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.

Thankful Thursday

It has been a while since I've actually posted my Thankful Thursday thoughts. I have to say again that I love this idea and appreciate Mia for the heads up. Whether or not I post my "thankfuls" each week, I rarely forget to take notes.

Today, as I was waking up, I suddenly was very aware of the air outside. It smells like Fall! And once again, I'm thankful that I live in a place where there are such distinct seasons (not that I wouldn't love an even, moderate climate). But Fall is an amazing thing. This season creeps up on me and startles me every single year. One day, it's summer. And the next day, there's a definite nip in the air that signals we're heading for warm, lovely days, and slumber-friendly cool nights. Where I live, much of the greenery is beginning to turn to brilliant yellows, oranges, and reds that in nature's combination are beyond exquisite. It's time to get in the car, drive the canyons and capture the beauty.

Reflection

I'm reflective by nature. It often gets me in trouble. In writing this, I somehow feel I should apologize, perhaps because this forum is better served by levity. But though I love to laugh and am really trying to learn not to take things too seriously, this last week has been one when the bigger picture has been casting a rather large shadow, and try as I might, when this happens I find myself in an introspective, contemplative sort of mood.

I've spent the majority of my days this week among hundreds of 19-year-old young men in white shirts. I'm learning how to teach them some specific skills that may help them better accomplish the assignments for which they are preparing. I cannot find the words to describe my experience with these young men. The truth is, I fall in love a dozen times a day and want to wrap them up and take them home with me. They are truly happy, and it shows in myriads of ways. They are respectful and helpful. They are grateful to learn--anything and everything that will help them do a better job. I often see two together, teaming up to study and practice.

Last night, Bob and I hopped in our SUV and drove over to the new high school in our town. This fall it will open its doors to its first group of students and its first graduating class. The building is stunning. We drove around the campus, and I marvelled at the perfection that is newness--the football stadium, the grounds, even the parking lots. All basically untouched. Then, we parked the car and grabbed the camera, got out, and walked to the baseball field. If a high school baseball field can be described as "beautiful", then this one qualifies. It is fully equipped, ready to go, with newly-laid grass, bleachers, and dugouts. We noticed a lone young man, standing in the batter's box and hitting balls pitched to him by an older version of himself. We stood and watched the boy take his Dad's pitches as we snapped some photos, and we listened to the distinct "ping" when the young man's bat connected with the ball. They use wood bats in the major leagues. In high school, it's aluminum, and there is no mistaking the sound. I pictured the many hours of "pinging" that would soon fill this field.

These experiences do relate to each other for me. And both have caused me to reflect, to ponder, to remember the past, to look forward to the future, and, most importantly, to embrace the present. Oh, those precious present moments. They make the past what it is and can decide what the future will be. Today, I'm thankful for all the present moments in my life that have included the "ping" of a bat and a white shirt, and for this moment of reflection.

Thankful Thursday

May I just say that I love this idea. The credit goes to Mia, and I hope it's ok if I tag along. I need every opportunity I can find to reflect on the blessings in my life. So, first of all, thank you, Mia.

Today is the 24th of July, also called Pioneer Day, and is a holiday particular to Utah. It celebrates the arrival of the Mormon pioneers to the desolate Salt Lake Valley after long, arduous travels by wagon and handcart. They settled there and began to build a dwelling place which today is undeniably beautiful. So on this day my thoughts naturally turn to my heritage, my ancestors, and the great gifts that are mine because of them.

My great-grandparents on my father's side joined the ill-fated Martin handcart company who became stranded in Wyoming in a wicked, early snowfall. Many in this company did not survive. Mine were fortunate enough to be among the rescued and taken to shelter in the Salt Lake valley. My great-grandparents on my mother's side traveled by wagon train. During the journey, the family was stricken with disease, and the children were left as orphans, entering the valley alone. They were then assigned to and adopted by families already settled there.

I often wonder if I would have had the courage to leave comfortable surroundings and head West to the unknown. I honestly do not know. But I do know that I owe my great-grandparents my love, my allegiance, and my everlasting gratitude for their stoic perserverance. I hope that my life will, in the end, reflect their sacrifice.