And for the strong Spirit that we all felt.

Next week we have a wedding.  Busy month.  And it has just barely started.

Make Every Second Count: You just Never Know

          Two weeks ago we left the state to be with Roland’s family.  We spent most of Friday driving, checked into a room and spent two days there.

          We didn’t meet up with the family until after 4:00 pm on Saturday.  Roland and his brother had both come from out of state to celebrate their mom’s 85^th birthday.

          The eldest sister had actually sent the invitations out in January.  We had told her repeatedly that we just didn’t have the finances.  And just the week prior, we didn’t even have reliable transportation.  We ended up borrowing my mom’s car and our expenses were paid for.

          There was Elvis, and dancing, and hugs, and kisses and a tremendous surprise.  Roland’s mom had an exceptional birthday.  Cameras went off in all directions.  I would guess over 600 flashes – but that’s just a guess. 

          The next morning we posed mom and four of her five children (there was one who was unable to attend) before Roland’s brother and his wife returned to their home state.  More pictures were taken with I don’t know how many cameras.  It is nice to have those memories.  Especially now.

          Last night the family called to tell us of Roland’s older sister’s passing.  It was so unexpected.  I am still bewildered over the news.  Who knew that all of those pictures would show her in her final moments?  Wonderful, happy photographs of the very last memories we will have of her.

          We’d gone down visit before.  Maybe every other year.  Twice to bring mom back for a visit, once for the funeral of Roland’s uncle. 

          I’ve been to a lot of funerals during my lifetime.  Most have been LDS.  I like LDS funerals.  I can’t say the same for non LDS. I think I’ve been to about five that have been of another denomination.  And with each of them it has felt cold and so non-personal to me.  For it seems that anyone could be lying in that casket and the sermon would be exactly the same.

          Not all LDS funerals leave one feeling good about the person or the way the arrangements were made – but for the most part (at least in my experience) LDS funerals are beautiful and filled with love and devotion.  For the most part, even if you may not be familiar with the deceased, by the time the services end, you will know something.

          We sat around for two hours at Uncle Gil’s.  There was a small amount of hushed visiting and family members taking a break for their smokes and returning to the mostly empty pews.

          With most LDS funerals I have attended, there is a viewing beforehand.  And there has always been a line.

          The services are usually done by friends or family members – remembering and honoring those that have passed on.

          The Relief Society (women’s organization) rallies around the family – often providing the family with a meal for after the services.

          Roland’s family doesn’t have any of that.  They could.  But choose not to.  For Uncle Gil they hired a preacher, a minister, a man of the cloth – I actually don’t know what his title was.  A handsome sum of money was donated by the family members who might attend on Christmas and Easter (if that)  It felt as though they were trying to buy Uncle Gil’s way into heaven.

          I think the family would find a lot more comfort if they were to allow Roland and myself to conduct – because we would honor his sister by holding the kind of funeral that I am used to attending.

          I’ve given talks at funerals before.  I spoke at my great-grandmothers, my grandma’s and my dad’s.  I thought my dad’s was wonderful.  I talked a bit about daddy’s childhood and how he had met my mom.  Patrick took over with honoring him as a family man. 

          Corey was out of the country at the time.  We played a message that he had recorded prior to my father’s death.  And Kayla (who was in her last year at high school) sang “My Father’s Eyes” There was music.  It was a really nice service.

          After Bill’s (my brother-in-law) first wife died, I learned things about her that I hadn’t known before her passing. There were some really nice talks at that one as well.

          There are many LDS funerals that seem to go on and on – but as a whole, I think they are nice tributes and find a lot more comfort in them than these “impersonal sermons” as I call them.  I just don’t find the same sense of peace that I do with LDS funerals.

          We are still awaiting details.  But these are my thoughts at this time.  

Triggers and the Mighty Thorn

I have a friend named Heather (actual name) who has this blog  in which she will often ask questions at the end of her posts.  Three of my answers have been so weighed with detail that I answered by email rather than leave a comment on the post, as some of my comments turn out to be larger than the post itself.

 The first question I remember actually sending an email for was when she asked, “What are your triggers?”  At first I couldn’t think of one.  It was ten days before the Christmas tree skirt came out.  There was my trigger.  A horrible memory that I should just get rid of. And yet it’s a busy time of year and replacing the tree skirt is never a priority – and it’s probably petty of me to feel the need to replace it anyway.

Before you can understand the trigger itself, you’ll need some background.

          All too soon after the boys’ mother passed, Roland decided to marry Satan’s sister.  In addition to our three boys and daughter, my husband has two other girls, Francis and Pamprin – whom I wasn’t even allowed to meet until over a year after Roland and I had been married.   

After another two year battle in court, we were finally able to have them for overnight visits – but not every other week.  Roland’s ex did everything in her power to sabotage the visits.  I had so many nicknames for her: the greedy snake, Malificent, Adolf Hitler, the peroxide cow (which in itself is an insult to all cows everywhere) and Satan’s spawn to name a few. 

I sent the following email to Heather:

“The thing that triggers me is the Christmas tree skirt.  The emotions are buried within me when the skirt and tree are put away - but each year we decorate I growl inside. 

“I bought the skirt the same year that Roland's pampered princess spent the holidays with us. It wasn't totally her fault that she was such a brat - her deranged mother catered to her every need - often at the expense of her older sister - whom they both treated like a pack mule.

“I think I actually invited Pamprin to go with me - or rather gave her a choice - she could go with me or stay home with Tony (their absolute favorite brother and probably the only reason they agreed to visitations in the first place) She chose to stay.

So I left the girls with Tony - Jenna included. Jenna was less than a year old.”

“The handyman had come to finish up in the bathroom.  Pamprin was "scared" - called her deranged mother the second I left the house I'm sure.  Maleficent (my nickname for Roland's ex) in turn called the sheriff’s department - who pulled up to our house the same time I did.  I was so mad.  I still get upset about it [whenever I see the skirt].  Maleficent has been a thorn in our side for years.  I have many wicked and unpleasant thoughts because of her interference.  (I think she is bi-polar - for real)”

          Recent news stories about the deranged Josh Powell (one of many stories is found here) triggers up anger to a less-than perfect system – one that failed Charlie and Braden Powell – the same one that awarded custody to Malificent who has robbed the girls of their minds.  She has not attempted to blow up herself or the girls – too greedy.  Needs them so that she has something to leverage with.

I need to get over it – I know.  I should be more compassionate towards her.  She needs professional help.  But it is the girls who suffer the most. 

That is actually another reason why my blog gives a false identity.  Malificent will take me to court if she should ever read my blog and figure it out.  She’s one of those sue happy psychopaths – who often will get her way as the system continues to fail those who are really trying or need protecting. 

I’m not even sure why I have created this post.  It’s not pleasant to read or look at.  It is something that I need to overcome.  Perhaps if I post it for the whole world to see it will provide me some sense of relief.  Some sort of goal that I need to set for myself. Only time will tell.