Homecoming

Scott arrived home, to a White Christmas, on December 23. Click on our house, and you should be able to see the sign on the garage a little beter.

I had planned to be the essence of decorum, but it all fell apart when Lisa identified his legs and said, "That's him, Mom." As you can see, another mother was running, too, as she got to her son a second or two ahead of me and is right behind us in this photo. We couldn't help it--that Mom Automatic Response System just took over.

A BIG hug for Scott's best bud. Though it has been a rough

couple of years for his Dad, he's here and in one piece.

Scott's face says it all.

And the overall hands-down best shot of the day,
9-year-old Brandon and Uncle Scott.
Priceless.

It's Official!

Be still, our collective hearts. Last week, we received a letter from Scott's mission president and Scott's flight plans. He will be home on December 23. Merry Christmas to Us!

Memory

I apologize for the length of this post, but I am nothing if not wordy. This morning I hopped into the shower to, well, shower and wash my hair. Everything was going swimmingly until I tried to put some shampoo in my hair. It didn't want to go in. Usually, I get a nice sudsy foam. Puzzled, I tried again. But the shampoo just wouldn't fire up. Suddenly, I realized that I had forgotten to let the water run on my head. My hair was bone dry. Have you ever tried to wash dry hair? Well, I'm here to tell you that it doesn't work. I actually chuckled at my memory-lapse. It reminded me of a time not long ago when I was clearing up in the kitchen, and I put the cereal box in the refrigerator and the milk in the cupboard. Hmm. . . . . I suppose I should be worried.

An interesting thing, memory. This morning, prior to the incident above, I was lying in bed, listening to the comfortable, familiar sounds of my hubby, getting ready for work. He does his best not to wake me, knowing that it's been many years since I have had the opportunity to sleep in. But today I'm not asleep, just quiet. Listening. Listening, thinking, letting my mind go where it will, remembering.

My Dad was a most beloved Dad in the neighborhood in which I grew up. He was fun and he was funny. He could lift one eyebrow to a giant peak without moving the other at all. He could say a sentence-full of words with a mere adjustment of his face. He could change his accent to reflect a language other than his own, right in the middle of a story. Ah, yes, my friends loved him.

He was one of the few fathers who in winter, when the snow was packed on our quiet neighborhood streets, would tie my sister's and my sleds to the back of the car bumper and pull us around the block. He would start out driving very slowly, because he knew that as he passed the houses, children would run out with their sleds and ask if they could go along. Dad would stop the car, tie a few more sleds on, and start out again. One trip around the neighborhood produced quite the string of sleds. And if you were the lucky youngster to be last on the rope, it was heaven. Because when my Dad added as many sleds as he thought safe, he would speed up a little and take the corners with the widest of berths, causing the last few sleds to whip like a mad alligator's tail. The challenge was to stay on your sled. If you didn't, he'd stop and wait for you, but if you managed to stay on . . . it was . . . simply awesome.

I remember years later, before I was old enough to drive, Dad would always be willing to drive me and my friends to whatever function we needed to attend. He would tell jokes and make faces that crippled us with laughter. One time, when we started out with a fully-loaded vehicle, (that was before seat belts and believe me, we were stuffed in there) he glanced at the girl sitting next to two more of us in the front seat and said, "Hey, Linda! What are you sitting on over there? Your imagination?" As usual, laughter ensued.

My father was killed in an accident when I was in high school. It has been a very long time since I've been privy to his wit. If I allow myself, I can bring the tears on, even now. I SO miss his face. But I have wonderful memories of laughter and light, granted to me by my short association with my Dad. And today I'm thankful for memory.

Still Happy, Still Tall

We're missing him a little, but he says the time is going too fast.

Batten down the hatches, maties!

Our Girls

Two more grads at LaVell Edwards Stadium, coming early and staying 'till the last tick of the game clock.

Hmmmm. . . the apples don't fall far from the tree, do they?

Dog Days of Summer: Putting the Baby to Bed

By now you probably know that we have a dog, a Beagle named Bo. He has lived longer than we ever expected--he's about 119 in dog years. He doesn't hear very well, and we're noticing that his sight isn't the best. He doesn't get as excited as he used to, and he sleeps a lot. I have expressed on this blog before how this little tri-colored pup has burrowed into my heart, which is an amazing thing to me. When we bought him for our four-year-old son almost 17 years ago, I simply tolerated him and was pretty proud of my aloof attitude about it all. But I quickly learned that dogs are called man's best friend for a reason. And I'm pretty stuck on Bo.

Though he is old and slow, Bo still clings to his bark. I remember the first time I heard him bark so many years ago. I flashed Bob a look and asked, "What's that? Does he have something stuck in his throat?" I was told that no, he's a hound, and that's the noise hounds make. Well, he still sounds like a hound, but he's quieter and he doesn't give it the effort he used to. Which leads me to the purpose of all of this.

One evening several weeks ago, at about 9:00 pm, Bo began to bark. I have to tell you that barking is a process with him these days. He starts out with little short under-his-breath "woofs", warning us that the next one just might be for real. He reminds me of an old car that has to warm up before taking to the road at full throttle. On this particular night, I heard the pre-barking grunts, but didn't think much of it, other than it was a little late. Both Bob and I ignored him. We thought that whatever was bothering him would go away momentarily. It didn't. Soon came the full-blown bark, every five seconds or so. Bob and I looked at each other, a little mystified.

Suddenly, I was having flashbacks. Flashbacks of babies and toddlers who didn't want to go to bed. I had hopped through C. S. Lewis' magic wardrobe and had found myself in Mommy mode. "Bob," I ventured, trying not to sound totally out of my mind, "Maybe he just needs to be told it's time for bed. Why don't you go out and talk to him?" Bob gave me the incredulous look I expected, but like the good husband he is, he did as I suggested and walked out to the back yard. When he returned, I asked him what had happened. He said that Bo was already in his dog run, standing up, watching the house. He saw Bob coming, but he didn't move. "Did you talk to him?" I asked. "Yes," answered Daddy Dog. "I talked to him." We didn't hear anything from Bo for the rest of the night.

We now have a new evening routine. Every night, at 9:02, 9:04, or sometimes 9:08, Bo begins his goodnight bark. And Bob wanders outside and tells him everything is ok, it's time to go to bed, and he should go to sleep now. Bo studies Bob's face, then turns toward his doghouse, goes inside it, and lies down. And he is quiet until morning.

Yep, Bo continues to let us know he's part of our family, and as long as he doesn't start demanding a two o'clock a.m. feeding, I think we'll keep him.

Signed, Sealed, Delivered

August 5, 1975

Salt Lake City

My Mother's Day

Yesterday, I spent a few hours with my Mother. I lost my Dad in an accident when I was a teenager, and I’ve always considered it a sort of “payback” that my Mom has led a productive and LONG life.

She’ll be 96 years old next month. The last few years have been rough for her. She is dealing with the effects of PPS, or “Post-Polio Syndrome”, which seems to come back to haunt those who contracted polio during the epidemic of the 50’s. PPS has taken away the limited mobility she was left with when polio chose her in the first place. Little by little, she has become weaker, until today, she doesn’t walk without great effort, and she loses her balance and falls a lot.

I often find myself thinking about what my mother loved to do in her early years. As a child? Sledding down the hills of eastside Salt Lake City! Making snow paths in her front lawn and laughing with glee! As a beautiful young woman? Tennis! Swimming at Santa Monica Beach! Ice skating! Inspecting historical New Orleans on foot! Striding down South Temple Street on her way to her banking job. Running! Always moving! And moving fast!

She contracted polio when I was three years old, so I don’t remember my Mom with any of the above capabilities. But yesterday, after I had finished cutting and styling her hair at the rehabilitation facility where she is nursing a broken leg, I began the 60-mile drive home and though about what I do remember about her. Being principled and honest. Guarding her personal integrity as if it were a priceless treasure. Persevering. Remaining strong in the face of many adversities. Carrying on, no matter what.

Did I ever see her skip along a sandy beach? Or run after an errant tennis ball? No. I honestly hope to some day. But I did se, every day, and up close and personal, her example of things far more important.

Thank you, Mom. This is your day, and you are loved.