The Grimes Family Gathering-Vacation-Retreat-Shindig

I don’t think we’ve officially come up with what to call our yearly summer assemblage. We don’t like to call this event a “reunion” because we get together more than once a year and it’s not a grand gathering of the distant relatives that few of us know. My oldest nephew is about to turn 18 which means we’re still a good distance from the “reunion” classification. We consider ourselves already a “union” so there is no “re”, really– well, maybe sort of in the sense that I have one sister who lives out of state, but still our family is too cool to be average. We’re talking about my family–my parents, my siblings and their kids.

The damper of the trip was that my sister-in-law was threatening to deliver her baby 9 weeks early so she and my brother were absent. We all missed you guys, P & J!

It was an especially memorable vacation for me because it was the first that my husband Alan has been able to be a part of. His family is distant in more ways than just mileage. I know he considered the jaunt with my family to be a positive journal entry.

So it is that we gathered together for our summer bonding time over four days last week. We went to Gooseberry Creek for three of those days and rented the Administrative Site. The Admin Site consists of several bunk houses set in a circular fashion and surrounds a grassy area bordered by quakie aspens where we could play volleyball, picnic, gather around the fire pit, etc. The Admin site is flanked on two sides by the creek. It was a beautiful place where we could enjoy sleeping in the scent of stale recovering sheep barns and witness spectacular mountainous thunder, lightning, and rain. A few of us enjoyed the scent of dirty sheep so much we stayed while others moved to another bunk house. (Actually, our little portion of the sheep house must have been where the sheep herder stayed because it was bearable.)

We ate good food, played Ultimate Frisbee, had cross word puzzle competitions, played Scrabble, ate more good food, laughed and admired at the traditional talent show, and… I’m wondering why didn’t we play sardines. Shucks! I’m also wondering who gets paid to come up with cross word puzzles using words that no one cares to use! Oh, and who could forget the fact that the new Twilight Saga book, “Breaking Dawn” came out and many of us had it to read–thus the new heading picture.

This is also the occasion for my mom to put on her much anticipated Grandma’s Camp for her grand kids. This year’s theme was “Cowboys and Outlaws”. Gooseberry was the perfect setting for games of capturing the outlaw, shooting guns with the grown ups, having a Spanish gold treasure hunt, buying toys at the Outlaw auction, and many other activities garnered up by the ever creative matriarch of the Grimes clan. Yes, she’s amazing!

To top off our trip, most of us went on a 70 mile ATV trip through the mountains. The highlight of the trip was the two hours riding in the mud and rain. Yee-haw! Then there was that one slippery steep hill that only a few of the four-wheelers could get up without being towed by Dad’s all-wheel-driving-mean-machine. All this with no mishaps, only a little soreness.

Whatever we want to call our coming together this year, those are our happy memories made by appointment.

Your Heart Out - Check it Out

Just in case you’ve overlooked our Blogroll on the left side of the screen- Your Heart Out is one of my favored picks. Their team’s mission is to seek and find. They fit right in with our goal to seek after ”anything virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy.”

Your Heart Out blogs on all kids of things Northern Utah: festivals, art shows, restaurants, boutiques, unique handcrafted items, things to do, things to buy, things to admire. It’s awesome.

Most of the time the featured items/places are in the greater Salt Lake area, but they do occasionally promote things in Utah Valley. Nevertheless, I love that they are promoting local fare. I have sought out some of the things they’ve shared, like Lavender Days, and have been impressed. Next on my list is to visit Sanora Grillin Ogden. Looks and sounds delicious! Thanks YHO!

Happy Memories Are Made By Appointment

Life is so fleeting. Time passes too quickly–don’t you just love happy memories? Aren’t you so grateful for them? They linger longer than the actual events and can be recalled and relived over and over again. I’m fond of a quote that President Monson has said in conference: “God gave us memories so that we could have roses in winter,” (author unknown). Another quote I love and use often myself is from the movie Sabrina when she is leaving Paris knowing she will miss it, she writes to her father, “But I’ll have it in my pocket when I get home and I’ll take it with me wherever I go from now on.”

Good memories are a gift! A great blessing!

My mother had a philosophy about memories. She taught us: “Happy memories can be made by appointment.” She used this theory to keep her family close. She planned lots of events to get the family or grandchildren together to fill our souls with happy memories.

I’ve met many people who have a shortage of happy memories. Maybe there should be a diagnosis for it: HMD–Happy Memory Deficit. My observation has been, if there are enough happy memories the bad things in life are easier to deal with and forget. So in my opinion, we need to create many opportunities draw our families close and make lots of  happy, loving memories.

With the world becoming smaller, our children seem to take jobs in all parts of the country and even in other parts of the world, and our grandchildren become scattered. We are so blessed to have the advanced technology that allows us instant communication through the Internet, cell phones, and webcams, BUT and it’s a big one, these wonderful resources do not create memories.

As I saw with my mother and my own chldren, the role of loving grandparents can be a powerful influence on the lives of grandchildren. In our day when life is so hectic, family security is so fragile, and Satan’s wiles abound, it seems to me that the steadying influence of loving grandparents becomes even more important, but often less available. In observing other families through the years, I have found that generally the responsibility of keeping a family close, falls to the grandmother of the family; if she doesn’t take it on, it doesn’t usually get done.  It’s the grandmother who has to create opportunities that will lovingly bond an extended family together. In our case, my husband and I have six children and 13 grandchildren who all live quite far away from our home, some in other states and some just hours away. It is difficult to get everyone’s life schedules lined up enough so we can get together and spend time as a whole family anymore. It takes a lot of planning; it takes a lot of time; it takes a lot of work, and who’s going to do it? It is up to me to make appointments to create happy memories. The idea that works for me–the vehicle I use to get my grandchildren all together is Grandma Dottie’s Camp.

I planned, even before I had grandchildren, to hold Grandma’s Camp once a year and get all my grandchildren together and focus just on them with no adult agendas. I spent a lot of time thinking about how to do it, and couldn’t really figure a way to make it work until my oldest grandson was five and the next two grandchildren were three, I decided it was time to begin. That year we had a great time and I was hooked, and so were the little kids.

Every year since then, I have held Grandma’s Dottie’s Camp where all of my grandchildren are invited. I have three goals in mind for these camps: 1–To make great memories; 2—To draw us all closer together; and 3—To provide teaching moments for me so I can reinforce good values in their lives.

A positive example of grand-parenting, and the one I want to mirror, is found in the legacy of one of my mother. Her grandchildren called her Grandma Sammy. She had jars of candy in at least three rooms in her house and the children knew they were welcome to eat it or anything they could find in her cupboards or refrigerator. If she knew grandchildren were coming she would buy every kind of cold cereal they liked, and she would make cookies or buy donuts so they would have them to eat. As she got older, she tired easily and had great pain from osteoporosis so she would lie down in her bedroom many times a day. Her bedroom had two doors to it, one through a bathroom off the kitchen, and another through the hallway. When she would lie down, she would always say, “I don’t care how noisy the children get, don’t shut my doors. They won’t bother me.” Even her great grandchildren adored her.

People in my mother’s ward often commented on the many cars that were parked outside her house especially on Sundays, but often on other days. They asked her to share how she got her grandchildren to come visit so much. Her answer was always, “I don’t know, they just come.” The ward sisters wanted to know if she baked bread or fixed Sunday dinner for them. She said, “No. It seems to just be spontaneous. Even on Sundays, I don’t usually know who will show up.” She couldn’t come up with a reason, but the grandchildren all knew. It was because of her unconditional love and respect for her posterity. She thought each one of them was a special spirit with a special mission, and she made sure they knew that. She pointed out their best characteristics and spoke of her love for them often.

Through the years my mother planned many parties to get the whole family together. It gave her lots of opportunities to get to know her grandchildren as well as the greats. She had summer barbecues at her home. She arranged picnics up the canyon for the family. She had doll parties or tea parties for the young grandchildren and great grandchildren. She had candy making parties for the grandkids at Christmas time and missionary send off parties.

During quiet moments with her grandchildren, Grandma Sammy would often tell them stories from her life–stories with a moral and a lesson, or she would tell Bible stories, or Book of Mormon stories. In her later years, when she had to lie down so often throughout the day, the babies–her great grandchildren–would take books to her and climb up on her bed, knowing they were always welcome. Her great love for everyone of her grandchildren was like a magnet, but it was all of the get-togethers she planned that kept them close to her. The kids knew they could go to her with any problem, and she would love them. She would always give advice with lots of positive love. She died when she was 92 years old, several years ago, and even the smallest grandchildren who knew her still talk about her and can recall her with joy.

So that is my quest–to follow her example. My children are much more scattered than hers’ were, so making “appointments” is more difficult, but also more important. We  create several oportunites each year to get us all together, but usually we have missing members. Grandma’s Camp is different. We plan early and get the date on the calendar and everyone comes. I hold it for a few days to a week, depending on their schedules, but I invite all of my grandchildren no matter what their age or where they live. At this point in my life, my grandkids range from ages 17 to 2 years old. I’m always forbidding my grandchildren to grow up, like Granny Wendy in the movie Hook: “One rule that must be obeyed in my house–No growing up!” but no one listens to me. They grow exceedingly fast. But as the years of their youth rush by, I have these memories from each year and each child that I can grab onto, slow life down a little, and review some joyful segments of their childhood.

Finding a New Kind of Normal

It’s been FAR too long since I posted on Happy Talk. 

Ah, life!

I used to attempt to do everything on my To-Do List all at once in an effort to keep up with someone else who could seemingly accomplish more in a day than I could. The problem with that is if it’s not who you are, you can turn into a crazed lunatic. (Just call me a recovering Cruella. Ok, not really.) Now, instead, I dive into the moment and the other very important priorities get shifted down the ladder until they can get my undevided attention–well, a good hearted effort at least. 

The first ladder rung to recently get placed at the top and trump others was 14 hour days consisting of work and school. That combo has been an adventure I haven’t attempted for 13 years. Holy moly! I don’t know how people with children and jobs go to school. Occasionally I say to myself, ”Where do you live, Linus?” (Sabrina, 1995) and then I put the books away and go play.

I recently finished my first quarter at Utah College of Massage Therapy. It’s a good sign that after three months I still find myself thirsting for all there is to learn in class every day. I so enjoy it all. The adjustment this second quarter is all about upping the anty of study time for Anatomy. Goodness me! It’s like learning a new language and I definitely don’t have the gift of tongues.  

The next rung on the ladder to top all others came along when that big blue Southwest jet landed on May 28th to deliver my soldier back from Iraq. I’ve done enough gushing on my personal blog about the day and the events following his arrival so I’ll just let these photos taken by a photographer for the Salt Lake Tribune tell the story.

Since Alan’s been home I keep catching myself taking those deep Yoga breaths that come from the tips of your toes and slowly work their relieving magic up through the lungs. It makes it obvious that I subconsciously worried about him even though I didn’t think I did (except maybe a few minute times when I listened to the ugliness).  

Now is the time we’ve been waiting for, and for much longer than the year he’s been deployed. It’s time to find a new kind of normal.

Retarded Robin

We have the strangest robin in our back yard. I think he is the same “devil bird” that came bumping into our window last year. My husband and I were puzzled by the dumb thing then, and made the determination that he had brain damage from trying to get some string from our curtain inside the window for his nest. Ben named him “Retarded Robin.” But there is no string this year and he is again bumping into our window–all morning long, starting early. He thumps high on right side of the window and then flies at the other side, perches on the ledge of the window, peeks in through the slats of the blind, flies off to the tree branch and starts all over again, varying in the amount of crashes he makes on the window with each trip. Ben’s brother Bo and his wife were our house guests for a few days during our Robin attack, and Bo said he probably sees himself in the window. If that is true, why is he trying to get to another male bird with such determination? Ben put pictures of an owl on the window trying to frighten him into normal behavior, but it didn’t work. Now we look like weirdos with two pictures of owls taped to our window. We went outside to evaluate the situation, and with the blind down, the tree reflects itself, so Ben said that he is trying to get to a branch he sees in the window. But since he can’t, shouldn’t even a bird brain have figured this out with the first few collisions?

I’m not sure what exactly he is supposed to be doing with his days, but I’m pretty sure he has an assigned role to fill with his life which includes daily duties. From the nature shows I have watched, all animals–well except maybe cows and dogs–have jobs to do that involve providing food and a place to live. We have pulled the blinds up so the reflection isn’t there as vividly, but he still bangs into the window with almost the same regularity.

As I am forced to ponder, daily, the actions of this bird, it occurred to me that maybe he just wants to come into our pretty, little house. He peeks in every time he perches, and I bet he thinks my black and white bedroom is most beautiful room he has ever seen. Maybe we should just open the window. . . But then what would he do in here? How would we get him back out? What about his wife?

On further consideration, and with the help of recently viewed movies, I’m thinking that maybe we are to be the next Noah and wife, and this bird is overzealous, wanting to get here and on board first. He does have an anxious determination about him.

Wait. He may be a Robin version of Edgar Allen Poe’s Raven: “The fact is I was napping, and so gently you can rapping, and so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door. . .Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before, ‘Surely,’ said I, ’surely, that is something at my window lattice. Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore. Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore.” I love this poem, so maybe I’ve secretly wanted my own “Raven.” –Nooo! Now I’m creeped out, and he’s not a creepy bird; he’s a happy bird, you can almost see him smile when he peeks in at me. It’s more like, “Good Morning. Pretty room you have there!”

My sister-in-law Pam mentioned that we should catch him and take him somewhere where they study bird brains–malfunctioning bird brains, retarded robins, to be specific. I’m not sure where that would be. We don’t really have any labs like that around here, but his behavior is awfully curious, unheard of really. He may be trying to get our attention to communicate something like an earthquake is coming. . . you know how the animals know such things before human? But I think it happens a few minutes before the real thing, and this has been going on for days. So I doubt he is sensing an earthquake.

The only fact we have about him is that he wakes us up early every morning. Hey, maybe that’s his mission in life. He’s been assigned to wake us up so I won’t sleep late. He could be part of my guardian angel network, trying to make me a better person! You know what Poor Richard says, “Early to bed, early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise.” Ben’s been trying for years, unsuccessfully, so I’ve been sent this little thumper! Well, now I’m sorry I called him a “devil bird” and a “retarded robin.” Yeah, thanks to my angel bird I awoke early, have eaten a healthy breakfast and done my dishes, and now I’m going to exercise. Wow, he is actually doing a good job with me! Now I bet you’re all wishing you had a little feathery helper at your window. But really, I don’t know where or how you get one.

Wife of a Deployed Soldier: Lessons Learned

Tonight, as I enjoy my dinner of Strawberry Shortcake, I’m reminded of the perks of being temporarily husbandless and childless. Since neither status is by choice, the best thing to do is learn to laugh at oneself and the little quirks that are picked up to combat loneliness.

My husband, Alan, was deployed to Iraq six weeks after we were married and four months after we met so being apart is what we know best so far. That’s going to change here in a little over a month. Now that we’re at the tail end of things, I’m counting the blessings that have come in the past year–even the little lessons learned.

I like to give advice, but I also believe that sometimes the best advice is, “Don’t listen to advice. Do what comes natural.” So take this advice or not. It’s really just my list of 15 “Notes to Self” in the instance that the life of a loner creeps up again in the future.

1. Wear gloves when mowing the lawn. I learned to mow the lawn for the first time and paid the blistering price of going gloveless. I’ve never had a lawn to mow before moving into this house; there’s a lot of it and on bumpy terrain. My brothers or dad always mowed our lawn when I was growing up. And my first yard was at my home in Las Vegas, but… well… it was Vegas.

2. Eating while standing at the kitchen sink is efficient. You know that scene in the movie Must Love Dogs where Diane Lane is eating her take out chicken at the kitchen sink? Uh-huh. Why sit down at the table when you’re just going to face an empty chair at the other end and then have to get up in a few minutes to put the minimal amount of dishes and food away?

3. The occasional dessert for dinner is soothing for the soul–and easier to get away with when no one else is home. (Alan, Please note the word “occasional.” Yes, it is nice to have someone who worries that I take care of myself.)

4. Singing in the morning is a great mood booster and silence suspender. If the birds do it, it must be a good thing. (Sorry, Alan. You might have to get used to my mediocre warbling when you get home. Then again, you are the cure for my ailment.)

5. To avoid a big old pity party, don’t go to a Blog List consisting of military spouse blogs. While there are some good, uplifting spouse blogs recommended by trusted sources (thanks Cathy), it’s easy to get caught up in reading the whining found in the collections. I caved a few times and went back and then kicked myself for it. I’m certain the writers find it cathartic, but for my sanity, it’s best that I avoid them and find something more productive and uplifting for my mind. Kind of like avoiding the television news.

This next tip and wonderful wisdom to combat loneliness was passed on by someone standing guard in a tower for hours on end with nothing else to entertain him. (Warning: Don’t let your pre-teen and teen boys read this one. It will be too tempting for them to try it.)

6. Don’t flash a red laser pointer up your nose, even for a split second! The glow may look really cool as you look down at your nostrils, but it will give you a head and eye ache and possibly cause some damage.

7. Old ladies are the best! I had two old ladies from my church come up to me shortly after Alan was deployed who said to me, “I know just how you feel! My husband left for World Ward II right after we were married.” I was thinking how sweet they were to understand my circumstances. And then they said, “He was gone for four years.” That put me right in my place! I thought of these ladies whenever I expected an email from my hubby and didn’t get one, which has been rarely.

8. In order to prevent uneven wear on the new king size mattress, there are 5 different locations to be rotated with sleepidge.

9. Next time, ask for help. I’m fortunate I didn’t injure my back shimmying that IKEA box with the dresser in it out of my car, across the lawn, and up the front steps.

10. Making a themed care package for my soldier is one of the best ways to pass the time. I chose an item (most often an item he requested) and made a theme around it, gathered items during the two to three weeks after sending the last package, collected enough items to fill one of many flat rate boxes I had on hand, learned how to mail it without standing in the long line at the P.O., and then started the cycle over again.

Note: If you’re nearing the end of the deployment and your husband tells you he’s packing up and not to worry about sending him things, send a package anyway. He can always mail the stuff back home if they don’t fit in his duffel bag. Otherwise, there can be a very unnecessary gap in packages. (Of course, Alan is much too kind to complain about that, but I have no doubt he went through withdrawal.)

11. If you turn your cell phone on vibrate during a movie, make sure to stick it in your pants pocket, not in your purse. It only took me missing Alan’s call once to learn that lesson the hard way.

12. If not formed fully prior to deployment, an opinion on the war will be formed in no time at all. The questioning never stops so it’s best to be prepared. Despite their strong opposition to the war, most people are very kind and supportive of my soldier. Kindness is surprising, no thanks to the media.

13. Watching Chick Flicks without Alan is like eating Strawberry Shortcake without the sugary juice of the strawberries and whipped cream on top. Why even do it? Well, because some is better than none at all.

14. A 32 year old can get attached to a stuffed dog named Ruff Ruff, especially if he barks and wags his tail when you pet him. Boy, if that doesn’t show desperation, I don’t know what does! What can I say? At least I admit it. That’s the best Alan could do to appease my wishing since we can’t get a real dog while renting.

15. Distance does make the heart grow fonder… and the eyes… and the ears and… Further proof of this will be in approximately 41 days.

Grandma’s Needles and Threads

Grandma Nina can no longer see to thread a needle. That seems like a small thing, but to her it is monumental. Needles and threads have been her major life tools–well, not forgetting the thimble. She has earned her living by a threaded needle many different times during her life. When she was a teenager, the only new clothes she got were the ones she made herself. When her children were young, she worked at JP Stevens Woolen Mills. Her job was to look through the bolts of woolen fabric as it rolled by, like a large screen before her, and if there were any flaws or holes, she was to mend them–that is with needles threaded with the correct color, she would weave threads to make the cloth look perfect, one color of thread at a time. Later when her children were older, they moved to Salt Lake City, and she posted a sign made by her brother, “Sewing: Fancy and Plain.” Later when her children were grown, she began teaching embroidery and quilting at Mormon Handicraft and selling her hand made quilts to customers all over the country.

She’ll be 92 on May 22, and you still cannot go into Grandma Nina’s house and come out of there without threads clinging to you. These days she only thinks of herself as a quilter. And her experience in that department goes way back into the deep South to the home of her “Granny.” She remembers first helping with the quilting projects when she was about five years old, stacking the squares of cotton as they came off from the carding tools and getting them ready to use as batting. Her tasks increased as she grew, and quilting became an integral part of her life. She even won the Governor’s Folk Art Award in Utah for her contributions of quilting and teaching the art in Utah. She was a founding member of the Quilt Guild.

I was there the other day, and her apartment had just been vacuumed. She hadn’t been able to sew anything for many days because she broke her arm and it was in a sling. I got a clean robe out of her closest for her to put on, and the next time I looked at her, she had threads on her robe. Later, walking down the hall to go out to my car, I looked down and I had threads clinging to me. A few days later I took her to the doctor. I put a dress on her that she rarely wears, but I talked her into it. While we were waiting for the doctor to come in the room, I picked seven threads of four different colors off her dress and later saw three that I had missed. Where do they come from when no one has been sewing and the place has been vacuumed? I think they are in the air that she breathes; they float around like dust particles do in most houses.

Along with the fabric and the threads, she uses a lot of needles. They don’t cling to you, and you don’t even see many of them. She has always used a cotton tomato-shaped pin cushion. Each time she started a quilt, she would buy a new package of needles. She accused little green men of hiding in her house and stealing needles. So often she would look for the needle she had been using and couldn’t find it anywhere. She lost so many needles that it puzzled her. One day when she decided her pin cushion was too worn out, she bought a new one–another red cotton tomato. Knowing how occasionally a needle will get pushed all the way inside, she thought she would open up the pin cushion and retrieve a few quilting needles. As she cut it, the entire tomato interior was filled with needles! She dumped them into a mug and had her grandchildren count them. There were 634 needles in one cushion! So it was her needle eating tomato that had been devouring them. (She should have stuck to her ugly sock pin cushion with the cardboard core–[previous post].)

She now lives in a tiny senior apartment that houses more fabric than furniture. It is everywhere: under her bed, between her bed and the wall, between her sewing machine and the wall, under her table, and in every nook and cranny. Some of her fabric loblollies are piled half way to the ceiling. The Loblolly Guardian, that I spoke of in an earlier post, had to swear that not one piece of fabric will be thrown away when Grandma dies. I imagine she had to prick her finger with a quilting needle and solemnly sign in blood.

And as for not being able to thread a needle, we took Grandma to the ophthalmologist to get her some new glasses. She hates them. We’re going to try a magnifying glass on a stand. She needs to be able to continue sewing, life doesn’t have much meaning without it. We will do our best to make sure when she is finally called home, she may do so with a needle in her hand and threads on her clothing.

Raising Kids: “Don’t Train Those Traits Out Of Your Children.”

My Response To Lynsie’s Post

There are all kinds of manuals these days for raising children. There were many while I was raising my six as well. Instructions for raising kids have changed through the decades, but we all try to keep up with the latest “Best Guesses.”

My first two children were girls just two years apart. They were as different as night and day. Emilie was a very obedient child. She needed and got lots of attention. She had many fears–water, horses (she screamed when we put her on a Shetland Pony, and Katie said,”Oh, Emilie, It’s just a donkey!”), strangers, any people-actually, traveling in cars (she would cover her ears when we backed up), etc. She was shy and clingy. We helped her face many of her fears. She eventually overcame them all, except the water thing. She was never mischievous and excelled at whatever she started. She wasn’t too interested in being a kid. She loved being with adults and was by my side, helping me raise all of the other kids.

Katie was born fearless, and didn’t really want my attention because she had too many other things to do, and didn’t want me to see most of it. I couldn’t make her face anything she didn’t want to do. She had a mind of her own, and punishment, or rather discipline, was worth it to her– if she wanted to do something, she didn’t care much about the consequences. She was after adventure and fun, wherever her imagination led her. She was always making us laugh and was too cute to be mad at for very long. (One time while I was making candied popcorn, I got so mad at her, for some reason, that I ran after her with my hot wooden spoon in my hand, and said, “I’m going to beat you with this sticky spoon!” She was running downstairs to her room when I said that ridiculous threat, and she just stopped and melted in giggles there on the steps. Of course, we all began to laugh, and no one even remembers what made me so upset with her.) Emilie tried to help me with her, but she couldn’t get Katie to mind either. She was independent, made friends easily and could get along with anybody. She always knew what she wanted and how she wanted it and was never a follower. She even set the fashion style at school.

I read all of the books. I had two opposite children, and I allowed them to be themselves and didn’t force either one to be like the other. I thought I had a handle on child rearing, and I passed my advice on when I thought it was needed. Then I had Ash. No author had ever heard of a child like him. I looked, but I never found anything that remotely fit our situation. His imagination took him off into another realm where even I couldn’t reach. I did a ton of praying, a fair amount of frustrated, crazy-mom scolding to try to get him to obey the rules and do things the way I had read they should be done. And then I threw the books away. I realized I had a creative genius on my hands, and I had better allow him the room to flourish. I learned that when he started a project, I needed to ignore him and let it go. When he came up for air, then I would teach him to do his chores and all of the details of life, but when he became absorbed in something, I backed off. It wasn’t worth the fight, and I could see that demands, disciplining such as grounding, or fighting with him were destructive. I watched his inventions and dreams grow, recognizing his potential. The closest thing to help, from the written word, in raising him was: “If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.” -Henry David Thoreau

Lynsie was born two and a half years after Ashley, and she didn’t really ever need a mom–a great blessing since I was busy trying to keep up with Ash (His curiosity took the “terrible two’s” to an unwritten level.) She was easy to raise because she seemed to naturally make right choices (once we got her over the kleptomania stage at age 2–that kind of thing does need to be trained out). I never reminded her to do her homework or practice the piano. She would do it on her own,and she didn’t like being told to do anything. She mentioned in her post that she was stubborn. I thought I knew “stubborn” because Katie fit that description, but Lynsie gave new definition to the word. She was stubborn and independent! She loved her dad and me, and loved being with us–playing and reading, etc., but she didn’t want us to teach her anything. She could teach herself. She didn’t want me to teach her how to tie her shoes, she didn’t want my help with spelling words or any other homework, or cleaning her room. She wouldn’t let me fix her hair or pick out her clothes, as she mentioned before–putting it much more mildly than I would have–No amount of coaxing or demanding would budge her. But my mother had taught me that you should never train these types of traits out of your children. They are born with personality traits that they will need in life, and you can try to channel them (I never figured out how to do that), but you should never punish or discipline them for having certain traits. Later in her life I saw that stubbornness was her lifeline as she dealt with a controlling husband. Her goodness allowed her to cooperate so far with his demands on her life, but her stubbornness kept her pride and individuality and faith in place, so that she always knew who she was and that her life had value. Her stubborn steak, deeply embedded in her (through years of practice with her mom) gave her the courage she needed to move on when the time was right. I was so grateful for that character trait!

The last two children born into our family were boys–number five and six and still no two alike. I was a much more relaxed parent;I knew how valuable every moment of their childhood was. I took the time to silently observe them at play, and I enjoyed everything they said and did. Parker and Sam were born three years apart but got along so well: Parker never tired of taking his younger brother along, and Sam was always game for anything. They didn’t even have similar personalities, but they shared curiosity and could find adventure in almost anything. Parker was outwardly timid and shy with a daredevil and a competitor inside of him just biding time. He didn’t like to talk much, and so Sam was his spokesman. Sam would say whatever was on his mind, and forge his way ahead with boldness, and courage. Inside of him was a tender heart that could not stand conflict or contention. My point is that only parents know their kids inside and out and recognize what works for each one of them. Experts and manuals just make guesses.

Parker and Sam were best friends–until teenage years, and then, well. . . they were teenagers. This reminds me of another of my mother’s wise tips: “Teach your children at every opportunity when they are young, and when they become teenagers, shut up. They won’t listen to you anyway.”

Some personality traits may seem like weaknesses to us, but the Lord has promised us that he will turn our weaknesses into strengths. I have witnessed in amazement how this happens, through the lives of my children. Life has presented each of them with struggles, and I have proudly watched them conquer their problems and excel under difficult circumstances. They have all used the character traits they were born with to very good advantage in their adult life.

So my advice in raising children is to:

1-Throw out the ever changing child-rearing manuals. Their authors have never seen a child like yours.

2-PRAY A LOT!

3-Listen to Grandma Sammy’s wisdom: “Never pass up a teaching moment when they are young. . .” AND “Don’t train those traits out of your children. They will need them someday to fulfill their mission on this earth.”

Stubbornly Me

When I was seven years old I went to school one day wearing my favorite dress. It was mostly white with light blue trim. I also wore a necklace with a little blue heart pendant to match. As I think about it now, I can still recall how the texture of the dress fabric and the blue heart felt in my fingers. This was in the 80’s when wearing a dress to school constituted a special occasion. I remember the excitement of the day as I hopped over the fence and ran down the hill to catch the bus.

A few months later, when school pictures came out, I am certain my mother cringed at the display of my choice in fashion. I am not certain that my cute blue dress could even balance out my unsightly hairdo. I didn’t tell my mom it was picture day and had somehow gotten away with doing my own hair that day. Surely my mother had been very distracted by my three brothers that morning and gave in to my relentless independence with an, “Oh fine! Do what you want today.” Or perhaps I dashed out the door before she could catch me. I don’t remember why I didn’t tell my mom it was picture day, but my memory book now contains proof that I was a very stubborn child.

The reason for the focus on my stubborn streak today is because my oldest nephew, McKay, went to his Jr. Prom last night and I started walking down memory lane. Now, I don’t often wish I could go back to high school and relive those days, but my Jr. Prom is one of those times I would opt for a do-over. I had been dating a guy who left for his LDS mission and, being the small school that it was, everyone seemed to know and assume I wasn’t going to date anyone else while he was gone. Pfft!! Were they all crazy? How could I not at the age of 16? For a long time, I thought my supposed “taken” status was going to overshadow my next two years of high school and be social disaster. I was dreading it much more fiercely than anyone knew, especially because prom was such a big deal and I didn’t want to miss out.

As the quiet months trickled by, a certain senior (let’s call him Mr. B) started flirting with me. We didn’t have any classes together so the hallway was where it all happened. The butterflies would creep up when I walked around that corner, knowing he and his friends would be sitting on the heaters waiting for me to pass by so he could whistle. This went on for months and I flirted back and started to develop a crush. My friends started spreading the word to his friends that I wanted him to ask me to Jr. Prom. Weeks went by without his invitation, although the flirting continued. While pining, I heard from two friends on two different occasions that their friends wanted to ask me to prom. I told them I was going with someone else, even though it wasn’t quite true- yet. Long story short, Mr. B asked me and I was very excited. I thought our date to the city, the dance, and the after dance party went pretty well, but… he didn’t talk to me much after that. I later learned that, at the time of prom, Mr. B was technically still dating his girlfriend who had previously graduated. She was attending the nearby community college so it wouldn’t be too difficult to keep up a relationship. Turns out I was a pity date. He was informed about how much I wanted him to ask me and knowing that I was a “missionary’s girlfriend” who possibly might not have a date to her own Jr. Prom, he was pressured into asking me.

What would I do over? I would have someone smack the determined whelp out of me and tell me to forget about the cute older guy in the hall! The memory of the whole experience that haunts me is that of my friend Dal asking me in seminary if his best friend, a nice and quiet cowboy, might have a chance if he asked me to prom.

I’m still a stubborn child. These days this stubbornness most often results in my staying up until 1:00 in the morning because I just need to do this one last thing. I get a lot more done in a day than I would otherwise. Of course I pay the consequences in sleep deprivation the next day. Any tips on how to train that stubbornness out of me? I know this character trait leads to my pride. The pride that is keeping me from going to the doctor to have my sore hand checked out. The weakness can get me in some unnecessary sticky spots. And yet, it’s also what has driven me to endure the big trials that have come up in my life. It also drives me to do the little things that are often neglected, like putting my grocery cart (and any other carts that are in my immediate vicinity) in the parking lot cart coral– no matter how far away I park from it. I understand the excuses of having kids or ailments that make it difficult to walk the 10 or 20 feet to the coral. I have, however, worked at a grocery and a retail store. Believe me, putting the carts where they belong is appreciated more than you can imagine. Consider it your service of the day.

Ah, the balancing act of life: is that character trait a weakness or a strength?

Hey, does this confession work as an apology for future events as well as the past? I’m not sure my stubborn streak can be trained out of me because I’m not sure I want it to be. And there that streak is again! I’ve heard it said that some children can put mules to shame.

YARDS AND YARDS OF MEMORIES

As I begin preparing my gardens for spring, it occurs to me that the flowers I love the most come with memories from my happy childhood. I lived in a small town the first ten years of my life. I walked to and from school every day, as did most children in the fifties, and though I’m sure that I walked through a foot of snow sometimes and trudged through the rain and wind, I do not recall those times. My memories of the walk to school are filled with flowers that grew in the yards I passed daily.
Some memories come from the spring flowers that bloomed just as school was winding down, others from late summer flowers still blossoming as we began a new year. It never crossed my mind that flowers were to be looked at and not picked and played with. The touch as well as the smell contributed to the wonder of my childhood. The best of my pathway trimmings were hollyhocks. Mrs. Bennet had them bordering her corner lot. They bloomed in many colors, and to me they were the queen of all flowers. My mother showed me how to make dolls from their blossoms, using toothpicks to join them together. A plant that could grow doll dresses and bonnets spelled enchantment.
Mr. Elkington is a neighbor that I am reminded of, when I see pictures of Mr. McGregor in Beatix Potter’s tales. He often had a hoe in hand, working in his garden. He loved to tease, and to my shy personality, that was as bad as chasing me with a garden tool. If he was outside, I would cross the street get past his house, but if he was not in sight, I would take the time to breathe in the wonderful fragrance of his sweet peas and pick their tiny pea pods. There were bunches of them intertwining the fence.
The most beautiful yard belonged to my next-door-neighbor, Mr. Sorenson, who was not child-friendly. His yard was walled off, but from the driveway, you could see how carefully manicured it was. What I loved the most were the beautiful urns that he had among his flowers. Although I was as frightened of him as Scout was of Boo Radley, I loved to peek in at his yard. No smell or color is associated with the memory of his place, but I loved the way those urns looked.
There were the yards that had irresistible snap dragons growing too close to our path to be ignored. My friends and I would pluck a dragon head wherever we could, and entertain each other all the way to school by snapping at each other.
Audrey McCoy was a dear, sweet lady who grew poppies. I remember picking the velvet covered bud and discovering layers of orange silk inside. The unopened buds held more fascination and wonder for me than the full blossom. I know, I know. I was ruining her blossoms, and my mother should have taught me not to pick other people’s flowers, but it all seemed to be an important part of childhood experience to me.
I remember passing yards with perfumed lilacs and elegant roses, fringed daisies, and a rainbow of irises, but the flowers I loved the most were the holly hocks.
A few years ago, my mother and sister and I drove to our old home town. Of course many things had changed beyond recognition in the forty years since we lived there. Our old house and yard exhibited many alterations; the wall around the Sorenson’s yard was gone–so were the urns, and the house had shrunk dramatically. We drove around the town–it was no longer small. I told my sister to drop me off at Central Elementary, which was standing its usual place. I wanted to “walk home from school.”
As I got out of the car, I said, “Just one hollyhock along my path–that is all I ask.” As I began to walk, old memories rushed by. The sidewalk still had all the cracks and buckles in it that I remember tripping over. Most of the houses and the people had changed, but there on that corner of the old Bennet home were several hollyhocks blooming right where memory said they belonged! Nostalgia rushed through me, and the calendar flipped back to my youth. Hollyhocks can do that to you.
In my flower gardens today, I grow snapdragons, poppies, sweet peas, lilacs, roses, daisies, irises and hollyhocks. I have even placed an urn here and there among the flowers. Although there may be rules in other yards, the flowers in mine speak to the children and urge them to pick. I want my grandchildren to experience the full charm and enchantment of blossoms. I want to have a yard of memories.