Why oh Why is it in a Drawer???

I’m taking a break from My True Love Story until after December. I want to be able to pour my whole heart into it, not rush through it and mark it off of a long, sometimes miserable list! I AM, however, going to try something different on my blog. I really miss the spontaneity of a blog being more like a journal. Instead of working tirelessly to recreate a story, I want to just sit and write whatever comes to mind. So, I hope you’ll visit! I plan to do this every day this week, as it will take a lot less time than the stories I write. I hope it entertains!
I want to first respond to questions I get about my book, which I am embarrassed to answer. The answer is this: my manuscript has been sitting in a drawer of my nightstand for almost… no, it couldn’t be! But I think it is… almost a YEAR. How terrible! When my Dad passed away, one of my first thoughts was I’m going to chase my dream and make Dad proud! I’m going to start right now, right after the unthinkable (losing my Dad) has happened, because I won’t be afraid. Something truly scary has happened to me and chasing my dream seems comforting by comparison! So I started my blog, with every intention of editing my book, finding a writer’s group to help me, and pursuing publication. I’m still going to do it, but the time frame is---wow--- really affected by my emotional circumstances.
I’m funny about my time. I save the thing I like doing most for last. I make myself do all of the stuff I hate first. I clean the blasted bathrooms, I do the dishes, and then I sit down with baskets full of laundry and fold it while sipping Crystal Light and watching one of my favorite TV series. It’s heavenly. It’s the same thing with my book. I keep saving the joy of it until I’m past adjusting. Adjusting to Mom moving here in a time of grief, adjusting to Mom dating, adjusting to the holidays without Dad and with a family that’s changing so much and so fast you wonder at times if you’ll recognize it! :)
I’m learning so much though! Every new experience, or “adjustment” as I’ve been calling them, makes me a better writer.
I’ll tell you a story. The summer before last, our most wonderful in the world next door neighbors hired our oldest daughter to water their yard for them while they went out of town. There were soaker hoses that she had to turn on for about twenty minutes at a time. Life is insane with four kids all talking a mile a minute, all on different schedules, all making messes at the speed of sound. We didn’t check up on the job she was doing for the neighbors. We wanted to teach her responsibility, and I figured the worst that could happen, which would be just awful considering that our neighbors are the most wonderful in the world, would be that their plants might die under her watchful care. Wrong.
Sunday morning, our daughter went over there to tweak something or other, and noticed that the window well was full of water. She had forgotten to turn off one of the soaker hoses. Under the circumstances she trusted her Dad not to freak out more than she trusted me, so she ran to him. By the time I noticed tension emanating into our house from the yard next door, I came upon Ryan standing in their window well in shorts and his white church shirt, scooping buckets full of water out as fast and furious as he could. It was to no avail. We got the key to the house and went inside. Our legs moved us, though I don’t know how, to the basement of our dear friends’ and as we stepped off of the bottom stair, their carpet just squished and splatted under our feet. We had flooded our neighbor’s basement. The whole entire basement.
We’d have to move of course. We’d be shunned by all. We’d lose our friends, we’d lose our dignity. The world, for us, would pretty much have to end. Ryan is a glass half full kind of guy, but that day he just sat there on our couch, staring at the wall for like an hour. We just couldn’t believe we had let such a thing happen. We couldn’t believe there was nothing we could do to take it back, to make it go away! It took days to even function properly. Angels took over our neighbors’ bodies and they responded with perfection. If you are ever going to flood anyone’s basement, I highly recommend them. I never blogged about it, or posted about it on facebook. It was too painful. I did sit down weeks later, though, to work on my book and wrote one of the saddest scenes I’ve ever written. The bad guy was brutally mean, and the good guy was heart-wrenchingly tortured (Amie style that is, which is the really bearable kind of bad-guy torture). I could write that way because I knew emotion that I hadn’t known until dumdumdum- THE FLOOD.
Moral of the post is this: The writer in me is getting better. The time-manager in me is scouring the figurative bathrooms so that she can get to the fun stuff, aka editing her manuscript for crying out loud and magically transforming into a published author. And no- I don’t believe that’s really the way that happens. I know that there is still plenty of figurative toilet scrubbing to be done along the way to book signing status. Talk me through it people, ‘cuz I’m scared.

My True Love Story

Author's note: I just got my 70th follower! Woot! Woot! And she left an awesome and very flattering comment on last week's post, with a numbered list. ;)Thank you to her and thanks to you all SO much!!!

I Once Was Blind, But Now I Like What I See

Day 2250ish

High school matters. I know they tell you it doesn’t. I know we tell ourselves it doesn’t. It may be the most wanted to be believed lie out there. Even now, as they read these words, people are gasping. They’re averting their eyes. They’re cussing at me. They’re making sure their impressionable teenagers aren’t reading… because high school stinks in a lot of ways, and there’s only one sentence that will get people through it. “High School doesn’t matter.” I understand the kind lie we tell ourselves. There are few ways to escape high school, so the only solace is in the possibility that it doesn’t matter.
Here’s the truth: High School doesn’t matter, as long as you can leave it behind. It’s all up to you, but it isn’t easy. It takes self-discovery, maturity, real confidence, forgiveness and trust. Probably a lot of other near impossible things too.
So instead we tell ourselves that in the future, when everyone goes to college, we are all equal. That it doesn’t matter who you were or what people thought of you. That the playing field is evened out and everyone starts over again. We all want it to be true. Even the most popular kids in school want it to be true because as they grow older, they have to live with the way they treated people. They have to live with the inner doubt, whispering to them that they really aren’t everything that people believed them to be. The ones who weren’t popular, they take that with them too. They hear the echoes of people taunting them or they hear the silence of people ignoring them. We all fight the high school voices as they tell us repeatedly who we are; we all continually try to figure out whether they’re right or not. We all bring it with us.
The High School stars wish they could get back the glory days, the kids that weren’t stars go out with a fervor and try to prove to the world that there’s more to them than people saw in high school, and the girl that got her heart broken… no matter how the boy seems to change, or tries to take it back, well, she can’t quite trust him anymore.
Tonight I have a blind date. Never been on a blind date before. His sister set it up. She’s pretty new in town, so there’s mystery. She’s my friend, but I’m intimidated by her because she is so stand out beautiful and skinny and confident. She’s the kind of girl who definitely has an amazing brother that you’d kill to be set up with.
I’m going to be so confident though, because I’m not that nervous, self-conscious, crying silently in the dark of the audience in the school auditorium because Ryan is singing to another girl on stage at a high school assembly girl anymore. I’m a pageant queen, a college student, an experienced dater, a really good writer of missionaries, a janitor… okay, well the other stuff is really cool. Besides, high school doesn’t matter.
So I’m all glammed up and I’m waiting to be all picked up, but the minutes are ticking by. Five minutes after six o’clock. Ten minutes after 6 o’clock. Eleven minutes. Twelve minutes. How long am I supposed to sit here pretending I’m not nervous for this?!?!? Eighteen minutes. Nineteen minutes. I’ve stopped primping. Stopped pretending that- so what if he’s late, because I was going to be late anyway. I fully intended on it.
Twenty-one minutes. Twenty-two minutes. Should I call his sister? We’re doubling with them. Meeting them somewhere. Meeting each other first. Alone. Driving somewhere, getting a chance to talk. IF he shows up, that is. Twenty-three minutes… and a knock at the door.
I let my self-righteous indignation push the butterflies out of my throat, down deep into my stomach, smooshed way down there where I can barely feel them fluttering around. My parents aren’t the type to have the official meeting of the boy on the first date. My mom is the type to peek out of unseen window corners, while whispering a little prayer. My Dad is the type that, if a boy has so much as caught a glimpse of him or even heard anything about him, it’s more effective than him cleaning his gun in the living room. What a good man he is, but if anyone hurt me, they really would need to be afraid.
So, with no introductions to perform, I am free to glance at my watch and greet him with an, “I wasn’t sure if you were going to make it,” before I raise my chin and move past him out of the front door, and bounce my hair, alluring, and now, untouchable, as I stomp down the front steps.
He’s smiling as he climbs behind the steering wheel, playing it off as though my anger is cute as a button. He’s good looking. Blond hair, a fresh t-shirt, frayed jeans that fit right and don’t try too hard, but no amount of good lookingness can forgive this extreme lateness, because I am so done with cocky boys who think they can make me wait around.
As he reverses out of my driveway, he asks, “So… how has your day been?”
“Pretty good, until the last twenty-three minutes or so,” I say.
“Why is that?” he asks, making nothing easy.
“Uh… because that’s how late you are.”
He’s still wearing that amused smile when he says, “I’m sorry, I lost track of time because I was vacuuming out my truck. I wanted to impress you.”
My head snaps toward him. This bit of flattering honesty is unexpected. I look at the floor, begrudgingly checking the vacuuming job. “Oh. Well, the truck… does… look… good,” I say. Then, because his honesty disarmed me, I disarm him right back with some of my own. “And… you smell good,” I say. Boy am I a sucker for men’s cologne. I’d almost grab a stranger who walked past in the grocery store to tell him he smells good.
After I shamelessly tell him, in so few words, that the scent he gives off is pretty much delectable, the conversation warms up considerably. He asks me if it would be okay if he turns the radio off because he’d rather hear me talk. I’m thrilled, as I have secretly wished for less radio chatter and more human chatter on many previous dates. The conversation turns out to be so much better than the radio ever could be. We drive toward the nearest city, the conversation clicking instantly, the sparks flying. Rain starts pouring down, large amounts being swooshed out of our view by the windshield wipers, copious drops making their impact as they pelt and splatter new puddles of their friends on the road below us.
I tell him about how my first kiss happened in the rain, and this opens the conversation up to clever flirting.
Did you know that blind dates have a reputation for being bad? Whoa. I’m here to stand up in defense of the honor of blind dates everywhere, because this is some of the best chemistry of all time regardless of blindness, blurriness, or perfect 20/20 vision.
We meet up with his sister and her date. We hardly know they are there, except to politely add to the conversation on occasion. I can see them looking at us in wonder, so mesmerizing is the way in which this blind date has removed it’s sleep mask to a surprise better than Christmas morning.
By the time we say goodbye on my front porch that night, I- the guardian of all sacred kisses, am puckering up wholeheartedly. He hugs me and tells me, with a gravelly voice, that he sure wishes he believed in kissing on the first date, but he wouldn’t want to disrespect me.
I walk in the door, close it behind me and fall to the floor instantly, staring up at the ceiling as though it’s covered in twinkling stars and fluffy pink clouds made of cotton candy, and rainbows… beautiful, beautiful rainbows.
The face of my brother, Justin, looks down on me with concerned confusion because he’s a boy and doesn’t understand the dreamy sighs and the conscious, simulated fainting.
“I take it the date went… well?” he says.
I think I respond with something like, “Mmmm… rainbows are pretty.”
He’s truly shocked at my over-the-top happiness and asks the question that maybe you’re all asking, “Do you think you could like him more than you like Ryan?”
I frown and the clouds and rainbows swirl together in a psychedelic pinwheel. “I don’t know,” I say.
That’s the big question when you’re writing to a missionary, and it’s hard to know when you’re obligated to answer it. Do you have to decide who you like best on the first date? Within a week? Within a month? Within six months? If you have to decide in the first 23 minutes, I’m afraid the guy I went out with tonight is completely out of luck.
The very concept of having to choose is falsely flattering to me. I don’t really have a choice. It’s not like two boys are on their knees in front of me right this second. It’s not like I can make a T-Chart! This one’s good qualities versus that one’s. Bar graphs. Math formulas. Amie + X= Happily Ever After. It doesn’t work that way. It’s much more complicated. Amie+X(thepast)+fear about being hurt in the future+ letters that don’t even say "I love you" (greater than or less than Amie+Y(the present)- we don’t know anything yet.
Math and my brain don’t mix well. When I was in tenth grade my Dad jokingly said, “Take your final required math credit and if it doesn’t start clicking, then your senior year you can just take basket weaving.” I swallowed my pride and re-took a simpler math class and it finally did start to click. Eventually we figure things out. Sometimes we have to take the pressure off of ourselves by saying, “Hey! If we never get it, there’s always basket weaving.” Oh yeah, and “High School doesn’t matter.”
So my advice to myself as I traverse dating back home while writing to a missionary is this: “Try to experience life. Try to be honest with others and with yourself, and try to remember that if you’re living right you’ll figure everything out eventually. I can think of no metaphor for the basket weaving… I just really love my Dad.

In The Quiet Moments

Things have been a little mixed up lately. I guess I’ve been missing my Dad. Fall is all about my Dad. It’s strange to see the leaves change without him here to point out how pretty they look. He’d be out on the mountain with my brothers, even if he was here, and sick, that’s how they’d celebrate their October birthdays (his and the twins’ are just a day apart). We wouldn’t even get to Thanksgiving before he’d be scheming about how to get away with spending more money than he should on us for Christmas.
I’ve been on a kick since he passed away, talking about how life is mostly hard. Which is just a basic fact. Day to day, there are mostly challenges and setbacks, annoyances, diets, reasons to cry, reasons to zone out and distract ourselves with TV and computers so that when we turn them off we can face reality again for a little while. My argument is usually that every once in awhile there is a magical little moment. Something like you hearing your kids laughing in the other room, during one of those rare occasions when they’re playing amongst themselves instead of thinking of demands for you to fulfill. My theory states that those moments, by some miracle, make the tough moments (numerous as they are) all worth it.
My sister in law, Tasha, and I were discussing the theory the other day on the phone. She said, “It’s true. Life is mostly hard. But what do you think about in the quiet moments? Do you think about how hard everything was that day?”
I said, “No, I guess I don’t.”
She said, “My mind automatically goes back to how cute my kids looked doing this or that, or how much fun something coming up is going to be. I don’t find myself thinking about the hard stuff.”
Today I was looking through old pictures, trying to find one of Luke when he was a pirate, so that I could convince him that it’s okay for boys to have make-up on their faces if it’s Halloween, especially if it’s to create a beard.
I found the pictures of him when he was a newborn. I remembered being pregnant with him. I was really sick for the first months, and no sooner had that ended than I got two severe cases of the flu, seemingly one right after the other. Ryan went to Christmas parties without me while I lay in bed next to a garbage can, sweating, uncomfortable and massive and sure I’d never live through it. I hated not being well enough to take care of my kids. I hated pleading with God to make me well and still feeling sick. I tried to think of the “something that I’m supposed to learn from all of this”, but I couldn’t think of a darn thing.
I thought of Tasha’s words. “What do you think about in the quiet moments? Do you think about how hard everything is?”
I looked at our smiling pictures, holding baby Luke.

I looked at one Ryan took of me, after I fell asleep while praying because I was so tired that I couldn’t get on my knees and stay awake through my prayer. I can even smile and chuckle at that one now.
I looked at a picture of my Mom, trying to figure out the camera so that she could take a picture of my Dad holding the baby… and I wasn't sad.
Maybe life isn’t so hard after all. I think what matters most is what settles into your heart and mind… in the quiet moments.

Luke and his cousin Dax.

My Dad and Luke.

A Little Piece of My Own Personal Heaven

I have a place where I learned about friendship. A place where I had birthday parties. A place where sometimes my bike was a horse and I loved feeling the wind blow through my hair. A place where sometimes my scooter was a car,and the sidewalks around the church were streets that led to imaginary stores and gas stations. A place where a shed was the "Laugh and Play Fun House". A place where the trees were a thousand different mystical worlds.

I have a place where I learned about tradition. Where I participated in track meets and came home with my chest covered in blue and red ribbons. A place where, on the last day of school, kids lined the fence outside and everyone sang together and let go of balloons at the same time.
A place where I wore ruffly dresses to school almost every day of elementary... and people still liked me. :)

I have a place where I learned about boys. Where I first held hands with one, and it was SO scandalous. Where my husband to be was in my sixth grade class, standing just a few feet away from me in our class picture and we never would have guessed that one day he would throw pebbles at my bedroom window, we would go on our first date, and he would eventually propose to me, all in the same little town.

I have a place where I could always escape. Always relax. A place where I could always be me. A place where I learned who I am.


I have a place where my kids learned country values. They fed neighbors' horses, they waded in dirty water, they picked wild flowers for GG and found deer tracks with Grandpa. They played on the same playground that I played on in elementary school. They ran around the school where I went to Junior High.

I have a place where half an hour's drive can take you to deserts where indians painted their art, where we "hung out" around bon-fires as teenagers, where rock formations whisper of a creator and remnants of people who came before whisper of the things important enough to pass down.

I have a place where half an hour's drive in the other direction can take you to lakes like mirrors with heaven's reflection in them. To mountains where there aren't designated camping spots with man-made everything, but where there are little stolen places to build your own fire pit and tuck yourself in under a million stars.
I left Ferron without an official goodbye. We did all of the same, wonderful things. I told Mom that I wouldn't think about how this could be the last time. As I pulled out of town, I stopped and filled a cup with mulberries. I've been eating them straight off of Ferron's trees since kindergarten. I ate them all of the way to Price, not watching too carefully for bugs or leaves. I tasted their sweet juice on my tongue, I crunched their tiny seeds in my teeth, I watched as they turned my fingers purple and that was my quiet, happy, delicious goodbye to Ferron.

I have a place that holds my first and last memories of my Dad... and so many other memories too. Turns out, that place isn't in Ferron. It's right here in my heart and always will be.

Family. Everything Else Can Take a Backseat For Awhile.

I was going to apologize like mad because of slacking on my writer's blog. I was going to explain that my focus had to shift to my family for awhile when school got out and then we went on a summer vacation. I was probably going to complain about how crazy things are and how I have to compete with my kids for my computer now and how if one child isn't talking to me then more than one are at a time and it's been pretty hard for me to zone in on my writing.
I AM going to recommit and tell you that I hope you'll still visit, because my Monday stories are totally going to pick up again and get pretty juicy! I was even going to publish a Monday story today to make up for missing two weeks, but something happened in our neighborhood last night.
A friend, a mom, a beloved primary teacher near me passed away last night very unexpectedly. Our neighborhood is heart-broken.
I don't want to be presumptuous and talk about her too much, even though I admired and loved her.
I want to say that perspective shifts a lot when something like this happens. Life has to go on at it's crazy pace, but today there is going to be a lot of reflection. There will be a lot of hugs, a lot of "I love you"s. A lot of pulling family close and remembering what is much more important than anything else in this world.
I know for sure that the family will be cradled by heaven at this time. I know from experience that they will feel comfort from a world beyond this one and it will get them through.
Today, stop everything and have a conversation with your kids about whatever they like to talk about. Pass on that compliment that you've always thought of your neighbor, but never quite grabbed the moment to say it out loud. Today put aside petty differences. Today set the stress aside and sit next to your husband on the front porch swing.
When my Dad got sick, he started, as the saying goes, "living like he was dying". He said and did everything, and cherished all of the moments. How thankful we are for those times! But I always thought that was quite a bit of pressure on him, and kind of a sad way to think of things. So I say: Live like your living. Really, really live. I say, we don't necessarily need to cling to things with desperation. I think it would be nice if we just stop and allow ourselves to take joy in the good things of life. They're kind of rare, because life's hard. But they're kind of magical too, because they somehow make all of the hard stuff really worth it.

The Pleasant Scowl

What does your face look like when you walk through the grocery store? Are you deep in thought? Are you smiling at people and looking them in the eye? Are you cussing at them in your mind because they’re inconsiderately taking up the whole isle? Sometimes when I bump into someone going around a corner, I say, “Oh! Excuse me. Sorry,” then as I’m walking away, I mutter, “I don’t know what I’m apologizing for. I know the proper rules of navigating a grocery store and you were in the wrong.”
Yesterday I was happy, and I was walking through the store, smiling at people. They smiled back, the smile that’s one part polite and three parts, “Do I know you?” That made me smile bigger… and it made me think of my Dad.
One night Ryan and I were sitting in my parents’ living room on their big, comfy, inviting and still marvelously stylish couch… one of the many things in the house that Dad put ever so much thought into before purchasing. He was lying on the floor, a place he was always the most comfortable for some reason. Mom was sitting next to him, probably rubbing his feet… a place she was always the most comfortable for some reason.
Dad was being philosophical. “I’ve been thinking about my facial expressions,” he said. I try to go around with a friendly look on my face, but sometimes I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror. In my mind, I’m almost smiling, but in my reflection the expression couldn’t even pass for pleasant!”
By this time Ryan and I were laughing. Laughing because we didn’t know anyone who would think Dad anything other than pleasant. Laughing because he had given a small thing like that some thought. Laughing at the ludicrous notion of trying to give someone a gentle smile and feeling like you end up scowling at them instead.
I’m my Dad’s only daughter. If there was anyone in the world afraid of his stern gaze, it was the boys who came to pick me up for a date. Even they… the most questionable on the list of applicants to receive my Dad’s glowing smile respected him so much, that they probably would have counted themselves lucky to get the “pleasant scowl”.
It’s memorial weekend. I miss you Dad. I can’t listen to the message you left on my voicemail yet. The one I’ve saved since last May. The one where you wished me a happy birthday in the way only a Dad can. I can’t listen to it yet, but I hear it all of the time. I’m still smiling. Right now, though, my smile looks like tears streaming down my face. I have reasons to smile, reasons to laugh… because I have you, I have Mom, and I have everything else that you gave me. Today I’ll smile at people and I’ll think of you.

Defying Gravity

For my birthday (this past weekend), Ryan Edward gave me a girl’s weekend out and a ticket to WICKED.
I’ve never been the type to be very comfortable with girls’ weekends. For one thing, I grew up with a Mom that never really indulged or spoiled herself, who "therapy shops" for gifts for others. :) So what it takes for me to indulge is usually being at the end of my rope, after quite a few days in a row of realizing that I keep putting myself last while everyone else seems to not even notice that I have needs… or it takes me being sickeningly fed up with dieting. Then I will march myself to Panda Express and the poor cashier will wonder why I hand her my debit card and snatch at my “to go” bag with such defiance.

For another thing, I’m an only girl. Three brothers. ALL. BOY. I’m ALL GIRL, including the part that isn’t entirely comfortable with other girls. We won’t even get into how, in anticipation of getting in a swimming suit with seven other women (5 of whom I didn’t know at all), I spray tanned my legs for the first time and ended up with tan and white stripes. I consoled myself with the reminder that vertical stripes are said to be slimming.

The women I spent time with made a forever positive impression. Each taught me something about themselves and each made me appreciate our differences and commonalities. In the end, I learned a lot about women, a lot about myself, and a little about tasting food off of other peoples’ plates. Apparently that’s common on girl’s weekends. :) I ate at the Cheesecake Factory for the first time. I couldn’t believe I paid $8 for a slice of cheesecake, but it was all part of the experience… and it was delicious. I also ate a Nutella and strawberry crepe at a farmer’s market. I saw some really neat walking sticks that reminded me of my Dad, and I walked through the crowded booths and I thought of how he’d be proud of me for being out of my comfort zone.
Though going on a girls’ weekend is not wholly “me”, and I was pretty nervous about it, all I kept thinking of was sitting in that auditorium when the lights went down and the crowd went quiet, and I didn’t have to say the right thing, or be the right kind of person. I could lose myself in another world, a colorful world with unique creatures, magical possibilities and messages that mean something to me. I knew the songs by heart, but I didn’t know the plot with all of its twists and turns. I’ve never seen a professional play at that level and I just knew it wouldn’t disappoint.
Uh huh.
It didn’t. I was entranced. What is it about the arts that can speak to our souls? I think it might be that people create. They create a sequence of words, a sequence of music, or a sequence of dance steps that cannot be uncreated. They change the world with their creations. Their creations speak to different people in different ways. That is so powerful! At intermission we pow-wowed at the ladies room and one of my new friends asked me what I thought so far. I said, “It makes me want to accomplish things!” That was it in a nutshell. The play made me dream, and believe in my dreams.
Also, seeing people who excel at anything is an inspiration! Ryan Edward has taught me to appreciate that. He doesn’t care if it’s fishing, or poker. If someone is excellent at something he stops and takes notice.

My focuses are writing and motherhood. They sometimes require a head in the clouds. They sometimes require a woman on her knees. They sometimes inspire dreams of a book signing. They sometimes inspire screams for a little peace and quiet. But they do inspire… and I am going to defy gravity... if not at motherhood or writing, I'll try fishing and poker...or world record for Panda Express, orange chicken consumption.

The Amazing Adventures of Amie and her Mother

I wonder if she knew, even then, that we would be best friends...

I’m gonna let you in on some secrets that are invaluable if you are a Mom, because somehow my Mom managed to do what we all hope to. Somehow her mixture of disciplinarian, teacher, role model and friend gave her a daughter who appreciates her, admires her, loves to be around her… and is trying to replicate it all with her own daughters.
When I was thirteen, I had a first of many embarrassing moments at school. My Mom is the person who taught me to laugh at myself. Sounds simple, but what a magical solution it turned out to be in so many instances. Because of our willingness to laugh at ourselves, Mom and I have never been without a good laugh.
When I was fifteen, Mom showed me her poetry collection from when she was young. She had written or typed every poem she could find, most about love, illustrated them with the most perfect pictures, cut from magazines, and saved them in a binder. I was completely enamored. I was never the same. I started walking to the library to scour books and magazines. I started adding to the collection. I started writing.
As a sixteen year old, terrible at small talk and awkward at dating conversation, Mom taught me the best secret for being a good date. Be interested in the other person and ask them questions about themselves. Use it girls- it’s gold.
At seventeen I decided to be in a local scholarship pageant. Mom and Dad weren’t sure how they felt about the idea of their daughter being judged. I didn’t realize my commitment meant a huge commitment from my Mom as well. We were both way out of our comfort zones. She started researching. She got me ready. She even found out about the glue you spray on your backside to keep your swimsuit from riding up. Then she gave me Benadryl and nursed me through my drowsiness when I had an allergic reaction to the glue. :)
I won the first two pageants, and in doing so, got us committed to do the Miss Utah State Fair and the Miss Utah Pageant. Armed with names and addresses of obscure dress and swimsuit sales people we, two small town girls, went traipsing around the jam packed streets of Salt Lake City to get me ready. Wouldn’t you know it, someone rear ended us at a red light.
I still have the poems and cards she had sent backstage, telling me that win or lose- my family knows how beautiful I really am.
My Aunt Ruth (Dad's side), me, Mom after one of the nights of the Miss Utah Pageant.

Mom’s broom was useful for much more than sweeping the kitchen floor. As siblings we got along really well, and have always been close. At times though, my brothers (who are twins) would get competitive and wrestle their way through the house. Mom would wedge the broomstick between them to break them up.
One night Mom heard a noise in the driveway. She didn’t realize it was Ryan and I pulling in after a date. Our long goodnight kiss was interrupted by the broom handle tapping on the, admittedly, foggy window. Hee hee, *blush*. It was a year into Ryan and I’s marriage before this story became funny.
The post could go on forever, because these aren’t even the most important lessons. She gave me prayer. Faith. Testimony. Sense of self and true worth.
We’re going through the biggest challenge of our lives so far, as Mom mourns for my Dad. Good news is, this family has always had each other… and we ALWAYS will.

These People Are My Own

I’m visiting my home town this weekend. My Mom has been going through old papers. We looked at some of them together. Some are too tender, some are too sad. Then we found something very interesting and inspiring. It was a book of biographies. The students of my sixth grade year, 1988, had done interviews and written the bios about people from our community. These are my treasures. These are people who comprise a small town, where a village raised a child. These were the people who knew what I was doing when even I didn’t. My Mom’s sister, Susan, told me a story that hasn’t left my mind. She said that before Dad’s funeral, she made a call from her home in the city to one of our local small town florist shops. Aunt Susan said, “I need to order flowers for a funeral.” The woman on the other end of the phone said, “Oh. Monte Gee.” She knew. My Aunt Susan went on to make her order and to tell the woman that she was my Mom’s sister. The woman reassured my Aunt with a sentence that won’t leave my mind and that has absolutely proven itself. “Don’t worry,” she said, “We take care of our own down here.” These people are my own. Interview by Kristy Funk, Biography of Sandra Gee, Librarian Sandra remembers as a young girl she had her jaw broken. The doctor had to wire her mouth shut. She guesses it was supposed to make her listen more and not talk so much. If Sandra was a bird, she would be a peacock. The reason is they have lots of eyes on their tails and she would read a lot of books and take care of her family. Sandra admires her mom the most because her mother is always thinking of others. Interview by Ryan Leonhardt, Biography of Steve Jensen, Mine Chemist and Scoutmaster When Steve was young he loved all kinds of sports. He loved to be outside and to be in the wilderness and he loved animals. If Steve was an animal he would be a cougar, because they are fast and sneaky. If Steve was writing a message to the future generations it would be to love each other. Interview by Bruce Yost, Biography of Lavar Leonhardt, Teacher Lavar grew up on a big farm. So he learned how to work. He had a fun life living on a farm, riding horses and cows. If he was an animal he would be a wolf because nothing messes with a wolf. If he had a message for future generations he would tell them to worry less about success in life and to worry more about people, helping people and loving people. Interview by Tori Truman, Biography of Jackie Skinner, Member of the PTA Board, graduate of Cosmetology school If Jackie were a color she would be red because is makes a statement and it is bold. If she were an animal she would be a dolphin because they are smart, free, and a friend to man. When Jackie was as little girl she had the chicken pox during the Christmas Season. Christmas Eve she could not sleep because they were so bad. They were even in her throat. After everyone else had gone to bed her father let her open her largest gift and it was a tea party set. She and her father sat up all night long and had a tea party with her dolls. Interview by Russell Taylor, Biography of Royce Stilson, Former School Board Member Royce remembers when he was a kid he was always hunting, fishing, and making rope swings in cottonwood trees near the creek. If Royce was a bird, he would be a Periquin Falcon, because they are sleek, fast and a sure hunter. If Royce was writing a message for a time capsule, he would tell them to choose the right and never back down. Interview by Kira Fox, Biography of Lynne Taylor, Aerobics and Dance Instrustor Lynne remembers when she was little that her mother was old, wrinkled, and gray. She was very loving, very feminine, and always tender, gentle, kind, but a very strong person. She raised eight children all by herself because her father died. She remembers how sad it made her when people would make fun of her mother because she was old. Age doesn’t matter, she made up for it by being kind and loving. If Lynne was to write a message for future generations, she would write, you can be whatever you dream to be, don’t be any less than what you can be. Interview by Genette Gist, Biography of Doug Jensen, Buyer for Utah Power and Light Doug says his childhood was a happy one. He said he remember when he was in the second grade and he kicked a kickball through the window. Doug said is he was an animal, he would be a bear for the reason, they’re grouchy. Doug says he admires his daughter Amanda because she’s always happy. Doug says if he wrote a message to the future generation he would say, do your homework! Interview by Natalie Christensen, Biography of Gordon Bennet, Highway Patrol Gordon’s life as a child was very exciting. He liked the time when he and his friends went and jumped off buildings and broke their arms. If he was an animal, he would be an elk because they are so big and massive. Their horns grow very strong, also they are very graceful. Gordon says that he admired the most, his good friend Loyd George because he always helped people who had problems. Advice for future generations: don’t get involved in drugs and have respect for your country. Interview by Bret Hansen, Biography of Ray Wareham, City Council Ray’s life as a child was very exciting and very happy. The people were all poor and had no material things. He grew up on Molen Road, and there were a great number of children. They skated every winter, and swam and herded cows in the summer. His greatest asset in life has been the value of hard work. By working hard he has achieved most of the things he wanted to. If Ray was a color he would be blue, because to Ray, it is clean and it is a color that everyone enjoys. It seems to be a never ending color. When you look in the sky or ocean, it’s there. Interview by Mark McKell, Biography of Jim Behling, Safety Engineer at Cottonwood Mine Jim’s childhood was exciting. He and his family moved a lot of times and went to different places. Just during high school, he moved ten times. If Jim were a bird, he would be a Canadian Goose. The reason is because they fly south to warm climates and see a lot of places. If he was an animal, he would be an elk, because they are neat and distinguished. Interview by Amie Gee, Biography of Leslie Danzer, Seamstress When Leslie was four years old her two sisters were killed in a car accident by a drunk driver. It was a very sad experience for her. Leslie’s life as a child was very happy. When she was six years old, her brother was born and they grew up together in Bountiful, Utah. If Leslie were a color she would be peach, because that’s the color she already is! If she were an animal, she would be an octopus, because she could help more people by sewing with all of those arms. Message for future generations: It is what is in your heart that counts. Interview by Sheldon Kirkham, Biography of Bruce Funk, County Clerk If Bruce was an animal he would be a tiger, because he would be free to roam around. If he was a color, he would be maroon, because he like that color more than any other he paints with. If he was any kind of plant, he would be a tree, because he would like to be tall and strong. He admires God the most, because he is amazed at his creations. Interview by Kristin Danzer, Biography of Drew Sitterud, Business Owner (Grocery Store) Drew’s most significant childhood experiences were being close as a family and having an older brother that had time for him and also made him feel important. Drew thinks the characteristics of a “perfect friend” should be one who will leave you better than they found you. If Drew was writing advice for future generations he would tell them that they are great people and nobody can make them feel little but themselves, and they have a Father in Heaven that loves them. Interview by Peter Bunderson, Biography of Frances Leonhardt, Homemaker and Custom Quilter Frances had a wonderful childhood. She remembers when she was eight years old, she sang on the radio with Dolly Parton. If Frances was a bird, she would like to be a robin, because she likes to be first and robins are the first birds in the Spring. If she was an animal, she would be a poodle, because they’re pampered and well cared for. She wants younger generations to know that they should always have the courage to stand for the right, to have high standards and be obedient to parents. Interview by Kyla Rollins, Biography of Lane Justice, Community Sports When Lane was 7 he went to the State Prison with his dad, who worked there. The convicts cut his hair. One of them would push him on the swings, and then took him out for ice cream. When he was 10 he won a dream horse in BLM. In high school he cut his finger off in a workshop making a table. If he was a bird, then he would be a magpie so he could bug certain people. His hobby is riding horses, because they are enjoyable, but he is allergic to them. He plans on having three kids. When he was a kid, he had a white house with bars on the windows, 6 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, a front room and an attic, where he slept.

In Doing Small Things, We Do The Impossible.

I don’t have memories of my Dad avoiding the eyes of a needy person and walking on down the street. I have several very specific memories of him stopping, talking, giving cash, or going into the nearest fast-food place and getting someone a good meal. I don’t have memories of my Dad driving past a broken down car, muttering that if we only had time or if he were more capable he would stop. I have one particular memory of him turning around and going back in heavy falling snow on our drive to Thanksgiving dinner at Grandma’s house. How I wanted to get there to the warm meal and the company of my cousins! But there was a car broken down on the side of the road, and that family needed help getting to their Thanksgiving. I bet they still remember my Dad. I have memories of people asking for what I thought was too much. I have memories of Dad taking pause, not verbalizing what I could see… that it was not an easy thing for him to lend an expensive four-wheeler or high quality piece of hunting equipment, or give of his free time. But what finally did get verbalized was that things were just things and that people were more important. I don’t have specific memories of Dad helping someone daily. I know he did, but he was not the sort that needed people to know it. I don’t know how often I’ve been that kind of self-less. When have I done a good turn without telling a living soul? It’s the most disciplined kind of service, something my Dad worked at. There’s a thing that’s harder than all of that. Accepting the service of others. My Dad had occasion to learn this lesson in his life as well. Because of he and Mom’s good nature, like people were drawn to them. People whose lives they had touched were eager to give back to them and then some. So much has been given to my family that I could spend every blog post writing about it, but I don’t have the words or the tears to sustain it! It takes an unspeakable humility to both give and receive. People are taking care of my Mom. How can I tell you what that means to me? It would take more than words, even words of my own invention! When the funeral ended, the expected happened. There were no more responsibilities to keep busy with and the sadness started to settle heavy on our chests. My brother, Justin, got out the sympathy cards. They were the cure. There were cards from the Power Plant where Dad worked. They had signatures and cash. Some were ones and some were fifties and the men and women who put that money in didn’t need to specify how much they had each given individually. There were words about Dad, about the kind of man he was, and about how people wanted to be the way he was, that they would do good in memory of him. It’s hard to know what would help someone when they lose someone they love, and I’ve come to find that honoring their loved one’s memory in that way is possibly the very best thing anyone can do. I want to tell you that we felt Dad there in that kitchen with us that night. On a lighter note, another unexpected, charitably beneficial thing people can do is kiss pigs. That’s what they decided to do at the school where my Mom works. They only knew that they wanted to do something for Mom. I believe they felt that they simply HAD to do something for her, and I believe they came up with the best plan that has seen any junior high school, maybe ever. Faculty and students stuffed a piggy bank full of money and when they had not only reached, but doubled their fundraising goal- they held an assembly and the students got to watch teachers and other staff, kiss a live pig for Mom. They got to watch her muster up her courage and thank them through tears. She told them that Dad’s favorite song is “One” by U2 and that it says, “We get to carry each other.” She thanked them for helping to carry her, and she told the kissers of the pig that she would be willing to kiss a pig for them as well, should the occasion ever arise. The world is most often a difficult place. The televised news is painful. This homemaker’s daily life is drudgery. At times I lose my temper. At times I lose myself. Every day I call to check on my Mom, praying that things are getting a little easier for her. We know hardships. But I know that somewhere in the world right now, someone is giving a meal to a homeless man. Someone is stopping in the snow to help a family get back on their path. Someone is writing a kind word, is slipping money into an envelope. Someone is kissing a pig. And we are not alone.

I Lost My Dad and Everything Is Going To Be Okay

I want to start by saying that this is my personal experience with the loss of a loved one, and I would never presume to tell anyone how they should feel or react in their own unique situation. *My Dad had a genetic liver disease. He started getting severely ill about 13 years ago, but that isn’t what I’ll hold onto. *When I was at his house last, I saw his pill holder. It was the length for the amount I’ve seen sick people take in a week. It was labeled Monday. There were six others just like it, but that isn’t what I’ll hold onto. *Our hope was that he would get a liver transplant, but that isn’t what I’ll hold onto. In the hospital he was sick. He was suffering. We sat at his bedside and agonized, but that isn’t what I’ll hold onto. *He was 56 years old, too young for a life to end. He has grandkids that he won’t meet on this earth, but that isn’t what I’ll hold on to. *My Dad loved us. He told us. He spent time with us. He saved the pictures and notes we gave him. That’s what I’ll cling to. *My Dad took great joy in his Grandkids. They elated him, and he spent quality time sharing the things that mattered to him with them. That’s what I’ll cling to. *My Dad’s heart was pure. He taught me that a suit and tie and regular church attendance didn’t necessarily make a man a good man, and that a rough appearance or a bad habit didn’t make a man a bad man. He taught me to respect all people. *He taught me about love. He and Mom have a spectacular love story. *He taught me to make sure I had the key in my hand before I walked out of a locked door. *He taught me to serve people without any thought for the credit. *He taught me a true appreciation for nature’s beauty. *He taught me countless things and that’s what I’ll cling to. *He taught me that family is everything… and that’s WHO I’ll cling to. I didn’t expect my first writer’s blog post to be this heavy, but now I will tell you something you need to know about me. I believe in fairy tales, more now than ever. My Dad isn’t far away. There are no sad endings for him. For him, there are no endings! I’ll be with him again. In this life, we know pain, we know sickness, we know heartache. We don’t know joy, not like we will. I know a lot of people that don’t believe as I do. They might find it hard to believe in heaven. After the experiences I’ve had in the past two weeks, I’d find it much harder NOT to believe. Angels and comfort and light and peace may seem childish notions, but in the face of tragedy I can tell you that they aren’t really. They’re deep and intellectual and perfectly suitable for grown-ups. I walked alone out of that hospital where my Dad passed away. There was a wall of windows to my left that led to the outside, and to my right, hundreds of sick people, hundreds of worried people. I remember there was a breeze blowing down the corridor and brushing my hair away from my face as I moved toward the exit. I looked around that terrifying place. The place my nightmares have been made of for years, because of the fear of what I could lose and what Dad could suffer. I squared my shoulders, I held my head high, and I thought to myself, “Hospital, you’ve got nothin’ on me. Not anymore. Death can’t take my Dad away from me.” In that moment, I knew what I was made of. I’m stronger than I ever gave myself credit for. You are too. You can handle more than you think you can. It’s because you have people watching over you, people you can’t see, people who love you. Trust me.