Spice cake and Harrison Ford

Tuesday is the 25th anniversary of the day my father passed away.

If you haven’t read the story, you may find it right here. It is more in my nature to remember birthdays rather than deathdays. I typically choose to celebrate the life of someone I love by doing something I knew they loved to do or something that reminds me of them, rather than heading for the graveside. My family thinks I don’t pay proper tribute, but it’s just the way I’m wired, I guess. (It’s certainly the way I would hope people would choose to remember me.)

But twenty-five years. That’s an awfully long time. So I’ll compromise. Tuesday–not hisbirthday–will see me baking his favorite spice cake from scratch and a double batch of caramel frosting. (Maybe with a side of ice cream.) I’m not quick enough on the draw to steal the frosting right from under from my kids and eat it while they’re not looking, but that’s OK by them.

I was dropping by to visit cabesh today (don’t you love her new look?) and I saw this: [insert photo of Harrison Ford looking like my grandpa]
I was more than a little freaked because in this picture Harrison Ford looks exactly like my Grandpa, my father’s father. He was a rancher in the little town of Randolph, Utah. He died a couple of years after my father did, only of a broken heart.

When I was a child, my parents would pack up all eight of us into the Chevy Impala station wagon–no seatbelts–and drive straight through the then 16-hour drive from Eugene, Oregon to Randolph every summer around branding season. And work our butts off. It was great fun. I will forever associate the blended aromas of OFF bug spray and sagebrush with the tall silent cowboy who was my grandpa.

One year we went during winter and we arrived in the middle of the night. I was too excited to be there to actually go to sleep so when my grandpa got up at about 4a.m. to start his day I went with him. It was just the two of us and we tossed bales of hay over the side of the pick-up to feed the cattle whose pastures were covered with snow. I learned how to drive in that old truck. Long before I was old enough to actually tap the brake or lay on the gas pedal with my foot and see over the dashboard at the same time. But I still managed to get it from point A to point B and live to tell about it.

My favorite story about my Grandpa Rex is one from long before I knew him. My grandmother isone powerful woman and she will not hesitate to give you a piece of her mind. She had 11 children and a ranch crew to feed every day. Inevitably there would be those days when she had been cooking all afternoon for literally dozens of people (picture this–no electricity, no KitchenAid, no nothin’) and he and the crew would arrive late for dinner. As the story goes, on days like that this tall dark and handsome cowboy would stride across the room without saying a word and sweep my 5-foot-tall grandmother up off her feet and plant a big kiss right on her mouth. So he wouldn’t get chewed out.

Smart man.

Overheard...

At the church parking lot as we pull in to indulge in our Sonic Slushes under the shade and notice a guy teaching his girl how to drive stick in his Mustang…

Hey! I’ve got minivan. Take that Mr. Stang!
–from my newly licensed 16-year-old son

Over the phone…

When the game is over, the kings and the pawns both go back in the same box.
–my husband’s friend from high school, going on 20+ years in the Army

At an unidentified someone’s unidentified office…

Why doesn’t someone tell the Nazi receptionist to chill?
–from a 20-year-veteran of a certain company when she had a difficult time being connected to a certain former co-worker. (The details will remain sketchy to protect the innocent. Let’s just say it couldn’t have been phrased any better).

On “The Tonight Show”…

So God tells Moses he wants him to build an ark…
–Jay Leno to Wanda Sykes on “The Tonight Show.”

Note to Jay’s agent: Why don’t you book Jay on “Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader?”

In the news…

When it comes right down to it, a Mormon’s strength is human. A Christian person’s strength is superhuman. I want (a president) who has that extra on his side.
–Marty Thomas, a bookstore clerk in South Carolina.

On my 11-year-old niece’s T-shirt…

What would Hermione do?
(If you ask me, Hermione should run for President.)

And finally, the comment of the week:

In response to the post of the week…

The trick is to have them think they are married to a Melanie, all the while giving them the excitment of a Scarlett.
–Suedonym

That's gonna leave a mark

When I was a child—I have no idea how old I was at the time—I went fishing with my family. Eldest daughter to a father who spent a lot of time at work so he could support his family, I cherished any time with my dad, especially if it involved being outdoors.

On that particular day my father landed what is likely one of his biggest catches ever—me. If you’ve never seen a fishhook then you need to know that in order to actually land the fish, hooks are by necessity barbed. Read: they go in much easier than they come out. This one caught me on the inside of my left calf. And it hurt coming out.

I still have the scar.

When I was in college I dated my now husband for several years before we got brave enough to actually tie the knot. During that time we both enjoyed a variety of intramural sports available at the university we were attending.

When I played, he would practice with me. One year it was all he could do to keep it quiet when I accidentally hit a softball so hard and high it broke one of the top floor windows in the nearby physical education building. When he played I would cheer the loudest and was perfectly willing to keep score, yell at the ump, or go fetch fly balls. One season the ball went under a chain link fence. So I did too. As I came back out, the fence caught me right across the top of the knee. It was mostly just a flesh wound; but it certainly left its mark.

I still have the scar.

Since I have become a wife and a mother, I have dutifully attended the requisite family reunion campouts with the in-laws, just as my husband has attends those with my family. And I put a lot of thought into what I’m going to prepare to compete in the annual Dutch-oven cook-off. Maybe too much thought.

One year the entrée was to be a divinely seasoned Atlantic salmon that I knew was sure to win. But as I stepped up onto the cook-trailer to sauté the garlic and butter I felt a pop in my right knee. And I almost passed out from the pain. I limped around after it became bearable enough and completed my entry. Two weeks later I went into surgery for a scope and came out having had an ACL repair. That one goes down as one of the most grueling recoveries I have ever endured. My knee will never be the same.

I still have the scar(s).

Of course I have had many other experiences that have also left their marks. There is the scar across the bottom of my left foot from stitches I got one summer night when I was horsing around in the back of a pick-up truck and I stepped on a broken Coca-Cola bottle. And a couple of varicose veins I picked up during various pregnancies (outside left knee). As well as the hole in my left calf from where my sun-worshipping youth caught up with me well on the way to melanoma.

Under my sk*rt hide the remains of a few wounds I have suffered, memories of a life l love living. Some came about during good times; others during not-so-good times.

A lot of people believe scars are ugly. They don’t want to look at their own and they are especially careful to hide them from view. But to me, my scars are beautiful. Behind each scar lies a story. And those stories make me who I am–girl, daughter, sister, girlfriend, woman, wife, mother and friend.

What are you hiding under your sk*rt?

(The preceeding is my entry for the latest contest with Parent Bloggers Network over at sk*rt. Want to play? You can vote for my entry over at sk*rt –just click on the big number at the left of the entry. You can leave a comment and tell me what you are hiding under your sk*rt. Or, if you want to submit an entry yourself and become eligible for prizes galore you can follow this link for contest details–in which case you can still vote for my entry, too.)

s 

The storm or sunshine of every moment

This is how I have often described my favorite (and only) daughter since she was about three. It was then that I both embraced and steeled myself for the fact that this little girl was going to make my life interesting. And so she has.

Some of you may remember being introduced to the lovely L~ when I wrote about her cutting herself shaving. Or perhaps you may recall the curious incident of the Christmas hoodie. If you were to meet her on the street you would see a girl, tall for her age, clad in boys shortsand whatever shirt she could find. She might look away rather shyly; or she might flash you her beautiful smile and say “Hi!” (If I were to meet her on the street she’d probably roll her eyes to the heavens and heave a heavy sigh.)

Oh but there’s so much more. The truth is that while she is willful (and I still maintain, particularly for a female, there has got to be an upside to that quality), she is also a lot of fun. And today happens to be her birthday. (I can hear my friend Jan, who shares this birthday, telling me again and again, “She’s a gemini, I tell you. You just wait!”)

L~ is one of the most successful tomboys I have ever known. Which is saying something, because I was quite the tomboy myself. One of her favorite sports is football. She is the only girl who plays football with the boys at recess. Once one of her male friends forbid her to run at full speed when she played, stating that it wasn’t fair. The was the same boy who tried to convince her she shouldn’t do a project for the science fair, either. I’m proud to say that on both counts she did what she wanted. And that’s OK with me.

She is also an excellent athlete. She once was recruited for a competition-league soccer team based solely on her performance during her first city-league softball game. One of her best assets: she’s not afraid of the ball. (Hence her first soccer coach had her play goalie.) Once during her older brother’s city-league baseball game–she was about eight at the time–she caught a hard-hit fly ball with her bare hands. The crowd cheered. Her brother was impressed. And I’ll admit it; moments like those make me quite proud.

But she is also a good friend. L~ has this interesting ability to be friends with different groups of friends and, despite the difficulties, somehow making it work. One of my favorite memories is last winter when we took a group of 10 and 11-year-old girls down to the Utah Lake to pick up some trash for a service project. The lake was still frozen except for just around the edges. L~ thought it would be fun to go out on the dock. That did require a few steps through the ice before one got onto the dock. Everyone was game except one girl, but that didn’t stop L~. She simply picked up her petite friend and carried her through the wet and icy part and set her on the dock. So she wouldn’t be left out. (Click here to view photo.)

The school district here gives something called “The Great Kid Award” every year. L~ didn’t win, but she was nominated and seriously considered and it was for this: There is a boy in her class with whom she has been friends for a number of years. He has a troubled home and little encouragement with his studies or homework help. As a result, he has struggled through school since he started. According to L~’s teacher she has been a great help to this boy over the past year, challenging him in a way that only she could, and encouraging him to live up to his potential. And the teacher has noticed some remarkable results.

Knowing she has the capacity for these kinds of kindnesses is what helps me get through those moments when L~ pushes my buttons in that way only a pre-teen daughter can and uses her verbal skills to wrench the knife she occasionally stabs through my mother-heart just a little bit harder.

So a big Happy Birthday to my beautiful daughter, L~. I look forward to watching her grow into womanhood. The forecast calls for partly sunny skies scattered with some severe thunderstorms.

Don’t bother with an umbrella. It’s going to be a wild ride.

Happy Birthday L~

I know it's sideways, but it remains so even when I save it after turning it right. Sometimes you have to be smarter than the darn computer. And I'm not.

If you have stumbled across this looking for compulsive writer, the post to which this photo belongs may be found at my new home at compulsivewriter.com.

I can't wait until I'm eight!

Happy Birthday today to my baby K~. He’s a little big for me to call him that, but he’s my youngest so I’ve warned him he will always be my baby.

Eight years ago today I gave birth to my smallest child, K~. My doctor laughed at me because when she told me he was only 8 lb. 15 oz. I said, “Finally, a tiny eight pound baby!” We never find out what we’re having, but I knew he was a boy and he was a sweet one at that.

He was one of my best eaters and sleepers too (although the sleeping part is relative). He quickly put on weight and had the cutest little pudgy cheeks–just like big soft peaches–and feet. I remember one day I was holding him in the hallway at church and someone came up to me and gave the little fat pads on the tops of his feet a squeeze and looked at me and said with a smile, “Now that’s just criminal.”

K~ is very loving and affectionate. He loves to cuddle good night and again first thing when he wakes up in the morning. Still. This is a blessing and is compensation, I believe, for my currently having to deal with the joys of three teenagers at the same time.

When he was learning to talk he would love it when I played rhyming games with him and we would make up silly sentences with the same rhyme time after time. It was sublime.

As K~ grew older he developed a love of reading and used to insist on a bedtime story no matter how late it was. And he would want to read the same book over and over and over. Now he likes to read the comics with me every night before bed.

He is fun to cuddle and I often say to him, “Can I keep you?” And he usually tells me, “Yes.” He takes after his mother and is a bit of a social animal and he loves to roam the neighborhood looking for someone to play (that you have to look is the downside of being the youngest and having older siblings four years apart). He seems to do alright for himself, however, and has had a steady girlfriend since he was about four.

He looks a lot like his big brother Z~ and it to no end amuses me when someone who has grown up and moved away from the neighbohood comes back and sees K~ and calls him Z~. If only time could hold that still, especially when there are little ones involved.

Currently K~ is captivated by all things Star Wars. This is a new interest in his life after three solid years as a devoted Spiderman fan. He just got a Darth Vader mask and microphone for his birthday, so we spend frequent moments on the dark side these days, but whatever makes him happy.

K~ recently got his own e-mail account. The following is a sampling of his correspondence with his mother:

Subject: bad news

my fish died. we had it for a long time.

Subject: hi

I love you. Did you have a fun time. Can I get a game cube. Can i have five buces.

From me (in the same room as he is, but on another computer): Happy Easter to you, too! Did you get lots of candy? I can’t
believe you ate it all already!

From K~: yep

From me: Did you even get to taste it?

From K~: yep

From me: Can you say anything more than “yep?”

From K~: nope

I look at him now and then and wonder where my baby has gone. But I am thankful that I knew enough to enjoy his babyness while I could. Now I am trying to be patient enough to sit back and watch who he will become.

Happy Birthday K~!

Overheard...

At the ballpark last night after I got a little too frank with the umpire regarding a bad call…

Sheesh. You have smart mouths for fans
–a spectator (because there is a difference between spectators and truefans) to one of my daughter’s teammate’s mothers

In prayer over the French-dip sandwiches I had made for my son and his friends, the brothers Reid, and their dates for their Friday Night Date Night (ask me how much I love it that because they were in my home and not a restaurant they felt the need to offer a prayer over dinner, even on a date)…

And bless us no one will get hurt and we won’t do anything stupid
–the eldest brother Reid

At the end of their prayer, which was quite appropriate given the youngest brother Reid had just thrown the eldest brother Reid’s date smack down on my living room floor…

AMEN!
–me, from the other room, laughing in hearty assent