From Trev, With Love

Last night Darin and Jennifer and Lisa came "home" to Utah County with Bran, Luke, and Trevor in tow.  They dropped Lisa at the hospital in Orem, and she stayed with me until we could take our once-again bruised and bleeding motorcycle survivor (Bob/Grandpa) home to recuperate.  When I opened the door of our home,  we were greeted by the grown-ups fixing dinner for us, and the boys strutting about with glee.  And me?  I'm sure I could have caught a family of polygamist flies right in my wide open mouth.

But, seriously, I can't describe the relief I felt.  I really, really can't.  And even if I could, it would be way too schmoozy.  So let me just say that I was incredibly grateful that Bob would have some food in his stomach soon, and I could drag my tired, sorry self to bed.

Jen had assigned a few little tasks (vacuuming and such) to the older boys.  I don't think my house has ever looked more beautiful!  Remember the boys grinning from ear to ear?  Yep, that's what you feel when you make someone else happy.  It's pure magic.

Trevor did what he always does, follow behind his older brothers, making a valiant attempt to do everything they do.  A tough project for a little guy who is only 2 years old. But oh, how it warms my heart to watch him try.

After we set Grandpa up in a Lay-Z Boy recliner/rocker, we needed pillows.  Many pillows.  Grandpa has a wicked cast.  Luke and Brandon headed straight down the hall to our bedroom and grabbed several pillows from our bed.  We situated them under and around Bob's leg.  It was absolutely perfect, according to our patient, who was still somewhat under the influence.  Of anesthesia.

I felt a tug on my jeans.  It was Trevor.  He was holding a furry, shiny, squarish thing.  Sort of a brownish, goldish non-colored thing.  A pillow.  He walked over to Grandpa and said "Bampah egg dare."  I snuggled Trev's pillow around the cast.  Satisfied, he gave me a "Look what I did!" smile.

But I was momentarily puzzled.  I honestly didn't recognize this pillow.  It wasn't one of our regular white bed pillows for sure and it wasn't one of my collection of accent pillows.  But, it only took me a few minutes to see the light.  Trev had gone all the way downstairs to the big bedroom at the end of the hall in our basement, climbed up on a bed and picked up a throw pillow, the origin of which I'm not certain, because, as every parent knows, when our offspring move up and out all kinds of things surface.  But back to Trevor's journey.  He must have then slid/jumped off the bed, carefully holding onto his find, and carried it upstairs where he presented it to me.  Talk about understanding what was going on.  Talk about the rest of us not paying attention to what our two-year-old was doing on his own.  Talk about stealth!  Talk about sweet!

That pillow now adorns our couch in the upstairs kitchen/dining/fun-of-all-kinds area of our house.  I have passed by the pillow many times today as I have attended to Bob's needs.  And every time I look at it, an itsy bitsy tear tries to make it out of my eyeballs. There, in the form of a square, nubby, odd-colored sorta shiny pillow, is love from Trev to Bampah.

I don't think the pillow will go back down to the basement any time soon.

BYU 23, WASHINGTON STATE 17

I am confident the sentiment on my tombstone will read like this: "She died doing what she loved. Baking in the sun like a huge potato while cheering on the Cougars."

I bleed blue. And I'm a football fan(atic). And BYU's first home game was awesome! During halftime, BYU All-American quarterbacks of the past were honored. I remember them all--many of them were playing football whilst I was a student at Ye Olde School of the Brigham. (An aside. I'd bet money that most of those adorable students who were seated in rows in front of us aren't more than 12 years old. Funny, I don't remember getting older.) But I digress. Again.

May I introduce a pet peeve of mine:  Fans that sit in the stands and yell critical and scathing remarks at their own team.  This year, it started with the very first play of the game.  A man behind me shouted, "AW, COME ON, NELSON!  O'NEILL WAS WIDE OPEN ON THE 30 YARD LINE!  YOU'RE AN IDIOT!"  I resisted the urge to cream him.  I also resisted telling him to go suit up, because, clearly, the team needed his expertise and perfect vision.  There are very few things that make my blood boil, and this kind of behavior is one of them. Whatever happened to the Beach Boys' admonition to "Be True To Your School"?  Harrumph!

I wonder what was going on in this guy's living room last week when Air Force literally took BYU apart.  And during today's game at Florida State.  I shudder to think.  In fairness, maybe he was frustrated about an unprepared lesson for church the next day and was taking it out on the Cougars.  I don't know. I only know that I now must wait until our next home game to see if  "Mr. Mouth" has season tickets.  In those same seats.

Pray for me.

Facebook and Blogging

I've been wondering why some blogs I follow have significantly fewer postings. Even I, an expert at writing/blowing hot air, am not posting on my blog much. And I think I know why.

Facebook. A cousin of the blog.

I really enjoy Facebook. I love that it enables me to keep in touch with so many people in such a short period of time. It's a great way to say "hi" and "I'm thinking about you" on days that are packed full of commitments. I've even found some former college roommates with the help of Facebook. What a fun time we have had, catching up!

And then there is Family Feud on Facebook, the only game I play and my personal way of clearing the cobwebs when I have a lot on my mind. It's nice, occasionally, to put everything important on a shelf, and use my brain cells to try to guess how 100 "randomly surveyed" people think. Pure fluff. As fun as it is, it can go terribly wrong at times. In one game, the question that would make or break a win for me was, "Name something you'd see at a bar." Seven different things? What? Seven? I only got one. The obvious one. "Bartender."

I was then forced to listen to three separate, distinct, and horrific screechings of the "wrong answer" buzzer. If that buzzer could talk, it would be yelling, "Loser!"

But I digress. As always, there are downsides to new technology. I keep my Facebook privacy settings pretty tight, and it isn't my goal to have 1,000 "friends." As I keep repeating, I'm picky about my peeps. And if you can reach me on Facebook, you really are a Friend (with a capital F) whom I care about and love.

I like blogging, too. It allows me to exercise my writing skills, which for a long time have taken second chair to seemingly more important things. The other day, I looked back at our family blog. I was amazed at the history that is recorded there--one entry at a time. It has become a sort of family journal for us. I really like the memories, the feelings, the personal stuff that we write about there. My sweet mother often asks me,

"Are you writing, Judy?"

I finally get it, Mom.

And so, I'll try harder to keep my blog up to date, and still play around with Facebook when I have only 60 seconds to check in with my friends. I think the two can work together nicely.

Is it really August? It's been a very busy summer. Way too busy, in fact.

I just finished a stint at the hairdresser's for a hair cut. Mammoth event. Only T can turn a 20 minute cut into a two hour marathon. She's good. Very good.

But being there for so long, and being stuck in my hot (it's 92 degrees here) car on the way home, caused me to ponder a few mysteries of the universe. Like,

How did my Aunt Christine, who could barely walk, keep such a clean house?

And equally as deep reflections. Such as,

Just because someone says it, doesn't make it so.

(That one frequently manifests itself after a marathon gossip session/hair cut.)

And then, the first line above begs the plaguing question:

Why can I never find my "off" button? Why is it that I will always take on one more project when clearly I shouldn't. Hmmm . . . .

I have no one to blame but myself for that one. And I do that, too. Regularly and well.

As we sail into autumn, and into the holidays (oooh . . . gut check), perhaps I will learn those heretofore mentioned limits of which I speak.

But I doubt it.

Memorial Day

Lately, many people have been very vocal in observing that our children's generation is a difficult one, in that the world is a bit coarser, a bit harder, that commitment is becoming uncommon, and that the media is so available to back up those trends. I agree. I see it, too. But I also see that they are up for it. They are handling challenges. They are not trading their principles. They are being true. How very sweet that is.

Memorial Day has always been a favorite holiday of mine. It's a time of remembering those who have gone before and given so much. And there are SO many things to remember.

Good, good things.

And so, as our family makes its annual "grave-hopping" trek (and I mean this in the most respectful of ways) this weekend, we will find joy from our loved ones, and fun times for us, as we continue to put our stamp on things.

Bob is rolling out the new smoker. Fasten seat belts! Partying ahead!

Apple Day

Today, I'm having an "apple day." That may mean something to some of you. If it doesn't, it's ok. It's all about feeling deprived of something I really want to eat. Chocolate cake, for instance. But there's that apple--sitting on my kitchen counter, waiting to be eaten.

Some days are like that, you know? Feeling deprived, however, is the opposite of being thankful. A thankful heart is never a deprived one. It's sort of like faith and fear not being able to reside in the same environment.

Thankful hearts are totally full. Totally and completely full. Totally and completely and spilling-over full. For me, it's a lesson to repeatedly learn, and at the end of the day, that apple is very sweet.

Care to Translate?

As our six-year-old grandson, Luke, was leaving us after his mom had brought the kids for a visit, he looked straight at me and said, "IN MY WHOLE LIFE, YOU HAVE NEVER KISSED ME ON THE MOUTH!" Then he shmusshed in a little closer to me. I said, "What did you say, Luke?" I honestly had heard it the first time, but I wanted to run with it. "GRANDMA! I SAID, IN MY WHOLE LIFE, YOU HAVE NEVER KISSED ME ON THE MOUTH!" I scrunched down so that I was eye-level with him. He was doing his adorable Luke smirk. "Well," I said, "I used to kiss your face a lot when you were a baby." "On the mouth?" he asked. I replied, "I don't think so." "Well, then, Grandma. IN MY WHOLE LIFE, YOU HAVE NEVER KISSED ME ON THE MOUTH!" Point taken.

I leaned towards him as if to make the attempt. "YUCK!" he said. Of course, I hadn't even touched him. "You know how I kiss you, Luke," I said. Then came the Luke grin sans one bottom tooth. "You blow them to me!" "Yup." And I blew four or five kisses his way. He gleefully blew one back and jogged to the car.

Such a sweet and priceless little boy moment. Thoughts, anyone?

The Farmer in the Dell

A few weeks ago, Bob and I attended a "function," and we were seated next to a couple we hardly knew. While getting acquainted, we had the pleasure of watching an adventure in stereotyping. Our conversation went this way:

The Husband: "So, Bob, where did you grow up?"

Bob: "In Idaho."

The Husband: "Oh! . . . . . . ."

Bob (trying to fill the void, hauled out a long-standing joke between the two of us): "Yes, Idaho. And Judy vowed she'd never marry someone from Idaho, or a farmer, for that matter."

"Me (chuckling): "I was a little . . . um . . . snooty back then."

Pause.

Me: (being the wordy person that I can be in slightly awkward situations): "Yes, a tad bit snooty. But you know, farmers are not what you might think. When we lived in Idaho, I was pleasantly surprised at the people I met and learned to love. They are really very wonderful."

Pause.

Me: "They have a great work ethic."

Pause.

Me: "That is actually one of the things that drew me to Bob in the first place."

What happened next was incredibly funny. Have you ever dug yourself a hole that you couldn't climb out of? Bob and I watched it happen. Gosh, we gleefully let it happen.

The Husband: "Well, Bob, that's interesting. I knew a farmer once. You don't look like one."

Shovel, shovel. Scoop, scoop.

Long pause. We looked at them. They looked at us.

The Wife: "I THINK there was a farmer in the outskirts of our town many years ago.

Yes, yes. I'm pretty sure."

Shovel, shovel. Scoop, scoop.

Bob and I smiled and nodded, but we were silent.

The Husband: "Well, we certainly need farmers. Why, what would happen if we didn't have those kinds of people?"

Shovel, shovel. Scoop, scoop.

Still, Bob and I stayed quiet.

The Husband: "And you really work at a bank?"

Bob: "Yes, for about 25 years."

The Wife: "But you, Judy. You don't come from farm people, right? You're musical!"

Shovel, shovel. Scoop, scoop. Fall in.

All of this only took a minute or two, and it was I who finally had mercy on them. I honestly don't know if they thought they NEEDED mercy, bless 'em. But though I was becoming uncomfortable, I do believe Bob would have let them swing in the breeze a little longer.

"No, I'm sort of a city girl," I said. And I went on to explain where I DID grow up and, my husband told me later, artfully steered the conversation in another direction.

Shovel, shovel. Scoop, scoop. Rather delightful.

And to be truthful, it was Bob's broad shoulders that made me take a second look.

He got them "working out" on a farm.

The Eyes Have It

I have a couple of pretty funny posts rattling around in my brain, but this one is just random, kinda like my day. . . .

I've been a little sickie for a while. This morning, I looked at myself in the mirror and wow, are my eyes looking tired. And my eyebrows are grey! They resemble a bit too closely those of our dear-departed dog, Bo. (There will be no photos along with this post.)

Apparently I wear my troubles in my eyes. Later, I headed over to my dentist so he could have a look-see, and when I walked in, he noticed, and he attributed it to the infection I'm fighting. My eyes were talking.

Many, many years ago, I was sitting in a vehicle with my future-husband's roommate. I forget what exactly we were talking about. It was definitely about Bob, and I was possibly a little frustrated, but the actual details escape me now. I do know he was trying to make me feel better. He finally looked at me and said, "You know, Judy, your eyes remind me of a big old Jersey cow." I was not flattered, and he could tell. He blustered about, trying to explain, trying to cover his bases.

Much later, when I was actually introduced to a Jersey cow, I looked at her eyes. Guess what? They were really beautiful. Trust me. The rest of her, well, not so much. But the eyes, stunning. Only then did I realize what a compliment I had been paid a few years before. I suppose I should look Craig up and apologize, although I'm sure he has long forgotten the episode.

Someone once said, "The eyes are the windows of the soul." Yes, they are. It's a good thing to keep in mind.

Legacy

I was a little under-the-weather yesterday and so spent some hours alone while my husband completed his tasks for Sunday. As is usually the case when it is quiet here, my thoughts take their own wandering path, and often I reflect on things that normally, in the frenetic pace we live, I don’t think about. Quietude. Reflection. Good things.

On this morning, I was able to watch a program of music and the spoken word from the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and the Orchestra at Temple Square. This program has the distinction of being the longest-running live-broadcast program in America. But that’s really neither here nor there for the purposes of this post.

Listening to the Tabernacle Choir, though, and watching them sing this morning, brought on sweet thoughts of my father and the legacy he left me. I lost him when I was very young, only 17, a child really, and the pain of it at the time was almost insurmountable. Over 40 years later, my Dad still touches me, through my memories of his refinement and charm, his kindness, his empathy for others, his laughter, and his music. Sometimes, it still hurts. But mostly, I am filled with gratitude and love.

I cannot describe the program I witnessed and heard this morning. I can’t. It simply defied description. When it was finished, I sat very still and pondered how very different my life would be if I were not lifted by such exquisite beauty. One of the songs was a familiar spiritual, “He’s Got The Whole World In His Hands,” with a soloist from the Choir being backed by the entire group (360 strong). It was breathtakingly beautiful-—in a way I’ve never quite experienced with the Choir before. If you saw it, you’d understand. Believe me, it was a life-changer.

Thank you, Daddy, (and I know you’re close), for leaving me this indescribable gift.

I would not be me without you.

Out With the Old . . .

Bob and I fled the country on New Year's Eve and landed in SLC in time for "Eve" festivities at the Gallavin Center. We took these photos from our hotel room. It was noisy and colorful and delicious and wonderful, and it is the first time in a long time that I've stayed completely awake to ring in the new year. Thanks to my hubby for an absolutely perfectly planned evening!

Happy New Year, everyone!

City of Peace

On Christmas Eve this year, Bob and I found ourselves in a situation we haven't experienced since our marriage. We were without family. We twiddled our thumbs for a bit and then we grabbed the camera and drove through our town, and snapped some photos of the lake that lies right smack in the middle of it. Enjoy!

Ooooh, we love it here!

And It's All In The Music!

May you have joy and peace

now and throughout the coming new year.

Bob and Judy

There she is--Miss A-Swiney Flu

Our family planned to tailgate last Saturday at the BYU-TCU game, but when we arrived three hours ahead of time, the heavens opened, and the rains came down and the floods came up. So, the Explorer was chosen to house all of us. We began dishing up and eating stew (I know, I know. But we weren't grilling because of the weather), and drinking sodas and trying not to spill all over each other. In the front seat, Lisa agreed to honey-butter the biscuits and pass them around (and this is an important point) to everyone who wanted them (she developed bursitis in her shoulder shortly after, evidence of her Hurculean efforts.)

Now, we all know and love Lisa for her willingness to help out. But what we didn't know, during our get-to-know-your-family-closer-than-you'd-really-like-to festivities, was that she had swine flu. She was diagnosed the next day. And one by one, to demonstrate the closeness of our relationship, some of us have followed suit. Jenni, Brandon, Luke, and Trevor are all crazy sick. Along with Lisa, they are quarantined. The last pillars to fall will be Scott and Bob, if those strong conquering heroes allow it (y'know how guys are). I've had a headache but no fever, so I will designate myself as the crazy but non-sick one until proven otherwise (proof of the sickness, that is). Proof of my craziness is to be found in copious amounts anywhere you care to look.

Isn't Miss Piggy adorable? I have a great idea for her platform: "Stamping out the paranoia surrounding H1N1, thus insuring that we will at last have world peace."

The little swine.

I Find A Funny

Last night I was sitting on our bed playing “Tetris” on my old useless cell phone that I keep around so T can have his own phone when he visits, or when I need something completely mindless to occupy my thinking. Even playing “Tetris,” though, occasionally the thoughts creep in, and suddenly I was thinking about an entry our daughter had made in a recent blog post wherein she mentioned that she was having trouble finding her “funny.” I remember thinking at the time, “Us, too, honey. Us, too.”

I looked over at Bob, sitting on the other side of the bed, examining his recently surgicized right foot. When he examines a wound, he examines it. He's a wannabe veterinarian, and I'm a wannabe dictionarian. (I like to make up words like surgicized and dictionarian.) Anyway, that foot has been one of the few things that continues to give him grief from his motorcycle accident a couple of years ago. I thoughtfully observed him unwrapping the bandage in preparation for the foot's nightly soaking in a bucket of Epsom Salts, followed by the re-dressing and the re-wrap. "Kinda hurts," he mumbled.

Suddenly, the whole process, the intensity of his face while performing this ritual, inexplicably awakened my funny. "I’ll raise your foot by two knees,” I suddenly blurted out rather loudly. He looked at me a bit oddly, but, quick on the trigger like he is, he replied, “Well, I’ll swap your two knees straight across for five broken ribs!”

“Ribs? Hah!” I replied. “I’ll raise you by two herniated discs!” And finally, tentatively, came the “Bob smile” I haven’t seen often in the last year. Grinning, he yelled, “ I’ll see your dang double discs and raise you an entire left leg!”

After a momentary pause, while I marveled at the great alliterative catch he had just made, I started calculating, and I realized that there wasn’t any way at all that I was going to win this game. Especially if he pulled out the three litres of pure . . . um . . . pus incident. And I knew he would. I knew it. And that would be a royal flush. So as tough as it was, I finally said, “Oh, nuts. I fold.” And we were off--for a brief spot of laughter.

But, darn it, I don’t fold. I won’t. There have been a few times in the last year that I felt it coming, but double-disc-three-litre-dang it, I refuse to fold.
And, sweet daughter, you won’t fold either. You will find your “funny” again. That’s a promise.