Under Construction, Again

This time, it is I, and not my blog, that is under construction.

I'll be back soon.

Thankful Thursday is a Friday for me this week. But it's better late than never, right?

The past couple of months I've been talking on the phone with a former roommate of mine more regularly than usual. It has made me, once again, grateful to have such a person in my life. Never mind that we met "randomly" in an off-campus apartment at BYU over 35 years ago. Never mind that she lives far away from me now. I love her like I did then. It seems such a long time ago that we would lie on our backs on the lawn on campus, staring at the sky and contemplating the universe, and talk about what we planned for our lives. Thirty-five years later, some of what we dreamed has come true, but much of it has been wildly different from what we thought would happen.

Ah, the hubris of youth.

When I hear her voice on the phone, it is as if no time has passed at all. We share joys. We share sorrows. Just as we always did. So today, I count myself blessed to have had a "happenstance" meeting with her so many years ago, which has become a life-long, true friendship.

Fabulous and FREE!

Hey, gang! Bob's talented and lovely cousin, Suzanne, is starting the year off with a giveaway of her newest tote. Many of you have commented on the ones I have, and this one, I CAN PROMISE, is as pretty and perfectly crafted as those. Hop over to http://www.justanotherhangup.blogspot.com/

and put your name in the hat for this baby. You might be the lucky one!

All Dogs Go To Heaven

1991

2008

If you've been following our blog, you know about our Beagle named Bo, who we bought for our son, Scott, when he was just 4 years old. I was not keen on the idea of all the responsibilities of having a dog. But Scott's pleas (check out the smile) won me over. And so, Bo became a part of the W clan. When Scott left for his mission two years ago, he said his goodbyes to Bo, which he believed to be his last. After all, Bo had at that time been with us for 15 years, was becoming a bit old and feeble, and to take for granted that he would be here when Scott came home wasn't a good idea.

Toward the end of Scott's mission, however, it became evident that there may be a chance of Bo's waiting it out. It became a sort of countdown for the family. Would Bo make it?

Scott returned home on December 23, two days before Christmas, and Bo died on December 31, New Year's Eve. I don't pretend to know the workings of a dog's brain, or what they think if, indeed, they do think. But I DO know that Bo had a keen sense of what this family, or any individual within it, needed at any given time. He knew when the kids wanted to run and have him chase after them. He would play and chase until the kids got tired.

Then there was his bark--it said many different things, depending on the pitch and dynamic he chose. One bark could say, "Hey, have you forgotten about me? Where's the frisbee?" Another would mean, "Oh, goody. The guy who lets me run around in the garage is home." Another bark could remind us, "I'm a person, too, y'know. Gimme some of that barbecue!" And my personal favorite came out in a quiet, soft little squeal. "You seem to need some lovin'. Can I sit with you?" Only near the end did we not communicate with him very well. His age impeded him a lot.

Bo was a great dog for a little boy. And it didn't take long before he found his way into the hearts of the rest of us.

G' nite, Boey. Doggy Heaven is a little sweeter

with you there.

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.

"For unto us a child is born, unto us a Son is given.

And the government shall be upon His shoulders,

and His name shall be called Wonderful, Counselor,

the Mighty God, the Everlasting Father,

The Prince of Peace."

--Isaiah

Merry Christmas, Everyone.

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!

Lost in Disneyland

We recently returned from a fun trip to Southern California, where we met our kids and kidlets at Disneyland. I admit it. I love Disneyland. It's the "happiest place on earth," just as Walt wanted it to be. The unfortunate thing is that we forgot our camera. So, I've lifted a few photos from Lisa's and Jenni's blogs. Click on their names if you'd like to see more, or if you'd like to take a look at a couple of pretty fabulous blogs. Each represents it's author's own unique personality beautifully. Mine? Well, no personality at all, or multiple personalities. Pretty scary either way. Anyhoo, below are some of my favorite pictures from our trip.

Trevor (9 months) lovin' his Dad

Trevor, a scary pirate at the Blue Bayou


Luke (4) and Brandon (9) with Buzz


Luke, just a tad too short for this roller coaster ride


Brandon, Lisa, Luke


Lisa, who has a thing for Mickey


Not sure where this was taken, but I could eat this baby up!


Grandma and Grandpa W with Luke and Brandon
getting SOAKED on the Grizzly Rapids


Jenni and Brandon at Toy Story in California Adventures


Brandon, Bob, Luke, Jenni and Big Thunder Mountain

Thankful Thursday

I recently read an email from a young missionary serving with the Spanish people in California. I love the way he writes. He starts with Sunday and reports briefly on what he has done each day of the week. I like that, because it makes me feel like I'm kind of doing the walk with him, although he, not I, is certainly doing all the work.

This morning I tried to do the same thing with my week so far, thinking it would be a good way to journal. What did I do last Monday? Tuesday? It's really hard to remember unless I consult my calendar. But this morning, as I was getting a hair cut, I had made a decision about how to designate Thursdays.

Here's a little background. I've been having some back problems for the last little while. My daughter calls her two bulging discs Bill and Hill. I have not yet named my two. (Perhaps we should have a contest?) In any case, they have been rather angry at either me or each other lately. So, I finally gave in and located someone who could come to my home once a week and do house cleaning for me. Her name is Lilli, and she's capable and adorable. What relief for me, right? Well, not so much.

Back to the hair cut this morning. Inexplicably, I found myself fidgeting and fussing until I was finished and out the door. What in the world was wrong? FINALLY, I pinpointed what I was worried about. I was concerned that I wouldn't get home in time to clean up before Lilli came to clean up. How utterly nuts is that? But there it is--out in the open. A stress magnet, I am. Totally and completely.

Over the years, I've often heard acquaintances tell me, "You seem so calm all the time." WHAT? Surely they can see the smoke pouring out of my eyes and ears, notice my flaring nostrils, observe the continual popping of the Rolaids, my firehose of choice when I can't get to some Mylanta. I must deserve an Oscar. Of course, the stressful side of me doesn't shock people who know me well. As Abraham Lincoln said, "You can fool some of the people all of the time, and all the people some of the time, but you can't fool all the people all of the time." So true.

So about my plan for Thursdays. Driving home, I ruminated a little and thought I'd hit on a really good thing. Since I was already going to be stressed about Lilli, I could start Thursday morning, call it Stress Day, and devote it to all my worries. It makes sense, right? I could pick anything or anybody that I'm worried about and just do it. I could do it all--pace the floor, whimper, make repeated trips to the watering hole, hide under the bed, do what I do when I'm overwhelmed. I'm already in the mode. I might as well do it all at once. And sort of like the missionary I mentioned earlier, I could just report, "Thursday, I worried." Case closed.

It's funny how the mind works. (Some would not use the word "funny" when describing the workings of my brain, I'm certain.) Whatever. Just when I had hit upon a workable plan for Thursday, I realized that Thursday is Thankful Thursday. And my plan went up in smoke. If I choose a day to give myself permission to "stress out," it cannot be Thursday. Why? Well, it's rather magical. I simply cannot experience negative emotions while focusing on my blessings. It can't be done. It's one or the other, sista, but not both.

So today, no more worry. Today I'm just thankful. For what, specifically? Well, let me begin. For America, my country. For the blessed gift of being an American. I'm thankful for her system of government. It isn't perfect, but it is pretty darn close. The process by which she is governed is breathtaking to me. And it is carved out of faith and determination and a sacrifice so great, it is difficult for us, its benefactors, to comprehend. I'm thankful for Lilli, who is taking a burden from me that I can't carry for a while, who, without being asked will make a bed I haven't gotten to or organize toys that haven't been put away, even though it's really not in her job description. I'm blessed to have a husband who convinced me I needed Lilli and whose gentle breathing during the night assures me that he's still here. I have a home and the necessities of life. I have all I need.

When I was in college, I studied a writer by the name of James Joyce. His style was interesting in that he tended to write in a stream of consciousness mode. Whatever he thought, he wrote. As I stopped the last paragraph above, I realized this is a totally James Joyce post. Apologies all around. Hopefully you can connect all the awkward segues. But I have re-learned something today, and rest assured that my gratitude is continuing in my head.

HAPPY BOO DAY!

Autumn on Main Street

A few days ago, I was doing some shopping in the town just north of us, and I noticed a parade of scarecrows dotting Main Street. I drove home, grabbed my camera, and talked my husband into driving me back to Scarecrowland so I could take some pictures. I suppose I could have driven back myself, now that I think about it. But it was a lot more fun barking instructions to my poor hubby. "Stop here." "Ok, I've got that one; now pull up to that one." "No, this isn't working. Go up just a little bit." "Now, stop right after the light." "Can you back up just a tad?" Poor Bob. There are so many things he didn't sign up for when he married me. But with him doing the driving, I could snap the pictures without getting out of the car. And you can sort of double park for a second in a small town, y'know. These photos represent about a third of the scarecrows that are displayed on this street. Even though there was a rather harsh wind yesterday, most of the 'Crows came through it unscathed. I love the things this town does on Main Street throughout the year.

Happy Autumn!

Bloomin' Tuesday

We are fully into fall at our house, so our blooms are going to be hibernating until spring. However, here's a photo of blooms that will take me through the winter! This is a picture of flowers my husband bought for me while we were visiting the Hawaiian Islands a few weeks ago. The flowers were purchased on the island of Maui. The "Bird of Paradise" is exquisite. The red flower is a type of orchid grown in the islands. This bouquet lasted over a week and was still blooming when we had to discard it. Truly beautiful.

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!

The Hills are Alive . . .

Although this photo doesn't do justice to the mountains behind our home, it is a glimpse of the color changes that are taking place right now. One of the reasons I love the Fall season.